by Rex Bolt
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said.
“I’m glad you were,” she said. “Are you hungry?” They went in the kitchen.
“No, but I’ll watch you eat. If I’m not disturbing anything.”
“You’re not right now, but Monday why did you ring the bell in the middle of the night?”
A pause. “The lights were on, and there was another car. I was curious.”
“My girlfriend is having a relationship problem. She stayed over. But truth be told, it’s none of your business.”
“I can’t disagree with you there. I thought maybe it was Kyle though.”
“That would be stretching it a bit, don’t you think?”
“Yes and no . . . He couldn’t reach you all weekend, he grew concerned and decided he better find out what’s up.”
“I’ll admit, when you frame it like that, that’s the kind of behavior I do worry about.”
“Or is it my condition?”
“What?”
“You’re turned off by my situation.”
“No, Chris, please. You couldn’t be more off base.”
“Which would be understandable, believe me.”
She stood up and came around behind him and started rubbing his shoulders. “It’s me. It’s not you.”
“But if Kyle died in an accident, or someone killed him or something, would you feel better?”
She stopped with the shoulders.
“Excuse me?”
“Just your first impulse, before you analyze it . . . We used to have to take these STAR tests at school? And they’d tell you the best answer was usually the first one that came into your head. After that, you overcomplicate it.”
“Okay, hypothetically,” she said, “my first reaction is I’d be relieved.”
“You would.”
“But I’d also be sad.”
“Forget the sad part, you’d get over that. But would you be scared? Of the police?”
“Why would I be?”
“Well, I mean, let’s say for example I killed him. They could suspect you talked me into it.”
“Okay Chris, this is going off the deep end now. Let’s stick with reality.”
“Fine . . . Would you want to take a shower?”
Bethany gave him the half-smile and the 'you’re not going to let up, are you?' look that he’d seen a few times in Manhattan Beach.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
She didn’t answer, but she headed back there, so he followed. She did him the favor of leaving on a few items of clothing that he could take off, and soon the hot water and soap and tight quarters were a comfortable mix.
“One thing is clear,” Christian said. “If those were any further developed, there wouldn’t be room for both of us in here.”
“You are a piece of work, you know that?” she said.
The main event followed in the bedroom, and Bethany had been right: it was disappointing.
“Does that mean you won’t want to stay the night?” she said.
“I’d like to. Unless you have something else planned that’s none of my business. I’m going out to Idaho, so I might not see you for a little while.”
“Gee, you’re certainly doing your share of traveling.” She was curled up against him.
“You mean for a guy on the way out?”
“Okay, yes. For someone on the way out.”
“You’re right. You discover an impulsiveness you didn’t know you had. It’s not entirely the worst thing.”
“I actually envy you in a way.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“I know . . . Will you be traveling alone this time?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“In that case, I won’t call you when you’re gone. I'll wait until you're back safe and sound.”
“Just to get it straight, though,” he said, “that wasn’t Kyle the other night, but it wasn’t a girlfriend in need either, was it?”
“No,” she said. “It wasn’t.”
22 - Wiped Away
When he got home Thursday morning he checked his messages and there were two from Joyce, which he deleted without listening to them, and one missed call from a number he didn’t recognize. He called back, and it was Birgitte Maierhaffer.
“I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other night,” she said. “I have truly been such a fool.”
“What behavior?”
“I couldn’t have been more rude and self-absorbed. You were a real gentleman to take the very difficult step and inform me. Especially since Steve is your friend.”
“Does Steve know that you know?”
“Oh yes. He denied everything and was quite furious at me, and he immediately booked a business trip to San Diego.”
“That where he is now?”
“Yes. It’s all so incredibly transparent . . . What a moron I have been.”
“Well, maybe you’d like to have a drink tonight and listen to a little music.”
“Oh . . . I see . . . with you?”
“I have a friend, we’re going to hang out, nothing serious. I can pick you up.”
“Well it certainly does sound appealing,” she said.
“Changing up the routine, it never hurts. I’ll see you a little past eight.”
+++
Joyce called again around noon and this time he answered. She said she absolutely had to speak to him in person, so he said fine, whatever, he’d see her after school.
Then he went to the library and started doing some more digging on the drunk driver who hit his childhood friend Eric. Christian and Eric played catch together in Eric’s oversized backyard, and sometimes Christian would stay for dinner. The Mossmans had a ski cabin near Sugar Bowl and a few times he would be invited along. Eric went to a private school, and Christian had closer friends, but the kid was nice enough and he certainly didn’t deserve to get wiped away by this guy.
When he and Eric were fourteen, the Mossmans moved to Tiburon, and they didn’t cross paths much after that. Christian did see Eric’s older sister Lorraine in the neighborhood, visiting her friend Amanda. Lorraine eventually went to Humboldt State, near Eureka, and Eric was a new 16-year-old driver on the way up there to visit her for a weekend when the asshole crossed over the line on Highway 20 north of Ukiah.
