My uncle climbs into the pilot’s seat and digs into a black bag on the floor, “here, put these on.” He hands both of us head sets and puts a set over his ears as well. “Plug them in here,” he points to a place on the dash in front of me. “And here,” he shows Ricky where to plug his head set in the back, Ricky’s only about four inches away, even as small as we are we take up all the room.
“Ready?” my uncle asks and we hear him through the headsets. Both of us nod. Both of us look a bit uneasy. A commercial plane with a bathroom and dinner trays is one thing – this is very different. I feel a little gurgle in my stomach. “There’s some bags in the pouch on the door,” My uncle says, like he can read my mind and then he starts up the engine. Without the headsets we would not be able to hear anything but we hear my uncle speaking to the tower telling them who he is and requesting instructions. The little plane starts to move slowly across the blacktop. My uncle gets it lined up where the tower told him to and then the noise from the engine increases dramatically, the plane almost immediately leaves the ground, and points almost straight into the sky. I can hear Ricky giggling in my head set and it sets me off too. My uncle has to turn off our microphones in order to have another conversation with the tower when he turns them back on we are still giggling. The plane levels off far above our town and my uncle does a long sweeping turn around the whole town, including the houses, and ends the turn with the plane pointing west. In no time at all we see the ocean and the long strip of sandy beach. The little tiny beach towns take almost no space at all. My uncle keeps heading west, we pass the boundary between land and water and he continues west until all we see is water in every direction. I reach for the bag in the door and then decide I’m okay without it.
“Neat huh?” I hear my uncles voice in the head set, take my eyes off the ocean and look over at him, he’s grinning, all excited watching our expressions.
“Amazing,” Ricky and I say together, it sounds weird in the headsets.
“My favorite place in the whole world,” my uncle says as he turns the plane in a long wide turn and ends pointing back to the east. We talk a little, my uncle points out a few things but most of the time we just float through the air high above the world.
“Hey you Guys!” my father’s face appears upside down between two of the pier’s posts. “You under there?” he asks as his eyes adjust to the darkness under the pier.
“We’re here! I shout back as we crawl out of our dark, cool, hiding place and start walking with my father up the beach.
“I almost had to park in the next town,” my father says, just making conversation. “This car show has this town completely filled!”
“What did the police say?” I ask wanting to get right to the point.
My father waits a few seconds for Ricky to catch up with us, “the police called back before I got out of the house. They’ve already found the truck and trailer. It was reported stolen early this morning. They found it parked on the side of the road, the back door rolled up and nothing inside.”
“Did you tell them about my dad? Ricky asks.
“When they called back I told them everything you told me,” my father answers quickly. “We are heading for the station as soon as we get back to the car.”
“Did you tell my mother?” Ricky asks full of concern.
“No yet,” my father pauses a second and then ads, “I wanted to hurry and get your full report to the police. I didn’t want to be in a hurry when I tell your mother.”
“Sounds good,” Ricky responds and we all walk silently for a while. The continuous line of traffic still circles through the streets, some people looking for a place to park, others just looking at the old, fixed up cars. When we get to my father’s fifty-four Chevy there are several people standing around it looking in the windows, thinking it’s part of the show. My father has to smile a little, he’s pretty proud of his car.
A guy looking in the driver’s window looks up at my father when we get close, “this your car?” he asks.
“Sure is,” my father answers. He has his keys out and is unlocking doors as soon as we reach the car.
“You drive her on the street?” another man asks.
We pile in while my father answers, “Sure do,” and turns the key. The car starts immediately.
“She sounds good!” one of the people shouts as we pull on to the road.
“So,” I want to ask Ricky several questions but I’m not sure if he will appreciate them right now, “what does your father do for a living?”
Ricky looks up from the sand and gives me a puzzled look.
“I’m just trying to understand why someone would kidnap him,” I answer quietly.
“He does research,” Ricky goes silent and goes back to staring at the sand his eyes a little shining a little more than usual. He blinks a few times to keep anything from running down his cheeks.
“What does he research?” I know I’m pushing it but I want to have something to go on.
“I ask him, he says he’s a researcher. He puts on a suit and tie every weekday morning and he’s gone for about nine hours. That’s all I know.” Ricky answers without ever looking up from watching his toes dig into the cold sand.
“Maybe your mom will know,” I say, just thinking out loud.
