Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

“Money,” I said.

“Eau de cash,” he assented. “Does it every time.”

“So old Tony’s on Viagra,” I said. “That a fact?”

“I don’t know if it’s a fact, man, but that’s what you hear. Look, the dude’s got to be what – seventy, eighty, a hundred fifty? My dad used to buy his magazine. Hell, maybe the lead in his pencil still is righteous – he’s got a young wife, I seen her, she comes in once in a while to the Dollar for breakfast – used to, when there was a Dollar.” He cupped his hands six inches from his chest. “Rack on her. Never looked happy, but I heard she popped a coupla kids for Old Tony.”

“What was she unhappy about?”

“Who knows? The dudes who used to work the parking lot said she’d style up in this very cool Expedition – black with gray trim on the bottom, big tires, righteous running boards, chrome wheels – always open her own door before they could reach her, then act pissed that they hadn’t gotten there in time. Always in a big hurry. The parking dudes used to joke about that – she had to rush because the old guy needed her home by the time the Viagra kicked in. ’Cause that’s the way that stuff works, you know? You drop a pill, wait for the old pecker to salute the flag, but you only got so much time to pour the pork before it’s back staring at your shoes.” He lowered his hand in a long, slow flutter. “Maybe that’s how the Viagra thing started – ’cause she was always in a hurry. Anyway, money don’t buy everything, right? Give me my sand, a few waves, and I’m styling.”

He pinched his Adam’s apple and touched the canker sore briefly. I looked for a surfboard, didn’t see one.

“You ride, huh?” I said.

“When I can.”

“No shape today.”

He laughed hard. “Never any shape, here. You don’t surf Paradise , man. This is work. That’s my office .” Pointing to the rental shack.

“Thought everything was closed.”

“Hey, they pay me to show up, I show up.” He swung the key ring in a wobbly arc.

“You open for any business at all?” I said.

“I wouldn’t snorkel out there, man. Too much silt, and a sky like this is gonna reduce your visibility to zippo.”

“I was thinking a kayak.”

The crooked white nose lowered as he gave me a long, appraising look. “You don’t know squat about waves, but you don’t have that tourist smell about you either.”

“Tourist from L.A.,” I said. “I used to live in Malibu. Out past Leo Carrillo. Came back for old times’ sake.”

“Over by El Pescador?”

“Past El Pescador. Over the county line, near Neptune’s Net.”

“Livingston Beach,” he said. “Cool riding zone – prime shape – you ever try to surf?”

“Did some boogie boarding,” I said.

“I graduated that when I was in third grade, man. Moved right on to the heavy stuff. I was a hotdogger back in high school – got three minutes of footage in Water Demons II . Then my ears went – chronic infections, the doctor said no more. I said screw the doctor, but now my head hurts all the time no matter how much Advil I drop, so I hold down the rides to once a week. You serious about a kayak?”

“Sure, why not?”

He looked me up and down again. “Guess no reason. It’s cold out there, but it’s glass, except for the rips. Which way you gonna go?”

“South.” I smiled. “Maybe catch a look at old Tony’s place.”

He laughed. “Figures. But don’t get your hopes high.”

He led me toward the rental shack, said, “It’s a pretty easy day for paddling, but going south you are gonna be pushing against the currents. You look like you got the shoulders to handle it, but just know that, okay? We’re not talking Lake Arrowhead. Also, there is some riptides along the way – small ones, but they’ll bump the boat, so don’t be looking for tits and ass and start getting pushed out further than you wanna be.”

“Thanks for the advice. How much is the rental?”

“Hold on,” he said. “Another thing: No matter how glassy it looks and how good a rower you think you are, your clothes are gonna get soaked. I tell people all the time but they never listen and sure enough they come back with their clothes all stuck to them, pissed off. Only way to stay dry is use a wet suit, man. I can rent you that too.”

“Make it a combo,” I said. “How much?”

He licked his lips, peeled a speck of zinc from his nose. “First I gotta unlock the place, then I gotta find a flashlight so I can check the suits, make sure there’s no cracks from all the time they been sitting there. Then, I gotta check ’em for spiders and scorpions crawling in – ’cause we get them, here.”

“Scorpions?” I said. “Near the beach?”

“Little black nasty ones. You think of ’em as desert dudes, but they’re here, man, hibernating or whatever. Probably hitched a ride in on some truck from T.J. So I gotta stick my hand in and shake out the suit.”

“I appreciate it. Exterminator fees gonna cost me too?”

He laughed. “Well,” he said, “normally it’s twenty bucks an hour for the boat, twelve for the suit, six for mask and fins, so that would be thirty-eight up front, and we usually take a driver’s license for deposit.”

“No mask and fins,” I said. “Just the boat and the suit.”

“Your feet are gonna get cold.”

“I can live with it.”

“Your choice, man – okay, how long you planning on staying out? ’Cause I wasn’t planning to be here all afternoon. I mean, I show up, but I don’t make a big thing out of it, know what I mean?”

“Couple of hours at the most.”

“Couple of hours – yeah, I can handle that. So that would be sixty-four bucks, but for you, let’s make it a package – say fifty-five even, and I won’t even take no deposit, ’cause where the hell are you gonna go? If it’s cash.”

Wink, wink.

“Cash it is,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

He selected a key from the ring, slipped it into the lock on the rental shack’s door. “Rusty. The ocean never stops eating – kind of freaky, idn’t it? Cool, too. The ocean’s gonna be here for a billion more years, and we’re not. So why worry about anything?”

The kayaks made up the mass beneath the blue tarp, and he pulled a yellow-trimmed, white single-rider and a paddle from the shack. I stripped behind the tiny building as Norris – after I paid him he volunteered his name – readied the kayak. Standing naked and shivering in the frigid air, I double-checked the suit’s neoprene sleeves and legs for creepie-crawlies. Once I slipped into the rubber sheath, the warmth was nearly immediate.

“Hey,” said Norris, as I emerged. He was kneeling next to the boat and wiping down the interior with a filthy-looking rag. “Mr. Lloyd Bridges, man. There’s a zip compartment on the left leg for your wallet and keys. You can leave the rest of your stuff in your car – cool car, by the way. Long as you get back in time, I won’t steal it.” Jamming the rag in the rear pocket of his shorts, he slapped the boat’s fiberglass flank. “Picked you a good one. You ever done this before?”

“Yup.”

“So you know that even when they feel like they’re tipping over, they’re probably not. If you wanna pick up speed, just keep that rhythm going – hand over hand. And don’t let go of the paddle. It’ll float, but it can get away from you, and if it does, I got to charge you.”

We toted the kayak to the water’s edge, then he eased it into the ocean and held it steady as I climbed in.

“Go for it, man,” he said, shoving me off. “You see any serious pussy, I want to hear about it.”