Kem Nunn - Tapping the Source

The shop was almost exactly as he had last seen it. Toward the front he could see that some of the boards had been taken from the wall, that the old brick had gotten a new coat of white paint. But aside from that it was the same and there was an odd, almost eerie quality in that sameness he had not counted on. Most of the old photographs were still on the walls, though a few had been taken down and were now scattered across the top of the glass counter at the main desk. Frank was at the counter, head bent, looking over the photographs, when Ike entered the shop. He jerked at the sound of Ike’s boots on the concrete.

Frank looked a bit thinner than Ike had remembered, and his tan seemed to have faded. Still, he looked fresh and neat in what looked to be a new set of clothes—white cord pants, striped pullover sweater, a pair of softly shining boat shoes. And Ike was suddenly aware of his own appearance—the greasy pair of jeans he had worked on the Harley in, the thick black boots that had been waiting for him in the desert and were now the only ones he had, the dirty T-shirt with missing sleeves. And then there was a week-old beard, and hair down to the collar of his shirt. The boots made him a good inch taller than Frank and he could not help wondering for a moment what Frank must have thought in that first instant his head jerked up from the counter—that perhaps some small version of Preston Marsh had come back to haunt him.

For a moment they just stood there watching each other. Then Frank looked back at the photographs. He was looking at them when he spoke. “You go to the funeral?” he asked. He spoke softly and his voice was only barely audible, even in the silent shop.

Ike said that he had gone.

Frank nodded, still watching the counter. “Crowded?”

“No. His folks. A few bikers.”

Frank looked at him now for the second time. “There was a time when half this town would have been there. His old man say the words?”

Ike said that he had, then he crossed the floor until he was even with the end of the counter. He’d been working on an idea since that moment on the driveway at the ranch when he’d seen Frank in the van, watched him leaving, remembering that it was Frank Baker he’d once seen talking to Preston, before the first trip, before the shit hit the fan. “You set him up,” Ike said. “The first time. You sent him to the ranch and then you told them.”

Frank shook his head, but his eyes stayed on Ike now. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“Bullshit.”

Frank shrugged. “Maybe you’re just lucky to be alive, Jack. Maybe you should leave it at that.” He moved as if he was going to step away from the counter, but Ike moved with him, blocking his path.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Ike said. And he could feel his throat tighten around the words, and the blood going hot in his face.

For a moment Frank’s eyes flashed with anger, but then the anger was gone and he was looking the way Ike had found him—more tired than angry, and beaten in a way Ike had not seen him before. So maybe that was why Ike was surprised when Frank hit him. He’d come ready to fight, if that was what it came down to, but somehow he had expected a different buildup. As it was, Frank just took about one-half step to his side and hooked hard with his left hand. It was a solid punch, but then Ike had been hit a good deal harder since coming to Huntington Beach. He rolled away from it, felt the counter at his back, and came off swinging, head down, rushing wildly in the way Gordon had tried to teach him not to. But it was like he was letting go of something, frustration, anger—something he had held inside of himself too long. He felt himself land solidly on his own, a blow that sent shock waves and slender ribbons of pain from his hand up into his shoulder. But he continued to charge, getting lower, taking another good shot on the back of the head and a knee in the face, but managing to grab the leg and to come up with it, hard, and in a twisting motion that was enough to throw the other man off-balance and into the wall. He could hear Frank’s back and head slap the freshly painted brick. But he didn’t slow down, he went right after him, digging to the body now, beneath the ribs, and he could hear Frank fighting for wind.

They moved together along the wall, Ike punching, Frank alternately trying to punch and then to hold. At last they stumbled into a rack of wet suits and went down together, their feet tangled in the debris. Ike managed to keep his man turned, however, to come down hard on top of him, and when they landed he could feel Frank lose what was left of his wind. Ike rolled away. He kicked his legs free of the suits and then sat back on his haunches, his hands on his thighs. It had all happened more quickly than he had expected—short but intense. And yet there had been a kind of release in that intensity. Now he waited to see if Frank wanted it to go on.

Frank stayed on the floor a moment longer, then rolled away in the opposite direction, finally winding up in a seated position, his arms out behind him. The funny thing was, he still didn’t look angry. He brought one hand up to his face and touched his lip, which was cut and beginning to swell. “Shit, you’re still a fucking punk,” he said. He was breathing hard, talking in short bursts. “And yeah, I told him some things about the ranch.” He paused for breath, shaking his head. “But I didn’t set him up. I didn’t know he was going up there until after it happened.” He stopped and spit some blood on the floor.

Ike was still breathing hard himself. He leaned forward now, on his knees in the fine gray dust that covered the floor, his hands still on his legs. “So what did you tell him?”

“Come on, man. What the fuck is this? You’re trying to tell me you don’t know? You were with him, the way I heard it.”

“Just tell me what you told Preston.”

“Shit.” Frank shook his head once more. “Let’s just say Preston and I traded stories. He showed up one night, out there, in the alley.” He nodded toward the back of the shop. “Christ, I hadn’t talked to the guy in years. Scared the shit out of me, if you want to know. He claimed he was trying to find out something about this chick, Ellen, and he wanted to trade stories with me. What happened to Ellen in exchange for his version of what happened to Janet Adams.”

Ike was silent for a moment. “But you were with them,” he said. “You told me that. You took the damn picture. Remember.”

“The day before I split.” He paused, watching Ike, and Ike could see that he was trying to decide on something. He turned his head and looked at the far wall of the shop and when he looked back at Ike there was a slightly altered expression on his face, as if he had thought it over and made up his mind.

“I was the youngest,” Frank said. “Younger than Hound or Preston, a year younger than Janet. I never did dig Milo. The trip began to get weird. Just kinky sort of stuff. And drugs. I got scared and split. I pretended to get this phone call from home. Preston knew I hadn’t, but he went along with it, even told them that he was onshore with me when I got the call. I tried later to get Janet to come with me. She stayed. I came back and waited. I saw them come back without her.” He paused. “You didn’t know her,” he said. “She was something special. I never did know what really happened. I mean, I’d heard Hound’s version. But somehow I always knew Preston’s would be different, if he talked. After the trip he’d just packed it in, joined the Marines, and split.”

But Ike was having a hard time concentrating on Frank’s story at the moment. There was something else, some long, slow tremor of recognition snaking through his consciousness. Suddenly he knew why Preston had looked so strange the first time Ike had repeated what the kid in the white Camaro had told him, and why Preston had never believed the kid’s story, and why, too, he had gone to Frank Baker. It was not just, as Ike had once believed, that the two stories were similar. It was that they were the same.