by Jason Ridler
10
I WAS TORN IN TWO DIRECTIONS. AHEAD WAS THE madman who may have an answer, and behind me was a kid who was at the massacre. I couldn’t grab both. I needed information and Weasel probably knew something, but so might the kid. And he had the benefit of not being cocobananapants in the cerebral cortex.
Also, I was tired of running with strawberry breath.
I stopped, jamming my heels, as the two flankers slid forward, popping their boards up, making a horrible screech. I started to swing a haymaker at the leader, the kid I’d seen at the Legion Hall, but he’d already shifted out of striking range by pivoting first on one set of wheels then the second, moving to the side with dexterity that would have made any acrobat jealous. They reformed their V formation faster than fighter pilots, the crab walker in the front.
Weasel nowhere in sight.
“Afternoon, boys,” I said. “Mind getting out of the way? I have a meeting with old Weasel.”
“Sounds like the meeting’s over,” the lead shirtless wonder said. “Maybe find some other kind of action besides harassing the less fortunate.”
“Since when were questions harassment? And don’t think I don’t know the irony of asking a question to make this point.”
My wit was lost on these young, hazy-eyed athletes, but I was acquiring a larger audience. The grinding sound of more wheels on concrete heralded the arrival of ten more teenagers, all beach-bum bronzed. They circled me like a shiver of sharks. The smell of sweat, grass, and tanning oil clogged my nostrils. Eight guys and two girls. The boys, if shirted, wore striped tanks or t-shirts. One girl filled out a gold bikini top, the other sported a too-tight Micky Mouse. All wore cut-offs or shorts. Back in the day, we’d say this crowd was spoiling for a rumble, a gang ready to make good on its rep. Yet this cavalcade of sidewalk surfers had been protecting a homeless guy.
“How do you all know Weasel?”
The leader sniggered. “You a cop?”
“Not with this fashion sense. I’m a private eye. And you were at the Legion Hall.”
Body language from several kids silently signaled “caution.” The leader waved them off, even though worry was etched on their golden foreheads.
“Yes,” he said. “I was protesting.”
“Mind telling me when you left?”
“After the explosion.”
“Kevin, don’t talk to this pig,” said a tall, chestnut-haired fellow with a mild sneer. He stood about half a foot taller than Kevin.
“I’m no pig,” I said, but all my attention was on Kevin. “That explosion? It damn near killed a friend of mine and may yet still.”
“Good,” said Chestnut. Kevin zapped him a glance so sharp it cut off his oxygen.
Kevin looked back at me as the rest of his gang saddled up behind him like a bronze wall. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Do you know who did?”
Kevin shook his head, but his face said, “I don’t trust you with ANY information.”
“I know, I know, I look like the fuzz or your dad or a narc,” I said, “but I just want to find the creeps who would assault a bunch of old men and their wives. I think someone is trying to hook the blame on the protestors, but that doesn’t smell right to me.”
Kevin showed no discernible change in attitude, except for the slightest softening of his jaw.
For a moment I thought of bribing them, but they looked righteous enough to see any cash transaction as an insult and proof of my untrustworthiness. Trust needed to be earned. “What can I do to prove to you fine citizens that I’m not the enemy?”
“Dragon kiss!” the Mickey Mouse girl said.
A half-dozen lighters emerged from waistbands and pockets. I was just glad there was no taste of magic in the air, that no real dragon might be summoned by one of these miniature torches.
Kevin took a Zippo from the chestnut kid. He flicked a flame, and then I saw the darker patterns across all of their forearms: burns.
“Ah, a test?”
Kevin smiled. “If you can last longer than me, it’ll prove you’re no cop.”
“How so?”
“Cops won’t mutilate themselves,” he said. “Makes them look like they joined a gang.”
“Not a bad test,” I said, taking off my bedraggled jacket. “Have at it, Kevin.”
Using his name jarred Kevin a mite. “What’s your name?”
“James Brimstone.”
They all laughed, and Kevin chuckled. “I would have pegged you for a Horace or Mortimer.”
“I get that a lot. Now quit stalling.”