Lorraine dropped out of school and got into the drug and pornography scene in the San Fernando Valley. Mr. Mossman died a year-and-a-half after the accident, and Mrs. Mossman moved back into the city. Christian would now and then see her walking her dog on Fillmore Street, but he tried to avoid her because when he said hello it was too hard on her.
Christian heard the guy got a year in prison and was out after eight months. He couldn’t come up with a name. The search archives for the Marin IJ and the Chronicle didn’t go back far enough, since the accident took place in 1986, so he asked the librarian what to do. She told him his best bet was the main library on Larkin Street, where they had microfiche copies of old newspapers.
He drove down there, got set up at a machine, and found the guy’s name was Jerry Smith. The article said he was twenty-four years old and from Santa Rosa. Christian googled him in Sonoma County and there were a few results, but none of them any good because the ages were wrong. If he was twenty-four in April of ’86, this guy would be fifty-four or five now. That also meant he should have graduated from high school in 1979.
Christian set up an anonymous gmail account on the library computer and emailed all five Santa Rosa high schools, telling them he was a long-lost alumnus and was there any source of updates they could provide on fellow classmates.
That was about as far as he could go, especially since it was after three and he unfortunately had to meet Joyce. She was parked waiting for him when he got home.
“The goon follow along this time?” he said.
“He’s in Lodi this week.”
“That makes sense. I read that believe it or not, they grow more grapes
in San Joaquin County than in Napa and Sonoma combined.”
“I wouldn’t mind something to drink,” she said.
“Upstairs or on Chestnut Street?”
“Your place. Don’t worry, I’ll behave myself.”
Christian made margaritas in the blender and brought out some chips and salsa. “I spoke to my brother Floyd the other day,” he said. “Did you ever meet him?”
“Yes, you don’t remember that? We had dinner with him at the airport that time when he was on his way to Hawaii. He had a really pretty girlfriend.”
“It sounds like they broke up. But what’s going on with you?”
“Lindie Moreda came to see me,” she said.
“Oh yeah?”
“She said the police talked to her about Donny. And they asked if she thought I might have wanted Donny dead.”
“Is that right.”
“What? Doesn’t that shake you up? They think I might have killed Donny!”
“Listen to me now. They don’t think anything. I had a cop talk to me too, this is what they do when they don’t have shit. They throw stuff against the wall and hope something miraculously sticks.”
“So why didn’t they ask me directly then?”
“I'm telling you, it doesn't mean anything. But let me ask you this: could Bruce have done it?”
“What?”
“What’s his last name?”
“Gilbright.”
“Okay, so what they’re reaching for is Bruce might have killed Donny because he saw that you hadn’t gotten over Meghan, and he thought it would make you happy.”
“I’m sorry Chris, but that is fucking crazy.”
“They’ve had trouble with Bruce in the past, various things. Obviously he has violent tendencies. It kind of makes sense.”
“I know he socked you in the eye, which was way wrong, but he’s not a killer.”
“For all I know, you’re right. I’m just telling you straight, what the police at this point are looking at . . . Bruce. They have nothing else.”
Christian poured them seconds on the margaritas and no one spoke for a few minutes.
“So Lindie coming over and all, you’re saying I can relax?” she said.
“Absolutely. Unless you had a hand in it, that you’re not telling me about.”
“Very funny.”
“And you know how it goes, their Bruce theory may or may not pan out, and they could be back to square one.”
“I see, professor . . . ," she said. "Meanwhile, have you interacted with your doctor’s secretary recently?”
“I have.”
“That’s interesting. Could you please tell me about it as you make love to me?”
“Oh no, Jesus,” he said, but he found himself cooperating, and they didn’t make it to the bedroom.
+++
Ray was dressed the best Christian had seen him. “It’s how you do it,” Ray said. “You go out at night, show some respect. You still wearing duds.”
Ray handed him a shoebox tied up with twine. Christian opened the trunk of the car and put the box in the familiar empty spare tire compartment.
“Okay, now I’m throwing in a curveball,” Christian said. “We’re picking someone up.”
“Good by me.”
“A lady, in her fifties. She found out her husband is unfaithful, and she’s having a hard time dealing with it. Loosening herself up could help.”
“And she found this out how?”
“I told her.”
“Man, you a mischievous motherfucker. You more complex every day.”
Birgitte was wearing a modest dress with a shawl. Her hair was up, and she looked elegant.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Ray said.
“For me as well,” Birgitte said. “I’m honored to be invited.”
“Don’t be getting ahead of yourself,” Ray said. “The last place Seely took me was full of twenty-year-old kids. Let’s see what he come up with this time.”
Parking was impossible, so Christian let Ray and Birgitte off in front of the Booker Lounge and drove across Lombard to find a spot. When he got back, he could see them through the window, set up with drinks and talking steady and bobbing their heads.
“I was asking Birgitte how she got hooked up with the likes of you,” Ray said. “Didn’t know you was a tennis player.”
