by Nancy Bush
For my part, I’m sure I would fall in the looking stricken category. I always feel guilty when dealing with the authorities. I kept quiet in the backseat while Chuck prattled on about how he’d always thought he was going to be a police officer but could never quite break away from his daddy’s business, which, from the hints he broadly threw out, appeared to be quite lucrative and given Daddy’s nearness to the brink of death, could be Chuck’s business soon.
Listening to him, I congratulated myself in forcing a change of plans: I’d boged out of dinner. Yes, he’d offered free food at Foster’s on the Lake, my most favorite restaurant around, but…again…it would be dinner with Chuck. I hadn’t been able to picture myself enjoying a meal with him, with or without Julie and Jenny, as every impression I’d garnered of the man was that he was overbearing, loud and deaf to anything but his own plan. Sometimes a free meal isn’t…well…free. I hadn’t figured out how to squirm out of the ride-along, however, so I met him at the police station parking lot instead of Foster’s. Chuck hadn’t liked the idea but I’d been firm. Either skip dinner, or I was out altogether. Grudgingly, he’d agreed to the plan, so I’d parked my Volvo in the station lot next to various black-and-whites, feeling vaguely uneasy, as if I were in the middle of a criminal act. What does it say about me that merely being around police cars—even when they’re parked in their own lot—makes me uncomfortable?
Anyway, I’d begged off dinner, saying I had to be somewhere later and though Chuck had pressed me, I’d managed to get things the way I wanted them. I was still planning to meet Jenny and Julie at Foster’s, but much later. Chuck just didn’t have to know.
“Hey, Jane,” Chuck hollered now over his shoulder. “So, I was reading on AOL that sausages can be good for you. Ease stress.” He leered through the grate that divided my seat from his and Josh’s. “I can think how they ease stress. How about you?” His laughter came from behind his nose, a dirty, snorting toot.
Chuck is enough of an Oregon Duck fan to only wear green and yellow—a virulent combination that should be outlawed if it isn’t game day. I realized, belatedly, that I only tolerate Chuck because he frequents the Coffee Nook. This is definitely not enough to form a friendship on. I thought about several responses, chief among them being “Shut up, asshole,” and decided to smile tightly and keep my own counsel. If you can’t think of something clever to say, don’t say anything at all.
I’d read that article, too, as it happens, and it was about the sound of sizzling sausages being something comforting as we headed into winter with all its bleakness and cold. But I kept that information to myself, deciding I could play passive/aggressive with the big boys.
“You still meeting Jenny and Julie at Foster’s?” Chuck tossed into the silence.
You would have to torture me for hours to make me give up that information to Chuck. I reminded him, “I’ve got business to take care of later. Can’t meet them.” Before he could press the issue, I said to Josh, “Somebody told me that their sister smashed her car into a tree, and the tree savior people arrived before the ambulance.”
“Was your friend all right?” Josh asked.
“Concussion, I think. Tree had extensive damage. Might have had to be put down.”
Josh said mildly, “I take it you don’t agree with the city’s tree ordinance.”
“I just struggle with people who use the tree ordinance to further their own political agenda.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Chuck asked.
“Like that neighborhood association that tried to stop the guy building that huge house on the lake? They tried everything to stop him. Used the tree ordinance as one means to delay. Had nothing to do with the trees themselves.”
Chuck said, “Who cares? Let’s go hang around the bars, see if we can give somebody a DUI.”
“It’s a little early,” I pointed out.
“Hey, my friend Sonny got picked up at nine-thirty. Jesus, he blew like a .16. Shit hit the fan, I’ll tell ya. Wife kicked him out and now he’s got all these crappy classes where he has to say he’s got a problem. My day, the cops caught you, they just drove you home.”
I gazed at the back of Chuck’s head. “You wanna bust somebody for DUI, but you’re grousing about your friend’s luck?”
“Sonny’s a good guy.”
