Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) (6 page)

“Got it, Gertie,” I said. “Any idea what time your dad takes his afternoon break?”

“Three p.m. I can never call then. If I visited, they’d put me in a locker until the break was over. It’s a union thing. The place could be on fire, they’d still take their break.”

“Should I come back here to talk to him this evening?”

“No. You should go find him at work. At least he’ll be sober there.”

“Your mother said he works at a warehouse?”

“STSV. Shipping The Sacramento Valley. He drives fork for them.”

“Wouldn’t most kids be in school right now?”

“What, you moonlight as a school narc?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, school got out fifteen minutes ago, mister school policeman. And I didn’t leave homeroom until the bell. You can check with Ms. Casales. And she’s tight with Mr. Torres who’s, like, the hall monitor when he isn’t teaching stupid geometry. Between the two of them, you can probably establish my cred.”

“Cred,” I repeated. “What’s with the cig? Is that part of your cred?”

“Life experience requirement for teenagers,” Gertie said. “I’m fifteen. The rules say I have to try grownup stuff.” She said the lines like she’d rehearsed them.

“Cigarettes make you look pretty cool,” I said. I assumed that she would know I wasn’t being sincere.

“Of course. Why else would so many adults smoke? It’s not like they go, Hey, these are great for my health, so I better make sure I squeeze in my minimum daily requirement.”

“Good to choose behaviors carefully, if you pick adults as role models. We’re a pretty flawed group,” I said.

“It didn’t hurt James Dean’s career,” she said.

“What didn’t?”

“Smokes.” Gertie lifted her hand off the door frame, flicked the ash onto the ground, then took another long drag. She blew a smoke plume past the side of my head.

 “Yeah, they gave him a certain look,” I said. “But it was dying early that really helped make him famous.”

“Duh. It’s practically the only way to guarantee that your work is remembered.”

“Doesn’t mean you should emulate that behavior.”

“Well, I might not quit the smokes, no matter how bad it is. My coach is practically begging me to stop, but her constant preaching has, like, the opposite effect of what she wants.”

“You’re into sports?”

She nodded. “I’m right up there with the best third-string, fast-pitch pitchers in the tenth grade. You’d have to search a block or more in this city to find someone better.”

“You’re a softball pitcher?”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“No. I mean, yes. I’m just surprised,” I said, immediately realizing that I reacted wrong.

“Why do you doubt me?” she said. “You think I’m just a pudgy girl with bad posture, so how could I be an athlete?”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” I said. “I just... When you first started talking about smoking, the athlete vibe didn’t come through.”

“Vibe? Aren’t you hip for an old guy.”

“Whatever I am, it ain’t hip.”

“Me neither,” she said.

“So you pitch. I’m impressed.”

“Wanna see?” she said in that innocent kid manner that was touching.

“I’d love to.”

Gertie took a last drag on the cig, then stubbed it out on the siding of the house. She stuck the cigarette butt into the mail box, then set her dog down. “Careful of my watchdog. He’s cute, but he’s vicious.” The little dog sniffed my ankles, wagging his tail at high speed.

Gertie walked over to a stainless steel waste bucket that was near the corner of the house. She stepped her toe onto the pedal. The lid rose, and she reached in with both hands and pulled out three softballs.

She walked over to the narrow driveway and set two of the balls down on the broken asphalt.

“See this chalk line?” She pointed at the asphalt.

Any line that had once been there was so faded that it was invisible to me.

“This is my pitching mark,” she said. “See the net at the end of the driveway? That’s home plate, forty feet away. The small net within the bigger net is the strike zone. Okay, let’s see how I do.”

She stepped up behind the invisible mark, got into position, and paused. She brought her arm forward a bit, swung it back into a deep back swing, then came forward in an under-handed arc and brought the ball up around in a full circle. She released the ball near the bottom of her swing. The ball shot out, seemed to hesitate, then began to rise a little as it shot into the strike-zone net.

“Wow!” I said. “Congrats. I’m impressed.” I clapped my hands.

She picked up the second ball and fired it into the net, this time with no rise, but even more speed. Then came a third.

“Strike three,” she said. “But that was a little weak.”

“You’re a softball maestro and self-deprecating too, eh?” I said. “What’s your pitching specialty?”

“Probably my fastball,” she said.

