Matt has to think hard about these words to even partially understand them. Worry stalks the edges of his understanding. His father’s words seem to predict tragedy, or, even worse, welcome it. This is how men think? Certain kinds of men? Generals and soldiers? Kings and heroes? Outlaws? Assassins? Did Oswald or Sirhan think like this?
“I don’t care about history right now, Dad. I just want to find Jazz.”
“We wish never to draw the weapon.”
“Okay.”
“The taking of a man’s life is no small thing.”
“No, sir. But how does it connect to my search? Taking life?”
Bruce clears his throat softly, then takes another sip of bourbon.
“At some point we will find Jasmine. And we will be forced to confront dangerous men. Three, minimum. For that, we must be prepared, not just to pay the last full measure, but to collect it.”
Matt studies the guns, one at a time. Takes a step to better assess.
“You might think I’m crazy,” says Bruce. “But I’m not. I’m an earnest man who wants his family back.”
“You do?”
“You’re all I’ve thought about for six years.”
“Really?”
“Almost.”
Matt’s thoughts blur like his bike spokes on a downhill, as he tries to catch up with six years of information he never had. He can’t process it all. Ideas come crashing down like waves in a set.
He says: “I’ll buy Wyatt’s gun.”
Bruce comes off the stool and they hug again, but this time is different. For the first time in his life, Matt isn’t surprised by his father’s strength, but by his own. The two strengths form a wall that neither chooses to move beyond. A few months ago, Bruce would have swung him around like a child. Now Matt feels he can match him, at least briefly.
“Well done, son.”
Matt lifts the heavy revolver with both hands, sights down its endless barrel, his trigger finger riding outside the guard like his father taught him. He aims for a knothole in the barn wall, but even with his new strength the gun bobs and dips no matter how much he tries to hold it still.
“Keep it where no one will stumble onto it. Keep it loaded or it will do you no good when you need it most.”
“There’s a bunch of boys here in Dodge, they go in and out of the houses whenever they want. Get into everything.”
“Outsmart them. The gun is twenty dollars. I’ll throw in the soft case and some ammo. No tax. I’ll take half now.”
Matt sets down the Earp gun. Hands two fives over to his dad with a strange and terrible disappointment in his gut. He’s down to five dollars and change. He feels like he’s being robbed again.
“You’re welcome at my place on Third Street tonight, son. Any night, in fact.”
“No, thank you. I’m glad you’re home, Dad. It’s confusing but I’m glad you’re here.”
“I am too. We’ll get Jazz home. We’ll put this sinful world back right.”
41
At 9 A.M., Matt puts the stewed tomatoes in Furlong’s business-sized P.O. box on Forest. He wonders what the sergeant plans to do with them.
Five minutes later he pulls into a wooded glade near the Bluebird Canyon water tank, where a vehicle containing Sungaard’s friends is waiting. He’s used this place to rest in the shade scores of times. There’s room for maybe three or four cars but it’s marked NO PARKING by the city. The eucalyptus stands high and dense, and the sunlight falls faintly to the seed-pod-and-leaf-littered ground.
Their vehicle is a very large Mercedes van, the likes of which Matt has never seen. It looks almost twice as high and wide as his Westfalia, and half again longer. No windows. It’s painted a low-gloss gray, kind of military, Matt thinks.
Two doors motor open in opposite directions and four men step to the ground, black weapons holstered in the depths of their suit coats. Two are large, two slender and shorter. Behind them Matt sees the back of the driver’s head, and two rows of seats, facing each other. There are luggage and storage racks above, and black rubber floor mats.
The men look foreign to Matt, in the same way Sungaard himself does.
“Mr. Anthony, I thank you for meeting with us. I am Bayott. We are friends of Marlon and friends of you, also.”
Bayott holds up a leather badge wallet with a small gold shield and mug shot. Matt reads INTERPOL.
Bayott is slightly built, with curly brown bangs and two days’ growth of whiskers. A prominent nose. His smile is thin but seems genuine. His handshake is gentle and brief.
“Please step into this vehicle. It will be private.”
Matt follows Bayott’s direction and climbs in first, the men crowding in behind him, the doors sliding shut.
Inside, Matt feels the engine idling and cold air hitting his face.
Bayott produces a tiny tape recorder and a notebook. Turns the recorder on and unsheathes an elegant black pen.
“We are sorry for your robbery and beating recently,” he says. “Mr. Sungaard furnished for us some facts. Please describe to us what happened that night, from the time you received the first six surfboards in Huntington Beach to the time you were confronted at the storage facility in Laguna Canyon. No detail is too small, no impression too faint. Please...”
“Are you really Interpol?”
“How could we not?” Bayott says with a chuckle.
Matt wonders what his father would make of these guys. Or Furlong or Darnell.
He tells them the story as clearly and understandably as he can. Bayott writes fast, and on the empty seat directly across from Matt, the little tape recorder spools turn slowly behind the smoked-glass window.
If he had any doubts that these were real cops, Bayott’s endless questions and checks for clarity erase them. Bayott is every bit as thorough and craving of details as anyone on the LBPD, even Detective McAdam.
One of the big men, a blond with buzz-cut sides and a very low fade, like an exaggerated Marine Corps cut, hands Matt an aluminum clipboard with an INTERPOL emblem on the clamp.
Matt looks down at a grainy black-and-white photograph of the Hessian emblem.
“That’s it,” he says.
“Please describe the colors,” says Bayott.
Matt closes his eyes, tries to see it again. The storage facility had a decent security light up on the wall, although it was Matt’s adrenaline-blitzed alertness that seared the emblem into his memory. And having seen it before, that night at Mystic Arts World when the bikers blundered into the Timothy Leary show.
“It was all black and white except for the handle of the sword and the MC letters, which were red. The skull was yellow.”
Bayott takes the clipboard and notes the colors with his pen, then flips the page.
“The Hessians are new,” says Bayott. “Just chartered as a motorcycle club. They have already engaged with the Hells Angels and are not afraid of a fight. They base their identities on German mercenaries who fought for the British against your colonies. Hessians were greatly feared. Many settled in America after the Revolution. This motorcycle gang makes what American police call bathtub speed.”
“What do they want with surfboards?” asks Matt. “Mr. Sungaard told me about the patent. But what can twelve boards be worth?”
“They are only valuable as secrets,” says Bayott. “Until Mr. Sungaard possesses the patent, he must keep the prototypes hidden. Or lose them to pirates who will sell the design for replication. Such as the Hessians. Mr. Sungaard has already received their ransom demand for the boards. It is very high.”
Matt remembers Sungaard’s prediction regarding the worldwide sale of fish surfboards year after year. Too many millions to estimate.
Bayott hands Matt the clipboard again, now open to the next page. It’s a police mug of Staich, the man who groined him. He’s not wearing a watch cap.