Stagger Bay

by Pearce Hansen

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Just running a random field sobriety checkpoint here,” Reese said as we approached. “Anyone coming in or out of the Gardens gets a free body cavity search.” His fellow officer snickered at Reese’s wit.

  “She’s only a little girl," I said. “No threat to anyone, no detriment to Stagger Bay.”

  He shrugged, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. His uniform appeared sloppier than it had at the deposition. “Kids run away. Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don’t.”

  “How can you live with yourself?” I asked, not prodding for once but truly curious to understand the mechanics of whatever rationalization system he’d constructed for himself. “Why won’t you do your job, like Kendra did?”

  “You won’t say her name again,” Reese said, his hands shaking as he racked a shell into his pump’s chamber.

  Moe flinched, and I’ll admit to a startle reaction myself – only a madman or a kamikaze ignores a shotgun prepping for action. Reese closed his eyes and breathed in and out hard as I counted to ten internally.

  When he looked at me again his voice was soft and calm and controlled. “You’re coming mighty close to disturbing the peace here, Markus. Maybe we should go for a ride, and you can resist arrest where there’s no one to video-tape your heroics this time.” His partner snickered again, like a halfwit with no larger repertoire.

  “Besides,” Reese continued, “I’m the one who decides what my job is, not gutter trash from the Gardens.”

  “How ‘bout you, Moe?” Reese asked. “You think I should do my job?”

  Big Moe shook his head, looking at the ground. I was ashamed for him, and for the fear I saw in his eyes. We slunk back to the Gardens.

  Chapter 35

  They found her body next morning. I heard a low murmuring outside, and roused from the couch to join a quiet throng streaming to where Reese and his brother officer had blockaded us the night before.

  She lay in the middle of a subdivision lot across the street. The graded earth looked like it had been deliberately leveled to improve her display, naked as the day she’d been born. She was uncovered so God and everyone could see the things that had been done to her.

  Weird signs and symbols were scalloped into her flesh – he’d taken his time to carve them just so. He hadn’t touched her face, probably on purpose. I judged from her frozen stare that she’d been alive through a goodly portion of it.

  Her mother fainted, sagging into a boneless heap in the midst of her family. The big Indian kid Mackie took off his flannel and covered the little girl’s body with it. One tiny hand stuck out from under the shirt, palm up.

  A caravan came our way: a squad car, followed by an ambulance and an Escort with a magnetized ‘Stagger Bay Coroner’ sign crookedly stuck on the driver side door.

  They stopped and got out: Officer Rick Hoffman; two ambulance attendants serving meat-wagon duty; and the coroner, an older man with a doctor’s bag. They fidgeted on the far side of the flannel-covered little piece of evidence, avoiding our gazes as they looked down at the tiny body.

  Hoffman and one of the meat-wagon boys started putting up yellow crime scene tape, using the surveyor’s stakes to string it on.

  I approached him. “So, any theories, Officer Hoffman? Any hot leads?”

  “Call me Rick. You know I don’t like having to do this. You know that,” he said, an expression of rage filling his face for a microsecond before subsiding. “You know I’m trapped, Markus. There’s more things I want to tell you, but there’s only one way out for me.”

  I shook my head sternly, trying to recapture the control he’d handed me before. “There’s always choices. No one controls your life.”

  “You’re the lucky one; you get to stand up. That’s why you think I can too. But you should know I only wait. That’s all I know how to do.”

  “Look, you told me about Kendra so I know you’re sincere,” I said. “You can’t be the only one. You can keep making the man’s choice.”

  “I could really be you? You’re sure?” he asked in a wistful voice. “I can do it, can’t I?”

  I held my breath in surprised suspense, waiting to see if he was about to break open. But he sagged back into blankness and continued his work, concentrating on laying tape.

  “No,” he said. “I still have to do what I’m told for now.”

  The expression on his face told me I should feel sorry for him, and consider him the victim here. Poor pitiful Rick. I kind of wanted to rip his fat head off and defecate down the hole, that’s how much sympathy I wanted to feel for him.

