The Prince of Venice Beach

by Nelson, Blake

  That seemed a little uncalled for. Reese didn’t look like a vampire, or have a ring in her nose. She just dyed her hair and put on some lipstick. And to be honest, that was her best look. “Goth Reese” had some personality. A lot more than “Jock Reese,” But a guy like Grisham wasn’t going to understand that.

  “Does she have a car?” I asked.

  “Not that we know of… she’s got a California driver’s license, though.” He found a scanned picture of it and handed it to me. As he did, I saw a black strap under his suit coat. Grisham was carrying a gun, in a concealed shoulder holster. This lent a certain weight to the situation.

  He sat back. He looked at me. “So what do you think?” he said.

  I shrugged. “I can keep my eyes open. I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Of course not,” said Grisham. “What’s your day rate?”

  My day rate? I hadn’t thought of that. I quickly calculated how much I’d gotten paid per day for the Mugs job. When I came up with a number, I doubled it.

  Then I doubled it again.

  I said that number to Grisham, who thought about it for about two seconds. “Done,” he said.

  I tried to not look shocked. I immediately went back to studying the Reese pictures.

  “So why exactly did she run away?” I asked.

  “It’s all in her father’s report,” he said.

  “But in your own mind,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “In my own mind?” he said, amused. “I have no idea. She’s sixteen. Her dad’s a high-powered money guy. And her mom just killed herself.”

  “Why did her mom kill herself?”

  Grisham shrugged. “According to the file, she was depressed. Emotional issues. But that’s not our problem. Mr. Abernathy is desperate to find his daughter. So that’s what we gotta do.”

  “All right,” I said, staring at the various versions of Reese Abernathy. “I’ll do what I can. But someone like this, the beach might not be their first option.”

  “We know that. We’re covering everything. This is a big job. There are a lot of people involved. You cover your turf. That’s all I ask.”

  TEN

  When Grisham was gone, I felt strange and restless, like the weather, which had gotten worse. I got on my skateboard, held open my coat, and let the wind push me slowly down the boardwalk. It was completely shuttered up now against the rain and the gusting winds. Still, a few brave tourists were out, taking pictures of the storm, I guess. Tommy Shirts was camped in a doorway, with some of his buddies, drinking cheap wine. I looked for the new girl, Strawberry, but I didn’t see her. Hopefully she’d found some shelter.

  I caught the bus to Malibu. Watching out the window, I let my mind rest on the concept of “Reese Abernathy.” Where would she be? That was the interesting thing about this one. A pretty girl… a rich girl… in Los Angeles… no car… alone. Not that she would be alone for long. A girl like that would meet a lot of people very fast. And not in a good way.

  Or maybe she was smarter than that. Maybe she had a plan. She had figured out how to get a fake ID. And she wasn’t afraid to shoplift. So she wasn’t some innocent schoolgirl type. It was hard to tell. I hadn’t known that many rich people in my life. I mean, I saw rich people. I saw them every day. But to understand a rich person, a really rich person, I wasn’t sure I could do that.

  I got off the bus in Malibu and skated through the rain to the Starbucks. I got a coffee and found a table while the storm raged outside. I carefully took out the Reese file.

  I looked again at the pictures. Soccer Reese looked happy. She had a kind of smirky confidence about her. Goth Reese looked like she was thinking about something.. Fake ID Reese, the mug shot—that was harder to read. She looked a little blank in that one, a little lost.

  I read through the various papers. The missing-person’s police report. A grief counselor’s evaluation. There was a note from Reese’s sixth grade art teacher from a place called the Corning School. It said how Reese was an extraordinarily talented and creative art student. There was even a photograph of a strange gooey painting to illustrate Reese’s brilliance.

  Then I got to Mr. Abernathy’s seven-page essay about his daughter. This I read carefully. Reese was an only child… a good kid… sports… good grades….

  Then marital problems… dad working all the time… mother suffers from depression… different treatments… but the Abernathys always do the right thing for their precious daughter….

  Then the mother’s suicide, nine months ago… Reese grows listless, uncommunicative, distraught… she begins hanging around with the wrong people, not coming home on time, risky behaviors… Mr. Abernathy sends her to different doctors, therapists… no one knows what to do….

  Near the end, the dad suggested that Reese might be suicidal herself. To one counselor, Reese said that her mother was now “free” and in a place of “no pain.” This section of the report was underlined and highlighted. It was considered extra important, a warning.

  I drank my coffee. I sorted through the various printouts. Unlike Chad Mitchell, Reese did not leave a trail with a credit card. Either she didn’t have one, or she wasn’t using it. Which was smart on her part. But that meant she had cash. Or could get cash when she needed it.

  Eventually, I gathered the papers and put them back in the folder. Then I sipped the last dregs of my coffee and stared out the window.

  Reese Abernathy. Where would a person like that go? What would they do?

  I had no idea.

  ELEVEN

  On Tuesday, I had my first GED class. Ailis was excited I was going. She wanted to pick me up, since she had a class that night too. So we rode there together.

  I found the GED orientation room. It was a mix of foreigners and assorted hard-luck types: high school dropouts, stoned skateboarders, people who looked like they’d been in jail.

