by Mike Befeler
“Now follow to see if I remember correctly.” I proceeded to reel off the twenty digits.
He looked up at me with his mouth open. “How’d you do that?”
“Just a quirk of my strange brain. I may forget things overnight, but during the day I still have an excellent memory. I was born with this ability, but you can train yourself to remember numbers as well. Now, while you’re here, do you want a piece of your mom’s pie?”
His eyes lit up. “Sure.”
I cut a piece for each of us, and we sat down at the table. I watched Austin as he munched away, his attention never leaving the pie.
“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” I said.
His face popped up for a moment, then his gaze dropped back to reexamine the cherry pie.
“You know, Austin, I was once your age and even had a son your age at one time. The one thing I know is that when you’ve got a problem, it’s good to find someone to talk to. Anything you want to tell me?”
“It’s nothing anyone can help with.”
“I can’t say for sure, but it probably has something to do with girls, other guys or growing up.”
He jolted upright. “How’d you know?”
“I just took a wild guess. Look. I’m an old poop, probably won’t be around that much longer, but sometimes I can lend a little perspective from my many years of doing my share of dumb things. If you ever want someone to listen to you, I’m here.”
He nodded his head.
“The good thing is that since I forget overnight, your secrets are safe with me.”
He gave me a wan smile. “I’ll think it over.”
“You do that. Now, do you want another piece of pie or are you going to lick that fork to death?”
We each had a second helping and halfway through his, Austin tapped his fork on the plate. “Do you know anything about homeless people?”
“I met some who live around here.”
He bit his lip. “Some guys I know from school talk a lot . . .” He gulped. “They think it would be cool to beat up a homeless person . . . and they want me to join them.”
“And what do you think of the idea?”
“I think it sucks.”
“Good. You and I agree on that.”
“But I’m the only one who feels that way. The others are all in agreement and will call me a wimp if I disagree.”
“How many boys are in the group?”
“Six besides me.”
“Maybe some of the others feel the same way you do but are afraid to voice their opinions.”
“I don’t know. They all seem to support the idea.”
I watched Austin carefully. “Or is there a ringleader who’s goading the others on?”
“Well, Pierce is the one who came up with the idea and keeps discussing it. He definitely is eager to do this.”
“Maybe, just maybe, some of the others aren’t that enthusiastic but don’t want to step down in front of the whole group. Have you ever discussed it with any of them one-on-one without Pierce around?”
He shook his head.
“You might poke at that a little,” I said. “I’d venture a guess that you might not be the only one questioning the wisdom of Pierce’s idea.”
Austin squinted at me. “You really think so?”
“Yes. Take it from me as I’ve been around the block a few too many times. When I was a young whelp, I hung out with a crowd of boys in my neighborhood. We played baseball, kicked cans and made up stories together. But one day the biggest kid, Lenny, got it into his thick skull that we should catch a stray tomcat and torture it.”
Austin gasped.
“Lenny was your typical bully, and no one wanted to stand up to him. We all reluctantly agreed to the scheme, thinking we’d look like sissies if we backed out. Fortunately, my best friend Harry and I finally leveled with each other that we thought Lenny’s idea was as good as a sardine sundae. Together we confronted Lenny and discovered that no one else in the gang wanted to follow Lenny’s suggestion.”
“What happened?”
“Lenny stomped off calling us all turds and tried to catch a cat on his own.” I chuckled at the memory. “Damn feline clawed him up one side and down the other. I heard many years later that Lenny died in the Battle of the Bulge. Lenny was your garden-variety psychopath and probably enjoyed the opportunity to kill Germans until one took care of him.”
Austin wiped his face with his arm and stood up. “Thanks for the pie.”
“Well, thank you for bringing it over. Stop by anytime, and we can have another snack and chat.”
Austin headed to the door with a lighter step than when he entered, clearly not the result of eating two pieces of pie.
After he left, Marion emerged from the bedroom. “I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but I heard your conversation with Austin.” She placed her arms around my neck and planted a juicy smacker on my cheek. “You said just the right things to him.”
I shrugged. “He’s basically a good kid. Just struggling through the growing-up process and facing issues that boys his age have struggled with for eons.”
“He ponders things a great deal and will take in what you told him.”
“Now it will be up to him to resolve this situation.”
“I’m a grandmother and find it hard not to jump in,” Marion said. “Don’t you think we should intervene?”
“Austin will struggle with this, but I believe he has the gumption to confront this bully. If we interfere, he’ll never have a chance to test himself.”
“But what if the kids actually hurt a homeless person?”
“I hope I’m right, but I don’t think Austin will let that happen.”
Chapter 11
The next day after reading in my journal how inexpensive phone calls could be, I decided to contact Jennifer.
After she answered the phone, I said, “I need you to do some research for me on your Internet thingy.”
“I’ve already started, Grandpa. I checked out the art dealers you mentioned to me: Theobault, Brock and Vansworthy.”
“What a memory.”
