Who Needs Justice?

by Rex Bolt

  Christian remembered he hadn't checked his fake gmail account since he set it up before Pocatello. He had emailed some Santa Rosa high schools as a longshot looking for Jerry Smith, the drunk driver. Surprisingly, there were three return emails in his inbox. He started to open the first one but decided he better resolve the current nuisance before he took on an additional activity. And that was assuming he got the current thing right.

  +++

  That night, Christian had his second bad dream, at least that he was aware of. Joyce had mentioned something after the Donny thing, and Birgitte brought it up as well, that he was agitated and yelling out. He had no memory of those, but this one was vivid. He was at a coastal resort in Mexico with Floyd, but Floyd was the Pocatello driver. There was a Mexican kid lifeguard who only had part of a leg, because it had been bitten off by a shark. The lifeguard took them on a glass bottom boat for a sightseeing tour. At the back of the boat, Bethany was up against the railing and Kyle was making love to her. Christian tried to break it up, but Kyle threw him overboard. Every time he tried to climb back onto the boat, Floyd beat his hands with a baseball bat.

  He couldn't sleep any more after the dream, so he got up and luckily his favorite show Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives was on, and after a while the dream didn't bother him as much. He supposed he was fortunate to not be having continuous nightmares, like you'd hear about people in similar situations having to face, and he left it at that.

  It shaped into a sparkling-clear April Saturday morning, the fog gone and the city already flooded with sunshine, and Christian decided to go to Stinson Beach. First he stopped at a Big 5 in Corte Madera and bought an ocean swimsuit, a one-piece vest-and-shorts job made of thin wetsuit material, that supposedly left you enough flexibility to actually swim. He added some short fins and a pair of goggles, parked in Mill Valley, slung on his backpack and picked up the start of the Dipsea Trail.

  It was his favorite hike, about seven miles up and over Mount Tam to the coast, and it began with several hundred forested steps climbing out of Old Mill Park before opening up into bright daylight and the smell of the ocean, mixed with licorice from the wild anisette that was all over the place.

  There were steep switchbacks down the back side of the trail, with sweeping views of the coastline toward Point Reyes, and he was feeling it in his shins by the time he reached Highway One and the little town of Stinson Beach. He wolfed down a burger, fries and milkshake at the same outdoor place he'd gone to as a kid, and he watched the people roll in. The scene hadn't changed much; you had yuppies and families and giggling high school kids driving the twisty road from 101, stripping down and going home sunburned from a beach where you couldn't comfortably put a toe in the water until about July. But they all seemed to have fun, and the setting was world-class.

  Christian gave it a half hour and then changed into the ocean suit, adjusted the fins and goggles and went in. The initial temperature shock was just as brutal as without the fancy suit, but he warmed up pretty quickly, so the thing worked. There were scattered surfers out there, no one else swimming. He worked his way past the break-line, floated around for a while, picked out a flag on the beach, swam parallel until he was in line with it, practiced going underwater a few times, and got the hell out.

  He hadn't been in any body of water for a while, but he felt reasonably good to go. The suit was bulky but probably a good idea. The fins helped for sure. The goggles were debatable, because someone might put them around his own neck and strangle him, but having the good vision seemed worth it.

  The main thing, he was a good swimmer. He'd been on a year-round team when he was young, practicing five-days a week at the USF pool and going to meets on weekends. By the time he was fourteen he was burned out and quit the sport, but by then he'd put up a JO qualifying time in the 100 fly.

  He relaxed on the sand, leaning back on his elbows and taking in the spring collection of new bikini offerings. You really did see more female on a sunny day at the beach than anywhere else. Under better circumstances, it would be a great afternoon to alternate between dozing off and observing the action, but not today.

  He figured why not thumb a ride like the old days, and if that didn't work he'd have to take the bus back, but the second car that came by stopped. The guy was a bleach-blonde-haired surfer, mid-30's, heading back to the city, driving in flip-flops.

