Day of the Bomb (25 page)

***

Once they had crossed the state line into
California, Stanley abandoned the license plate game. Instead, he
watched for every mileage sign and announced the remaining miles to
Los Angeles twenty-nine times before his dad finally said, “We’re
here, Stanley. At last, thank God.”

They toured Disneyland the next day. Jason bought
four books of tickets for rides, handed them to Stanley and Dan,
and ordered them to meet him at the front entrance at 8 p.m. The
lines were long, so it took them all morning to ride to the top of
the Matterhorn, travel aboard the submarine Nautilus for about the
length of a football field under the sea, take the jungle boat on a
safari, and hang onto a runaway ore car through gold mines once.
They fought pirates in the Caribbean, flew flying saucers and
rocket ships in Tommorowland, got sick on Mr. Toad’s wild ride, and
rode the monorail around the park’s perimeter more than once. The
rest of their day was spent firing pellet guns at the shooting
galleries, watching shows, and stuffing themselves on sugary,
fat-laced goodies. By the time they met Mr. and Mrs. Dalrumple at
the gate they were too tired for anything else. It took Jason an
hour to rouse them the next morning.

“Get up, you sleepyheads or you’ll miss all the good
waves those Beach Boys are always singing about.”

“Huh?” Stanley rolled over.

“We’re going to the beach.”

Stanley grunted and Dan buried his head beneath his
pillow. Breakfast partially revived them. Unfamiliar with the
morning rush hour traffic, Jason abandoned the freeway after
travelling five miles in stop and go traffic. The boulevards were
less congested and they reached Venice Beach at 10:30. “Here’s the
plan.” Jason grabbed Stanley’s shoulders. “Your mom and me are
going to take one of those tours to see where all the movie stars
live up in Beverly Hills. We’ll be back to pick you up for supper
around five. Just stay next to Dan all the time since you don’t
know how to swim yet.”

***

It was 84 degrees by 1 p.m. so they retreated to the
shade next to a lifeguard stand. Stanley questioned his friend’s
behavior.

“Why are you gawking at the girls so much for?”

“They sure don’t wear swimming suits like those back
home.” He pointed at the smallest bikini within sight.

“Mom says gals like that are Jezebels. I bet it was
really her idea to go to Beverly Hills just so Dad wouldn’t be
staring like you are.”

Twenty minutes later a girl who appeared to be their
age walked by carrying an umbrella and beach chair. She dropped the
umbrella at Stanley’s feet.

“Oh darn it. It’s so heavy.”

“Let me help you out. My name’s Dan.”

Her smile sent a rush through his body. She led him
to a spot twenty feet from where the foam of the waves retreated
back to their source and instructed Dan on how to plant the
umbrella in the sand.

“Well, that’s that.” He turned to walk back to
Stanley, who was shaking his head by the lifeguard stand.

“Oh, please stay. I get so lonely out here
sometimes. My name is Vicky.”

Dan plopped onto the sand next to her chair. “I’m
Dan.”

“I know. You already said.”

He blushed. “Oh. Yeah.”

They made small talk for ten minutes until Vicky
announced she was thirsty.

“I’ll go get us some soda pop.”

“Get one for your pal over there too. He looks
lonely.”

“Okay.” He strutted back to Stanley and motioned at
his bored friend.

“She’s a Jezebel, Dan. I just know she’s
trouble.”

“No way. She invited you over. She’s the nicest girl
I ever met. Come on.”

The drinks were barely tasted when Vicky announced
another request. “We should make these into ice cream sodas.” She
pulled a dollar from her purse. “Go get three ice cream cones.”

When the boys returned, she showed them how to
transfer the ice cream into the cups without spilling liquid or
frozen treat. They laughed, enjoyed the breeze, and watched the
surfers.

“You ever surf, Vicki?”

She stared at a line of five surfers catching a
seven-foot wave. “No. But I’m going to learn someday when…” She
sighed.

As soon as the sodas were finished the boys began to
yawn.

“Guess we walked too much at Disneyland yesterday,”
Stanley said. “I’m sleepy.”

“Why don’t you both take a nap?” Vicki patted the
shade behind her umbrella. “I’ll wake you up later on.”

The boys stretched out and let the sounds of waves
and shouts and laughter of beachgoers lull them to sleep.

