Part 23 (1/2)

We would have drinks together, Peter and I. We would laugh about the fun times we had back in Florida. Remember Kendrick Powell?

And then we would go on from there, talking about all the things he had done to women over the years, including driving a golf club into the skull of Heidi Telford.

”I a.s.sume,” I said to the woman watching me, ”it takes some time to get ready for a race like that.”

”Oh, Lord, yes. Six months, at least.”

In other words, a long time before Barbara spoke to him, told him I was coming. Yet Barbara said he would be here, waiting for me.

”Are you all right, young man?”

I gave her half a wave. Sure, no problem. Set up an appointment from three thousand miles away, show up, and n.o.body's there. Happens all the time.

”Because you might want to check with his friend Billy.”

I stopped.

”Why?”

”Well, Billy's boat-sitting for him.” She gestured to the Pretty Hat, as if it was obvious.

”Where can I find Billy?”

The woman cast an eye up into the cloudy sky, as if that would tell her. ”Well,” she said without bringing down her gaze, ”I'd say it's not too early for him to be at Smitty's.”

I asked who Smitty was and she gave out with a hoot, as if she had misread me. ”Smitty's is a bar over on Caledonia, darling,” she said, pointing back the way I had come. ”Walk two blocks inland, turn right, go two blocks down the street and you can't miss it.” Then she added, as if she had her doubts about me, ”At least I don't expect you will.”

QUITE A PLACE, SMITTY'S. A big open room with a bar on one side and Formica tables scattered around the floor. It was obvious you could push the tables anyplace you wanted, either because you had a large group that wanted to sit together or simply because they were in your way. At three o'clock in the afternoon they were in somebody's way. The juke box was blasting Steppenwolf and two rough-looking men were dancing. Only their dancing looked more like fighting. Their legs were wide apart, their arms were swinging, and they were taking up lots of s.p.a.ce as they kicked and flailed, first rocking toward each other and then much more forcefully pulling away.

I hoped neither of the dancers was Billy.

There were probably a dozen other people in the bar, most of them guys, a couple of females who looked like guys. Virtually everyone wore blue jeans. A few were in long-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rts, a few were in sweats.h.i.+rts, a few in windbreakers. Summer attire, I gathered, for the fog-bound Bay Area.

I ordered a bottle of Anchor Steam and asked the bartender if Billy was around. He surveyed the room, which was bathed in natural light coming through large front windows and an open door, and said, ”Billy who?”

I said, ”Billy who's a friend of Tyler Belbonnet's,” and hoped that sufficed.

”Ty's racing,” he said, focusing someplace above my head.

”I know. That's why I'm looking for Billy.”

”And you don't know what Billy looks like?”

”No. That's why I'm asking you.”

The bartender nodded toward the dancers. ”That's him,” he said, with just enough cant to his head that I a.s.sumed Billy was the dancer on the right, the smaller one, a wiry guy who looked like the sort of person who would crawl through drainpipes or s.h.i.+nny up flagpoles for the amus.e.m.e.nt of his friends. I waited until the song was over and then stepped in between Billy and his buddy before they could start flailing about to Bachman-Turner Overdrive.

”You Billy?”

”What's it to you?”

It occurred to me that people were not as friendly in California as I had imagined.

”I was looking for Tyler.”

”Ain't here.”

”I know. He's sailing the Trans.p.a.c. But I was supposed to meet him.”

”Yeah, well, he ain't here.” Billy wanted to get back to dancing. His buddy was playing air guitar without him. His buddy was making terrible faces, as though that was what was necessary to get the notes out of his imaginary instrument.

I wanted to put my hand on Billy's arm and steer him away, but I had the feeling that Billy, his joints warmed and his spirits fired up, would not accept physical maneuvering. ”I'm a friend of his from back home,” I said.

That earned me a squint. ”You from the Cape?” he asked.

I told him I was. ”You?”

”Nah,” he said. Yet he obviously had some familiarity with it.

”Where you from?”

”Martha's Vineyard.”

Martha's Vineyard, sitting about seven miles off the Cape, but not the Cape itself, according to Billy. I said, ”You know him back east?”

He looked at his friend having all the fun. ”Yeah.”

”Then you must know his wife, Barbara.” I had to stretch matters a little. ”I got a message from her I have to give to him.”

”From Barbara?” Billy's eyebrows went up.

”Can we go outside and talk for a minute?”

He said to his friend, ”Be right back.” But his friend didn't care. He was stuttering his way through ”You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet.”

Billy grabbed a bottle off the bar that may or may not have been his, chugged it, and led the way to the sidewalk, where a man was sitting with his back against the outer wall of the building, selling paintings that were spread around him. From what I could tell, he had taken several ma.s.s-produced pictures of sea and landscapes and then slapped great gobs of dark blues and greens and reds on the canva.s.ses so that the otherwise peaceful or idyllic scenes looked as though they were being ripped apart by explosives shot from outer s.p.a.ce. That was my only explanation.

”Hey, Taquille,” said Billy, and threw the artist a couple of quarters. Then he turned to me. ” 'Sup?”

”I was supposed to meet Tyler to talk with him.”

”He's-”

”I know, sailing. Look, my name's George Becket. Did he leave any kind of message for me?”

This gave good old Billy a chance to show how clever he was. ”I thought you was s'pose to give a message to him.”