Tapping the Source E-Book

Kem Nunn

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 549

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

People came to Huntington Beach in search of the endless party, the ultimate high and the perfect wave. Ike Tucker came to look for his sister and for the three men who may have murdered her. In that place of gilded surfers and sun-bleached blondes, Ike looked into the shadows and found parties that drifted towards pointless violence, joyless violations and highs you might never come down from... and a sea of old hatreds and dreams gone bad.

Leseprobe

TAPPING THE SOURCE

People came to Huntington Beach in search of the endless party, the ultimate high and the perfect wave. Ike Tucker came to look for his sister and for the three men who may have murdered her.

In that place of gilded surfers and sun-bleached blondes, Ike looked into the shadows and found parties that drifted towards pointless violence, joyless violations and highs you might never come down from… and a sea of old hatreds and dreams gone bad.

About the author

Kem Nunn is a third-generation Californian whose previous novels include The Dogs of Winter, Pomona Queen, Unassigned Territory, and Chance, which was made into a major TV series starring Hugh Laurie. Tijuana Straits won the Los Angeles Times Book Award. He lives in Southern California, where he also writes screenplays for television and film.

Praise for Tapping the Source and Ken Nunn

‘Perhaps the ultimate beach read’ – Pif Magazine

‘What Hemingway’s Nick Adams did for fishing, Kem Nunn does for surfing. Through the sensibility of its hero and the sensitivity of its author, Tapping the Source puts you there and makes you understand’ – Saturday Review

‘Tense and driven with a sense of the apocalypse around the corner’ – Washington Post

‘Kem Nunn writes directly out of the lineage of James M Cain and Raymond Chandler. If there is a contemporary writer with a deeper sense of evil, I don’t know who it would be’ – Jim Harrison

‘God bless Kem Nunn, one of a rare breed, a novelist who knows how to write and isn’t afraid to plot and tell a story’ – Elmore Leonard

‘Forceful and gripping… in the same league as the best of Chandler and James Crumley. The all-time great surfing novel’ – Robert Stone

‘Sentence by sentence Nunn achieves a muscular eloquence – I almost wrote elegance – unusual in what at first appears to be a genre novel. There hasn’t been fiction this good about a San Francisco medical professional gone off the rails over a woman since Frank Norris’s deluded dentist in the 1899 novel McTeague’ – San Francisco Chronicle

‘Is it too much to compare Kem Nunn to Raymond Chandler?’ –Los Angeles Times

PART ONE

1

Ike Tucker was adjusting the Knuckle’s chain the day the stranger came asking for him. It was a sunny day and the patch of dirt in back of the Texaco was hot beneath his feet. The sun was straight overhead and dancing in the polished metal.

‘Got a visitor,’ Gordon told him.

Ike put down the wrench and looked at his uncle. Gordon was wearing a greasy pair of coveralls and a Giants baseball cap. He was leaning on a doorjamb and staring across the dirt from the back porch. ‘Gone deaf on me now too?’ he asked. He meant deaf as well as dumb. ‘I said you got a visitor, somebody wants to talk about Ellen.’

Ike brushed his hands on his pants and went up the step, past Gordon and into the building, which was both a gas station and a small market. He could feel Gordon behind him, tall and round, hard as a stump, following past the shelves of canned goods and the counter where half a dozen old men twisted on their stools to stare after him, and he knew that when he was gone they would still be watching, their sorry faces turned toward the screen doors and the cool sagging porch where the flies found shelter from the heat.

There was a kid waiting for him in the gravel drive that circled the pumps, leaning against the side of a white Camaro. Ike guessed the kid was close to his own age, maybe seventeen, or eighteen. Ike was eighteen. He would be nineteen before the summer ended, but people often took him for being younger. He was not tall, maybe five eight, and skinny. Only a month before, a highway patrolman had stopped him on the way into King City and asked to see his driver’s license. He had not been out of the desert since he was a boy and outsiders generally made him self-conscious. The kid in the drive was an outsider. He wore a pair of pale blue cord jeans and a white shirt. A pair of expensive looking dark glasses had been pushed back to rest above his brow in a mass of blond curls. There were two surfboards strapped to the roof of the Camaro.

Ike picked a rag off the stack of newspapers by the front door and finished wiping his hands. The stranger had already managed to draw a small crowd. There were a couple of young boys, Hank’s kids from across the street, looking over the car, together with Gordon’s two dogs, a pair of large rust-colored mongrels that had come to sniff the tires. Some of the old men from the counter had followed Ike outside and were lining up on the porch behind him, staring into the heat.

The kid did not look comfortable. He stepped away from the car as Ike came down the steps, Gordon following. ‘I’m looking for Ellen Tucker’s family,’ he said.

‘You found it. Here he is, the whole shootin’ match.’ It was Gordon who spoke.

Ike could hear a couple of the old men behind him chuckle. Someone else cleared his throat and spat into the gravel lot.

Ike and the kid stared at one another. The kid had a bit of a blond mustache and there was a thin gold chain around his neck. ‘Ellen said something about a brother.’

‘I’m her brother.’ Ike still held the rag. He was aware that his palms had begun to sweat. Ellen had been gone for nearly two years now and Ike had not heard from her or seen her since the day she left. It was not the first time she had run away, but she was of age now, a year older than Ike; it had not figured that she would return to San Arco.

The kid stared at Ike as if he was confused about something. ‘She said that her brother was into bikes, that he owned a chopper.’

