Each chapter of my novel corresponds to a single day. THIS is a big day. It isn’t exactly like I’m bogged down here, it is more that I continue to tighten up the plot and the character development. So, Joey is checking out Swamis pre-dawn on a Saturday, almost four days after Chulo was burned to death along the wall of the Self Realization Fellowship compound. He h as already had a connnection with Baadal Singh, a witness to the murder, and possibly a suspect. It’s still early, and with a south wind blowing, the lot is starting to fill up. It’s Swamis… locals and non-locals, and Joey has the optimum parking spot.

                        CHAPTER TWELVE- PART TWO- SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1969

It was morning rather than dawn, The south wind still blowing. The Swamis parking lot was filling up. I was standing in the middle of the lot, in the middle of the lane between the middle row of spaces and the single row along the grass. I wasn’t sure how long I had been there, rerunning what I had heard and seen, trying to focus on, to memorize the most important images and words.  

Too confusing. If Chulo had been a snitch, a narc, then…. Then what? An image of my father explaining why he was talking to a shady looking guy outside the Vista Foster Freeze broke into my mind. “We need sources,” he said, “Like dictionaries, encyclopedias. Assets.”

If Chulo had been a snitch, a narc, an asset, a source, he was Langdon’s. Had to be.

My fault. Of course, it was. I couldn’t help visualizing the Jesus Saves bus in my rearview mirror, front right tire in the ditch. Langdon had come onto the scene. He had found something.

Of course.

I looked past the latest car to arrive in the lot and toward the bluff. Julia Cole was behind the stack of surfboards stacked on the Mercedes, her telephoto lens between them and the roof. She was taking photos. Of me.

Maybe not. I turned toward the highway. Baadal Singh was gone. His truck was gone. I turned back toward Julia Cole. She waited a moment before pulling her camera back, but kept looking at me. Maybe not. A car was almost even with me, way too close. There were three boards on the rack, two on the driver’s side, one on the passenger side.

It was Rincon Ronny’s car, a late fifties Morris Minor, rather dinged up, the once dark blue paint faded rather unevenly. Rincon Ronny was driving, Monica in the front seat, not quite up against him. Duncan Burgess, in the back seat, flipped me off as the car passed. I nodded and walked toward the Falcon. Duncan turned his body enough to look through the car’s back window. When he saw I was watching him, he flipped me off again, bouncing his middle finger on the window until the Morris Minor parked in the last spot available on the bluff.

Duncan was definitely smiling. I probably was.

Petey Blodgett’s dawn patrol crew members, four boys and Julia Cole, were all gathered at the center of the bluff, in front of the Falcon, an empty Dodge Dart, and the Mercedes. Most of the kids were talking at the same time. The four boys were half-sitting on the hood of my car. Seeing me approaching, two kids slid fully onto my car’s hood. The other two moved to the front of the Dodge. One of them slid a bar of wax across the windshield, just once, before Julia Cole grabbed his wrist. He dropped the wax, then pushed it, hard, with his free hand, across and off the hood.  

Julia Cole shook her head, lifted her heavy gray canvas bag from the Falcon’s hood, set it on the pavement, and turned to greet her three friends walking toward her from Ronny’s car.

            The surfers from the Dodge Dart, obvious out of towners, had made the decision to go for waves the obvious locals had passed on. Other non-locals were in small groups along the bluff or hanging around their own cars in the middle rows. Second tier surfers, they couldn’t just join in with the locals, and they wouldn’t be invited to.

            Nor would I. I unlocked the rear door, rolled down the window, and dropped the tailgate. I leaned into the back of the Falcon, moved my new surfboard to one side and crawled forward over towels and trunks to the back of the front seat. I stretched my body and my arm toward a stack of folders and notebooks on the dashboard. The two boys on the Falcon’s hood moved their faces closer to the windshield. Ronny, Monica, and Duncan looked past them and at me.

If any of them looked amused, I couldn’t tell. “casual” I whispered as I pulled up a red notebook, spiral bound, a pencil in the wires. I started to pull myself back, my left hand on the steering wheel, notebook in my right hand. I heard a click from outside the driver’s side window. Click.

