Bluebird Rising

by John Decure

“That was a good friend of mine you ‘corked,’ you little shit. My fiancée’s brother, who happens to be a very gentle, mentally handicapped young man.”

  “Fuck! Sorry, man! I didn’t know!”

  “Question is, how could a dipshit like you know anything?”

  A splash of whitewater kicked up in his face. “Fuck, man, lemme up!” he panted.

  “I gotta say, I don’t like your tone, Steve. Are you telling me what to do? ’Cause if you are, you’re gonna be having a barnacle sandwich for dinner, bro. I am not in the mood.” I purposely loosened my grip on his ankles.

  “Okay, okay, sorry! Please, man, lemme up.”

  “We have to talk.”

  “Sure, sure, you got it, let’s talk.” Still pretty scared as a big line of whitewater burst against the pilings below. “Jesus fucking Christ, man!”

  “Don’t be taking the Lord’s name in vain,” I said, letting him slip a few more inches. “He’s the only reason you’re still alive right now.”

  “Okay, okay, sorry, man! I’ll shut up.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s entirely possible.”

  Max barked a few times, letting me know he was growing tired of this scene. I yanked Stevie up and propped him against the railings. His face was drained of color and his skin was shiny with salt water. Max and I stood by, watching him puff little white clouds up into the night. When he recovered, he made a move to pick up the bike, but I planted my shoe on the chain guard.

  “Relax, you’re not going anywhere yet.”

  Stevie seemed to be reflecting on his situation. “Look, J., hey,” he said, hands out. I ignored him. “What can I say,” he said. “I’m sorry, but fuck, man …” Twisting, his hands in his jeans.

  “But what?”

  “It … wasn’t like I planned it or anything. The dude—” Stopping to think. “Your friend, he kinda cut me off.”

  I took a few slow, deliberate breaths in an attempt to stay reasonably calm. “You’re such a pinhead.” Shaking my head. “You said you were fading into the left on that re-form, until you saw the right jacking and cut across the peak. Did it ever occur to you that Albert saw you going left before he started paddling for the right, and maybe he just didn’t look back in time to see you’d changed direction?”

  Stevie studied my face as if he was trying to gauge the correct answer. “I guess it’s possible.”

  “You guess? I taught him how to surf. He doesn’t shoulder-hop. He knows the rules. Are you suggesting otherwise?”

  He looked away. “No, man, not at all.”

  I nodded, frowning. “You have no idea how much trouble you’ve caused. You know, I told my fiancée, Albert’s sister, that when I found the little shit that popped him I’d tap him hard. And don’t deny that you tried to cold-cock him. He didn’t even see you.”

  His shoulders quivered. “Hey, really man, I didn’t know. I mean, don’t—”

  “But then my fiancée goes and tells me, ‘J., violence begets violence.’” I shook my head. “How do you like that?”

  In his only smart move of the night, Stevie didn’t venture a comment.

  “Right now, I can’t say whether I agree or disagree with her viewpoint.” I sighed, letting him stew in his juices a bit longer. “You could say I’m on the fence. But I do love her, so I guess I’m willing to try to see things her way.” Stevie looked on dumbly. “Which means that for now, you’ll remain among the living.”

  He exhaled like a pearl diver coming up for air. “Whoa. Cool.”

  “But you and I aren’t done. In fact, you’re just getting started.”

  He waited a respectful moment before asking, “Um, whaddaya mean?”

  “Have you heard of atonement?”

  Stevie looked stumped, then hit on a thought. “Yeah, had it in history class. The Japanese, how they got stuck in those camps out in the desert during World War Two.”

  My dog and I exchanged sullen eye contact. “You can see why I don’t usually surf by the pier,” I muttered to Max. Then I stepped off Stevie’s fallen two-wheeler. “No, that’s internment, Steve. Atonement means making amends for your fuckups.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “Well, cool.” Then he patted his shirt pocket. The Pendleton’s breast pocket had a flap on it, and by some minor miracle, Stevie’s Marlboros were still intact. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, cupped his hands around a match, and lit up.

