Scavenger hunt

by Robert Ferrigno

  Leonard Brimley had retired after twenty-five years on the Hermosa Beach PD, a mostly unremarkable career marked by a few commendations, a few community service awards, and not one civilian complaint. Not one. Brimley had evidently been a low-key cop who didn't go looking for trouble and kept his emotions in check. His most notable achievement in the twenty-five years was arresting Garrett Walsh for the murder of Heather Grimm, and even that had been mostly accidental. According to the news accounts, Brimley had been off duty, driving home from his shift, when he heard a call over the police band to investigate a disturbance at a beach cottage a few blocks away. The nearest cruiser reported they were already involved in something else, and Brimley, the good soldier, had broken in and offered to take the call. Like the queen of England said, better to be born lucky than smart.

  Jimmy reached the end of the dock, then started back, wondering if Jane had been wrong. There had to be a first time. Jane had called him this morning and said she had gotten Brimley's address. Jimmy hadn't even known she was looking, which was Jane's style-she'd argue with you, say that you were wasting your time, then go behind your back and help you out.

  Holt had gotten a copy of the Police Guild newsletter from the month that Brimley retired and taken down the names of the people in the party photo with him. One of them, a woman working the switchboard at his station house, said that Brimley had bragged to her at the party that he was moving into a fishing boat, going to be living the good life in a marina just north of the city. It had taken fourteen phone calls before a secretary at the Blue Water Marina in Ventura had confirmed that Leonard Brimley was a live-in.

  It had been three days since his conversation with Katz; her dismissal of his theory about the death of Garrett Walsh didn't surprise him, but Holt agreeing with her-that stung. Not that Jane would ever admit that she agreed with Katz-she was too diplomatic for that. But when Jimmy told her what had happened at the gangbanging crime scene, Holt had just looked at him and asked, "What did you expect?" There was more, of course; Holt explained basic police logic to him as they sat on her patio, half naked, half drunk, watching the sun set into the ocean. Holt said that when there were two equally logical explanations, a good cop always chose the interpretation that had a coroner's report to back it up. He told her it didn't sound like Pythagoras to him. Holt just sipped her drink, one bare leg perched on the balcony railing as she looked out over the waves.

  Jimmy scampered back over the security fence and onto the public sidewalk, hot and tired, his shirt sticking to his back. He should have worn shorts. Not sure which direction to go in, he took a right. Behind him he could hear a faint, steady thumping-it sounded like someone beating on a drum. He glanced around, still walking, then spotted a soft drink machine and hurried over. He fumbled in his pocket for change as he scanned the options, his throat dry. No Coke, no Pepsi, no root beer or RC Cola. Instead there was iced tea, fake-sweetened and unsweetened, four different brands of mineral water, and two sports drinks that promised to replace his electrolytes. Jimmy put his quarters back into his pocket. If it didn't rot your teeth, he wasn't interested.

  Jimmy turned toward the next dock when something hit him on the side of the head, slamming him into the pop machine. He clung to the machine, clung to it like they were dancing, when something hit him again, knocking his head into the glass front of the machine. Jimmy slid slowly down to the sidewalk. He could hear the thumping sound again, louder, getting closer. He got to his knees, bleary now, blinking at the sight of a tall, muscular white man in Lakers shorts and tank top a few feet away, the silky material billowing in the breeze. He looked familiar, but Jimmy couldn't focus. The man nimbly passed the basketball from hand to hand, round and round his body. Jimmy started to rise, when the man whipped the ball from around his back and threw it into his face. Jimmy's nose exploded with blood.

  "Fouled in the act of shooting. Two free throws," said the man.

  Or maybe Jimmy just imagined it. He could barely hear anything with the pain and the roaring in his skull. He had fallen down again, slumped against the pop machine. He pushed himself up, trying to stand. You stay down, it was too easy to get used to it.

  The basketball player stood over him, holding the ball in two hands. Set shot. He bounced the ball, once twice, three times, and Jimmy heard the pounding of drums. The natives are restless… he smiled, and then the ball smashed against his right eye, snapped him back to where nothing was funny anymore. "One point," said the player. "The crowd goes wild."