  But watching him squatting there all forlorn, I flashed back to prison and the nights I lay in my cell reading the Canon, listening to a punk’s sobs and the laughter of his playmates for the evening down the tier. Listening, but saying and doing nothing except turning the book’s pages.

  Rick yanked on the last knot hard enough he snapped the anchoring surveyor’s stake in two. After studying the broken piece of wood for a few seconds, he went and got another stake.

  I walked back to Big Moe but he put his hand up, so I was looking at his pale palm and spread fingers. “No disrespect, Markus, but I don’t much feel much like talking right now.”

  We stood apart from each other, watching them slide the gurney into the ambulance. She’d been too small for the body bag and they had it folded in half beneath her – I could have carried it under one arm.

  As the ambulance left Big Moe said, “They think they’re going to run us off, but they won’t. They’ll have to cart me away too. I won’t back down. I can’t.” Despite his sad-sack demeanor and the rap video clown suit he wore so awkwardly, I saw the steel in him.

  Moe looked at me like I was an insect and said, “She’s dead because of you.”

  My knees wobbled and I felt dizzy as Moe turned on his heel and headed into the Gardens, leaving me alone on that windswept development.

  Chapter 36

  I walked back the way I’d originally come, the first night I’d stumbled into the Gardens. I walked up that broad new road, clean white sidewalks to each side with all the courts and lots laid out flat and perfect and sterile.

  The new construction confronted the Gardens as if besieging them. The idle heavy equipment appeared ready to move in and do a Godzilla on those rows of bungalows the instant I wasn’t looking. Dirt fire-access roads led off into the surrounding old growth forests like radiating spokes.

  I suspected any Pass I’d had in the Gardens was revoked now. I wouldn’t have even been surprised if a carload of Crips or Hmong cruised up and did a drive-by on me.

  I found the trail to the marsh and worked my way through the blackberry thickets and tulie grass to the swamp proper. Carnivorous plants dotted the expanse of low mud hummocks spread in front of me.

  The night I passed out here after escaping the hospital, I’d flashed back to the times I’d come to this spot with Sam when he was little. Now, in the light of day and doing everything possible not to think about that little girl, I again remembered catching spiders with Sam, and messing around with tadpoles. It had been fun seeing wild things for the first time myself, and sharing the experience with my boy.

  One time we even found a raccoon skull. Sam was the one who spotted it by a bush in the middle of the marsh, and he’d just had to have it. So of course I wound up wading through knee-deep swamp bottom to reach that skull, and it turned out a yellow jacket nest was right next to it on a bush.

  Apparently the yellow jackets didn’t approve of me being in their space. I danced around in the mud, yelling as they swarmed all over me stinging the shit out of me, and Sam laughed his ass off at the show I put on for his amusement. We went home, Sam with a cool raccoon skull, and me covered in stinking swamp muck and yellow jacket sting holes.

  I chuckled at that bitter-sweet memory, but it wasn’t much comfort in the present. I'd been vain: I'd told myself I could do instantaneously what Karl hadn't been able to in seven years. I�
�d been proud: I'd told myself I was playing these kids, but my ego had been stroked to bloating by their hero worship; I’d bought into being the Crips’ token white boy OG.

  Moe was right: My rage had killed that little girl as surely as if I’d wielded the knife myself. I’d poked the tiger in the sphincter with a sharp stick, thinking to bully the Driver – but he’d mirrored my anger, blazed up just as hot and nasty. It was supposed to have been me he came after to chop – instead, that little girl died screaming for my mistake.

  I deserved to have the Gardens turn on me.

  Chapter 37

  I walked toward downtown Stagger Bay. My mind was so involved in my self pity fest that Reese or the Driver could have rolled up and had a free crack at me.

  In the past I’d learned to put the darkness and self loathing where it belonged: in a box in my heart where I never had to examine it other than in dreams. But this time the box had overflowed all the way.

  I was trapped by the memory of the little girl. I felt small again, just as small as when I awaiting trial for the Beardsleys. Any strength I ever might have had meant nothing.