***

“Hey driver, I need to look up an old friend.” Jason
stood next to the one who had driven the busload of gaping,
pointing tourists past the homes of the Hollywood elite. “His
name’s Lance Ivers. He’s one of those agents who work with movie
stars. You ever hear of him?”

What do I look like, Dumbo? A phone
book?
The driver tried to smile but instead
gritted his teeth. “There’s a book listing most of the
agents.”

“You got a copy?”

Do I look like an actor,
bozo?
“No, sir. I suggest you try the phone
book. If you can’t find him in the yellow pages try the white
ones.” He pointed at a phone booth where he had referred many
customers.

***

“Wake up, you guys.” Jason shook Dan and then
Stanley. “We’re having supper with an old army pal of mine.”

“Huh? Is that you, Vicky?” Dan half opened and rubbed
sand from his eyes.

“Vicky? Who’s that?”

“She’s a Jezebel. She put a spell on us and put us
asleep and then took off with my watch and gold ring that Grandma
gave me.” Stanley shoved his hands under Thelma’s nose.

She shook her head. “What about your wallet?”

Stanley paled as he patted his butt in search of a
familiar bulge. “It’s gone too, Mama. We’ve been robbed!”

Dan grunted as Jason pulled him to his feet. He
groaned after checking his pockets. “My stuff is gone, too. I stuck
it in my shirt when I went in for a swim.”

“What did you lose?”

“My wallet and watch. We got to go find her.”

Jason shook his head. “She’s probably halfway to
Mexico or wherever she holes up after robbing folks.”

Dan scanned the beach. But only a few of the huge
throng from earlier remained. “Guess you were right after all,
Stanley. Vicki was a Jezebel.”

***

Lance Ivers tried to cheer them up over a meal of
burgers, fries, and chocolate milk shakes. “Happens all the time,
especially in summertime. There are probably at least a quarter
million tourists wandering around Southern California right now.
Easy pickings for the grifters.”

“Grifters?”

“You know, con artists. The girl that hit you
probably works with an older man or woman. I bet she gave you
knockout drops that she slipped into your drinks.”

“But we were holding our own drinks.” Dan
protested.

“All of the time?”

“She sent us on off to get ice cream cones,
remember?” Stanley blew bubbles into his shake through his
straw.

Dan hit the table with his fist.
“That’s right. She was alone with our drinks for a while.” He
tossed his half-eaten hamburger into the white paper bag. For him
the world had taken on a gray hue, even the golden arches that
spanned the drive-in. “Mr. Dalrumple said you’re a private
detective like those guys on
Peter
Gunn
or
77 Sunset
Strip
. Can’t you help us find
her?”

“Sorry, kid. L.A. is too big. Cons like her move
around a lot. Tomorrow she’ll be working another beach or
Disneyland or some other place tourists go to. Besides, I don’t
come cheap. I have to charge $35 a day plus expenses. Can’t afford
charity work because business has been slow.”

Dan did not finish his meal but kept muttering about
“dumb L.A. crooks.” Lance waited for a lull in the grumbling.

“Look, Dan. L.A. is like any big city. It has crime.
But I can’t let you go home on a sour note. How about I take you
and Stanley surfing tomorrow?”

“Surfing?” Jason blinked. “Wow, what do you think
boys? You’ll be hot stuff back home when the kids find out.”

“But I can’t swim, Dad.”

“I’ll borrow a life jacket for you. Then when you
wipe out your head will stay above water.” Lance elbowed him.

“Uh okay. How do I wipe out?”

Lance chuckled. “You’ll learn. It comes with the
territory. How about you, Dan?”

“Okay, I guess. What beach you taking us to?”

“Huntington. It has better waves than where you were
today.”

Good. Maybe that’s where Tricky Vicki will be at.
I’d like to punch her in the face.

***

Jason spent the hour long drive to Huntington Beach
grilling Lance about life in California while Thelma tried to
convince the boys that “there are more good girls than bad ones” as
they sat in the back seat of Lance’s 1952 Ford Country Squire.

“I thought you’d be a hotshot movie agent with lots
of beautiful movie stars by now,” Jason said.

Lance shrugged. “I beat my head against the wall
doing that for five long years. Listen; there must be thousands of
kids who take the bus out here thinking they’re going to make it in
movies. Too many of them end up making skin flicks.”

