Romeo's Hammer

by James Scott Bell

  As I passed one called Green Bliss, a blonde of sunny disposition called to me and asked if I’d like to see a documentary playing on campus that night.

  “What’s it about?” I said.

  “Ecology, economy, and equity,” she said.

  “Exceedingly, exponentially excellent,” I said.

  She smiled. “What’s it say on your arm?”

  “Vincit Omnia Veritas.”

  “Is that your name?”

  “It’s Latin. It means truth conquers all things. Do you believe in truth?”

  She frowned. “I believe in people.”

  “All people?”

  “Sure.”

  “Even bad people?”

  “Nobody’s really all bad,” she said.

  “Hitler?”

  “I don’t know that much about him.”

  “Nazi dictator. Gassed millions of Jews?”

  “Well …”

  “The Holocaust?”

  “I’ve heard of that.”

  “Ever had a class on it?”

  She shook her head. “I study peace.”

  “History is about war.”

  “War is not the answer.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Not even against Nazis?”

  “I don’t know that much about them.”

  I fought back a dark despair and said, “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have an appointment back in reality.”

  She cocked her head.

  That seemed like a good place to leave it.

  I FINALLY FOUND the Life Sciences Building and looked for Pasfield’s office on the directory. I went up to the second floor where I was met by a receptionist. She looked like an ecology major. On the wall behind her were two posters. One of them was a white background with a giant handprint formed from a pattern of green trees. The other was a campaign poster for Allison Ursula Serret. In the poster she was smiling, palms up, holding a sun in one hand and a moon in the other.

  I asked the receptionist if the professor was in and she said he had class for another hour, and if I’d like to come back.

  I said I would. She asked me what it was about and I said it was about the rally at the beach.

  The receptionist beamed. “Are you working for Allison?”

  “No,” I said. “But I do live at the beach.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “It is.”

  “As long as we can keep it.”

  “It’s doing pretty well,” I said.

  She didn’t know what to say to that. So I left.

  I went to a food court and bought a Coke and some chili cheese fries. I hate waiting anywhere without a book, but I was bookless. There was a copy of the student newspaper, The Daily Bruin, sitting on the table next to me.

  Beggars can’t be choosers.

  The front page had a story about students protesting a proposed tuition hike. They were mad at the Board of Regents. The Board of Regents was mad at Sacramento, the state capital.

  Everyone assumed that some form of government action was the answer.

  I had to marvel at how no one learns the lessons of history.

  So I turned to the sports section. UCLA was about to play its cross-town rival, USC, in football. This is a big deal every year. It gives the kiddies a chance to go tribal, swill beer, and pretend this all matters.

  I turned to the editorial page, hoping to find some engaging and intelligent argumentation.

  Finding none, I turned to the movie reviews. After reading several grammatical errors I tossed the paper aside and sat amid college life.

  A life I’d experienced too young and that ended too quickly.

  I finished my fries and Coke and went on a little walk around the campus. When I got back to Terasaki, the professor was in.

  “WHAT CAN I do for you, Mr. Romeo?”

  Dr. Gary Pasfield sat behind his desk but did not offer to shake my hand. Instead he adjusted a mini-greenhouse the size of a small fish tank. It had a blue LED light zapping nourishment to what looked like sprigs of parsley.

  Find points of connection. Get him talking about what interests him. Standard interview technique.

  I nodded at a framed photograph on his wall of a handsome lad with an oar. “One of your students?”

  He followed my gaze. “My son. That was taken a few years ago, when he was rowing for Stanford at the Pac-12 Championships.”

  “He looks like he could really churn it.”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “All-American.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “He works for Google.”

  I nodded. “Everyone will work for Google someday, right?”

  Pasfield laughed. “Or Amazon. Now, Mr. Romeo, what can I help you with?”

  “May I sit?”

  “For a moment.”

  I took a seat and said, “What exactly is integrative ecology?”

  “Well,” he said, “the whole field of ecology has become increasingly interdisciplinary. Even the social sciences have something to say, and should. Not to mention biology and horticulture.”

  “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think,” I said.

  He didn’t smile.

  “Dorothy Parker quote,” I said. “What’s your current research focused on?”

  “Land surface temperatures, mostly,” he said.

  “Global warming?”

  “Climate change. Can we get to it, Mr. Romeo? I have a faculty meeting in half an hour and have to prep. Is this about the county supervisor campaign?”

  “No, sir, it’s not. I was at the rally at the beach, though.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Good street dogs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A vendor there. Don’t you think street dogs should be legal?”

  He took an annoyed breath. “Why are you here?”

  I said, “I’m an investigator. I’m looking into a missing persons case.”

  “And what’s that got to do with me?

  “Have you ever been to a place called Kahuna’s?”

  He frowned. “Isn’t that a place down by the beach?”

  “Right, Malibu.”

  “I think it’s popular with the students. Some kind of margarita night or something.”

