The bag responded to his blows lightly at first as he just tapped it. He worked his simpler combos: jab, left hook. Left hook, right hook. Left hook, left uppercut. He felt his muscles warming as sweat began to form on his forehead. When he felt he was ready, his speed increased and the combos became more complex. The bag started to move, and soon, bend to his blows.
The combos were coming one after another now and he began working in kicks and knees. Calvin moved seamlessly from one motion to the next and from one stance to the next. He was ambidextrous and was as comfortable in orthodox as southpaw stance. His breathing was slow and purposeful, in through his nose in long breaths, and out his mouth in quick, short ones, his abdomen flexing, training him to accept body blows when striking.
The minutes turned to two hours and his hands began to ache, the skin on his knees scraped raw, blood trickling down his legs. He stopped and checked the clock. There was still energy in him and he had to get all of it out if he was going to be able to sleep. He unwrapped his hands and went to the cardio room and hopped on a treadmill. The speed was slow at first until his leg muscles adapted and then he pushed it up to ten miles per hour, his eyes forward as sweat poured out of him, soaking his shirt and shorts.
After another forty minutes of running, he was exhausted. He felt vomit in his throat but he fought it back. Stepping off the treadmill he went to his gym bag and got out his sports drink with a protein bar and went and sat by the cage as a jujitsu class practiced lion-killer chokes from the back mount. A large man in a tank-top stepped up to him.
“You hoppin’ in Riley?”
“No, Coach. Just watching today.”
“Well you let me know if you wanna hop up there and crack some skulls. We got a tournament coming up and my boys need some practice.”
“Williams is gonna win, but Larson’s weak on the ground.”
He nodded. “Don’t suppose it would do any good to ask you to fight for us?”
“I’m not interested in attention, sir.”
“Hell, fight under a different name. Call yourself the Wrecker or Fist of Fury or some shit.”
“Maybe one day. But I’ll sit this one out for now.”
The coach sat down next to him. “What’s goin’ on, Riley? You one tough motherfucker and you don’t do nothin’ with it. You in here every night and I ain’t never seen you hang out with any a the boys. Did you go out to the clubs with Danny and them this weekend?”
“No.”
“We’re a team up in here, Riley. I know we got weekend warriors that come in and train for a few months and take off, but you been with me damn near four years. How old are you now?”
“Twenty three.”
“Ain’t right for someone your age not to be goin’ and gettin’ some pussy with the boys. You gonna grow up like me and get a wife and settle down one day and you gonna miss these times, man. I’m tellin’ ya.”
“I know. I know it’s a team here and I want to take part in it. I’ll make more of an effort.”
He slapped his arm. “All right then.”
“Alright.”
After the coach had left Calvin rose and finished the rest of his drink in a few gulps. He threw the protein bar away, grabbed his gym bag, and left.
Darkness had descended and the moon was out, a bright glowing orb in a black sky. He took Loma Boulevard down to Ocean Beach Park and found a relatively secluded area. He parked and took his shoes off.
The sand was still warm from the sun and he stood still a long time and buried his toes underneath. Then he walked over to the edge of the water and sat down, just far enough away that the waves crackled and broke in front of him and tickled the tips of his toes before being drug back to sea.
He loved the ocean at night, the way the moon lit up the surface. He would go out surfing late, at two or three in the morning when everyone else had gone home, and jump into the white surface, lay flat on his back, and stare at the moon.
An odd sense of nostalgia went through him; the moon had been full the night he had killed his grandparents. He wondered if the moon had anything to do with that. He was only eleven at the time when he’d shot them both in the head while they were sleeping. Afterward he’d went and sat on the porch and waited for his mother to get home. He remembered the sense of calm clearly. The porch had been cold; they had been living in Minnesota at the time, but he didn’t wear a coat and regretted it. It took his mother nearly three years and thousands of dollars to seal his juvenile record. His mother was always fighting for him to have a normal life. They had moved out here to get a fresh start.
His mother.
He checked his watch: 11 P.M. Calvin jumped to his feet and ran back to his car, starting the engine before he even had his seatbelt on. He peeled out in reverse and then shot forward, taking Loma back to the San Diego Freeway. The streets were clear except for the occasional drunk weaving in and out of the lanes in front of him. He would shoot past them and then cut them off, seeing if they were drunk enough to crash, but none of them were. The true drunks were passed out by this hour.
He got off the freeway at Laredo Drive and it only took him another ten minutes to get home. The house was large, far larger than someone on his parents’ income should have had. It had been inherited by his grandfather and after his death went to his mother.
He parked and sat in the car, the night quiet around him. He saw his mother peeking through the curtains in the window and his two little brothers were sitting at the dining room table. She had done this before; keeping the whole family up when he stayed out too late. His father was the only one that wouldn’t stay up. Calvin took a deep breath and opened the door.
The night was cool and the freeway and main road were far enough away that he couldn’t hear the traffic. All he could hear was the buzz of an airplane flying overhead and then disappearing. His heart was beating fast in his chest and he wanted to stall but this was something that grew worse the more he put it off.
He walked to the front door and went inside. The kitchen light was on and he stood just outside the linoleum. His mother was standing over the stove cooking soup.
