Justice Dig (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 9) Page 13

  Chris said, “Middle of the week like this, you typically open your studio? I thought that was more the weekends.”

  “Yes, certainly for artists,” Gilda said. “In my case, if I feel like it I put out the sign. No rhyme or reason I guess.”

  “That’s a nice attitude,” Kay said. “I need more of that.”

  “Well, yes and no,” Gilda said. “One negative, you don’t know who might show up.”

  Chris wasn’t crazy about where this was going. “What do you mean?” he said. “Someone no-good showed up?”

  “I’m fortunate in that regard, no,” Gilda said. “The worst thing that happened to me, someone contacted me from prison.”

  Chris had to cringe now, and he noticed Kay reacted as well. “When was that?” he said.

  “Oh a few years ago. Not that big a deal. Any more.”

  “Meaning it was,” Chris said, “before the any more.”

  “I mean I was a bit concerned at one time -- in fact I’ll be totally honest, there was a stretch where I was more than freaked out -- but it’s blown over.”

  “What’s blown over?” Chris said.

  Gilda did an exhale and said, “This fellow saw me in the online catalogue apparently. There’s a group of us craftsmen in West Marin, and an organization behind it, and they do hold official open studios.”

  “And?”Chris said.

  “Unfortunately they include our contact information in the catalogue. Name, email, and address. You do need to disclose your address obviously, otherwise no one can find your studio.”

  “Obviously,” Chris said, not liking the direction at all.

  “But your photo’s not in there, is it?” Kay said.

  “Not typically. We select a representative photo of our finished product . . . but additionally the catalogue includes random photos of artists at work on their craft . . . and mine was included the one year.”

  “Come on,” Chris said. “The bottom line is what.”

  “He contacted me. Email. No idea how an inmate would find something so obscure as our annual open studio event.”

  Chris was thinking, no lady, nothing is obscure anymore. Not to mention prisoners these days likely enjoy as good internet access as most law-abiding citizens. Some fucker like this, all it takes is he googles something, one thing leads to another, the guy with nothing but time on his hands, and now he’s looking at acoustic guitars, and what do you know, look at this foxy lady who makes ‘em.

  “Why on earth would your information be public like that?” Kay said, and she didn’t get it either.

  And what Chris could see happening, they were putting out the catalogues every year the old fashioned way, which you still saw today, stacked up at your friendly neighborhood stores and markets. And okay, your information was out there, but it stayed local.

  Then they worked the thing in online, and some genius decided to leave all the same personal information in place, so now prison inmates could access it as well . . . Whoopee.

  Chris said to Gilda, “So what . . . he sent you like a request for more information on your product line?”

  “It started off that way,” Gilda said. “The fellow was very polite, and of course I had no idea he was incarcerated. So we had a couple friendly back and forths, and then he became a bit darker.”

  “Meaning what?” Chris said.

  “Nothing dramatic, particularly. But commenting on my appearance and so forth.”

  “And wanting to do anything about your appearance?” Kay said. Chris had to give her credit, that’s what he was going to ask.

  “Somewhat. You know.”

  Chris didn’t know. He said, “This was a couple years ago you say? When was the last bit of contact?”

  “Yes, it’s been a while, I’d say at least 6 months.”

  “Jesus,” Chris said. “So you had . . . a year and a half with this maniac?”

  “Not steadily, no. 6 months ago though, when it bubbled up again, a friend suggested I make a report. That evidently did the trick, because there hasn’t been a peep since then.”

  Gilda was stroking a cat which had come into the living room. Yes, she was an attractive enough woman. Olive skin, full lips, a little space between her front teeth when she smiled, which was often. You figured she was smiling in the catalogue photo where the asshole discovered her.

  Kay said, “Well I’d be fibbing if I didn’t say I admire you. Working with your hands, sending beautiful timeless creations out into the world.”

  “She means you’re a throwback,” Chris said, “right?”

  Kay said absolutely, and they made a little more small talk, and back in the car Chris said what next, and she said her friend Nancy actually, she was hoping to meet up with them at the Corte Madera mall.

  Chris said that sounded as good as any other plan, and they drove out of Bolinas, following the fake arrow on the road sign that told you Bolinas was toward San Francisco, and going back over the hill Kay did get a little carsick, and Chris dug around and found her some wintergreen altoids and she said those worked okay.

  Chapter 11

  Chris hated malls. A big one in San Jose opened when he was a kid, a multi-level indoor job under a massive atrium and full of ramps and escalators and dazzle, and that was fun, since it was the first of its kind in the Bay Area -- but now he had no patience for them, and he could rarely think of anything he’d want in one.

  There were two malls in Corte Madera, opposite sides of the freeway and it was anyone’s guess which one Nancy designated, and admittedly they each had a little character compared to most, and you weren’t strictly indoors.

  Nancy seemed quite animated and gave him a solid hug and mentioned how much fun it was last night -- which seemed a bit over the top, since you just saw the woman about 6 hours ago -- but maybe a switch went on when she was about to shop, and that was fine.

  “What I’m thinking,” Chris said, “you girls have your fun, don’t worry about me.”