  “That’s the place.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been there,” he said. “Or if I did, it was when we first moved out here.”

  “Your family?”

  “My wife, son, and I.”

  “When was that?”

  “Ten years ago. I came from the University of North Carolina. We love it out here. Except for the occasional earthquake. But you learn something when that happens. The earth does it to us every now and then, just to remind us who’s boss.”

  “The earth is boss?”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  “I think of it more as a giant beach house.”

  He thought about it, but the thought did not manifest itself in a verbal response.

  “I do want to leave the beach house clean and neat,” I said. “But it doesn’t own me.”

  “Would you mind telling me why you’re here?”

  “There’s a guy who works Kahuna’s, big guy, bartender. I had a casual conversation with him yesterday. We exchanged pleasantries. He happened to have your card on him so I was curious if you knew this fellow.”

  “Is there a reason you’re asking me other than curiosity?”

  “Curiosity has to be part of what I do. I don’t have much to go on right now, and I’m just gathering as much information as possible. The inductive method, if you will.”

  “You say he’s a very big man?”

  “You wouldn’t forget him.”

  He looked up. “Let me think.”

  “Take your time,” I said.

  He did. Then, “I’m sorry, but I’m not getting anything.”

  “You sure?”

  “If it’s not
coming, it’s not coming. I really wish I could help you.”

  “Maybe you still can,” I said.

  He looked at me and waited.

  I said, “Have you heard of any movement or sect that has the archangel Michael as a focus?”

  “Archangel Michael? Like from the Bible?”

  “That’d be the one.”

  He shook his head.

  I took the picture of Brooklyn out of my wallet and handed it to Pasfield.

  “Who is she?” he said.

  “Her name is Brooklyn Christie.”

  “Is she a student?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m allowed to say she’s pretty.”

  “Good old First Amendment,” I said. “Even at UCLA.”

  “Sometimes,” he said with a sideways smile. He handed the picture back to me. “I don’t know who she is.”

  I stood. “Maybe your son can find her.”

  He looked confused.

  “He works for Google, after all,” I said.

  “Ah,” Pasfield said.

  The man could grow parsley, but what he needed was a sense of humor.

  AS I WAS rolling back to the beach, my phone bleeped.

  “Mike, it’s Rodney.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You said to tell you if he came back. The guy with the tattoo down the arm.”

  “He’s there?”

  “Just now. He walked in. No car.”

  “Is he on the beach?”

  “Yeah. I can see him. Know what? I think he wants me to see him. I think he wants you to know he’s here.”

  “Good instincts, Rodney. I’ll park at my place then head up the cliffs the back way.”

  “Sure thing, Mike.”

  The Cove has lowlands and highlands. To get to the high ground you can go through the gate arm that Rodney controls. Or you can go around the back of the park, the long way. My mobile unit is a few spaces up from the gate, so I never have to drive through. I pulled into my driveway, popped the trunk, and got a pair of binoculars.

  Then I jogged the back way and up the hill. It was a good workout. Spartacus was helping me stay in shape. What a guy.

  I got to the top where I had an unobstructed view of the beach. I chose a spot where there was some native scrub and peered through it, like a spy in a World War II movie.

  Spartacus was down there, alone, which was odd. He didn’t seem to me to be the kind of guy that didn’t have retinue. He had on black swim trunks. He was stretching, letting a couple of young ladies nearby get a load of his pecs.

  I watched him for about ten minutes. He did a little walking around. Every now and then he’d look towards the parking lot like he expected somebody—me, for instance—to show up.

  And then he’d glance up at the bluffs.

  Where I was.

  Now why would he do that?

  I started a scan of the hillside below me.

  Not a thing. A few clumps of native California plant life were big enough hide a—

  Something glinted in the sun.

  It was just for a second but as noticeable as a diamond. And it was coming from the clumps.

  I made a visual impression of the location, then walked further down the road. I peered over the shoulder again.

  No sign of anyone.

  I waited, looked at Spartacus again, then back at the clumps.

  Something moved. Something metallic.

  It shifted position in someone’s hands.

  It was, in fact, a rifle.

  Were they kidding?

  I gathered up five rocks, a little smaller than a baseball and a little larger than a walnut. I tossed one at the clump.

  The clump answered with a verbal WTF bomb.

  I chucked another one, this time with a little heat on it. I heard it thump, then heard a wailing and a shower of curses bursting from the native foliage.

  Trying not to laugh, I went back to my car and drove a little further down, until I could see the dirt parking lot that serves this side of the hill. It wasn’t long before a guy carrying a duffel bag spilled into the lot. I recognized him as one of the guys I’d encountered along with Sparty that day at the beach.

  He got to a silver BMW, opened the trunk, threw the duffel in, slammed the trunk. He got in and spun dirt as he pulled away. I wasn’t able to see his plates. He emerged back at the flatland lot and drove out. Rodney waved at him.

