At 12:30, Jayne stood outside Southwest luggage in a white blouse, black pants suit, and stylish low-slung heels. The outfit went nicely with her auburn hair and hazel eyes. Of course, Ridge thought everything went nicely with her auburn hair and hazel eyes. Most importantly, she was smiling when Ridge and Terry pulled up. In fact, she was in a good mood, which improved once she got a look at Ridge’s stitches and black eyes and was satisfied he was on the mend.
They sat by the window at the Blue Grill, a table with a view overlooking the marina and breakwater, and, for the first time since the Hulk incident, Ridge felt on a roll, like things could only get better. The place was a favorite and they loved to watch the surf break and the birds dip and soar. After they placed their orders, they watched five birds in formation, each with a 7-foot wingspan, and a foot-long conical beak ending in a blood-red tip. Two split off to soar lower, like gliders. Three remained high. A minute later, one of the high birds tucked into an 80-degree nosedive, nearly straight down. It smashed into the water like a depth charge. After the stupendous splash subsided, the big bird popped up through the water’s surface. Ridge saw a fish slide down its throat and then pointed to a second bird up high. It rotated into another dive, over 80-degrees, straight down. This time the crash reverberated through the window. The bird stayed submerged for minutes. When it popped up, Terry, Jayne and Ridge watched a fishtail disappear down its beak.
Ridge turned to Terry and said, “Now that’s teamwork. Two of ’em fly low and sight the fish. The others up high make the kill. Why they don’t break their necks hitting the water is beyond me. But the real mystery is, how the hell do they communicate?”
Terry laughed. “Got to be eye contact.”
“Or maybe wing signals?” Jayne offered.
“Probably a little of both,” said Ridge. “Now, we need our own teamwork. How do we get a name or address, knowing only the first three letters of a vintage license plate? You guys are the computer whizzes. Time to shine.”
Terry and Jayne bantered about Google, HTML, JavaScript, and URLs, and then continued to talk computereze for the next ten minutes. As they soared in their own world, Ridge went in for the kill on his fish chowder.
“I know,” Jayne said suddenly. “I’ve got a friend in Phoenix, Phyllis. She runs a data storage firm. Twenty-five years ago, when we started out, it was called a ‘service bureau’ and stored and retrieved computer data for businesses and government agencies. Today—the exact same thing, but in a huge desert warehouse with endless rows of equipment for storing data—you know, the 21st Century Cloud. Anyway, she has public-document storage contracts with various states. I remember Phyllis telling me once it took weeks and weeks to scan California’s DMV documents.”
Ridge grinned. “Go get ’em, Wonder Woman.”
Jayne and Terry left the table to call Phyllis, while Ridge finished his chowder and started on to his Mahi-Mahi fish sandwich. Like the red-beaked birds, Jayne and Terry did recon; he ate the fish. Couldn’t get much better.
About an hour later, they finished lunch, and Terry dropped Ridge and Jayne back at their apartment. Jayne unpacked and made follow-up calls to Phyllis while Ridge fed Mister. Moments later, Jayne busted into the kitchen. “Call Terry. Pay dirt! No name. Records were too old, too scattered, too incomplete. But we got an address—from 50 years ago. It’s at least a place to start. Back then, California plate “MAN 659” was sent to 66 Sixteen Road, Goleta, California.”
“Fantastic!” He pulled Jayne in for a kiss and thought about Hulk. Tough never quits—you piece of shit. Next stop, your goddamn doorstep.
CHAPTER 14
Friday night was a good time to harvest L.A.’s children. So, rather than kill a source, to prod everyone into better service and products, Hess decided to teach by example. He’d show the bastards he didn’t need them. Better to hit where it really hurts, in their fat wallets, than spill the blood of just a few.
He had told One through Six to meet him at 6 p.m.
“Tonight,” said Hess, “we hunt. Seek prey. Dress in black suits, with white shirts and black ties, like missionaries. Three, you and Four package small boxes of food, just snacks and treats, in two large sacks.”
“What’ll we do with them?” asked Three.
“Give ’em away,” said Hess. “You and Four travel with me. One, Two, Five and Six will be another group. We’ll visit skid row in downtown L.A., then the construction area near the University of Southern California, where the city is building the railway and freeway interchanges. Posing as ministers of God with food for the needy, we’ll ferret out candidates—the homeless, the runaways, the lost and the abandoned. Then we’ll take the best. So bring plenty of sacks, rope and red tape.”
“Why the construction area near USC?” asked One.
“Because teens feel safe there,” said Hess. “They group together in make-shift tents, behind the construction fences. Every Friday night after the crews leave. We’ll join them. Provide handouts. And return later to corral the best. Now let’s get going.”