“Porno?”

“Afraid so. L.A. is passing up Europe when it comes
to porn. So I switched over to being a private eye after being an
agent didn’t pan out.”

“What about Vegas? Were you ever able to win using
the Professor’s Method?”

He laughed. “Every dime I won I would eventually
lose. I’d drink too much, get tired, and count the cards all wrong.
It got so bad I joined Gamblers Anonymous. Now my addiction is
surfing.” He patted the wood paneling on the outside of the
driver’s door. “How do you like my woodie?”

“Woodie?”

“Yeah. Surfers like either these or panel trucks to
haul our surf boards around in.” He turned up the radio and sang
along. “Oh, yeah. My 409…my 409.”

The song detailed a youngster saving his pennies and
dimes to buy a car with a 409-cubic-inch engine. It made Jason
think of illegal street races back home. Two songs later the Beach
Boys were urging listeners to go on a surfing safari.

“Just why is surfing so big out here?”

“It’s a lifestyle I guess. We dress alike in our
baggies and sandals and shades, listen to the same music, and brag
about our best rides on the biggest waves. You remember how
beatniks talked about being hep?”

“Yeah.” Jason lied.

“Well now surfers say hip instead. We have our own
lingo: hang ten, shoot the pipeline, wipeout.”

“You really think the boys can learn to surf?”

“Sure. Why not?”

***

At the beach, Dan begged off of taking a lesson by
saying he needed to beachcomb instead. He then walked six miles up
and down the sand looking for Vickie. Occasionally he spotted a
girl with the same color of hair and build or one wearing a similar
bathing suit. But each time he was disappointed as he drew
closer.

Stanley felt a little safer after donning a life
jacket. On his first ride he lay flat on the board and gripped it
until his fingernails were covered with the wax Lance had applied
to it that morning. Stanley was on his knees for the second run,
with Lance standing behind him. When Stanley stood and kept his
balance on the fifth ride, Lance slipped off of the board into the
water and body surfed next to it. Stanley did not fall off until
the water was only four feet deep. He bobbed to the surface.

“How’d I do? How’d I do?” Stanley sprayed salt
water.

Lance swam over to him and grabbed his hand and held
it aloft. “You’re a natural, dude. A born natural. I didn’t stay up
like that until my twentieth ride.” He removed a Saint
Christopher’s medal from his neck and placed it around Stanley’s.
“Don’t ever take that off. Saint Christopher is the patron saint
for travelers so us surfers adopted him for good luck.”

Dozens of rides and rolls of film shot by Thelma
later, Stanley said he was hungry so Jason treated all five at
Lance’s favorite seafood restaurant, where the clams were crispy
and perch, sea bass, and abalone tender. Refreshed, Lance insisted
that they attend a surf music concert.

“Dick Dale is incredible. Wait till you hear
him.”

***

The venue was packed with thousands of surfers, want
to be surfers, and a few tourists. When the King of the Surf Sound
hit his first chord of the night, Jason thought the dancers had
ants in their pants. Some gyrated; others kicked out the latest
dance steps. But most stomped their feet in four/four time with the
drummer and bass player until the floor reverberated more than the
amplifiers. Not much of a dancer, Jason ambled up to the stage to
see how five musicians could create such a din. He blinked when he
saw Dale playing left-handed and gulped when he saw that the
thickest guitar strings were along the bottom of the neck – Dale
was playing his guitar upside down.

With the music echoing the same sounds of the waves
when he had surfed, Stanley slid onto the dance floor and replayed
every pose and movement he had displayed on the surfboard hours
earlier. Dancers cleared a spot for him and cheered his
performance. The bravest copied his wild moves.

“What the heck are you doing?” Dan yelled into his
ear.

“Surfing on land. Here’s a wipeout.” Stanley fell
sideways and slid past a couple who leaped in the air as he slid
under them. They hit the floor like a couple bowling pins, got up,
and pretended to wipe out on the floor. Soon dozens of the dancers
were wiping out.

“What on earth is happening?” Thelma was used to slow
three/fourth time country tunes that required minimal movement on
the dance floor.

“I don’t know,” Jason said. “They look like they’re
sliding into home plate on a close play.”