  Jimmy groaned. Monotonous game. Every time he tried to get up, he found himself on the pavement again. Breathing made red bubbles, which was not a good sign.

  The player was doing the round-the-world move again, the ball a blur. He acknowledged the cheers of the crowd with a goofy smile, then let loose, just as Jimmy slid down the pop machine and the ball slammed into the metal, just inches from his head. The player looked disappointed. "Off the rim," he said, his eyes filled with hate.

  Jimmy watched the player take the ball back a few yards, dribbling rapidly, the ball bouncing through his legs effortlessly, keeping up a steady tom-tom beat. Jimmy knew him from somewhere. He tried to push himself off the sidewalk, but he was shaking too hard and it was raining blood. Time to stay inside, stay right where he was until the storm blew over. Jimmy shook his head. No, he couldn't stay here.

  The player dribbled closer, then backed away, moved in again, then back out, a regular matador. His baggy shorts and tank top were flapping in the wind. Or maybe it was the pennants on the yachts nearby-every one of those tubs had a dozen flags on it. The player dodged left, then right, trying to attract Jimmy's attention, the ball bouncing louder now, BAM BAM BAM.

  Jimmy held one hand out.

  The player smiled, the ball beating against the pavement. "That's good, Jimmy. You try and block my shot."

  Jimmy squinted, but his eyes kept tearing over. Who is this asshole?

  "Think fast, Jimmy," said the player, dribbling closer now. "Here it comes." BAM BAM BAM. "Here it comes." BAM BAM BAM.

  Jimmy watched the player, helpless. It seemed to him that the player was uncertain now, taking too much time dribbling, hesitant to take that final shot.

  "You ready?" said the player, louder now, trying to convince himself. BAM BAM BAM. "You ready for it? BAM BAM BAM. "I'm going to do-"

  A beefy arm reached out from behind the player, grabbed his ball hand, and jerked it behind his back, bending him forward. The player howled as an older man planted a knee in his back and drove him into the sidewalk, then deftly pulled the other hand beside the other. The older man wasn't as tall as the player, but he was a lot broader, and he moved with confidence and certainty, his takedown so fluid that it was over before Jimmy or the player realized what was happening.

  The basketball bounced free, rolled over against Jimmy's foot, and stopped.

  The older man snapped a pair of handcuffs around the player's wrists and dragged him over to the security fence. He glanced over at Jimmy and smiled, and it was a good smile, then he grabbed the player at the waist and lifted him high, hooking his handcuffed wrists over the top of the fencepost. The player was left suspended, his toes just touching the ground. As long as he didn't struggle, he could keep from dislocating his shoulders with his own weight.

  Jimmy stared at the player up there on the post, utterly amazed.

  The player was equally stunned. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  The man walked over to Jimmy, a fleshy old bear with cropped reddish blond hair, built like a wine vat, wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and a pink short-sleeved shirt with crossed nautical flags on the breast pocket. He peered down at Jimmy. "How are you, son?"

  Jimmy licked his lips. It hurt.

  The older man knelt down beside him. He had an easygoing round face with a peeling nose and lively blue eyes. A man who liked a good joke. "What did you do to that fella I hung up to dry, anyway? First time I ever saw a basketball used as a lethal weapon."

  "I
didn't do anything to him." Jimmy stirred, winced.

  "Don't move. I'm going back to my boat and call the police. And an aid car."

  "Aren't you a cop?" Jimmy pointed at the player hanging on the fence. "The handcuffs…?"

  "I used to be a cop," said the older man. "I'm retired now, but I keep an eye on things, and the marina gives me a break on the slip fee. Only way I could afford a place like this."

  "Are you-you Leonard Brimley?"

  The older man looked surprised. "That's me. Who wants to know?"

  "I'm Jimmy Gage. I came here looking for you. I'm a reporter."

  Brimley scratched his head. "It's been a while since anyone wanted to talk with me."

  "Hey!" shouted the player. "What about me? You're tearing my fucking arms off."

  "Hush now," Brimley said without rancor. "I'll get to you presently."

  Jimmy pulled himself to a sitting position. "Forget the ambulance."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I've been beat up worse than this."

  "You're proud of that?" Brimley grinned.