“I doubt it. His own son doesn’t even know what he does!” Ricky says like he’s mad at himself for not knowing more.
“Hey it’s not your fault!” It bothers me that my best friend is blaming himself for what has happened. “Maybe it’s all top secret and he can’t tell you.”
Ricky looks up, rubs the water out of his eyes, “you think he was captured to get some information out of him?” Now Ricky looks more worried than sad.
“I’m sure he’s okay, but we need to figure out what’s going on,” Ricky really looks messed up I’m afraid my questions haven’t helped much. “Lets just wait till my dad gets here, maybe the police have already found him. How hard could it be to spot a car hauler with a picture of a race car on the back?”
Ricky just nods and goes back to looking at his toes. I’ve got a lot to think about anyway, like why did they even bother with taking the car? How did they know he would be at the car show? How long would it take to put together a plan like this, with a car hauler and all? With all those people around why didn’t any one notice? Did Ricky’s dad just walk into the truck? The more I think about it the less sense it makes.
Authors note: Slight changes were made to Parts 18 to 24 in order to allow Sally to come to the beach with the boys. Only the last paragraph is completely new.
As soon as Ricky’s dad parks the Honda N360 he has a line of his own. Most of the people want to see the engine – it’s very small. They seem willing to overlook all the body rust. Ricky’s dad gives the same speech over and over about the car’s mileage and what needs to be done to keep it in top running condition. Occasionally when the size of the crowd increases he gives some history that dates back to his college days. I don’t know if he ever gets around to looking at the car show cars. Ricky and I purchase the over sized bag of kettle corn to share, Sally dog makes sure she gets at least her share and the three of us leave Ricky’s dad to his audience.
At first we just wander around looking at the cars and then we walk down the beach. Sally takes off at a dead run for parts unknown. Ricky starts dropping one popped corn every ten feet or so as we walk. A single seagull walks along behind us scooping up the corn. And then another seagull joins him and the two of them fight over each puff of popped corn. And then seven or eight seagulls walk and squawk behind us getting closer and closer until fifty or more seagulls are watching Ricky’s hand go into the bag, trying to catch the next piece almost before it leaves his hand. We start to jog. The seagulls walk, fly, run to keep us with us, all of them begging for another bit of corn. We run, almost catching up to Sally. The fifty seagulls take flight, some in front of us some behind, most swirling around our heads. We fear the droppings seagulls are famous for. Ricky does the only thing he can and dumps half our bag of kettle corn in a pile in the sand. Sally turns as if to snatch some popcorn and then she sees the herd of sea gulls and the three of us head up the beach toward the houses built next to the sand. The gulls stay behind and fight over the white pile of popped corn.
“Remind me not to feed the birds,” Ricky says, still breathing hard from the run up the beach in the soft sand.
“Hey, Ricky.”
“What?”
“Don’t feed the birds!” Ricky thinks that’s funny, he has a pretty good sense of humor. The sidewalks of the small beach town are crowded with car show people and the main street is a slow moving, unbroken line of old, fixed up cars. We know this town pretty good; it’s the closest beach from our house. The best bakery is a secret. I’ll give you a clue; it’s not a cute little shop with wooden tables and a view of the water. With most of our corn used as a decoy we walk to the north end of the main street and between the gas pumps of an old gas station. Inside the unpopulated gas station’s shop and go market, past all the packaged snacks, past the machines dispensing soda, against the back wall is the best bakery in town. Sally waits outside the door without having to be told.
“Cheese Danish,” Ricky says to the person standing behind the glassed-in counter.
“Berry scone,” I say in answer to the counter person’s questioning glance.
Outside, after we both have sampled our snack I decide it is time to follow Ricky’s instruction once more, “Hey, Ricky.”
“What?” he knows what’s coming but he’s a nice guy and plays along.
“Don’t feed the birds.” We both think it’s funny. I can be a pretty funny guy when I put my mind to it.
When it gets hot the best place to be is under the pier. Very few people are under the pier because of the flies and because there is no sun. People come from all over the world so they can go home with a tan. Ricky and I have enough tan, the flies are another thing, before we can relax in the shade we have to drag piles of seaweed a few hundred feet away, flies really like seaweed. The five or six piles of seaweed under the pier become one large pile cooking in the sunshine and we dig out lounge chairs in the sand. We take a little extra time molding our lounge chairs and include armrests and elevated foot rests. Sally snaps at the few remaining flies.
