Saguaro Riptide

FIVE

In a way, Jack hated to leave the jailhouse so soon. There was a real interesting water stain on the ceiling of his cell and he hadn’t had enough time to decide if it looked more like a thundercloud hijacked from Heaven by disgruntled angels or the Monster from the Id from Forbidden Planet.

He worked up a good sweat walking back to the five-and-dime. Thankfully, the Range Rover was still sitting in the parking lot. At least Jerry Caldwell hadn’t had his car towed.

Jack notched the air-conditioner to MAX and headed for the highway. He’d put a mile between himself and Pipeline Beach when he spotted the billboard:

Surf’s up at

THE SAGUARO RIPTIDE MOTEL

Cable TV * Air-Conditioning

Swimming Pool

Surf guitar nightly

THIRD LEFT OR YOU’VE MISSED IT, AMIGOS AND AMIGETTES

Someone had made an attempt to paint over the second-to-last line, but it was still visible. Jack didn’t care about that, though. He only cared about the name of the joint. The Saguaro Riptide-the same name stenciled on the ashtray he’d found at Vince Komoko’s place.

The same name on the pencil he’d seen in Wyetta Earp’s pocket.

It could be nothing more than a coincidence. Pipeline Beach was a small town. Or it could be that Wyetta Earp had been sniffing around the motel, looking for Komoko.

And maybe, just maybe, there was something more to it than that.

Jack knew he was getting ahead of himself. He passed a dirt road that lead to a cemetery, an old-time boot hill with leaning tombstones and strangely stationary tumbleweeds.

Jack found himself wondering how many pistoleros Wyetta had put there with her blazing six-gun. He smirked at the notion. Not that he was sexist or anything. But, Jesus, if ever a woman thought that the sun rose and set out of the crack of her ass, it was Wyetta Earp.

The cemetery blurred past on the left, only to be replaced by more desert, more saguaros, more tumbleweeds. Jack notched another mile on the odometer before he came to the second left, which lead to a junkyard. He slowed down a bit, because the next turn would be for the Saguaro Riptide.

The third left was almost on top of the second. A narrow road lined with tall neon tombstones cut a jagged trail to the east.

Jack made the turn, peering at the bizarre roadside display from behind his sunglasses as he slowed his speed. Instantly, he realized that he’d been wrong. The objects he’d mistaken for tombstones were actually surfboards. A couple dozen of the things had been planted along the road, one every ten feet.

Still, Jack couldn’t quite discard his first impression. The notion of neon tombstones sent a chill up his spine. And that was funny, because the real graveyard hadn’t bothered him at all.

He didn’t figure that Vince Komoko was hanging out on that dusty boot hill, though. And he was certain that Vince had been known to hang out at the Riptide.

The road wasn’t dirt, but it was pretty beat up nonetheless. Jack dodged potholes, taking it slow. Then the surfboards were behind him. The motel lay up ahead. Not a bad-looking joint, but definitely a creation of the cinder-block sixties.

There were plenty of parking spaces. Jack pulled to a stop in front of the office.

He got out of the car, stretched, and walked inside.

The woman behind the counter was older than Jack, but that didn’t matter because she was a dusky brunette of the barefoot variety. That was a definite point in her favor, as was the fact that she wore jeans and a T-shirt, the added bonus being that the outfit looked good and simple and right on her. Her skin was the color of polished mahogany and her eyes were blue. Her nose was twisted just a little bit. Jack wondered what she’d done to get it broken, and why she’d never bothered to get it fixed.

He couldn’t ask her that, though. Not right off. But the tombstone surfboards were still on his mind, so he asked, “What’s with the surfboards, anyway? Are you expecting California and Nevada to sink into the Pacific?”

“I wish, ’cause that’s the only way I’ll see a wave again, brudda.” She smiled. “Those boards are mine, but planting them. . that was my husband’s idea. His name was Dale Dayton. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

Jack shrugged. “Sorry. Can’t say as I have.”

She pointed at a series of framed album covers hanging on the wall behind her. Mostly shots of surfers and hot rods and women wearing bikinis. “Dale had a couple hit records way back when. Dale Dayton and the Daytonas. Surf music.”

“Like the Beach Boys?”

“Nope. Dale didn’t sing. Just played the guitar.”

“Hey, I’d probably know his stuff if I heard it. But I’m not a wizard when it comes to remembering the names of songs.”

“Well … it was a long time ago.” She held out a hand. “Sandy Kapalua-Dayton. Part Hawaiian, part Navajo, with enough Irish thrown in to make me surly in the morning. Women’s National Surfing Champion, 1965-67, and winner of the Pipeline Invitational five years running.”

“Jack Baddalach. I’m retired, too. At least, I think I am.”

“I know.” She winked at him. “I saw the fight.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You look a lot bigger on television, Mr. Baddalach.”

“That’s what people tell me.” Jack took out his wallet, handed over his brand new corporate credit card. “Nothing fancy.”

“That’s about all we’ve got, so you’re in luck.” She grabbed a registration form from a little box on the counter and started filling it out.

“So, how’d you end up in Arizona?” Jack asked.

“Retirement plan. When the surf craze died out, me and Dale figured we’d pull up stakes in LA and buy ourselves a hunk of the desert. You know what they say, build a better tourist trap and the world will beat a path to your door. We had big dreams-a surfin’ oasis in the middle of the big lonesome. And I mean lonesome; in ’68 there wasn’t anything else around here but Gila monsters and rattlesnakes.

“Of course, a couple of mobile home barons moved in about ten years ago and threw up instant retirement villages, changing everything. Now we’ve even got bus service to Tucson and our own public library. But Dale and me, we built this town. We named it, opened up the first motel, the first coffee shop, and the first gas station. We wanted to buy ourselves one of those wave machines, the kind they’ve got at that fake beach up in Phoenix, but we never came up with the cash to build ourselves a miniature Pacific.”

