ONE
Saturday, May 26, 8:00 AM
There's not much to see around here if you don't count the
view of sparkling turquoise water and ivory sand below buff-colored cliffs
where mint-candy-colored houses dangle precariously. Some folks say the
spectacular bay view is the reason God gave people eyes. Other folks don't
say much. So unless you're into tight-lipped people, glorious scenery,
candy-colored houses, or our main drawing card, cutesy-touristy
restaurants enhanced architecturally by the hulls of old boats attached to
their roofs, there's no reason to be here.
The view is what does it for me. On a clear day and with a
clear head, a jog along Splendor Bay beach is reason enough to be living.
It's my coming-of-age panorama, the place where my teenage ghost plays the
male lead in the Beach Blanket Bingo adaptation of Splendor in
the Grass always running on the drive-in movie screen in my mind's
eye. The view and my ghost are the reasons I've never been able to grow up
and leave home. Correction. I did leave once, for too many years, but I
don't plan on ever doing that again.
Anyway, the day was one of those crisp, crystalline May
days that come just before summer's heat, a day with a shimmering
cornflower-blue sky and not a whiff of the refineries down the coast, a
day for feeling young in my little spot of heaven on planet earth. Even
the booze ache behind my eyes had eased up enough for me to contemplate a
jog on the beach as my workup to a day of pretending I still had my life
ahead of me, still had time to get it right if only I'd give it one more
try.
There I was, contemplating my woebegone past and my
uncertain future, thinking maybe this would be the day I really would give
it one more try, when I glanced down from my perch on the deck of Sally
Solana's bay view manor and had an entirely different thought: why the
heck is that John Doe near the water's edge choosing to be dead on such a
day?
There he was, in a black tuxedo, with the diamond-studs in
his shirt glistening brighter than the mica in the quartz sand, washed up
with the seaweed, spoiling my view, interfering with my contemplation of
activities physical, right out there on the good stretch of beach where I
should have been running. Looking back, I guess it wasn't a matter of
choice, for the stiff or for me. Things happen. Sometimes you have to ride
the wave.
I had strolled out to the deck with my first cup of coffee
just as the beach patrol discovered the body. That caught my eye. After
shrugging their shoulders at each other, they called out Splendor Bay's
finest. The men in tan arrived quickly with the siren blaring. That got my
full attention. I finished my second fix of caffeine while watching the
activities below through Sally's opera binoculars.
Tiny Sanders, the biggest of our local cops, was stomping
around, doing just about every dumb thing imaginable to destroy the
integrity of the crime scene, everything but kick the body to see if the
stiff really was dead. His partner, the newest and youngest member of the
three-man Splendor Bay PD, a twenty-one-year-old black kid with the
Hispanic name Gomez, was puking his guts out behind the dune in front of
the department's one and only squad car, a vehicle that I now respected.
The Police Caprice, with a 5.7 liter V-8, could outrun Baby, my sleek '57
Corvette rag-top with her original 283-cubic-inch, gas-guzzling,
many-times-lovingly-rebuilt engine. I had discovered that sobering fact
when Gomez gave me a run for my money, just before I failed his
breath-analyzer test, just after I burned up what remained of Baby's brake
shoes trying to stop before I landed in the middle of the bay.
When the rescue squad's elderly Bronco ambulance/coroner's
meat wagon pulled in behind the Caprice, I bet myself that Splendor Bay's
premier crime fighters would get one of the vehicles stuck in the sand
before they finished the paper-work on the dead dude. And when they pulled
out the zip-lock stiff bag, curiosity got the best of me. I doubled my bet
with myself and made the fateful decision to leave the safety of my
girlfriend's cliff-hugging house for a closer look-see. Actually,
"girl" is a mild stretch of the facts in Sally Solana's case.
And I don't suppose you could call her my friend anymore.
Just so you know, I don't normally go poking my nose into
crime scenes I'm not paid to poke my nose into. But this one was
different. I don't normally find death on my doorstep. And with Sally's
opera glasses, I had counted a dozen glittering diamond studs in the John
Doe's pleated shirt. Since we don't get many stiffs on this section of
beach and the ones we do get don't usually turn up wearing a tux, that had
me extra curious.
I wanted to see who he was, something I couldn't do from
Sally's deck because his face tilted away from me in his final view of the
bay. I was figuring someone might be willing to pay for a photo or two, or
a few unofficial facts on a stiff who could afford to die in diamonds. I
could definitely use the cash since this month's Scotch trust-fund
allowance had already been spent at Fred's Fine Liquors, down the
boardwalk from Fred's Fine Seafood Bar and Grill, up the beach from my own
humble shack.
