Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Box Set Page 4

  “So,” Chris said, “then no cops.”

  “At the end. I already knew one of ‘em, the little episode with having the pay the fine that no doubt you’re familiar with. The guy basically said it looked like I’ve had a rough day, and left it at that, and they went on their merry way.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re short, pal.”

  “Yeah . . . will that work anyway?”

  “Not only won’t it work, you ain’t even in the ballpark.” Chris didn’t like the guy using ain’t, not the guy’s normal style apparently, which could mean things could turn unpredictable again.

  Jeez . . . all he wanted this morning was to finish watching that paddleboard race come in, then the little brunch with Mancuso and Rosie, and then whatever -- maybe call Chandler later, see if he wanted to hit a few tennis balls down at Polliwog Park.

  Except of course nothing ever followed the script, and here you were having to make another spot decision. Regan was off his bike, pocketing the nine hundred bucks, one hand on the handlebars.

  “Holy Toledo!” Chris said, pointing down the beach toward El Segundo. “What the heck is that?”

  Regan turned toward it and Chris grabbed the top tube of the bike and yanked, and by the time Regan fully reacted Chris had dragged the thing back toward the Manhattan Pier a few yards, but hopefully out of Regan’s reach, and Regan stood there dumbfounded and fortunately this time didn’t make a move, and Chris mounted the bike.

  “Give me 20 minutes,” Chris called back, “half hour tops.” And riding away he wasn’t sure if Regan answered, but if he did it was quietly, and Chris figured it wouldn’t kill him to sit down for a while, and anyhow, what could the guy do, he wasn’t going walk to Marina Del Rey, and the guy might have even said he lived in Culver City, which was further.

  Chris had thought of something kind of on the fly there, when Regan pointed out he was short, not just for the extra hundred but the pot-sweetener too . . . that he had that coupon he won in Arizona.

  Fancier than a coupon actually, you opened a snazzy pouch and inside on heavy duty paper with some gold lettering was a week at a pickleball camp in Anthem, all expenses paid (except for getting there).

  There’d been a charity event, God knows for what, Chris couldn’t place that part of it, but it had been a Saturday night where he was working the bar in the resort, and he’d pitched in his 10 bucks for a raffle ticket like everyone else, and lo and behold the older gal running it, wearing a glitzy sleeveless gown that was too tight on her, called the grand prize winner (there had been a dozen smaller prizes building up to it) and it comes out Chris’s number.

  Chris awkwardly waved from behind the bar, meaning to point out that he was an employee and ineligible . . . but there was a huddle between the main gal and a couple others, and dang, it was like a Congressional caucus, but they determined that yes Chris was a part-time employee but he was also a resident . . . and the tight-gown gal handed him the pouch, big smile, and congratulated him.

  Chris figured he’d never use the thing in a million years -- first of all he didn’t care for pickleball, it was too loud-- and but he hung onto it, and he almost gave it to that trucker Abe when they got on a certain subject and he thought Abe might find a use for it, in fact he intended to when they stopped and he could dig it out of his suitcase, but he forgot.

  The nice thing was, even if you didn’t set foot on a pickleball court, the prize gave you a room at the resort in Anthem for a week. Just go in the pool and hot tub, take a walk, look at the red rock. Why not?

  Chris had a little stash in the apartment and it was more challenging than it looked pedaling up those hills, even in the guy’s low gear, but he got there and found an extra hundred, plus the two that Finch had to spot him, and wedged the resort prize into his back pocket . . . and man, now you had to be careful of the reverse, building up too much speed going back down the hills to the beach . . . and Chris decided he was either getting old or over-reacting, and there was Regan, same spot, not sitting but slumped against the railing.

  Chris handed him the bill and the prize-pouch, and started to explain what that was all about, and that it was open-ended, you could take advantage of it any time . . . and Regan took it but waved a hand to cut him off, not needing to hear about it.

  Regan said, “Let’s not run into each other again, how about.”

