by Rex Bolt
“I know what it is,” Chris said. “But say, what the heck now?”
“I just told you, separate deadbeats, both incarcerated, but we had the erroneous one as the stalker . . . This second one’s worse than the first guy hands down. Guy has a rap sheet that’s a laundry list of adventures . . . You take our liberal court system, not giving him a quarter the time they should have -- and factor in the parole idiots -- there’s your end result.”
Chris felt around for the firearm in his pocket, which curiously felt a whole lot more dangerous now that he wasn’t going to be using it tonight for sure, or likely any time soon.
“Gosh,” he said.
“Sorry about that,” Chandler said.
“So what I’m hearing . . . you referencing the parole idiots . . . this mutant is loose too?”
“I’m afraid so. A more recent ill-advised re-entry into society. This one’s been sprung on the world since February 12th, if I’m repeating my source correctly . . . We have his hometown as Beacon, down the Central Valley toward Fresno.”
Chris knew where that was too, but didn’t want to be a jerk.
“So we good?” Chandler said. “Whatever you might have been intending . . . to speak to either gentleman about? Capiche?”
Chris said they were, and the old guy in the plaza had recommended the best place in town if you wanted a steak, and you were in Montana . . . nothing you could do about that fact now, so you may as well make it count.
Chapter 15
Chris did some soul-searching on the way back to California.
Could you somehow just monitor this guy and leave him alone for now?
The 6 months and counting, of him not bothering Gilda, that should count for something, correct?
Unfortunately . . . nah.
You monitor a guy like this, while he supposedly continues his ‘reformation’ as a free man . . . You hope there’s no way it would ever cross his mind to drive the three or four hours from Beacon to Bolinas some day . . . for a little follow up visit. Up close and personal this time . . . Except it could.
Chris was comparing the wait-and-see approach to sticking a band-aid on a hematoma -- or whatever those things were that festered from the inside.
Guys don’t want to take the heat . . . then you know what? Don’t threaten innocent people.
Chris wished the answer wasn’t nope -- but it was.
***
Beacon was quite a bit larger than Cook’s Creek. No point looking it up, but getting the lay of the land currently it felt populous enough that you might have two high schools. One good thing, there were multiple lodging options including a Super8 right at the exit off 99, and Chris always liked those. Beacon was between Turlock and Chowchilla.
Hard to know what people did around here if they didn’t work in agriculture -- and the town logo on the entry sign was a horse dragging an old manual plow. Chris had noticed on Google, just trying to find directions, where they threw in the fact that most of the fruits and vegetables in the United States are grown in the Central Valley.
You were starting to waste a lot of days, running around like a chicken with your head cut off. He’d left Montana bright and early Wednesday morning, and was of a mind to pull a Mancuso -- that’s where Ned sat his rear end in the vehicle and essentially drove it from Manhattan Beach to South Dakota without doing anything else except getting gas.
This wasn’t that kind of superhuman effort, but still Chris was determined to go straight through, Cook’s Creek to Beacon -- except in western Nevada the news shows were all screaming about a small plane getting in trouble and having to set down in a field somewhere east of Truckee, and Highway 80 was affected . . . and Chris said screw it, that’s enough for one day, and he spent the night in Reno off all places.
So now you had Thursday, March 29th, and no point looking back at the wasted time, you had a couple hours left of a Beacon public library being open, and he found one and got down to business, back in his comfort zone, signing in to the library computer anonymously and not leaving (at least you didn’t think so) any tracks of your actions.
This was a little simpler so far, this mutant. It turned out there was an inmate locator site, a government one actually, and you agree to the terms of service, yada-yada, and there was a lot of raw information there. You combine it with a couple private sites that were popping up as well . . . and Jeez, even the old online phone book was paying off here . . . and twenty minutes later you had an address for the guy . . . maybe.
What concerned Chris was it could be an old address of course, from before the guy went away . . . and what had Chandler said, he served 4 1/2 of a 6 year sentence? . . . Or was that the first guy, and was he getting the two guys confused now himself?
It was an apartment, you figured, because there was a number 463 after the address, and the street was called Elmwood but that was deceptive, it was right on a parkway, two lanes each direction, one of your busier streets in this otherwise fairly peaceful town.
So yeah, there were multiple apartment complexes there, similar, modern but looking kind of shabby, and Chris decided he better at least park a few blocks away if he was going to be bold enough to ring a bell.
The apartments were off inside hallways, though there wasn’t a door per se on the end of the hall, so the wind whipped through as you tried to find the unit. Chris had opted for a Detroit Tigers baseball cap that happened to be in the trunk, and sunglasses, which he rarely wore. This approach was more direct than if he had unlimited patience, but he didn’t see where he was setting anything up to backfire later. Still . . . don’t let them get a great look at you, and don’t let them see you driving away.
There was no bell or buzzer so he knocked loud.
“What,” came the voice from behind the door, a throaty woman’s, who probably smoked . . . and the ubiquitous TV was doing its thing in the background.
This wasn’t bad, if he could keep it this way. She obviously could get a look at him through the side window if she wanted, but the angle wasn’t that great.