“This is the life,” Ricky states after the hour of work getting our place of rest just right.
I can just barely see the ocean over my sandy toes, “it’s really quite large. Is it not?”
“The ocean?”
“Yes, huge really,” Ricky shares my attraction.
“Tide pools!” Ricky yells like he has never had the thought before and takes off running down the beach with Sally running after him. He just wants to poke at anemones, but I take off after him too. It’s a long run to where the tide pools are and we have to get our breath lying flat on the sand before we can bring havoc to the anemone community.
The car show continues. Every time we walk by Ricky’s dad’s car he’s in the middle of a story, usually the car is getting pushed or pulled or he’s getting a ride to the next town but, he always has a good group of listeners.
There is a place where a bridge in the beach town crosses the main road to our town. The road is four lanes wide. The bridge is only two lanes wide but it has nice wide sidewalks on each side. I like to walk to the center of the bridge on the sidewalk and watch the cars on the highway come and go. Ricky and I stand and watch. There are always plenty of cars.
“If the people going that way could do the things the people going the other way want to do the people going that way could stay where they were and the other people could stay where they were,” I think about this a lot. Ricky just looks at me and says nothing. “You know why I like to come up here?” I ask Ricky, I’ve decided he should know just in case I need help.
“No idea.”
“Well, I read this story once about this kid,” I pause and make sure Ricky is listening. “A truck got stuck because it was too tall for a bridge. It got jammed real tight.”
“Did the driver die?” Ricky asks with his eyes real wide.
“I don’t know,” I had never thought about the poor truck driver before. “I don’t think so.”
“Trucks do about sixty miles an hour through here, “ Ricky looks at me to see if I understand. “The truck would come to a complete stop in about ten feet, sixty to zero in about ten feet!”
“I never thought of that before. The driver would shoot out the window and land about a mile up the road,” I really had never thought of that before and it kind of took the fun out of my whole idea.
Ricky waited for me to finish my story a few seconds and then asked, “so the truck got stuck?”
‘“It got stuck and no one could figure how to get it out from under the bridge. After all the engineers and adults gave up trying to figure it out this kid just walks up and says, “let some air out of the tires.” I wanted to be that kid when a truck gets stuck under this bridge but I’ve changed my mind now.”’ All I can think about is that poor truck driver flying though the air. I’m glad Ricky straightened me out but I’m pretty sure I’ll spend less time on the bridge.
Cars have been adding to the show all day and now there is an endless stream of cars circling the town looking for a place to park. We walk past shops on the shady side of the street, zig zaging back and forth to make our way through the crowd.
“Hey! What’s that fifty-seven doing?” Ricky moves into a jog and Sally and I try to keep up with him.
About twenty fifty-seven Chevys line the curb beside the walkway, “Which fifty-seven!” I holler into the crowd of people Ricky has disappeared into. I pick up my pace and start running until I run right into Ricky standing still on the sidewalk watching a Chevy back into an empty spot.
“That one.” He says as he points at the red and white car completing a perfect parallel park.
And then I understand, “Your dad left?” Ricky just looks at the no longer empty spot. I watch the steady stream of cars looking for a parking spot just for a second, “he just pulled out,” I discern. “He cannot be far away.” Before I get the words out Ricky is running along the curb. The cars on the road are just barely moving at a walking speed so as we run we pass car after car none of which are anything like Ricky’s dad’s Honda N360. We run all the way to the first corner and past at least fifteen cars without having to think about anything but finding the car. At the corner Ricky keeps running straight ahead so Sally and I make the only turn, which is to the left. I scan every space large enough for the small car while I run past another thirty cars. Sally is looking from side to side and barking the whole time; I don’t know if she knows why. I look to the left up the next cross street. The main road runs to the beach and makes a left turn, runs along the beach for a block and then makes another left turn so when I look to the right I see Ricky already making the left turn and running toward me. He slows his run as he gets close but keeps scanning from side to side.
“We couldn’t have missed him and he couldn’t have come this far,” Ricky states the conclusion I have already come to. Sally pushes her head into his hand trying to comfort him.
“There’s no way anyone drove past that prime parking place,” I say, supporting Ricky’s statement.
