CHAPTER NINE- WEDNESDAY, MARCH 26, 1969      

My room was on the wrong side of the house for late afternoon light. It isn’t like I needed windows for studying. Still, when the phone rang, I closed the two books that were open on the thrift shop desk, pulled out the latest copy of The North County Free Press from under a third book, stuck it inside a Pee Chee folder, and hustled up the hallway.

“DeFreines residence.” Pause. “Roger and Gary?”

In a phone scam we had devised and successfully worked twice before, “Gerry Lopez” meant the waves were good, “Micki Dora” meant they weren’t.  “Jim Morrison” and “Jimi Hendrix” hadn’t worked on two other occasions.

“Joey!” I had to move the handset away. “Accept the charges! Joey!”

“Okay. Thank you, operator.”

Between Gary screaming some indecipherable series of syllables, I heard, “You should… have… been… here.”

 “It can’t be that good, Gary.”

I let the long cord at the back of the phone base drop. The cord unwound as I walked into the living room. I set the base on the top of the stereo console. If I had set it on the coffee table, the cord to the handset would reach my father’s lounger. He designed that way. I walked toward the big window. Four feet short. 

Outside, Freddy was walking backwards, leading Tallulah around the corral, dropping pieces from a leaf of alfalfa. On the phone, Gary and Roger were yelling over each other at me.

“What? Wait; burned up? Swamis? At the wall. Who was it?” Pause. “Okay.” I walked back to the console, turned on the television. “Channel eight?” The TV took a while to warm up. “They’re there?” Pause. “No news. Old movie. Dialing for Dollars. Bob Dale.” Pause. “Detectives? Which detectives?” Longer pause. “Langdon, and… fuck no, he’s not in charge.”

Gary and Roger were both inside the phone booth at the 101 side of the original parking area. Others were waiting to use it. “Roger, how many is ‘an amazing number of people?’” Pause. “That many? And they’re… crowding up to the rope?”

In my imagined image, a hundred people were standing on the asphalt, looking over the rope. Most of the grassy area along the wall to the SRF compound was behind the line. There was, according to Gary, on the wall, twenty feet or so from the Southeast corner, a burn mark that “pretty much matched the gold bulbs on top of the wall. That was where the guy was burned up.”    

“Who?” Pause. “No, of course the cops aren’t saying. I mean, someone’s saying… something.” Gary interrupted Roger. “Someone said… who? ‘Limpin’ Jesus.’ Fuck, man!”

 “Fuck!” I took a breath. “Chulo.” I ran several images of Chulo through my mind: Chulo with the robe and the wooden cross around his neck, Chulo behind the wheel of the Jesus Saves bus, Chulo at the wake, Chulo with Portia in the Swamis parking lot. “Chulo?”

“Chulo. Yeah.” Other voices were demanding time on the phone.

“Call me back. When you get home. When it’s… free.”

Outside the window, Freddy, his face close to Tallulah’s, looked up and flipped me off.

“Good evening, San Diego.” I refocused on the TV screen. “Phillip Reed. I usually cover Criminal Justice… court activities, that sort of thing.” Phillip Reed almost winked, almost smiled. “I will be standing in for a week or so. A little deserved vacation time for our esteemed colleague… the real anchorman. So, to begin: Whoa! Horrific murder overnight at Swamis, a beach park in the North County. We have a crew on site. Film at eleven.”

            …

Our porch light and the weak lamp from the foyer were pretty much all the light. Gary and Roger were practically dancing in and out of my shadow. Our shadows extended down the slope of the yard.

“So, Joey,” Roger said, “There was a station wagon. In the lot. Like, nine passenger size. Painted-out windows. ‘CBS’ and ‘Channel Eight’ were lettered on the side.”

“But it, the murder, it happened… last night?”

