CHAPTER ELEVEN- FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1969

It was just dark enough outside that the window above the kitchen sink reflected the image of my mother and me. I had scraped whatever was left on the three plates we had used into a small, galvanized garbage can, and was putting them into the soapy water. My mother was scrubbing the dishes and placing them into the drying rack. We both looked at our reflection rather than at each other.

“What does Larry say now, Mom?”

“Detective Lieutenant Wendall… temporary promotion… says Detective Lieutenant Langdon is not going back to Orange County anytime soon; not with the death of… Chulo Lopez.”

“No. Too much fun here.”

“Langdon has support. Downtown. Not the Chief. Politicians.” My mother did look at me. “Dishcloth, Atsushi.” Dishcloth. I pulled one from the towel bar, tossed it onto the drying rack. “However, he… Detective Wendall…” We were back to looking at each other in the window. “He says the Sheriff’s Office is no longer pursuing whoever was in the gray car.”

“But he, Wendall, he believes the, our story? The lie?”

“He was at the station. He heard your father talking to Freddy… and you… on the phone. He knew I was… leaving.”

“He got there… before you did. Did he ask… why you came back?”

She shook her head. “He will. Any question, your father would say, that logically should be asked…”

“Will be asked.”

“And we have… the answers.”

I unfolded one of three fresh dry washcloths, laid it on top of the soapy water, pushed it down with a flat palm. “I wish I had gone for pizza. I wish I hadn’t… chased… you.”

My mother tilted her head toward me, but only slightly. I slid the three big plates, three smaller plates, three forks, three knives, three glasses into the water. “Atsushi. People will disregard… so much… to believe what they wish to be true.”   

“It’s on!” It was Freddy, yelling from the short stretch of wall between the kitchen and the living room. “Come on!”

“We will just let them soak,” my mother said, giving me, not my reflection, a look that I understood to mean that there would be no further discussion on what Detective Sergeant Larry Wendall believed or why he chose to believe it. She stopped next to the little table that held the phone, turned toward me. “It is over. Accept it.” I stepped toward her. “Please.” She didn’t give me a chance to argue. “For me.”

…

“You’re missing it,” Freddy Hakaru DeFreines yelled. When our mother and I came into the living room, he was walking backwards from the television to our father’s lounge chair. Phillip Reed, the stand-in News Anchor, was on the screen, sitting at a table. I looked at Freddy. He pointed at the screen with both hands, put them together in a prayer gesture, and fell back into the chair, causing the back to recline, the footrest to pop out. Freddy slid into a position with his shoulders on one armrest, his calves on the other.

“Don’t sprawl, Hakaru.” Freddy ignored the request. “Out! Now!”  

Freddy twisted to straight, grabbed the arms of the chair, and jolted himself forward and upright. He joined me in the space between the coffee table and the console. Our mother sat on the kitchen end of the sofa. Freddy looked at her, walked over, turned up the volume.

Phillip Reed looked directly into the camera. “My guest, Orange County Detective Lieutenant Brice Langdon, has been coordinating with San Diego County’s Sheriff’s Office since the recent and tragic accidental death of our Detective… also a Lieutenant, Joseph DeFreines. And now, with the recent murder… I have to ask, Lieutenant; you have some… history with DeFreines, do you not?”

A second camera angle revealed Langdon sitting across the table from Phillip Reed. Langdon, wearing a black coat and a dark shirt and a plain dark tie, barely reacted to the introduction. He looked directly at the second camera. “Not one that is relevant, Mr. Reed.”

“He is,” my mother said, moving between Freddy and me, “so very… slick.”

“Slick,” I said, “Sleazy.”

“Sleazy slick Orange County dick,” Freddy said.

Phillip Reed continued. “What can you share with our viewers, Detective?”

Langdon managed a bit of a smile. “The California coast is experiencing incredible growth. With this growth comes a need for a more professional approach to law enforcement. The prevailing belief has been, ‘It’s under control.’ It is not. The Sheriff’s Office, out in the County, has had this ‘small town, we all know each other… philosophy.’ Not small town. We don’t know each other.” Langdon shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Politicians,” my mother said, turning and walking away.

Langdon only looked at Phillip Reed for a moment. “We cannot continue to base our investigations on gossip and rumor.”

“Gossip and rumor, Detective Langdon?” 