“And there’s no fast get-a-way,” Ricky says pointing to cars passing that we had passed while we ran. We walk together up the street to the next corner and then turn to the left and head back to where Ricky’s dad’s car was parked. Ricky sits on the ground next to where his father’s car was parked with his back against a lamp pole. He pulls up his knees and holds his head in his hands looking down at he gray curb. I pat him on the head like he’s a lonely, stray dog. Sally lets out a sad whimper. I walk around the car parked in the spot to the driver’s window.
“Hey, kid!” someone in the crowd of people walking by shouts. I look around for the shouter. A guy is making his way through the people. “What ya doing with my car!”
“Is this your Chevy,” I ask as innocent as I can. It could use a lot of work but I add, “Nice car,” because all fifty-seven Chevys are nice cars.
He softens a little as he reaches his car, “She needs a lot of work. What you need?”
“We’re looking for the car that was parked here before you,” I point toward Ricky who is still just staring at the ground.
“Didn’t see a car,” he pauses for a minute like he’s considering whether I’m worth it or not and then adds “saw the truck.”
“Truck?”
“One on those closed in car haulers like the race car drivers use. He half blocked the road for about five minutes. Cars were creeping around the truck, almost caused a couple of accidents.”
“Did they load a tiny Honda car into it?”
“By the time I got here they were pushing in the ramps and pulling down the door. As soon as there was room I nosed into the parking spot.” The pride he was feeling at capturing such a prime spot showed on this face.
“What kind of truck?” Ricky asked, all of a sudden standing beside us completely interested. Sally standing beside him her ears forward waiting for his answer.
The fifty-seven Chevy guy jumps a little at Ricky’s intrusion but answers, “Only saw the back.” Seeing Ricky’s obvious disappointment he adds, “there was a picture of the back of a car on the roll down gate.” We both must look puzzled because he adds, “Made it look like the gate was open and you could see what was riding inside the truck.”
“Some kind of race car. It had a spoiler and a number,” the fifty-seven Chevy guy looks around like he’s afraid his group is leaving without him.
“Do you remember the number?” Ricky asks.
“Got to go kids,” and he takes off to join the people he’s with.
“What color was the race car?” Ricky hollers after him.
The fifty-seven Chevy guy turns and hollers over his shoulder, “light blue!”
We stand and watch as he disappears down the street. Ricky looks like he might cry, “We need to call the police,” Ricky says so quietly I almost can’t hear him.
“We need to call my dad,” I respond and start walking toward the nearest pay phone, which is up the street on the corner.
Ricky follows, “why your dad?”
“The police will treat us just like the owner of the fifty-seven did, like kids.”
“They’ll want to see your father and get a full description of my father,” Ricky says, just thinking out loud.
“I’m going to ask my dad to report the car as stolen and last seen being loaded onto a racecar hauler.” Ricky looks me right in the eye and starts to say something but I add, “The police won’t do anything about a grown man missing for half an hour but they’ll get all over a stolen car – a rare, almost one of a kind, stolen car.”
“Why do you think they want my dad’s car, it’s a rusted heap.”
“I don’t think they want the car. I think they want your father.”
“Why?” Ricky can’t understand the reason behind this any more than I can.
“That’s what we need to find out. While the police and highway patrol look for the car we need to find out what your dad’s been up too!” Ricky just nods. We reach the phone and I explain the plan to my father. He’s up to speed without needing a lot of encouragement.
“I’ve got a friend in the Highway Patrol, I’ll call him first, they’ll get a helicopter into the air. That car hauler shouldn’t be that hard to spot. As soon as I’ve done everything I can here I’ll head your way,” the phone clicks and Ricky and I stand watching passing cars both of us looking into each side window just in case Ricky’s dad is tied up with rope and gagged in the back seat. We both know he’s nowhere around here but we can’t help looking.
Just before the pier hits the sand there is a hidden ten feet of beach. The tar treated tree trunks only show their top four feet and lines of light run across the ceiling that is also the underside of the wooden pier. Ricky sits on the cold sand his back against a pylon with his legs stretched out in front of him. I sit facing him leaning against a pylon of my own. Sally is stretched out flat on the sand with her nose in the sunshine. My father is at least a half hour away, depending upon how long it takes him to get the search for the tiny Honda started.
Ricky sits on the ground next to where his father’s car was parked with his back against a lamp pole. He pulls up his knees and holds his head in his hands looking down at he gray curb. I pat him on the head like he’s a lonely, stray, dog and walk around the car parked in the spot to the driver’s window.
