The Boys from Santa Cruz

CHAPTER THREE
1

The flying dream again. The school yard-Skip’s old elementary school. The usual chaos: a game of tag, kids running, dodging, shrieking in pretend fear. Skip stumbling, limping, ducking, hiding, making up in stealth what he lacks in speed. But the crowd of kids keeps thinning out and thinning out, until there are only two of them, Skip and the big kid who’s it. The sky is growing darker, the big kid is closing in on him, and Skip is clumping along as best as he can, pushing off on his good leg, ka-thump, ka-thump. The school yard is deserted except for Skip and his pursuer when Skip suddenly realizes this is no longer a game and starts running for his life. He’s running fast, faster than he’s ever run, and smoother, too, zooming along, picking up more and more speed, until the next thing he knows he’s airborne, with the ground rushing along beneath him and his pursuer falling behind, growing smaller and smaller. And just as Skip is beginning to understand that he’s flying, really flying-

Most of the covers were on the floor when Skip awoke. The exhilaration of dream flying had given way to a pervasive feeling of loss and longing. But that was the way that particular dream always went: as soon as he realized he was flying, it was over.

Leaving his bedclothes and pajamas on the floor-today was Thursday, the maid’s day-Skip downed two Norco tablets, then took a hard-won dump (opioids’ll shut you down faster than seeing a highway patrol car in the rearview mirror), and a long hot shower.

On his way out, he paused to inspect his appearance in the hall mirror. Straw-colored sport jacket, open-necked shirt of royal blue oxford cloth, navy slacks; curly hair moussed and shiny. He patted through his pockets to make sure he had his keys, money clip, wallet, and cell phone. As he reached for the doorknob, his eyes were drawn to the lacquered, mushroom-shaped umbrella stand, where the cane his chiropractor had given him two months ago stood gathering dust.

No, not today, he told himself. Because to Skip’s way of thinking, using a crutch when he could still manage without one would be like, well, like using a crutch.

The morning Chronicle was still on the doormat. PROMINENT ATTORNEY STILL MISSING had been relegated to the local news section. “Caddy still dead,” muttered Skip-he couldn’t get over how quickly the poorer and darker of the two victims had become a nonperson.

There were no new developments detailed in the Chron article, but around ten o’clock Warren Brobauer called to tell Skip that the judge’s body had been discovered by a pair of backpackers earlier that morning, on a hillside just south of Big Sur.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Warren. Is there anything I can do?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. I’m up to my ass in alligators here, and Lil’s under sedation. I was wondering, would you mind terribly going down to Monterey to make a formal identification of the body? Seems they need one before they can perform the autopsy.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks so much. And, Skip?”

“Warren.”

“Lil and I want whoever did this caught and punished. Have you made any progress on your end of the investigation?”

“Matter of fact, I have.” He told Warren what he’d learned so far.

“Stay with it, then, if you don’t mind. Because quite frankly, Skip, I’ve spent half the morning on the telephone with the lead homicide detective down there, and just between us, I’m neither thrilled by his attitude nor overwhelmed with his intelligence. In fact, I’m not sure he could find his ass with both hands if he were sitting on them, something at which he appears to have a good deal of practice.”

“Okay, Warren, I’m on it. I’ll give you a call as soon as I have anything to report. And once again, I’m so, so sorry about your dad.”

“Thank you. ’Preciate it.”

Skip clicked off, then hit the intercom button. “Tanya, would you get me the address of the Monterey County morgue? I think it’s part of the sheriff’s department. I also need directions to Meadows Road, that mental asylum that blew up a few weeks ago. I was there ten years ago, but all I seem to remember is that it’s somewhere north of Santa Cruz.”

“So is half the state of California,” the receptionist pointed out. “Could you be more specific?”

“Remind me again why I put up with your crap?”

“Because nobody else is willing to work for this pitiful salary.”

“Oh, right. Never mind.”