  “Really?” Kay said. “Where will you go?”

  “I have a routine when I’m down this way. You start off in that neighborhood over there, there’s some railroad tracks you cross, and then you have options . . . If you stay straight, you’re on a semi-trail staring at Mount Tam, so you can do worse.”

  “So you’re taking like a three hour walk?” Nancy said, and Chris looked at them and they both looked back like yes, what’s the problem . . . and Chris said to have fun.

  And man, you could almost go home and take a nap at this point, have plenty of time to make it back -- but home was still currently on Lombard Street, and you tried to minimize any time spent in that place.

  So . . . maybe you get more adventurous then -- instead of staring at Mount Tam you get up on top of it . . . and there were a bunch of great trails up there, all different distances . . . and the fact was Chris used to drive over from the city and hike them regularly, and for whatever reason that tailed off since his diagnosis.

  He had though come off the mountain that morning early on, the day he wrote out his initial list on the back of a receipt in the Mill Valley Starbucks . . . but he honestly couldn’t remember when and if he’d been back up there since.

  So now he took Corte Madera Grade to Blythedale, down to Miller, made the left at the 2am Club, and was halfway up the Tam pretty quick, and then you had to make your decision.

  There were the standard trails -- the Bootjack, the Dais Ridge, the Redwood Creek, the Cataract -- and you could segment any of them into a manageable chunk . . . and Chris parked near the ranger station and he set off on the Bootjack, this time going the opposite way from normal, which was away from the ocean, so that wouldn’t be coming into view today but you saw plenty of it already.

  The second half of the route, the reverse, was a little confusing, nothing familiar about it, and a mile or so in Chris decided give it another twenty minutes and just turn around and follow your footsteps the way you came, don’t get fancy . . . and don’t get lost for Gosh sa
kes . . . though you didn’t fear getting lost on Mt Tam the way you might at Tahoe, the city being an hour away, and in fact viewable at times when the trees opened up on you.

  Except he did get lost. Not scary lost, where you actually might be concerned about spending a night up here in the dark. It could happen, you read about it in the paper, some dude from out of town heading up a trail late -- and even though, yep, you could see San Francisco in places shimmering across the bay, the guy’d still be stuck until daylight, and it typically worked out after that.

  This wasn’t as major, though admittedly you were starting to lose that first bit of daylight -- but what Chris did was go straight on the return trip instead of angling left when he was supposed to . . . and he wasn’t sure but it felt a little different, and a half mile the wrong way there was another side option, a little marker down low informing you of the Dobbs Trail . . . and that sounded familiar enough and Chris was confident it would at least converge eventually with the main road, Panoramic Highway.

  Which it did, and it felt like you added an extra half hour to your effort this evening, but what was the difference . . . and checking his watch you still had over an hour to kill before the women were done with their efforts.

  In fact, thinking about it, the two malls likely closed at 8, so they were essentially shutting them both down, not leaving any shopping minutes unaccounted for.

  There was a set of restrooms at the base of the trailhead, nestled back in the trees off a small parking lot . . . and Chris knew the drill from here, you’d cross the parking lot and hang a right onto Panoramic and walk back up the hill, which was probably ten minutes, and you’d be back where you left the Camry.

  So yeah, you got a little mixed up but no harm, no foul, and Chris used the men’s room and came out and two black guys were standing there with a snub-nosed revolver in his face.

  “Hey,” Chris said. “Please take it easy.”

  “That depend on how you take it,” the guy not holding the gun said.

  Without waiting Chris took off his watch and handed it over. The guys didn’t move.

  So he dug into his pockets -- and God dang it, he’d thought of locking his wallet in the trunk -- not because he thought he’d get robbed, but just less restrictive on a hike, not having something flopping around in your pocket . . . Which in this case was the front pocket, where Chris carried his wallet ever he since he lived in New Jersey and people told him to, especially if he ever went into New York.

  “Here’s 60,” he said, pulling the cash out of his wallet.

  “Mother-fucker,” the other guy said, “you playin with fire. You’d best be giving it all up.”

  There comes, Chris was deciding -- despite being terrified at the same time . . . that nope, I’m not going to give it all up. He’d lost his wallet a couple times in his life, and the ringer you had to go through with the license and credit cards and whatever else was a royal pain in the ass.

  “Wrong,” Chris said. “You fellas got all there is to get.”

  And he met the asshole with the gun’s gaze straight on, not being an a-hole himself, not threatening back exactly . . . but making it clear they’re going to have to go further if the wallet itself is that important to them . . . which he really didn’t think it was.

  There was standoff for about 10 seconds.

  “Hummmmph,” the non-gun guy said, and both pricks grinned slightly, and they turned to leave, and Chris saw the shadow of the one car in the parking lot, meaning he should have had his guard up when he came off the trail . . . but you were past that point now.

  And the gun guy turned back though, and smacked Chris in the head with the butt of the gun . . . and then they took off . . . and Chris’s first thought was I’ve seen it in the movies, but now I just got my rear-end pistol-whipped.

  Whoooaa-baby.