“Hey, kid!” someone in the crowd of people walking by shouts. I look around for the shouter. A guy is making his way through the people. “What ya doing with my car!”
“Is this your Chevy,” I ask as innocent as I can. It could use a lot of work but I add, “Nice car,” because all fifty-seven Chevys are nice cars.
He softens a little as he reaches his car, “She needs a lot of work. What you need?”
“We’re looking for the car that was parked here before you,” I point toward Ricky who is still just staring at the ground.
“Didn’t see a car,” he pauses for a minute like he’s considering whether I’m worth it or not and then adds “saw the truck.”
“Truck?”
“One on those closed in car haulers like the race car drivers use. He half blocked the road for about five minutes. Cars were creeping around the truck, almost caused a couple of accidents.”
“Did they load a tiny Honda car into it?”
“By the time I got here they were pushing in the ramps and pulling down the door. As soon as there was room I nosed into the parking spot.” The pride he was feeling at capturing such a prime spot showed on this face.
“What kind of truck?” Ricky asked he was all of a sudden standing beside us completely interested.
The fifty-seven Chevy guy jumps a little at Ricky’s intrusion but answers, “Only saw the back.” Seeing Ricky’s obvious disappointment he adds, “there was a picture of the back of a car on the roll down gate.” We both must look puzzled because he adds, “Made it look like the gate was open and you could see what was riding inside the truck.”
“Some kind of race car. It had a spoiler and a number,” the fifty-seven Chevy guy looks around like he’s afraid his group is leaving without him.
“Do you remember the number?” Ricky asks.
“Got to go kids,” and he takes off to join the people he’s with.
“What color was the race car?” Ricky hollers after him.
The fifty-seven Chevy guy turns and hollers over his shoulder, “light blue!”
Cars have been adding to the show all day and now there is an endless stream of cars circling the town looking for a place to park. We walk past shops on the shady side of the street, zig zaging back and forth to make our way through the crowd.
“Hey! What’s that fifty-seven doing?” Ricky moves into a jog and I try to keep up with him.
About twenty fifty-seven Chevys line the curb beside the walkway, “Which fifty-seven!” I holler into the crowd of people Ricky has disappeared into. I pick up my pace and start running until I run right into Ricky standing still on the sidewalk watching a Chevy back into an empty spot.
“That one.” He says as he points at the red and white car completing a perfect parallel park.
And then I understand, “Your dad left?” Ricky just looks at the no longer empty spot. I watch the steady stream of cars looking for a parking spot just for a second, “he just pulled out,” I discern. “He cannot be far away.” Before I get the words out Ricky is running along the curb. The cars on the road are just barely moving at a walking speed so as we run we pass car after car none of which are anything like Ricky’s dad’s Honda N360. We run all the way to the first corner and past at least fifteen cars without having to think about anything but finding the car. At the corner Ricky keeps running straight ahead so I make the only turn, which is to the left. I scan every space large enough for the small car while I run past another thirty cars. I look to the left up the next cross street. The main road runs to the beach and makes a left turn, runs along the beach for a block and then makes another left turn so when I look to the right I see Ricky already making the left turn and running toward me. He slows his run as he gets close but keeps scanning from side to side.
“We couldn’t have missed him and he couldn’t have come this far,” Ricky states the conclusion I have already come to.
“There’s no way anyone drove past that prime parking place,” I say, supporting Ricky’s statement.
“And there’s no fast get-a-way,” Ricky says pointing to cars passing that we had passed while we ran. We walk together up the street to the next corner and then turn to the left and head back to where Ricky’s dad’s car was parked.
At first we just wander around looking at the cars and then we walk down the beach. Ricky starts dropping one popped corn every ten feet or so as we walk. A single seagull walks along behind us scooping up the corn. And then another seagull joins him and the two of them fight over each puff of popped corn. And then seven or eight seagulls walk and squawk behind us getting closer and closer until fifty or more seagulls are watching Ricky’s hand go into the bag, trying to catch the next piece almost before it leaves his hand. We start to jog. The seagulls walk, fly, run to keep us with us, all of them begging for another bit of corn. We run. The fifty seagulls take flight, some in front of us some behind, most swirling around our heads. We fear the droppings seagulls are famous for. Ricky does the only thing he can and dumps half our bag of kettle corn in a pile in the sand and we head up the beach toward the houses built next to the sand. The gulls stay behind and fight over the white pile of popped corn.