Julia Cole pulled back and lowered the camera. She did look somewhat amused. “Casual,” she said. I mouthed the word. She blinked. I blinked. I would remember her quick smile, quickly dropped, another expression to add to my Julia Cole file.   

            As I back crawled out of the falcon, the surfers in all the little groups resumed talking. “Fucking south wind,” one of the current members of Petey’s dawn patrol group said, holding back a bit on the ‘fucking.’ Practicing. He was probably about my brother Freddy’s age. Eighth grader. “Fucking wrecking it,” he added, emphasis on the ‘ing’ part. Better. “Fucking!”

            “Fucking,” I whispered, equal emphasis on both syllables.

            …

            Leaning over the tailgate, writing down notes from my discussion with Baadal Singh, trying not to have my thoughts interrupted by another image of Julia Cole, I became aware of comments coming from several speakers in several directions. “Chulo.” “And right here. Swamis.” “Which one was Chulo?” “Limpin’ Jesus.” “Oh, with the big cross thingy around his neck.” “Good surfer, though.” “Barbecued, I heard.” “Shut up!” “Guess he’ll get to know Jesus.” “God!” “What about his woman?” “Portia. What about her?” “Cops know who did it?”

            There was a pause in the conversations. I didn’t look around immediately.

            “You know Jumper Hayes was busted, few years ago, along with Chulo.” It was someone next to me, standing on the driver’s side of my car. It was Duncan. He was talking over rather than to me. I didn’t look up. He continued. “This asshole Deputy crippled Chulo. They sent him to some work camp in East County.”

            “And Jumper Hayes, he ditched out.” This voice came from the passenger side of the Falcon. “They’re not going to bust the son of a big-time flower grower and landowner. Not around here.” It was Rincon Ronny. He was looking at me. He looked away when I looked back.

            “No way,” some second-tier surfer said. “I heard Jumper ran off to Canada.”

“San Francisco,” another voice said. “Mexico,” yet another voice added, enough emphasis on the word to make almost anyone believe it was based on fact. “Mainland, not Baja.” More specific. More believable.

            “Back off, fucker!” It was Duncan’s voice, directed at one or all the second-tier guys. “Mexico? Really? He was in fucking Vietnam, fucker.” Practiced. Proper emphasis. Impressive,

 The “Mainland, not Baja” guy flashed a peace sign and mouthed, “Peace, Brother.”

Duncan flashed his own peace sign, flipped his hand around and lowered his pointer finger. “You don’t know shit. Brother.”

            I twisted around and sat on the tailgate. I looked at Duncan, and then Ronny. Both moved together and in front of me. I stuck the pencil back in the spiral binding and closed the red notebook. I started counting the seconds, silently, as I looked at each of the surfers. Evidently my lips moved. Both Duncan and Ronny, after I got to ‘four,’ counted with me. When I got to ten, I said, “Yeah. Marines. Fucking… Vietnam.”

            “He was here,” Duncan said, leaning down and toward me. “Jumper.”

            Rincon Ronny grabbed the top frame for the back window and pulled himself up an into a kneeling position on the tailgate to my left. “Yeah. Here. Swamis. He and Chulo. Julie got some pictures.”

            “Julia Cole?”

            Duncan half spit out something like, “Jeez,” before he answered. “Yeah, Julie. Julia Cole.” He spoke loudly, clearly, slowly. Sarcastically. “Jumper. Here, Swamis; the day before. Tuesday.” Duncan sat down to my right. He looked past me, to Ronny. “Tuesday, right?”

            “Think so,” Ronny said, pulling himself into a standing position on my tailgate “Yeah, Tuesday. He was talking with Chulo.”

            “Tuesday would be the day of,” I said, stepping off the tailgate. “Maybe it was… Monday?”

            “No, it was Tuesday,” Duncan said. “Day of.”

            “He was all bandaged up,” Ronny said; “Didn’t look too good, I guess, according to Gingerbread Fred.” Ronny pulled Duncan up and next to him and added, obviously for my benefit; “Fred. He comes here, like, every evening. For the… sunsets.”

            “Late afternoon, then? Monday.”     

