by Rex Bolt
“How about ten, that’s a little early on a Sunday.”
“I’m trying to line up two or three of these tomorrow if I can. You’re the first, so the earlier the better.”
“Okay fine. What’s your name again?”
“Bob,” he said. “I’ll see you at eight, thanks very much.”
+++
When Christian got back to the room, there was no sign of Bethany so he went down to the pier. The beach volleyball courts were full, there was a junior lifeguard training day going on, a lot of surfers in the water, plenty of action. Not many bikinis yet, but it was still March.
He was pretty positive he hadn’t touched a thing in the office. No handshake, and the guy had opened the door for him both ways. There were no security cameras. There was a second desk in there, but it was unlikely it’d be anyone besides Chip meeting him tomorrow. His one concern was did the taqueria guys come in early to start a big soup or something?
His brother Floyd had worked for Chip when he was fresh out of UNLV. Chip had a catering business that was connected to some of the casinos and handled their overflow at large corporate events. He recruited kids like Floyd from the college culinary program as interns.
Floyd was a quick learner, and Chip introduced him to his other business, which was distressed properties. He taught Floyd the basics, told him find me a deal, and if I buy it I’ll give you 20% of the profit after I flip it.
Floyd began hitting the courthouse three times a week, looking up new foreclosure filings. He drove around neighborhoods and knocked on owners’ doors, asking if they wanted to sell their house before the bank got too involved. Some of the owners were polite, and some weren’t, but no one was interested.
Finally in north Vegas, a guy agreed to deed him his tract house for the amount of the arrears plus $10,000, which came out to $62,000. Floyd ran a few comps and figured after $5000 of fix-up, the place was worth $125,000, with a quick-sale value of $105,000, and he took it to Chip. Chip closed on it a couple days later, and re-sold the place within a month.
When Floyd asked about getting paid, Chip told him his payouts were quarterly, and to keep up the good work. Floyd got better at sifting the properties with potential from the dead wood, and in two months he had laid seven more deals on Chip’s desk.
Floyd decided that was enough for now until he got paid, and stopped going to the courthouse. When the eighth and final property had sold, well after whatever quarter Chip had been referring to, Floyd asked for his cut, which added up to $73,000.
“Bud,” Chip said. “You’re a dependable worker, and you learned a good lesson here. You want something, get it in writing. Right now, we got nothing to talk about.”
Floyd got drunk that night and considered killing Chip. A few thoughts stopped him, the main one being how would you get away with it, and the second being Chip was probably connected. Floyd let it go and moved on. This was twelve years ago.
Christian walked up the hill from the pier and Bethany was stretched out on a chaise-lounge at the pool, wearing big, baggy sweat clothes and uggs.
She said, “I’ve been trying to remember when I’ve had an experience as heavenly. And I can’t come up with one.”
Christian said, “They put their hands all over you and everything?”
“Oh yes, it was dreamlike. Chris, thank you so much.”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous.”
“I could certainly eat something too.”
“You follow the NCAA Tournament at all? I see they have a sports bar a block over, which I could carry you to if you’re too exhausted.”
“Sounds perfect, and I can make it.”
“Who’d you end up taking to that Warriors game, by the way?” he said, when they were settled in at the Goofy Foot Bar & Grill.
“Jeff.”
“Oh. I notice he called you ‘Beth’. You go by that?”
“No. Lately he’s been shortening it.”
“Is that right.”
“You know what? I’m going to have to start interrogating you. I can only guess the skeletons you must have in your closet.”
The menu wasn’t exciting so they went with drinks and appetizers. Kentucky dominated Indiana, and Syracuse hit a shot at the buzzer to beat Wisconsin.
“I enjoy college ball more than the pros, to be honest,” Christian said. “Maybe because it’s the end of the line for most of them.”
“I know, you can feel the emotion, that they’re not professionals,” Bethany said.
Sometime after midnight, both of them still awake, she got out of her bed and into his.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “I got a glimpse just then of a tiny pair of briefs and a tee shirt that had to be three sizes too small for what it was trying to contain . . . Now it’s all right here, but I can’t do anything about it?”
“I wish we could, but you wouldn’t be happy. It would put a damper on everything.” She had her head against him and her hand on his chest. The windows were open, and they could hear the ocean.
“You gave me the short version. What’s the long one?” Christian said.
“He told me he didn’t want me intimate with anyone else.”
“Wait a minute . . . I’ve said the same thing to people, but I never expect it to work.”
“This is different though. I feel like he’s . . . not exactly hovering . . . but aware of things. Irrational as that sounds.”
“And he gave you this ultimatum when?”
“Three years ago, when we separated.”
“Holy shit . . . So you haven’t been able to enjoy yourself since then?”
“Only twice. The two times I went back to visit him.”
Christian tried to absorb this.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “That I need a psychiatrist. Right?”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “Maybe you just need to get back together.”
“That could never happen. He scares me.”
