69

Beautiful ocean, but too many people.

He wore a top-quality, real-hair false beard, similar to the one he'd used for the German girl, a wide-brimmed straw hat, a long brown ratty raincoat over a frayed white shirt, and cheap gray cotton pants. Running shoes, relatively new, but dirtied-up to stay in character.

The gait he adopted was a clumsy, stiff-legged shuffle. When he walked, he pretended to stare at the ground but was able to sight upward without being obvious, because the hat did a good job of concealing his eyes. If someone made eye contact, he could half lower the lids and focus on nothing.

Mr. Mentally Disordered Homeless. Ocean Front Walk was full of them, sitting on benches, lurching along with the crowd, staring at the sand or the palm trees or the ocean, as if something important were happening out there. What? Imaginary whales? Mermaids with big tits flapping around on the beach?

His mother had gone crazy when he was fourteen. He'd never wondered what she thought about. Just stayed away, as if she were contagious.

He walked up and down Ocean Front very slowly. Every so often he'd sit, make like he was dozing off, while examining passersby.

No one paid attention to him. The bicycle cops were on the lookout for violence, so if you kept to yourself, they were happy to ignore you. Same with the tourists- anything to avoid being panhandled.

The problem was the quantity of people. Nice, warm Saturday, everyone flocking to the beach, the slow-cruising walkathon along Ocean Front so dense you could barely make out individuals.

Plenty of kids, but not the kid. After an hour, he was able to classify them into two groups: the well-scrubbed spawn of the tourists and clots of dark-skinned, big-mouthed local brats weaving in and out of the pedestrian stream, probably looking for pockets to pick.

Why would the kid be out in broad daylight?

Why would he be here, period, after the “anonymous tip”?

Waste of time, but considering all he'd accomplished, he didn't feel that bad.

Beautiful day; go with it. Long time since he'd been here, and the walkway had gotten more commercial, lined with shops, snack stands, restaurants, even a synagogue- that was odd. Some of the buildings ran through to the alley and, beyond it, the Speedway. Others occupied the ground floors of multistory prewar apartment buildings. The boy could be in one of those buildings, and how could you find him?

The boy could be anywhere.

He'd give it a few more hours. The beard and hat and coat were heating him up. A cold drink would be nice, and he had ten bucks in his pocket- more back in the car, parked six blocks away. But a crazy bum fishing out money might attract attention, so he decided to settle for water from a fountain.

There was one down at the other end, near the synagogue. He'd shuffle clear to the northernmost end of Ocean Front, turn around, come back, drink, repeat it a few times, take a pseudo-nap on a bench, call it a day.

Forget about the kid. He told himself it was okay, but it stuck in his throat. Big, hot pimple full of pus, just itching to be squeezed.

He preferred to give in to his compulsions. Avoiding them built up tension.

His mother had been unbelievably compulsive before going completely bonkers. Smoking five packs a day, picking at her face, rocking when she sewed, going on food binges, then starving herself for days. When they put her in the hospital, she began to bang her head against the wall, like one of those autistic kids, and they forced her to wear a football helmet. Flowered dress and a helmet- what position do you play, Ma? She looked ridiculous, and he did everything he could to avoid visiting her.

She'd died ten years ago, and he was sole surviving kin. Through a local attorney, he'd instructed the hospital to cremate her, bury her on the grounds.

Thinking about her evoked no emotion. He was hot, discouraged, not happy about abandoning the loose end. Mostly the heat right now. That was the biggest part of what he felt.

He took an hour to cover the walkway two more times, getting more and more uptight about not succeeding.

No kid who looked anything like the picture. He reached the water fountain, filled his belly with water, wiped the beard. A tourist about to drink changed his mind. Talk about a convincing performance.

The nearest bench was occupied by a young couple in spandex. He stumbled over, muttering, perched his butt on a corner, and the couple got up and left.

This was good!

The synagogue must have just let out, because he saw old people milling around outside the front door, then dispersing. He had nothing against any group, even Jews, just wished those who couldn't take care of themselves would die and make room for everyone else.

Someone else didn't like the Jews, though.

Guy working the souvenir stand a couple of stores down. Look at how he stared at them- real hostility.

Ugly guy, mid-forties, long greasy-looking blond hair, probably tinted. Bad skin, skinny arms sticking out of the sleeves of a really hideous purple CALIFORNIA HERE I COME T-shirt.

The stand stocked similar shirts, hats, sunglasses, toys and banners and postcards, a tiny little place crammed with junk. No one was buying, probably because the proprietor was about as welcoming as a piranha.

Hostile and jumpy. Looking up and down Ocean Front, too.

Interesting.

A pair of cops walked their bicycles past the stand, and the ugly guy's eyes widened and his body shot forward; he almost threw himself over the counter.

Wanting to tell them something?

But he stopped himself, picked up some kind of doll, pretended to be checking the price.

Strange…

The cops must have thought so too, because they stopped and talked to the ugly guy. He produced a sick-looking smile and shook his head. The cops didn't leave right away. Something about the guy was making them wonder. The guy kept smiling, fingering the doll, and finally they did leave.

The guy stood there for a long time watching them before returning to his old routine: looking north, then south, north, then south. Not a glance at the beach.

Looking for something in particular. Someone?

Anonymous tip. Could it be? Was God that good?

He studied the souvenir vendor for another twenty minutes, and the pattern never altered: pace, check out the walkway, take a doll down, squeeze it, put it back, pace… Suddenly, the guy altered his routine, going behind the cheap chintz curtains that backed the souvenir stand. Probably a rear stockroom; maybe a bathroom break.

For five minutes, the stand was left unattended and some local kids cruised by and pulled postcards from the rack. When the long-haired guy came out, he was wiping his lips.

A drink break. Here he goes again: up and down, up and down. Definitely on the prowl.

Could it really be? Maybe he was waiting for a dope deal.

Then again, the tip had come from somewhere.

To a loser like this, selling crap no one bought, twenty-five thou would be a helluva lot of Saturdays. Good reason to be jumpy.

He observed the guy some more. Same routine; one more booze break. The guy was robotic, on autopilot, just like the nuts he used to see when he visited his mother.

Definitely worth looking into- what did he have to lose?

He got up, walked a hundred yards south, reversed direction, and shifted closer to the storefronts, passing close to the stand and looking for posted hours. There it was:

SUMMER HOURS: 11 TO 5 M-F, WEEKENDS, 11 TO 8.

He'd leave, come back close to 8; hopefully the crowds would be gone. Hopefully the guy wouldn't close up early or go off shift; if he did, there was always another day.

Given no other leads, it was all he had and he decided to be hopeful.