“I’m no good,” Christian said. “Birgitte’s husband Steve owns me.”
“The way I hear it is you are quite well matched,” Birgitte said. “Do you do any sports, Ray?”
“Those days is long past,” Ray said. “All except for dancing. I’ll show you some moves when the music get started.”
A band was setting up, four black guys and a frizzy-blonde woman who Christian guessed would be singing.
“Well this is just splendid,” Birgitte said. “Ray, I’m not sure if Chris told you, I’m in a transition.”
“How’s that?”
“My marriage after twenty-three years is not where I had assumed it was. It certainly creates occasion for pause, especially at my age.”
“Well one important thing you got going,” Ray said, “is you a beautiful woman.”
“You are,” Christian said.
“My gosh, thank you so much,” Birgitte said.
“Okay, here now,” Ray said, “come on.” The band had started up and the frizzy blonde woman was singing “Fly Me to the Moon”, two horns, a keyboard and drums behind her.
“I . . . I couldn’t,” said Birgitte, smiling. Ray took her hand, and next thing they were dancing together like they’d been doing it a long time. More couples crowded the little dance floor, and Booker came over to Christian’s table.
“That’s a fine woman, Chrissy,” he said. “How’d y’all manage that?”
“Not sure, but she likes it here, is the main thing. The band is good too.”
“That Ray Holmes with her?”
“Yeah. You know him then?”
“Little bit of dealings at one time. Look like he got it cleaned up pretty good now . . . That other question you had, when you was giving your hypotheticals about weapons and so forth?”
“Yeah?”
“Couldn’t get a straight answer on that.”
“Meaning they might be able to trace where bullets come from.”
“Might or might not, but that’d be telling me be smart about it.”
“I appreciate it. Not that I’m expecting to need that advice.”
“Good then,” Booker said, and he moved on to say hello to another table.
Ray and Birgitte kept it up for the first set. "This one, she downplay it," Ray said when they were back, sweat dripping off both of them, "but she's a live wire."
"I was just following you," Birgitte said. "You're a magnificent dancer."
"And the thing of it is," Christian said, "walking around, you move like an old man. Then you get out there and you're flying."
"Except now it feels mighty nice to be stretching out," Ray said. "I got nothing left."
Christian said, "Anyone hungry? The food's good here."
They ate and drank, and after a while Birgitte pulled Christian onto the dance floor. "Kind of embarrassing being out here after Ray," he said.
Birgitte said, "I haven't felt this exhilarated in quite some time. I can only imagine what Steve would think."
"You know what? He's a good man. When you strip it all away, he wants you happy."
"Do you think so?"
"Of course. He loves you."
"I meant do you think he's a good man?"
"Oh," Christian said. "Maybe not."
23 - Seafood
Ray had included some bullets, so Christian thought he better practice. He was tired from the late night at Booker's, but he set his alarm for 5:30 and forced himself out of bed and onto the road. By 6:15 he was parked at one of the trailheads near the top of Mount Tam, figuring there shouldn't be too much action in the area on a Friday morning at daybreak.
He wa
lked uphill a half-mile until he came to a clearing with a stand of Monterey Pines on the far side. He took the gun out of his backpack. Ray told him it was a .38. It was black steel and the finish seemed crude, and near the handle it said Czechpoint. He pushed the cylinder to the side, loaded it carefully, picked out a tree and fired off six shots, emptying the gun. He missed everything on the first two but at least hit various parts of the tree with the last four. The thing definitely kicked back, but it wasn't as intense as you heard about.
He decided since he was there anyway he might as well do a hike, so he followed the loop toward the summit and back down. There were spectacular views of Stinson Beach from the west side of the trail, the thin white strand curving toward the Bolinas Lagoon.
He thought of his ex-wife Connie. The two of them had rented a beach cottage at Stinson one summer, and way too many of their friends came to visit and the partying got out of hand. He and Connie had gotten married too young, and they flew to Mexico for a divorce after seventeen months. The last he'd heard, she had four kids and was living in Gainesville, Florida, with her second husband, a NASCAR mechanic.
It was a little after eight when he got back to the trail head, so he drove down to Starbucks in Mill Valley and killed time waiting for the Salvation Army in San Rafael to open, and then he bought another metal bat. You never knew, and the truth was he wasn’t all that comfortable with the damn gun.
Driving back across the bridge, there was a call from Maierhaffer. When he got to the city, Christian parked along the bay and called him back.
Maierhaffer said, “Just answer me one thing, cunt lips. Was it you, said something to my wife?”
“I told her you loved her, but that you didn’t have the greatest character,” Christian said.
“You fuck, where are you right now?”
“On the Marina Green. Clear day, you can see for miles.”
“You wait right there, you dick. I’ll kick your fucking ass half way to Richmond, you prick face.”
“What time?”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll wait for you if you give me a time, but I thought Birgitte said you were down in San Diego on business.”
“Know what pal? . . . First I’m gonna rip your eyeballs out. And then I’ll urinate into the sockets.”