You never know, I told myself, John Doe might be somebody
interesting enough for a grocery store tabloid. Or some rich relative
might want to know where he was and/or who or what had done him in, which
was part and parcel of my current line of work -- private eyeing -- when
the weather was unsuitable for surfing. Besides, I reasoned, if someone
who knew something about protecting the evidentiary value of crime scenes,
such as me, didn't get down there soon, what few clues there were would be
washed away in the next tide.
Having concluded the cops could use my help, I pulled a
pair of shorts on over my briefs, slipped on a T-shirt and flip-flops,
picked up my camera, and casually descended the steep wooden stairs to the
beach. Gomez was through puking when I got close enough for it to matter.
He had started back around the vehicles toward the dead dude, ready to be
a man about it, when I caught up with him.
"Who is it, Gomez? Anybody who anybody would care is
dead?" I asked politely. I believe in being polite and direct. You
never know, sometimes the truth pops out when you confuse people like
that. If that doesn't work, you can always go to phase two --
intimidation, or bribery.
"What're you doing here, Fragile Dick?" Gomez
asked, being impolite as heck as he hitched up his pants just like Barney
Fife on the old Andy Griffith Show.
Fragile Dick had been my handle since third grade. It was
the worst thing any of the little guys could think of to do with a last
name like Glasscock; there wasn't much you could do with a first name like
Bill. Fortunately, for my self-respect and for the women in my life,
Fragile Dick was a misnomer.
"Just happened to be in the neighborhood, visiting a
friend. Guess you could say ex-friend if you want to be meticulous in your
terminology. Up there." I pointed to the enormous house where
Sally-with-the-gorgeous-body-and-exceptional-brain graciously allowed me
to spend the night. Not that I was in any condition to leave when our
friendship ended, mind you. Sally must have been. Able to leave, that is.
Because she wasn't there when I woke up with the strong belief that a
little sun on my face would take away the too-much-whiskey pain behind my
eyeballs. So far, I had been half-right. If I squinted with the left eye
closed, I didn't hurt as much.
I squinted at the kid. "Come, on, Gomez. Who's the
stiff? Anybody important?"
"Maybe," Gomez allowed. "Tiny just told the
Chief he ought to get his white honky ass out here, real quick. I was
heading back over there when you so rudely interrupted me from my duties
to the citizens of our fair town."
"Fair is right, Gomez. Do your superiors know you're
a bigot? I bet Tiny never said the Chief had a white honky ass. It's
probably a red pimply ass anyway. You're the only guy in town who doesn't
have sun-bleached hair and all you do is lord it over us white guys. Just
because you have a tan to die for. What do you use anyway? A minus SPF 45
sunscreen?"
"Why? You want to be beautiful like me, Fragile
Dick?"
"Of course. Why do you think I spend so much time in
the sun? I've seen the way girls turn their head when you drive around in
the cruiser."
"I'll need some official identification before I let
you near my crime scene," Gomez said, a bit chattier now that I had
acknowledged his superior swordsmanship. "How do I know they didn't
pull your license for good cause since the last time I saw you? And I'd
like to inventory the guy's pockets before you get within ten feet of him.
Routine procedure. Remember?"
"Come on, Gomez, just one teeny, tiny favor," I
whined, "and I'll let you keep the diamond studs."
Gomez didn't answer. At that moment, we heard the squawk
of the Police Caprice radio. Tiny Sanders, the other cop, was
communicating with the world at large, the Chief in particular.
"Yeah, done that," Tiny shouted over the surf's
roar. "Have a tentative ID on the floater. Driver's license says he's
Wallace Moreno. Had five hundred in cash in a money clip, so he wasn't
robbed. I'd say you'd better get ready to vote for a new governor, Chief.
The current one is a little under the weather."
I have to admit, when I heard that, my first thought was
-- There is a God!
My second thought was -- Oh, what a beautiful morning! In
my mind's eye my teenage ghost did a quick Swan Lake up and down
the beach.
The slimy bastard was dead. Joy! Joy!
In addition to being the late Governor Moreno of our great
state, he was the same self-serving cur who had aided and abetted my
beautiful and soon-to-be ex-wife in the fine old practice of cuckoldry, or
cheating, as in "Your Cheating Heart," if you prefer Hank
Williams to William Shakespeare, as most folks do.
My prayers had been answered. For reasons as yet known
only to God, instead of enjoying my wife, the governor was now enjoying
the state of final repose I had wished upon him.
My third thought was -- Darn! I bet they'll think I did
it.
I was right. It didn't take long for the cops to give my
third thought serious consideration. By then, I had more acute concerns.
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SPLENDOR BAY by
LB COBB
LCCN 2001118509
"The
commonplace becomes extraordinary due to the identities and emotional
intensity of the characters... SPLENDOR BAY is a fast paced
suspense story sure to appeal to lovers of the genre. But it's a
mystery of the heart as well"