A Thousand Steps

21

Furlong jangles and clomps. Gives Matt a long look. Lifts his flashlight and beams it in.

“No adult with you? I hope you have more than that learner’s permit.”

Matt works his wallet from his jeans and hands the limp, brine-dipped license to the sergeant, who trains the flashlight on it.

“You just got this today?”

“Yes, sir. It got wet fishing.”

“How’d you do?”

“Three calico bass.”

Furlong hands it back. “Congratulations on getting your license, Matt. But what are you doing here?”

“Looking for my sister.”

“Seeing her two nights in a row would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure would.”

“I want to believe that you saw Jasmine abducted, Matt.”

“Why won’t you?”

“I think you saw hippie drug fiends. You know, having fun on a summer night. I think with fog and a quarter moon, your perceptions might have been a little off. And I think that, given your involvement with Mystic Arts World, you might have been high on drugs that night.”

“You don’t want to believe me because it happened right in front of the police station and none of you even saw it.”

“That is correct. No cops and no witnesses reported seeing such a thing. Other than you.”

Something in Furlong’s tone makes Matt wonder if the cops know something about his sister that they’re not telling him. It’s an ugly little thought.

Matt sets his wallet on the seat beside him. “I know my sister when I see her.”

“But do you know whose house that is?” Furlong nods toward the Craftsman hidden in the bracts.

“It belongs to Patricia Trinkle.”

“Do you know her?”

“I’ve never met her. I delivered a book to this front porch today. Well, yesterday now.”

“Let me guess. From Mystic Arts World?”

“Yes.”

“But why are you here again at two thirty in the morning? Not making another delivery, certainly.”

“Why are you here and not looking for my sister?”

“I can’t devote every minute of my night shift to her.”

“I’m here because Jazz delivered books to Patricia Trinkle. I’m looking for a connection. A certain connection to her. It’s... hard to explain.”

Furlong turns off the flashlight and slides it onto his belt, gives Matt a long frown. To Matt his eyes look cold and unemotional. He’s so big his uniform is tight.

“What book did you deliver?”

“The Tibetan Book of the Dead.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“I haven’t read it.”

“Isn’t that part of Tim Leary’s LSD sales pitch?”

“The book has to do with living, not dying, Leary says.”

“Grail and Christian Clay both have criminal records by the way.”

Matt knows all about Christian’s. “Christian got busted for a roach in Oregon. The cops beat the shit out of him and threw him in jail for nine months.”

“A light sentence if you ask me.”

Furlong steps closer, puts his nose past the window frame, breathes in.

“Step out, Matt.”

Matt swings open the door and gets out. Moves away to let Furlong lean in with his flashlight again. Watches the beam traverse the tight interior. Furlong climbs into the driver’s seat, shines his light into the ashtray, glove box, side pockets.

Then he squeezes between the seats, and into the back of the van. Matt hears him opening cabinets and drawers, sees the light beam through the bongo-drum-and-palm-tree curtains sewn by his mother for the Westfalia’s many windows. He stands up close to the glass, charting Furlong’s search. Wonders if Furlong will plant evidence, as he’d heard cops do all the time. Nine months for a roach.

It takes Furlong nearly ten minutes to finish. He throws open the big side doors and hops to the street with a muted clang of gear. Holsters the flashlight.

“Nice van,” he says. “They don’t make them like they used to. Come here, Matt. Sit.”

Matt sits on the open door’s frame. When Furlong sits down next to him, Matt feels the Westfalia take his weight.

“I need a favor.”

Matt is too astonished and suspicious to even answer. First Johnny Grail needs a favor. Now Furlong?

“I’d like to know what’s really going on at Mystic Arts. Half the people who run the place are criminals. I’m talking about the Brotherhood, now. Addicts. Street fighters. Burglars. You walk in there and it’s all tie-dye peace and love, baby, get enlightened, get happy, get in touch with your inner child. But I think there’s more. For one thing, Laguna Beach is being flooded with LSD — Orange Sunshine, Purple Haze, Window Pane. You can buy it mixed into air fresheners and eyedrop bottles. One drop in each eye or a spray in the crook of your elbow, and you’re high for a whole day. High enough to jump out of a window or off a roof. Or, just maybe, to go for a late-night swim in an ocean that wants no part of you. We know that a lot of that LSD is coming in through Dodge City. That’s in addition to the new hash balls covered with opium. Someone’s taking a lot of risk to smuggle them in from Afghanistan, where the poppies grow. Now, we took down twenty-five hundred hits of Orange Sunshine, heading into Dodge City just a few days ago. Matt, the coroner found drugs in Bonnie Stratmeyer they can’t even identify. But what’s the Brotherhood and Mystic Arts doing about these little problems? I’ll tell you: selling books and bringing in Harvard psychologists to tell people how to use LSD. Selling everything that has to do with dope except the dope itself. Or, wait a minute. Are they doing that too? Are they distributing?”