“You’re obviously very good at putting it exactly where you want it. How did you get so good?”

“It’s ’cause I made a plan. About how to get good. I’ve noticed that everybody who gets really good at something has a plan.”

“And your plan was to pitch well,” I said.

 “Yeah. My plan was simple, really. I imagine the ball, the strike zone, the windup, and the release. In fact, the more I imagine my pitching, the better my accuracy when I actually throw the ball. I do it in bed at night. So you’re into softball?”

“We have some girl teams in my area that can kick butt. Sometimes my girlfriend and I watch their games.”

“Where’s your area?”

“I live in Tahoe.”

“Oh. I was there once. Like, it was a quick stop on the way from Reno to Sacramento. I begged my parents to go to the beach or swim or ride one of the cable cars up the mountain or anything, but they never let me.”

Gertie walked back to the front door, opened it, and grabbed a pack of cigarettes off a table just inside the door. She shook one out, lit it with a lighter, took a drag and looked at me through smoke. “I’ve also got a changeup that makes ’em swing too early every time,” she said. “And I’m working on a rise ball to rival Jennie Finch’s.”

“Who’s that?” I said.

Gertie looked shocked. “You’re into softball and you don’t know Jennie Finch? She’s only the most famous softballer of all time. Finch led the US team to a gold medal in the Athens Olympics. She pitched lots of perfect games over her career. She’s even struck out a bunch of major league ballplayers in exhibitions. It’s like, they’re big, macho, famous guys who think the idea of a girl pitching to them is a joke. And softball, too. It’s the easiest thing in the world to hit a big softball, right? But they can’t touch her rise ball. They just throw out their shoulders swinging at air because the ball is never where they think it’s gonna be. Finch is a goddess. Talk about having a plan.”

“You think she planned it all out from the beginning? How to become the best softball pitcher?”

“Of course.”

“And you are going to follow the same path? Plan and all?”

Gertie shook her head. “My coach says I have the skill set but I lack the hunger. She says that winning pitchers are dominant on the mound. Dominance is her big thing. How many times have I heard her say that she can teach pitching but she can’t teach dominance? Talk about making me feel worthless.”

“A coach should never make you feel worthless.”

Gertie puffed out her cheeks then blew the air out. “She wanted me to hit a batter once.”

“That can’t be ethical. Or am I just naive?” I said.

“What’s naive?”

“Innocent and unaware.”

“You’re naive,” Gertie said. “The whole sports code thing is about not doing bad stuff. But it happens. And coaches sometimes encourage it. My coach said it would prove whether or not I had the fire.”

“So you hit the batter on purpose?” I said.

“No. And that proved to my coach that I’d never be dominant. And she’s right. I’m a head wimp. My arm can throw the ball, but my head doesn’t have the fire. Never will. That’s why I’m thinking of quitting and running away.”

“That doesn’t seem right. No kid should quit sports because of a coach who pressures her to do unethical things. Maybe if you quit the cigs, she’ll see you differently.”

“Maybe not.” She glanced over her shoulder to the wall just inside the open front door.

It was hard to see in the relative darkness, but I could make out some large movie posters. One was a portrait of Marlene Dietrich looking very haughty as smoke curled up around her face from a cigarette that hung from her lips. Another showed James Dean leaning against a doorjamb much the way Gertie did, a cig in his fingers. A third poster was Cary Grant from “North By Northwest,” no cigarette that I could see.

“You’re into old films?” I said.

“Classic films,” she said. “Most old films suck just like most new ones. But the classics are here to stay.”

“Are there any softball films you like?”

“Not really. I’ve seen a few, but they’re pretty gaggy. The writers and directors are suckers for sentimentality. It’s like, the down-on-their-luck team with hand-me-down shoes finally gets to the championship and wins against enormous odds. Anyway, you sure try hard to keep me talking,” she said. “What’s your job? How is it you know my mom?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

Gertie stared at me. “A detective?” she said. “Like in the movies?”

“Kinda. But movie detectives have more exciting lives than real detectives.”

“My mom came to you to investigate something? She always was melodramatic. What’s her worry this time?”

“Someone is following her. She’s worried.”

“And I’m all alone after school,” Gertie said. “So you came to... what? Protect me?”

“Are you? Alone every day?”