“Where were you so late?” she said, not looking up from her pot.
“At the gym.”
“That gym closes at ten.”
“I went to the beach and lost track of time. I’m sorry, mama.”
“You’re sorry?” she said, her voice a pitch higher. “You’re sorry? Your poor brothers have been here without food for hours and you’re sorry?”
“I never said not to eat when I wasn’t here, mama.”
She stood silently a moment before turning back to her pot. Calvin relaxed and thought it was over.
He turned to leave and then felt the scalding heat of the soup over his head. It burned his eyes and the soft skin on his neck and he screamed and fell to the floor. His mother lifted the pot and slammed it down over his head, shouting to his brothers not to turn away from it. One blow caught him in the back of the head and he saw flashes of light in his vision.
“No, mama,” he said, crying now, “mama stop. Please, mama stop.”
Calvin heard the kitchen table being pushed across the bare linoleum and the latch leading down to the cellar.
“Get your ass in there, boy.”
He got to his knees, wiping at the hot liquid drizzling down over his face. The opening in the floor was three foot by three foot and had wooden stairs leading down almost a dozen feet. It was where he had spent most of his childhood, or places like it. He used to fear the dark and quiet, but not anymore. Not since he was six years old was he scared of the dark anymore.
He crawled down the stairs and his mother kicked his feet in, causing him to slide down a few steps. He looked up at her, his face red and swelling and she slammed the door shut. He heard the table pushed back over the latch and then the house went quiet.
Calvin made his way down to the cement floor. Cold but welcoming. He knew every crack, every fracture, every bump and chip. He foll
owed one crack to the right that led to the wall and curled up against it. He took off his shirt and pressed it to his face and neck, and wept quietly in the dark.
19
The residents of Ocean Beach Park were fiercely protective of their local businesses, parks, playgrounds, and even surfers. Outsiders were regarded with a suspicious eye the moment they stepped on the sand and Stanton had been no different. It had even come to blows one night when one of the local surfers had slid across the bottom of his wave, knocking him off his board. He was willing to let it be forgotten but knew that if he did he could never surf this beach again.
The man had been a thick Hawaiian named Kekoa. When Stanton came in to shore he found him in a group of other people near the cars. He walked casually by as if he hadn’t noticed him and Kekoa had turned around just long enough for Stanton to rush him. He could still replay it in his mind as if watching a bout blow by blow as it happened: he threw his arms around Kekoa’s waist and took him down. Kekoa wrapped his legs around him, trying to squeeze out the last of his breath; he then placed his elbow into the man’s throat and pushed down with his bodyweight. Kekoa spun his arm away and put his hands around his throat and he twisted his neck to the side, loosening the grip, and then bit down on the fleshy part of his hand, hard enough that the flesh tore and blood began to flow. Kekoa had then been distracted enough that Stanton landed a couple of elbows into his nose.
They’d been pulled apart seconds afterward, but it was enough. Stanton had shown that even though Kekoa could clearly come out on top in a brawl, he was going to get hurt in the process. Maybe even hurt bad. Kekoa, and the other surfers stayed away from him after that.
Stanton felt the pressure shift in the water as he couldn’t see it in the dark. The wave was only ten feet behind him now and he began to paddle toward shore as the water started to lift him higher and higher. When he was nearly at the zenith of the wave he jumped to his feet.
The wave pushed him toward shore with such speed that the wind howled in his ears. He pushed his board to the right, cutting across the wave, leaving a thin streak of white foam, and then cut back in the other direction. He crouched low enough that his fingertips touched the surface of the wave, dipping into the sea as if that was where they belonged. He rode it in to shore with his fingers in the water as far as he could.
The wave died down and he jumped off the board in a few feet of water and began to carry it back to shore over his head. He stuck the board in the sand and collapsed next to it, looking up at the moon that radiated white light like some bulb dangling from the sky. Then a sound nearby broke the peace of the moment: tires screeching, and he looked over and saw a Volkswagen Beetle tearing out of the parking lot farther down the beach.
He turned back to the sea and watched the waves come. There were twenty or so surfers still out there, catching wave after wave, hoping each set would be the one they would go back to their parties and talk about, the one that flung them twenty feet or dragged them under and nearly drowned them.
His cell phone was next to him and he toweled off and dialed Melissa’s number.
“Hey, Jon.”
“Hey.”
“I hear waves. You at the beach?”
“Yeah, I’ve really gotten into night surfing now. You and the boys should come out with me.”
“You know I don’t surf.”
“I could teach you.”
“Like how you taught me to drive a stick?”
“That crappy seven hundred dollar car was all I had and you nearly destroyed the transmission. We had to stop.”
She laughed softly. “I’ll never forget your face after the first few times we heard that awful grinding sound. You were sweet to let me keep trying as long as you did.”
He looked up to the sky. “I wish you could see the moon the way I’m seeing it now. It’s so clear it feels like it’s taking up the whole sky.”
“I’m lying in bed. I can see it through the window. Is it true more crimes happen during full moons?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. The moon seems to have some sort of psychological effect on us, but science hasn’t caught up to superstition yet. We’re not really sure why.”