“Yo, where’s Billy at,” Chris said. “It’s Bobo . . . from Sac-Town way.” Chris didn’t know if the Sacramento expression was current or hip, but he went with it . . . Sacramento of course being next to Folsom,
There was a pause and the woman said, “Well you should know, then.”
Chris was thinking, Holy Smokes, could there really be a Bobo from Sac-Town? But clearly she was playing it coy, and tough.
He said, “Listen, I know he ain’t living here. But where’s he working at? It’s important.”
“Same as they all do,” she said, and he heard the lock clicking from inside, thinking uh-oh, she’s going to open up after all, but it was the opposite, she was dead-bolting the thing, and a minute later you heard the TV volume raising, and this conversation was obviously over.
It was after 6 when he got back in the Camry and darn, that was something else you could try looking up now, as he pieced it together . . . the you should know from the woman triggering a possibility. . . and the library from earlier was closed but he found one in town that was open late on Thursday nights, and that was actually adjacent to one of the high schools . . . and as he looked around crossing the parking lot he was thinking this is how you do it. The school and the whole campus too, looked brand spanking new and clean and inviting. Some guy was machining the football field at the moment, and despite the rainy season, that turf looked like you could eat off it.
Plenty of pride in these small towns, Chris was thinking.
At any rate, you had the Beacon Herald, and then of course the Fresno Bee covering your local news, and he started with the Herald.
What you were trying to find -- the woman in the apartment implying that if he, Bobo, knew Billy from the joint, he’d know where guys fresh out of the joint might get a first job in this town -- so was there any reference to maybe a halfway house around here. . . and he took his time.
Finally there was something from 2012, an arti
cle -- actually more of an obituary -- on a man named Roger Kincaid, who was apparently a beloved benefactor around town, a guy who’d married into money and kind of donated his life to all kinds of charitable causes.
The article focused on Kincaid but there was a mention of a Strawbridge Junction, and a quote about Kincaid from someone who’d gone through their program and now wanted to give back as well, and how Kincaid had inspired him.
Strawbridge Junction was worth a look, and on the home page were various photos of youngish guys working the trades -- electricians, plumbers, auto mechanics -- and Chris clicked on the About link and the Testimonials . . . and there was more to the operation, they didn’t exactly advertise it, but they found jobs for what they called ‘those in need’ . . . which Chris wanted to translate to some ex-cons.
So you never knew . . . and he took the address and headed over there, and the place was in what felt like a warehouse district on the edge of town, near a go-kart racing franchise and a mini-stadium that might be a rodeo grounds.
It was late but a few guys were still milling around out front in orange hardhats, and Chris watched them a few minutes, and they got into two pickups and Chris figured you might as well follow along.
They didn’t go far, maybe a mile before they both turned into a strip mall, and of course there was a bar, with the fancied up name of Club Royal on the sign, along with a neon cocktail waitress holding a tray.
Chris followed them in, sat at the bar with a bottle of beer, and observed the interaction.
Two Hispanic guys, two white guys, they didn’t look like the greatest of friends, and Chris figured they were lumped together by these circumstances. Meaning all of them likely working on a fresh start.
After a while one of the Hispanic guys went to the men’s room ad Chris followed. And the guy was washing up and Chris made a little small talk, and you couldn’t pinpoint what an ex-inmate might look like, but this guy felt like one.
Chris said, “I’m overhearing you fellas. Are you part of, I don’t know like a work release deal? . . . Ignore me if I’m butting in where I don’t belong.”
“No, that’s cool,” the guy said, and they left the men’s room and there was an alcove full of cartoons on the walls and assorted memorabilia, and the guy stood there a minute. He said, “I’m trying to turn my life around, I’m not ashamed to admit it. I can’t speak for these other clowns.” And the guy smiled but you couldn’t tell, he might have meant it about the other guys.
“Interesting,” Chris said. “Turning it around from what? You seem fine. Head on straight, and all that.”
“Thank you . . .” The guy spoke softer. “But I’ve been away. I was mixed up with a gang, we did some things we shouldn’t.”
“Oh. So . . . is it a requirement then? This job corps thing I hear you fellas referring to?”
“Oh yeah.”
Chris should have thought of that earlier -- this wasn’t rocket science -- it made sense that a condition of your parole was you get a job.
And not just anyone’s going to hire an ex-con . . . so there’s undoubtedly something similar to the Strawbrige whatever-it-was in most towns.
Chris said, “So, when you . . . start off . . . they train you in the trades? I see you guys came in with hardhats.”
“That’s down the line,” the guy said. “Off the bat, you got two choices. Road crew or farm crew. Most guys go farm, because road crew works even in the rain, but farm, you don’t always gotta work, depending on your supe. Road supe sits in the van so he don’t care, farm supe’s out in the open with you.”
“Well that makes sense . . . When you say farm, you’re what, picking fruit and stuff?”
“Not this early. Right now we got pruning, burns, mending fences, all that shit.”
“Where’s that at?” Chris said. “Different farms, or one?”
“This week and next, walnut one . . . The other downside, farm crew, we start at 6. But you get used to it.”
