Tapping the Source (25 page)

It was easier getting out this time. Ike stuck in Hound’s tracks. They stayed on the north side of the pier—maybe ten yards out, their boards angled toward it at forty-five degrees—and soon Ike was back outside, moving with the rest of the pack, no longer a part of the crowd on the pier, but among the dancers.

Ever since that first day, when the other surfer had punched him, Ike had followed Preston’s advice and avoided the pier. But he had stood on it and watched the others often enough. Things were hectic and competitive among the crowds below the pier, surfers always moving, jockeying for position, shouting. And now he was with them, trying to stay on the outside edge so as not to get caught inside. He was able to spot a number of surfers he recognized, Frank Baker and one of the Samoans among them.

Along with the crowded conditions at the pier, however, there was a certain pecking order. He had noticed it before: there might be forty people in the water, but you would still see the same dozen picking up the best waves. Part of that had to do with judgment and skill; part of it had to do with intimidation. And one of the things Ike noticed that morning was that even though there were other younger surfers who were just as good, no one got any more waves than Hound Adams.

•   •   •

But for Ike it was a tough session, a morning of freight-train lefts, of clawing over the top into waves that only closed out and snuffed him. Perhaps it was, like Hound said, a state of mind. It was also hard work and so Ike did not give it much thought when, at one point, he noticed the spot of brightness, which he identified as sunlight on chrome, moving along the highway. And later, as the spot grew and contracted so that it was possible to see that it was not one large object but a number of smaller ones, he was not watching at all; nor did he see them make the turn off the highway and into the lot beneath the pier. It was not, in fact, until Hound had officially called it a morning and Ike was following him back through the sand that he noticed the bikes, and in particular the low-slung Panhead he recognized as belonging to Morris.

Hound and one of the Jacobs brothers were a few steps ahead of Ike as they came out of the sand and into the lot, the point at which Ike identified the bike. It was a bad moment, and Ike was aware of a sinking sensation spreading through his tired body. He called to Hound, but even as Hound was turning to look back the bikers made their move. It was Morris and three other bikers Ike did not recognize. Ike figured they probably wanted the Samoan the worst, but he was definitely caught in the middle.

There was a brick rest room near the center of the lot and the bikers had been waiting behind it. They came around now, two from each side, and they were coming fast. Chains and wrenches appeared out of nowhere, grabbing scattered bits of sunlight. A surfboard hit the pavement with the crunching sound Fiberglas makes when it shatters. Ike thought that it was the Samoan’s board that fell, but for some reason it was hard to tell. He was trying to see everything at once, to consider all possibilities. He took a few steps backward but did not run. The strength seemed to have left his legs. It was the way he had felt earlier, in the water, clawing his way over the face of that first outside set, staring into the stone jaws of the old pier. For a moment it was hard to register exactly what was happening. There was just all this movement: a blur of grease-stained jeans and tattooed flesh, black boots digging sparks out of the pavement, sunlight on metal. And then the action seemed to arrange itself into two separate battles, one on each side of him.

It was the bikers’ play and they had called it two on one, going after Hound and Jacobs first, saving Ike for last. To Ike’s left, Hound Adams moved so quickly it was hard to see what was happening, but he seemed to have turned and his board was in the air spinning rail over rail, as if he’d flipped it at the two bikers coming toward him. One biker sidestepped the board, the other knocked it to the ground and then stumbled over it. And it seemed that just as one biker stumbled, Hound crouched and made a move to his left, as if to run. The other biker went for the move, digging bootheels into the lot, spreading arms as if to block an escape. But Hound was not trying to run. He came out of the crouch, moved a half step forward and spun around, catching the biker coming in with a vicious roundhouse kick to the head. Ike saw the biker’s jaw go slack, saw him drop to one knee, his mouth dripping blood as he stared into the pavement with a slightly puzzled expression on his face.

To Ike’s right, however, the big Samoan was in trouble. He had dropped his board and then, in an effort to set up for the biker’s charge, had brought his foot down on the rail and thrown himself off-balance. And Morris had picked up on the slip. He had caught the Samoan with his legs spread, fighting for balance, and kicked him solidly in the groin. Jacobs gasped for air, then went down hard, landing on his shoulder, and instantly the two bikers were on top of him. Someone wrapped a bicycle chain around his head and two pairs of heavy black boots went to work on his rib cage.

Ike himself stumbled backward, though no one had touched him, and banged his board into a parked car. Suddenly there were people running across the lot, fishermen, tourists, a few surfers, everyone coming to watch. Ike clung to his board as if it were going to save him, banged it again into the car. The lot was a place of fear and confusion, dozens of people running from all directions, pigeons scattering and rising like leaves on a wind. Somewhere there was a siren, the red flash of a passing Jeep. But Hound Adams was alone now, circling, kicking, trying desperately to hold three bikers at bay. There had been a moment, earlier, with one biker stumbling, one down, when Hound could have run, but he had stayed and he was now all that stood between Ike and the chromed wrench in Morris’s hand.

The bikers, however (and Ike would think of this only later), had been stupid to make their play so close to the pier, in full view of the lifeguard towers. Perhaps they had thought to make it fast, not counting on Hound Adams to slow them down. Or perhaps they had not thought at all. At any rate, there were suddenly black-and-whites skidding across the lot and helmeted cops coming out of the woodwork.