“Local law enforcement has been… casual.” Langdon looked a bit frustrated. Briefly. “The unincorporated areas, the Sheriff’s Office’s… jurisdiction; this is no longer… Mayberry.”

“Our mother’s voice came from behind us. “He’s… talking about… your father.”

Freddy and I heard a slam, wood against wood. We both looked around. Our mother walked past us and set a drawer onto the console. She pulled out each of her husband’s badges, showed them to Freddy and me, put them back. There were three of them; his Deputy’s and his Detective’s badges, both silver; his Detective Lieutenant’s badge, gold. Each was mounted on a square of thick, black leather. She lifted the Detective’s badge up again, smelled the leather, held it out as if showing it to the TV screen. To Langdon.

Setting the badge back into the drawer, she pulled out a partial pack of non-filter Winston cigarettes, smelled it, put it back. She took out a Zippo lighter, chrome, with a raised replica of the San Diego Sheriff’s Office logo, with her right hand. She opened the top with her left hand, tried to strike it several times. It didn’t light. She handed it toward me.

I shook my head several times. Freddy held his hand out. She shook her head and placed the lighter, logo facing us, on the console, just above the TV screen.

Langdon continued, “The criminals are becoming ever more sophisticated. Our approach has to, has to become ever more professional.”

Phillip Reed looked at Langdon as if he expected him to say more. Langdon didn’t. “Well, Detective Langdon, here’s how small town we are around these here parts: Gossip, rumor. Detective DeFreines. I interviewed him… many times; even back when he was on a joint task force investigating what the Orange County Sheriff described as ‘an unfortunate incident in which several officers were, perhaps, overzealous.’”

“Good memory, Phillip. Exactly what he said. Overzealous. Yes.” Langdon nodded but kept his eyes on the News Anchor. “It was a while ago. We’ve all… changed.”

Phillip Reed looked directly into the camera. “Joseph DeFreines was a bonified war hero. Marines. In the Pacific; from Guadalcanal on. He served in Korea. Gunnery Sergeant. Most of his… advancement was through field promotions. You understand that… I assume, Lieutenant?”

“I do.”

 “He worked his way up in the Sheriff’s Office. Through the ranks.”

            “One could do that.” Langdon folded his hands on the desk. Exhaled, softly, reset his smile, and added, “In those days.”

“The difference between gossip and news, Detective, according to DeFreines, is two days or two different, independent sources.”

“Or both. Yes. Turn of phrase. He was great at… that.” Langdon stood up. The camera took a moment to adjust. Phillip Reed stood. Langdon said, “I came here to address some of the… gossip.” Langdon sat back down. He looked into the second camera. After a moment, the image switched to that angle.

“As has been reported, the victim of this vicious attack, Julio Lopez, was a sort of street and beach evangelist, and a delivery driver for a Leucadia flower business.” Langdon paused. “It is true that Julio Lopez was present at the accident in which…” Langdon looked over at Phillip Reed, off camera. “…Detective Lieutenant Joseph DeFreines, Gunny to his compatriots, was killed. I stress… accident. Mr. Lopez was a witness. Witness. I believe, Mr. Reed… Phillip, you covered this… accident.”nic

Phillip Reed, off camera, said, “I did.” Ruth DeFreines stepped closer to the console, blocking the screen. She turned, facing her sons. Reed continued, “Automobile accident, east of the Bonsall Bridge. Detective DeFreines went off the road to avoid a head on collision. The road was closed for seven hours.”

“Yes. We have not completed that investigation, but Mr. Lopez was at that scene, yes, and again, a witness. Allow me to address another… rumor, here. Despite the positioning of Julio Lopez’s… body, at the wall surrounding the Self Realization Fellowship compound, and the fire; despite Mr. Lopez having been, as I have stated, a sort of… evangelist, we have found no… religious connection, and none to the ongoing conflict in Vietnam.” 

“Chulo.” The angle went back to Phillip Reed. “His nickname. Chulo.”

“Yes, Mr. Reed. Chulo. Unusual nickname for a… Mexican. Adjective. Pretty.”

“Yes. Unusual. Will you, Detective Langdon, with your… professional approach to law enforcement, tell the viewers that Chulo Lopez’s killer or killers will be brought to justice?”

“They, or he shall be.”

“Mom,” I said, “We have to see this.”

My mother moved down the length of the console, sliding her fingers on the edge.