Gordon laughed out loud at that. ‘He’s got a bike,’ he said. ‘Right out there in back; shiniest damn bike in the county.’ He paused to chortle at his own joke. ‘Hasn’t been ridden but once, though. Go on an’ tell him about that one, Low Boy.’ He was addressing himself to Ike.

Gordon’s younger brother had a bike shop in King City where Ike worked on the weekends. Ike’s bike was a ’36 Knucklehead he’d put together on his own, from scratch. On his only attempt to ride it, however, he had dumped it in the gravel lot and driven a foot peg halfway through his ankle.

Ike ignored Gordon’s request. He continued to watch the kid, thinking that it was like Ellen to make up some damn story. She never could tell anything straight. Things were too boring that way, she had said. And she was a good storyteller, but then she had always been good at just about everything except staying out of trouble.

‘You’re her only brother?’ the kid asked, still looking somewhat dismayed. He watched as one of Gordon’s dogs raised a leg to piss on a rear tire, then looked back at Ike.

‘I told you he’s the whole shootin’ match,’ Gordon said. ‘If you’ve got something to say about Ellen Tucker, let’s hear it.’

The kid rested his hands on his hips. He stared for a moment back down that stretch of two-lane that led away from town, back toward the interstate. It was the direction Ike had looked the day he saw his sister go, and he stared in that direction now, as if perhaps Ellen Tucker would suddenly materialize out of the dust and sunlight, a suitcase tugging at her arm, and walk back to him from the edge of town.

‘Your sister was in Huntington Beach,’ the kid said at last, as if he’d just made up his mind about something. ‘Last summer she went to Mexico. She went down there with some guys from Huntington. The guys came back. Your sister didn’t. I tried to find out what happened.’ He paused, looking at Ike. ‘I couldn’t. What I’m saying is the guys your sister went with are not the type of people you want to fuck around with. I was beginning to pick up some bad vibes.’

‘Just what do you mean by bad vibes?’ Gordon asked.

The kid paused again but allowed Gordon’s question to go unanswered. ‘I split,’ he said. ‘I was afraid to wait around any longer, but I knew Ellen had family out here. I’d heard her talk about a brother who was into bikes and I thought…’ He let his voice trail off and ended with a shrug of the shoulders.

‘Shit.’ The word came from Gordon, spat into the dust. ‘And you thought her big bad brother was going to do something about it. You came to the wrong place, pardner. Maybe you should take your story to the cops.’

The kid shook his head. ‘Not hardly.’ He pulled the shades down over his eyes and turned to get into his car. One of the dogs jumped up, putting its paws on the door, and the kid shooed it down.

Ike left Gordon behind and walked across the gravel to the open window of the car. The heat on his back and shoulders was intense. He stood at the window and found himself reflected in the kid’s shades. ‘Is that all,’ he asked. ‘Is that all you were going to say?’

The glasses swung away and the kid stared at his dashboard. Then he reached for the glove box and pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘I was going to give somebody this,’ he said. ‘The names of the guys she went with.’ He looked at the scrap for a moment and shook his head, then passed it to Ike. ‘I guess you may as well have it.’

Ike glanced at the paper. The sunlight made it hard to read. ‘And how would I find these people?’

‘They surf the pier, in the mornings. But look, man, you’d be stupid to go by yourself. I mean, you start asking around and you’re liable to get yourself in trouble. These are not lightweight people, all right? And whatever you do, don’t let that old guy talk you into calling the police. They won’t do shit, and you’ll regret it.’ He stopped and Ike could see small lines of perspiration beneath the dark glasses. ‘Look,’ the kid said once more. ‘I’m sorry. I mean I probably shouldn’t have even come out here. I just thought that from what your sister said…’ His voice faded.

‘You thought things would be different.’

The kid started his engine. ‘You’d probably be better off to just wait it out. Maybe she will turn up.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Who knows? But unless you can get some real help…’ He shrugged again. And then he was gone and Ike was standing in the Camaro’s dust, watching the white shape of the car shrinking against the heat waves. And when there was nothing left but that patch of sunlight and dust, the ever-present mirage that marked the edge of town, he turned and walked back across the gravel to the store.

The old men were all out on the porch now, whispering in the shade and sucking down Budweisers. Gordon caught Ike’s arm as he started past. ‘I’ve known all along something like this was coming,’ he said. ‘That girl’s been headed for a bad end since she learned how to walk. Shit, the way she lit outta here, hitchhiking, wearing those tight jeans all up her ass. What the hell can you expect? We won’t see her again, boy. Make up your mind to it.’

Gordon released his grip and Ike jerked away. He went through the store and stood on the back porch, looking down into the yard where he and his sister once scratched their names into the ground. They had dug out the letters with sticks and then Ellen had poured gas into the letters and set them on fire and the fire had gotten away from them and burned down Gordon’s pepper tree and scorched the back of the store before it was put out. But his sister had said that it was all right, that her only regret had been that the fire had not taken the store and the rest of the fucking town along with it. He could hear her saying that, like it was yesterday, and when he closed his eyes he could still feel the heat from those flames upon his skin. He went down the steps, into the grease-stained dirt, and began to collect his tools.

2

He told them that night that he was leaving, that he was going to look for Ellen. ‘What’ll you go on?’ Gordon wanted to know. ‘The Harley?’