  Christian asked how it went today. "You know Stinson," the surfer said. "Short break. I live in the Sunset, so Ocean Beach is a lot better, but I come here for the change of pace."

  "I love it here," Christian said. "I could live here, at least during the week."

  "I hear you. Looks like you got wet yourself."

  "Yeah, trying a little open water swimming. I got a suit, feels strange but you can move your arms and legs okay I guess."

  "That's the only way to go. Otherwise you stiffen up pretty quick . . . You planning on going in the water this week?"

  "Actually I was thinking about it, yeah."

  "Well be careful. We got big surf on the way."

  "We do?"

  "Late Tuesday, supposed to hit. They're getting fired up at Mavericks, some Hawaii guys are flying in."

  "Interesting," Christian said. "So when is high tide these days."

  "Right now, around 5:30 in the morning. But with this thing it'll be big all day."

  "After high tide though, typically, it goes out for the next twelve hours?"

  "It's not quite that cut and dry, but yeah."

  "So if a guy was floating around on a board and just went with it, or had drowned or something, where would he end up?"

  "Starting from where?"

  "I don't know, say from where they surf under the bridge."

  "They'd go somewhere outside the Gate I guess. Probably a mile or two."

  "Would they ever just . . . keep going . . .or they'd get reversed back in eventually?"

  "Reversed back in. Maybe not right away though, lot of factors out there."

  "I see . . . well where's the best place to watch?"

  "Guys surfing big waves?"

  "Yeah."

  "Great Highway down past Sloat should be pretty strong. Earlier is always best of course. Cleaner sets, no wind."

  "You going to be out there, then?"

  "No man, I don't think so. I grew up down south and surfed some big storms in the '90s, but I got a wife and kid now."

  They had reached downtown Mill Valley. Christian thanked the guy. "No worries," the surfer said. "And you'll have fun with the open water stuff. There are groups, you can go online."

  Christian said he appreciated it. A hot Starbucks sounded good right now, but before he went in he called Bethany. "You caught me at home," she said. "I'm just unpacking some things from the Farmer's Market. I'm off to a hair appointment in a minute."

  "What for, your hair's fine."

  "Okay, I'm not getting into this. I try to stay presentable, if you don't mind."

  "So any earth-shattering news? Work, Billy, your apartment, Kyle, squash, anything?" Christian was counting backwards with his fingers, putting it at six days ago that he'd used the rock on Kyle.

  "Nope. Other than Dr. Steiner wants you to come in of course. I've given up on that one."

  "Tell him 'current patient condition inconclusive'."

  "Seriously, you are okay Chris?"

  "Fair. The anticipation has me a little stressed. Physically, I still do what I have to do. One good thing, you eat whatever you want, no conscience. You can unequivocally tell the American Heart Association to shove it."

  "Fine, but I wouldn't be simply throwing caution to the wind."

  "How about dinner tonight, a drink, something?"

  "I can't."

  "Okay tomorrow for a little Sunday Brunch then. Don't have my schedule in front of me, but I can probably make time."

  "I'm actually busy tomorrow morning as well."

  "Tomorrow night?"

  "No . . . Monday, though, we have a league match at the
Bay Club. You could stop by and watch some, if you can tolerate us. Then we could grab something afterward."

  "You wear normal workout gear when you play, or a uniform, or what?"

  "Chris, it starts at eight if you'd like to come. Please enjoy the rest of your weekend."

  Christian ordered a small decaf and a finger sandwich at Starbucks, and half way home the hike and the swim and the sun hit him all at once and he went straight to bed, no dreams to contend with this time.

  32 - Medium Rare

  Sunday morning he drove to the Marina Green, not to work out but to make an appearance. Damirko was easy to find, leaning against the hood of his car, facing Alcatraz, working the phone. The guy was resourceful; he could book lessons, put ads on Craigslist and scare the shit out of someone, all at the same time.

  Christian parked, waited for Damirko to notice him, jogged the first hundred yards of his usual route and then pulled up fake-lame, holding his hamstring. He fake- tested it for a minute and turned around and walked back, shaking out the leg. He got in the car and drove home, passing Damirko who was on the trail and off the phone now, glaring at him.