Josh said to me, “Have you thought about joining your own neighborhood association? Then you’d have some say in the decisions. You could make a difference.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror and I hoped my horror didn’t show on my face.
“I may be moving,” I said. Like, oh, sure. Me in the neighborhood association. I had a mental image of do-gooders of all ages, earnestness oozing from their pores. “And I’m a renter.”
Chuck singsonged, “Bor—ing.”
I decided that Chuck was right and changed the subject. But Josh regarded me thoughtfully in his rearview for the rest of our trip. I found this unnerving. It was lucky Chuck was so all about himself that he neglected to bring up that I was a private investigator. Somehow I didn’t think that would go over well with Josh. Unless his sister Cheryl had already spilled the beans, which was highly probable the more I thought about it.
I said good-bye to them both at the Lake Chinook Police Station. Josh headed inside the building and I gazed after him. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to know someone on the force, but he struck me as one of those by-the-book, ultra-sincere types that never seem to get me.
Chuck ambled over to his car, an even older Volvo than my wagon, a sedan in pretty decent condition. I’d just about written Chuck off, but now I thought I might have to reevaluate. Volvo drivers feel absurdly like kin to me. I might have to give him a second chance, but it wasn’t going to be tonight.
After Chuck drove away, I ignored my own car and walked from the police station, which is on A Street to Foster’s, which is on State, the street that runs parallel to the Willamette River. There’s terminally difficult parking near Foster’s, so I figured I wouldn’t bother. It’s not a long walk, but it was windy and chilly and I was shivering like a plague victim by the time I blew into the front bar. The back patio’s closed this time of year, for obvious reasons, so I entered the low-ceilinged front room with its bloodred Naugahyde booths, cozy tables with flickering, votive candles and sunken bar at the west end. Patrons sit at room height around the bar, while the bartender and servers are working several steps below. This is because the bar is street height and the restaurant slopes down a half-level toward the rear dining room and patio, which are lake height. In February 1996 the greater Portland area flooded from a massive amount of rain. The Willamette River crested at the top of its banks, and Lake Chinook, which is fed by the Tualatin River, ran more than a few feet beyond its highest point, spilling water through the businesses that lined State Street and running across the road to damn near meet up with the river. Sandbags around the buildings saved them from devastating ruin, but from all accounts, it was one massive mess. Fortunately, Foster’s was saved.
Julie and Jenny were in a booth near the pane windows that look onto State Street. Those windows have exterior white lights surrounding them all year and illuminate passersby, so Julie and Jenny had seen me coming. They waved at me and I realized Jeff Foster, owner of Foster’s, was flirting outrageously with them. I pulled up a chair and asked for a Screaming Orgasm. Foster smiled at me and left.
“What’s in a Screaming Orgasm?” Julie asked.
“Vodka, Bailey’s and Kahlua. You need high-quality vodka or the Bailey’s may curdle. We’ll see what Foster brings.” My days as a bartender serve me well from time to time.
Jenny said, “Oh my God, bring me two.”
Jeff Foster served me up a Screaming Orgasm himself. No curdling. Unfortunately, he expected me to pay for the drink, which I grudgingly did. I let Jenny have a taste and she upped her order to three. I looked around for Manny, my favorite bartender, the one who sometimes comps me drinks when Foster isn’t looking, but the bar was being tended by a y
oung woman deep into eyeliner and red lipstick and a metro sexual guy whose shirt and hair were military perfect. A gas fire, faced with that layered narrow rock that is so popular it’s everywhere, was heating the place up like an oven. It was cheery, though, and I felt myself relax in that bone-melting, apres-ski way that seems to only come from a combination of warmth and alcohol.
They wanted to know about my evening with Chuck and I gave them the pertinent details. Jenny finds Chuck funny in that I-can-enjoy-an-ass way, but I think he just gives Julie a headache though she’s too polite to say so about a paying customer.
