Pearce Hansen - Stagger Bay

Moe was right: My rage had killed that little girl as surely as if I’d wielded the knife myself. I’d poked the tiger in the sphincter with a sharp stick, thinking to bully the Driver – but he’d mirrored my anger, blazed up just as hot and nasty. It was supposed to have been me he came after to chop – instead, that little girl died screaming for my mistake.

I deserved to have the Gardens turn on me.

I walked toward downtown Stagger Bay. My mind was so involved in my self pity fest that Reese or the Driver could have rolled up and had a free crack at me.

In the past I’d learned to put the darkness and self loathing where it belonged: in a box in my heart where I never had to examine it other than in dreams. But this time the box had overflowed all the way.

I was trapped by the memory of the little girl. I felt small again, just as small as when I awaiting trial for the Beardsleys. Any strength I ever might have had meant nothing.

The classics I’d read in prison were no guidance at all. The Masters were pompous hypocrites. A man couldn’t be expected to fight the impossible; it was pointless for me to even have stood up here.

I reached my destination: the same bus terminal I’d arrived at when I raised a seeming eternity ago. The same bus terminal I’d been heading toward the day it all went down at the school.

I could catch a Greyhound bus to Oakland here at the terminal if I wanted. And why wouldn’t I? If I could sink into the earth I’d do it to get away from this place.

There were no buses in sight and no hangers on waiting as I neared the tiny terminal’s entrance. The sign on the door said ‘Closed for Lunch.’

I wouldn’t have to decide whether or not to ride the magic bus to East Bay freedom for another little while. In the meantime, I wasn’t about to squat in front of the terminal like a homeless mope, letting traffic goggle at me as they drove past.

The next block over toward the waterfront, the bulk of the Andersen Club towered over Old Town’s shorter interposing commercial structures. The Club, originally a mansion built by one of Stagger Bay’s nouveau riche founding robber barons to show off his wealth, had transformed long ago into a men’s club for the local wheels.

I ambled that way for a closer look, remembering all the local bigwigs were members of the Club: real estate developers and out-of-town wealth, local businessmen and politicians of all stripes.

‘Cui Bono?’ Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla always asked when the Romans investigated an affront against the establishment: ‘Who benefits?’

Looking at the Club, I realized all its members stood to profit from the current goings on in Stagger Bay.

The Andersen Club was a rambling three-story Victorian, set back from the street behind a manicured lawn. The building was painted green with trim of various colors, topped with towers and cupolas, and covered with so much rococo woodwork that it resembled a giant gingerbread dollhouse or perhaps a Disneyland ride. If the Addams Family Mansion got a high-end makeover the Andersen Club would be it.

A stone wall surrounded the Club’s parking lot, flanked by a line of topiary animals. Next to the lot entrance stood a huge metal Masonic compass and T-square. Through the opening I saw an array of neatly parked luxury cars: a couple of Jaguars, several Porsches, and even what appeared to be a vintage Testerossa.

I’d heard talk about the goings on within the Club. But as none of the Stagger Bay working stiffs ever got a look inside (other than serving staff, who apparently had to sign some kind of non-disclosure agreement), our wild theories were unsubstantiated.

For myself, I’d always envisioned sex parties with shrink tubing and hair-dryers ala Zappa, or possibly even group S &M sessions with leather-clad hookers cracking whips and screaming orders at the Club members as they crawled around in a groveling circular herd, oily and naked. Unlikely stuff but not impossible, right? We low people had to imagine some kind of degrading fantasies about our betters to vent our spleen.

A spacious picture window dominated the wall opposite me, affording the Club’s occupants a fine view of the marina. It also afforded me an equally fine if narrowly delimited view of several pairs of men, sitting opposite each other at dining tables occupying the length of the window.

At one of the tables I recognized Chief Jansen and Mr. Tubbs dining together, but their lunch date seemed to be less than congenial. The way Tubbs emphatically gesticulated at Jansen, the way Tubbs’ mouth rapidly opened and closed, suggested he was not enjoying a relaxing meal. Jansen, on the other hand, wore a bland condescending smile indicating his digestion at least was not disturbed by the current conversation.

Sam’s Lincoln pulled up to the curb and he got out, came over to join me.

“You keep showing up, keep getting in my face,” I said. “You trying to be friends here?”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t dodge the issues. I been on your butt since you walked away from the Gardens. I seen you checking out the bus station.”

“And if I did decide to split, so what? You’ve made it clear I’m on my own and there’s nothing between us. What I do or don’t do is none of your never mind.”

He aimed a look at the Andersen Club’s parking lot, grunted at all that automotive wealth on display. “Uncle Karl told me once that when you run away, you only give them a free shot at your backside. Is that the kind of role model you want to be repping to people, old man?”

I turned the pained look that arose on my face into a sneer of my own. Karl had stolen the ‘free shot at your backside’ line from me, but now didn’t feel like the right time to reclaim the quote for my own. My brother’s ghost could continue taking credit for it.

“I miscalculated,” I said. “I figured the Driver for the kind of coward that’d only come at you from behind. Looks like I was wrong, but I wasn’t the one who paid for it.”

“You’re ashamed,” Sam said in wondering tones. “You’re only human. No one expects more than that. You’re the one with unrealistic expectations of yourself old man.”

He changed tack: “I asked Uncle Karl about you once. He said, ‘All you need to keep in mind to understand your d-.’” Sam stopped, and then began again, his voice a little raised. “’All you gotta know to understand Markus is two things: first off, to him, perfect paranoia is perfect awareness. Second, he’s got a 200 IQ for hate.’”

I smiled. “Well, you know, playing eternal second fiddle to Karl, I had to have some way to vent my angst, right?”

Sam gave me a sour look. This kid had no sense of humor whatsoever.

“Karl never used to be one to tell tales out of school, Sam,” I said. “But yeah, you may have gathered I’m not necessarily the trusting kind.”

Sam grunted. “I’ll admit we’ve given you little enough reason to trust, you and me being family or no. But you’re not being played here, or at least no more than’s necessary for survival. And so what if I did maybe convince Moe we needed you when you first stumbled into the Gardens? A guy can have more than one reason for doing things, right? It’s not always about you, old man. You’re not the center of the universe, and maybe you need to get over being embarrassed.”

“Is it worth it, Sam?” I asked. “Can we even win here?”

Sam appeared surprised and unhappy; he thought for several seconds before he replied. “I know you don't have much reason to like this place. Maybe Stagger bay isn’t much, but it belongs to me. This place is all the home I’ve ever had.”