The gang laughed and snickered at my genius comeback and then the Zippo blazed right under his forearm.
Kevin’s eyes steadied on mine, but he wasn’t looking at me. Judging by his breathing, someone had taught him some pain management techniques. The flame licked his skin, but he didn’t register the damage.
At first.
As the gang counted to ten, his face shook and finally, at fifteen, it was too much, and the light snuffed out as he exhaled.
“Fifteen!” Chestnut said. “A personal best!”
They were in awe of their leader, who wouldn’t let the tears leak out of his shaky eyes. “Your turn, Brimstone.” Again, titters at the old-man name, obviously the underdog in a young man’s game.
I’d folded the orange jacket neatly across my forearm, then rolled up my sleeve. Outside of the bullet-catch scar on my palm, the usual bumps and grinds from life on the road, a clean bullet wound received in Korea, and a few reminders of run-ins with Hells Angels, most of my scars were invisible to the naked eye. Edgar made sure the true damage he’d done could only be witnessed by me. The torture of my years as his right-hand man was never seen by the waking world. My arm was just another hairy beast with a speckle of gray.
Kevin tossed the lighter and I caught it, awkwardly, to again put a show on for the righteous youth. “Hope there’s enough fluid left,” I said. Kevin smirked and his friends snorted.
I flicked the Zippo open and hit its wheel. “Let there be light,” I said.
The flame lapped my arm with heat and agony, but I focused on my breathing and sang Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles” to the starry-eyed crowd as five seconds became ten, ten became twenty, and then thirty.
“I don’t believe it,” said the Mickey Mouse girl.
“He’s tricking us somehow,” Chestnut said.
Kevin shook his head. “You can stop.”
I shrugged. “Your call, Kevin.” I snuffed the Zippo and tossed it at Chestnut, whose hand scrambled with it like a hot potato, much to the enjoyment of myself and the girls.
I examined my smoking flesh. Burnt-marshmallow ugly. Smelled like burning garbage. But if I’d done my breathing right, it would also heal quicker than a bug bite over the next few hours.
“So,” I said to Kevin, “did I pass this ordeal?”
Kevin smiled. “Ordeal?”
“That’s what Germanic warriors called it when they had to perform a feat of painful endurance to earn back trust that was lost: an ordeal.”
“This blows,” Chestnut said. “He talks like a teacher.”
“A hot teacher,” said Mickey. I let it slide.
“I’m just a friend looking for justice for an old army buddy.”
“You fought in the war?”
“Not this one,” I said, cool. “The other one.”
“Korea?” Chestnut said. “That was just a prelude to Vietnam. This guy is bad news, Kevin, even if he ain’t a cop.”
“I know, don’t trust anyone under nineteen,” I said. “Hell, I’d hate me if I was your age. But I’m me, and my friend is sitting in a hospital holding onto his life. Kevin, you were there when some coward tossed a grenade to kill a bunch of people grateful to be out of war zones.”
Kevin considered my point, and his crew. I was struck by what a natural leader he appeared to be. They were waiting for him to make a decision. I hated authority in eve
ry possible permutation, but that meant I was even more impressed by someone with the born talent to lead. Like Cactus or, in a much tinier way, Kevin.
“Like I said, we were protesting. But there was a mix of people.”
“So, who is ‘we’?”
Everyone stared at their shoes or boards, shuffling with the “oh shit” countenance of kids caught out after curfew.
“I’m not here to rat you out to the federales. You’re from Tumbledown?”
“Kevin!” Chestnut said, then yanked him. “Let’s go.”
Kevin just looked at his arm and Chestnut begged off. “You’re the one making a scene, Austen. Cool it and shut up.” Quick as a bullet he yanked the board from Austen’s hand. “Or else you’re walking back.”
Austen took a step back, glaring at me, then his confiscated board, as if someone had torn Excalibur from Arthur’s hand right before battle.
Kevin tossed his head to get the hair out of his eyes. “We are from Tumbledown. But that wasn’t all who was there.”
“You rally some like-minded souls?”