“Scares you into deciding he’s the only one you can successfully fuck.”
“Please don’t put it so crudely, but yes, that . . . And scares me that he might hurt me if I became seriously involved with someone.”
“Wow. This is becoming a common theme.”
“What is?”
“Forget that, go ahead.”
“It’s just a gut feeling. I have nothing to validate it.”
“And you say he’s in Arizona,” Christian said. “Where abouts again?”
“Oh no. You’re not going to call him. Is that what you’re thinking? That would never work.”
“Why not? One man to another, get him to see he’s stifling your life experience.”
“If you tried that,” she said, “he’d know right away I told you to. And things would intensify.”
“Oh well, it was an idea.”
“That is really sweet of you, I mean it. It’s for me alone to resolve. I’m hoping sooner or later I can.”
A few minutes passed. Bethany said, “Would now be a good time to tell me about your eye? The part about it not being 100% random?”
“Hey, no one has seemed to notice down here,” he said. “Maybe the sunglasses are working.”
“What happened though?”
“A guy I’d never met, but knew of, who had the look of a bodybuilder, connected with an overhand right.”
“And any idea why?”
“Some, yeah. But it could have been handled differently. Getting violent like that, it rarely solves anything.”
19 - After Clipping
The big decision Sunday morning was not whether to go ahead with it but which bat to use. Christian was more comfortable with the old-fashioned wood, more confident in being able to adjust his grip as necessary, especially wearing the latex gloves, but he opted for the aluminum because it seemed less likely there’d be a piece of it left behind.
It wasn’t the perfect time—he could have waited on Ray, made another trip do
wn, followed the guy around for a while, double checked everything—but screw it, you do all that and then something unexpected could pop up.
His main concern, as he pulled into the parking lot at 7:45, was the one-room taqueria three doors away, the only place in the strip mall that would likely be open today besides Chip’s office. No one was around yet, and their sign said they opened at eleven. It would almost be better if someone were in the place now, cooking, than to risk having them arrive in the next twenty minutes, but what could you do?
Chip pulled in at eight o’clock on the dot and waved. Christian got out of the car and cracked Chip over the head with the aluminum bat just as Chip opened the office door. It was a cleaner first blow than with Donny. Christian realized after clipping Donny on the shoulder and neck that in that position you’re better off forgetting a baseball swing and coming straight down, more like you’re chopping wood.
Still, Chip crawled into his office. He was a strong motherfucker obviously, not sports-strong like Donny, but street-strong. He was heading for his desk, had one hand up on the side of it now, and Christian realized with alarm that there was a gun somewhere. He delivered a dozen more blows to Chip’s head and torso, and Chip didn’t move any more. He waited a minute to be certain, and for good measure smashed him in the head two more times, using more of a golf swing, since the head was on the floor. Just like with Donny, he made sure he caved it in somewhat before he was through.
He was tempted to say, “Floyd Seely says hello”, or whatever, but realized that would be dumb, especially if the guy miraculously recovered, so he kept his mouth shut, left the office door open, went into the trunk which he had left ajar, put the bat and gloves into the bat case, and stuck it all back in the empty spare tire compartment.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, two teenage kids on bicycles passed by, barefoot and wearing partial wetsuits. They had racks on the sides of their bikes that were carrying surfboards that didn’t look much bigger than skateboards. They were heading toward the beach, talking to each other, and Christian didn’t think they were aware of him.
He took a shower in the locker room near the pool and changed his clothes. When he got back to the room, Bethany was sitting on the balcony in a terrycloth Minka Hotel robe, her head back, eyes closed, taking in the morning sun.
“It’s glorious here beyond belief,” she said. “Would you ever consider moving?”
“Not right now, no.”
“I’m sorry, that was so insensitive. I wasn’t even thinking.”
“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t want to live here permanently is all, nothing to do with my situation.”
“I could . . . Anyway, give me a moment to change, and we’ll get some of that incredible breakfast. I didn’t want to start without you this morning . . . No run today, I see, but how was your walk?”
“Not as enjoyable as running, but I got some exercise.”
Christian sat down, facing the ocean, but looked sideways into the room. Bethany had taken the robe off, and now there were pale green briefs and another too-small white t-shirt. In the better light, the t-shirt was essentially transparent.
“You know what, why bother getting dressed yet?” he said. “I’ll go down and bring some stuff back.”
“Too late,” she said. She had pulled on a big sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. “They have a quaint sitting area down there with a fountain. It feels like you’re in Europe.”
At breakfast they discussed the pros and cons of living in Southern California, and Christian ran the chain of events back through his head. It felt like they should be on the road, not hanging around a couple miles from where it happened, but did it matter, really? If they were going to get him, they’d find him wherever. Might as well enjoy the Minka Hotel amenities right up until check-out time, and hope to God he hadn’t overlooked something basic.
They took the scenic route home, up Highway One to Santa Barbara and then 101 the rest of the way. Bethany fell asleep around King City and didn’t wake up until they were back in her neighborhood.
