Shamus In The Green Room (17 page)

Sunset Beach, California (population: 1,288; elevation: 5

feet), didn’t look like much at first, a nondescript stretch of

coast highway, the kind of place people invariably describe in

terms of the more interesting places it falls between. Oscar

Nichols’s surf shop, Rocket Fish, seemed to follow the same

general pattern.

On one side was Taste of Napa, with its kinky, wine-themed

mural (testicular grapes bulging on the vine); on the other was

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Captain Jack’s, whose massive wooden sign featured a necrotic

fisherman in a long, gray raincoat. In between them was an

undistinguished, split-level wooden building with an exterior

staircase and a bad paint job (medium blue and peeling). If you

weren’t looking for it, you’d definitely miss it. The two spaces

out front were occupied by a brown van and a VW bus on life

support, so I parked at the 7-Eleven two doors down.

Upon entering, I was assaulted by ska and the smell of

pot. I realized right away I wasn’t the target demographic.

Everything in there was alien to me: surf wax; leashes; rash

guards; wraparound sunglasses; high-performance watches; sil-

very board bags; sneakers. And surfboards, dozens and dozens

of them, propped against the wall like long licks of candy, slot-

ted onto plywood shelves, hanging from the air-conditioning

vents.

I’d had to duck a little coming in.

“Hey,” said the kid behind the counter, noticing me. He

took a not-ungraceful slug of his Mountain Dew Baja Blast.

“Hey. How’s it going?”

He mulled that one over. “Cool,” he said, nodding.

“Can we help you?” asked a girl wearing a striped wool cap,

pulled down low over her eyes. She stopped folding sweatshirts

and glared at the kid, who looked down at the huge number of

Jack in the Box wrappers, slick with grease, arrayed before him.

“Man, sorry about the mess.” He quickly crumpled them

up and tossed them in a garbage can already brimming with

Jack in the Box wrappers. Not exactly thinking outside the bun.

“Rabbit. Go find Hog’s Ping-Pong balls.” She was taking

charge. He came out from behind the counter, his cords hang-

ing so low I could see the boxer shorts clinging to his bony

frame, and retreated meekly to the back.

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“Please, don’t get up,” I said to the girl, feeling a little meek

myself. “I’m just looking.” I fished a quarter out of the bottom

of my purse and got some Hot Tamales from the gumball

machine. I popped a couple in my mouth. Then I sniffed.

The smell of pot had been overtaken by the smell of dog. I

found him around the corner, a white German shepherd sleep-

ing in his bed, just under the Volcom display. I bent down to

stroke his glossy fur. He let out a powerful snore, then rolled

over.

Brand loyalty was a big concept here. Everything was or-

ganized by label: Dakine, Hurley, Reef, Lost, Billabong,

RVCA. That went for the surf wax, too: Mrs. Palmer’s Sex

Wax people were not to be confused with Mr. Zog’s Original

Sex Wax people. After much deliberation, I decided I liked the

O’Neill logo best, an elegant, curling wave. I touched one of

their full-body wet suits. It looked slimy, but felt like velvet.

“That’s the Psycho Two,” said a guy with long, dirty hair

holding a cup of Starbucks coffee. “It’s hell to get on, but the

wrist and ankle seals are awesome. You surf?”

“No,” I answered.

“You look like you’ve got good upper-body strength. You’d

be a natural.”

“I told you, man,” said the original kid, Rabbit, who’d

reappeared to feed the fish in the aquarium, “no hitting on the

customers. Queenie’s gonna skin your ass.”

“I’m trembling.” They had a good laugh over that one.

“So,” I asked, “Oscar around today?”

They exchanged gleeful glances.

“He’s in the shaping bay.” The dirty-haired kid, whose

T-shirt said he loved soccer moms, pointed to the open back

door. “Just through there. Next door to the garage with the

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sunflower painted on it. If you ever want a lesson, remember,

I’m available. Ask for Hog.”