They were seated at the kitchen table. Ike listened to Gordon’s laughter, to the incessant rattle of the ancient Sears, Roebuck cooler. The greasy scent of fried chicken circled his head. ‘Someone should go,’ he said.

His grandmother squinted at him over a pair of rhinestone-studded glasses. She was a frail, shrunken woman. She was not well. Each year she seemed to grow smaller. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said, making it plain by the tone of her voice that she thought otherwise. Ike did not meet her eyes. He pushed himself away from the table and retired to his room to count his money.

Nearly seven hundred dollars there, crammed into a rusted coffee can. But what had it been? Three years now of working on bikes, and there had not been many places to spend it. The bookstore in King City, the lone theater that two thirds of the time ran films in Spanish instead of English, the pinball machine Hank had gotten for the Texaco. And lately he had begun giving the old lady something for rent. There would have been a lot more if he had not sunk so much into the Harley. He spread the money on his bed, counting it several times in the dim yellow light. He packed a single suitcase and went out the back way.

It was dark outside now. He walked along that strip of barbed-wire fence that separated the town from the desert. There was country music spilling out a window at Hank’s place together with a wedge of soft yellow light and when he looked past the fence and into the dark shape of the hills, he could smell summer waiting in the desert. One of Gordon’s dogs came out from under the house and followed him to the store.

His plan was to drink a six-pack, get sleepy, and wait for the bus out of King City. He took a six-pack of tall cans, left some money and a note by the register, and went into the backyard. He pulled the canvas tarp off of the Knuckle and sat with his back against the wall of the market, watching the bike gleam in the moonlight. He supposed he could trust Gordon to keep an eye on it until he came back. Christ, he didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was going to do, or how long it would take. He supposed that when someone took your sister you did something about it. He supposed that was what families were for. Ellen’s bad luck was that he was the only family she had.

It was quiet in back of the market, the music out of Hank’s sounding soft and far away. He shut his eyes and waited and he was able to pick out the distant clanking of a freight as it climbed the grade into King City and he thought of the times he and Ellen had sat in this same spot, listening to the same sounds, imagining there was some promise in the sound of those trains, because it was the sound of motion, of going places, and he imagined her sitting with him now, head thrown back against the wall, eyes half-closed, beer can resting on a skinny leg. He thought about how it had always pissed off the old woman that Gordon had let them drink beer, but then most things pissed off the old woman.

As he listened the train sounds grew faint and disappeared and someone shut off the music so there was just the silence, that special kind of silence that comes to the desert, and he knew that if he waited there would come a time, stars fading, slim band of light creeping on the horizon, when the silence would grow until it was unbearable, until it was as if the land itself were about to break it, to give up some secret of its own. He remembered the first time that feeling had come to him. It was summer and he had been sick with a summer cold, feverish and in bed, and he had gotten up somewhere in the middle of the night and gone outside, in bedclothes and sneakers, to stand at the strip of barbed wire that marked the edge of Gordon’s land. He had been hoping for a breeze, but there was none to be had. There was only the emptiness, the black shapes of distant mountains hard against a black sky, and an overpowering stillness that was suddenly like some living thing pressing down upon him, something that belonged to the night and to the land, something to run from. And he had, back into the house, to Ellen’s room instead of his own. But when he had tried to tell her, she had only laughed and said it was his fever, that he was afraid of too many things, afraid of the desert, afraid of the night, afraid of the other boys in King City.

On another occasion she had told him that he would rot in the desert, freeze up here like some rusted engine, like the old woman herself, his nose stuck in a fucking book. And he guessed now that he had always been afraid of that, afraid of staying and yet afraid of going, too, just like he was still afraid of that crazy time of night and a voice he had never heard. Jesus. It was like him to be a chickenshit and her not to be. It was ass-backward that he should be going after her and not the other way around.

He got about half of the six-pack down before quitting, replacing the tarp, and making the walk down the strip of two-lane toward the edge of town, toward that place where he’d seen the white Camaro vanish in the mirage of high noon, where his sister had vanished as well, swallowed by that patch of sunlight and dust and never seen again.

There was no mirage waiting for him that night. There were only the edges of the desert, flat and hard in the moonlight, and the road that was like some asphalt ribbon at his feet, and the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears. And then he was aware of the approaching figure, Gordon, lumbering up the old road, visible for a moment in the last of the town’s two streetlights, then fading into shadow, but his footsteps getting louder until at last he stood alongside his nephew, and the two of them, both half drunk, squinted at one another in the moonlight.

Gordon had a fresh bottle of Jim Beam with him. He pulled it out of his hip pocket and brought it down hard on the heel of his hand, his customary way of cracking the seal.

‘So you’re really going.’

Ike nodded.

Gordon nodded too, squinted down his nose at Ike like he wanted a good look at him, then took a drink from the bottle. ‘Well, maybe it’s time,’ he said. ‘You’re out of school, and you’ve got a trade. Hell, that’s more than I had when I was your age. Kind of figured you might stick with those bikes, though. Jerry says he’s never seen a kid pick up tools the way you have. What do you want me to tell him?’

‘I’ll be back.’

Gordon laughed and took another drink. The laughter had a ‘like hell you will’ ring to it. ‘Last place I saw your old lady was right here. You know that?’ Gordon asked, then tore up a bit of dirt with the toe of his boot while Ike shook his head and mentally added his mother to the list of those swallowed by that patch of sunlight. ‘Yeah. Said she would be back for you kids in the fall. Shit, I took one look at that candy ass she was leavin’ with and knew that was a lie.’