“Elephants and Jennifer never forget. And guess what I discovered?”
“That they have a secret cabal to take over the Venice Beach graffiti wall?”
“Now be serious, Grandpa. This is important.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I came across a long article from the Los Angeles Times that appeared five years ago. It describes the leading galleries and art dealers of Venice Beach. In addition to the three you mentioned, two other names appeared: Pieter Rouen and James Farquart.”
“Those are new ones for me. They haven’t shown up in anything I’ve read in my journal.”
“And here’s why. They used to be successful art dealers who were driven out of business by ruthless competition.”
I thought for a moment. “So they might have some interesting views regarding the two surviving art dealers.”
“Exactly. I’ve tracked down contact information for you. Rouen and Farquart both moved to other parts of the country.”
I reached for a pencil and notepad. “Okay, fire away, and I’ll write down the information.”
“Grandpa, I’ll make it easier for you. I’ll e-mail everything I have to Austin, and he can print it out for you.”
“What makes you think Austin will cooperate?”
“I had a talk with him before I left Venice Beach. We reached an understanding.”
I thought back to what I had read in my journal. “You must mean he didn’t want another black eye.”
Jennifer giggled. “Something like that. He’s coming around. After my little reminder and the conversation you had with him, he improved for the better. He won’t be messing with me again.”
“I see. You gave him a wake-up call to rejoin the human race.”
“Oh, Grandpa. Austin’s not so bad. We became friends by the time I left.”
“In any case, go ahead and send the material to Austin, and I’ll go pick it up.”
“Okeydokey. It’s on its way.”
I imagined little pieces of paper flying over my head and recombining in Austin’s computer. Oh, well. I was too old to understand this computer crap anyway.
* * * * *
After I got off the phone, Marion said, “We have a trip planned today.”
“Where to?”
“I’m going to abduct you for a journey to Catalina.”
“Twenty six miles across the sea.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t think I’m up to the swim.”
She swatted me with the newspaper. “We’re flying on a seaplane from San Pedro. You won’t be anywhere near the water.”
“That’s a relief.”
With my day duly scheduled for me, I changed into my Catalina wandering clothes and we headed off for our plane ride.
The little red seaplane looked like it had seen better days. At least it floated so if the engine failed while in flight . . .
We arrived in Avalon harbor, and the plane coasted into a dock where we disembarked.
Marion looked at her watch. “We need to meet back here at three p.m. for the return flight so I have you all to myself today.”
“That sounds like a good plan for us newlyweds.”
I noticed a place to rent bicycles.
“Let’s show all these young kids wandering around how to do things,” I said. “How about a bike ride?”
Marion wrinkled her forehead. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Give me a break. I’m old but fit.” I patted my stomach. “I don’t feel a day over seventy. We’ll explore this whole island.”
I paid the bike ransom, and we hopped or, more realistically, struggled aboard. We both started pedaling and drew stares from the crowd, lining the streets. There probably wasn’t another bicyclist over forty, and there we were—two vintage models. We headed along the bay, past the casino and came to a dead end.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s head the other way.”
We cycled through town like on the Tour de France, senior style. My legs felt fine from all the walking I had been doing, and Marion held her own as well. We pedaled up a hill on the other end of town and in ten minutes came to another dead end. We stopped and looked down toward the harbor.
“What’s with this town?” I said. “I thought we could cycle around the island.”
I accosted one of the local inhabitants and asked, “Where can you ride besides this short stretch in town?”
The woman swept back a strand of hair from her forehead and laughed. “That’s it. Beyond the fence is private property.”
“I’ll be damned. I rented a bike so we can ride back and forth on a one-mile stretch.”
“That’s right.”
We headed back to the shop and returned the bikes.
“With the size of this place, we can explore it on foot,” I said.
Marion put her arm through mine and we strolled along the waterfront. We watched the other tourists as people ducked in and out of shops.
I spotted an art gallery. “Let’s go inside so I can do some research.”
A skinny man in black slacks and a white shirt greeted us. “May I help you?”
“You have anything by Muddy Murphy?” I asked.
He frowned. “I’m sorry. We don’t. He’s handled by only a few art dealers, primarily in the Venice Beach and Beverly Hills area.”
“What’s the link between Venice and Beverly Hills?”
“The artist you mentioned is from Venice. Financing often comes from Beverly Hills.”
That clicked with what I had read in my journal. I would have to check it out at the gallery open house.
We had fish and chips at a small waterfront café and enjoyed watching the sailboats enter and leave the harbor. When Marion excused herself to visit the powder room, I contemplated my predicament. So here I was with Detective Quintana on my tail. It made me break out in a sweat every time the thought of the murders popped into my mind. Still, I had to stay focused and keep plugging away to learn more regarding these art dealers. With Vansworthy and Muddy Murphy dead, the chief suspects were Theobault and Brock. I went back over what I had read in my diary. Theobault had gone ballistic when Marion and I confronted him. Obviously we struck a nerve. Brock had been cordial, but I didn’t trust the son of a bitch. It was a coin toss between those two. I’d have to collect more information to ferret out who the bad guy was or if the two of them were in cahoots. I’d have to snoop around some more and have my computer expert, Jennifer, do some additional research for me. With more data assembled, then I’d have something to show to Detective Quintana to direct him the right way so he’d have something better to do than bug me. That would be refreshing. Then I could move on with my life, however much time was left, and take my bride on our honeymoon cruise.
