Orange County Noir (Akashic Noir) (12 page)

Things were a little off the rest of the way down the boulevard and onto Electric Avenue, like I'd stepped over some
line I didn't know about. But just before we hit Main Street
he looked at me and said, "Sorry I got weird. Some shit I'm
dealing with."

I almost asked if it was about what had happened back
in '92. Which he didn't know I knew about. Instead I said,
"Want to talk about it?"

"Nah. No big deal. Getting-old shit. If it ain't one thing
it's another."

"You can say that again."

We turned the corner. More foot traffic there on Main.
Lots of kids out of school for the summer, yelling and screaming and running around like wild Indians. Lots of young ladies
with skimpy outfits. We dodged the kids and took in the view.
Just a couple of old coots out for a walk.

After a while we passed the Jack Haley Community Safety
Building and stepped onto the pier. My back was hurting a
little and my legs a lot, but I didn't mind. It seemed right.
Pain I'd earned, as opposed to the gallbladder I was missing
through no fault of my own.

About a third of the way to the end we were suddenly surrounded by kids. Dozens of them, ranging from maybe eight
to twelve, boys and girls, all wearing blue bathing suits. All
shapes, all sizes, though a few of the girls were starting to develop and looked sort of out of place. There were a couple
of adults mixed in, hollering instructions. The whole kit and
caboodle swept by its and moved on down the pier. Then they
stopped, gathering round one of the adults, listening in varying degrees to what he had to say, and we caught up.

One of the boys caught my eye. He was bigger than the
rest. Taller than most, and fat. He had a big stomach and
creases in his sides where the top half of his flab met the
bottom. He was gingerly walking barefoot along the planks
where all the other kids were scampering carefree. He had
a little friend, a skinny kid, urging him along. "You're gonna
have to," the friend said, and the chubby one shook his
head. Poor kid. His parents signed him up for swim camp
when he wanted nothing else than to sit in his room eating
Fiddle Faddle.

We moved on to where most of the fisherman were stationed. Then there were splashes behind its. The kids, bless
their hearts, were climbing over the rail and jumping into the water. "Feet together, arms at your sides!" one of the adults
yelled. They continued leaping, at least fifteen feet down into
the depths, boys and girls, in ones and in twos, some slicing
right in and some splashing. They'd pop up and shriek and
bob in the water, and they'd look up for their buddies and
urge them in.

Over on the other side of the pier, the fat kid's friend was
pulling on his arm.

"Hey!" It was Hank.

I turned back to him. "Yeah?"

"Come on. Let's grab some coffee."

There was a Ruby's at the end of the pier. Assembly-line
Americana. We went in and came out a couple of minutes later
with our coffees. Passed the fishermen again. Got to where
the kids had gathered. Most had jumped, and were paddling
in toward the shore. The stragglers were making a big show of
leaping in, acting like they were about to and pulling back at
the last minute.

The fat kid was still there too. He'd been deserted by his
little friend. One of the adults, a guy in his twenties, was eyeing him, like he knew he had to deal with him but was hoping he'd disappear first. Then he sighed and meandered over.
"Chuck!"

The kid looked around, like maybe there was another
Chuck to take the heat. No luck. He turned to the grown-up.
"I don't want to."

"We went through this yesterday. You have to. Look, it's
easy. All those little kids did it. All those girls did it. You're not
going to let them show you up, are you?"

"Nope."

"Then get your big old butt over there and jump on in."

Chuck took a step. Then another. Two more, and he was even with the counselor or lifeguard or whatever he was. He
stopped and said, "Do I hafta?"

"Yes, you-"

"No, you don't," I said, inserting myself between Chuck
and the grownup, whose name, according to his badge, was
BILL JAMISON.

"I'll handle this, sir," he said.

"You've been handling it, and you're doing a miserable job
of it."

"Sir, please. We're trained in-"

"Shaming kids into jumping way down into the ocean by
saying the girls do it? That doesn't sound like very good training to me."

Chuck detected a possible reprieve. He shuffled sideways
toward the shore.