  We sat in rows of chairs. They gave us a book and we went around the room reading out loud. Then they divided us up. They put me in with the slightly smarter people, which wasn’t saying much. One of the guys in my group was a wiry, intense guy I’d seen on the boardwalk. He was a brawler type, his head was shaved, and you could tell by the multiple scars on his skull that he’d had his head cracked a few times. I gave him a little nod of recognition, which he returned. When the teacher read our names, he answered to Jackson Moretti, but he told her that everyone called him “Jax.” When she called my name, Robert Callahan, I told her everyone called me “Cali.” But the teacher wasn’t impressed with our nicknames. She would call us “Jackson” and “Robert” in the classroom.

  When class was over, Ailis was standing by the vending machines, waiting for me. I was pretty drained by then. It was pretty stressful reading out loud and being called “Robert” for two hours.

  “But you did it,” she said. “You finished your first day!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I did.”

  It was only eight thirty, so Ailis and I went to the burger place across the street. We got some fries and two milk shakes.

  “So what did you think of college?” she asked me.

  “Not really my thing,” I said honestly.

  “You just think that because you’ve never been to school before.”

  “I’ve been to school.”

  “I bet you’ll like it,” she said. “If you give it a chance. You tried classical music.”

  “What I really need is a business class.”

  “Oh really?” she said. “And what sort of business are you planning to go into?”

  I’d avoided telling Ailis about my career plans, but now that I was looking for Reese Abernathy, I felt more confident. I was really doing it. I was getting paid.

  “I’m going to be a private investigator,” I said.

  Ailis nearly spit out her milk shake. “A private investigator?” she laughed.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Ailis said, grinning. “Or maybe you could be
an astronaut? Or a fireman? Or maybe you could be president of the United States?” She smiled at her own jokes.

  “Actually,” I said into my own milk shake. “I’m already doing it. That’s how I got that money.”

  Ailis laughed some more. Then she stopped. “Wait, the money from the sushi restaurant?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “All those twenties? You got that being a private investigator?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “I mean, I don’t have a license or anything. I’m more of a freelancer.”

  She looked at me a long time. She seemed to almost believe me. “What do you do exactly?” she asked.

  “I look for people.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “Young people mostly. That seems to be my specialty.”

  She still didn’t believe me. She studied my face. “Are you looking for anyone now?”

  I had made copies of the pictures of Reese Abernathy. I got one of them out of my back pocket. I handed it to Ailis. “I’m looking for her.”

  Ailis unfolded the paper. She studied preppie soccer Reese.

  “Her name is Reese Abernathy,” I said.

  “What did she do?”

  “She ran away.”

  “Like you,” said Ailis, looking at the picture.

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you ever found anyone?”

  “I’m three for three, actually.”

  “No way,” she said.

  “I got lucky on the others. This one won’t be so easy.”

  “And someone paid you?”

  I nodded.

  Ailis handed the picture back to me. She still didn’t quite believe me. “Well good for you. I guess.”

  Ailis was interested, though. You could tell. Back in her car, we drove toward Santa Monica. She began to ask me questions about my other cases and I answered as best I could, without getting too specific. She was still making fun of me, in a way. But she was also genuinely curious. And impressed.

  “So like, where do you start?” she asked.

  “No place really. I just hang out. And cruise around. And watch people. I’ve always watched people. Like see those kids,” I said, pointing to a gang of street kids with sleeping bags and dreadlocks. “Those guys have been around for a month or so. They live on the beach. They move back and forth between Venice and Santa Monica. They panhandle.”

  Ailis nodded.

  “And that guy,” I said, pointing to a sketchy-looking guy checking his phone. “That’s Smokin’ Joe. He sells weed.”

  “How about them?” asked Ailis, pointing out three ordinary people talking on the corner.

  “Don’t know. They look like tourists. Probably foreign.”

  “How can you tell they’re foreign?”

  “The hair. The pants. And look at the guy’s face. He’s not American.”

  “No way,” said Ailis. “You can’t tell that from a guy’s face.”

  “Sure you can,” I said.

  “Americans don’t look different than other people,” insisted Ailis. “We’re all from somewhere else.”

  “Yeah, but we’re heavier, and more bland. Look how chiseled that guy’s features are.”

  “No way.”

  “Pull over next to him,” I said.

  She did.

  I rolled down my window. I called to the man, “Hey, do know the way to the beach?”

  “No,” said the man. “It is this way I think. But I do not know. I am tourist.”

  “Me too,” I lied. “Where you from?”

  “Austria,” he said.

  “Austria,” I said. “Thanks.”

  We pulled away. I rolled up my window. “See?” I said.

  “Huh,” said Ailis, glancing over at me, suspiciously.

  We drove around more. I told her the story of Reese’s family, her rich dad, her dead mother.

  “The real question is,” I said. “Where would Reese Abernathy go if she were in the area?”

  “If she’s that rich,” said Ailis, “she’s not going to be sleeping in her car.”

  “But where would she go instead?” I asked.

  “A hotel maybe?”

  “You have to have an ID at a hotel. And a credit card. Even a crappy one.”