A group of men and women suddenly exited together. I overheard something about the civil war game between the two Lake Chinook high schools and I remembered my promise to Dwayne. “I’m going to have to go,” I said regretfully, swigging down the end of my drink and standing.
“What? You just got here.” Jenny pointed at my vacated chair. “Sit down.”
“I’ve got a job to do.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but I really do.”
“Then you have to give us the details Monday.”
“I’ll make a report with pie charts.”
Jenny picked up one of her drinks. “How about I make a bar chart?”
“Jenny,” Julie said with a laugh.
“I’m counting on it.” I sketched them both a good-bye and took off. If Dwayne wanted me to infiltrate the high school group at Do Not Enter, I was going to have to figure out who they were. All Dwayne had been able to give me was a description of one car—a tomato-red Taurus—which he thought one of the Wilson girls drove. The guys all showed in black macho SUVs or BMWs or something of that ilk. Dwayne had been able to catch part of one of the SUVs’ vanity license plates through the mask of bushes and trees that hid the drive access to the construction. DOIN had been visible.
Tonight’s game was at Lake Chinook High’s football field and I saw the stadium lights long before I encountered the tons of cars parked for a good half mile all around. There’s a small war going on between the nearby residents and the school about those lights. The residents scream light pollution and general blinding annoyance; the school is relatively mum but I’ve heard grumblings from athletically minded kids’ parents, the gist of which is: what part of living next to a football field didn’t you get when you moved in?
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to a high school football game. Had I ever, since high school? Even then I’d steered clear of the jocks as a rule. Their obsessive dedication to sports worried me, like there was nothing else on the planet that mattered. Not that I’d been any kind of role model. I’d spent most of my time wondering how my twin brother, Booth, could ace tests when I worked harder than he did and only managed to cough up a B. I learned much later that he had phenomenal retention, which only goes to show you how unfair nature is. I mean, why should Booth get that attribute? He also got the great hair.
But I got the snarky attitude, sense of irony and excruciating self-awareness, so we’re probably even.
I cruised around the cars in the stadium lot and found four possibles on the tomato-colored cars, but only one of them was a Taurus. I memorized the license plate. My retention might not be as stellar as Booth’s, but I’m not a complete slouch, either. There were simply too many black cars to check them out one by one, so I left that for later.
I headed into the game, which was nearly over, and so therefore no one was at the gate, asking for my ticket. Lake Chinook was ahead of Lakeshore High and there was much discussion about some highly disputed call that had the Lakeshore fans growling and booing. I ordered a hot dog and was pleased that it was cheap and hot. I really could have used a beer, but it wasn’t on the menu and there were a whole lot of Don’t Drink and Drive ads plastered about. There were also some warnings about the evils of underage drinking.
In the end Lake Chinook High beat Lakeshore by a field goal with seconds left. The Lake Chinook fans ran out onto the field and the Lakeshore fans left quietly or with suppressed rage. The referees were escorted off the field by a burly-looking group of men in black rain gear. Some kid named Keegan had played “flawlessly, just flawlessly!” and there was speculation about a girl on the dance team who seemed to have either (a) an anorexia problem; (b) an obsessive/compulsive disorder; or (c) was top student in the Talented and Gifted program—TAG. She might have been all three. I wasn’t paying close enough attention.
I moved back toward the tomato-red Taurus and pretended to be talking on my cell phone as I watched the crowd surge into the parking lot. My own car was a couple of rows over, close to the road, so I stood on the balls of my feet, ready to sprint to it as soon as I got a visual on whoever claimed the car.
