Newport Ave.

1

GREG MAIRS was a high school senior when his girlfriend called with the news. The next day, his amigo James said, Come on, Romeo, make up your mind.

The boys were carrying longboards on their shoulders down Newport Avenue toward the pier.

Crap, Greg said.

Jesus, man, do you love her or don't you?

Greg shifted the board from his right to left shoulder. Sure, I guess. I mean, she's a babe, a lot of laughs, we have a good time.

Then James stopped cold, staring downhill at the Silva brothers. Tony stood in the middle with legs spread, his stance and shoulders as wide as the sidewalk. Junior was stationed in the gutter. Leaning against the schoolyard’s chain link fence was Marco, the oldest and boss of the family since their papa got gaffed.

No sweat, Greg said. They just want to talk.

James harbored no such illusion. He was plenty enough acquainted with Portuguese families who made up the Point Loma tuna cartel to know they were big on honor. Knock up the little sister, you’re liable to die.

Junior made the first move. He aimed a forefinger at James. Scram, Dobchek. This ain’t about you.

Yeah, then what’s the deal?

Just get lost, Whiz.

Before James could decide how best to give his amigo a getaway op, whether to take a swipe with his board or to drop it and lead with his fists, Greg passed him by.

Greg was approaching Junior, their classmate through whom he met Lonnie Silva, when Tony blindsided him with a sharp jab to Greg’s cheekbone.

When Greg’s board hit the pavement, the fin cracked. As if he prized the board more than life, he bent and began to flip it over.

Tony launched a kick that caught Greg in the ribs and landed him on the board. Now Marco joined in, blasting James’ amigo in the face and skull, in the side and belly and neck with his pointed toe Mexican shoes.

While his brothers kicked and stomped and used their fists to prevent Greg from rising, Junior hopped onto the sidewalk and held up his hands, warning James to stay put.

But James was no observer, not since the incident that sent his dad to prison. The pulse in his head throbbed. All his faculties felt powered by hot blood. And his mind had split in two. Half stayed behind. The rest flashed to six blocks down Newport Avenue and three years back when a man came running into Virgil’s grocery yelling threats while James stocked shelves and his sister Olivia was sweeping.

But even with part of a brain and stoked with adrenaline, he was smart enough to calculate the odds of a schoolboy taking on three tuna fishermen. He spun around looking for help. All he saw was a weapon in the schoolyard, propped against the backstop a few yards inside the gate.

He lifted his board and heaved it at Junior, who caught it in the face and toppled backward. James dashed through the schoolyard gate and snatched up the blue Louisville Slugger a kid must’ve left behind.

Junior had pitched the board aside. Again he raised his hands.

Let me by, James shouted. He didn’t mean to hurt Junior. They used to be friendly. James had helped him with math and biology. But Junior widened his stance into a crouch and inched closer.

A glance toward Greg lying still, silent and bloody warned James not to waste an instant. He swung, aiming below Junior’s arms, but the boy ducked at just the wrong moment. The bat struck hard bone. He dropped without a peep.

James would’ve stopped, thrown down the bat and tried to make amends by helping Junior. But Marco had a foot raised high over Greg’s face and Tony came rushing. James hardly knew where to look. He swung blind. The bat glanced off Tony’s shoulder and shot upward. When it slammed against his skull, Tony reeled for moment. Then he yowled as he fell.

The way James heard, Tony’s yowl rose in pitch until it was a siren then a pair of sirens. In the midst of all that noise, he heard Marco yell, Hand it over, Dobchek.

He dropped the bat and ran up Newport Avenue.

2

FBI AGENT Miles Milligan found in his mail slot a tickler concerning an old dog case. He felt a jolt of vigor. The tickler reminded him of his annual responsibility to investigate the whereabouts of James Dobchek, a homicide suspect indicted in absentia for illegal flight to avoid prosecution for manslaughter.

After so many years, Miles only needed to question Dobchek’s sister and best friend and file a brief narrative. Such routine chores usually transformed him into a sleepwalker, but this one gladdened him. Any task that sent him to the home of a certain classy and gorgeous woman lifted his spirits. No matter that she was married to a lowlife, mob-connected bookie Miles had attempted to nail for a murder.