Duncan and Ronny both looked toward the water. Ronny spoke without looking around. “After you and your mom left.”

I may have chuckled. More likely I giggled. “What was Jumper… how’d he get… here?”

There was no response. I was thinking, looking between Ronny and Duncan. Staring. I did see them. I didn’t see Julia Cole until she was next to me, looking at me. Not unkindly.

It must have been ten seconds before Duncan, then Ronny, turned toward me. “I told you, Julie,” Duncan said, “Useless.” Ronny jumped down, Monica moved between him and Julia. Duncan jumped down and directly in front of me. “Freak,” he said, crossing his eyes.

“You mean retard, don’t you?” I smiled. Duncan moved back and sat on the tailgate. 

Julia Cole stepped closer, put a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “Pickup. Same one Jumper had… before.” I looked from Duncan to Julia. “I have… photos, but… why’d you ask… that?”

“Curious, Miss Cole. Or, really, no reason.”

Monica moved closer to me. “Portia told me Chulo was returning the flower van. Jumper was supposed to give him a ride back.”

“Never made it,” Julia said, “My dad said the van was over at… not Mrs. Tony’s, the market off of Vulcan. Door was open.” She put her right hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “We think…”

Duncan pushed Julia’s hand off his shoulder, pushed himself off the tailgate, moved forward, crowding Monica and Julia back. He turned toward me. “Fuck you, Junior. Yours and Jumper’s dads; old friends. You do know that; don’t you?”

            I didn’t answer.

            Duncan turned toward Ronny. “Junior and I… I’m a junior, too. We were born the same day, Balboa. Just before our fathers took off for Korea.”

            Ronny stepped off the tailgate. “Duncan. Really?”

            “Yeah, Ronny, I’m three hours older than… DeFreines.” Duncan looked from Ronny to me. “His dad came back a hero, mine came back… fucked up. Yeah. But we were all… poor.”

Duncan was looking at Ronny. I was looking at Duncan. “When Joe DeFreines got on with the County, he moved them all up to Frogbutt.” Duncan laughed. “Maybe he thought it was safer.” Duncan turned toward me. “Then some wife beater crashes into the patrol car. Joe fuckin’ shoots him. Meanwhile, Junior there, flying around in the car, gets all…”

I smiled at Duncan, then shared the same smile with Ronny, then Monica, then Julia Cole. Her expression, as blank as the other’s, revealed something close to sympathy.

“Was Jumper in… was he driving the Cadillac?”

“No,” Monica said, “Pickup.” We all looked at Monica. “Same one he always drove.”

“I have the photos,” Julia Cole said.

I visualized Jumper in this very parking lot, 1966. He was leaning on the hood of a Ford pickup from the late 1940s, black paint waxed and shining, exposed metal on the hood waxed and shining, a nine-six Hobie balanced, sideways, across the roof. Jumper was laughing, juggling three avocados, two other, older, surfers and two high school age girls, all entranced, watching him. He held one avocado out toward me as I walked past, catching one, allowing the third one to smash to the asphalt. More laughter.

“Thank you,” I said, and walked to the front of the Falcon. “Jumper wasn’t… here.”

“He didn’t know. Not until… morning.”

“You don’t know shit, Junior.” Duncan turned toward Julia. “Junior can’t help.” Julia turned away. “Anyone.”

…

            The locals had left. I walked to the bluff. There were five surfer at the peak, one dropping into a choppy peak, another dropping in on him. I walked past the Falcon, took two steps into the traffic lane. Ronny and Duncan were at the Morris Minor, talking. In the other direction, toward the stairs, Julia Cole was standing next to Monica and in front of Petey’s Mercedes. Julia had her bag on the hood and was holding the body of her camera with both hands, the telephoto lens pointed down. She was looking at me. Neutral expression. Monica was looking at her, shaking her head.

            I had edited out everything but Julia Cole.

            Duncan and then Ronny came from behind me. Duncan, on my right, his left hand in front of my face, waved Julia over. She shook her head. Duncan, stepping around and in front of me, said, “Thousand-yard stare. I’m familiar.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            There was a chuckle from Ronny, cut short, I guessed, by a quick glance from Duncan. “You. Junior,” Duncan said, close to my ear, “I don’t get you.” I shook my shoulders. I thought the gesture would be taken as ‘nothing to get.’ “You asked about… Jumper, his truck.”