It was a high school girl who’d done up her long hair in pigtails on either side of her head, one tied with a blue ribbon, one tied with a white ribbon, Lake Chinook High’s colors. She was with two friends, a boy and a girl. The girlfriend was hanging on the boy and giggling. I suspected alcohol might be the culprit, regardless of the warning signage. The boy was grinning like a goofball, one hand around girlfriend’s waist, though it was sitting a little low on her hip. They all wore blue jeans and hooded light blue sweatshirts monogrammed with a big white L. The driver of the Taurus wasn’t near as giddy as her two friends. In fact, her eyes looked big and solemn and though she tried to smile in response to the friends’ antics, there was no joy anywhere. Her mouth wanted to be an upside down U. I figured she was one of the Wilson sisters, but I wasn’t sure which one. I was going to have to learn their names.
I was sprinting for my car when I nearly ran down a group from Lakeshore who were hauling a large box of sweatshirts and caps to a waiting black Hummer. “Hey,” I said, slowing to a stop. “Can I buy one of those?”
“I guess so,” one of the guys slamming the box into the back of the car said. He looked unsure.
“How much?” I pressed.
“Umm…I dunno. The sweatshirts are fifteen, I think.”
“Thirty,” a prim, female voice corrected him, shooting him a glare. “Jesus, Carl, why don’t you give ’em away for free?”
“Thirty?” I rued the fact that I’d had to purchase my drink at Foster’s on the Lake. Damn. I didn’t think I had the cash. “Any chance on a discount?”
The girl made a face. “They’d be worth more if we’d won. They’re going on sale next week anyway. I guess I could sell one to you for twenty,” she said reluctantly.
I quickly pulled out the cash and forked it over. As soon as I had my prize I dragged it over my head, running the rest of the way to my car. This sweatshirt was navy blue with a red and white sailboat over the left breast, Lakeshore’s colors.
I was barely behind the wheel when the Taurus whizzed by, traveling fast toward Lake Chinook proper. I had to jockey the wagon as I’d been boxed in pretty tightly, but my turning radius is about the best thing on my car and I was after the Taurus in less than a minute. I had to push the speed limit, which is dangerous in the heavily patrolled area around Lake Chinook. I swear to God they’ve got more traffic cops per square mile than’s legal.
I caught up with the Taurus in the center of town. At this particular intersection two lanes are forced to turn south, so I pulled up right next to the car, both of us ready to make the turn, and slid a sideways look at them. They were on my left side and the girlfriend was in the passenger seat. Her boyfriend was in the back, leaning forward, his head between the bucket seats. The driver’s eyes were on the road. She was disengaged from the goings-on, but her friends either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
To my good, and bad, luck, they drove all the way around Lakewood Bay and took the turn off on Beachlake Drive. I was pretty sure this was the road across the bay from Dwayne’s cabana. I didn’t follow them onto Beachlake as the road’s kind of a boxed canyon, and I didn’t want to have to turn around where they could see me. Also, I wanted some time to pass to allow the members of the football team to
join the party. I kept on going up McVey, then parked in a deserted parking lot. Nearly an hour later, I drove down Beachlake and past the houses in Dwayne’s sights, trying to figure out which was which from this view. It’s surprisingly hard to tell. The lakeside view is vastly different than the street-facing facades. However, Do Not Enter was easy, the entry staked out by a temporary electrical pole and a Honey-pot Porta Potti. From there I could count back and match the lakeside view to the street frontage. I should’ve paid more attention to the house colors, but I got it figured out in the end.
I saw taillights winking red down the lane to Do Not Enter’s construction site and could just make out the house’s plywood and black Visqueen covered roof. A black Jimmy with the license plate DOINOU sat cheek to jowl with the red Taurus. It took me a moment; then I got it. The license plate was an abbreviated acronym for Do I know You?
Hmmm.
I didn’t think I could crash the party. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do. I parked the Volvo down Beachlake a ways, hoping I wouldn’t get rear-ended or sideswiped as there wasn’t much of a shoulder, then walked back. I had this nebulous plan about acting like I was a senior at Lakeshore. Would the fact that I was their rival eject me from the group? I knew better than to try to pretend I attended Lake Chinook High. And what if they asked me why I looked so old?