Gary shoved Roger out of the light. “Yeah, but there were still a couple Sheriff’s Office patrol cars, a motorcycle from the Highway Patrol, and a tan Buick with a Del Mar Fair decal on the back bumper… Obvious cop car. And the tall detective, he’s…”

“Wendall.”

“Yeah; and the chunky one… he showed up in a stripped-down VW. Practically a dune buggy. Can’t be street legal. He…”

“I’ve seen it. Dickson. But what about… Langdon, Roger; what was he doing?”

“Creepy guy,” Gary said. “Mostly he was walking back and forth, acting like he wasn’t checking everyone out who was hanging on the rope.”

“He did talk to this black chick; not, like, nicely. She has to be the one who… She’s taking photos, maybe she’s talking to, you know, Wendall. And…”

“Langdon wasn’t stoked on that. He was mostly giving your guy, Uncle Wendall, shit.”

I ignored Gary’s comment. Roger stepped in front of him. “So, then, the chick from channel eight… very cute, she and a cameraman, and another dude, they’re over at the bluff.”

“So, of course, we all cruise over there. Everybody did.”

“All the… local surfers… Joey.”

“Roger means… you know who; she was there.”

“I didn’t ask.” Gary moved to one side of my shadow, Roger to the other. “Okay, so she’s there. Julia Cole. Thanks. Her boyfriend… he there, too?”

Roger punched Gary in the shoulder. “Julia Cole. Told you he’d ask. Pay up.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“He didn’t ask.”

“How did she… seem?”

“Hard to say,” Gary said.

“Hard to say, Joey.”

…

“Joey, you awake?”

“No, Freddy, I am not.”

I opened my eyes. I was on the couch, leaned back, a notebook spilled open on my lap. Other papers and books were spread on the coffee table. The television was on but the sound was off. Freddy moved several more notebooks and sat down to my right.

“Me, neither.” Our mother was just visible in the kitchen. The phone was on the coffee table. “He’s up,” Freddy yelled, half leaning over me. “But are you… awake? I mean, really.”

“Atsushi, the news is…” Ruth DeFreines walked over to the television, turned up the sound. “The news is… bad.”

“Atsushi,” Freddy said, “Mom called you by your Jap-a-nese name. At-su-shi.”

“Middle name, Butt-lick.” Freddy tried to grind his elbow into my right leg. I shoved him away. “Oh, I believe your Jap-a-nese middle name means ‘guy who licks butts.’”

“No, Atsushi.” Freddy shoved me, harder. I stood up and assumed a fighting stance. Freddy laughed. “Hakaru means ‘better son.’” I dropped my hands, slid my feet next to each other, and fell back into the couch. Freddy leaned over me. He whispered, “And also, ‘guy not to be fucked with.’”

“Okay,” I said. We both smiled. I shoved Freddy away.

“Boys.”

“Our top news story…” It was Phillip Reed. “The horrific murder, last night, in Encinitas. You will, no doubt, remember our intern, Pamela Hodges. Well, she’s graduating from San Diego State, and she led a crew up to the North County… today. We now have the film.” Phillip Reed let out a noisy breath. “Stand by.”

My mother was in position, standing in front of the console. Freddy moved to her left, I to her right. The screen went blank for a moment, followed by a shot of the ocean on an obviously sunny and cloudless day.

“Pipes,” I said. “Down from Swamis.”

“It is a very sad day here at a very lovely spot.” It was a woman’s voice. Pamela Hodges. The image panned to the right, north, past the wave line at the beach break, past the waves at the point. The image refocused on a palm tree hanging on the bluff.  

The image abruptly switched to a young woman in a sport coat and skirt, standing, seemingly alone, on the bluff, a microphone too close to her face. Pamela Hodges looked to her left, possibly a signal to the cameraman. “Although the information we’ve received from the Sheriff’s Office detectives is… minimal…” The young woman repeated the eye shift, adding a head nod toward her left. The camera angle stayed on her. “What we do know is…”

            The camera panned away from Pamela Hodges and through a crowd watching her. Someone, off camera, had the onlookers move aside. Still, some were caught looking as the angle zoomed in on the white compound wall at the far end of the parking lot, then continued panning to the right.

