“I can’t believe I’ve never been up here before,” she said.
“In high school, we used to come up here every Friday.”
“You’re lucky. In the East Bay, we used to go down to People’s Park to watch hippies have sex in the bushes.”
“I think I’d take the mountain over that.”
“Me too.”
We continued on and reached the parking lot to find out that we were the last remaining car and therefore had the mountain to ourselves. If this had been Soft Taco Island, we would have downed some rum and probably had an impromptu hump session on the little ledge that bordered the parking lot. Instead, we got in the car and headed back along the ridge road. At the intersection, a car turned in behind us that had come from the other part of the mountain where they filmed all the car commercials. Apparently, tourists and car companies all loved the same scenic stretch of highway. The car in question turned out to be a white Audi S4, which was about as common in Marin County as a Ford F-150 pickup was in the American heartland. I looked at the driver in my rearview mirror and saw that he was blond and might very well have been the same guy who had been taking pictures back on the peak, though that would have been one hell of a coincidence. I decided to have a little fun and go a little faster than usual, but the Audi managed to stay right on my bumper. Perhaps he was indeed German, as they took driving very seriously and tended to be fairly competent behind the wheel. I upped the ante a bit more and hit the gas, and, once again, my new friend managed to stay within a few car lengths. It appeared that we were pretty closely matched in driving skill, and our cars were also pretty similar—both had comparable performance and all wheel drive. The biggest difference between the two was that my Subaru definitely lacked the amenities of its German counterpart, though it cost about forty thousand dollars less. We continued on for nearly a mile and had a pretty fun drive down the mountain until my Audi friend had his fill and slowed down and fell back out of view. Up ahead was a major intersection known as Four Corners, and I suddenly had an excellent idea.
“What are you doing for dinner?”
“I don’t know. Where are you taking me?”
“I’ve got just the place.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Long and Winding Road
I TURNED RIGHT and continued on Panoramic Highway until merging onto highway 1, which was a two lane road that wound west down along the side of a treacherous canyon until reaching Muir Beach. It was a fairly short though dangerous piece of highway that always seemed to have roadwork going on to repair a section that had been washed away during the last storm. The Audi had also decided to go this direction, which wasn’t too unusual, considering we were heading to the only bar and restaurant in the entire area. It was called the Pelican Inn and supposedly was an honest to goodness British Inn that had been transported over from England. The story is that it was disassembled piece by piece and reassembled over here. God only knew for sure, but I wouldn’t have cared if it had been built in Arkansas, as it was a cool little place with seemingly authentic British charm, good food, beer, and usually attracted an interesting international crowd of people on the weekends.
The Inn came up on the left, and it was hard to miss with its black and white facade and Tudor style architecture standing in stark contrast to the lush green valley of Muir Beach. I pulled in to the crowded little parking lot just in time to snag a space from a departing blond family of four, who I would bet good money were Scandinavians or southern Californians judging by their fair hair and obvious tan skin. It’s strange, but Scandinavians all seemed to tan very easily for people from the upper latitudes. We Scotch Irish people were from a similar climate, but we burned like potato chips—or crisps, as they would say in the old country.
“Cool looking place,” Estelle said.
“Wait until you see inside.”
We walked around to the entrance on the southern side of the building and ventured through the quaint little wood and stained glass door. Immediately inside, resided a tiny hostess stand while beyond and off to our right was the crowded dining room that even had a fireplace with special seating for the lucky few who got there early. To the left, and more importantly, was the bar, which was purposefully a little dark, and its wood paneled walls made it look like a set piece from the Lord of The Rings minus, of course, a brooding Ranger and his small band of hobbits. We made our way into the small crowded space to find it alive with the sound of lute music and dialects from every corner of the world, but we were lucky, and a couple decided to leave at that moment, allowing us to take their table.
“Beer or wine?” I asked Estelle.
“Beer. What kind do they have?”
“Lots, but I usually go for a Guinness or a Newcastle.”
“Guinness, I guess.”
“Ay, for strength,” I said, with an exaggerated Irish accent.
She looked at me with a puzzled expression, so I guess she hadn’t ever seen the Guinness poster, which I suppose made sense, considering she had spent the last few years living and working aboard a yacht in the Caribbean, where rum was the preferred alcohol of choice. I went to the bar and saw my favorite bartender. His name was Tim, and he was one of those lifelong surfer types who enjoyed the quiet calm existence of Muir Beach, and he had worked here so long that they eventually made him the innkeeper, where he, in my humble opinion, had the coolest job on earth. It afforded him a free beautiful place to live and all the food and beer he could ever want.
“Hey, Finn, who’s the girl?”
“She’s kind of an ex.”
“That’s sad. How did you fuck it up?”
“Long story.”
“So, she’s single?” he asked, sounding more than a little interested.
“No, unfortunately, she’s engaged.”
“Shit.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So, two Guinnesses to drown your sorrows?”
“Oh yeah, and you might as well start a tab.”