He and Rabbit slapped each other on the butts and made

low, growling noises, like bear cubs. This woke up the dog,

who sauntered over. Rabbit pulled a biscuit out of his pocket

and made the dog sit for it.

The back door opened onto a narrow street that cut

through a grassy median strip and dead-ended in a tangle of

ice plant and beach trash. After that, there was a sparkling ex-

panse of sand, then the ocean. It was a beautiful day. A dozen

white sails were silhouetted against the sky. This was what peo-

ple saw in their California dreams. They edited out the trash.

The garage with the sunflower on it belonged to one of the

few beach shacks left. It was charming, with weathered shin-

gles, a rainbow flag, and an old-fashioned mailbox. A short

man wearing a Rasta hat was carrying a bag of groceries inside.

The rest of the houses fronting the ocean were overscaled re-

dos, some good, some bad. The Swiss chalet was very bad. Os-

car’s place was better. It occupied the garage of a two-story

nautical number called “The Sea Spray,” and yes, there was an

anchor. Through the open doors, I could see somebody inside,

wearing a mask that made me think of mustard gas. He was

poised over a surfboard resting on what looked like an upside-

down picnic table, with soft blue booties on the ends of each

leg. In his hand was a sander making a tremendous racket.

“Hello?”

He looked up.

“Oscar Nichols?”

He turned off the sander and removed the mask.

He had close-cropped graying hair, a craggy face, and a

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beer gut hanging over one truly god-awful pair of board

shorts: zebra striped, with orange slashes down the sides. But

Oscar Nichols had the look. Gets you every time. He ran his

eyes up and down my body, then slowly wiped his hands on

a rag.

“You don’t look like a local.” He had a smoker’s voice, low,

with gravel in it.

My hand flew up to my floppy felt hat. Then I glanced

down at my clingy jersey dress, hip-slung silver belt, and brown

suede boots. I’d been going for Ali MacGraw at the airport,

circa 1971, mostly for Rafe’s benefit, but I probably should’ve

changed before heading to the beach.

“Suppose not.”

“Let me guess.” He circled around me, taking his time. “I

got it. You represent a consortium of Japanese businessmen

who want to invest in Rocket Fish.”

“No.”

He scratched his head. “You want me to endorse your new

line of ladies’ surf wear.”

“No.”

He smiled absently. “Bet you didn’t know that every board

has a sweet spot. It can take a while to find it, but when you do,

ooh, baby, it’s poetry in motion.”

“I’m not here about a board, Mr. Nichols.”

“Your loss,” he said, rising to the challenge.

“I’m here about Maren Levander,” I said.

Funny how her name sent people right into a tailspin. He

crouched down and shook his head.

“That bitch.”

Succinct.

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“I don’t have anything to say to you.” He stood up, busi-

nesslike now. “You should go.”

“Just listen to me. I think she’s at it again. Lying. Screwing

with people’s heads. Maybe worse.”

“What are you talking about? She’s dead.”

“Maybe.”

He laughed. “Oh, that’s perfect. Of course she’s not dead.

Vampires don’t die. They suck the life out of you, but they

don’t die. Sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “I can’t help you.”

“Yes, you can. You can tell me about her. You can help me

understand her. Then maybe there’ll be a chance.”

“A chance for what?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I thought about it for a minute. “Justice.”

He shook his head again, then just left. He knew how to

leave. He’d done it once before.

“Wait. Please wait.” I hurried after him, along the road for

half a block, then down toward the water.

So much for my boots.

He was angry. His steps cut like knives into the sand. But I

wasn’t going away. It took him a while to get it. Once he did, his

pace slowed. His shoulders relaxed. He pulled a pack of Marl-

boro Lights out of his pocket and offered me one. I shook my

head, so he turned against the wind to light his, then dropped

the match.

