Stagger Bay (11 page)

Chapter 23

The Meshback Twins sat in the front seat: Meshback Number One driving, with Meshback Number Two wedged in next to him. Mr. Tubbs and I sat together in the back seat.

Tubbs’ car was a big old Bronco jacked up on fat all-terrain tires, putting us way higher above street level than I was used to riding at. On the dash radio some redneck warbled a sad song about his dog cheating on him with his pickup truck; I mused on the possible mechanics of that intriguing interaction.

“You probably wouldn’t know it, but I’m kind of a wheel around here,” Mr. Tubbs said. “What I say pretty much goes in Stagger Bay. Not too much happens that I don’t know about.” We were headed toward Old Town.

“Have you given any thought to your future plans, son?” he asked. “You’re quite a celebrity these days. There’s a lot going on in Stagger Bay right now, and I’d like you to be part of it, come on over to our side of things. You’re not the man I thought you were; we had you pegged all wrong.

“You shouldn’t be staying there in the Gardens with those riff raff – we need to put you up in a nice B & B, get you used to being one of us. Hell, I’ll set you up in a cush apartment in Old Town. Or even a house if you like; I own half this town.”

“Maybe I’m more comfortable in the Gardens, Mr. Tubbs. There is cush enough for me.”

“I suppose that’s as good a place to hide as any, though we knew where you were as soon as you lit. Did you know I used to be Chief of Police here, before I handed over the job to Jansen?” he asked, studying his fingernails.

The sidewalks were increasingly crowded the closer we got to Old Town; some big shindig must have been getting ready to throw down.

“Yep, our boys in blue still come to me for advice on tough cases. I still keep my hand in. They came to me about the Beardsleys, actually,” Tubbs said, looking out his side of the Bronco at the thickening crowd, all of them watching us as we passed. “A man like you, an outsider from Oakland with a violent record like yours? We keep a close and wary eye on ‘em no matter how well they behave.

“I’ve seen your rap sheet, Markus. I know you were in CYA for a decent hunk of your teens, I know all about what you were. You were born to pin what happened to the Beardsleys on.”

“What are we saying here?” I asked. “You hung the frame on me?”

“Now, don’t be putting words into my mouth, son,” Tubbs said. “I’m not confessing to nothing.”

“Pull over now,” I said, sitting as far from him as I could.

“You’ll hear the rest first,” he said. He took his hat off and toyed with the pretty feather. “My daddy taught me never to complain, never to explain, and never to apologize. Well, I’m going to break that rule here, for the first time in my life. I’m sorry for what happened to you, Markus. I know you didn’t do it, and I’m glad you’re free again, and that’s as much as I’m going to say.”

The withered bastard looked at me hard, but his eyes glistened. “Thank you for putting paid to those whore sons for my girl. I owe you my marker. You can cash it in any old time. I don’t care whether you like it or not, I’m going to keep an eye out, and if there’s ever anything I can do for you—”

“We’re here,” the driver said as we crossed 4th Street on F and entered Old Town proper.

We were coming up on the Plaza’s wide expanse of cobblestone. Its fountain’s water jets danced and gurgled merrily in front of its spiral-ramped, raised gazebo. Bunting hung from surrounding buildings.

Usually the Plaza was crowded with scavenging pigeons and the shrieking children and barking dogs that chased them. Today its cobblestones were surrounded by barricades, with people of all ages packed against them held back by security personnel. The streets were blocked off and free of traffic, and the surrounding sidewalks were crowded with people who commenced a loud cheering as the Bronco rolled into view.

Mr. Tubbs guffawed at the expression on my face. “Relax, Markus. This is just the dress rehearsal. Enjoy yourself, son – you earned it. But you and me’ll be talking again later after the main event.”

The Bronco stopped and I climbed out, facing up to the cheering crowd. Church bells started clanging and bonging in the distance – from the direction it sounded like it was Stagger Bay Lutheran making their belfry sing.

Those ubiquitous news vans were here – but they were parked off to the side in a small group, they weren’t the star of this particular show. Several big television studio cameras were strategically deployed on pedestals, all aimed toward the gazebo where a group of people stood.

