Lucky Supreme Read online

  I sat across the street from the shop and studied the place. It was dark inside past the neon in the windows, and I almost never saw it with the lights out. Delia opened on most days, and when she didn’t one of the new guys did. Big Mike or Nigel were always there when I left. The neighborhood was changing around it, but even powered down and empty the place still resonated, like the center of a new spider web. Critical avenues of strange energy intersected at that point.

  I let myself in and wrote a short note to Delia, reminding her that my bedroom, specifically my bed, was off limits, especially if she had crabs, and that she could help herself to the beer in the fridge. I taped the note and the spare key to her locker. Big Mike had mopped just a few hours before and the place was still humid and heavy with the smell of floor polish and mop juice.

  There was nothing left to do. I looked at my station and as an afterthought I took a handful of blue nitrile gloves and stuffed them into the interior pocket of my bomber jacket. I gave the place a final once-over from the doorway and then locked up.

  Once I hit I-5 south, my pensive mood lifted a little. Most of the early commuters were inbound for the city center, so as I headed south the road was reasonably clear. I fell in a few hundred yards behind a fast-moving semi, far enough back to be clear of its swirling mist cloud, hit the cruise control, and settled back in the big leather seat.

  City gradually gave way to suburbs that in turn gave way to industrial parks. I blew through it all, sipping black coffee and ruminating. When I finally hit scan on the radio, I came across a three-block set of the Doobie Brothers, which struck me as a good sign. After the alarm clock episode I’d been waiting for one. A gray sunrise was in progress when I hit the base of the Siskiyous and started climbing.

  I-5 stretched from Canada to Mexico, and I’d lived within earshot of it for most of my life, been lulled to sleep on countless nights in different periods of my existence by the sound of its ever-running river of engines. I’d hitchhiked up and down it two decades ago with some hippie woman whose name I couldn’t remember. I’d almost died on it twice and fallen in love with a Lisa in one of its roadside bars. The best peach I’d ever eaten had come from a fruit stand off of I-5. Three of my friends had disappeared down it, headed for the fabled country called “That Way.” My brother had vanished on it, headed north.

  Unfortunately, the stretch between Portland and Medford was probably the most visually bland stretch of that great road. From Portland to the California border in October it was a straight shot of spent agricultural fields cut down to hard nubs poking through the mud, groves of fruitless trees shedding mottled leaves, and assorted hangar-like aluminum farm buildings. Hours of rain-swept monotony before the sudden transformation around Ashland and the edge of California. Medford was where Cannibal Country began, and it thickened from there.

  I stopped in a tweaker shithole called Roseburg four hours south of Portland, found a burger joint, and went through the drive-thru. Normally I’d look for a taco truck, the kind of place that sprang up around the migrant workers in those parts and were reliably good if you had a stomach properly callused from years of Flaco’s juniors, but I didn’t have time to prowl around and sniff one out. Instead, I wolfed down a bland jalapeño cheeseburger in the parking lot, leaning up against my car. The only thing worse than fast food was the LSD-inspired Disneyland decor in the places, so a rainy parking lot filled with big new Ford pickups and a scabrous beater Pinto put the highlights on brunch. When I was finished, I tossed the garbage in their bright plastic can, washed my hands off on the rainy hood of my car, and hit the road again.

  It stopped raining about ten minutes from the state line. Around noon, I took off my jacket and put on some Ray-Bans from the Lucky’s lost and found that I kept in the glove box. I turned the heater off. I’d just lit a cigarette and was thinking about sneaking a road beer when my cell phone rang. Delia.

  “Where you at?” she asked.

  “Just hit California. The sun came out pretty much instantly. I’m actually wearing sunglasses right now.”

  “I can’t believe you made me stay here. You know what I look like in a swimsuit?”

  “I dunno. A thirteen-year-old tranny?”

  “Ha ha. Fuck you. I got your key and the colorful note. I’ll feed Pinky and Dillson when I get off.”

  “Thanks. What’s going on up there?”