            “The Jesus Saves bus,” I said. “It’s usually there.” Stupid. “No, of course. No.”

            Close to the highway end of the wall, three uniformed deputies, out of focus, were standing behind a rope stretched between wooden sawhorses. There was a burn mark, almost matching the gold lotus blossoms on the top of the wall. The scene was as Gary and Roger had described it, as I had imagined it would be.

“Behind this wall is the Self Realization Fellowship. A place of peace and meditation. All that was shattered when, last night…” The image pulled back. The deputies were in focus for a moment. Members of the crowd were in focus for a moment. All strangers, then Gary, Roger, Julia Cole, Duncan Burgess, Rincon Ronny. Pamela Hodges was out of focus for a moment. “Last night a young, so-far-unidentified man, was beaten, positioned near the wall and set alight.”

The image stayed on Pamela Hodges too long. She couldn’t hold the expression. She looked down, let out a breath to keep herself from smiling. She was on TV.

The image switched to Phillip Reed at the station. He did look serious. “We do have some further information. We also have more from Pammy… Pamela Hodges. Pammy just graduated from State… San Diego State… It’s coming up, after these messages.” 

“Phillip Reed.” The phone rang. “He knew your father.” She looked back toward Freddy and me as she walked toward the kitchen. “Too late for… cocoa?”

Freddy elbowed me. “Did you see your ditching-school, dickwad friends?” I nodded. “Gary and Roger? Truant… and smoking.”

I didn’t answer.

As our mother was returning, a mug in each hand, Freddy said, “He’s gone, mom.”

“Leave him alone, Hakaru.”

 I had been gone, replaying the few moments from the coverage: Gary and Roger, front and center as the camera panned and zoomed. Both were smoking. Gary was smiling. Julia Cole, Duncan Burgess beside her, was taking photos of Pamela Hodges and her crew. Julia lowered her camera when Gary, rather than just passing in front of her, stopped. Duncan extended a hand to push Gary further. Gary looked at Julia. Roger looked at the TV camera and lowered his cigarette. Both of my surf friends moved into the crowd.

It was Julia Cole’s expressions that ran through my mind, again and again.

Freddy elbowed me again. “Pammy’s back, Atsushi.”

“The name of the victim, evidently beaten, possibly, according to witnesses from last night, posed in a sitting position next to the wall, has not been released. There is…” Pamela Hodges moved her microphone around in a sort of wave. “There is speculation among the local surfing… community that the victim is… one of them.” The reporter looked to her right. She appeared angry but quickly reset her practiced neutral expression. “Speculation.”

“It was Chulo,” my mother said.

“You get that from Wendall?”

“Larry? No. Someone at the station. Betty Boop… your father called her. Margaret.”

“Why would… Margaret… call?”

“Larry. Wendall. We were supposed to… He had to go on base, anyway. We were going to have lunch. Just at the PX. Snack bar.” I tried not to react. “He didn’t, of course. This. Chulo.”

On the screen, Pamela Hodges took a deep breath. “We do have a witness, someone who was here last night.” The TV reporter turned to her right. There was a space between her and the witness. “Fred Thompson.”

“Gingerbread Fred! Shit!” I didn’t look around to see my mother’s reaction.    

Fred Thompson didn’t move. He looked straight into the camera. Pamela Hodges, also looking into the lens, sidestepped toward him. “Can you tell our viewers what you saw?”

Gingerbread Fred blinked, looked at the microphone in front of him, looked sideways for an instant at Pamela, then looked back at the camera. Intently.

“Fred,” Freddy said, moving closer to my side. “Like me.”

“Not like you, Frederick Hakaru DeFreines,” our mother said, putting a hand on Freddy’s head, “You’ll get a haircut.” She gave Freddy a push, turned and looked at my longer-than-the-dress-code-allowed hair. “Not like you, either.”

