Who Needs Justice?

by Rex Bolt

  Gregoriev Petroivikov, Body IDd At Ocean Beach, Coached Bay Area Youth Sports

  by Jan Swainstone

  April 9th, 2017 - A body found floating in the surf below the Cliff House Wednesday night has been identified as a popular South Bay tennis instructor.

  Gregoriev Petroivikov, of Santa Clara, ran an afternoon junior tennis program at Stevenson Park in San Jose. He also reportedly gave martial arts instruction.

  Petroivikov was known to his tennis students as Damirko Crackoifka, and authorities confirmed the individuals are the same.

  "Damirko was a terrific instructor and an all-around nice guy," said Anthony Chilton, who said Petoikvok coached both of his sons in the San Jose program. "My oldest, Bruno, no way he'd be playing D-1 right now if it weren't for Damirko."

  Another parent, speaking on condition of anonymity, characterized Petroivikov as "somewhat mysterious, but a dedicated coach who was tough but fair."

  Petroivikov reportedly emigrated to the U.S. from eastern Europe in the late 1990's.

  His body was spotted in the water by diners at about 7:30 pm Wednesday. He was unclothed except for a pair of underwear briefs.

  According to SFPD, there were no obvious signs of trauma, but a coroner's report is pending.

  U.S. Park Police officers are also investigating how Petroivikov ended up in the water, according to Jason Livingsbean, a spokesman for the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.

  It seemed benign enough so far. Maierhaffer, of course, was the wild card, but Christian couldn't see the guy stepping forward. Unless he was missing something obvious . . . Which could easily be the case in all these engagements . . . So at the end of the day, what was the point of over-thinking any of it?

  He looked up Thad's Idaho club and wrote down the phone number and changed five dollars for quarters at the front desk, though he felt the librarian shooting daggers at him.

  The only dependable pay phone he could think of was the outside one at the Golden Gate Park tennis courts again, so he drove there and called Thad. The receptionist said he was away from his desk and would be returning in twenty minutes.

  Christian wandered into the clubhouse and the attractive Asian woman tennis pro was in her little shop area stringing a racquet. "Hello again," Christian said. "I see you keep busy on and off the court."

  "You have to," she said. "Fortunately, in spite of all the new racquet technology, the frames still need to be strung by hand."

  "People break a lot of strings though?"

  "They shouldn't if they go heavy synthetic, but a lot of the players insist on using light gauge since it gives you a bit more feel. Some of them need a re-string job every week."

  "Does it make a difference in their game?"

  "It doesn't, and I tell them that, but they go thin anyway. They watch the players on TV changing racquets all the time, and they think that's them."

  "Well, good for business then," Christian said. "Do you ever go out with your clients?"

  She looked up from the machine, with the relaxed manner, Christian was thinking, of someone who got hit on frequently and was comfortable dealing with it. She gave him a little smile. "At times. Normally it helps if they've taken a series of lessons."

  Christian said, "Well, I might be coming out of retirement and signing up for a few of those. You never know."

  She handed him her card: Jenna C. Lee, USPTA Level 1 Pro, and went back to her stringing. She said, "That other time, you were curious about the discount lessons."

  "Nah, those don't make sense," he said.

  "Speaking of that, I had the police here yesterday. You might have seen, someone drowned out at the beach. He taught here sometimes. One of the unofficial ones."

  "What'd the police ask you?"

  "It was pretty random. If I knew anything about him beyond tennis, if he had any unusual friends, students, and so forth. Also did he seem mentally stable."

  "A detective, or uniform or what?"

  "Yes, a detective and a uniformed officer."

  "What'd you tell them?"

  "I told them he was an asshole."

  Christian could have kissed her. "Oh. He was?"

  "Sorry if I'm sounding unsympathetic. But when you fool with someone's livelihood, that's unacceptable. Do you remember that song in the schoolyard, how cheaters never prosper?"

  "Yeah. I don't want to ask you, but you grow up in the city, go to public school?"

  "Seattle mostly. We moved here when I was sixteen. How about you?"