“You wanted to address the current situation as it relates to… marijuana.”

            The image on the screen switched to a closeup of Langdon. “I have heard… rumors.”

 Mrs. Joseph J. DeFreines mouthed something in Japanese that had to have been a swear, shook her head, and turned off the television. Freddy and I stood up. Both hands on Freddy’s back, she pushed him into the hallway. She turned back, opened her right hand, swung it toward the console.

I picked up the lighter. “Rumors,” I said, popping the top open with my thumb, striking the wheel. It lit this time, burned for a few seconds, and went out.

“Slimy bastard,” my mother said. I popped the top closed with my thumb, set the lighter back on the console. My mother walked back to the console. She slid the two doors that would cover the TV screen. vertical slats, together. The one on the right stuck. She pulled it hard enough that it slammed into the other door. She pushed me away. I was almost to the hallway when I heard the chink, ka-chink sound of my father’s lounge chair. I turned back.

Ruth DeFreines was sitting in her husband’s chair, kicked back, holding my father’s lighter and his detective’s badge. “Atsushi, I plan to sell this place,” she said. “Have to. Hakaru… Freddy will be out of junior high, you are… graduating. He says we should move somewhere near Live Oak Park. What do you think?”

“Mom,” I said, “you’re a detective’s wife; you know where I’d want to live.”

“Widow. And yes, I do… know.” 

I had a confusing series of images going through my mind as I went into the kitchen and finished the dishes. I could only guess what my mother, sitting in her late husband’s lounge chair, was imagining. I did, of course, have more than one theory. I am a detective’s son.

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                                    CHAPTER THREE- WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1968

            It was Christmas vacation. I had surfed, but I wanted a few more rides. More. I had the time, I had the second-best parking spot of the now-full lot at Swamis- front row, two cars off center. It was cool but sunny. I was dead center on the Falcon, leaning over the hood. I checked the diving watch on my wrist. It was fogged up. I shook my wrist, removed the watch, set it on the part of the Falcon’s hood my spread-out beach towel didn’t cover, directly over the radiator, the face of the watch facing the ocean and the sun.

            Spread about on the towel was a quart of chocolate milk in a waxed cardboard container, the spout open; a lunch sack, light blue, open; an apple; a partial pack of Marlboros, hard pack, open, a book of paper matches inside; and three Pee-Chee folders. One of the folders was open. A red notebook, writing on both sides of most pages, was open to pages five and six.

            A car stopped immediately behind the Falcon. Two doors slammed. Two teenagers, sixteen, I guessed, to my almost eighteen, ran between my car and the car to my left and to the bluff.  Jumping and gesturing, they gave one-word assessments of the conditions. “Epic!” and “So… bitchin’!”

They looked at each other. They looked over me at their car, idling in the lane. They looked at me. The taller one, with a bad complexion, his hair parted in the middle, shirtless and with three strands of love beads around his neck, walked toward the driver’s side of the Falcon and asked, “Hey, man. You going out or been out?”

            “Both. Man.”

“Both?” Love Beads guy moved closer to me.

“Good spot,” the driver, with bottle bleached hair, Beach Boys striped shirt, and khaki pants, said, coming up the passenger side of the Falcon. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked down at my notebooks. “You a local?”

I shifted the notebooks, took out the one on the bottom, light blue, opened it, turned, and looked out at the lineup, half-sitting on the Falcon, I may or may not have scoffed.

 Short Guy stayed on the bluff. A car honked behind us. Not at me, at the Teenage Non-Locals. “At least go get the boards.” Love Beads Guy walked around me, close enough to give me what could have been an accidental nudge. “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy,” he said, giving Beach Boys shirt an on-purpose nudge.

Beach Boy said, “Fuck you, Brian,” and, joined by Short Guy, ran out and into the lane to remove the boards. Love Beads Brian, moved directly in front of me. He puffed out his chest a bit. His expression changed. He looked a bit fierce. Or he attempted to. I twisted my left arm behind my back and set the notebook down and picked up my diving watch. When I brought my arm back around, very quickly, Brian twitched. I smiled. 

My left hand was on my watch band, close to its face. I shook it. Hard. Three quick strokes, then tapped it, three times, with the pointer finger of my right hand. “The joke, see, Brian, is that, once it gets filled up with water, no more can get in. Hence, Waterproof.” I put the watch on. “Nope, don’t have to leave yet… Brian.”