Gertie nodded. “I’m the unwanted child, the dreaded surprise. Mom didn’t even fight dad when he wanted custody. But he only wanted me in concept, not in reality. It was more about denying her. He never comes home until just before dinner or even bedtime. I make all the dinners, and half the time I eat alone. Sometimes I just give up the whole dinner concept and have peanut butter on toast and a Coke. And my cigs, of course. Best part of dinner.”

“Your dad likes being out with the guys, huh?”

Gertie shook her head. “One time I got his permission to go to this girl Emily’s house after school and then stay overnight for a slumber party. I found out that dad came home early from work that day. The one day I’m gone, he thinks, great, now I won’t have to talk to Gertie. There were lots of beer bottles to clean up the following day. And leftover pizza on the table in front of the TV. It’s like he was celebrating that he could be in the house by himself. Having me around makes him have to interact. Actually talk. Wouldn’t want that, would we? I used to think that dad and mom will change their attitude about me when I run away. But I don’t think they are changeable. Now if Uncle Ellison was my dad, that would be different. He’s fun and nice. Not an old sour-puss like my dad. Ellison likes me way better than my parents.”

“You do stuff with Ellison?”

“Not very often. But when he comes over, he talks to me while my dad just watches TV.”

“What’s Ellison do?”

“I don’t really know. Certainly nothing boring like driving fork, I can tell you that. It has something to do with business deals. He’s always got something exciting going on. And he drives a classic old Corvette Stingray. He’s given me a ride in it a few times. That’s a wow experience. Compared to my dad in his old Ford Taurus? Ellison knows how to live. Dad just barely gets by.”

“You like Ellison a lot?”

“He’s only my favorite person in the whole world,” Gertie said.

“You said earlier that you’re planning to run away?”

“’Course. It’s the only reasonable way to deal with a childhood like mine. And don’t tell me not to.”

“Because it’s like cigs,” I said. “Life experience requirement for teenagers?”

“Good memory.” She looked uncomfortable.

“What’s your dog’s name?” I asked.

“Scruffy. But mostly I call him Scruff Boy.” She picked him up and scratched his head like she was scrubbing a dirty dish.

“What will happen to Scruff Boy if you run away?”

“I don’t know. I might take him with me. I haven’t decided yet.” Gertie sucked on her cigarette, then spoke as she exhaled smoke, “So what’s the big message from my mom?”

“She’s just...” I hesitated, unprepared for the question. “She’s concerned for your safety. The whole latchkey thing. You’re home alone while your dad is at work. You keep the doors locked, right?”

“Don’t need to. I’ve got Scruff Boy. He’s little, but he’s ferocious. Like, if you grabbed me right now? He would be all over you. And his teeth are sharp. I’ve learned the hard way.”

 “I don’t doubt it.” I reached out and gave him a pet. “Do you like school?”

“That’s a joke, right? School is stupid. I’ve done some research. Did you know that David Lean was a high school dropout?” she said.

I must have looked puzzled.

“The director?” she said. “Lawrence of Arabia? Dr. Zhivago?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “David Lean, huh?”

“And Quentin Tarantino? He was a dropout, too. Same with John Huston and Peter Jackson and Walt Disney. All great directors. None of them bothered with high school. Instead of going to school, I could be formulating my debut.”

“What’s that mean?”

She flicked another ash, took another drag. “Formulating means coming up with a concept for a film. And debut is your first film. I got it from Tarantino. He has a big vocabulary. I heard him interviewed about film making. I had to write down nine different words to Google. I’ve learned all of them. Do you know what a parody is?”

“What is it?” I said.

“It’s one of the film types that Tarantino makes. An art film that makes fun of something. Only most viewers don’t get it unless they’re in-the-know. Like Tarantino. He’s in-the-know.”

“No doubt,” I said.

“It’s not just directors,” she said. “The actors I respect the most were high school dropouts, too. It’s practically a requirement to be an actor. I’ve memorized a bunch of actors who’ve won Academy Awards and were also high school dropouts. Wanna hear? Angelina Jolie, Bob Hope, Nicolas Cage, Lee Marvin, Julie Andrews, Marlon Brando, Ellen Burstyn, Michael Caine, Hilary Swank, Sidney Poitier, Charlie Chaplin, Russell Crowe, Groucho Marx, Patty Duke, Greta Garbo, Whoopi Goldberg, Maurice Chevalier, George Burns...”