Ike had been five years old that summer. He’d never known his father at all, just some guy his mother had lived with off and on for a couple of years.

‘I’m not your old man,’ Gordon said. ‘And I’ve never tried to be, but I’ve given you kids a roof, and it’s still here if you want to come back. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up about that sister of yours. She was wild, Ike, like her old lady. She could’ve gotten herself into anything. You understand? Don’t stick your neck out too far looking for her.’

Ike waited. He was not used to Gordon taking an interest in what he did. There had been a time when that was what he wanted. Now? He guessed maybe that time had passed. Still, Gordon had come. The trouble was, Ike could think of nothing to say. He watched Gordon take another drink, and then looked toward that place where the lights of King City barely managed to put a pale frosting on a piece of desert sky.

As he waited he thought about what Gordon had said, about Ellen being wild, like her old lady had been wild, and he thought about their mother. He could not remember much about her now. There was one picture – what he was certain was the only one of all of them, together. They were seated on the steps of his grandmother’s house, himself on one side, Ellen on the other, Ellen with one stick of an arm bent over their mother’s shoulders, the other raised and extended to give the bird to the camera, all of them squinting into the sun so that it was hard to see their faces. What he mainly remembered about the picture – aside from Ellen flipping off Gordon, was his mother’s hair, thick and black, alive in the sunlight. He seemed to remember that she was given to sitting for long periods of time, brushing it in rhythmic strokes, or arranging it with a pair of combs that were made of ivory and carved into the shapes of long slender alligators. And that summer, before she left, she had given the combs to Ellen – the only things she had ever given either of them, as far as he could remember. The combs had become one of Ellen’s prize possessions, even up until the time she left. And it seemed to him now that she had worn them that day as well, that they had gone with her into the heat waves. He shut his eyes to remember and the beer made him dizzy. He was suddenly sorry that he had begun dredging for memories. It was generally a depressing exercise and he should have known better. Others came now, but he fought them off. He focused his attention on the gravel between his feet and waited for the hum of a Greyhound to fill the silence.

He was still waiting when he became aware that one more person had joined them on the street. Gordon must have noticed as well because he turned once to look back over his shoulder toward that place where the streetlamp began to fail among the oaks. She would not step into the light but remained among the shadows, and there was something about seeing her there, in just that way, that made him think of them all together – his grandmother, his mother, his sister. For there had been times when he had seen both his mother and his sister in the old woman’s face, in the certain way she sometimes turned her head, in the line of her jaw. The likeness was generally very fleeting, like a shadow passing over barren ground. Just what had made it barren – time, sickness – he could not say. He supposed that getting religion had not helped.

She waited until the headlights of the bus were swimming among the stunted branches before coming forward – small and stiff, like she had been whittled out of something hard, like she belonged with the wind-bent trees that had been planted there to mark the edge of town. And her voice, when she raised it, was like a weapon, the jagged edge of a broken bottle. The voice seemed to cut easily through the cool air, the deep drone of the engines. But Ike was not inclined to stay and listen. He moved quickly up the steps and then back along the narrow aisle, sucking down great lungfuls of stale recycled air, avoiding the eyes of the other passengers, some of whom had begun craning their necks for a look at the commotion outside. But it seemed to him as he waited, even as they began to roll away and the lights began to move and darken, that he could still hear her very clearly, and that she was cursing them both, him for going, Gordon for letting him, that she was bearing witness and quoting Scripture. What was it? Something like Leviticus 20:17, perhaps – that being one of her favorites: ‘And if a man shall take his sister, his father’s daughter, or his mother’s daughter, and see her nakedness, and she see his nakedness; it is a wicked thing; and they shall be cut off in the sight of their people.’

3

It was five hours by bus from the desert to L.A., another one and a half to Huntington Beach. The beers had not been a particularly good idea. He had put them down on an empty stomach and they left him stranded in a place that was neither sleep nor consciousness. There were dreams, but they were all bad and pulling himself out of them was like climbing out of deep holes. And when they finally wore off somewhere in the dizzy neon glare of some bus stop bar and grill on the north side of Los Angeles, he was left with a headache and a knot in his stomach.

Now, his suitcase checked at the bus depot because it was still too early to look for a room, he stood at the rail of the Huntington Beach pier and found it hard to believe that he had actually come. But he had. The concrete beneath his feet was the real thing and beneath that there was an ocean. Twenty-four hours ago he had only been able to imagine what an ocean might look like, might smell like. Now he stood above one and its immensity was breathtaking. Its surface rose and fell under his feet, stretching in three directions like some great liquid desert, and the town behind him, hard, flat, colorless, surprising him in its similarity to some desert town, squatted at the edge of the sea in much the same way that San Arco squatted at the edge of the desert, dwarfed by the immense thing that lay before it.

Hound Adams, Terry Jacobs, Frank Baker. Those were the names the kid had written on the scrap of paper. ‘They surf the pier,’ the kid had said. ‘In the mornings.’ And there were surfers below him now. He watched as they jockeyed for position among the swell lines. He had never guessed that waves were so much like hills, moving hills, of water. And he was fascinated by the way the surfers moved across the faces of the waves, dropping and climbing, shaping their bodies to the shapes of the waves until it was like some dance with the sea. He thought of what the kid had told him, that it would be stupid to come by himself, that he would only get into trouble asking too many questions. So that was all right. He would not ask any. He had come to look at it this way: First of all, it seemed smart to him to assume the worst, to assume that something bad had happened to his sister and that the guys she had gone with wanted to keep it quiet. He also guessed it would be wise to take the kid’s warning seriously: these were not lightweight people.

