Self-Defence

19

No one had called by ten the next morning, so I phoned the Brentwood house. Ken answered, yawning.

"Oh, hi. We didn't get to sleep till late. Hold on, I'll get Lucy."

Seconds later: "Morning, Dr. Delaware."

"How's everything?"

"Fine. I just got up. Ken and I were up late, talking. Hold on, please-'Bye, Ken- he just left to buy some groceries. He's nice… I keep thinking about Puck- I'm sure he'll be back any day but… I guess the last few days are a jumble. It's hard to believe any of this is really happening."

She managed a brief, tight laugh.

"Would you like to come in?" I said.

"I would, but my car's still back at my place. I need to get it towed here."

"I can come out."

"No, I don't want to put you through any more bother."

"No bother."

"No, Dr. Delaware, I can't keep imposing."

"Don't worry about it, Lucy. How about noon?"

"Sure," she said. "Noon's fine." Another small laugh. "I'm not going anywhere."

Just as I was getting ready to leave, Sherrell Best phoned. "I'm sure there's nothing new, doctor, but-"

"Nothing yet, Reverend, though the police are interested in speaking with Felix Barnard. He's not in Malibu anymore. Any idea where he went?"

"Why do they want to speak to him?"

"Normal follow-up."

"Oh. Of course. No, I'm sorry, I don't know where he is. Probably retired. He was in his sixties back then, and he closed up shop right after he mailed me his report."

"Your case was his last?"

"The very last- at least that's what he told me. I thought his age meant experience, but maybe a young man would have done better. Some people get to a certain age, it's hard for them to feel inspired."

I got on the highway at eleven. The beach was placid, the land-side hills upholstered with yellow poppies. Reaching the pier and passing it, I spied the fat white letters of Shooting the Curl's facade and turned left, impulsively, into the shopping center.

Up close the painted sign was cartoonish, the surfer hyper-muscular with a massive head topped by brass-colored hair and a grinning mouth big enough to swallow a shark. He balanced on a swirl of foam while giving the thumbs-up sign with a swollen red digit. The white letters had been touched up recently, and they sparkled in the sun.

I found a parking space in front of the shop, next to a charcoal-gray BMW coupe with chromed wheels and a rear spoiler. Despite the customization, the car hadn't been washed in a while and the marine air had done its job on the paint. The license plate read SHT CRL. A bumper sticker said SAVE THE COAST, and a blue handicapped-parking permit rested atop the dashboard.

A cement ramp with metal railing led to the entrance of the store. Brass wind chimes tinkled as I stepped in; then I was assaulted by the drum solo from Wipeout. The store was double-width, with one half devoted to surfboards, custom wet suits, and surfing paraphernalia, the other to beachwear, suntan lotion, and posters, mostly variations on the tiny-man-rides-monster-wave theme or flesh-in-your-face shots of overripe women in micro-bikinis. Logos filled the rest of the wall space: BODY GLOVE. ONE WAVE. NO FEAR.

A few girls in their late teens browsed the poster bin, giggling, and a middle-aged couple stood by the swimwear, fascinated by the neoprene bathing suits. No one worked the clothing counter, but a man in his forties sat behind the surfboard register, eating a fast-food breakfast from a Styrofoam box and looking down at something. Above him a pink banner screamed SEX WAX!

Without glancing up, he said, "What can I do for you?"

"Just browsing."

He forked something into his mouth, and I noticed the sports section in his other hand. His hair was longish, very thin, minnow-silver, combed across his forehead but unable to hide the sunburnt skin of his brow. He had well-proportioned features, except for light-brown eyes that were set too close. His skin had loosened its hold on the bones below. The eyes were bloodshot and bagged and, though he was lean, a second chin tugged at his first. He wore a lime-colored polo shirt with sleeves that reached his elbows. His shoulders were broad, his forearms chunky and furred with gray hair that nearly obscured an anchor tattoo.

The music switched to the Beach Boys' "In My Room." One of the browsing girls brought a rolled poster over to the clothes counter and looked around as she fished money out of her jeans.

The man said, "I'll take that here."