Gingerbread Fred moved his hands toward the camera. “Light. Bright light. Poof. In the air.” He paused, blinked several times. “Damn fools. Gasoline, the vapors… they… flash.” He started to cry. “I knew Portia was… waiting. I tried to help. Can’t run… anymore.” Pause. Blink. “They were running. Away… to their car. Black. Lights… out.”

Still looking straight at the camera, Gingerbread Fred Thompson went from a low growl to engine sounds. “Loud muffler.” He got louder. The reporter started to pull the microphone back. Fred moved with it. He didn’t look at her, he looked at us. “The… other guy was on fire.”

Fred threw his hands out to his sides, spreading his fingers. Pamela Hodges stepped back. The camera stayed on Gingerbread Fred, but the field of vision widened. Lee Anne Ransom, behind and to Fred Thompson’s right, was taking photos. Julia Cole, Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were to his right. Petey Blodgett stepped between Ronny and Monica. Fred dropped his hands and took a step back. Petey took two steps forward and, once even, put an arm around Fred’s shoulders. Fred looked at Petey for two seconds, then half spun toward him, his head dropping to Petey’s chest.

“No, no!” Pamela Hodges stepped between the two men and the camera. She was out of focus, the microphone in her left hand, her right hand making a slicing motion across her throat. The image went fuzzy, then black.  

Phillip Reed appeared. “Stand by folks.” He looked to his right. Questioning look. He turned back to the camera, flipped his left hand up. “Okay then, folks, we’re following this drama a bit longer.” The camera stayed on an angry Phillip Reed a half second too long.

Our phone rang. Loud. Freddy and I both jumped. Our mother stepped away and answered it. “You’re, oh, downtown. Yes, Larry, we are watching it. Channel eight.”

On the screen, Deputy Scott Wilson pushed between Julia and Duncan, stepped between Petey and Gingerbread Fred and Pamela Hodges. He turned his back to the camera. A man wearing dark glasses and a black coat with a Nehru collar was just visible, standing behind and between Duncan and Ronny.

“Langdon,” I said, looking at my mother, still on the phone. “Gingerbread Fred.”

“Yes. They…” She put her right hand over the speaker. “Larry says it was a major… mistake, letting him… be… there.” My mother, listening to Larry Wendall for a moment, had a half smile on her face. She took her hand off the speaker. “Langdon’s mistake.”

“No one will know that” I said, loud enough for Wendall to hear.

“No,” she said, repeating Wendall’s word. She dropped her half smile, picked up the phone base, walked toward the dining room.

On the screen, Detective Langdon stood to one side as the locals followed Deputy Wilson and Gingerbread Fred through the crowd. Non-surfers filled in the gaps. Pamela Hodges tried to regain her composure. Lee Anne Ransom stepped into the shot and took several photos of the TV reporter. Pamela flicked her left hand at Lee Anne. A ‘go away’ gesture. Langdon turned and walked away. Lee Anne followed him.

Pamela Hodges let out a big breath, put on a smile. “And now, will this lovely weather continue? Back to Phillip Reed in the studio.” She waved. “Pamela Hodges reporting.”

Ruth DeFreines, without the phone, came back into the living room. She turned the television off, pulled the louvered doors from each end of the opening. She put a hand on her younger son’s head, turned it until his body followed, pushing him toward the hallway.

“Mom,” I asked, “what about… Portia?” My mother stopped. She didn’t turn around. “What did Wendall… Larry, what did he say about… her?”

Ruth DeFreines turned back toward me. She tightened the knot on her silk robe. “She is safe. We must be… patient.”

“Must be?”

“You are not going over there tomorrow, Atsushi. Larry says…”

“Friday?”

“Saturday is the soonest. Earliest. Only because you have to go to work. Mrs. Tony will know all about it by then.”

“I’m sure she will. Saturday.”

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