  After lunch, he drove to China Beach, first making sure he wasn't being followed. It was an odd setting for a public beach and a closely held secret to many native San Franciscans. You were in Seacliff, one of the fanciest neighborhoods in the city, all mansions and manicured sidewalks and then boom, this beach out of nowhere. China Beach was about a mile on the ocean side of the Golden Gate Bridge, so it was technically the ocean even though it felt like you were still on San Francisco Bay because the Marin Headlands was directly across.

  Christian spent time at China Beach growing up, and had one bad experience. When he was about ten, he was with a friend and the kid's father, and they went too far down the beach looking for tide pools. They weren't paying attention, and the tide came in and pinned them, and they had to scramble part way up the cliff and sit tight. It was getting dark and luckily a fisherman in a little dinghy spotted them and they got rescued by the fire department.

  Today he went back to the same spot where they got stuck. Right now you had about twenty yards of beach between the cliff and the water, and things were relatively tame. He continued a little further down the beach, heading west away from the city toward Land's End, and there was a horseshoe cove that felt pretty private. You couldn't see people or houses or any other part of the beach, and someone would have to be doing something stupid on the cliff to see you.

  This had possibilities. There were a couple of large rocks sticking up out of the water, maybe three hundred yards away. On a dare once when he was in high school, he swam out there and back from the main beach. The distance wasn't terrible but the current made you nervous.

  It was as good a time as any to check in with Maierhaffer. Maierhaffer picked up but didn't speak.

  "Oops, my bad," Christian said. "I was trying to reach Birgitte Maierhaffer? Wrong number though?" Maierhaffer hung up.

  Five minutes later, Maierhaffer called Christian back. "Not a question of if, pal, just when," he said.

  "Hey, Steve," Christian said. "Good to hear your voice. What was that again, you're breaking up on me."

  "I said your number's up. Sorry."

  "Jeez . . . Well if that's the case, I better take a nap so I'm fresh for Birgitte. Might as well double up, make it count."

  He could hear Steve breathing through his mouth for about ten seconds like he was getting ready to respond, but then he was gone.

  Christian made mental notes of the last few details at the beach and went back to take an actual nap, nothing to do with Birgitte but needing all his energy reserves if it happened tomorrow. For dinner he went back to New Joe's in North Beach, where he'd taken Bethany that time. He sat at the counter, shot the breeze with the guy next to him who said he grew up in the neighborhood, and put away two steak sandwiches, medium rare. Hopefully not the last dinner he'd ever eat, but if it turned out to be, at least go out in relatively classy fashion.

  33 - Tourist Parking

  He set the alarm for six on Monday morning, and when he looked out the window it was raining. Not a battering rain but a light, steady one.

  He put on the ocean suit under his sweats and stuffed a backpack with the fins, the goggles, a towel and the gun. That made him nervous, that the gun might somehow go off and shoot him in the back. He'd thought of trying to jam everything into a briefcase and carrying that instead, since if the thing discharged he at least could control the direction, but a doofus jogging with a briefcase might get remembered.

  There were two concerns, actually three. First, that the prick would even show up today, and second, that he would cooperate by tailing him the whole way and not sit on a bench doing business on his phone and waiting for the return trip.

  Hopefully yesterday's call to Steve would mean Damirko would be on it, but the flip side was the third concern, that Damirko might step it up, going from following him around making him uncomfortable to breaking his neck and throwing him in the water.

  Christian backed out of the garage at 7:30, and when he'd crossed Northpoint he saw Damirko driving behind him, the guy most definitely present. Christian parked at the Marina Green, Damirko parked one spot away, and Christian strapped on the backpack and started his run.

  When they reached Chrissy Field, where he was afraid Damirko might stop and wait, Christian checked over his shoulder and Damirko was right there, chewing gum, furrowed brow, a baseball cap pulled low against the rain, which Christian wished he'd thought of. Damirko was wearing a tight, stretchy running suit, no obvious sign of a weapon, but you couldn't be sure.