Given those two assumptions, he did not want to barge into town asking a lot of questions. It had occurred to him that his sister may have made other friends, that finding someone who had known her could prove helpful. But how would he find them? Suppose he mentioned her name to the wrong person? And if there were friends here who could be of help, why would that kid have found it necessary to drive all the way to San Arco looking for Ellen’s badass brother? No. He kept coming back to the idea that his first step was to find out who these guys were without them knowing who he was. Once he had them spotted, had some idea of what they were like, he would have a better idea of how to proceed. And that, the proceeding, would of course be the tricky part. What would happen if he found that the worst was true, that she was dead? Would he go to the cops then? Would he look for revenge? Or would he find that he was helpless? He remembered the way that kid had stared at him in the heat of the gravel lot. Is that the way it would be? He would find out what had happened and then find out there was not a fucking thing he could do about it? The fear of that discovery was like a shadow above him and even the rising sun could not burn it away.

He did not know how long he stood at the rail, somewhat transfixed by the contemplation of both his fear and this new sport below him, but after a while he was aware of the sun’s warmth on his shoulders and of the increased activity around him. He had heard the surfers’ voices, heard them calling to one another, but had not been able to pick out any names; he was too far from them on the boardwalk. At last he turned from the rail and started back in the direction of the town.

The sun was climbing fast now, high above the hard square shapes of the buildings that lined the Coast Highway. And with the coming of the sun any similarities to desert towns he had noted earlier were fast disappearing. For Huntington Beach was waking up and there were people in the streets, lines of cars stacking up behind red lights and crosswalks, and there were skateboards humming on the concrete and gulls crying, and old men feeding pigeons in front of the brick rest rooms. There were guys carrying surfboards, and girls, more girls here than he had ever seen in one place. Girls on roller skates and on foot, a blur of tanned legs and sun-streaked hair, and there were girls younger than himself sitting on the railing at the entrance to the pier, smoking cigarettes, looking bored and tired and washed out in the early light, and when he passed they looked right through him.

It was on the inland side of the highway, headed back toward the depot, that he saw the bikes: a couple of Harleys, an 834 Honda Hardtail. First things he’d seen all morning that made him feel at home. One of the Harleys, in fact, was an old Knuckle in full chop, almost identical to his own. He decided to cross the street for a better look. The bikes were drawn up alongside the curb, engines running, riders straddling oversize valves, talking to a couple of girls. He noted that one of the engines (it sounded like the Knuckle) was missing, and propped himself on the wall of a liquor store to listen.

‘You got a problem?’ a voice wanted to know. It was the first time anyone had spoken to him since the waitress had taken his order at the bus stop north of L.A. He blinked into the sunlight, and into the sullen stare of one of the bikers. He peeled himself from the wall and started away. He could hear them laughing behind him. He nearly collided with some old wino in the crosswalk and the man stopped to curse him, holding up traffic, so there were horns blaring and tires squealing by the time he made the curb on the other side of the street, and that was where he caught sight of his reflection in the plate glass windows of the depot. He examined the faded Budweiser T-shirt, the grease-stained jeans, the home-cut crop of brown curls, the hundred and thirty-five pound frame, and he looked even skinnier and more useless than he had imagined. Low Boy, that was what Gordon had called him, and he felt like the runt now. The bikers’ laughter rang in his ears and the voice of the old man had somehow become the voice of the old woman, as if her words had followed him through the night. Then for some damn reason he started thinking of the lines to this song, just one line actually, all he could remember: ‘Suckers always make mistakes when they’re far away from home.’ And it struck him there in the street, sunlight hot, air full of exhaust and noise and a funny haze like fine gray dust settling over everything, that this would be an easy place to screw up in, and he knew once more he would have to be careful.

By mid-afternoon he had found a place to stay. The room was part of a drab-looking structure called the Sea View apartments, a large square building covered in a sort of turd-brown stucco. The front of the building sat close to the street, separated from it by a sidewalk and a thin rectangle of weedy grass. There was another ragged patch of grass in back, together with a couple of stunted palms and a lone oil well. The oil well sat by itself in a corner of the lot, fenced off in a square of gritty chain link.

Ike’s room was on the west end of the building, upstairs with a view of the oil well and the vacant lot beyond it. If it hadn’t been for the backsides of the buildings along the Coast Highway, the Sea View would have lived up to its name and he could have seen the Pacific Ocean, but the view would have probably run him another hundred a month and he could not have afforded it anyway. He had spent the better part of the day looking at rooms and had absorbed his first lesson in beach economics. Rooms that would have rented for a hundred a month in the desert rented for fifty a week in Huntington Beach, and the Sea View, with its two dimly lit hallways, one above the other, its dirty walls, and its alcoholic landlady in her dirty blue bathrobe, had been the cheapest place he could find. It had not taken him long to see that his money would not go as far as he had hoped.