The bikers made no attempt to fight their way out, and suddenly, as suddenly as it had begun, the whole thing was over. It could not have lasted more than a couple of minutes. Ike found himself standing beside Hound Adams as the bikers were spread-eagled over the hoods of the two cars.

•   •   •

Jacobs, though able to get up under his own power, had been taken away in an ambulance, and Ike and Hound now stood alone on the sidewalk that ran above the parking lots. “Stupid,” Hound said. “Very stupid. And those are his friends.” Hound was not looking at Ike but gazing out at the sea. The strange part was that Ike knew exactly whom Hound was talking about, and he found it strange as well that there was a note of disappointment in Hound’s voice, almost the way one would talk about a family member who had gone bad. Hound shook his head and continued to squint out to sea. The delicate lighting of dawn was gone now. The horizon was a straight blue line, the sun high and bright above the water. “The guy used to kill me,” Hound said. “He was so fucking innovative, but he never knew what he was doing. Like he had a way of making bottom turns when it was big; he would switch rails, roll to his outside rail a split second before setting the inside edge. It was a way of getting more curve, more projection out of the turn. I picked it out of some films once and mentioned it to him. He didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about. He just did it, by instinct or something. I don’t think the guy ever knew how good he really was. And he threw it all away, man, chucked the whole thing. Now he’s got friends like Morris.” By this point, Ike was not certain if Hound Adams was talking to him or to himself. The only thing he was certain of was that it was the first time he had listened to Hound Adams and not gotten the idea that Hound was playing a part or putting him on; it was like he was just talking. The first honest words Ike had heard him say, and they were about Preston.

26

Later that afternoon, Ike sat on the steps of the Sea View apartments, watching the sun dip behind the buildings that lined the highway, waiting for Michelle to come home from work. All day long he had thought about what had happened at the beach, trying not to imagine what might have happened had Hound not slowed the bikers down, had the cops not come when they did.

He was still there when Michelle came home. He followed her to her room while she changed clothes and tended her plants. He told her about the fight, about the way Hound Adams had stood his ground against the bikers.

“Maybe you were wrong about him,” she said.

“I don’t know. He saved my ass today, though. He could have split. There was this moment when he could have run, but he didn’t. He stayed. I know that much.”

“I told you, he likes you.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever thought about just asking him?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“And?”

“Not yet.” He went to the mattress and sat on it. “He wants me to come by tonight,” he told her. “He says he wants to see me about something, working off that board, I suppose.”

“Take me.”

“I don’t know. I think maybe I should go alone.” Michelle had been changing clothes. He watched her pull a faded pair of jeans up over that white triangle of skin that was the mark of her bathing suit on her bare ass, and suddenly what he wanted to do was stay with her. He was certain he didn’t want to take her with him, have to watch Hound Adams giving her the eye.

She sat down beside him. “Come on,” she said. “I want to go.”

“Shit, you just want to get high.”

She fell back on the mattress, letting herself bounce. “So what’s wrong with that? At least Hound’s always got good dope.”

“I just think I should go alone, that’s all.”

“You just don’t want to take me to Hound’s,” she said, “because you’re jealous.”

“Shit.” He got up and went to the window. He hated it when she sounded like a goddamn little kid. He looked back at her spread out on the bed, propped up now on her elbows, hair resting on her shoulders; he wanted to walk over and slap the smile off her face. And one of the reasons he wanted to was because he knew that she was right. He was jealous. Hound Adams was too slick. If he wanted to put the moves on some chick, he was going to make it work. He looked away from her and into the dark glass of the window. Then Michelle was up and standing beside him, her voice softer. “You don’t have to be jealous,” she said. “I know he likes me. I can tell, but I know what he wants. It’s too easy to get hung up on guys like that.”

He wished she would shut up. It was crazy how it went. Sometimes he felt so close to her, like they were so much alike, and other times it was as if they didn’t even speak the same language.

“I mean, I’ve had boyfriends like that and …”

“All right, all right.” He didn’t feel like hearing her get started about all her past boyfriends.

“Why does that make you so mad? You know I’ve had lots of boyfriends. It’s just because we grew up in different kinds of places. You think it means I don’t like you?”

She was still beside him and he put his arm around her shoulders. “No. Look, I’m not mad, but I just don’t think you should come with me tonight, okay? I didn’t mean to make such a big deal out of it.”

She turned back to her bed and sat down. “You never ate anything,” she said.

“I’ll get something later.”

“Come by, okay?”

“Okay, if it’s not too late.”

“Come by anyway.”

He stood in the doorway looking at her. She was still on the bed, sitting up straight with her arms out behind her. With her long arms and legs all tanned and her sun-streaked hair, her tank top and cutoff jeans, she looked just like all those girls he saw every day around the pier, sitting on the railings, walking with their transistor radios, but she wasn’t just like them; for him she was special, and that could never change.

•   •   •

The house on Fifth Street was dark. He almost turned and left, thinking he was too late, thinking too about Michelle and wanting very much to go back to her. But he figured he should not leave without at least knocking.

To his surprise the door was opened almost at once by a slender brown-haired girl he had not seen before. She let him in without a word and led him to a back room where Frank Baker, Hound Adams, and two of the Jacobs brothers sat on sagging couches, passing a pipe. Ike looked for the brother who had been beaten but did not see him. He stood in the doorway, feeling out of place, awkward.