  The gesture was way too casual for my liking, and I pictured sending the little shit straight back over that railing ass-first. But then I pondered what Carmen would say if and when she found out about it. And she would know, because one of the stops along the path to enlightenment I had in mind for Stevie involved a welltimed apology to Albert. If Stevie showed up on my porch looking like a train had hit him, she’d put it together instantly.

  Hit by a train—Christ, I was starting to think like Dale.

  Stone Me Stevie puffed away, eyes darting as he fidgeted in place, as if he was sensing that he was not yet out of harm’s way. I tried not to think about Albert’s bloody face that day on the beach, or his subsequent nightmares. Straining for poise, I bit my lip. Then I righted Stevie’s bicycle and handed it to him.

  Max and I saw no sign of Leanne Bleeker on our stroll up Main from the pier. The strip was mostly quiet. No one was loitering outside either Clancy’s or the Marmaduke, though you could smell the beer, sweat, and cigarettes and hear the pool balls cracking from the sidewalk. The Food Barn was deserted. Across the street, the local fish restaurant, the Captain’s Galley, had a few patrons sprinkled among a lot of empty candlelit tables, but the bar downstairs was bustling, as usual. The Galley bar is a cut above the rest, with lots of polished brass, a wall full of nautical antiques, a respectable happy hour, and a no-shirts-no-shoes-no-service policy that actually gets enforced. It’s also the one bar in town with a reputation for attracting women.

  My walking pace was leaden. The pasta was giving me heartburn. My conversation with Stone Me Stevie had left me feeling overstimulated but let down, the way I get when I see a horror flick with a lousy ending. The next long block up Main past the restaurant was lined with darkened storefronts and empty sidewalk. Leanne was not in the vicinity, not tonight at least. I wanted to go home. Then I saw, through the Galley’s tinted glass, a simple gesture I recognized, and it stopped me. A woman in a black leather jacket on a middle barstool, flipping a pile of strawberry curls off her shoulder as she sipped a margarita. I ordered Max to sit next to the newspaper rack at the entrance and went inside.

  I’d put Kimberley Kirkmeyer-Munson up in the Christianitos Inn about two blocks from here. She’d been so put off by traveling all the way from Seattle, then just missing her dad at my place that afternoon, that she didn’t want to discuss her next move. At the time, I didn’t feel it was my place to direct the action between her and Rudy. I told her I’d call as soon as I heard word from Dale, which had been only a few hours ago.

  Kimberley was having a three-way conversation with Homer, the bald-headed bartender, and a fifty-something man in gray slacks, a blue university stripe shirt, and a navy blazer. Something about the guy in the blazer looked artificially handsome; for one thing, his skin was a tanning-booth gold.

  “Evening, J.,” Homer said. He picked up a glass pitcher and started drying it with a white towel. “What are you having?”

  “I’ll order in a minute,” I said. Homer is a perceptive guy, which is why, I suppose, he’s good at his job. He could tell I wanted a little privacy with Kimberley, so he floated away without another word.

  Kimberley wheeled around on her barstool. She looked good in black denim jeans and a tight-fitting maroon turtleneck sweater. A tangle of gold necklaces hung around her neck.

  “Well, surprise, surprise, it’s Mr. Lawyer J. I was going to come see you tonight.” Sounding a tad buzzed.

  “Woo-hoo,” the man in the blazer said. Flashing a thumbs-up at me. “Lucky dog.”

  “Then this nice gentleman started talking
my ear off about his adventures in the local real estate trade, and what could I do but start drinking.”

  “Hey,” the guy said, “thanks a million, honey.” Lifting his drink, which looked like a whiskey rocks, in mock salute.

  “Telling me his sob stories …” The booze flattening her smile around the edges.

  “It’s a jungle out there,” he told me, winking. Then he held out his hand. “Ralph Pritchard.”

  “J. Shepard.”

  He handed me a business card. “So, J., you rent or own?”

  “I own.”

  “Smart man. Whereabouts?”

  “Old Town. Porpoise Way.”