Chris thanked the guy for all this, again it was interesting, and said he’d drop them a small donation, and the guy took the time to write down the name of the place on a scrap of paper, and Chris told him he was an excellent ambassador and to keep up the good work.
When Chris got back to the Super 8 he called Chandler.
“Listen,” he said, “I may speak to that second guy, we’ll see. But how old is the dude? You didn’t give me any of that.”
“I don’t know,” Chandler said. “30, 35, maybe 40. What’s the difference?’
Chris said, “Do you have that?”
And it took Chandler a minute, and you could hear him exhaling a few times like this is a real pain in the neck, plus unnecessary . . . and he came back with the guy being 33, and Chris said sounds good, and that was all . . . and the NCAA basketball tournament was on, and Chris got into one of the games, which was never the worst thing, diverting yourself a bit, in these situations.
***
Chris went back to the library on Friday. This could be a total waste of time, but you needed to at least look around in the old Beacon High School yearbooks, if such things existed publicly.
Chandler pointing out in the earlier conversation that Beacon was the fucker’s home town could indicate a few things -- namely that it was his home town before he got in trouble, but not necessarily being his home town all the way back to high school.
On the other hand what was the expression, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree?
So you give it a shot.
You goal . . . such as it was . . . was to identify the guy . . . so you’d hopefully know him, if and when you saw him, without having to stick your neck out and ask someone.
And actually . . . even now Chris was a bit paranoid asking the librarian, and he roamed around the perimeter of the library, poked his head in a few back rooms, and yep there was a local room, some standing showcases and shelves with all kinds of stuff including the Beacon yearbooks from at least the 1940’s . . . and you hoped -- let’s see the guy being 33 now -- that they weren’t missing the 2002 and 2003 editions.
This wasn’t all that surprising. Libraries tended to work that way, at least his friendly Funston branch in San Francisco -- they had a similar area with Galileo High School yearbooks, and Marina Junior High ones too . . . It was only on that trek to Brisbane with Ken that they’d had to go into the basement of the administration building and use a human to help them locate them.
Chris pulled 2003 off the shelf, and he noticed another set of yearbooks to the right, and those were Calderon High, and the books ran from 2009 to present, so you’d assume that was the fresh school next door and that Beacon High was the original.
It didn’t take long to find a William White in the senior class photos. Of course you’re never sure, it could have been a different William White -- a normal non-criminal one -- and your guy still could have shown up in Beacon as an adult -- but you at least liked your chances.
Chris flipped through the rest of the book, and there was White on the football team, one of the biggest dudes apparently, listed as a Tackle, at 6’4, 250. He was mentioned as well in several of the game write-ups, as a standout performer.
Gee. Two random thoughts. When you’re 6’4, 250 in high school and playing pretty well, you’re typically getting some college attention. Chris’s first thought being, maybe it didn’t work out for the guy the way he was told it could. Who knows . . . that perhaps he failed in college football -- or flunked out -- or didn’t go. And that started him off on the wrong path.
Chris also reminded himself -- that was irrelevant. However the a-hole ended up stalking an innocent guitar maker, you don’t attribute it to a failed experience, or anything.
Thought number two, more significant, was he might be easy to find. You figure the guy hasn’t shrunk -- if anything he’s heavier than 250 now, and still at least 6’4 . . . So maybe you have something to work with.
Chris took a hard look at White’s face, trying to commit
it to memory, while projecting 15 years onto the thing, and after a few minutes he’d had enough of the guy period, and he got out of there.
***
He cruised past the Strawbridge Junction headquarters at 5:30 the next morning which was Saturday, the guy in the bar having luckily mentioned that they worked 6 days a week.
Tough to know, but you’d assume that White, if he was part of this operation, would go for the farm crew as opposed to the road one, just Chris’s hunch that a guy who hassled a guitar maker from prison would opt for the chance of getting off early on rainy days -- even though the farm work did sound harder, unless you faked it . . . like you’d assume White would.
It was pretty dang dead for the next 20 minutes and Chris wondered if maybe they start right at the location, meaning the darn orchard . . . but about 10 to 6 a bunch of guys came rolling in and parked in back, and there was some noise inside for a few minutes and then they filed out and went around the side and got in a small bus which pulled up and idled.
There was one big white guy in the mix. 6’4 would be the minimum on the dude, though you factor in the boots. He had a gut on him for sure but it wasn’t over the top, and he still moved with an athlete’s grace, and if it was this guy you’d have to watch out.
Chris stayed in the Camry and kept the whole thing in view from a leafy stretch of sidewalk half a block away, and he let the bus pull out and build up some speed, and he followed along.
It felt like they were going northeast, and it wasn’t far, there were railroad tracks you crossed and then the third right was a dirt road that paralleled a main one, and this pointed out how you certainly were in the Central Valley, with a significant growing region likely never far from any residential community.
Chris was calling the guy White now in his mind, no one else fit the bill, and from a distance his face and hair were at least a rough match as well.
The bus stopped at a gravel pull-out and the guys lumbered out, and you had to keep driving, you couldn’t stop there too without attracting attention . . . and this was going to be a long day, wasn’t it.