“Not of our doing, man,” Kevin said. “We’ve been protesting ceremonies to remind people of the blood behind the ribbon, that people are getting awards for killing babies and families in their own home. We run into other groups. Mostly college kids, though some Chicano groups are solid, like the Brown Berets. But none of those were there, beyond the usual UCLA loudmouths. Loudest on the street, laziest behind the scene.”
“There were two big fellas I saw there,” I said. “One looked mad as hell. Agitated. As if he’d spent the night up on black beauties. Think he ended up on the back of a Harley after the place went boom.”
Kevin shook his head. “We don’t run with freaks like that. But I remember him. Dude was all elbows and shoulders, glared like he wanted us to melt.”
“There was another tall guy, big as our friend with the need for speed. Looked like he could have been your older brother.”
Kevin shrugged. “Rings no bells, Brimstone.” His voice got lower, the tone holding a fine edge of disdain. He was lying, and bad at it. That blond lumberjack must have been their leader. “What did you want with Weasel?” Kevin said, redirecting his “tell” so the onus was on me.
“Good question, Kevin. Weasel said something troubling. You ever hear of anyone pushing dope called Black Lotus?”
His face scrunched. “We don’t deal dope.”
“But you’ve heard the name?”
“Just in the air, man. You want to know about Black Lotus, you’ll have to talk to Billy Mars.”
“Should I check the phone book or do you have his place of employment?”
“He works the Boardwalk now, and yeah, we can take you to him. We were heading to the Boardwalk when we found you.”
“Lucky me.”
They all smiled and laughed. It hit me like a brick that these kids might be young, but they were strong, organized, and working silently together like a gang. Kevin tossed Austen his board. “Snake Race in ten minutes. You better hustle to catch Billy Mars before I make him eat my dust.”
Ten bullets on boards bolted toward the Pacific glare.
My wingtips chugged slowly in their wake.
11
TEN POUNDS OF SWEAT AND TEN MINUTES LATER, my soaking suit approached the resplendent glory of the Venice Beach Boardwalk. Street-side buildings were painted in sun-bleached versions of primary colors. Pacific Avenue was alive and reminded me of the Electric Magic Circus: street musicians scoping out corners and presenting wonder and protest in competing packages. The air was sickly sweet with saltwater taffy and popcorn. A scraggly-bearded twenty-ish beach bum in a gray shirt and bell-bottoms juggled on a corner, old bowling pins served as his clubs. At first blush, you might assume he was a bored hippie who spent most of his free time mastering the fine art of scrounging bowling alley garbage until he found his true calling, one pin at a time.
And you’d be dead wrong.
His hands were thick, long-fingered, and strong. He did not juggle so much as dance with the pins as three separate partners. The jugglers I’d known were all failed others: failed magicians, failed broad tossers, failed coin men, failed pickpockets. A juggler was about the lowest rung you could fall to on the entertainment ladder, and yet here was someone who created vistas of spins and plucks and knocks that had most of the oglers of the Boardwalk in a trance.
A girl on the other side of the street strummed a nylon-stringed guitar and spoke poetry that smelled a little too close to Weasel’s rants.
“These are the days of blood and needle
When L.A. slumbers God will hide
When dreams are all kept in empty bottles
And the gulf between us all will become a void.”
I crossed between two pillars and approached a circle of bodies surrounding three people. One was Kevin, who looked as if he hadn’t expended an iota of energy. The other was a muscle-bound rock of average height with cut abdominals and hulking arms, but without the trademark chicken legs of many new muscleheads. His blond-white hair was bleached and scraggly like Rastas I’d seen in Jamaica, his beard reddish. His body was covered in welts, easily seen thanks to his fashion choice of cutoffs and a shirtless chest.
But that wasn’t the scene-stealing sight of the Boardwalk.
That was Billy Mars.
Ghostly white with black hair slashing his face and swaying down the back of his lean, serpentine frame, Billy Mars wore a blue-and-white jumpsuit that seemed better fit for a Marvel comic cover than the waking world. But who was I to judge? Around Billy Mars’s pencil-thin neck was a silver Yin Yang medallion. The sunglasses may have been John Lennon, but the mascara dripping down his face like veins revealing themselves under a hex was pure Johnny Thunders—a popular cross-dressing guitar player who sometimes stumbled into the Thump & Grind to throw up in the bathroom stall. I poured him into a cab once and he just kept saying “Take me to the Lincoln,” as if naming a president could get you to a nice hotel.