  Chris said that sounded like a great idea, and he stuck out a hand but Regan ignored it and got back on the bike and pedaled away.

  Chapter 3

  Chris almost grabbed an Uber for the return trip to Hermosa, but the day had turned into a bluebird one, a cloudless sky, high sun, all kinds of action on the beach for a Sunday in the middle of March. So he figured what the hay, and reversed direction on the Strand and headed back that way on foot, knowing of course he should have jumped in the Uber.

  There was no more jogging in the forecast, that was for sure, and he hoped he hadn’t done any damage that would show up later. Chris knew that often something goes haywire when you press matters outside of your comfort zone. A few years ago he got in a situation on a trail near the Palace of the Legion of Honor in San Francisco, got carried away trying to impress someone, and walked four or five miles in the wrong shoes, and paid the price for a couple months when the plantar fasciitis kicked in, and getting to the bathroom in the middle of the night was like walking on hot coals.

  But the unknown consequences didn’t seem critical right now. The main thing, he’d (hopefully) put the swim-racing incident to bed, and you chalk it up to a case of bad judgment (maybe a couple of those) and what can you do, you move on.

  It was obviously way too late to run into Rosie and Ned on their return stroll from Hermosa -- you missed them by a couple hours -- and Chris didn’t particularly feel like checking in at this point, and judging by his lack of phone activity, they weren’t too worried about him either.

  Rosie was getting the hang of the southern California lifestyle, so that part was good. Chris’s intention, scooping her up on West 148th Street those couple weeks ago, was to thrust her into a fresh environment, so that she’d hopefully stop turning tricks.

  Probably that was the case so far . . . Chris wouldn’t really know, since the projected scenario shifted a bit around Wyoming, where Rosie asked Chris would he mind if she rode with Ned for a while, and the writing was on the wall, and Chris figured who was he kidding, it wasn’t like she was going to move in with me, I was a client for gosh sakes.

  Plus by then Ned had selflessly gone to bat for him, and Rosie too, and there wasn’t much you could hold against the guy.

  When they’d made it back to MB Ned mentioned he could square away housing for her, which Chris assumed meant they’d be shacking up together, and Chris never pressed it. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on, since he’d run into them both in the Crow’s Nest a couple times and Ned was his usual gregarious self, meaning real friendly in there, with multiple women . . . and Rosie didn’t seem to mind, in fact she was cozying up to a few guys herself, seemed to be enjoying the scene just fine.

  Meaning Gee, now that he thought about it, was she turning tricks?

  Whatever . . . what Chris did know was Ned had set her up with a job in the Strand house, where he engineered his porno flicks operation. Rosie’s duties were supposedly assisting the gal at the front desk when you walked in -- Chris couldn’t remember her name but she was very pleasant, sort of a middle-aged madam type who did the scheduling and secretarial work.

  You’d be naive to assume Rosie never ventured into the upstairs action as well, where the real money was, acting out the scenes . . . though even driving cross-country Chris considered that possibility, and figured it was at least a significant step up from standing on a street corner on a frosty night in the old meat district of Manhattan propositioning strangers, which is where they met.

  In fact he was about a third of the way to Hermosa right now, coming up on the actual place . . . and it was tempting to knock on the door and see who was around and what might be cooking . . . though he’d done that a couple times and it had admittedly been interesting, but he of course came away saddled with the intimidation factor.

  So nah. Plus you couldn’t be everywhere, you couldn’t be everyone’s keeper, stuff rarely followed a script, you had to dial things back a notch and be more flexible and go with the flow -- these were lessons he was learning as he was coming up on the 1 and a half month mark of considering himself disease-free.

  He was learning these lessons but unfortunately he wasn’t always acting on them -- kind of like today.