Tim carefully poured two perfect Guinnesses, then I took them and rejoined Estelle, who had started up a conversation with a French couple sitting to our immediate left. I laughed quietly to myself when I saw that the guy was wearing yellow pants and a turquoise sweater. Only a pop star or a Frenchman could, or would, pull off that kind of outfit. I took a sip of my beer and turned my gaze around the rest of the ol’ bar and saw that it was a typical Saturday night, and the place was crowded with all manner of tourists, both domestic and foreign. Estelle finally took notice of her beer and held it up so we could toast.
“What shall we toast to?” she asked.
“Friendship,” I said, in an ever so subtly patronizing tone.
She smiled a little sadly before taking a drink and inadvertently giving herself a Guinness mustache. I would have liked to lick it off, but those days were long gone. Just then, I felt a rush of cold air and looked over to see the front door open, and in walked a man that I thought might be the driver of the Audi. I had only seen him from afar and through a windshield, so, now, being able to see him up close and in person, made me suspect that my suspicion was correct, and he was indeed German. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he looked like the poster boy for the Aryan race with his blond hair, blue eyes, and six foot plus frame that made it obvious he spent some serious time in the gym. There was also something in his bearing that hinted at a hardcore military background, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he had been a member of the KSK, or Kommando Spezialkräfte, Germany’s elite special operations unit. Those guys were bad motherfuckers and, like my German tourist here, generally looked like bad motherfuckers. He managed to score a table across from us in the corner, and I noticed he had a smartphone, so perhaps he was indeed the same tourist who had been up on the mountain. I turned my attention away from him and back over to Tim, who had been practically tethered to the small bar by a long line of customers but was now finally free to venture out to pick up empty glasses and stop by our table, where he o
bviously wanted to get a closer look at Estelle.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Tim.”
“I’m Estelle, it’s nice to meet you too.”
He looked at her left hand, saw the enormous diamond ring, and frowned.
“Ah—that’s sad.”
“What?” she asked.
“That you’re off the market.”
Estelle smiled and held up her ring finger.
“Oh, are you referring to this little thing?”
“Yeah, it’s probably worth more than my car.”
“Well, honestly, I find it a little gaudy and would prefer something more subtle and vintage.”
I had a feeling her response made Tim like her even more, because it definitely made me like her more.
“You obviously have good taste. Speaking of which, are you guys going to order anything to eat?” Tim asked.
“Yeah, I’m starving,” Estelle said.
“Normally we have a separate menu for the bar, but I’ve brought you restaurant menus, so feel free to order whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” Estelle said, as she took a menu and started scanning through the various items.
I did the same, and, after a few moments of indecision, we both decided on the roast chicken with mashed potatoes and vegetables. Tim took the menus and left to put in our order, and I had a look around at our fellow patrons and couldn’t help but wonder if they would get jealous when, and if, they saw that we managed to get nonstandard meals. The bar menu was a lot smaller and only included items like fish and chips, shepherds pie, or a cheese plate, so a chicken dinner would be highly coveted—which was yet more proof that it was always worthwhile to know your bartender. We also ordered another round of beers, which had the unintended effect of inspiring Estelle to tell me the details of her upcoming wedding. It was tough to stomach, and it was all I could do not to pull out my iPhone and secretly play solitaire under the table. Somehow, I just wasn’t all that interested in her new life with her old boyfriend.
She was talking about which of her friends and family she invited and which ones she left out to save money, and my mind started wandering back to the unknown tourist. It was odd that we kept crossing paths, and it suddenly gave me an idea, and I told Estelle that I had to leave to use the bathroom. I walked towards the baño but made a last minute detour to the right and went out the door to the parking lot. I started at one end and worked my way to the other before I found the Audi off in the corner. I glanced around to make sure I was alone then used the light app on my iPhone to shine it into the interior of the car but found nothing of interest other than a coffee cup and an empty energy bar wrapper. He was probably just a tourist, but my intuition and recent foray back into the exciting world of espionage was making me a little paranoid.
I put my iPhone away and decided I might as well pee, so I walked over to the edge of the parking lot where the foliage was thicker. Sure, I could have gone back inside to the bathroom, but there was something particularly satisfying about peeing in nature, and I’m not sure if it was the fresh smell of the outdoors or some primal desire to mark my territory, but soon a steady stream was flowing into the bushes. Watching my urine glow in the ambient light from the Inn, I realized that it looked vaguely like a poor man’s lightsaber. I made a humming sound as I completed a few figure eights before steadying it back down to a straight stream. I was close to finishing and, as often happens during the course of urinating, realized I needed to let loose a fart that had been simmering in the background for some time. I hadn’t had a moment away from Estelle until now, and I was finally able to free myself of its building pressure. I relaxed my sphincter and let it loose and was pleasantly surprised by the thunderous sound in the quiet solitude of Muir Beach. With my well run dry, I gave my manitude an obligatory shake, zipped up, and took a moment to enjoy the beautiful night sky. It was incredibly peaceful out here, and I envied the lucky few who got to live in this oceanside community. I was about to turn and head back in when the door of the car I was standing in front of opened and the interior lights turned on. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I turned to look at the car and noticed that it was a brand new Mercedes, and a pretty woman was smiling at me from inside. She was holding a phone to her head, so I imagined she had come out here to make or take a call, and I was really hoping she hadn’t seen my little lightsaber re-enactment or heard the fart. That’s when I noticed that her window was down. Lovely.