Christian said, “You sure tossed it around, whether you should go with me or not, keep me company."
“Well I made the right decision,” she said. “And I was so out of it down there, I never even asked you: what business thing were you doing?”
“Ahh, I was checking out an investment. There was a window of opportunity, but I decided against it.”
20 – Landline
Shep said, “You’re back. How was it?”
“It was uneven,” Christian said. “Have you ever been with a voluptuous woman who seems to like you, where you couldn’t do anything about it?”
“No.”
“I know. She says she has a nasty ex who’s gotten in her head.”
“In that case, anything you can do . . . personally?”
“I’ve gone through it, but if something happened they’d be all over her, wouldn’t they?”
“Probably depends if there’s been a history, a restraining order, that type of thing.”
“Part of my reservation is, what if I went through all that and nothing changed on her end?”
“I see what you mean, brother,” Shep said. “You could easily be right. That the scouting trip you were referring to?”
“Yeah, I just dropped her off twenty minutes ago. The scouting part went okay, I think.”
+++
He slept late on Monday, walked over to Peet’s Coffee on Chestnut and checked his phone for the first time in three days. There were nine messages: four from Joyce, one from Maierhaffer, one from Ray, one from Bethany, one from his brother Floyd, and one from a Detective Cousins of Santa Rosa Police.
Alarmingly bad, that final one. But Christian had woken up with a serious headache and was determined not to let his mind run away from him, at least until he’d had his double latte and scone. He took his time, read the paper, and went back home to use his landline, so he could be sure he understood what the police might be asking.
First he called Joyce, and she answered on the second ring. “Two things,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching, and I’m surprised you called me on your cell.”
“We’re in lunch,” she said, “and I made it crystal-clear to Bruce to never go in my phone again. I as much as told him if he ever did, I’d kill him.”
“Hmm.”
“I called to make sure you were okay. And then you were silent all weekend, so I worried more.”
“I wanted to ask you, any word . . . on anything else?”
“No, none . . . Chris, I ‘d like to see you.”
“I have to return a stack of messages,” he said, and hung up.
Detective Cousins’ number went to voice mail, and Christian took a deep breath and left a message. Then he called Maierhaffer, pretty certain the guy wasn’t trying to round up any more tennis games with him.
“Steve?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Chris. Seely.”
Maierhaffer said, “What kind of cunt . . . ” and Christian hung up.
He called Bethany.
“I’m on my walk,” she said, “I wanted to tell you what a wonderful time I had. I dreamt about it all night.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“And, going forward?”
“Something may have to give,” he said.
“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Jesus . . . Kyle.”
“So you say ‘Kyle, it’s been nice knowing you.’ He says something back, you get a restraining order.”
“I don’t know, Chris.”
He told her it was something to think about, and got off.
He started to google Kyle Lamb in Arizona, but realized he was on his personal computer, and just then the Santa Rosa detective called back.
“Christian Seely? Ed Cousins here, SRPD”
“Hi.”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with a case
we got working, Donald Shelhorne?”
“Yeah, I’ve been following it.”
“You got some time tomorrow? Maybe you can help with a few things.”
“Sure, whatever you need.”
“I’ll come your way then. I’ll be there at ten.”
“You don’t want me to come up there?”
“Nah, I got other business I have to take care of in the city, so you’ll be my first stop. See you then.”
Christian hung up, rattled, trying to think straight. This didn’t sound like a routine canvassing of ex-faculty members from Pratt Valley High School. The cop wanted to get a look at him in his environment, probably check out the apartment. Realistically though, could he actually be a suspect? He was positive Joyce hadn’t said anything and couldn’t imagine what else might be linking him to it now, that hadn’t earlier.
Maybe the guy did actually have business in the city, and his was just another name they’d be checking off a list. He prayed it was. Either way, the two bats currently in the trunk of his Toyota Camry, one of them containing blood and whatever else, would not help matters if the detective asked him would he mind opening it.
He returned Ray’s message. No answer, no voice mail or machine, nothing.
Then he called back his brother Floyd in Phoenix. “It’s been a while,” Christian said. “What’s going on in the Valley of the Sun?”
“Always refreshing to hear your voice, Chrissy,” Floyd said. “You’ll probably be interested in this one: Somebody killed Chip Reggio.”
“Jesus. In Las Vegas?”
“No, in California. A friend of mine from UNLV heard about it, he called me this morning.”
“Mob thing, or what?”
“They think so, but he’s screwed so many people, who knows?”
“Well . . . I’ll be raising a glass to you tonight then,” Christian said.
“Likewise. When you coming down for a visit? I miss you.”
“It could actually work out in the near future. You still with Suzanne?”
“No. You?”
“Nobody at the moment. Listen, is there an Antheneum by you?”
“There’s an Anthem. One of those awful planned communities. About forty-five minutes north, off Interstate 17. Why?”