very end of the old pier seated with a handful of Mexican fishermen as the night turned cool and damp beneath a heavy mist. The iron rails and painted benches grew wet and the yellow lights that lined the boardwalk drew lines upon their slick surfaces. Still, Ike remained there for some time, staring back toward the highway and the town, which from here had been reduced to a thin band of lights beneath a moonless sky. He kept thinking about Preston, of the way he had grown angry over Ike’s story. He was puzzled by the anger and yet, in an odd way, comforted by it as well. It was perhaps selfish of him to think so, but the anger, it seemed to him, was like some tool just resting there, waiting to be used, if only it could be better understood. And though he could see that doing so would require time, he was against blowing Preston off too soon. The best course, he felt, was to be patient a bit longer. And in the meantime he could continue with his own idea of learning to surf. But he would take Preston’s advice on avoiding the pier, at least until he was better. For the present, he would trust in what Preston had said.
He took some comfort in thinking through these things, in deciding on something. His sister perhaps, or Gordon, might have said he was too cautious, and perhaps he was. It was just that he did not want to blow it from the very beginning.
• • •
It was late when he left the pier. He crossed Coast Highway and headed inland on Main. He did not know how late it was but noticed that the bars had closed and the streets were empty. As he neared the intersection of Main and Walnut a lowered Chevy rolled past on chromed rims, its tires making a soft swishing sound on the wet asphalt. He could not see how many people were in the car, as the windows were tinted, but it cruised through the intersection a few yards ahead of him and seemed to slow a bit, as if someone was checking him out. He had been about to turn on Walnut, but that would have put him walking in the same direction as the car and he decided against it, thinking suddenly of Hazel Adams’s warning. He crossed instead behind it and continued up Main, walking quickly with his hands jammed down into the pockets of his jeans.
There was a vacant lot at the top of the next block, and some trees. He waited there a moment in the shadows just to make sure the car was not circling around. It did not appear to be and he was just about to leave when something else caught his eye. There was an alley that ran parallel to Main, just behind the buildings that faced the street, and from his position at the end of the block he could look back across the lot and see down the alley for a fair distance. And that was how he happened to see the bike.
He moved out from beneath the trees and walked slowly along the eastern end of the lot. The bike was a big one, and drawing closer to the mouth of the alley, Ike could see that it was Preston’s Knuckle. Then he saw Preston as well. He was standing at the side of the alley, in what looked to be the beginnings of a driveway, only there was no driveway there, just the back of a building—rough, darkened bricks and a naked bulb maybe ten feet off the ground. The bulb was lit and cast a pale light onto the broken asphalt and gravel beneath it.
Preston was leaning, his arm out and braced against the wall, talking to another guy. Ike could not see much of what the other guy looked like because Preston was quite a bit bigger and was blocking Ike’s view. All that Ike could really see of the other man was a bright spot of blond hair above Preston’s outstretched arm. Ike got the idea, however, that Preston was doing the talking, the other guy the listening. There was something about the way in which the blond head appeared to be cocked a bit to one side and tilted down, that gave Ike this idea. But he was too far away to hear and he could not take the chance of moving closer, nor did he want to stand for long at the
He took some comfort in thinking through these things, in deciding on something. His sister perhaps, or Gordon, might have said he was too cautious, and perhaps he was. It was just that he did not want to blow it from the very beginning.
• • •
It was late when he left the pier. He crossed Coast Highway and headed inland on Main. He did not know how late it was but noticed that the bars had closed and the streets were empty. As he neared the intersection of Main and Walnut a lowered Chevy rolled past on chromed rims, its tires making a soft swishing sound on the wet asphalt. He could not see how many people were in the car, as the windows were tinted, but it cruised through the intersection a few yards ahead of him and seemed to slow a bit, as if someone was checking him out. He had been about to turn on Walnut, but that would have put him walking in the same direction as the car and he decided against it, thinking suddenly of Hazel Adams’s warning. He crossed instead behind it and continued up Main, walking quickly with his hands jammed down into the pockets of his jeans.
There was a vacant lot at the top of the next block, and some trees. He waited there a moment in the shadows just to make sure the car was not circling around. It did not appear to be and he was just about to leave when something else caught his eye. There was an alley that ran parallel to Main, just behind the buildings that faced the street, and from his position at the end of the block he could look back across the lot and see down the alley for a fair distance. And that was how he happened to see the bike.
He moved out from beneath the trees and walked slowly along the eastern end of the lot. The bike was a big one, and drawing closer to the mouth of the alley, Ike could see that it was Preston’s Knuckle. Then he saw Preston as well. He was standing at the side of the alley, in what looked to be the beginnings of a driveway, only there was no driveway there, just the back of a building—rough, darkened bricks and a naked bulb maybe ten feet off the ground. The bulb was lit and cast a pale light onto the broken asphalt and gravel beneath it.
Preston was leaning, his arm out and braced against the wall, talking to another guy. Ike could not see much of what the other guy looked like because Preston was quite a bit bigger and was blocking Ike’s view. All that Ike could really see of the other man was a bright spot of blond hair above Preston’s outstretched arm. Ike got the idea, however, that Preston was doing the talking, the other guy the listening. There was something about the way in which the blond head appeared to be cocked a bit to one side and tilted down, that gave Ike this idea. But he was too far away to hear and he could not take the chance of moving closer, nor did he want to stand for long at the
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