  "Just let me sit here for a while," said Jimmy, sounding tougher than he felt. Something about Brimley made him want to sit up straighter, not give in to the pain.

  "That's always a good idea." Brimley patted him gently on the shoulder. "I'm going to put a call in to the locals. They're good boys; they know me."

  Jimmy watched Brimley saunter down the sidewalk to the next gate, open it with a key, then continue down the dock. He was still impressed at the ease with which the older man had handled his attacker. Jimmy felt blood dripping from his nose. He looked over to the fence and saw the player struggling, dancing on his tiptoes. "Who are you?"

  "You don't even recognize me?" The player spit at him, missed. "Perfect. Just fucking perfect."

  Jimmy pulled out his shirttail, lightly wiping at the blood on his face. His right eye was swelling up, but he didn't think his nose was broken. "Tell me your name. You owe me that."

  "I owe you?" The player's voice cracked. "You're the one who owes me."

  "What did I do to you?" Jimmy carefully pulled himself upright, then had to bend over, resting his hands on his knees until the world stopped spinning. He hobbled closer to the fence and stared at the player. The man's arms were powerful, lumped with muscle, his face all rough edges and thick brow ridges. Jimmy squinted. "Butcher?"

  The man on the fencepost kicked at Jimmy, howling as his full weight tore at his bound wrists.

  Jimmy had to sit down again.

  "My name is Darryl Seth Angley, you fuck," snarled the Butcher.

  Jimmy's head throbbed so loudly he thought someone was dribbling another basketball. It must have been five or six months since he had written the article about the Butcher. It was no big thing, just a short piece on the regular two-on-two pick-up basketball games at Venice Beach. Napitano had held it for a few issues, printing it only last month. Jimmy had almost forgotten about it.

  "You turned me into a joke," moaned the Butcher. "The ballers just laugh at me now."

  Jimmy had spent the afternoon courtside, taking notes, doing a few interviews. The Butcher had owned the court, playing with a succession of partners, always winning. The Butcher played a hyper-aggressive game, even for street ball, elbows flying, bumping, and thumping, forcing even bigger players to back off. Better players too. The Butcher wasn't the best one out there, but he made up for it with a ferocious, full-contact game, even knocking aside his own team-mate going after a rebound. Jimmy had named him "the Butcher" in his notes, giving all the players nicknames: the Butcher, Stringbean, Ghettoblaster, the Phantom.

  The Butcher went limp on the post, sweat rolling down his up-raised arms.

  The Butcher had ruled the court all day, driving away his last partner an hour earlier, challenging the waiting players to a little one-on-one, bouncing the ball as he called them out. They stood up, one after the other, and one after the other he sent them away bleeding. No one could beat the Butcher. Until the Waiter showed up.

  "What did I ever do to you?" wailed the Butcher.

  Jimmy had been ready to leave when the Waiter first walked onto the court, but there was something about the new guy that made him stay. The waiter was a tall, skinny white guy wearing black trousers and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled. A black bow tie was tucked into his shirt pocket. He wore street shoes. The Butcher tossed the ball to the Waiter, giving him a few minutes to warm up, then walked over and drank from his water bottle. One of the bikini girls who had been hanging around all day tried to speak to the Butcher, but he ignored her, his eyes on the Waiter shooting jumpers. Jimmy sensed something interesting was going to happen, and the other players must have too-they drifted over from the other courts to watch, whispering among themselves.

  "You're not even a player," the Butcher said to Jimmy. "You just run down people who are."

  The matchup between the Butcher and the Waiter got off to a fast start, the Waiter bringing the ball into play, hip-faking the Butcher, then blowing past him for a slam dunk. The backboard hummed with the force of it. The crowd was silent. No cheers, no jeers. Silence. The Butcher took in the ball, bullied the Waiter aside, and dove for the basket, but as he went for a lay-up, the Waiter plucked the ball from his grasp and buried it. The crowd stirred. The Butcher took the ball in again and swung an elbow at the Waiter's head, but the Waiter ducked under the blow, stole the ball again, and hit a fall-away from almost midcourt. The crowd shouted their approval, whooping it up now.