"Chuck Pemberton, you stay put," Bill Jamison ordered.
To me, "Look, they know they have to do this when they sign
up. It's no big deal, really. All the kids do it." A sick little
giggle. "I haven't lost one yet."

"That supposed to be funny?"

"Shit," Hank said. "I'm gonna call Rae. Get our asses out
of here before you get its arrested."

Bill Jamison had his hand on the whistle around his neck
like he was going to call time-out. "Sir," he said, "these children are none of your business. And I don't think it's right for
you to be hanging around like this."

"Hanging around? Hanging around? Are you playing the
child molester card?"

"Well, I-Shit."

Mission accomplished. Chuck was in full flight toward shore,
his chunky frame bouncing along like a cartoon character. Bill
Jamison tossed me a truly fine dirty look and took chase.

I turned to Hank. "And that is a good day's work. Call
Rae."

We'd lived in Seal Beach before, around 1980, when Sheila's
job at the bank took her to Orange County. We moved to Laguna when things got good, and then to Garden Grove when
they got not so good. But she always talked about moving back
to Seal Beach. Which was a fine ambition. Nice little beach
town, clean air, tucked into the armpit-and I mean that in a
good way-of Orange County.

First time we lived there, I was friends with Ralph O'Brien.
Who got mixed up with a girl half his age. I saved him from his
wife finding out, and he owed me one. After we moved I'd still
see him a few times a year, and when we came back it was a lot
more than that. He'd gotten himself elected to the city council, which meant I learned a lot more than I needed to about
Seal Beach politics. He was also still married to the wife, so I
figured he was right about still owing me one.

I called him and said it was time I collected. He said,
"Anything," and I told him what I wanted. He said I was out
of my fucking mind. Then he said if anyone ever found out
where I'd gotten the address he'd cut my balls off. And that
he'd call back within the hour. Ralph knew about Jody. Knew
that was what was driving me.

He called back as promised and half an hour later I was at
a house on Balboa Drive. It had signs for Roger Elliot all over
the place. Stuck in the lawn, in the front window, stapled to
the mailbox post.

I rang the bell and a man answered. He had what we used
to call an Ivy League look, hair cut short, button-down shirt,
khaki pants. He looked me over and said, "Yes?"

"You Chuck's father?"

"You from the swim camp?"

"Not exactly."

"Look, I already talked to him about it. He'll do as he's
supposed to." Then he realized I was a little old to be from the
swim camp and his eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"I'm the guy who let your kid get away with not doing as
he was supposed to."

"What-"

"Look, Mr. Pemberton, you don't know me from Adam,
and I'm fine to keep it that way. But I've got something to say,
and I'm going to say it, and if you care about your kid you'll
listen. Don't make him do things he's scared to."

"You'd better get out of here before I call the police."

"I'll be gone before they get here. Now listen. The kid
doesn't want to do something dangerous, something scary,
don't make him."

Some maniac was on his stoop, with no one else around.
"Sure, sure," he said. "Whatever you say."

"You don't sound like you mean it."

"Who are you?"

"A concerned neighbor. Remember. No scary stuff if he
doesn't want to. No man stuff if he doesn't want to."

I did a one-eighty and went down the walk and I heard
the door close behind me. I was guessing he was still just inside it. Thinking about what I'd said. That was all I could ask
for.

Jody was eleven when he went to sleepaway camp. He didn't
want to go. He said the woods and the animals scared him.
But I thought it was time he learned to deal with his fears.
Sheila wanted to let him stay home. I compromised. Said if he
felt the same way after three days, I'd let him come home. It only took two for the bee to find him. We didn't know he was
allergic to bee stings.

Thirty years on, I'd never really gotten over it. Sheila'd
done better, far as I could tell, and she kept me together for all
those years I acted like a prick. Supported me when I couldn't
keep a job.

Eventually we bought the apartment in Mutual 14-they
call it a co-op, but an apartment's all it is-and there we were,
sixty-six apiece and in a retirement community, and I finally
started to let it go. Being there with all those old folks, with
my own mortality looming, I'd been able to put things into a
little perspective. The thing with Chuck's father was my first
episode since we'd been there.