He had planned to get some sleep that afternoon, but sleep would not come and he wound up sitting on the floor near the pay phone in the upstairs hallway, poring over names in the thick white book. There were a lot of Bakers, Jacobses, and Adamses, but no Terry Jacobs, no Hound Adams. There was one Frank Baker, not in Huntington Beach, however, but in some place called Fountain Valley. He had assumed from what the kid had told him that the people he was looking for lived in Huntington Beach. Still, the kid had not said that, he had said only that they surfed the pier. Shit, he had been stupid not to ask more questions, to stand there like the village idiot while the sun scrambled his brains. And Hound Adams? Hound was certainly some sort of nickname. But there were two H. Adamses listed in the book, and one of them lived in Huntington Beach, on Ocean Ave. He sat for a while eyeing the name, cursing himself for not having asked questions when he had had the chance. At last he copied down the address, found a gas station and a map, then rode the bus to Ocean Avenue; it was something to do. It was several miles inland and the address was across the street from an elementary school. He sat out in front of the school on a cold brick wall, uncertain about what to do next. He figured maybe he would just hang around in front and see what kind of people went in and out. But nobody went in and out for at least two hours, and the sun was getting low and a chilly wind had come up by the time a light went on in one of the windows. Crossing the street for a better look, he could see an old woman against a yellowish background, framed by a set of flowered curtains. It looked as if she was standing over a kitchen sink. It occurred to him that there might of course be other people living there – a son perhaps. But somehow the signs were not encouraging, and for the moment it was getting colder. He turned away from the house and walked back to the corner to wait for a bus.

So ended his first day in Huntington Beach. It was dark by the time he got back to the Sea View apartments. And if the town had come to life with the rising of the sun, then the Sea View apartments had come to life with its setting. The place had been quiet as a morgue when he’d left; now there was apparently some sort of party going on. Many of the doors stood propped open above the stained linoleum floors. A kind of music he was not used to hearing, but what he took to be punk rock, spilled from the guts of the old building and swirled around him as he climbed the stairs. He went straight to his room and closed the door, collapsed on his bed. He had been on the bed for about five minutes, hovering at the edge of sleep, when someone knocked at his door.

He opened it to find two girls standing in the hallway. One was short and dark, with short black hair. The other was tall, athletic-looking. She had strawberry-blonde hair that came to her shoulders. It was the dark-haired girl who did the talking. The blonde leaned against a wall and scratched her leg with her foot. They both looked drunk and happy, slightly stupid. They wanted to know if he had any papers. The music was louder now with the door open and he could hear other voices farther down the hall. They looked disappointed when he said no. The dark one sort of stuck her head in his room and looked around. She wanted to know if he was a jarhead or something. He said he wasn’t.

The girls giggled and went away. Ike closed the door behind them and walked into his bathroom. The moonlight was coming through the small rectangular window now, glancing off the porcelain and the silver slab of the mirror so he could still see a dark reflection of himself in the glass. But the reflection was hard to recognize. It seemed to change shape and expression as he watched it until he could not be sure that it was his own and then it came to him that the feeling he got from that dark glass was not unlike the feeling he’d gotten from the overpowering silence of the desert and he turned away from it quickly, heart thumping high and fast, and looked instead down into the yard where a lonesome oil well jerked itself off in the moonlight.

4

He wasted one more day staking out the Adams house on Ocean, still thinking that perhaps there were other people living there besides the old woman. There were not. The H turned out to stand for Hazel, and Hazel Adams lived alone. Her husband was dead and there was a son in Tulsa and a daughter in Chicago who never called. Ike learned all of this because he happened to be sitting around in front of the elementary school when Mrs Adams crashed the three-wheel electric cart she drove. She was coming home from the market and rolled the machine trying to get it in the driveway. Ike saw it all and ran across the street to see if he could help. The old woman had escaped unscathed, however, and invited him in for a piece of banana bread. And that was how he learned about her family. Old Mrs Adams, it seemed, was starved for affection. She spent her days thinking about her lost husband, her daughter who did not call, the son she never saw, baking banana bread for visitors who never came. She spoke of noise and pollution, of blue skies gone the color of coffee grounds, of elementary school children who smoked weed and fornicated beneath the shrubbery in her front yard. She warned Ike against the dangers of hitchhiking along the Coast Highway. A wealth of gruesome facts lay at her fingertips.

There were punk gangs, she said, high on angel dust and strange music waiting in the alleys to catch young girls, and boys like him, force them to carve swastikas into their own arms and legs, or set them on fire. Ike sat and listened. He watched as one more day slipped past him, melting with the sun beyond the dark wood of an antique dining table.

That evening, riding home on the bus, he was struck by a particularly depressing thought: He suddenly saw himself learning nothing. His savings would go for greasy food, a crummy room. His trip to Huntington Beach would turn out to be no more than some grotesque holiday, and in the end the desert would reclaim him. Had to be. He did not fit in here. Like it was not even close, and everything was moving much more slowly, and awkwardly, than he had imagined. This was not San Arco, not even King City.

He discovered a small cafe across the street from the pier, a strange sort of place frequented by both bikers and surfers. Inside, the two groups kept to separate ends of the building, glaring at one another over short white coffee mugs. The cafe made him nervous. He was very much aware of not belonging to either camp, but it was a good place to eavesdrop and the food was cheap. And it was in the cafe that he got his first break.