Billy Mars had that drugged-out disdain chic that Thunders was riding to an early grave. He and the rest held boards in their hands or under their arms. I pushed through the crowd with the career expertise of a carny, resisting every urge to liberate coins and cards and bills from these awestruck rubes staring at a bottom-rung rock star.
I made it through the circle and Kevin looked embarrassed, like a son watching his dad crash his secret birthday party.
“Just found out about the Snake Competition. I understand you’re the man to talk to?” I said, approaching Mars, who faced me with a practiced indifference that made me presume he was British.
“Conformist,” he said and, sadly, instead of Oxford-posh or cockney, I was treated to the nasally bleat of a born Bostonian. “We’re starting as soon as I’m done with my smoke.” He produced a joint from behind his ear. “And I prophesize that this day, the victor will be the one who is most deserving.”
“Oh, I don’t want to race,” I said. “I just wanted to chat. Word on the street, as the kids say, is that you’re a man who knows a little about Black Lotus.”
The pretense that controlled Mars’s visage itched before being replaced with fresh smugness as he placed a joint between pompous lips. “Sure thing, grandpa,” he said as a boy with buck teeth and a Grateful Dead shirt lit his idol’s doobie. “Tell you what. You win this race, and I’ll tell you everything I know about anything and more. I win, and you fuck off from the Boardwalk and head back to the squares that produced you.”
The chuckles of the crowd confirmed that this was what passed for wit in these circles.
“He ain’t got no board,” screeched the musclehead, sounding like a wheezing George C. Scott, his diaphragm clenched by his surging physique.
“Yeah, you heard Jack Lumber,” Chestnut said, with an attitude reserved for those who worship rules. “He’s not one of us. He ain’t from the Boardwalk.”
“Kid, I’ve walked more boardwalks than you’ve bummed smokes,
just not this one.”
I caught the flash of motion from Kevin’s hand just before he launched his board, and I caught it with one hand. Didn’t look too shabby, though everyone from Tumbledown was groaning. Then Kevin looked at the chestnut-haired boy. “Give me your board, Austen.”
Austen saw he was stuck. Refuse an order from his leader, and he’d lose. Give in and he’d fully accept Kevin’s actions. Frustrated, he erred on the side of loyalty and tossed him his board.
“Fine,” Billy Mars said. “Race starts in sixty. Riley is at the end of the line. He’ll throw the prize to whoever makes the jump. That clear, old man?”
I’d already gotten one of my wingtips off and was pulling off my brown sock to reveal my milk-white flesh.
“What are you doing, grandpa?”
“Oh, are there any rules about going barefoot? Would that not be too groovy?”
Billy Mars scoffed. “Whatever turns you on, gramps, but it won’t make a lick of difference.” He smiled at Kevin. “We all know this is between you and me, Little Mister Sunshine.”
Jack Lumber stood between the two like the Hulk’s shorter brother: no less intimidating, but a little more ridiculous with all the muscle he had packed on a five-foot-eight frame. Even standing up straight, with pecs as big as watermelons, he was leaning forward.
“You counting me out, Mars? I’m the baddest thing on this beach. And that prize is mine.”
“Keep your shirt on, Jack.” Mars said. “At least with the fossil in the race you won’t end up dead last!”
Jack gripped Billy Mars by the neck and lifted him a foot off the ground. “Take back the smart talk or I’ll send you back to Mars, first class!”
Both my bare feet tasted burning asphalt, and as I strode toward them I realized there was something in Jack’s intonation that rang familiar. He was built like a bodybuilder, boulders of muscle and veins welded to joints that best be made of steel, but his wild eyes and hair, his bold choke and brag—all were practiced and familiar.
“Well if you kill him, hero,” I said to Jack, “we’ll never know who the better concrete surfer was. Why, we might even think old Jack Lumber fixed the race like some crooked wrestling show.”