He put down his paper. The girl came up and paid for her poster and left with her friends, laughing.

The man swallowed a mouthful of egg-muffin and watched the girls wiggle the glass doors.

"Having fun," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "You see what she bought? Stud poster- centerfold from Pretty Boy. It's meant for gays, but they put out a calendar and it sold so well to women, they decided to market the months separately." He grinned. "In our day, girls weren't like that, huh?"

"Not the ones I knew."

"So what is it for you?" he said. "Reincarnation, or just passing through from Chicago?"

"Reincarnation?"

"Second childhood. Second chance at the big wave. That's what it usually is when a guy your age comes in. Or a tourist wanting to bring home a little piece of California for Aunt Ethel."

I laughed. "I'm looking for bathing trunks."

He hit his forehead and gave another grin. "Wrong again. Good thing I don't gamble. Suits are over there."

I went over to a rack marked DUDES and flipped through the merchandise. A pair of baggy black trunks caught my eye because of a square patch with a Saint Bernard over the pocket bearing the legend BIG DOG. The mutt's tongue was out and he looked mischievous. Clearly a spiritual brother to Spike. I pulled the shorts off the rack and brought them up.

The man said, "Cool baggies," and rang up the sale.

I said, "What do the guys having a second childhood usually buy?"

"The works: board, board cover, leash, wet suit, wax, sport sandals, zinc, hair dye. We have the suits custom-cut for us; usually they're freaked out to see what size they take now. Plus all the changes in board technology. A guy your age might have rode something as big as a tree trunk. Name of the game now is minimum weight."

Turning his hand into a blade, he sliced air.

"The new stuff, once you get the feel, it's like hydroplaning. You can drive out to Zuma or County Line and see kids that are basically Jesus walking on water."

"Sounds like you did a bit of water work yourself."

"Still do." He grinned and handed me my receipt. "No second childhood for me, 'cause I never got out of my first."

The chimes sounded. A dark-haired woman had opened the door and stuck her foot in.

"I need help, Tom."

She was tall and nice-looking with a narrow, graceful figure and long thin arms with some muscle definition. Her hair was wavy and very short, almost black, her eyes so light they seemed pupil-less. The sun had cured her face to tight bronze leather. She wore high-cut pink shorts that exposed long smooth legs. Her blouse was white and sleeveless and tucked in snugly.

Tom said, "Just finishing up a sale, babe."

She didn't smile or answer, just kept standing there in the door. I heard a powerful engine idling and looked out to see a white Ford van conversion, smoke puffing from its rear.

The woman cleared her throat.

Tom said, "Here you go, pal, enjoy 'em."

I left the store, taking as long as possible to get back to the Seville. Once in the car, I sat behind the wheel pretending to look for something. A few seconds later Tom Shea came out of the shop and followed his wife to the van. She got behind the wheel and closed the driver's door and a metal ramp slid out from the rear of the vehicle. It touched the asphalt and I heard it scrape. Tom opened the rear door and reached in, back muscles bunching, as he pulled on something. A moment later an electric wheelchair appeared in the doorway, bearing a slumping, bronze-haired boy.

Tom guided the chair down the ramp. I started the Seville and inched out, watching. The boy could have been anywhere from twelve to twenty. His head was large and it lolled, eyes wide, tongue extended. His shrunken body was belted into the chair. Despite the restraint, he slanted sharply to the right, the head almost touching his right shoulder. One arm was belted, too. The other clutched a joystick at the front of the chair.

Tom wasn't smiling. He said something, and the joystick hand moved. The chair rolled down the ramp, very slowly, and when it was on the asphalt Tom closed the van door. Then he got behind the chair and guided it up the cement slope toward the store. The van's engine cut off and Gwen Shea came around, sprinted up ahead, and held the store door. As Tom eased the chair through, I caught a glimpse of the boy's face. Sleepy, but grinning. Big grin, almost voracious.

His hair a thick, straight mat, the kind that might turn silver-minnow when it aged.

But he reminded me of more than his father.

As I drove away, I realized what it was.

The grin. Triumphant, cartoonish.

He was an atrophied version of the surfer on the sign.