  The classics I’d read in prison were no guidance at all. The Masters were pompous hypocrites. A man couldn’t be expected to fight the impossible; it was pointless for me to even have stood up here.

  I reached my destination: the same bus terminal I’d arrived at when I raised a seeming eternity ago. The same bus terminal I’d been heading toward the day it all went down at the school.

  I could catch a Greyhound bus to Oakland here at the terminal if I wanted. And why wouldn’t I? If I could sink into the earth I’d do it to get away from this place.

  Chapter 38

  There were no buses in sight and no hangers on waiting as I neared the tiny terminal’s entrance. The sign on the door said ‘Closed for Lunch.’

  I wouldn’t have to decide whether or not to ride the magic bus to East Bay freedom for another little while. In the meantime, I wasn’t about to squat in front of the terminal like a homeless mope, letting traffic goggle at me as they drove past.

  The next block over toward the waterfront, the bulk of the Andersen Club towered over Old Town’s shorter interposing commercial structures. The Club, originally a mansion built by one of Stagger Bay’s nouveau riche founding robber barons to show off his wealth, had transformed long ago into a men’s club for the local wheels.

  I ambled that way for a closer look, remembering all the local bigwigs were members of the Club: real estate developers and out-of-town wealth, local businessmen and politicians of all stripes.

  ‘Cui Bono?’ Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla always asked when the Romans investigated an affront against the establishment: ‘Who benefits?’

  Looking at the Club, I realized all its members stood to profit from the current goings on in Stagger Bay.

  Chapter 39

  The Andersen Club was a rambling three-story Victorian, set back from the street behind a manicured lawn. The building was painted green with trim of various colors, topped with towers and cupolas, and covered with so much rococo woodwork that it resembled a giant gingerbread dollhouse or perhaps a Disneyland ride. If the Addams Family Mansion got a high-end makeover the Andersen Club would be it.

  A stone wall surrounded the Club’s parking lot, flanked by a line of topiary animals. Next to the lot entrance stood a huge metal Masonic compass and T-square. Through the opening I saw an array of neatly parked luxury cars: a couple of Jaguars, several Porsches, and even what appeared to be a vintage Testerossa.

  I’d heard talk about the goings on within the Club. But as none of the Stagger Bay working stiffs ever got a look inside (other than serving staff, who apparently had to sign some kind of non-disclosure agreement), our wild theories were unsubstantiated.

  For myself, I’d always envisioned sex parties with shrink tubing and hair-dryers ala Zappa, or possibly even group S &M sessions with leather-clad hookers cracking whips and screaming orders at the Club members as they crawled around in a groveling circular herd, oily and naked. Unlikely stuff but not impossible, right? We low people had to imagine some kind of degrading fantasies about our betters to vent our spleen.

  A spacious picture window dominated the wall opposite me, affording the Club’s occupants a fine view of the marina. It also afforded me an equally fine if narrowly delimited view of several pairs of men, sitting opposite each other at dining tables occupying the length of the window.

  At one of the tables I recognized Chief Jansen and Mr. Tubbs dining together, but their lunch date seemed to be less than congenial. The way Tubbs emphatically gesticulated at Jansen, the way Tubbs’ mouth rapidly opened and closed, suggested he was not enjoying a relaxing meal. Jansen, on the other hand, wore a bland condescending smile indicating his digestion at least was not disturbed by the current conversation.

  Sam’s Lincoln pulled up to the curb and he got out, came over to join me.

  “You keep showing up, keep getting in my face,” I said. “You trying to be friends here?”

  Sam shook his head. “Don’t dodge the issues. I been on your butt since you walked away from the Gardens. I seen you checking out the bus station.”

  “And if I did decide to split, so what? You’ve made it clear I’m on my own and there’s nothing between us. What I do or don’t do is none of your never mind.”

  He aimed a look at the Andersen Club’s parking lot, grunted at all that automotive wealth on display. “Uncle Karl told me once that when you run away, you only give them a free shot at your backside. Is that the kind of role model you want to be repping to people, old man?”