My musings were interrupted by my beautiful wife who reminded me it was time to ride back to the mainland on the seaplane.
* * * * *
As we took off I watched the sea below us and listened to the rattling of the plane. My stomach tightened at the thought of flying over twenty-six miles of ocean. Control your thoughts, I told myself. I took a deep breath and decided to gut it out. I had to uphold appearances for my bride.
The remainder of the return flight was uneventful other than the airplane feeling like it would shake apart at any moment. I watched boats down below, thankful that we were staying in the air. The main thing was that I escaped any close encounters of the ocean variety.
* * * * *
Late that afternoon, I moseyed down the stairs and over to the main house. After taking a moment to listen to birds chirping in the trees, I knocked on the door, and Andrea greeted me.
“Hi, Paul. What brings you over?”
“Jennifer sent something to Austin’s computer that I need to read. Is he around?”
“Come on in. Austin is back from band camp and up in his room. Second door on the right.”
I climbed the stairs, nearly tripping over a gray tabby cat that didn’t seem inclined to interrupt its nap, and found Austin’s door open.
“Hi, sport,” I said. “I understand Jennifer sent you something for me.”
He looked up and gave me a smile rather than the sullen nod I had read about in my journal.
“Yup. There’s an e-mail message waiting from her. Let me open it up.”
I pictured him using a can opener to pry the lid off a coffee can and reach inside to remove a scroll. Instead words popped up on his computer TV screen.
“Can you print everything she sent?”
“Sure.” With his hand, he shifted and clicked a little object half the size of a glasses case, and suddenly paper started spewing out of a box sitting next to the computer. I shook my head in amazement.
While sheets continued to churn out, I looked around his room. Austin had several pictures of musicians holding guitars. There was one of a young man in jeans with no shirt and wild curly hair holding a microphone.
“Who’s that?” I said, pointing to the picture.
“Jim Morrison of the Doors.”
I wouldn’t have known him if he had been Joe Schmo of the Windows. I looked at a poster of two men in dark suits, dark glasses, dark ties and dark hats. The title read, “The Blues Brothers.”
“Hey, I remember that movie,” I said.
“I thought you had memory problems,” Austin said.
“I saw that movie before my memory went in the crapper. That was something, those guys charging around Chicago like two pissants.”
Austin laughed. “You talk funny.”
“Yeah. That’s the way someone over the hill like me is.”
Just then the gray cat sauntered into the room and jumped up onto a counter which contained a tank with a school of goldfish.
“Does your cat try to catch the fish?” I asked.
“No. She�
�s just curious.”
“Must be a watch cat,” I added.
Austin crinkled his nose at me. “Did you know that a goldfish has an attention span of three seconds?”
“Kind of like my faulty memory. Where’d you learn that interesting fact?”
He shrugged. “Something I picked up when I was doing research for my science-fair project. I was breeding goldfish.”
“Just as long as you don’t breed discontent.”
He shook his head. “Jennifer warned me about your dumb jokes.”
“Hell. It’s a way a late-fall-chicken like me can entertain himself.”
“I thought you entertained yourself by finding dead bodies.”
“Touché.” I gave Austin’s hair a quick ruffle.
He stood up and went over and shut the door to his room. “Can I talk to you in private?”
“Sure.” I sat down on his bed. “Whatcha have in mind?”
“It’s about Pierce wanting to beat up a homeless person.”
“Although I don’t remember our conversation, I wrote something down in my journal.”
“Journal?”
“Yeah. Since day to day I can’t remember squat, I write down—every night—what happens in my strange life and review it the next morning. That’s the world of Paul Jacobson, memory minimalist.”
“So anything I told you won’t be secret.”
“Sure it is. I just have to write it down to remember.”
He sighed. “I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway.”
“You don’t look real happy. What’s going on?”
Austin took a deep breath. “You said I might not be the only one who questioned beating up a homeless person. You were both right and wrong.”
Now I was puzzled. “How so?”
“Last night I talked to one of my friends, Jason, and he admitted that he didn’t want to go along with it. Then I called Pete, another guy in the gang. He also said he didn’t want to hurt anyone. This morning when we all met at the beach before I went off to band camp, I approached Pierce and told him it was wrong to beat up an innocent person.”
“Good for you.” I slapped him on the back.
He gulped. “It didn’t work out as I expected. I turned to Jason and he looked away. I pointed to Pete and asked if he agreed with me. He wouldn’t look at me either. Neither of them stood up for me!”