It was his fifth morning in the town and, as on the other mornings following his bus ride from H. Adams’s house, it had been hard to force himself out of bed, to fight a growing desire to give it up and split, to accept the fact that his coming had been a sham, that the kid in the Camaro had been right. But he had managed it. He had dragged his ass out of bed with the first light, then down to the Coast Highway and the cafe, looking for something, a word, a name, anything. And that was what he found, a name. He had just finished a breakfast of coffee and doughnuts and had gone to the head to take a leak, and that was where it happened, standing at the damn urinal, his dick in his hand, absently reading over the filth scratched into the walls, when two words suddenly jumped out at him. A name: Hound Adams, the letters scratched out of the metal partition that separated the urinal from the sink. There was nothing else, just the name.

Admittedly it was not a lot. But there was still a thin film of sweat on his forehead as he left the cafe and crossed the street. There was something about just seeing that name someplace besides the scrap of paper. It meant there really was a Hound Adams, somewhere. And with that discovery came a fresh idea. It hit him as he walked along the boardwalk, headed out to sea on the pier: What if he could surf? He wouldn’t have to do it well, just enough to hang out in the water. It made sense. He was too far away from things on the pier, and hanging out on the beach in street clothes didn’t work either. He had tried that, tried getting close to certain groups as they came out of the water, but he was too conspicuous, always collecting too many stares if he got too close. But if he could surf? If he was in the water with them, with a board to sit on, the whole shot? Shit yes. It was something to think about.

He thought about it all that morning, watching the small peaks take shape and break, and the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea, until at last he admitted to himself that there was more to it than just getting closer to the action. There was something in the shape and movement of the waves, something in the polished green faces laced with silver while the moon hung still visible above the town. A person could lose himself there, he guessed, and imagined cool green caverns carved from the hollow of some liquid barrel. The thought seemed to add to the excitement he already felt, and he walked home quickly, with a new attention for the multitude of surf shops that lined the street, the new boards that seemed to him like sticks of colored candy shining behind sheets of plate glass.

He thought about it again that night. He remembered the time he had tried to ride the Knuckle. He remembered lying there in the sunlight, his blood forming a dark pool in the gravel while Gordon went for the pickup. He had not tried anything like it since, but there were no machines here, just the boards and the waves.

It was a long night, filled with half dreams and crazy images while the music of the apartment house shook the walls of his room and the oil well squeaked below him, and at some point he became aware of a new fear creeping among the others, something he had not considered before. It was his fifth night in town and the fear was connected to a new understanding of what giving up would mean, of what it would mean to blow his money, to slink back into San Arco. Because whatever else was here, there was along with it a certain energy that was unlike anything he had felt in the desert. There was a hunger in the air. At night he heard their parties. Girls smiled at him now along the boardwalk, above the sand where couples fucked in the shadows of the pier. And he did not want to leave. He wanted to belong. He thought of his uncle’s store, the busted-out screen door, the music that spilled from the radio and into the gravel lot, one country song after another until it was the same song, as long and tiresome as the wind out of King City and the desolate high places beyond, and he felt suddenly that perhaps he understood something now about that woman Gordon had once seen go, arm in arm with some candy ass, hooked on a promise.

As he remembered it, they had moved back to the desert, to his grandmother’s house, because his mother had gotten sick and needed a place to rest. What he could recall now of that time before San Arco was not much, a more or less shapeless set of memories connected to numerous apartments and cheap motels. Gordon had once told him that she had been trying to sell real estate or some damn thing. He didn’t know; but he knew they had lived out of a car for a while there, a beat-up old station wagon. What he remembered the most was the waiting. In the car. In countless offices. In the homes of strangers. In his mind the places they waited all had certain things in common. They were invariably hot and stuffy; they smelled. The odor had something to do with butt-choked ashtrays and air conditioning. It was Ellen who made the waiting bearable. She had always been there with him, had kept him entertained with games of her own invention, with stunts designed to annoy whatever adult was around to keep an eye on them. She was good that way. The waiting, he thought, had been easier for her. But later, the desert had been harder. He could still see her pacing up and down that hot dusty yard in back of the market like some caged cat and saying things like she hoped the woman was dead, that the dude had dumped her and that she had at last drunk herself to death in some foul room – this after they realized she was not coming back. Ellen had never forgiven their mother for that. She had never forgiven her for San Arco. ‘Of all the damn places,’ she used to say. ‘Of all the fucking one-horse dead-end suckass places to be stuck.’

As for himself, the desert had been easier, he thought, at least in the beginning. In regard to his mother, however, his feelings were not so easy to sort out. There had been at first something like plain astonishment at the magnitude of her betrayal – an astonishment so large that somehow hatred did not enter in. Later there was a kind of embarrassment, a vague notion that some flaw in his own character had somehow made that betrayal possible in the first place. He was not certain what the flaw was, but he was sure others saw it, that for them his mother’s leaving was less of a mystery. He had never known much about that candy ass Gordon had spoken of, or where they had gone in that new convertible, but he guessed he could see now, in the darkness of this room, with this new place throbbing around him, how going back could be like dying. It was the first time he had seen it that way; and from that angle, the betrayal was somehow not so huge.

5

It was hot and sticky when he opened his eyes. He sat up in bed and immediately began to think of reasons for putting off his decision to buy a board. Then he took a look around the room. The place was a mess. His clothes stank. It was like the grotesque holiday he had imagined was taking shape around him, and the new fear swept back over him, blotting out everything else.

He was not sure how much a used board would cost. He slipped four twenties into his pocket and left the room.

