J. Rain - Hail Mary

She watched me with a bemused smile and asked if I wanted more. I said sure, and she came back with the rest of the bag. In the end, I left her one row of cookies, and even that took a lot of willpower.

When I was done eating and had polished off my second glass of lemonade, she took me out and showed me around the neighborhood. The showing me around part took a while, since she didn’t have much giddy-up in her get-along, but we made do.

Other than her own front door, she pointed out the various spots where she and the other women in the neighborhood had seen the flasher. She mentioned some other hotspots, too. The outdoor amphitheater, the gym, and the many community centers. Apparently, the perv had been targeting bigger groups of late.

I had with me a handy map of the grounds that included each apartment home. I jotted down each occurrence and even interviewed some of the other witnesses.

When she was done showing me around, I looked at my map and had some ideas on how to proceed, but since the flasher only revealed himself at night, I would implement my ideas later.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I had a hot date with Cindy.

Hubba hubba.

We were at my apartment on a Friday night. Date night.

I was in my kitchen and Cindy was sitting at the counter. She was wearing a red, long-sleeved sheer blouse with a sort of V-neckline. The neckline culminated in a creative built-in tie, which I thought was clever as hell. Hell, why didn’t men’s shirts have built-in ties? She was also wearing a tight, gray skirt that went just below her knees and I could only imagine the proliferation of crushes in her various religion classes. Her blond hair was pulled up into a kind of loose bun. Not so tight that it looked like it hurt, but also somehow still fashionable. I wondered how long it took to create such a masterful bun.

“ Your bun is masterful,” I said.

“ My bun? Just one of them?”

“ All of your buns are masterful,” I said. “But I’m referring to your hair bun.”

She looked slightly disappointed. She also looked slightly drunk, too, although she had only had one glass of wine. She reached up, touched the bun expertly, then shrugged. “Something you learn when you’re ten, I guess.”

Because I know she likes wine, I take great pleasure in looking for unique bottles for her, especially out in Temecula, southern California’s closest wine country. Granted, I wasn’t out that way often, but when I was, I always grabbed her a few bottles. And met with an ex-private investigator friend of mine who now writes novels. Good guy, but I’m not much into vampires.

As I poured her more chardonnay, I said, “Well, when I was ten, I was figuring out ways to get home from school without getting beat up. More often than not, I chose poorly. Turns out, there really weren’t that many different ways for me to get home.”

She tasted the wine and made a long “Mmm” sound. I loved her long “Mmm” sounds.

“ Delicious,” she said, and I couldn’t help but wonder what separated a delicious wine from a non-delicious wine, since all wines tended to taste like dry air. Anyway, when she was done smacking her lips, she looked at me from over her glass. “I can’t imagine anyone bullying you.”

“ It’s easy to be bullied when you’re ten. All it takes is a handful of teenagers.”

“ Could you have handled one teenager?”

“ Maybe even two,” I said.

“ At ten?”

“ I was a big boy at ten.”

She nodded. “That I believe.”

I was a slob at heart, but having Cindy around solved that. She was an elegant, sophisticated woman, a world-renowned professor, and an even better human being. Why she was with a thug like me, I may never know, but she deserved to come over to a clean apartment. And not just clean. Immaculate. With Cindy, I had long ago cleaned up my act and grew up. Like they say, she made an honest man of me. And a clean one, too.

“ Are we really having chips and salsa for dinner?” she asked.

“ Not just chips and salsa,” I said. I had just sliced three avocados and was currently in the process of scooping out the meaty fruit into a bowl. Next to me were onions and tomatoes and a chopping board. “Homemade guacamole with rice and beans.”

“ Actually that sounds kind of yummy. No meat?”

“ No meat,” I said. “That’s why I added rice and beans.”

She nodded. “A perfect protein.”

I grinned as I grabbed an onion. “Why, you must be a professor.”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “Common knowledge, I think. So you’re taking this vegetarian thing seriously?”

“ More so than ever.”

“ I can respect that,” she said. She reached for a chip in a nearby bowl and I slapped her hand away.

“ That’s dinner.”

“ It’s just a chip.”

“ Chips are dinner, too.”

She stuck out her lower lip and had some more wine. She made small noises that seemed to indicate she was still enjoying the wine.

“ I can respect it,” she said, “just as long as you don’t expect me to follow your lead.”

“ I don’t expect you to,” I said. I next scraped the finely chopped onions into a bowl. I started on the tomatoes.

She added, “That also means you won’t give me crap if I order fish or chicken or steak, or even lamb.”

“ Geez, lamb?”

“ I happen to like lamb.”

“ Fine.”

“ And no bad looks either.”

“ No bad looks,” I agreed. “Just as long as you know when you come over here, we eat meat-free.”

She drank more of her wine and looked at me, grinning. If she had another glass in her, she might have commented on the meat-free reference. Might have. Then again, she was a lady. Even when buzzed.

I next chopped up the chili and jalapeno pepper, then added the crushed garlic, freshly squeezed lime juice, salt, pepper and a hint of sugar. I didn’t add cilantro. Cilantro tastes like mummy wrappings. I mixed it all together with the avocado, and I think I might have drooled a little on my shirt.

We ate on my balcony. Me with a beer, and Cindy with her second glass of wine.

Below us was bustling Main Street in Huntington Beach, alive on a Friday night. Laughter and voices reached us from below, and with our knees touching, I told Cindy about my day and she told me about hers, and we scooped and ate and drank and laughed and talked the night away…

I’m not a sailor. Or a seaman. Or a boatsman.

I’m more comfortable on the football field than on the open water. My idea of a good time is bashing helmets. Not charging through choppy waves, or dropping from crests and plunging into deep troughs.

It was enough to make anyone’s stomach turn.

Anyone, that is, except me.

I was on a Department of Fish and Game police boat, a massive 65-foot monohull that cut over the water at a surprising clip. The boat had three levels and enough electronic equipment to make anyone dizzy.

And I was most certainly not dizzy due to any sort of sea sickness.

The afternoon was bright and cool, but I found myself sweating through my tee shirt and the life jacket they made me wear. The young game warden who had fitted me with the jacket had to adjust it to nearly twice its normal chest size.

And still it was tight.

Too damn tight.

Breathe, Jim.

The boat bounced and splashed and hurled seemingly recklessly deeper out to sea. A Knighthorse did not belong on the open ocean.

“ You okay there, partner?” asked Warden Joe Fossil, who appeared from the bridgedeck, or navigation room. The warden’s age was hard to nail down. Months and no doubt years out on the ocean had dried out his skin and sunburned it to a permanent reddish tan. He wore a narrow life vest and a shirt that said Game Warden in big letters and Department of Fish and Game in much smaller letters. He had on a typical cop utility belt, with a. 40 caliber Glock holstered at his hip.