  “Alex rescheduled all your appointments for the next few days. None of them rebelled because he told them you had something on your scalp you needed lanced. Sympathy all around. My idea, of course. I’m booked and so is he. Dwight is on walk-ins.”

  I knew that Delia thought Dwight was a limper, and her stand-in management style always pushed things right to the edge. She would spend the day coaching him on everything from setting up and breaking down his station expeditiously to eating faster. So the new guys were going to be really happy when I got back.

  “Any sign of Dmitri?”

  “Not yet.” Delia sighed. “You didn’t find him yesterday?”

  “Didn’t look, so no. Gomez was worried.”

  “You didn’t see the pants, Darby. You didn’t smell him.”

  “Yeah, well … if he comes in don’t freak him out.”

  “I won’t! God! Have fun in sunny California while I run your excuse for a life. Sunglasses my ass.”

  “Smoochay,” I replied. I blew a kiss.

  She hung up.

  I hit the edge of the Monterey peninsula just after nine in the evening. I’d been there before when Obi first moved down and then a few more times afterward. I liked the place and I knew my way around well enough. I took the exit to the Marina District and on impulse drove by the shop where Obi wound up. Jane Western’s Original Tattoo was closed for the night and the windows were dark. It was small, with only three artists in residence: Jane, Obi, and a cool kid named Pedro, but it was a quality operation. They drew all their own flash, though they had a few sheets that were gifts from other artists, including a sheet of mermaids I’d drawn, but they did mostly custom work, from noon to eight Monday through Saturday. Obi was happy there. He planned on opening his own place in a year or two, and that was part of the reason he’d left Portland. Like any good apprentice, he didn’t want to compete with the shop he’d learned in.

  Jane Western herself was somewhat typical for a woman in the predominately male field of tattooing. Intelligent, highly focused, generally impressive. Tough. She was my age—around forty—and enjoyed triathlons and tinkering with her collection of vintage jukeboxes. She also went bow hunting for bear or possibly moose in Alaska every year with some of her cop friends. Her house, Obi once told me, was decorated with old movie posters and furnished with many items she had made herself. In another life I might have asked her out on a two-week date to Mexico, but in this one I was too scared.

  I rolled past the place and then down streets lined with old whitewashed Spanish buildings with terracotta roofs, wind-sculpted coastal pines, and the odd palm tree. Beautiful. The kind of place I could fall in love with every morning. The Portola Hotel was at the edge of the marina, a short walk from the plaza and the pier that jutted out into a sleepy bay full of old sundowner sailboats and sea lions. I parked in the brick turnabout in front of the hotel and checked in at the front desk. A smiling Sri Lankan woman with dusky skin and enormous hazel eyes gave me a cookie and then ran through the perks. At around three hundred a night, it was more than a little steep, but since Bling was going to be footing the bill, I decided to live a little.

  I walked through the lobby with my duffel bag, skimming through tight clumps of well-dressed men and women. The entire ground floor was given over to a brick floored atrium with towering citrus trees and perfect potted plants. Soft piano music wafted out of the lounge as I punched the arrow on the nearest in the bank of elevators.

  The room was spacious, with a small sitting area, a bed designed for three people and their two guard dogs, a massive flat-screen TV tastefully concealed in a towering
wooden cabinet, and a minibar located just before the sliding doors that led to the smoking balcony. After I dropped my bag in the middle of the room, I opened the little bar refrigerator and spun the lid off of a mini of Johnny Walker Red, dumped it into a waiting glass, and tapped Obi on my cell phone.

  “Boss!” he shouted joyfully.

  “I’m here,” I replied. “Over in the marina and I’m fucking starving. Meet me at the Crown and Anchor in half an hour.” There was no way was I going to eat the leftovers of whatever poor Obi had for dinner.

  “On my way,” he said. “Welcome back to the Gold Coast.”

  I took a quick shower and changed into black jeans and a clean black V-neck T-shirt. It was a clear night and still warm that far south, so I took a ball bearing out of my coat and put it into the front pocket of my jeans, leaving my jacket behind. A lot of tattoos were showing, but it was a reasonably hip town. Delia had redone the old dragon spiraling up my arm, turning it from a dated late-eighties mess into a truly fantastic creature cavorting across a cloud-streaked sky webbed with lightning. The band of roses on my wrist could have used an overhaul, but it had sentimental value.