  "What I'm thinking is, those lessons, they may not happen for a while, but I'm good for them."

  Jenna said, "That's normally a bunch of BS, but something tells me you will be."

  Christian went back outside to the pay phone and tried Thad again. This time he picked up himself. Christian said, "Hey, Bill Crawford calling. We've come up with a potential energy saver for gyms. Love to show it to you in person. Will you be in Oklahoma City?"

  "What is it exactly?" Thad said.

  "A piece of software, little hardware to it as well. It factors in everything 24/7. You'll see a reduction in your bills, guaranteed."

  "How much is it?"

  "Two Ninety-Nine."

  "What's the name of your outfit."

  "Light Gauge Strings. Love to talk to you more in Oklahoma."

  "I'm not doing that one anymore. Last year was a waste of time."

  "I see."

  "I'll be in New York though, you want to introduce yourself. You'll have a table?"

  "Yeah, you're talking about the upcoming New York, or the later one?"

  "Upcoming. The Javitz."

  "Good, that's the one. I'll keep an eye out for you." Thad hung up.

  Christian went back inside to Jenna Lee's pro shop. "Sorry to make you look up again," he said, "but can I borrow that computer for just a second?"

  Jenna handed him the laptop. "You're certainly demanding for someone who hasn't spent a dime."

  Christian said, "I'm testing you out," and he googled 'Fitness Club Trade Shows' again and found the New York Javitz Center one, suddenly on the radar like lightning, two weeks from this weekend.

  "Say, you wouldn't want to go to New York with me, would you?" Christian said.

  "In your dreams," Jenna said.

  39 - Up By Hurlbut

  Christian was in the car bright and early Saturday driving to Sebastopol for the spring parade and festival. Around Sausalito he called Joyce.

  "Jesus, nothing like a little notice," she said.

  He said, "What you can do is meet me, if you're up for it. I'll be standing near the post office. If you miss the parade the thing overflows into the park down the street, is how I remember it from years ago."

  "I'm just curious, what's the big deal?"

  "I'm thinking of making a change actually. Maybe buy something up there. Nothing gives you an honest feel for a place like an old-fashioned parade down Main Street."

  "Well I'll do my best," Joyce said.

  There were detours off of Gravenstein Highway in front of the parade route and he had to park a mile away, but it was a perfect day for a walk. Royal-blue sky, temperature in the high 70's, cute little houses overflowing with flowers in the front yards. Christian thought maybe he should move here at that.

  The parade kicked off with the local war veterans, followed by the high school band, all the student musicians wearing fedoras and sunglasses, which Christian thought looked ridiculous.

  Next was a chain of open convertibles, the dignitaries sitting up high with their feet on the back seats. The prick Smith was third, he and his wife, and they were waving and throwing candy that kids were scrambling to collect. On the side of the car it said: 'The Rotary Club Thanks Jerry and Annette Smith'.

  There was a heavy-set woman standing next to Christian with a 2013 Apple Blossom Festival T-Shirt on. Christian said, "What'd that guy do, that they're thanking him for?"

  The woman said, "Jerry Smith. He helped save the pool when the finances were ka
put. De-fibrillators for the police, computers in the schools, all that."

  "He a nice guy then, as far as you know?"

  "Of course he is," the woman said. "You give your heart and soul to the community, how could you not be?"

  A man overhearing the conversation butted in. "Smith had a term on the city council. Pro-development, helped push through the business park up by Hurlbut. They razed an apple orchard that had been there forever, and now we have asphalt and a bunch of buildings that are half-empty."

  "How did he make his money?" Christian said.

  "Video games," the main said. "It was during the '90's, when everyone was getting bought out there for a while."

  "And he was a small piece of the puzzle, for one of the big boys."

  "You got it, his timing was fortunate," the man said.

  +++

  Christian found himself absorbed in the parade. There were musical combos on floats and Little League teams and a dachshund club and horses performing and a hot rod club and several 4-H groups, including the Future Farmers of America. There were more elements of a rural small town than Christian would have expected, just fifty-five miles from San Francisco.