  “Old Town. Me, too. Well, technically, I don’t currently live in Old Town. Bought a place on Fifth Street last June, just before prices started creeping back up. Dumpy little turn-of-the-century Craftsman, but a helluva piece of land, so close to the sand and all. Knocked that puppy down, built four townhomes on the same lot.” He leaned in conspiratorially, flashing a row of capped teeth. “Made a goddamned mint.”

  I knew the project, a pseudo Cape Cod monstrosity that eclipsed the afternoon sunlight of half the beach cottages on the west side of Fifth. Towering eyesores like that were common now in Christianitos. In recent years the city council had sold out on residents in a big way by rewriting the zoning regulations to accommodate such high-dollar, overbuilt developments. They defended their actions by claiming that change was inevitable. But, as Ralph Pritchard had so succinctly attested, it was really all about only one thing: money.

  He sipped his drink. “So, when did you get in?” he asked me.

  “At birth,” I said. “I’ve lived in the same house all my life.”

  “Ah, a true local.”

  “As opposed to a false local?” Giving him full eye contact.

  He was unflappable the way that people in sales can be, and he tossed off a phony laugh. “Touché, my friend. So tell me, you interested in selling? This is a great time to think about it, J., with values on the rise and interest rates cooling.” Using my name to keep the now’s-the-time shtick personal.

  I looked at Kimberley. She seemed amused to see me having to fend the guy off.

  “Not in this lifetime, Ralph.” I flashed him the old shit-eater, forcing a viselike handshake back on him. “Great meeting you. Would you excuse us for a moment? We need to discuss some private business.”

  “Party’s over, eh, deary?” he said right past me to Kimberley.

  She shrugged and waved her long fingers close to her breast. “Toodle-oo.”

  Ralph Pritchard flexed his fingers and drifted down a row of empty stools toward Homer.

  “I thought you were married,” I said, watching the real estate man retreat.

  Kimberley smiled. “Oh, please. Like you said, not in this lifetime.” She set down her drink. “A man like that thinks every no gets him one step closer to a yes.” She raised her glass at Ralph. “Speaking of marriage, my father is getting a divorce.” Taking a drink.

  “You talked to him?”

  “We made a deal this afternoon.” I must have looked semishocked, because she said, “What? You didn’t think I was going to sit around in that charming little bed-and-breakfast all day, just waiting for word on what he was doing, did you? Your girlfriend was right.”

  “Fiancée.”

  She swilled what was left of her margarita. “Whatever.” Looking more intoxicated than before.

  “So he was faking the Alzheimer’s,” I said.

  “Well, he’s lost some of his edge, but that happens to everybody. Old age sucks. But can you believe it? To think he married that hustler Angie what’s-her-name just to get my attention.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not in so many words, but I didn’t want to interrogate him, he’s my father.”

  “I see.” She wasn’t quite selling me that she knew the complete score with Rudy.

  “We had a nice chat after I got back from my meeting with Mr. Dobbs this afternoon.” She cast a glance at Homer, tilting her empty glass.

  “You went to the savings and loan.”

  “You didn’t think I’d let him get wiped out, did you? My mother spent years building that portfolio.”

  “But it’s your father’s account.”

  “And it still is, only with me as executor now. I have power of attorney. I’ll sign off on any and all transactions from here on. That little slut can’t touch a nickel of it without my consent. Which of course she’ll never get.”

  “How’d you get power of attorney so fast, and without Rudy there?”

  She dropped her chin as if mildly taken aback. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “After forty years,” she said, “I think I know what his signature looks like. And Mr. Dobbs knew a notary with poor eyesight with an office a block away.”

  “Dobbs helped you.”

  She gave me the sideways glance again. “You think he’d let that much business go out the door just standing by?”

  Christ, I thought, so much for ethical dilemmas. Dale and I had sweated so hard to deal with the problem legally, and she’d dispensed with it in no time, without any apparent guilt or second thoughts. Suddenly I felt old-fashioned, out of step with the ways of the world, the things people will do for money.

  “So, the end justifies the means,” I said.

  Her green eyes sharpened. “Don’t give me that. It’s the American way and you know it.”