  Outside, I walked a little ways away from the doors and lit a cigarette. The night felt perfect, that magical temperature where I couldn’t even feel my skin. The air smelled like citrus and the ocean. I started walking, a slow, relaxed amble I noticed instantly. I wasn’t on vacation, I reminded myself, and at the same time I didn’t care.

  The Crown and Anchor was just around the corner. It was a basement establishment with an English pub motif: dark wood, brass, plaid carpet, and shelves full of knickknacks like pictures of old sailboats and dinner plates depicting past Queens and foxhunts. I’d always wanted to go on a foxhunt so I could steal all the horses. It would make the right kind of picture, anyway. I knew from my last visit that the prime rib was excellent and they had imperial pints, plus a good selection of scotch. The waitress guided me to a booth with high wooden backs and took my drink order. Obi arrived minutes later.

  “Dude!” he shouted.

  I stood up and we hugged. Obi was a hard six feet with an expressive Nordic face, close-set blue eyes, an almost comical Superman jaw, and hair so blond that it bordered on white. His beaming face was sunburned and peeling across the bridge of his nose. I’d given him endless shit about sunscreen over the years and so had everyone else, but he was evidently still set on the tan he would never get.

  “How was the drive?” he asked, settling across from me.

  “Not bad. I have that weird sloshing feeling, like I’m still in the car.”

  “You obviously need strong drink.”

  The waitress arrived as if on cue with an imperial tankard of Harp and a tumbler of Macallan on the rocks. Obi ordered a pint and we both went for the prime rib, medium rare. That he was hungry so late was tacit proof that a variation of the onion and olive casserole had been on the menu at his place.

  “So,” he said, rubbing his hands together and grinning.

  “So,” I replied. I downed the scotch and sipped the beer. The road slosh receded a few degrees, like the beginning of a shift to low tide. A nice little campfire lit up below my sternum and radiated out into my T-shirt.

  “I did a little calling around, very discreet,” Obi said. He looked both ways and leaned in a little closer. The Crown and Anchor was a loud and lively place at that time of night, but I appreciated his caution. “The shop he works at is called the Smiling Dragon Tattoo Emporium. Bling calls himself Richie Rad now, if you can believe anything so fuckin’ stupid. The place opened a few months ago, a real turnstile. I had my buddy Jim go in and look around. Your Norton stuff isn’t in there. Nobody knows who owns the place, but it doesn’t look like Bling does or he’d be lording around like some Rockefeller in a gold sequin dinner jacket. Plus, you know, guys like Bling … He’s on the run from so many people he can’t open a PO box.”

  Obi’s beer came. He took a mighty slurp and smacked his lips. “So what’s our plan?”

  “I’ll drive over in the morning and check the place out. Hopefully Jason’ll be working, or whatever it is he does there. When he’s done I’ll follow him home and make it up as I go along.”

  “He’ll freak if he sees your car,” Obi said thoughtfully.

  “I’ll get a rental at the airport.”

  “You can use my van if you want,” Obi offered. “Man, I want to go with you.” Obi had only worked with Bling for three weeks, but it had been more than enough. It was also possible that Delia had called him and put a few ideas in his head.

  I shook my head. “It’s better if you stay out of it. I’ll just pick up a rental. With any luck this will all be over with tomorrow night.”

  Obi cocked his head with a wry smile and raised his glass. “Well then. To Lucky Supreme.”

  I clinked his glass with mine.

  After a huge prime rib dinner I said good night to my old apprentice and strolled along the waterfront to the pier. I’d passed the halfway drunk line somewhere, but stopped within sight of it, so I felt good, but not bad-tomorrow good. White sailboats rocked gently on the calm water in their bird-shit-spattered mooring slips. A seal belched somewhere in the darkness, and a thin fog was spreading in off the calm water. I lit a cigarette and walked up to the railing and leaned up against it, spit into the water.

