The sign taped to the fence was his. A Real American, it said, like Roger Elliot was only playing one on TV. I muttered, “Goddamn politicians.”
Hank looked at the sign. Something started to come over his face, but he got hold of it before I could figure out what it was. I said, “What?” and he said it was nothing and that we should pick up the pace.
Things were a little off the rest of the way down the boulevard and onto Electric Avenue, like I’d stepped over some line I didn’t know about. But just before we hit Main Street he looked at me and said, “Sorry I got weird. Some shit I’m dealing with.”
I almost asked if it was about what had happened back in ’92. Which he didn’t know I knew about. Instead I said, “Want to talk about it?”
“Nah. No big deal. Getting-old shit. If it ain’t one thing it’s another.”
“You can say that again.”
We turned the corner. More foot traffic there on Main. Lots of kids out of school for the summer, yelling and screaming and running around like wild Indians. Lots of young ladies with skimpy outfits. We dodged the kids and took in the view. Just a couple of old coots out for a walk.
After a while we passed the Jack Haley Community Safety Building and stepped onto the pier. My back was hurting a little and my legs a lot, but I didn’t mind. It seemed right. Pain I’d earned, as opposed to the gallbladder I was missing through no fault of my own.
About a third of the way to the end we were suddenly surrounded by kids. Dozens of them, ranging from maybe eight to twelve, boys and girls, all wearing blue bathing suits. All shapes, all sizes, though a few of the girls were starting to develop and looked sort of out of place. There were a couple of adults mixed in, hollering instructions. The whole kit and caboodle swept by us and moved on down the pier. Then they stopped, gathering round one of the adults, listening in varying degrees to what he had to say, and we caught up.
One of the boys caught my eye. He was bigger than the rest. Taller than most, and fat. He had a big stomach and creases in his sides where the top half of his flab met the bottom. He was gingerly walking barefoot along the planks where all the other kids were scampering carefree. He had a little friend, a skinny kid, urging him along. “You’re gonna have to,” the friend said, and the chubby one shook his head. Poor kid. His parents signed him up for swim camp when he wanted nothing else than to sit in his room eating Fiddle Faddle.
We moved on to where most of the fisherman were stationed. Then there were splashes behind us. The kids, bless their hearts, were climbing over the rail and jumping into the water. “Feet together, arms at your sides!” one of the adults yelled. They continued leaping, at least fifteen feet down into the depths, boys and girls, in ones and in twos, some slicing right in and some splashing. They’d pop up and shriek and bob in the water, and they’d look up for their buddies and urge them in.
Over on the other side of the pier, the fat kid’s friend was pulling on his arm.
“Hey!” It was Hank.
I turned back to him. “Yeah?”
“Come on. Let’s grab some coffee.”
There was a Ruby’s at the end of the pier. Assembly-line Americana. We went in and came out a couple of minutes later with our coffees. Passed the fishermen again. Got to where the kids had gathered. Most had jumped, and were paddling in toward the shore. The stragglers were making a big show of leaping in, acting like they were about to and pulling back at the last minute.
The fat kid was still there too. He’d been deserted by his little friend. One of the adults, a guy in his twenties, was eyeing him, like he knew he had to deal with him but was hoping he’d disappear first. Then he sighed and meandered over. “Chuck!”
The kid looked around, like maybe there was another Chuck to take the heat. No luck. He turned to the grown-up. “I don’t want to.”
“We went through this yesterday. You have to. Look, it’s easy. All those little kids did it. All those girls did it. You’re not going to let them show you up, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Then get your big old butt over there and jump on in.” Chuck took a step. Then another. Two more, and he was even with the counselor or lifeguard or whatever he was. He stopped and said, “Do I hafta?”
“Yes, you—”
“No, you don’t,” I said, inserting myself between Chuck and the grownup, whose name, according to his badge, was BILL JAMISON.
“I’ll handle this, sir,” he said.
“You’ve been handling it, and you’re doing a miserable job of it.”
“Sir, please. We’re trained in—”
“Shaming kids into jumping way down into the ocean by saying the girls do it? That doesn’t sound like very good training to me.”
Chuck detected a possible reprieve. He shuffled sideways toward the shore.
“Chuck Pemberton, you stay put,” Bill Jamison ordered. To me, “Look, they know they have to do this when they sign up. It’s no big deal, really. All the kids do it.” A sick little giggle. “I haven’t lost one yet.”
“That supposed to be funny?”
“Shit,” Hank said. “I’m gonna call Rae. Get our asses out of here before you get us arrested.”
Bill Jamison had his hand on the whistle around his neck like he was going to call time-out. “Sir,” he said, “these children are none of your business. And I don’t think it’s right for you to be hanging around like this.”
“Hanging around? Hanging around? Are you playing the child molester card?”
“Well, I... Shit.”
Mission accomplished. Chuck was in full flight toward shore, his chunky frame bouncing along like a cartoon character. Bill Jamison tossed me a truly fine dirty look and took chase.
I turned to Hank. “And that is a good day’s work. Call Rae.”
We’d lived in Seal Beach before, around 1980, when Sheila’s job at the bank took her to Orange County. We moved to Laguna when things got good, and then to Garden Grove when they got not so good. But she always talked about moving back to Seal Beach. Which was a fine ambition. Nice little beach town, clean air, tucked into the armpit — and I mean that in a good way — of Orange County.
First time we lived there, I was friends with Ralph O’Brien. Who got mixed up with a girl half his age. I saved him from his wife finding out, and he owed me one. After we moved I’d still see him a few times a year, and when we came back it was a lot more than that. He’d gotten himself elected to the city council, which meant I learned a lot more than I needed to about Seal Beach politics. He was also still married to the wife, so I figured he was right about still owing me one.
I called him and said it was time I collected. He said, “Anything,” and I told him what I wanted. He said I was out of my fucking mind. Then he said if anyone ever found out where I’d gotten the address he’d cut my balls off. And that he’d call back within the hour. Ralph knew about Jody. Knew that was what was driving me.
He called back as promised and half an hour later I was at a house on Balboa Drive. It had signs for Roger Elliot all over the place. Stuck in the lawn, in the front window, stapled to the mailbox post.
I rang the bell and a man answered. He had what we used to call an Ivy League look, hair cut short, button-down shirt, khaki pants. He looked me over and said, “Yes?”
“You Chuck’s father?”
“You from the swim camp?”
“Not exactly.”
“Look, I already talked to him about it. He’ll do as he’s supposed to.” Then he realized I was a little old to be from the swim camp and his eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“I’m the guy who let your kid get away with not doing as he was supposed to.”