“Remind me not to feed the birds,” Ricky says, still breathing hard from the run up the beach in the soft sand.
“Hey, Ricky.”
“What?”
“Don’t feed the birds!” Ricky thinks that’s funny, he has a pretty good sense of humor. The sidewalks of the small beach town are crowded with car show people and the main street is a slow moving, unbroken line of old, fixed up cars. We know this town pretty good; it’s the closest beach from our house. The best bakery is a secret. I’ll give you a clue; it’s not a cute little shop with wooden tables and a view of the water. With most of our corn used as a decoy we walk to the north end of the main street and between the gas pumps of an old gas station. Inside the unpopulated gas station’s shop and go market, past all the packaged snacks, past the machines dispensing soda, against the back wall is the best bakery in town.
“Cheese Danish,” Ricky says to the person standing behind the glassed-in counter.
“Berry scone,” I say in answer to the counter person’s questioning glance.
Outside, after we both have sampled our snack I decide it is time to follow Ricky’s instruction once more, “Hey, Ricky.”
“What?” he knows what’s coming but he’s a nice guy and plays along.
“Don’t feed the birds.” We both think it’s funny. I can be a pretty funny guy when I put my mind to it.
Just before dinner Ricky shows up at our door. He carries an old, green, heavy, Coleman sleeping bag over his shoulder, the edges of a white pillow stick out of each end of the rolled up sleeping bag. Everything else he may need is rolled up in there too.
I go out the door instead of inviting him in, “My stuff is already up there,” I tell him as we walk around to the backyard through the carport. It takes two tosses to get the bag up to the deck.
“What’s your mom cooking?” as we go up the steps to the back door.
“Smells like fish.”
“Your mom makes good fish.”
“She does pretty good,” I agree as we walk into the dining area, which is also the kitchen.
“Who’s she?” my mom asks as she places a pile of dishes on the table and nods at us to spread them around.
“You are she,” I answer and start dealing out the dinner plates.
“What do I do pretty good?” she asks while putting some potatoes into a bowl.
“Some people say you’re a good cook,” I say with a quick look at Ricky.
“Thank you Ricky. That is very nice of you. I hope you like chicken,” she puts the mashed potatoes on the table and gets the chicken out of the oven. “Go find your father.”
We spread out both sleeping bags and completely cover the plywood deck. We kick off our tennis shoes; one of Ricky’s shoes slips between the railing and lands in the grass below.
“I can get that in the morning,” Ricky states.
With pillows leaning against the newly installed two by four railing we lay on top of the bags, it’s still too warm to get inside. The sky is almost black; the moon is still below the horizon, stars shine.
“This is nice,” I say while looking up at the stars.
“That was fun, working with your dad.”
“My father comes through every once in a while,” I tone it down a little so as not to get too mushy.
“What’s that?” a light streams across the sky.
“A falling star?” I suggest.
“If a star fell to earth the earth would burn up in a fiery ball long before the star got anywhere near us. Stars are huge,” Ricky informs me.
“A meteor, a falling meteor,” I correct myself.
“I think it was a spaceship,” Ricky says just looking straight up into the night sky.
“Sure, Ricky, and it just crashed into the ocean.”
“Do you really think that?”
“No Ricky. No I don’t.”
A car show took over the whole beachside town. Ricky’s dad wanted to see the cars so we tagged along. Perfectly restored cars fill every empty lot. People have opened Kettle corn shops on wheels and there are lines in front of all the fish places. One place known for its bread bowls of clam chowder has a line half way down the street.
As soon as Ricky’s dad parks the Honda N360 he has a line of his own. Most of the people want to see the engine – it’s very small. They seem willing to overlook all the body rust. Ricky’s dad gives the same speech over and over about the car’s mileage and what needs to be done to keep it in top running condition. Occasionally when the size of the crowd increases he gives some history that dates back to his college days. I don’t know if he ever gets around to looking at the car show cars. Ricky and I purchase the over sized bag of kettle corn to share and leave him to his audience.
“I think it is. Red hair, brown hair, blonde – tall, thin, chubby all three in jean shorts and bikini tops.”
“And they all just sit there year in and year out?”