“Too bad.”

She smiled. “Don’t get out the violins just yet, Mr. Baddalach. We did all right. . and maybe we could have done a whole lot better. But my heart kind of went out of it when Dale died. I sold the coffee shop and the gas station and-”

The sound of a barking dog severed the woman’s words. She swore and poked her head through the window behind her. From his vantage point Jack caught sight of a chain-link fence and what looked like a junkyard beyond.

“Dale!” the woman yelled. “You want any dinner, you’d better shut up. . and I mean now!”

Jack spotted a black and tan pit bull in midleap. The animal slammed against the chain-link fence, then came back for more, launching itself from the battered hood of a junked Barracuda.

“Dale! You coconut brain! Knock it off!”

The pit bull yipped as Sandy turned away. The yipping turned into a growl but she ignored the sound, returning her attention to the registration form. Finally the dog settled on an anguished whimper that seemed both pitiful and practiced.

Jack couldn’t help himself. “You named your dog after your, uh. . ” He searched for the right words. “After your deceased husband?”

Sandy laughed. “Look, brudda, you want my life story or you want a room?”

“Just curious.”

She sighed, thinking it over, then gave in. “It’s like this. Two days after Dale died, a pregnant pit bull bitch got hit out on the highway. Gave birth to a litter in a ditch on the side of the road. This one was the only pup that lived.”

“So you think it’s some kind of reincarnation thing? That’s why you named the dog after you husband?”

“No. Not exactly.” She looked as if she were doing her best to hide a rather sizable smile. “It’s just that Dale is the only name he’ll answer to, and he chases his butt like a pup every time I pop one of Dale’s tapes into my boom box.”

“Gotcha,” Jack said, but he raised his eyebrows when he said it.

“You like upstairs?”

“Huh?”

“Your room. Is upstairs okay?”

“Sure, upstairs is fine. But I’ve got one more question.”

“Shit, brudda. I’ve slept with guys without talking this much.”

“Me too … I mean. I’ve slept with girls, not guys.”

It was an old joke, but Sandy laughed anyway. “Okay. Shoot. But make it fast, okay? Dale won’t wait forever.”

Jack hesitated. He wondered if he should ask the question at all. His gut told him that Sandy Kapalua-Dayton was okay. And his brain told him the same thing, because he sure couldn’t imagine this easygoing woman being great buds with a cop, especially a hardcase like Wyetta Earp.

So Jack threw caution to the wind and asked, “You ever heard of a guy named Vince Komoko?”

“Yeah,” Sandy replied, her voice matter-of-fact.

“You know him?”

“No.” She looked Jack dead in the eye. “How long will you be staying?”

“I’m not sure … I mean, it’s kind of up in the air. .”

Sandy smiled as if he’d said exactly what she wanted to hear.

“Well, I’ve got your credit card number. Maybe I’ll leave your account open, just in case you need to make any phone calls or anything. We can settle up when you check out.”

‘That sounds good. But about this guy Komoko-”

Sandy passed the registration form to Jack, along with a pen. “Fill in your home address and the make, model, and license of your car. You can leave the form on the counter when you’re done.” She handed over Jack’s corporate plastic along with a key that was attached to a plastic slab shaped like a surfboard. “Room 22. . top of the stairs and hang a left.”

Jack started writing. “So. This Komoko character-” Sandy grabbed a can opener from the counter. “Maybe you should ask that sweet young hoale out by the pool. She checked in yesterday, and the first thing she did was ask me about Komoko.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. Through the office window, he saw the woman from the five-and-dime, the one who’d stood up for him. She was sitting on a chaise longue by the swimming pool. Only now she’d lost the black T-shirt and fatigue pants, and her combat boots were tucked under the lounge. She wore a black bikini and she was smearing sunscreen on her belly, her hand moving in slow, lazy circles-

“Down, boy,” Sandy said. “Don’t drool on my carpet.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing. Except her name is Kate Benteen, and she’s from some shitsplat called Grizzly Gulch, Montana. And she makes me kind of sick, of course.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just look at her. I mean, how many women can pull off that look? A black bikini and combat boots. Gidget Goes Ballistic." Sandy shook her head. “That little girl makes me pine for my misspent youth, is what she does.”

“Yeah, but-”

“We’ll catch that wave another day, Mr. Baddalach.”

“Okay. You’ve got a date. When can we-”

“Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.” Sandy pointed at Kate Benteen. “See how you feel after your private incursion with Ms. Rambette out there. You end up getting down in the trenches, that’s fine. Don’t worry about putting the big hurt to my little ol’ heart, because I’m a strong believer in first impressions. And while you seem like you’d be a fun guy once we got past all the woe is me I’m a washed up pug stuff, I figure you’re just a turista here in Pipeline Beach, and I hate good-byes almost more than anything. It looks like I’m here for the long haul, and I don’t see a guy like you hanging around fixing air-conditioners and ice machines, warning little brats that the water’s gonna turn orange if they pee in the pool.” She sucked a deep breath. “So here’s the big picture according to Sandy Kapalua-Dayton-maybe we’ll have us some fun and maybe we won’t. All I know is right now I’ve got to feed my dog.”

“But-”

Sandy shrugged. “Amigo, it’s just like Doris Day said, ‘Que sera, sera.’”

Jack wanted to say that maybe it wasn’t that way at all, not in the big picture according to Jack Baddalach. But by the time his mouth kicked into gear Sandy Kapalua-Dayton had already stepped through the back door.

She headed toward the junkyard with a can of Alpo in one hand and a can opener in the other.

Jack had never heard anyone swear in Hawaiian.

But he was sure he was hearing it now.