“Nice fart, Skywalker,” she said.
“Yeah, unfortunately the force is so strong in me that it sometimes slips out in unexpected ways.”
“No shit—well, hopefully no shit—if you catch my meaning.”
I smiled at her joke in spite of the fact that I was feeling particularly embarrassed as I turned and walked back to the front door, desperately hoping she wouldn’t be following me back inside anytime soon. I sat down with Estelle and was happy to be back in the warmth of the Inn and far from my little parking lot performance.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
“I took the scenic route.”
She raised an eyebrow and gave me a disapproving look, obviously thinking my answer was a little strange. I grabbed my beer and took a long sip, hoping to forget the last five minutes, but a sudden sweep of cold air came rushing in, which signified that someone had just entered the Inn. I looked over to see that it was the woman from the Mercedes, and she was smiling at me as she walked over to the bar. She spoke with Tim, and shortly thereafter he handed her a beer and she came over to our table and set it down in front of me.
“Here’s a beer to thank you for the laugh. That was the funniest thing I’ve seen all week,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
“What was so funny?” Estelle asked the woman.
“You’ll have to ask Skywalker here,” she said before turning and walking towards the dining room on the other side of the building.
“Now, what the hell did you do?” Estelle asked.
“Nothing really. Just a little lightsaber demonstration in the parking lot.”
“That sounds to me as though you were man-whoring again.”
“No, far from it, I’m afraid.”
Before Estelle could probe me for any further details, Tim arrived with our dinner, and we ate, drank, and got very merry. Afterward, we moved over to the dartboard and played a few games with a nice Irish couple. They won the first game, so we bought them a round of Guinness, but Estelle and I stepped up our efforts in the second, and it was the Irish who bought the next. The evening continued on in the same merry way until we decided it was time to get going, and I went to the bar to pay our bill. Tim looked a little uncomfortable as he handed it over, as he knew that I was usually strapped for cash.
“I put two of your beers on the house,” he said.
“Thanks, but money is not a problem at the moment.”
“I’m serious—it’s OK.”
“I’m serious too.”
I slapped my new ATM credit card on the bar and slid it over. When he handed it back, I added the cost of the two beers to his tip. San Francisco might be two percent below the national average of twenty percent, but I was going to do my part to make sure Marin County stayed in the top ten. Tim looked at the tip and practically crapped his pants.
“Dude—I can’t accept this.”
“Dude—trust me, it’s not a problem. But I do have a way for you to earn it.”
“How? And don’t say hand job.”
“No, but I do have a different job in mind.”
“What is it?”
“See that guy over there—the one who looks German?”
“Yeah, and having already talked to him, I’m pretty sure he is German. What about him?”
“I think he’s been following Estelle and me.”
“Oh, is he a jilted ex-husband from some divorce case you worked on?”
“Not that I know about, though it could have something to do with my latest job.
”
“Which is?”
“Not divorce, but fairly complicated.”
“So why would the guy be following you?”
“Not sure yet, but that’s why I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about him.”
“I don’t know shit, except that he likes Paulaner Hefe-Weizen.”
“Has he already paid his bill?”
“Yeah, he paid it hours ago and has been nursing the same beer ever since, which is kind of weird since Germans are usually bigger drinkers.”
“Yeah, usually they are, and that means I might actually be correct in believing he’s been following us.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s a typical field agent move. When you’re following someone, you need to be able to leave at a moments notice, so you pay your check right away.”
“I guess someone was paying attention in spy school.”
“Yeah, when I wasn’t passing little love notes to the super hot female trainees.”
I went back and joined Estelle, who was talking animatedly with the Irish couple about her upcoming wedding. The woman gave me a big smile and congratulated me on buying such a beautiful ring, and it was suddenly a little awkward. Estelle decided it would be easiest not to explain the reality of our situation and instead threw her arms around me and kissed me. I wasn’t sure if it was the booze, some latent feelings, or some excellent improvisational acting, but it certainly wasn’t making it any easier on my libido. Every touch reminded me more and more of the amazing time we had spent together back on Soft Taco Island. I therefore decided to focus my sexual energy on darts, and we played a final grudge match with the people of the Emerald Isle then said good night before making a brief stop at the bar to talk to Tim.
“It was nice meeting you, Estelle, and please feel free to come by again—especially if you don’t end up getting married,” he said.
“Nice try,” I said, as I herded her out the door.
Gordita Conspiracy Page 3