  Half way through it Joyce tapped him on the shoulder. "This is nice," she said. "We have our jubilee coming up in Terra Linda, but this one's more intimate."

  "How's school?" he said.

  "It's good," Joyce said. "We've made some real headway on blocking the Donny baseball dugout naming."

  Christian thinking, son of a bitch, can you just let it go?

  There was an electric vehicle company in town and their display was passing by. They had decked-out funny-cars running on batteries driving in circles, including two guys sitting on a couch that looked like it was floating. Next was a women's dance troupe called West County Samba, where everyone had on silver beaded bikinis that flashed as they danced to a lively horn and drum section that brought up the rear.

  "Get a load of this," Christian said.

  "I know," Joyce said.

  Some of the women had classically voluptuous bodies, others not so great. One or two might have actually been South American, but the rest were white and fleshy. They were putting considerable energy into it and seemed to be having fun shaking themselves at the crowd.

  Christian said, "I'm seeing a combination of salsa and belly dancing here. Not bad, actually."

  Joyce grabbed his shoulder and whispered in his ear, "It makes me horny."

  Christian looked at her and shook his head, but he had to admit he was feeling it himself. The parade ended and they walked over to Ives Park where the festival was getting started. There were games and bands and wine tasting and food, and around the perimeter there were canopied booths. One of them was for the Rotary Club, and Smith was sitting in back, gnawing on a barbequed turkey leg that Sebastopol was apparently known for. He was easy to spot, big guy about six-three, thick red hair, freckles. To be 100% sure he had the right Jerry Smith, he would have to match the photo he got from the Piner High School yearbook with the original IJ article on the crash, but meanwhile what could it hurt to say hello?

  Joyce was absorbed in a quilting demonstration a few booths away. Christian walked into the Rotary Club booth and said to Smith, "I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate what you all are doing." Smith finished chewing, swallowed and wiped his lips. "Thank you for that, we aim to please."

  "What's on tap?" Christian said.

  "Well, we'd like to re-sod the soccer field at Brookhaven. And adjust the lighting angles if possible. Neighbors are complaining they shine in their living rooms."

  "You can't win, can you? You do the right thing, there's always a wise guy has problem with it."

  "Ain't it so."

  "I'm sorry," Christian said, "what was your name again?"

  "Jerry. Smith."

  "Peter Mossman," Christian said, extending his hand. Smith's left eye twitched, very slightly, but it was him.

  Smith switched his turkey leg into his left hand, wiped his right palm on a napkin and shook hands with Christian, getting grease all over him.

  "Anyhow, I'll let you go," Christian said, "You guys have been appreciated for years in our family, I'm glad I finally said something. Enjoy the rest of your day."

  "You too," Smith said.

  +++

  Christian found a bathroom and washed his hands thoroughly. He roamed around the rest of the festival and hooked back up with up Joyce. He said, "I appreciate the skill level, don't get me wrong, but if all the arts and crafts booths disappeared tomorrow, would we be any worse off?"

  "You mean as a society?" Joyce said.

  "Okay, yeah."

  "That's a terrible thing to say, and frankly I'm surprised at you Chris. How about if all the tall buildings in downtown San Francisco disappeared?"

  "That'd be fine. I've never understood it, what they could be needing to do in all those offices."

  "The difference is, the crafters are people, expressing themselves. The buildings are corporations."

  "Fine, I'm not saying get rid of any people . . . They still liking Bruce by the way? Far as you know? For the Donny thing?"

  "I haven't had any communication with Bruce, but I don't think so. It seems like a dead topic around town these days, except for the field part."

  They were back on Main Street, in front of a taqueria that looked busy. "I could eat," Christian said. "I got stuck talking to some slob who was stuffing his face, and it made me hungry."

  Joyce said Mexican sounded great but she wanted a real drink with it, which the taqueria didn't offer, so how about taking it out and going back to her place?

  Christian said, "A couple Dos X's doesn't do it for you?"

  "It's Saturday."