  “What about a youth hostel?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I’d heard about youth hostels. They were like group hotels for young travelers. But was there one here in Santa Monica?

  Ailis checked her phone. There were three. One of them was a block away.

  I’d never been inside a youth hostel before. It was a pretty nice setup. Thirty bucks to sleep in a bunk bed with a bunch of tourist kids from foreign countries. There was a lobby, with a TV and some couches. Young people came and went. Most of them were in their late teens or twenties. I wanted to go inside, but you had to pay for a bed, so I did. I paid for a bed for Ailis, too, and gave her the pictures of Reese Abernathy. “Go look around,” I told her. “See what you can find.”

  I went into the boys’ area. Some of the guys were already in their bunks, reading, or looking at maps, or planning the next day’s sightseeing trips. I talked to them. Where were they from? What were they doing? What did they like about LA? Some of them were helpful. Some could barely speak English. They all had new clothes, though. And nice packs and stuff. Just like Reese would probably have.

  I went into the main lounge area and sat with Ailis, who had circulated through the different girls’ rooms.

  “You see anything?”

  “A lot of girls in expensive underwear,” said Ailis. “No Reese, though.”

  We watched the soccer game that was playing on a special European TV network. “I like this place,” I said. “I feel like I’m in a foreign country.”

  I decided to spend the night there, since I’d already paid for a bed. Ailis had to go home.

  I walked her back to her car. “Sorry I didn’t believe you at first,” she said. “About the private-investigator thing.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “If you need any more help…”

  “I might. I might need a car.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Just call me.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  The next morning, when I opened my eyes, I couldn’t remember where I was. It reminded me of my first weeks in California. I’d wake up in some cement pipe or under a bridge somewhere, and I’d be like, Where the hell am I? That’s why I came to Southern California in the first place. So no matter what else happened, I knew I would never freeze to death.

  I wasn’t freezing now, that’s for sure. I was laying in a crisp, clean bunk bed in an International Youth Hostel. I got out of bed and followed the other guys to the cafeteria. There I helped myself to a huge plate of waffles and eggs. Sitting with the well-groomed foreign kids, I realized people were staring at me. I kinda stood out. I looked too “surf bum,” or just too “bum” in general. I needed a haircut. And more normal clothes. If I was going to be a real investigator, I couldn’t look like I lived in a tree house.

  That was three more things for my list:

  Learn about clothes

  Dress better

  Get a real haircut, like from a barber

  After breakfast, I sat on the bench outside the youth hostel and watched the people going in and out. I could totally see Reese staying in a place like this. This was a good idea by Ailis, one I never would have thought of.

  Then I rode my skateboard to the youth hostel a couple blocks away. I went in and sat in the lobby. I found a map of Santa Monica and pretended to study it. Two girls came out of the dorm area. They were dressed like “Goth Reese,” so I listened to them as they studied the big map on the wall and discussed their day’s activities.

  I walked over to them. “What are you guys doing today?” I asked. I had heard other youth hostel people ask each other this.

  “First, we go shop-eeing,” said the one girl. They were from France, it turned out. “There e
ez a Buffalo Exchange down the street.”

  “Shopping? That’s what you do when you travel to another country?”

  “Of course. We are girls.” They made weird pouting expressions.

  “What do you do at night?” I asked them.

  “I do not know. Our guidebook mentions zis place Torchlight? Do you know it?”

  “Yeah, it’s down on Main Street.”

  “We can go there? Even if we are not twenty-one?”

  “Yeah. It’s for underage kids. There’s music. I could meet you there later if you want.”

  The girls looked at each other. They shrugged. “Oh-kay,” they said.

  After that I went to the last youth hostel. This one was the farthest from the beach and the cheapest. The crowd was more diverse in age and more American. There were more tattoos, piercings, etc. A scruffy kid who looked like me came out, with a skateboard and earbuds in. He took off down the sidewalk.

  I stood around for twenty minutes, but no Reese. At least I was getting some ideas about where she might be. I went back to downtown Santa Monica and found the Buffalo Exchange store. Sure enough, there were tons of girls there. And the right age too. And the right look. I tried asking one of the counter girls if she’d seen my girlfriend, showing her a picture of Reese. She hadn’t.

  I was coasting on my skateboard back to Venice when my phone rang. It was Grisham.

  “Good news,” he said. “She’s near you. She used her credit card last night in Hollywood.”

  “Where did she use it?”

  “Some place called the Buffalo Exchange. What is that?”

  “It’s a used-clothing store,” I said.

  “Good to know,” he said. “And here’s the best part: This morning she rented a bike in Venice Beach.”

  My pulse quickened. “Okay,” I said.

  “The ball’s in your court kid,” he said. “Be a hero. Find the girl.”

  TWELVE

  I got back to Venice as fast as I could. Then I cruised on my skateboard, right down the middle of the boardwalk, scanning the crowds and the bike path for a glimpse of Reese Abernathy. I tried to empty my mind and feel the flow of the tourists as they moved around me. What kind of vibe would Reese give off? And which Reese would she be: Goth Reese? Jock Reese? Something new: Bikini Ray Bans Reese?