  But that aside. He’d been diagnosed in early February of 2017, so six weeks ago he’d hit the one-year mark. Chris considered anything post the one year mark as the bonus column. No scientific basis behind it, no input from Billy his doctor -- or Bethany, Billy’s admittedly voluptuous receptionist who liked to throw her weight around on medical matters, and did so right up to when she essentially dumped him out of her life, after piecing together the red rock incident with Kyle.

  So yeah, as far as Chris was concerned he’d beat this thing for a short time. The first year doesn’t count. Whether the diagnosis had been a mistake to start with, that’s anyone’s guess, but it felt a lot better since this February, by the week, to (for the most part) deem himself cleared.

  There were still the ups and downs where something would happen and he’d question his physical health -- even today, on the jog to intercept the doofus he could hear his heart pounding away pretty good as he crossed the Ardmore -- and son of a bitch, it seemed like there was an extra little sound in there, in the beat process.

  So you weren’t going to escape all of it, ever probably, but you did your best.

  Finch was on a bench right where he’d been talking about, the horseshoe plaza that dipped away from the Strand about 100 yards short of the Hermosa Pier. There was always some new contraption down here, typically related to physical fitness, and even living here in the middle of it Chris was caught off guard with the new paraphernalia.

  Right now a shirtless muscle-bound bronzed guy was rolling around on his hands, using these special grips with wheels on them. A woman in a neon bikini was holding up his feet, and she was kneeling and riding on some contraption herself, her impressive heinie going strikingly vertical each time the two of them rounded the far turn and circled back to where most of the people were watching.

  “My man,” Chris said to Finch.

  “You found me,” Finch said.

  “Just another day at the beach, I guess,” Chris said.

  “I can’t perform anymore,” Finch blurted out. “I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  “Ah for God sakes . . . way too much information, come on . . . I think I get your point, fine . . . that you take in the sights and sounds, to, kind of, offset things . . . but Jeez.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Chris said, “But hold on, isn’t that what they got Viagra for now, and other stuff too?”

  “It didn’t work for me,” Finch said. “I mean it worked, on one level, but . . . you’ll see what I mean some day.”

  “Well, you ever have, like a wife or something? In your past life?”

  “Me? No. I played the field throughout. It caught up with me. Holidays are rough. Then you worry too, what if I fell down coming out of the shower, who’s going to hear me?”

  This was piling on more that Chris didn’t want to hear now, since it felt like he was projecting into the mirror himself. Obviously he wasn’t worried about falling down in the shower, and there’d hopefully be plenty of water under the bridge before he got to Finch’s stage -- but okay, yeah, last Christmas was a little rough, even spending it down here in the middle of all this positive energy and mostly friendly vibe.

  “On a more urgent note,” Chris said, “how’s that appetite, any better?”

  “A bit,” Finch said. “And I took a liberty, I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Uh-oh,” Chris said, with some edge, and he meant it, not in the mood for any more surprises today.

  “Well, the newspaper gal, the one I mentioned. You asking about her earlier, getting me to re-hash that story. I guess it kind of charged the batteries, curiosity got the better of me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I called her. While you were taking care of your business . . . How’d it go by the way?”

  “Stick to one thing,” Chris said. “You called her, and?”

  “You’re making it sound slightly routine. Took me a little fumbling around to come up with her number. I typically don’t call people back, in fact very little goes on with me electronic communication-wise.”

  “Give me something here, Jeez,” Chris said.

  “I invited her for lunch. Or I guess more like an early dinner now.”

  “Umm. So you ate with her already? Or . . . I’m guessing God forbid we’re waiting on her.”

  “Correct.”

  “Listen, this may not work. I’m starved out of my mind here.”

  Finch told him take it easy, she’s supposedly on her way, and Chris settled down and watched the action in the plaza, some guy balancing a stove on his chin for tips, though this one Chris had seen before, at least a variation, over in Venice Beach . . . and soon enough a bubbly young woman -- though not that young, early 30s or so, Finch called it right -- turned up, gave Finch a polite peck on the cheek and shook hands with Chris and introduced herself as Holly.