  Sounds carried through the moist air, and scents as well. The lapping waves of the briny harbor mingled with the lemon trees and the cooling herbal sap of sage and rosemary. Distant laughter from the restaurants on the pier combined with the plastic grinding of wheels as the Mexican dishwashers towed huge garbage cans full of spent oyster shells and shrimp fins to wherever they took them at the end of the night.

  The nightlife around the marina was wealthy and young and often very beautiful. The thrum of expensive sports car engines wired out of the fog behind me with increasing frequency as I smoked, and that sound would grow with the heartbeat of ten-dollar drinks and fake tits and quality coke as the evening took its ever-changing form. But right then was the median time, my favorite and most familiar twilight, the magic place between two worlds in one place. It made me a little homesick for Old Town, which would have been both sad and disgusting if my mood hadn’t been just right. It made me feel rich instead, in the way that borderline broke people sometimes do.

  The fog had burned off by nine a.m. I sat on the brick patio on the ocean side of the Portola eating breakfast from the buffet. Cantaloupe, some grapes, a single strawberry, and black coffee struck me as healthy, but I was picking at it. I was never much of a morning eater, but it was probably going to be a long day with a potential for serious physical activity and a surveillance diet, which I assumed meant no food, so I felt obligated to try.

  Two slender women in spandex and knee pads rollerbladed past, heading for the bike path that led to the aquarium. Long hair and long legs. I watched their retreating backsides from behind the anonymity of my lost-and-found sunglasses and considered that it would be timely to get laid. The quality of the late October light was a rich, buttery yellow, sharper than the sunlight in Oregon, but still with that Vaseline fantasy blur that gave the west coast part of its orangey seventies movie quality. A light breeze ruffled the fruit trees and potted bamboo. A few more athletic women bladed past. The Portola buffet served mimosas with really good orange juice. I didn’t want to go anywhere at all.

  I trapped a few bucks on the table under my coffee cup for the Mexican busboy and caught a cab in front of the hotel. The small airport was less than ten minutes away, and it took less than five to rent an anonymous white Camry from Avis. I picked up a map, even though I didn’t really need it after Obi’s careful instructions, scribbled laboriously on the Crown and Anchor napkin in my pocket. It was just after ten thirty when I hit the freeway for the forty-minute drive to Santa Cruz.

  I’d been to Santa Cruz. In the late eighties I’d worked briefly as a butcher in Alaska, chopping salmon for the lower forty-eight in a fresh free
ze factory located on a spit of land outside of a little town called Homer on the Kenai Peninsula. It hadn’t been all that bad, though I’d never considered doing it again. Everyone lived in tents on the beach. The other butchers and the freezer crew guys and gals were from all over the country, and every night after work we’d gather around big flat bonfires and drink beer and do bong hits, dreaming out loud about what we’d do once the season was over.

  A lot of those young adventurers went to Thailand or India, sometimes Nepal. They did the same thing every year. If they ran low on fish cash they would bomb into Amsterdam and sell coke to other Americans for a few months. Sounded fun. My plan was less prosaic, but I was eighteen and I didn’t know anything about the outside world at the time. When the factory closed at the end of the season, I hitchhiked all the way down to Santa Cruz with some hippie chick I’d met up there, the first white girl I’d ever seen with dreadlocks. She was a little older than me, in her midtwenties, and about as spaced out a woman as an eighteen-year-old boy/man could ask for. We stayed in a crappy motel on the beach with a kitchenette for a few months, eating beans and rice and shagging like lusty animals in a perpetual spring mating season for stoned mammals. I smiled when I thought about it, and when I did I realized my face had been locked in zero all morning in spite of the view.

  Santa Cruz hadn’t changed all that much in the intervening years. It still had an artsy, sleepy beach town feel, but the effect was somewhat diminished by the new prefab crap sprouting up between the old buildings. Even the venerable brick structures were showing symptoms of the same American retrofit virus that was running through Old Town—if it was old, slap a plastic sign on it and call it good until the bulldozers arrived.