Ronny and Duncan both moved in front of me, blocking my view toward Petey’s Mercedes. I looked from one to the other. Ronny spoke first. “Julie doesn’t know. Monica, she isn’t involved.”

“You’re… protecting. You love Monica?”

Ronny spun around, instantly, yelling “Monica” as he did. “I love you… Monica!”

There were, just as instantly, loud reactions from the various parking lot groups and individuals. Mostly positive. Petey Blodgett raised a fist. Monica put a hand over her face. Julia Cole put a hand on her friend’s shoulder, smiled, kept her eyes on Ronny and Duncan and me.

I exhaled, looked at Duncan for a second. He half-smiled and shook his head. “You don’t know shit, do you?” I copied his smile, reached into my windbreaker pocket for my cigarettes. Duncan put his right hand over mine and pushed, slightly. “The truck? You were talking to that Simon guy. He was there, here, did he see…?”

Duncan pulled his hand back. I pulled my hand out of the pocket and closed my eyes. “Freak!” It was a whisper, but intense, coupled with a shove backward.

“Probably,” I said, catching my balance, opening my eyes. “So, please, kindly, don’t tell me shit I don’t want to know.” Now I did pull out my cigarettes, took one out, put it in my mouth. “Don’t tell me shit, don’t ask me… shit. Why would you?” I half-turned, put my hand on my father’s lighter in my pants pocket.

“We heard you’re… brainy.”

“Closer to freak, Rincon Ronny.” I kept my hand over the Sheriff’s Office logo as I lit up. “Wait.” I stepped forward, took the cigarette out of my mouth, waved it in a big loop, and closed my eyes. “I’m imagining two guys getting out of a pickup truck. They drag Chulo…out.”

Opening my eyes, I aimed the cigarette toward the entrance to the parking lot, watched Julia and Monica move to the far side of the Mercedes. I counted to five, out loud, turned, stepped back until both Ronny and Duncan were in my field of vision. “You know more than I do.” I did a pinching maneuver with my left hand, wiping my eyes. “I shouldn’t have told you that… even.”

            “Look, Junior,” Ronny said, “cops have been coming around, talking about how maybe Chulo’s some sort of big deal drug… dealer, drug dealer. Like he deserved… you know.”

            “Marijuana,” Duncan said. “Weed. You… familiar?”

            “Not… intimately. Not… no, but that, um, diversion, yes, it seems like that is what cops would do. Langdon, maybe.”

            “It wasn’t Chulo. He wasn’t… big time,” Ronny said.

            “Langdon,” Duncan said. “You think, maybe…?”

            I shook my head before I reran the question through my mind. “No. Wouldn’t… suit his… no.” I took another few seconds, shook my head another two times, back and forth. “Thank you both, but… what if I’m a… narc?”

            Both Ronny and Duncan laughed. Ronny laughed harder, but not for as long.

            “And… I’m not a cop.”

            “Not yet.”

            “Not ever.”

            Ronny followed Duncan’s eyes. I turned around. Petey Blodgett was walking along the bluff. “Hey,” he said, quite loudly, directed to the dawn patrol boys, to Monica and Julia, to Duncan and Ronny and me, and to the second and third tier surfers: “Kids. If you are involved… if you’re into illegal drugs, you’re hangin’ with criminals, and, as a bonus, you are a criminal yourself. Now…”

            “Another fucking preacher” the guy who had insisted Jumper had been in Mexico said, instantly silenced with an elbow to the ribs from another second tier surfer.

            Petey Blodgett held his right hand up as far as he could, brought it down, licked his finger, raised it again. Everyone shut up and looked at the oldest person in the Swamis parking lot. “South wind,” he said, “not letting up.” He looked at Ronny and Duncan and me.

            “Not yet,” Ronny said.

            “Not ever,” Duncan said, chuckling after he said it.

Copyrighted material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. AND, thanks for reading.