At 9 p.m. on a chilly, moonless Friday night, the ministers of God hit skid row in downtown L.A. It was slim pickings. Hess found the few little snits worth talking to grabbed the food packages and ran. So much for God’s message. Luckily, the construction area near USC proved far more rewarding. Hess ended up bagging two boys about 16-years-old. One and his crew sacked three girls, ranging 15 to 18 years in age. All five were taken back and herded into a special room. There, Hess had Two untie them, and rip the sacks from their heads. Then Two retied their hands with plastic ties and put more red tape across their mouths. Finally, Hess sent the Watchmen back to the big house and sat alone, in a chair, watching. For most part, the new students sniffled, whimpered, and sobbed. One guy and two girls just wouldn’t shut up, so Hess got up—and did what had to be done. A hard slap to the boy’s face did the trick.
But the other boy—he seemed special. With long blond hair, he sat silently, legs crossed Indian style, staring at Hess. Not a word, not a sound, not a blink, even when Hess slapped the first boy. Interesting.
Eventually they all shut up and curled into fetal positions. Some slept. But not the blonde boy. He just lay there and watched Hess, with deadpan eyes. Intriguing. Hess got up again and tied the blond boy down. A test of sorts.
The boy did well, lying there silently, staring at the ceiling regardless of what Hess said or did. After ten more minutes, Hess untied him realizing, despite some looks of disdain, this special boy had the strength, resolve, and focus to be a Watchman. His Eminence would love it, thought Hess. It’d put them closer to their goal.
CHAPTER 15
Saturday was a day off for Jayne and Ridge. The marine engineer Ridge hired to inspect and sea-test his cruiser had cleared the boat for operation late Friday afternoon, so he and Jayne packed breakfast and went down to the dock.
After Jayne’s initial shock at seeing the scorched and discolored swim step and rear wall, they boarded and decided to search for some peace and quiet. Soon, they were idling along Palos Verdes, a beautiful, forested peninsula jutting into the Pacific south of Redondo Beach. As they floated along the west side, Ridge marveled at the steep red cliffs, speckled greenery, and coves, with rocky beaches, that peppered the shoreline. Sometimes he and Jayne anchored in one of the coves, but this morning they simply shut down engines and drifted, about a half-mile out.
Good choice. While setting the table for breakfast, Ridge and Jayne wandered into a huge pod of dolphins. Ridge recognized them as nearshore bottlenose. Hundreds of them, swimming directly at the bow, leaping in and out of the water. Half to the right, half to the left. With large black-button eyes, bottle-shaped noses, shiny skin, and best of all—smiley faces—each was beautiful. The cutest though were baby dolphins swimming tight formation with their moms. But most amazing were other adults rising from the water, performing pirouettes, as they twirled 300 feet away. Showoffs.
As the last one passed, Jayne said, “Darn—we didn’t use the camera.”
“Next time, kid. We’ll just keep this one in our heads, instead of on a chip.”
“Just for us,” Jayne said softly. After a few moments of silence, just listening to the peaceful slap of waves on the hull, she turned to him. “Let’s take the boat in and pick up Pistol.”
Pistol—half Lab, half Chow-Chow, with a purple tongue to prove it—was the black, 45-pound rescue who wrangled with Mister for dominance. It was all for show, though, as Mister and Pistol were often found occupying the same clump of blankets or curled together in Pistol’s doggie bed. She’d been boarded since last Saturday, but with Jayne back, Ridge thought why not?
“OK,” he said, “let’s break her out.”
Pistol was a special dog. When a pup, a worthless wahoo had thrown her from his pick-up while speeding down the 405 Freeway. A woman behind stopped and brought the puppy to a vet who saved her life. Then they took her to a no-kill rescue mission in the Valley, where Jayne and Ridge, one fine Sunday, saw the little black-puddle of a dog and adopted her. What they didn’t know was the Chow DNA and pick-up experience would combine to create a 45-pound alpha-dog, with few equals. In fact, Pistol was expelled from two training schools in a row for fighting with every bully dog bigger than her. With little choice, Ridge and Jayne turned to a doggie psychologist—after all it was L.A. Following months of therapy, more directed at Ridge and Jayne than the dog, they realized Pistol would never graduate from any damn dog school. Instead, they would live with a terrific guard dog, one that would never attack a friend or smaller animal. But beyond that, all bets were off. Big dogs. Bad guys. Beware.
When they got Pistol back to the apartment midafternoon., Mister went nuts—purring, rubbing, and weaving in and out of her legs. Clan’s all here, thought Ridge. Everything’s good. Then he remembered Terry would be picking him up in just a few hours to go to Judge Millsberg’s memorial service.
“Sure you don’t want to come?” he said to Jayne.
“No. This is something you and Terry should do. Anyway, you’re in great spirits and I’m thinking of heading back to San Francisco tomorrow afternoon if that’s OK. Duty calls.”
“Pistol and Mister can keep me safe while you’re gone. But the memorial service is near 23rd Street Landing. Terry and I were thinking of grabbing dinner there after the service. Want to join us at the restaurant?”