  A quarter mile from the Golden Gate Bridge was a road off to the left that took you up into the Presidio and through the tourist parking area and into a tunnel that crossed under the bridge. Then you were winding through the Presidio, under normal circumstances enjoying a section of the 49-Mile Drive, the Pacific Ocean on your right, China Beach three miles away.

  Christian left the jogging trail and got on the road and Damirko followed, the rain picking up a bit when they exited the Presidio at 25th Avenue and entered Seacliff.

  There was a parking area above China Beach and then a cement walkway that went down to it. There was only one car in the parking lot, which likely belonged to the dog-walker on the beach with an umbrella who was conveniently headed east, the opposite of where he and Damirko were going.

  It being a Monday morning and grey and rainy, the weather no doubt connected to the big surf that was coming, Christian had to admit it wouldn't be set up better than this.

  Right before he'd left his apartment, he flashed on a scene from one of his favorite movies, Wall Street, where the kid stockbroker says, "Life comes down to a few moments. This is one them." Now, jogging down the path to the beach, the motherfucker in back of him, that was ridiculous. There was no perspective, just a guy to float face down.

  Christian hit the sand and took off in a sprint to the left. The tide was past peak but it was still in, and there were places where you had to run through the water. Knowing where he was going helped, and when he got to cove he'd put some distance on Damirko.

  When Damirko came around the final corner Christian had the gun on him.

  "Hey man, how you doing," Christian said.

  Damirko put his hands out to the sides, palms-up, and said, "Please . . . Seely . . . I no hurting nobody."

  Christian said, "Oh."

  "This guy, Steven," Damirko said, "I tell him I watch you . . . You fucking with his wife, what do you like him to do?"

  Christian said, "I see."

  "I gonna do nothing . . . Just like you no gonna use a gun." Saying it like he was getting ready to make a move.

  Christian said, "You'll need to lay down, on your stomach, because if you don't I'll have to shoot you." Christian locked eyes with Damirko and nodded. Damirko smiled and stood there. Christian closed one eye, curled his upper lip and was about to squeeze the trigger when Damirko got
the message and laid down.

  "Why you making this?" Damirko said.

  "All I'm doing, I'm asking you to go for a swim."

  It took the Croat a few seconds. "What swim?"

  "See those rocks out there? You swim to 'em, raise your hand to show me you made it, turn around come back, I'll buy you lunch. I can tell you're a nice guy. We'll call it even, and talk about getting me some tennis lessons."

  "So we do that now, forget about swim."

  "I have to give you credit, Dim, you sound like me . . . You don't mind me calling you Dim, do you? A nice ring to it, short for Dimwit . . . However, you have ten seconds to take everything off and get in the water. Shirt first. Nine, eight . . ."

  Damirko stripped down to his briefs before the count expired and stepped into the water. Thank God all he'd had on was a long sleeve shirt and running pants, nothing concealed underneath, though Christian felt through his clothes to make sure as Damirko was adjusting to the water.

  "How is it?"

  "Please. Is like ice. Please."

  "There's an initial jolt, I hear you. But then you get stabilized pretty quick. You've seen those old guys at the Dolphin Club right? Down by Aquatic Park? They never miss a day, no wetsuit, nothing. Of course as I think about it, a lot of them are fat, which probably does help."

  Damirko was in to his knees, trying to scoop water onto his upper body. Christian said, "Good idea, Dim, but unfortunately we've got to get the show on the road. Five, four, three . . . "

  Damirko waded through the whitewater and got past a couple of waves and sprawled forward and started swimming. It was a combination of dog paddle and freestyle, his face never going in the water, everything out of synch. It occurred to Christian that maybe he wouldn't have to do anything, that the prick might just drown on his own out there.

  But after watching for a few minutes it was clear that bad as the guy looked, he was moving slowly but steadily toward the rocks like a determined little pit bull, and from there he'd choose an option that didn't include a guy waiting for him on the beach with a gun.