  Homer slid her a fresh-blended margarita, no salt, then looked at me. I spied the Crown Royal bottle in its usual place along the wall between the Dewar’s and Cutty Sark, could almost feel that righteous burn expanding in my chest, clearing away the post-Stevie funk, not to mention the splitter of a headache this Rudy business had caused me. Forget it, I thought, now is not the time for clouded thinking.

  I ordered a diet cola.

  “You called him after you did this?” I asked.

  “At home. The little hustler answered, said he was asleep. I told her she’d better wake him up, ’cause this thing was over.” Grinning, she sniffed her foamy white drink before sampling it.

  “You told her what you did.”

  “Offered her fifty thousand to initiate the divorce, another fifty when it’s final, otherwise I’d go to the police.”

  “She took it.”

  “Dobbs said her boyfriend came and got it this afternoon.”

  I remembered that Dale had thought Carlito was just going out for groceries in his Camaro.

  “So what’s your end of the bargain with your dad?” I asked.

  “I’m moving back.” She stopped. “Well, not right away. Lot of details have to be worked out when I get home.”

  This didn’t sound quite right, based on what I knew about her thus far. Her whole life was in Seattle.

  “Why the about-face?” I said. “I thought you two covered the same territory when your mother passed away.”

  Her painted eyebrow spiked. “I didn’t realize how desperate he’d gotten.” Shaking her head. “I mean, to do all this, for Christ’s sake.”

  A tangle of feelings twisted my insides. Relief, that Rudy wouldn’t see financial ruination. Anger, at being manipulated in this little father-daughter saga. Concern, for Dale, who was still hanging his ass out on a line to protect Rudy.

  And disbelief. Somehow, it seemed too tidy a conclusion. I couldn’t picture Angie bidding Rudy a tearful good-bye at LAX while Carlito idled the car outside the terminal, not even for a hundred grand. I’d seen the numbers that day in the savings and loan.

  Rudy faking it completely? That idea bothered me too. I’d seen those glazed eyes, and that look in them, like the eyes of the boy you see being swept down the flood-control channel on the news during winter, a boy who knows his predicament, knows that all is lost and there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it but wait for the end.

  But I didn’t have the energy to spoil Kimberley’s little moment of v
ictory.

  Homer brought me my diet cola. Kimberley toasted her father, her glass clinking with mine.

  “And here’s to his attorney, Dale Bleeker,” I said. “Who deserves a helluva lot of credit for keeping him in one piece through all of this.”

  “Here, here.” Her tone was so upbeat that out on the fringes, Ralph Pritchard hoisted the fresh schooner of beer he was nursing high in the air, gazing at Kimberley with puppy dog eyes.

  But I had on a straight face. “I’m serious, Kimberley. You owe Dale Bleeker a lot.”

  She nodded. “Maybe I’ll hire him to prepare Dad’s will.”

  I was stunned. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I am not kidding.”

  “A guy like your dad, all that jack sitting in the bank in his name, and he’s got no will? That makes no sense.”

  She toyed with her margarita, stirring the crushed ice with a pair of thin red straws. “I know. Dobbs can’t believe it either, but it’s true. Mom had hers done five years ago. Dad too, same time, but apparently he took his home unsigned, said he wanted to sleep on it.”

  “He never signed it.”

  “Said he lost it. It probably went out with the Sunday paper.” Shaking her head. “How positively just like him. Everything the hard way I mean, look at me.”

  She tilted her head back, inviting me to have a look. Even drunk she looked well put together, such that Ralph Pritchard was still compelled to stare from his new spot down the bar. Her eyes were heading toward bloodshot but I could see the indignation clearly enough. Her jaw was set, lips pursed. I know this look in a woman. She was working up to something big.

  “He jerked my chain all the way from Washington,” she said. “What do you think of that?” Slopping some of her drink onto her chin.

  Not much, I wanted to say. Jerking her chain? Jesus, look around you, woman. I wasn’t up for hearing her self-pitying gripes, not after what Rudy had put Dale and me through. That Crown Royal was practically levitating off the bar shelf in front of me, mocking my shaky resolve. Homer the barkeep was ringing a sale on the antique register, grinning at the flirtation going on between the bottle and me. I shut my eyes.