A Thousand Steps

41

At 9 A.M., Matt puts the stewed tomatoes in Furlong’s business-sized P.O. box on Forest. He wonders what the sergeant plans to do with them.

Five minutes later he pulls into a wooded glade near the Bluebird Canyon water tank, where a vehicle containing Sungaard’s friends is waiting. He’s used this place to rest in the shade scores of times. There’s room for maybe three or four cars but it’s marked NO PARKING by the city. The eucalyptus stands high and dense, and the sunlight falls faintly to the seed-pod-and-leaf-littered ground.

Their vehicle is a very large Mercedes van, the likes of which Matt has never seen. It looks almost twice as high and wide as his Westfalia, and half again longer. No windows. It’s painted a low-gloss gray, kind of military, Matt thinks.

Two doors motor open in opposite directions and four men step to the ground, black weapons holstered in the depths of their suit coats. Two are large, two slender and shorter. Behind them Matt sees the back of the driver’s head, and two rows of seats, facing each other. There are luggage and storage racks above, and black rubber floor mats.

The men look foreign to Matt, in the same way Sungaard himself does.

“Mr. Anthony, I thank you for meeting with us. I am Bayott. We are friends of Marlon and friends of you, also.”

Bayott holds up a leather badge wallet with a small gold shield and mug shot. Matt reads INTERPOL.

Bayott is slightly built, with curly brown bangs and two days’ growth of whiskers. A prominent nose. His smile is thin but seems genuine. His handshake is gentle and brief.

“Please step into this vehicle. It will be private.”

Matt follows Bayott’s direction and climbs in first, the men crowding in behind him, the doors sliding shut.

Inside, Matt feels the engine idling and cold air hitting his face.

Bayott produces a tiny tape recorder and a notebook. Turns the recorder on and unsheathes an elegant black pen.

“We are sorry for your robbery and beating recently,” he says. “Mr. Sungaard furnished for us some facts. Please describe to us what happened that night, from the time you received the first six surfboards in Huntington Beach to the time you were confronted at the storage facility in Laguna Canyon. No detail is too small, no impression too faint. Please...”

“Are you really Interpol?”

“How could we not?” Bayott says with a chuckle.

Matt wonders what his father would make of these guys. Or Furlong or Darnell.

He tells them the story as clearly and understandably as he can. Bayott writes fast, and on the empty seat directly across from Matt, the little tape recorder spools turn slowly behind the smoked-glass window.

If he had any doubts that these were real cops, Bayott’s endless questions and checks for clarity erase them. Bayott is every bit as thorough and craving of details as anyone on the LBPD, even Detective McAdam.

One of the big men, a blond with buzz-cut sides and a very low fade, like an exaggerated Marine Corps cut, hands Matt an aluminum clipboard with an INTERPOL emblem on the clamp.

Matt looks down at a grainy black-and-white photograph of the Hessian emblem.

“That’s it,” he says.

“Please describe the colors,” says Bayott.

Matt closes his eyes, tries to see it again. The storage facility had a decent security light up on the wall, although it was Matt’s adrenaline-blitzed alertness that seared the emblem into his memory. And having seen it before, that night at Mystic Arts World when the bikers blundered into the Timothy Leary show.

“It was all black and white except for the handle of the sword and the MC letters, which were red. The skull was yellow.”

Bayott takes the clipboard and notes the colors with his pen, then flips the page.

“The Hessians are new,” says Bayott. “Just chartered as a motorcycle club. They have already engaged with the Hells Angels and are not afraid of a fight. They base their identities on German mercenaries who fought for the British against your colonies. Hessians were greatly feared. Many settled in America after the Revolution. This motorcycle gang makes what American police call bathtub speed.”

“What do they want with surfboards?” asks Matt. “Mr. Sungaard told me about the patent. But what can twelve boards be worth?”

“They are only valuable as secrets,” says Bayott. “Until Mr. Sungaard possesses the patent, he must keep the prototypes hidden. Or lose them to pirates who will sell the design for replication. Such as the Hessians. Mr. Sungaard has already received their ransom demand for the boards. It is very high.”

Matt remembers Sungaard’s prediction regarding the worldwide sale of fish surfboards year after year. Too many millions to estimate.

Bayott hands Matt the clipboard again, now open to the next page. It’s a police mug of Staich, the man who groined him. He’s not wearing a watch cap.

“The leader is Erik Staich,” says Bayott. “Is this the man who kicked you?”

Matt nods, feels that pain, fresh in his memory. Erik Staich is a strange-looking man — a square face and a high forehead, a slender neck, prominent cheeks, and pale eyes.

“And what did he say to you, again?” asks Bayott.

“You’re a waste of skin. Okay, surf Nazis. Get the boards in the van.”

“Do you know how they learned you were transporting the surfboards?”

“No,” says Matt. “I was hoping you might come up with that.”

“Did you talk to Johnny Grail or Luke Lucas about the surfboards — Luke is also known as Hamsa Luke, from Mystic Arts World.”

“No. Johnny told me Mr. Sungaard had a job for me. So it’s possible he knew it was the surfboards.”

Matt has a small realization: how loose and trusting the BEL is. The lax things they do. Such as all the MAW employees sharing gossip about customers and each other. Such as Johnny dispatching young people like Jasmine and Matt to make home deliveries to one of the richest men in California, among others. Such as Johnny hiring Matt to deliver LSD-impregnated invitations — Matt is sure of it now, thanks to Furlong’s update — not to mention Johnny giving Matt a way into the Bat Cave. None of that seems like high security to Matt. He thinks that this, here — a windowless van full of armed un-Americans — is high security.

More questions. The A/C is still on high and the big van idles smoothly.

Matt checks his Timex Skindiver because he’s got doors to knock on with his father and Laurel. It’s only nine forty but he can’t be late.

“I have to go,” he says.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Anthony.”

“I hope you catch him,” says Matt. “You can kick him in the balls for me if you want.”

The men murmur their approval and Bayott smiles his thin smile.

Matt climbs out, not quite believing that he just told Interpol its time was up.