Since Olivia Cadou was no early riser, Miles first went to Greg Mairs, the guy whose indiscretions with a Portuguese girl had started the brawl that ended with one Silva brother dead and another as good as.

He found Mairs at one of his common haunts, on the sea wall near the foot of the Ocean Beach pier. Mairs was the stocky white guy, with a bush mustache and thinning hair, shirtless, and tanned a yellowish shade of brown. He was strumming a battered acoustic guitar, playing and singing something about God, accompanied by a couple street loafers. Junkies no doubt, from the way they forsook the hymn and scrammed when Miles approached. Nobody but lawmen wore slacks and a sport coat on Newport Ave.

Miles knew all he would accomplish was to give himself the right to note in the case file that he’d questioned Mairs and that Mairs told the same old story: that neither he nor anybody he knew had gotten any word from James Dobchek. Yet to kill time and allow Olivia Cadou her beauty sleep, Miles once again sat through Mairs’ account of the Silva incident. The punch line was, I’m telling you, the Silva brothers would’ve killed me. James saved my life.

And for at least the eighteenth time over as many years, Miles replied, Then he shouldn’t have run.

|MILES DROVE up Newport to Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, made a right and cruised, slow as a tourist, up the west slope of Point Loma.

He parked at the curb. On the way from his bureau Monte Carlo to the wooden stairs that led to the ocean view deck of Maurice and Olivia Cadou’s enviable home, he buttoned his golf shirt to the top, which concealed most of the gray chest hair and gave him a more professional look. On the steps, he coached himself to watch her chin and only glance at her soft mouth or ice green eyes at moments when he knew they might give something away.

Before he could ring, Olivia opened the door. Her smile was contagious though insincere. She was one of those women who could use her looks to excite men or degrade them. She leaned on the doorjamb, hips cocked in a tight pink version of what they used to call pedal pushers when Miles was a kid. Welcome Mister Miles. Let me guess, Maurice or James?

Miles rolled his hand.

She said, James.

How’d you guess?

It’s that time of year.

Shall I come in?

Let’s sit on the deck.

Closing the door behind her, she led him to the glass top umbrella table with padded, rainbow colored chairs. They sat and Miles glanced at the manila envelope she had placed on the table between them. Upside down, he read For Special Agent Miles, with special underlined. He turned to gaze at the silver-gray ocean. Fog’s starting to lift.

It must be afternoon, she said.

Not quite.

Then we’ll say that’s why I don’t offer you a drink.

Miles had visited often enough to know when Olivia’s wit required a straight man. And what’s the actual reason you don’t offer me a drink?

I don’t feel like it. I’m bitchy today. Let’s do the quiz and get it over so I can go inside and kick the cat.

Miles pulled the recorder from a coat pocket, placed it beside the envelope and pushed play. You’ve seen James Dobchek since you last denied seeing him?

No, have you?

But you’ve spoken to him, correct?

Well, I thought about consulting Madame Oracle. What do you think of fortune tellers? Miles stared at her chin until she said, Okay, I know, you’re asking the questions here.

Any letters.

No.

Emails?

No sir.

Messages relayed between the two of you by anyone you know?

She only shook her head, lifted a swatch of golden hair and scratched behind her ear.

Is that a no? he asked.

Absolutely. And I haven’t heard anything from anybody that leads me to believe my brother might still be alive. What else do you always ask? I forget a lot these days?

A platoon of cormorants diving drew Miles’ gaze to the cliffs and sea. You’re aware that harboring a fugitive is a felony, a federal offense, and that withholding any knowledge you might have about said fugitive is considered harboring?

You bet. She turned the envelope so it faced him. Copies of my long-distance records since the last time. Tell me I’m a good girl.

He pushed stop, watched her lean back and catch a deep breath of the foggy air. More like a nature lover than like someone fighting stress, he thought. As usual, she hadn’t let gesture or voice clue him that his questions even began to unnerve her. Olivia was a master of deceit, which he didn’t condemn. Decent people often lied to protect creeps they loved.