Cables snaked in various directions across the ground, connecting stacked speakers and an open air sound board which techs tinkered with. A man with a meter was doing a check in front of a bank of lights; another man snuck a cigarette while standing to the side holding a boom mike; a bald guy with a clipboard in his hand gave some kind of briefing to a small attentive crew.

A man and woman hurried up to me, bursting with energy and dazzlingly well groomed. The man had white, shiny chiclet teeth, made me wonder if they glowed in the dark. The woman was dark, and had an East-Coasty vibe.

She took in my combat-weary outfit and her eyes widened. “Yes,” she hissed. “He’s wearing the same clothes he fought in. We’ll have the cameraman get a full length shot of him.”

“You can’t be serious,” the man said. “People aren’t going to want to see him in rags – we’ll find a suit for him somewhere.”

“No,” she insisted. “That’s his brand, don’t you get it? The everyday, everyman look.”

“The bandaging has to go,” he muttered. “It’s tacky.”

The people standing in front of the gazebo drew my attention, as they seemed to be at the focus of the entire setup. A bunch of kids stood in front of the dancing fountain, looking strangely familiar. Next to the kids stood a podium crowned with a bank of microphones; the mayor of Stagger Bay stood behind it, goggling at me. The gazebo reared up behind them all on its spiral-ramped ziggurat pedestal.

I turned away from the still squabbling couple and moved toward the kids. My manic handlers ran after me.

“Wait, Markus,” the man said as they paced me. “We have to get some makeup on you before the run through. You don’t even know where you’re supposed to stand, this is out of order. The children are supposed to be last on the program.”

He had to raise his voice almost to a shout. The crowd screamed and whistled behind the barricades; people clapped and stomped their feet in rhythm, faces red and excited as they chanted my name in unison over and over, with the monotonous ding-dong-DING of the church bells as back beat.

I looked to one side as I walked, and quickly returned my gaze forward: there was Bill, the man who’d once been my barber, who’d spat in my face when I was on the way into the courthouse for sentencing. Now he bobbed up and down in excitement, his eyes glittering as if drunk. Perhaps he thought we were friends again.

At the outskirts of the crowd I saw Officer Hoffman, looking down at the ground. Next to him sat that omnipresent Cougar, its wide-shouldered long-haired blond driver standing next to his ride and staring at me through the interposing mob; his feet were spread shoulder-wide, and both fists were on his hips with his elbows jutting out.

As I tried for a clearer look at him a big, strapping woman darted past security to pick me up in a lusty bear hug and plant a kiss on my cheek. The townspeople roared riotous approval.

And then I was in front of the kids, whom I finally recognized: they were the children from the classroom at the School. They watched wide-eyed as I came up, their parents standing behind them and eying me avidly as well.

This silent group of families faced me without any of the fidgeting or shuffling around I’d have expected from such a meeting. This was stage management, I realized – they were all standing exactly where they were told for this dress rehearsal.

“Smile at them Markus!” the woman handler yelled from behind me.

The non-stop celebratory noise from the crowd and the pealing church bells was almost overwhelming as I looked the kids over: they appeared none the worse for wear from their ordeal.

They broke ranks suddenly and ran to surround me, patting at me with their hands and chattering in excitement. Their parents followed as quickly, and these families ringed me in from the rest of the world. I goggled down at the kids in wonder as they touched me and stroked my arms, as if making sure I was all right, or as if they doubted my reality.

And I realized right then that they belonged to me by way of combat adoption, and I to them. They were as much my family now as if they were blood, and everything they made of their lives from here on in would be something I’d have to take note of. It wasn’t a matter of choice – that load was simply unshirkable and I was stuck with it.

Looking at the parents ringing me in with glistening eyes, at the children pressed close in one big group hug, something snapped inside me. All my life-long hard-won reserve parted like an overloaded cable, and I raised both arms over my head strong with fists clenched.

“Yes,” I snarled up at the Heavens above – try taking THIS away from us,
You
.

The surrounding townsfolk and busily toiling TV crews thought this dress rehearsal was just the windup to something bigger down the road. They didn’t understand that, to us here, this reunion was the main event – any parade after this would be anticlimax.