  The blow hadn’t knocked him off his feet, he’d caught himself with his hands on his knees, and he was definitely dizzy but mainly was feeling around in his hairline, trying to access the actual damage.

  They didn’t have mirrors in the bathroom, just those metal reflective plates, and he washed the area a couple times and luckily the bleeding eased. It was more of a nasty blow than a gash, and odds were you weren’t going to have to run to an ER and get stitched.

  And Jeez, looking at the bright side, he probably wouldn’t have to bring it up to Kay and Nancy even, like he definitely would if the mutant had caught him a few inches lower, on the cheek . . . and on top of that, fine it cost him 60 bucks and a cheap watch, but the credit cards and license were intact, not to mention his car keys . . . so it could have been a lot worse.

  Not that you were going to exactly celebrate . . .

  Chris got back to the mall on time and Nancy was where they were supposed to be, but she held up a finger to Chris, indicating Kay would be just another minute, and the minute morphed into 10 or 15, but at that point what was the rush.

  “Success?” Chris said, to whoever.

  They both looked at him a little funny, and Chris was wondering if his speech was off, not internally but on account of the side of face was feeling stiff now, and the words might be coming out funny.

  Then again -- maybe there is no such thing as shopping success -- they’re probably all confused, wondering if they made the right decisions and possibly what they should return.

  He said, “Well moving forward then -- what do we got?”

  “Tonight?” Kay said.

  “You tell me,” Chris said.

  “Well,” Nancy said, “Kay and I had an appetite for a some dancing. You can join us if you like.”

  “You can,” Kay said, and you’d like a little more oomph behind the invitation, but fine.

  Dancing around was about last on Chris’s list right now, but you started considering the alternatives -- popping in again at Weatherby’s, and he didn’t feel like drinking tonight; catching up with Gloria, and again he’d worn out his welcome there; maybe dropping in on Ray, which tended to be depressing if you didn’t time it right.

  Chris said, “I don’t want to join you. But I will. Reason being -- and this keeps coming up -- I’m a native San Franciscan, but lately I got about 3 options up here.”

  “So you’re doing us a favor,” Kay said. “Thanks a lot.”

  “It does sound like we’re the default category,” Nancy said.

  “Okay,” Chris said, “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Alls I’m saying, I may not participate in the dancing. Happy to watch you guys though.”

  “Great then, where do you suggest?” Kay said.

  Chris didn’t know the club scene these days but had an okay time at that Latin place on Columbus that Gloria had dragged him to, and the women were good with it and Kay told Chris she was going to ride with Nancy if he didn’t mind.

  So this excursion you created, Kay coming down from Reno, it wasn’t going anywhere, and Chris figured what did you expect . . . and traffic was thankfully light into the city and they got there and the place didn’t open until 9 -- meaning Chris had to spring for another meal, an Italian place up the block, though it was tasty and getting something in his stomach help his head a bit.

  The dance joint was pretty lively and they had a 4-piece band alternating with a DJ. Chris was able to sit for a while, and his ill experience up on Mount Tam came back into focus.

  It happened . . . you’d have to roll with it and move past it, right? I mean what could you do?

  Were you crazy enough to try to track down those guys? And how would you even start? . . . And then what?

  Chris reminded himself that he thankfully had less on his plate lately, and he felt freer, so why open a can of worms. After all, no one got hurt (much) and the collateral damage was minimal -- so you swallowed hard and moved on . . . Didn’t you?

  An hour into it Kay told Chris he needs to be her partner now, because Nancy is leaving.

  “Gee,” Chris said, “what for?”

  “She met someone.” Chris
hadn’t been keeping a great eye on things, so this was a surprise.

  “Just like that?” he said. “Isn’t that kinda risky?”

  “She knows him from the gym. So she says. At least recognized him.”

  Chris stood up and spotted Nancy indeed heading to the exit with some guy in a leather jacket, and she smiled and raised an eyebrow and Chris and Kay waved back.

  “One-night stand type deal?” Chris said. “That was my original goal, as relates to you.”

  “I saw it right away and I countered it,” Kay said, good natured enough about it and pulling him onto the dance floor.

  It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t dirty-dancing or anything, far from it, but there was a spirit and an energy to being wrapped up with this gal . . . and Chris couldn’t help projecting ahead . . . that hey, Nancy was out of the picture, you never know how the rest of the evening might unfold . . . and the head wasn’t feeling that bad at the moment after all.

  Except a half-hour later Nancy comes back, and she doesn’t look that great, and Kay rushes over to her -- and it’s not like she got assaulted or anything, but the guy turned out to be very unpleasant, was the verdict.

  So there you had it . . . they get out of there and Kay goes back with Nancy to Alabama Street and Chris reprises last night at the motel on Lombard, and when he got there he realized he never checked out of that second room, so he was on the hook for both of them.

  Chapter 12

  Chris slept better overnight than he expected, thinking maybe the blow to the side of the head helped him there, ironically, or it could have been the effect of the event itself -- either way he woke up feeling decent and with a clear decision to not screw around up here anymore looking for Kenny, or otherwise, and to hit the road back down south.