“Maybe the city pays them? Like inviting people to come here. I’ve heard of bars hiring girls to hang around so men will be attracted.”
“I think it’s just a nice place to sit and watch the world go by. I guess it could be the same girls if they live around here but I doubt it. You gonna stop for coffee?”
“Sure,” I pull the car around the next corner and slow to about ten miles an hour on the narrow asphalt path allowed between horizontal parked cars. Watching for an empty space or someone about to pull out of a space. “This place has been in too many movies. People come here from all over the world now. It doesn’t matter if it’s foggy or raining, it’s always crowded.”
“When you plan for a year and fly across an ocean you’re going to go home with a tan even if you have to paint it on. See that red and white mini up there? I think it’s about to leave. Wait here and see.”
“I hate it when people do that.”
“If you start doing it you’ll have to re-think that won’t you?”
I slow to a stop in the middle of the narrow road. The guy behind me honks but the Cooper starts to back out. We slip in as soon as he clears the space.
Mac slides my mug onto my table, the one by the front window.He leaves to take care of one of the small group of customers scattered around the shop.
A man who could pass for a beach bum sits down at the square wooden table in the chair across from mine.He’s about five foot eight inches tall.White, not like a sheet of paper but like people from Europe.He has brown hair tied back into a ponytail (at least while he’s at work).He keeps his whiskers from becoming a beard but I’ve never seen him clean-shaven.He has brown eyes that dart about like he’s hiding something or wants to make sure no one sneaks up on him.He’s closer to skinny than fat but is neither. He smiles at me, not because I’m special but because he smiles at everyone.His name is Trenton, don’t call him Trent, he hates that.He’s the owner of Cayucos Coffee.
“Hey, Mr. Owens, haven’t seen you in at least a week, been busy catching the bad guys?”
“Sometimes I get the feeling I’m helping more of the bad guys get away.They seem to be the ones who are willing to pay my fees.But, no, I’m not busy.Sally’s busy, Randolph W. Owens Investigations is busy, but I’m just passing time.”
“That sister of yours won’t give you something to do?That doesn’t sound like her.”
“She offers, but I’m picky.” Trenton waves Mac over and requests an Americano.
“Your talents are too valuable to waste on finding out if some guy is cheating on his wife right?”Mac sets Trenton’s coffee down in front of him, Trenton takes a sip and leans back into his wooden chair until it creaks.“You have enough time on your hands to help me catch a guy?”
“Maybe, what’s up?”
Trenton leans forward in his chair so I lean towards him, “It’s about Mac, that computer interface you gave me,” Trenton whispers.
“You know he can hear every word we say,” Mac can hear our conversation through the holo emitters in the shop and through my personal communications pad.
Mac doesn’t have his image walk to our table he just appears.In a split second he moves from behind the front counter to the edge of our table.
“What about the computer interface Randy gave you and he didn’t give you anything I’m public domain.”
“Just messing with you Mac,” Trenton grins up at Mac.
Mac has nothing to say, which is very rare for Mac.He just dissolves slowly and re-appears behind the shop’s sales counter.
“Want to take this conversation outside?I can turn off my pad.”I look over at Mac and he’s trying to burn a hole in me through his bottle cap glasses with his piercing green eyes.Something about the way his glasses make his eyes look giant makes the look far from threatening.
“No, I really was just messing with Mac.He’s a lot of fun.I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Mac, still standing behind the counter, lets the holo emitters give his face a bit of a blush to acknowledge Trenton’s praise.
“The sun should burn off this fog in an hour or so, you going to stick around?”
“No, I came for the fog, it was already ninety degrees in Bakersfield when I left.The forecast is a hundred and three for today.”
“Our forecast is for sixty-six.Hard to believe a hundred miles makes that much difference.How come you don’t move here to paradise, you’re a rich man.”
“I like the heat and it’s a dry heat.”
Bakersfield and it’s dry heat is an old traditional Bakersfield joke but it’s also true.We talk about the weather, a little politics and about how I should marry and settle down.Before I leave the sun is shining and the shop has filled with worshipers of all ages, sizes.When the tables are all full, even the tables outside along the walkway, I decide it’s time to head home.Trenton walks me to the corner.I turn to the right and walk in the sand next to the waves of salt water for another half an hour before I return to my ground car and let Mac drive me back to Bakersfield.
david blankenship 
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