  "The new dude, where's he fit in the picture exactly?"

  "He has his mom tonight. They have a routine."

  "So you're telling me go in and get two super burritos and meet you at your house?"

  "Yes."

  "Hmm."

  +++

  Joyce had a small Victorian on Uppelt Street on the west side of Terra Linda. Not something you could afford today on a teacher's salary, but she'd picked it up at the right time. An old boyfriend, Lew, pretty nice guy actually, had renovated it for her.

  One of the touches that Lew came up with was a low built-in bureau in Joyce's bedroom closet. He had used redwood, to match the mouldings throughout the house, and finished it off with several coats of high gloss lacquer.

  Right now, Joyce was sitting on the bureau facing Christian, whose pants were at his ankles, and they were going to town.

  Joyce said, "The atmosphere today . . . there was an intensity."

  Christian said, "Not at first so much. But I'm seeing your point."

  Joyce said, "When I make love to someone else . . . you know what I think about Chris?"

  "No."

  "The time in your garage . . . against the car . . ."

  Someone said, "Is that so."

  Christian froze and Joyce slid away from him and said, "Goddamn it Doug. What on earth are you doing here?"

  "Have you been screwing other people just lately, or the whole time?" Doug said. He asked it pleasantly enough, a guy about thirty with an earing, wearing a pullover sweater and a Cal hat.

  "You know what?" Joyce said. She'd put on a robe, and had her hands on her hips, though she apparently didn't realize it was open down below. "Anyone who puts his mother first has no say in what I do or don't choose to do. Do you understand that?"

  "Just a minute," Doug said, "We've had an understanding all along, I thought."

  "Well you can take your understanding and shove it," Joyce said. "Give me the key."

  When Doug had driven away Joyce said, "Don't even go there Chris."

  "About the coast not being clear after all?"

  "Yes. I'm really sorry."

  "Forget that. The main thing, I'm glad he wasn't some psychopath about to pull a gun."

  "No, he's a whole diff
erent animal than Bruce, if that's what you're concerned with. Anyhow . . . do you want to eat?"

  "I'm thinking not yet."

  Joyce said, "What I wanted to add, to the garage part . . . it turns me on that we were keeping someone waiting upstairs."

  "You've touched on that before," Christian said.

  "Even so," Joyce said, "we were rudely interrupted before I could complete my thought."

  40 - Second Martini

  He drove home Sunday morning and went for a run. Today he went the opposite way: through Fort Mason, along Bay Street to the Embarcadero, past the piers to the Bay Bridge and down to ATT Park at China Basin, where the Giants play baseball. It felt like four or five miles, and he turned around and started back. When he was growing up you rarely went south of Market Street, but now the area was alive with condos and restaurants and vintage streetcars and specialty shops, and Christian didn't feel connected to any of it.

  He picked up some coffee and a Sunday New York Times and was showered and stretched out when the doorbell rang. He went downstairs and there was Birgitte, fidgety, wanting to get inside.

  Christian sat her down at the kitchen table. "You look beautiful, as always," he said. "but you're redder in the face and sweating a little."

  "I parked at Cala Foods and walked," Birgitte said.

  "Jesus, on Geary?"

  "Chris, I'm very worried. I haven't heard from Steve. And that man Damirko who I told you about? Who gave Steve lessons? He drowned. Did you know that?"

  "I did hear that, and I'm sorry. I was at the courts and they were talking about it."

  "Steve calls at least every other day, without fail, wherever he is. The last time I spoke with him was Wednesday, before he left for Denver. He hasn't been answering his cell, and this morning there's a recording that the service . . . has been disconnected." Birgitte was crying.

  Christian poured her a shot of vodka, and helped himself to one too. "Okay, let's hold our horses and back up a minute. Why would you be worried about Steve because his tennis teacher got fished out of the ocean?"

  "Because they may have harmed him as well."

  "Who is 'they'?"

  "I have no idea. But as I believe I told you, I would not trust this man. There was a dark side to him, and God help Steve if he didn't see that."