  “Good to establish everything,” Chris said, “and now, where to?”

  Finch and Holly kind of shrugged and Chris hated indecision when he was hungry and took charge and said we’ll go to Sergeant’s then, and no one objected, and ten minutes later they were squared away in an overstuffed naugahyde booth with a tiny sliver of a view of the ocean.

  “This place,” Chris said quietly after they’d ordered, “last time I had my doubts, are they going to make it? I get the pastrami sandwich, and that part’s fine, it’s a little greasy like you want it, and the pickle’s not bad, but then I ask for a Cel-Ray, and the waiter looks at me like what am I talking about?”

  “Sheesh,” Finch said, “agreed, that’s routine procedure. Goes hand in hand with the pastrami.”

  “I know. Something else too, didn’t seem right, can’t quite remember what . . . but it gave me pause, a Kosher joint in Hermosa, you have the clientele, but you’ve got to do it right.”

  “Like New York he means,” Finch said to Holly. “Plenty of transplants out here. More so in Santa Monica, but the south bay too.”

  “Yes,” Holly said. “I’ve been dating a guy from Armonk.” Chris thinking oh boy, the dating card pretty quick, setting the groundwork, though obviously it’s none of his business.

  “See now Armonk though,” Finch said, “that’s not real New York.”

  “High rent district in the northern suburbs,” Chris said. “Is that where everything’s walled off into estates? Don’t the Clintons live up there?”

  “That’s Bedford I think,” Finch said, “but same deal, a town or two over.”

  “What’s your guy do?” Chris said, something you might as well ask.

  “He’s a yacht broker,” Holly said.

  “There you go,” Finch said, “though nothing wrong with that.”

  “That’s the line of work I should have got into,” Chris said, as the food came, all three plates piled pretty high, admittedly, and the waiter friendly, bringing the Cel-Ray without raising an eyebrow this time -- Chris re-evaluating, that the place might make it at that.

  “Not bad at all,” Finch said, juice of something dripping toward his chin, and Chris handing him an extra napkin and pointing.

  “Before you overindulge,” Chris said, “save room for the cheesecake.” He was starting to feel a lot better, almost relieved actually, having devoured half his sandwich, and he wasn’t minding Holly at this point either, a sparkle in her eye that could have been devilish or playful, or nothing, but it was good to have some fresh company. Including Finch.

  “Thanks,” Holly said. “When you say save room though, what does that mean? Don’t finish my plate? Or finish it, but convince myself I’m not full?”

  Chris said, “You’re sort of a piece or work, would be my wild guess. When the gloves come off.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not following you there.”

  “Boxing term,” Finch said. “Actually, hockey.”

  Chris said to Holly, “You got a semi-famous literary figure right in front of you. Why didn’t you send him your manuscript?”

  This changed the tone of the meal slightly, and Finch shifted around but kept quiet and didn’t try to step in and diffuse anything.

  “My Gosh,” Holly said, turning just a little red Chris thought. “And, how do you know what I may or may not have shown Terrence?”

  “Hold on . . .” Chris said. “Terrence Finch? Jeez, I actually think I have heard of you. Why didn’t you say something?” Meaning why just keep the last name and nothing else, though Chris was also slightly embarrassed because if he’d heard of the guy at least casually he’d never run across, much less read, any of his books.

  Finch said, “Well sometimes I give an abbreviated full name, what can I say. Holly put two and two together, which I didn’t expect.”

  “How’d that work, exactly?” Chris was asking dumb questions, but it was all interesting enough he supposed, no where else he had to be at this point, nothing earth-shattering waiting for him back at the apartment, where he typically fell asleep in the recliner these days watching reality shows or re-runs of Law and Order.

  “You seem to know everything else about our previous encounter,” Holly said, at least putting it lightly, “but you don’t have that part down?”

  “We were in Scion’s,” Finch said. “Holly’d been working on a story at my hotel. I withheld possible useful information to get her to have dinner with me.”