She mocked a brief curtsy. Walking to the front door, she looked more like a graceful teenager than like a lush who would soon turn forty-two.

3

JAMES DOBCHEK began his serious drinking at sunset on the balcony of his apartment. A lifelong denizen of west coast beaches, Pacific, Atlantic and Indian, he still relished watching the sun dip behind the ocean. Here in in Agadir, Morocco, the background racket of muezzins calling prayers amplified the pleasure.

The phone rang. James was about to refill his drink anyway. He got up and walked inside.

The caller was Maurice, his sister Olivia’s husband. As usual, he wanted his money. All $202,000 plus accrued interest as agreed.

James wasn’t going to tell his gangster brother-in-law the film in which Olivia had invested was on hold, maybe forever. So he told Maurice what he believed he should even if all $202,000 were still available. The money belongs to Olivia. And last I heard, you two were separated.

What’re you talking about, Popeye? You think she made that money?

She’s your wife, you already took out your half of the family assets. The other half is hers.

You a lawyer now?

I’m her brother. He poured from his liter of DYC whiskey and threw down a swallow. And you’re going to prison where all you’ll need is pocket change.

Who says I’m going down this time?

In the early days of his marriage to Olivia, as a bookie, while building his local clientele, Maurice had twice been indicted for assault, allegedly against dead-beats. One case was dropped when the prosecution’s witness skipped town. The other, Maurice won on a technicality. A few years thereafter, he was suspected of, though never charged with, shooting a rival bookie, Charles Alexopolis.

Wherever you go, James said, It’s still my sister’s money. And Olivia’s going to be raising your kids and have nobody to help her out financially except me. So, as I said, the money’s hers.

Maurice held silent long enough for James to picture him drawing a stick figure with its neck in a noose. Then he said, You call yourself a brother, you send the money, or you better come up here to the world and take care of your little sister.

The meaning of that demand, James read in Maurice’s voice as well as his words. He waited through a rush of blood to his head then, after a long sip and swallow, used the calmest voice his heart would allow. Are you threatening Olivia?

What I’m saying is, come stateside, bring the money. We’ll talk about who gets it.

Impulse told James to slam down the phone, race his motorcycle to the airport and board the first flight out. But reason convinced him to compromise. I’ll give you fifty thousand. That much, he could raise. The rest, I’ll send Olivia, twenty thousand a year until it’s gone. By then, you should be out of prison.

Maurice’s breaths sounded like wheezing. What’re you, nuts? Nobody tells me what they’re going to do with my money.

James pushed the hang up button. He gulped the rest of his drink. Then he tried to contact Olivia the usual way, by phoning her friend Marilou who would relay the message including a time Olivia should call. Marilou didn’t answer. Her machine warbled then cut out.

That evening and twice the next day he phoned Marilou. Each time, her machine warbled at him.

When at last she returned the call, he was on his balcony reading from Mahfouz’ Cairo Trilogy under a yellow bulb in the starry dark, staring at the phosphorous glow of waves while digesting a bachelor’s dinner of skillet warmed couscous, scrambled eggs and hamburger.

James? Marilou shouted, battering his ear.

Did you get my messages?

No, I mean yes, but listen, somebody tried to burn down Olivia’s house.

His brain flashed and crackled. He said nothing.

Don’t worry, nobody got hurt. Nobody was home, and just by dumb luck, somebody saw it and phoned the firemen so they got there in record time and it was out before Olivia even knew about it. It just made a mess of the garage. Are you still there?

Yes.

They don’t know who did it, she said.

Who called it in?

Nobody knows. A do-gooder with a cell phone, I guess. Olivia thinks the guy set the fire was some rival of Maurice’s.

James knew better.

4

EVERY MORNING once Greg Mairs had delivered seven-year-old Chez to school and helped Barb pack and lug the cleaning supplies and hoist them into the pickup bed, he walked Goldie, his retriever. They either climbed the point along Sunset Cliffs, or strolled down Newport Ave to the pier, depending upon Greg’s spirits and his energy.

