Kem Nunn - Tapping the Source

It was near sunset when they returned to the harbor. The sky was red and gold above the huge bay-front homes. It was hard to believe they were only a few miles from downtown Huntington Beach, from the cliffs and oil wells, the graffiti-covered fire rings and the parties of the inland gangs.

After they had hosed down the boat and coiled the lines, they stood above the docks, looking back toward the bay and the lights of the homes. “I own some land north of here,” Milo said, looking at Ike. “Some good surf up there. I’m planning a party in another week or so, kind of an end-of-the-summer ritual that I practice with a few friends. I could use some help getting the place ready. How would you and Michelle like to come up and help? You can bring your stick and get some waves.”

Ike nodded. He looked at Michelle. “Sure,” he said. “Sounds okay.” He tried to force the correct amount of enthusiasm into his voice.

“Good,” Milo said. “You can all come up together.” The idea of that seemed to amuse him for some reason and he clapped his hands together as he laughed.

Ike’s skin felt hot and tight after a day in the sun and wind. Michelle’s shoulder pressed against his once more as the black stretches of beach slipped past them. They rode in silence and soon they were at the west end of Main Street, waiting in traffic, cruising past beer bars and pizza houses, the dark windows of the surf shops.

When they had parked in front of the Sea View, Hound got out to open the trunk. Ike opened his door and put one foot in the street but continued to sit close to Michelle. “I still want to talk,” he told her.

She shrugged. “We can talk.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Are you coming to Milo’s party?”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“But I want to talk soon.”

“It’s only a couple of days.” Ike eased a little more of himself out of the car. Hound was waiting by the open trunk. Suddenly Michelle covered his hand with her own. “Come to the party,” she whispered. “I want you to, okay?”

He watched her, holding her eyes with his own, trying to say more. She looked at him for a moment, then back across the hood.

“Okay,” Ike said. “I’ll come. So we can talk.” He left her in the car and walked back to the trunk. Ike’s canvas bag with his extra clothes, the bathing suit he had not needed, was already sitting on the curb. Hound was standing beside it. “Milo doesn’t know you’ve already seen his ranch,” Hound said. “I think we should keep it that way.”

Ike nodded, somewhat surprised that Hound had felt it necessary to tell him that. He felt very tired all of a sudden. He was in the act of picking up his bag when Hound Adams seemed to stiffen at his side. It was something he felt more than saw. When he looked up, however, he saw that Hound’s face had changed, that he was looking past Ike, staring toward the old building that loomed out of the blackness behind them. Ike turned too, following Hound’s gaze, and it was then that he saw the dark figure standing on the steps that led into the building.

The figure was little more than a black shape silhouetted against the yellow background formed by the open door. But it was immediately recognizable as Preston. No one else was quite that big, or stood in just that way. He seemed to be dressed in the same bulky army jacket that Ike had seen him in on the street, and there looked to be the same cap on his head. The elevation of the yard, the height of the step, the way in which he was silhouetted in the light of the hall, all conspired to make him look somehow even bigger than he was, a dark shadow rising above them out of the shadow of the building. It was a strange moment, a moment frozen in time, in which the two men did not speak but stared at each other across the ragged lawn. It was Hound Adams who at last broke the spell. He turned to close the trunk lid, then walked to his door. He looked once more at Preston across the roof of the car, then got in and drove away.

Ike did not know what to expect as he walked across the lawn. He stopped short of the step. Preston was leaning on a doorjamb now, hands pushed down into the deep pockets of the coat. It was too dark to make out the expression on Preston’s face. “Stash your gear,” Preston told him. His voice sounded steady and sober. “I’ve got something I want you to see.”

It was late and the streets of the residential section were quiet. Preston did not speak again. He walked quickly, his heavy boots ringing on the pavement, and Ike had to work to keep up. They cut across Main Street and into an alley and Ike did not have to ask where they were headed. He could see a light burning in front of the shop and then he spotted the dark shape of Morris propped against a telephone pole near the gravel entrance.

Morris said nothing, but fell in behind them as they walked toward the shed, and the night was full of the sound that boots make sinking into gravel. Preston pushed the door open with his foot and they stepped inside, Preston first, then Ike and Morris.

The shed was small. There was a dirt floor and in the middle of the floor there was a bike. It was not a chopper, not even a Harley, but a BSA Lightning Rocket. It was nearly a stock machine, but not quite. Some lettering had been removed, the tanks lacquered and rubbed out until they sparkled like dark jewels, a kind of gunmetal gray, in the light of the small shed.

“I wanted you to see it,” Preston told him. “What do you think?”

“It’s all right. He did a good job.”

“All right, my ass,” Morris said from behind them. “That’s a bad motherfucker.” And it was—a bike capable of a hundred and twenty plus off the showroom floor. Ike shook his head, walking around the machine for a better look, and getting a better look at Preston now, too. He looked better than the last time Ike had seen him. At least he was relatively sober, and he was on his feet. But there was still a certain wildness about the way those pale eyes had retreated into the dark face. And there was also an abruptness of manner, a hyper quality in the way Preston carried himself, that Ike had not seen before. He did not stand in one place but paced back and forth, from one end of the shop to the other. “I want you to listen to it,” he said. “Check it out.”

“Shit, man, I checked it out,” Morris said. “What do you want?”

“I want him to hear it. I want it right.”

Morris had been standing by the door. He now took a couple of steps toward Ike. “Man, you’re crazy. I should waste the little fucker right now.”

Preston stopped pacing and looked at Morris across the machine. “Forget it. I want him to hear it.”

“But he’s with them. He was with Hound and the Samoan on the lot. I want his skinny ass, Prez.”

Morris was looking at Ike as he spoke, a sort of glazed, hungry look creeping over his features—almost as if he was working himself into some trance, and Ike had to wonder if Preston would be able to stop him even if he wanted to, in his weakened condition. Ike took his hands out of his pockets and let them fall against his sides, a gesture that was not lost on Morris. “Oh, look at this,” Morris said, his voice coming out of a sneer. “He’s ready for it this time. Look at him, the little scumbag. I bet he’s pissin’ his pants right now.” He chuckled. “Come on, queer bait, let’s see your moves.” Morris took a quick step forward and swung, a kind of openhanded roundhouse designed to rupture Ike’s eardrum. But Ike was ready for it this time, after a fashion. He’d never been in a real fistfight in his life, but Gordon had once bought him a pair of gloves and had spent some time knocking him around in back of the market, trying to show him a few things. One of the things Gordon had taught him was that a lot of guys carry their right too low when they throw a left, and that if you come up under it, hooking, you can often land a good punch. And that was what Ike did. He wasn’t exactly sure why. He knew he hadn’t a prayer of winning a fight with Morris, that he would be smarter to let it end quickly, but there was just something about that fat, greasy face, the half sneer, the memory of lying on the sidewalk in front of that beer joint swallowing his own blood. He stepped under the blow and hooked for all he was worth, throwing it off his hip the way Gordon had taught him, what Gordon would have called hooking from the ankles, and he felt the punch land with a sharp pain and jolt that ran clear up his arm and into his shoulder.