It was a hot day, smell of summer in the air, sky clear, ocean flat and blue. In the distance he could make out the white cliffs of the island someone told him was twenty-six miles away. The wind was light, slightly offshore, standing up the waves, which were small and clean, like jewels in the sunlight.

The town was full of surf shops. Surf shops, thrift stores, and beer bars, in fact, seemed the principal enterprises of downtown Huntington Beach. He hung around the windows of half a dozen shops before picking one and going inside. The shop was quiet. The walls were covered with various kinds of surfing memorabilia: old wooden surfboards, trophies, photographs. There was a kid out front wiping down the new boards with a rag. Apart from the kid and Ike, the place seemed deserted. The kid ignored him and finally he drifted back outside and into another shop closer to the highway.

The second shop was filled with the same kind of music that he heard around the hotel: a hard, frantic sort of sound that was so different from anything he had ever heard in the desert. There was no memorabilia in this shop. The walls were covered with posters of punk bands. There was a pale blue board covered with small red swastikas hanging at the back of the shop. Near the front was a counter. There were a couple of young girls in very small bathing suits sitting up on the glass top and a couple of boys sitting behind it. They all looked at Ike as he walked in, but no one said anything. They all looked alike to Ike: sunburned noses, tanned bodies, sun-streaked hair. He went to the back of the shop and began looking over the used boards. Pretty soon one of the kids he had seen behind the counter walked up to him.

‘Lookin’ for a board?’ the kid asked.

‘Something I can learn on,’ Ike told him.

The kid nodded. He was wearing a thin string of white shells around his neck. He turned and headed down the rack, stopped and pulled out a board, laid it on the floor. Ike followed.

The kid knelt beside the board, tilted it up on one edge. ‘I can make you a good deal on this one.’

Ike looked at the board. The board looked like it had once been white, but was now a kind of yellow. It was long and thin, pointed at both ends. The kid stood up. ‘How do you like it?’

Ike knelt beside the board as the kid had done and tried to pretend he knew what he was looking for. Around him the frantic beat of the music filled the shop. He was aware of one of the girls dancing near the plate glass, her small tight ass wiggling beneath a bikini bottom. ‘This would be good to learn on?’

‘Sure, man. This is a hot stick. And I can make you a good deal on it. You got cash?’

Ike nodded.

‘Fifty bucks,’ the kid said. ‘It’s yours.’

Ike ran his fingers along the side of the board. On the deck there was a small decal: a silhouette of a wave within a circle – the wave’s crest turning to flame – and beneath it, the words Tapping the Source. Ike looked up at the kid. The kid looked fairly bored with it all. He was staring back toward the front of the shop, watching the girl. ‘Fifty bucks,’ he said again without looking at Ike. ‘You won’t find a better deal than that.’

It was the cheapest board Ike had yet seen. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it.’

‘All right.’ The kid picked up the board and headed for the counter.

Ike stood by the cash register as the kid rang up the sale. He was very much aware of one of the girls staring at him, a kind of half smile on her face. The music was loud. The sunlight was coming through the glass and the open door, burning the side of his face. When the kid had stuffed Ike’s money into a box, he pulled a couple of colored cubes out from under the counter and pushed them at Ike.

‘What are these?’

‘Wax.’

The girl on the glass made a face. ‘You gave him Cool Waters,’ she said. ‘I think he needs Sex Wax.’

The other boy chuckled. The kid who had made the sale pulled out a round piece of wax and thumped it down on top of the cubes. ‘You rub it on the board before you go out,’ he said.

Ike nodded. He had remembered seeing surfers wax their boards. He slipped the wax into the pocket of his jeans and picked up the board. ‘Rip ’em up,’ he heard one of the girls say as he went back outside, into the brilliant light. He heard one of the boys laugh, and he had not guessed that buying a board could turn out to be such a humiliating experience. Well, fuck them, he thought; the price had still been good. He adjusted the board beneath his arm and headed up the sidewalk, deciding as he went that the din of traffic was preferable to the music of the shop.

Back in his room he used a pair of scissors on one of his two pair of jeans. He cut them off just above the knees and put them on. He picked up his board, which barely fit into the small room, and tried to get a look at himself in the mirror. One thing was certain and that was he didn’t look like many of the other surfers he’d seen around town. His hair was too short, and his body looked white and frail against the dark material of the jeans. He shrugged, swung a towel around his neck, nursed the board out of the room, and headed down the hall.

He was coming down the steps and onto the shabby strip of grass when he nearly bumped into one of the girls who had come to his room looking for papers. It was the tall, athletic-looking one, and the sunlight was dancing off her strawberry-blonde hair and her white tank top. He felt somewhat embarrassed, naked, in the brilliant light. He tried to hide as much of himself as possible behind the board.

‘You a surfer?’ she asked him.

He shrugged. ‘Trying to learn.’ He studied her face for signs of a put-down. Her cheekbones were rather high and wide, her brows delicate and nicely arched. There was something about her face, perhaps it was the arch of the brows, that gave her something of a bored, haughty look. But somehow that expression did not carry over into her eyes, which seemed rather small and bright and looked directly into his own. There was a bit of a smile on her face and he decided that it was not like the smiles on the girls in the shop. He went down the sidewalk and turned to look back. She was still standing in the same spot, watching him. ‘Have fun,’ she called. He smiled at her and started away, headed for Main Street and the Pacific Ocean.

6

The beach