  I turned the pained look that arose on my face into a sneer of my own. Karl had stolen the ‘free shot at your backside’ line from me, but now didn’t feel like the right time to reclaim the quote for my own. My brother’s ghost could continue taking credit for it.

  “I miscalculated,” I said. “I figured the Driver for the kind of coward that’d only come at you from behind. Looks like I was wrong, but I wasn’t the one who paid for it.”

  “You’re ashamed,” Sam said in wondering tones. “You’re only human. No one expects more than that. You’re the one with unrealistic expectations of yourself old man.”

  He changed tack: “I asked Uncle Karl about you once. He said, ‘All you need to keep in mind to understand your d-.’” Sam stopped, and then began again, his voice a little raised. “’All you gotta know to understand Markus is two things: first off, to him, perfect paranoia is perfect awareness. Second, he’s got a 200 IQ for hate.’”

  I smiled. “Well, you know, playing eternal second fiddle to Karl, I had to have some way to vent my angst, right?”

  Sam gave me a sour look. This kid had no sense of humor whatsoever.

  “Karl never used to be one to tell tales out of school, Sam,” I said. “But yeah, you may have gathered I’m not necessarily the trusting kind.”

  Sam grunted. “I’ll admit we’ve given you little enough reason to trust, you and me being family or no. But you’re not being played here, or at least no more than’s necessary for survival. And so what if I did maybe convince Moe we needed you when you first stumbled into the Gardens? A guy can have more than one reason for doing things, right? It’s not always about you, old man. You’re not the center of the universe, and maybe you need to get over being embarrassed.”

  “Is it worth it, Sam?” I asked. “Can we even win here?”

  Sam appeared surprised and unhappy; he thought for several seconds before he replied. “I know you don't have much reason to like this place. Maybe Stagger bay isn’t much, but it belongs to me. This place is all the home I’ve ever had.”

  “Moe and JoJo and Natalie and the others?” Sam said. “I’ve known them all since kindergarten. They’re my people even if they’re nothing in your book. They don’t have to matter to you; it’s okay they don’t. I’m not trying to sing Kumbaya with you here, but they really need you not to turn your back on them. There’s people aro
und here would lose heart if you left.”

  “How about you, Sam. You one of them?”

  “Quit fishing,” he said, his eyes avoiding mine. “I’m not gonna beg. Fuck you if you think I’m ever gonna.”

  I thought about it. Sam was holding some important things back. But that was only natural – hell, so was I. Then the switch clicked in my head and it felt good: It didn’t matter if I could trust Sam or not, he was all I had left – and if he did do me dirty it didn’t matter either, because I had nowhere else to go and no one else to care about.

  My son thought this was his home? Maybe he was a fool to back these people’s play, but did I really have any choice but to back his folly in turn? If I didn’t take this on Sam would just try to game all by himself, and die as surely as Karl.

  I grimaced as I pulled Karl’s FBI letter out my pocket, opened it up and studied the letterhead for Agent Miller’s contact digits.

  “Is there a pay phone around here?” I asked. But Sam just handed me his cellie.

  Chapter 40

  The FBI switchboard put me directly through to Miller’s extension, and he picked right up. When I identified myself he laughed.

  “Talk about synchronicity,” Miller said. “Was just listening to one of those syndicated radio talk shows, girl in the next cubicle had it on. You were the subject of discussion, and all the callers seemed to have strong opinions.”

  Next door to the right of the Club, a young girl walked up to stand at the bus stop in front of the Stagger Bay Library.

  “Oh?” I said. “What was the upshot?”

  “The upshot? Let’s just say you’re getting mixed reviews and leave it at that. So you’re Karl’s brother, right? Small world.”

  The girl at the bus stop was on the stroll, judging by her dress and demeanor. Her feet were bare and filthy as if she’d been too busy to find shoes before going to work. From the way she fidgeted, the cement sidewalk was painfully cold against her soles.