Moses goes to Mission Boulevard, the heart of Mission Beach.
In Mission Beach, every foot of space counts and is bitterly fought for and protected. Five surf shops, four bars, a handful of restaurants, a resort hotel, a Turkish-style coffee house, and a small amusement park named Belmont Park with the last wooden roller coaster in California are packed in tight here, wedged in and amongst the beachside homes. At North Jetty Road, the southwestern cap of Mission Beach, there is a well-known localsonly spot where Moses surfs with a group of middle-aged professionals called the Gentleman’s Hour; at the north end is the Catamaran Hotel, a ritzy vacation spot with suites costing up to eight hundred bucks a night and worth every penny. Compared to its sisters Pacific Beach and Ocean Beach, Mission Beach is a baby in age and much smaller than both.
Pacific Beach is losing to gentrification and crime spurred by alcohol, and Ocean Beach tries way too hard to be funky and pretend it’s still 1975. Hanging on to a true beach-town feel amid the commercialism of the age is no easy task for those who live there, but Mission Beach keeps it real. Fourteen streets and forty-six walkways cross Mission Boulevard, emptying out onto the brown mud banks of the bay on the east and the sand of the Pacific Ocean on the west. Delicious views of blue sky peek out from between the rows of homes; clouds pass slowly overhead. Here, boxy stucco houses with neatly manicured lawns sit next to fading wooden shacks whose gardens sprawl on their small front yards like they don’t have a care in the world. Towels sway lazily on clotheslines; wet suits hang over balcony rails to dry; surfboards lie piled on porches and on top of cars and in garages, still wet and slippery from morning sessions. Paint has peeled, façades dulled, and cars rusted, but this only adds to the funk of the place. Neighbors gather on the sidewalk to talk about the weather. For a city where the sun shines three hundred days a year, its citizens are obsessed with the weather and act betrayed and more than a little scared when it’s cloudy or, God forbid, raining. Moses doesn’t judge, he’s had his share of weather conversations.
Several people can be seen walking their dogs. People nod and wave at each other from the windows of cars. Surfers wax and hose their boards, talking story about the mythical perfect wave, and the height and ferocity of the wave gets bigger the more they drink. Shop owners linger outside storefronts, smoking and chatting and watching the street traffic. Restaurants don’t dare have dress codes (No shirts, no shoes? You can come in!) and more often than not have outdoor seating. Beach-front condos have every variety of life. You can see what looks like an MTV beach party on one patio, next to a group of retirees drinking red wine while enjoying their golden years, and a happy middle-aged gay couple holding hands as they absorb the sunset.
Houses face the streets and walkways, few blocked from view by trees or hedges, which gives the area a casual and friendly look. A puppy eager to please. Street performers like jugglers or reggae bands do their thing on the boardwalk. The whoosh! of the Giant Dipper roller coaster can be heard every few minutes and Moses remembers the huge block party thrown when it was reopened in 1990. If you didn’t know the locals, very few appeared to have a care in the world; for Moses, it’s everything a beach town should be and the fact that scum like Teddy and Legacy infect it makes him sick.
Legacy lives with some other trust-fund California kids in a nice stucco house and when Moses gets there, he finds the guy washing down his obnoxious yellow humvee with Creed blasting on the stereo. The awful, crime-against-humanity music only worsens Moses’s month.
“Hey, Legacy. You and I need to have a Come to Jesus meeting. You free?” Moses turns off the stereo; Legacy is lucky he doesn’t hurl it into the ocean.
Before Legacy can run into the house and lock the door, Moses has him by the neck. Moses is a big guy, 6'2” and 220 pounds, who was an all-state quarterback at Mission Bay High, and worst of all, he’s black, which, like, terrifies entitled assholes like Legacy. He has him backed up to his car with nowhere to run.
“C’mon, man! I didn’t do anything? Why you aggro?” Legacy whines. Moses doesn’t know what aggro means, but he’s guessing something like upset. Moses is fairly upset.
“Theodore Bear. You know him.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name!” Legacy tries to get by, but Moses pushes him back against the car.
“Legacy? I can smell bullshit from the next county.”
“I’m gonna call my dad!” Legacy screeches. It’s a good threat. Moses’s career is stalled because he pissed off Legacy’s dad by hassling him back when he was a powerful downtown lawyer and partner at the prestigious Burke, Spitz, and Culver law firm.
Moses doesn’t really care now though. He slams Legacy against the car again.
“Oww! Dude! Fine! I see the guy every now and then, sell him some X or weed.”
“That all?”
“We surf a little. He can get me in the good clubs and the best tail. Man likes his comfort and fun. Dude! I wouldn’t lie to you!”
“You know more.” Moses kicks the car.
“He’s got something going down on Memorial Day on Monday. Don’t know where, don’t know what. C’mon, man! You’re hurtin’ me!”
Moses releases him and and starts to leave, but then changes his mind and takes the CD out of the stereo and breaks it in half, figuring it’s his good deed of the day, maybe the week.
It’s the next afternoon when he strikes gold.
THIRD PROTOCOL: LEARN WHAT THEY HAVE
It’s Memorial Day weekend and Mission Beach is hopping. There’s an estimated crowd of 800,000 people filling the beach, both local and tourist. Moses loves tourists. They always dress wrong for the beach and think just because it’s San Diego it doesn’t get cold. This May weekend is a somewhat cold one as San Diego’s sun takes its rare coffee-and-cigarette break before coming back with a vengeance in the later summer months. Moses likes the kayakers and wannabe surfers best who return to land like they just got back from storming 1944 Normandy; they have this great shell-shocked look on their faces and their eyes are wide and terrified. It’s like Apocalypse Now, “The horror …” Those who don’t bother with a wet suit are the best.
So Moses hears the mugging before he sees it, and only because he catches the name Teddy. He’s leaving his humble little condo for another day of chasing pavement, and after looking around for the source of the voice he sees this big guy cornering a pretty girl in an alley out of sight from the crowds. Moses recognizes him as a local thug and your garden-variety bully, so he hurries over.
“Leave the lady alone, Vinnie.”
Vinnie McBride smirks and steps away from the girl and gets close to Moses. They’re about the same build, but Vinnie has size on Moses from steroids and being a gym rat.
“You gonna make me, nigger?”
Vinnie always did have a talent for making situations worse for himself.
“Guess I gotta, Vinnie.” And Moses kicks him in the nuts. It’s a good ball-shot that should have sent the guy clear across the 5 into El Cajon, but he’s a ’roid freak and gets back up and rushes Moses, who dodges just in time and kicks him in the shin. Catching Vinnie as he stumbles, Moses shoves him into the wall and tosses him into a dumpster, slamming the lid shut. Vinnie will be napping for a while.