When I got home Sheila knew something had happened. She
asked if I wanted her to stay home from her painting club.
Leisure World had a wagonload of clubs. Dance clubs, hobby
clubs, nationality clubs, religion clubs, about six dozen fucking clubs.

I put on a happy face and said I'd be fine. She didn't believe me, but she knew not to push. So she went to her club.

But I wasn't fine. I was eating myself up from inside. Making myself sick. I went outside for some air. Before I knew it I'd
wandered down the road to Hank's.

He let me in and went for a couple of beers and when we
were all arranged in the living room he said, "Something eating you?"

Before I knew it I'd told him the whole Jody story. When I
was done, I guess he felt obligated to reveal something to me.
He said, "I've got something to tell you too."

"I know," I replied.

"Know what?"

"What you're about to tell me."

"Since when?"

"First time I met you."

"How?"

"Because when you were in the news everyone told me I
looked like you. So I had your face in my head. When I saw
you-

"No one here knows."

"At Leisure World."

He nodded. "Except Rae, of course."

"No reason that should change. Hell, I doubt more than
a few even heard of you. The timing. How'd you manage
that?"

"Pure dumb luck, I guess."

The timeline of Terry Bouton's-that was Hank's real
name-arrest and trial for killing Allison Lopez Bouton, his
second wife, pretty much paralleled that of the cops who beat
the shit out of Rodney King. The case against him was sloppy,
and he got off. It would have caused a lot more of an uproar
were it not for the timing. His verdict came in an hour after
the cops', and there was no room on the news for Hank, not
with L.A. in flames.

Life and death were on my mind. "Did you do it?"

He leaned back, leaned forward. Took a long pull on his
beer.

"Stupid question," I said. "Forget I asked."

"It was an accident," he said.

"Look, let's just let the last minute or so-"

"I found her with another guy."

"Hank-"

"But when I busted in ... he was ... hell, my wife, for
Christ's sake. I just ..."

"Look, I-"

"I nearly shot him too."

"How come you didn't?"

"Because the bastard jumped up and said neither one of
its wanted people to find out what happened there that night.
He said he knew a lot of lawyers. He said if I didn't bring him
into it he'd be sure I got off."

"And you believed him?"

"Didn't have anything to lose. I got a fair trial, they'd've
fried me."

Sounds at the door interrupted. It was Rae. She came in,
put down her purse, looked at the two of its.

"He knows," Hank said.

"I thought he might," she replied. "What's he going to do
about it?"

"Ask him."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing." To Hank, "Nothing's different." I stood up.
"Thanks for the beer."

I went home and waited for Sheila to arrive and make
everything better.

I didn't see Hank the next day, or the one after. The one after
that, not until 10 at night. There was a bang at the door. I figured it was him. Most people at Leisure World knock politely if
they have the gumption to show up unannounced that late.

I pulled the door open and he rushed past me, with Rae
in his wake. They waited until I closed the door, then Hank
gestured toward the bedroom.

"Out," I said. "At a play. With the theater club."

"He tried to kill me."

"Who did?"

"The guy we were talking about the other day. Had someone try and run me over. In the parking lot at Spaghettini's."

I turned to Rae. "That how you see it?"

"Asshole came out of nowhere and nearly clipped him."

"What kind of car?"

"It was dark. How do I know?"

"It was a big old Lincoln," Hank said.

"Deliberate?" I asked.

"Could've been," Rae said. "Could've not."

Back to Hank. "Were you loaded?"

"I had a couple of drinks."

"Four," Rae said. "You had four."

"Probably nothing," I said. "A drunk driver. There's a million of 'em out there."

"What if he sends someone else?" Hank said.

"He's not going to send someone else. I don't think he
sent anyone in the first place. Just lock your doors. I'm sure
everything'll be fine."

"You don't understand."

"What don't I understand?"

"It's Tim Swift."

"What is?"