There was silence between them a few seconds and she sighed. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“Are you coming to pick up the boys this weekend?”
“Yeah. I’d like for you to come with us. I thought maybe we’d hit the zoo.”
“I can’t, I have to work. One of the girls quit and I was given all her clients. It’s nice ‘cause it’s so much more money, but I don’t like having to work on the weekends.”
Stanton counted three waves as they sat quietly on the phone. But it wasn’t an awkward silence, more a silence bred from the comfort they felt around each. “I better go. I just wanted to talk to you right now.”
“Okay. Be careful, Jon.”
“I will. I’ll see you when I pick up the boys.”
After he hung up he got his board and headed back to his apartment. It was Friday night and there was a line of cars all headed to beach parties that had barely gotten underway. A car full of girls hollered at him as he crossed the street and he waved.
When he got back to his building, there was a man sitting in one of the chairs in the lobby. He looked familiar though Stanton couldn’t place where he’d seen him. The man rose as he came in. He was chewing gum and he spit it out into an ashtray before walking over to him.
“Detective Stanton,” he said, holding out his hand, “Lieutenant Ransom Talano. Pleasure, Detective. I’ve heard a lot of good things.”
Stanton shook his hand. “Have we met before?”
“No, not that I’m aware of. I’m just doing some follow-up on the Darrell Putnam case. I’m sure you know by now the family’s filed a lawsuit, so I’ve just been assigned to make sure all the T’s are crossed. You know how it is.”
“I didn’t know that’s all IAD did. Just cross T’s.”
He was silent a moment before saying, “Why would you think I’m with IAD?”
“Your firearm’s on your left side but you shook with your right and threw out your gum with your right. Most officers keep their firearm on the side of their dominant hand for a controlled draw. The only division I know that doesn’t is IAD, because it’s annoying to bump your sidearm while filling out paperwork.”
He smiled and pointed at him with his index finger. “You are good. I heard as much. One of the best on the force is what everyone keeps telling me.”
“Why are you here, Ransom? Is it to give me rope to hang myself? If it is, at least come upstairs so I can get a drink. I’m dying of thirst.”
Stanton walked to the elevators and Ransom, reluctantly, followed. They were silent in the elevator but when they got into his apartment Stanton went to the fridge and got out a bottle of orange juice and poured two glasses. He handed one to Ransom and then sat down on the couch. The bay doors were open, letting in the salty breeze from the ocean. He could hear the teenagers honking and laughing and shouting eleven floors below. Friday night at this time was their purview.
“I know what you want, Ransom.” Stanton knew he probably preferred Lieutenant, but continued to use his first name, putting them on an even playing field. “But you’re not going to find it. The incident was clean. There was probable cause and a warrant for his arrest. I was just trying to bring him in and he chose to jump instead. The only way to challenge it is to challenge the warrant, and that’s gonna piss off Judge Kwan. He’s known as being temperamental and doesn’t like when people second-guess him. Doesn’t seem like the kind of guy I would want to piss off.”
“You’re Mormon, aren’t you?”
Stanton sipped his orange juice. Ransom was good; he didn’t take the bait and respond. He immediately put Stanton back on the defensive. “Yes.”
“Now I heard Mormons believe they’re going to be gods one day, that you all are p
olytheists. A lot of people, not me mind you, but a lot, would say that’s not Christian. What do you say when people tell you that?”
“I tell them that they need to come to a few sessions of church and listen in. The entire church is built around the teachings of Christ. The most important thing in my church is to follow his example; everything else is just details.”
“Details? Details. It’s all in the details, Detective. Everything important. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“No. I’m more of a big-picture guy.”
Ransom took a sip of his juice and raised his eyebrows. “Good juice.”
“I make it myself. It’s orange and clementines.”
He drank half the glass down and then placed it on a coaster on the coffee table. “I like your apartment. The view of the ocean alone is enough to make the rent worthwhile. How much do you pay here if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I do mind, actually.”
Ransom smiled softly and then finished the other half of his juice, not taking his eyes off Stanton.
“Well, Detective, I can see that everything is probably in order, like you said. Seems I would be just spinning my wheels here.”
He rose and Stanton rose as well and walked him to the door. He held it open as Ransom stepped out without a word and walked to the elevators. As Stanton shut the door, he thought for the first time that he might want to call his union lawyer. Ransom was too good. Even the time and place he’d chosen for the initial meeting—his apartment late at night after he was relaxed from surfing—showed that he was a consummate professional.
Internal Affairs officers, the good ones anyway, were cut from the same cloth: obsessed with rooting out corruption, but occasionally that obsession crossed the line into that gray area where some cops lost themselves. Stanton decided he should give his lawyer a call. Ransom Talano was dangerous.
The second Ransom heard Stanton’s door shut behind him he bit his hand so hard he broke the top layer of skin. Then he kicked at a garbage can by the elevators, and when the elevator dinged and opened an older lady with a little dog saw him and was startled. He smiled as widely as he could to cover up the anger that was pouring out of him, but she just looked down to the floor and stepped past him.
Walk in Darkness - A Thriller (Jon Stanton Mysteries) Page 7