There was the flash of a camera followed in quick succession by another, and another. Dozens of television crews maneuvered for position, anchor people eager as they led the way with their microphones. Hordes of paparazzi clicked away as they made their frontal assault on the photo opportunity I represented.

“Look at the cameras,” the male handler ordered.

I glared at him, betrayed. This was supposed to be a dress rehearsal!

The crowd’s chanting continued unabated, as if no one seemed horrified by this development but me. I walked quickly toward the barricades, the camera crews and photographers reluctantly parting to let me through.

As I passed the podium the mayor stood with the key to Stagger Bay in his arms, a big ornate bronze monstrosity that looked heavy. A masking tape X was on the ground in front of him, where I was supposed to stand while he handed it to me. As I slogged past he looked like a girl jilted by her prom date.

As I started running through the crowd I got blurred glimpses of confused faces and the mob’s roar subsided raggedly into a baffled murmur.

I ran away from the Plaza, and past the Sugar Shack. There were maybe a half dozen Harleys parked outside, and a handful of bikers stood next to their sleds goggling at me. I recognized them all: the Stagger Bay Fog Choppers and their Prez, a skinny old gray-haired cat named Spider.

Spider gave me a scowl as I approached – I still owed for a pool game I’d lost to him seven years before, just before my bust. Then the fake hard look faded and he smiled.

“Good to see you raised, kid,” Spider said, before he got a good gander at my face.

I ducked past him down Opera Alley behind the bar, hoping for a few moments peace. But media crews appeared at both ends of the alley, blocking it.

It felt like Dawn of the Dead, like the media machine wanted to eat my face. I looked around for an escape route but there was nowhere to get away from them here unless I had wall crawling abilities.

Someone blasted a car horn, really leaning on it and not letting up. Sam’s beat up old Continental bullied down the alley through the reporters, who gave way to avoid being run over. He tweaked his steering wheel, trying to cant the car over to be cool and fishtail up to me; but the tires were too bald and they only made a sad scuffing sound as the Lincoln shuddered to a halt within my arm’s reach.

“Figured you might need a ride, old man,” Sam said.

Chapter 24

We drove south down H Street. “Wasn’t surprised not to see you back there in the crowd, nor at the hospital,” I said. “So what’s changed, why are you here?”

Sam snorted. “Things ain’t changed for squat. I figure your vanity’s getting swelled enough without me feeding into any of this crap. Besides, maybe I don’t like crowds either.”

He was silent for a moment, and then said, “It wasn’t my place, okay? This belonged to you, it was no part of me.”

“It’s all good,” I said.

I glanced around the car, absently cataloging Sam’s worldly possessions. On the floorboards at my feet amongst the other garbage, I saw a filthy old Kodachrome with a boot print stamped on it. It was a photo of a younger me with much more hair, holding baby Sam in my arms.

Baby Sam looked up at Kodachrome Me adoringly even through the boot print. In the picture I had a dopey smile on my face as I looked back down at him; we both appeared inordinately pleased with each other.

I started to bend over and reach for it, but realized Sam was watching me sidelong. I pulled out my wallet instead and sat back up, thumbing through the meager contents like that had been my intention the whole time. If it was okay with Sam this photo was down in the trash, I wasn’t about to show him it bothered me.

“Did Big Moe have a chance to tell you what he wanted yet?” Sam asked out the side of his mouth.

I turned in my seat to click in on him fully, studying his attempt at keeping an expressionless profile. I began cogitating on the ramifications of Sam and Moe sharing the same agenda, whatever that furtive activity list might be.

“No,” I said. “He and I were rudely interrupted in our interactions. Not really sure I should swing by there, though. Natalie thinks I killed her old man, but at least Moe was a gracious host – I kind of got the feeling he wasn’t eager to let me leave.”

Sam looked at me quick before returning his gaze to the road ahead. “You should count your blessings they held off on you.”

“And whose idea was it to be so nice? Yours?”

Sam snorted as we drove past the hospital, and then took the road up the ridge. “You wish. Sure, Moe wants something from you. But I think you maybe want to hear him out. I promised him I’d do my best to make it happen.”