Brian was glowering, tensed-up. “Brian,” Short Guy said as he carried two boards over to the bluff and set them down, “You could, you know, help.” Brian raised his right hand, threw it out to his left and swung it back. I took the gesture to mean ‘shut up and keep walking, Short Guy.’ I chuckled. Brian moved his right hand closer to my face, pointer finger up.

I moved my face closer to his hand, then leaned back, feigning an inability to focus. “Brian,” I said, “I have a history…” Brian smirked. “…of striking out, and quite violently… when I feel threatened.” I blinked. “Brian.”

Brian looked around as if his friends might back him up. “Quite violently?”

“Brian. Yeah. Suddenly and… violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. I moved closer to his face. “My father says, there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation. I’m trying. Everyone… people are hoping the surfing is… helping. I am not… sure.”

“Brian,” Beach Boy said, “we’ll get a spot.”

“I can… watch your boards for you. Okay?”

“Okay? No! Fuck you, Jap!” It wasn’t loud. Brian moved back as he said it.

“Brian. I’m, uh, assessing.” I folded my hands across my chest. Brian was mumbling and swaying back and forth, closer and farther away. I couldn’t make sense of his words. His face was not in focus. He had become background, overlapped by, superimposed with, the faces of a succession of bullies, kids from school, third grade to high school. Each of the faces, each of them taunting, was too close to mine. I couldn’t hear them, either. I knew the words: “Retard!” “Idiot!” “What’s wrong with you?”

 I could hear my father’s voice. “They don’t know you, Jody. It’s all a joke. Laugh.” In this vision, or spell, or episode, each of my alleged tormentors, all of them boys, fell away. Each face was bracketed, punctuated with a blink of a red light. Every three seconds. Approximately.

One face belonged to a nine-year-old boy, a look of shock that would become pain on his face. He was falling back and down, blood coming out of his mouth. Red light. I looked at the school drinking fountain. A bit of blood. Red light. I saw more faces. The red lights became weaker, and with them, the images.

The lighting changed. More like silver than blue. Cold light. I saw my father’s face, and mine, in the bathroom mirror. Faces; his short, almost blond hair, almost curly, eyes almost impossibly blue; my hair straight and black, my eyes almost black. “Jody, just… smile.” I did. Big smile. “No, son; not that smile.”

I smiled. That smile.

Brian’s face came back into focus, two steps back from where he had been. He wasn’t going to challenge me. Short Guy was behind him and to his right. I asked, “Surf friends, huh?” Short Guy nodded. I unfolded my arms, looked at my watch, looked past the two teenagers and out to the kelp beds. “Wind’s picking up, Brian.”

I turned toward the Falcon, closed the notebook, set it on one side of the open Pee-Chee, picked up the light blue notebook from the other side. There were crude sketches of dark waves and cartoonish surfers on the cover. I opened it to the first page.

“Wind is picking up.” I may have spun around a bit quickly, hands in a pre-fight position. It was Rincon Ronny in a shortjohn wetsuit, a board under his arm. Ronny nodded toward the stairs. “They’re gone.” He leaned away and laughed. I relaxed my hands and my stance. “The one kid was carrying both boards. Scared shitless.”

“Oh.” I closed the notebook. Ronny nodded. I looked around to see if any of his friends were with him, then back to him. “I was… really… polite.”

“Polite. Yeah. From what I saw.”

“What you saw?” I had to think about what he did see, how long I was… in whatever state I was in. Out. I started gathering my belongings, pulling up the edges of my towel. “I just didn’t want to give my spot to fuckers from… I don’t know. Where are you parked… Ronny?”

“I’m… close enough.” Ronny looked at my shortjohn wetsuit, laid out over my board. “One thing; those two… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water. Junior.”

“Joey.” I said, “Someone will.”

Ronny mouthed, “Joey,” and did a combination blink/nod. “Yeah. It’s… Swamis. Joey.”

Ronny looked at the waves, back at me. A gust of west wind blew the cover of one of my notebooks, a green one, open. “Julie” was written in almost unreadably psychedelic letters across pages eight and nine. “Julie.” Hopefully unreadable.

I repeated Ronny’s words mentally, careful not to mouth them. “From what I saw.”

“Swamis” copyright 2020. Erwin A. Dence, Jr.