  I took another look at the beach. Sparty was talking to a girl. Then he took a phone out of his trunks and put it to his ear. Half a minute later he shoved it back in his trunks and went running toward the gate, then up the road toward PCH. Where rifle guy was probably waiting for him.

  So Spartacus had come to see me.

  I thought it was about time I went to see him.

  WHICH IS WHY I went back to Ira’s.

  On the way I called Sophie. I wanted to tell her about my, um, conversation with Josh. But it went to voicemail and I left a message. I gave her the number for my untraceable phone, which was a risk, but one I was willing to take. I tried to sound charming, ended up like a bad comedian on open-mike night.

  As soon as I entered the living room, which doubles as Ira’s office, he read my face like the former cryptographer he is.

  “Business or personal?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your concerns.”

  “Universal,” I said. “I’m worried about the cosmos.”

  “My advice is that you specialize,” Ira said. “How about some tea?”

  “Again with the tea?”

  “Ah, yes. Coffee?”

  “If it won’t disrupt your sensibilities to make some.”

  “I’ve been adjusting my sensibilities ever since you arrived in Los Angeles, Michael. Make yourself at home.” He started to wheel himself toward the kitchen, paused. “This is your home, you know.”

  He gave me the Ira Rosen smile which is a mix of wisdom, charm, and puckishness.

  I scanned one of Ira’s bookshelves. A volume called Good and Evil in Jewish Thought seemed like light reading. I carried it over to a wingback chair by the window and opened it up.

  I was into a section on the dual nature of man when Ira came back with a tray on his lap.

  “What are you reading?” he said.

  “What the rabbis say about good and evil.”

  He handed me a cup of coffee from the tray. “And where do we come out on the issue?”

  “You’re for good and against evil.”

  “Whew,” said Ira. “I was worried there for a moment.”

  “And that man is messed up without the restraint of a moral law,” I said.

  “All you have to do is watch the news,” Ira said. “There is nothing new under the sun, my boy.”

  “Also, somebody wants to kill me.”

  Ira arched his snowy eyebrows.

  I said, “A guy with a rifle wanted to pick me off at the Cove today.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I mean for the Cove,” Ira said. “I wanted you there so as not to attract more trouble.”

  “Your concern overwhelms me.”

  “You can take care of yourself. But there are families there.”

  “So what now?” I said. “Shall I become a wanderer in the earth?”

  “That would put the earth at risk,” Ira said. “No, best that you stay here where I can keep an eye on you. Now why would someone want to shoot you, Michael? Is this related to the Christie matter?”

  I shook my head. “I have another client.”

  “Why don’t I know about this?”

  “It’s pro bono. I’m helping him find his guitar.”

  Ira went into one of his stone-cold silences that demands you fill the void.

  “Remember that guy I told you about?” I said. “Had a little run-in at the beach?”

  “He was swearing around children,” Ira said.

  “That’s the one. He stole
a guitar from the kid who calls himself C Dog.”

  “Carter,” Ira said. “A rather laid-back young lad.”

  “Loves his music,” I said.

  “And his marijuana,” Ira said.

  “What happened is this guy, who I call Spartacus because of his tat, stole the guitar to bait me. At least I think he did. Maybe he’s just mean.”

  “No restraint of moral law,” Ira said.

  “So he shows up at the Cove. I got a tip from Rodney. I went up on the bluffs and watched him. That’s when I spotted the shooter. I rooted him out with some rocks.”

  “Rocks?”

  “The Scottish way,” I said. “He packed his gun and took off.”

  “Your life becomes exceedingly complex,” Ira said.

  “Some of us have that gift,” I said. “The Spartacus tattoo is distinctive. Maybe we can search for a similar image, find him or the artist.”

  “A fishing expedition, eh?”

  “Better than a needle in a haystack.”

  “Piffle,” Ira said. “Give me something hard.”

  “All right,” I said. “Where did Cain get his wife?”

  “Cain was able,” Ira said.

  We repaired to Ira’s computer station. It took him less than five seconds to bring up a page of images related to gladiator tattoos.

  He scrolled through the thumbnails slowly, so I could look on. There were some pretty impressive inks. Helmeted warriors, armor, shields, bows. Even a coliseum scene.

  And then about halfway down, a guy showing off the exact tattoo I’d seen. You could only see the lower half of his face, but in the background were all sorts of framed art pieces, the unmistakable décor of a tattoo shop.

  “That’s got to be it,” I said.

  Ira clicked on the image. The sidebar identified it as Bat’s Ink Eclectic. It was on Melrose in Hollywood.

  “Voilà,” Ira said.

  “Next time, make it faster,” I said.

  I CALLED RAY Christie and set up a meeting for the next day.

  Sophie had not called me back.

  Sometimes things in this life bother you without your consent. The Stoics would have argued that point, but I think the Stoics had a stick up their togas. The human mind, as well-oiled as some can make it, is still subject to the slings and arrows of the flesh.