Today, they were on Newport. They had just passed the Albatross Saloon. Goldie was dragging him into the parking lot, the shortest route to the pier where she loved to chase gulls. Though Greg’s peripheral vision was lousy, often the cause of surfing collisions, he noticed a figure leaving the Pier Motel across the street.

He reined Goldie and turned enough to study the man as he walked past Madame Oracle’s and The Black psychedelic shop. The man wore a hooded sweatshirt with the hood raised. Still, something in his posture or moves told Greg he was looking at his amigo James.

But he was given to delusions these days. Anyway, he thought, James wasn’t stupid enough to come home.

JAMES SKULKED up Newport Ave, both depressed and elated by the sights and smells of his hometown. The tangy air laced with motor fumes, the amplified megaphone warnings of lifeguards, a surfer on a beach cruiser bike carrying his sweetie on the handlebars and his board under his arm.

He stopped at Sly’s Surf Shop to buy T-shirts and Calvin Klein sunglasses for Dierdre and Donny, Olivia’s kids. At Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, he turned south and hiked up the Point to Olivia’s.

The garage door was off. The empty garage looked like the pit of a hibachi. But the roof beams and most of the wall studs, though charred, appeared sound.

He had left a message on Marilou’s capricious answer phone, and he found Olivia awaiting his arrival. She stood in the doorway like a wax statue magically coming alive. Tears and muted words of affection issued out of her. Then she reached and pulled him inside. Their embrace lasted a minute or two.

While she made him a drink and refreshed her own vodka with a pinch of orange juice, he treated himself to a long look at his sister’s face. Because it still became lovelier the longer he gazed, he allowed hope that her morning vodka was either a celebration or a recent and temporary habit. A long-time drunk, he believed, couldn’t stay so gorgeous. Her face was sun-browned yet supple, her lips full and moist, her body slender but not withered like what happened to people who considered liquor food.

She ushered him into her parlor, seated them both in rattan chairs. What are you doing here?

It’s been too long since I’ve seen my beautiful sister.

In her bluesy voice, Olivia said, You’re looking good too.

And besides, somebody’s out to get you.

"Not me. They’re after Maurice.

How do you know that?

James, my only enemies are PTA ladies. Maurice’s are a little tougher. Not as mean, but tougher.

He wanted to confide in her but wouldn’t, at least until he’d talked to her husband and weighed options.

Olivia said, Don’t worry about me. It’s you that’s in trouble. We’ve got to get you out of town. James, listen, the FBI goose, Agent Miles, the same one that’s persecuting Maurice, he showed up last week asking about you. And he likes hanging out across the street in the scenic overlook. Used to be every month or so, but I see him there lots more ever since he started hounding Maurice about the Indian casino business. And now, since the fire, I see him about twice a day, in the overlook or cruising by. He could show up any second.

What do you tell him when he asks about me?

I used to get weepy and remind him that as far as we know, you perished at sea long ago. He says ‘Uh Huh’ and bends his goosey neck so his head comes a little closer and he winks at me. He’s like a human lie detector.

You don’t tell me this on the phone.

Why should I?

James nodded, and she said, Look, brother, if you want to stay close and give us moral support while Dierdre and Donny are hurting because their mom and dad aren’t getting along, that would be excellent. But you’ll need to cross the border, rent a condo in Rosarito Beach. We’ll come down and visit most every day after summer school and stay there on the weekends. Okay?

No.

You can’t stay in O.B. where everybody knows you.

Don’t I look different enough?

Okay, you’re even skinnier and twice as old, with a goatee, and your carefree life has made you sun bleached and leathery, and you don’t wear those John Lennon glasses anymore. That helps, but it’s all superficial. Somebody’s going to see through the costume.

Not if I keep to the shadows.

She wrinkled her nose and furled her brow, reached into the pocket of her shorts for gum, peeled off the wrapper and stabbed it into her mouth. It’s your life.

On the way back to his room from Olivia’s, he followed Sunset Cliffs Boulevard to Second Wind Sports, which he had noticed on the way into town, for an aluminum Lousiville Slugger to use if Maurice came or sent some heavy after him. He stopped at Frosty’s Liquor for Jack Daniels and browsed