We kept on like that for a while, walking next to each other,

not talking. He smoked three cigarettes in a row. I watched the

water. It was low tide. The sand stretched on forever. Rocks,

clumps of seaweed, shells: hairy black mussels, pink mussels,

moon snails, mysterious striped bits. I bent down to pick up

something brown, with ridges.

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“Chocolate clam,” he said.

I nodded.

Halfway back up the beach, he finally sat down, his knees

hiked up around his chest. I sat down next to him. The sun

was strong, but the sand felt cold through my thin dress. We

looked out toward the Long Beach skyline, with its tall build-

ings and billowing smoke.

“She left me for roadkill,” he said. “I had to build my life up

from scratch after she was done.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a big game to her. Everything was a game. I saw her

stick her hand into so many fucking pockets it was ridiculous.

She tried to take something from me, that’s what started it. I

made the mistake of threatening to tell her boyfriend about it,

and she paid me back real good.”

“You mean Rafe Simic?”

“Old Rafe. You know him?” He smiled as he lit up another

cigarette.

“Yes—well, a little.”

He inhaled deeply, then blew out smoke rings. We watched

them dissolve into nothing. “Rafe Simic was one stupid guy.

Never saw things the way they were. Never saw Maren for who

she was. That’s why she screwed around on him. He thought

she was this goddess, but I knew the real her.”

He paused, turning the full intensity of his gaze on me.

“That’s what people want, you know. To be seen the way they

really are.”

I held his gaze for a minute, shaken in spite of myself. But

when he dropped his cigarette, it was over. He was good,

though. He’d almost worked me over. Had he worked Maren

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over? She was only a kid then. Jesus, maybe he had raped her.

Maybe she’d dropped the charges because she’d gotten scared.

But Maren didn’t get scared.

“We all saw Maren the way she was,” Oscar Nichols said.

“It wasn’t just me.”

“Who’s we? The Bay Boys?”

“Yeah. The Bay Boys. She wanted to surf, and she was will-

ing to do what she had to do to hang with us. It didn’t seem

like a big deal at the time.”

Nice.

“She became a hell of a surfer, I’ve gotta say. She used to

talk about going pro. But it was just talk. She didn’t have the

juice.”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t want it bad enough. She was cold when she

should’ve been hot. Cold as fucking ice.”

Myrrh had called her a firecracker. But they say at extreme

temperatures, you can’t really tell the difference between hot

and cold. You get burned either way.

He lit another cigarette and buried the match. “The only

time I ever saw her freak was at a funeral.”

“A funeral?”

He nodded. “Owen Madden was the guy’s name. He was a

science teacher at the high school. Everybody loved him. All the

nice kids.” He said it with a sneer. But I wasn’t buying his act.

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “I can’t explain it exactly. She just lost it. To-

tally freaked out. We all thought she’d taken a bad acid trip.”

“She must have really cared about him.”

He barked out a laugh. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Cece.”

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“Listen, Cece, the only person that bitch ever cared about

was herself. Before she left the funeral that afternoon she

walked up to me. I’d just come back after two years away. She

knew what she’d done to me. I thought maybe she wanted to

tell me, in person, in front of everyone, that she was sorry she’d

lied about me. Like an idiot, I was trying to decide if I was go-

ing to forgive her or if I was going to tell her to go to hell. She

walked right up to me that day and put her mouth close to my

ear so that her breath was warm on my cheek, and she whis-

pered one word. Then she walked out to her car.”

“What was the word?” I asked.

He told me.

It was the vilest epithet in the English language.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

One hour later, while trying to load a microfilm car-

tridge onto a microfilm machine, I found myself in-

voluntarily uttering that very same epithet.

A sixtyish librarian with a jet-black flip came rushing over,

threatening to eject me from the premises. Within minutes I

had her cursing, too.

“I keep telling them,” she said, wiping the beads of perspi-

ration from her wrinkled upper lip, “that microfilm is at the

end of its product life and is not part of the future of informa-