Silence, then: “I just help in the art gallery.”

“But you’re a smart young man, Matt. You’ve got a good brain, good eyes and ears. I want you to tell me what you see and hear at Mystic Arts World. I want to know the Brotherhood, as if they were my best friends. I want to know what’s happening and where. And what’s going to happen next.”

“What about your narcs and informants?”

“Narcs get rolled up sooner or later, and informants lose their balls.”

Matt shakes his head and sighs. “I can’t do that. Christian’s a good artist and a good friend. He’s not BEL.”

“Then leave him out. Free pass. There are plenty of others.”

“You mean, just rat out people I don’t even know?”

“It’s not ratting. It’s using the truth to give criminals enough rope to hang themselves. You can’t make anybody talk. But you can listen.”

Matt leans forward, places his elbows gingerly above his kneecaps, thinks about all this. He can’t argue that any of what Furlong has said isn’t true. He’s seen the drugs and read the stories. Bonnie. The girl who thought she could fly across Coast Highway. He already knows his answer but, strangely, doesn’t want to disappoint the big, bear-like Furlong.

“Would you look harder for Jasmine if I work for you?”

“We’re already doing everything we can. In spite of what you might think. I want her back and safe as much as you do.”

“Believe me you don’t.”

“So what do you say to my offer?”

“No, but thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think I’m on your side.”

“Oh boy.”

“No, I don’t think you’re pigs, or want people to kill cops or anything like that. I like Officer Darnell. You seem okay. But leave me out. I don’t want to be a part of your team. No.”

“Well said, Matt. Well argued. And I’m going to give you one more chance to explain what you’re doing outside this house right now.”

“I told you.”

“But you don’t know who owns this house?”

“Patricia Trinkle.”

“No. The man who owns this house is Marlon Sungaard. And Marlon Sungaard is one of the richest men in Southern California, Matt. This is only one of his homes. He has others, in Aspen, New York, and Macau. He’s got a jet and lots of important friends.”

Thus his twenty-dollar tip, Matt thinks.

“Wow. Where’s Macau?”

“Across the Pearl River Delta from Hong Kong.”

Matt looks out at the bougainvillea-wrapped Craftsman.

“Did Sungaard give you any type of compensation for your delivery, Matt? Cash, a gift, anything at all?”

Matt evades with ease. “I never saw him.”

“Let me know if he offers payment of any kind.”

“I told you I can’t do that.”

“This is different. He’s not a criminal. And remember Matt, it doesn’t hurt to support your local police. It’s your duty.”

“Okay.”

“When’s Kyle getting home?”

“July twenty-sixth.”

“Not long. Well, say hello to your mom.”

“I won’t rat on her either, Sergeant Furlong.” Matt smiles.

Furlong actually smiles, too. “You’re okay, Matt. Think about what I said. I can bring a little money your way. I know things can be kind of skinny on a waitress’s take-home and a newspaper route.”

Matt noses the bait. “How much money?”

“It depends what you give me, and how good it is, and how often.”

“What’s an example?”

“Something decent I can use? Five bucks. You come up with three a week and you’re into some good cash.”

More money a week than my paper route, Matt thinks. He has a brief vision of Christian’s face when he finds out that Matt has ratted out a Brother.

“But then, no info no pay,” Furlong says.

Matt considers. “Why did you come up behind me with your lights off?”

“Basic cop procedure.”

“It scares people.”

“Then they do something stupid and I’ve got them. But you didn’t, Matt. We’re cool. Now, if this was a school night, it would be a whole different story.”

“It bothers me that my sister’s been kidnapped and you’re spending all your time recruiting me to rat out people I don’t even know.”

“Drugs are eating this country alive. You of all people should know that. I refer now to your mother.”

“I’m referring to my sister, who is eighteen and got dragged into a van.”

“I believe you.”

“I know you don’t. None of you do. Maybe Darnell.”

“You help me and I’ll help you.”

Matt considers Furlong’s brow and his strange tan eyes. Considers the money versus the betrayal.

“No.”

“You’ll regret this.”

“No. I hope not.”