  The game continued like that for the next twenty minutes, the Waiter scoring from all areas of the court, outjumping, outrebounding, outplaying the Butcher, just scorching him. In response, the Butcher became increasingly violent, tripping the Waiter when he went up to dunk, flagrantly fouling him, cursing and arguing with him. The Waiter stayed cool, even as the knees of his pants were torn; he just quietly kept making shot after shot. When he won the first game, the Butcher insisted on making it two out of three, and when he won the second game, the Butcher said he meant best of five. When the Waiter won the third game, the crowd booed the Butcher off the court, catcalling, mocking him. Jimmy had written it up just that way.

  "I used to be somebody," said the Butcher. "People respected me. You took it away. It wasn't losing to that Waiter, that was a fluke, but you turned it into something important."

  "I just wrote an article-"

  "You and your fancy job. People listen to you, even if you get it all wrong. Well, I got a nothing job and nobody cares what I think. I clock in five minutes late, I get docked a half-hour. I got to ask permission to take a crap. That's my job." Tears rolled down the Butcher's cheeks. "You fuck. You fucking fuck. The only place people paid attention to me was on the court."

  Jimmy heard whistling, turned around, and saw Leonard Brimley approaching.

  "Local cops should be here soon," Brimley said. "You doing okay?"

  "Yeah." Jimmy stared at the Butcher, remembering the near misses, the basketball slamming into the soft drink machine inches from his head. Most of all he remembered the indecision on the Butcher's face. He turned to Brimley. "Why don't you call the cops. Tell them we don't need them."

  The Butcher's head jerked up.

  Brimley rubbed his jaw. "Assault and battery. That's a serious charge."

  Jimmy pulled himself up hand over hand and hung on to the fence to support himself. "Darryl and I-we were just practicing our b-ball moves. I guess we got a little out of hand."

  "I saw the whole thing," said Brimley, as if he were in on the joke. "You weren't practicing for anything other than getting your brains beat out."

  "Let him go, Mr. Brimley," said Jimmy. "I'll talk to the cops. Darryl and I just had a little misunderstanding, but we got it straightened out. Right, Darryl?"

  The Butcher nodded slowly. "Yeah, we're all straightened out."

  Brimley shook his head, stepped over to the fencepost, and lifted the Butcher down. He checked with Jimmy one more time, then unhooked t
he cuffs.

  The Butcher stood there, rubbing his raw wrists.

  Brimley waved the Butcher away with the back of his hand. "Go and sin no more."

  Jimmy watched as the Butcher picked up his basketball and slowly dribbled back to the parking lot. He kept waiting for him to look back, but he didn't.

  Brimley put an arm around him. "Let's go to my boat. I'll call off the locals and clean you up. You better get some ice on that eye, or it's going to swell shut on you."

  Jimmy was going to argue, but it sounded like a good idea. Besides, he still wanted to talk to Brimley about Garrett Walsh. "Thanks, detective."

  "No need to call me detective," said Brimley, helping him. "I'm retired and glad of it."

  "Leonard, then."

  Brimley chuckled. "The last person to call me that was Miss Hobbes in eighth grade, and I hated it then too. Leonard sounds like someone who starches his underwear. You're probably the same way-that's why you go by Jimmy instead of James."

  Jimmy gasped as they went down a step. "What do you want me to call you?"

  "Call me what my friends do." Brimley nestled Jimmy closer. "Call me Sugar."

  Chapter 20

  Jimmy leaned against Sugar as he hobbled down the dock, his ribs throbbing with every step. Seagulls floated overhead, screaming, and the sound cut right through Jimmy's skull.

  "You doing okay, son?"

  "Yeah," Jimmy gasped, and kept walking, the gray concrete dock stretching out before him. He focused on the next few steps, one foot after the other. The yachts bobbed gently on either side of him, the blue water shimmering with pools of oil and gasoline. Dizzy again, he clutched at Sugar and felt hard muscle underneath a cushion of blubber. The big man smelled of suntan oil, reassuring him somehow. He stared at the nautical flags patterned across Sugar's pink shirt, wondering what they meant-clear skies or storm warnings. "Thanks for what you did back there with… Darryl." He still had to work to remember the Butcher's real name.

  "No problem." Sugar supported him, fitting his pace to Jimmy's. "That boy sure wanted to get your attention."