The Boys from Santa Cruz (6 page)

“Such language,” said Hobby, gently prying the guy’s fingers from the expensive-looking fabric. “And from an officer of the court.” Then he turned to me and winked. “Don’t worry about a
thing, kid,” he said, as the deputies led me away. “After we walk you on all charges, we’ll sue the bastards for wrongful arrest.”

Like an idiot, I believed him.

Lordy, I have died and woke up in heaven,
thought Pender. Big old canopied feather bed, white curtains stirring lazily in the open window, sky the color of faded jeans, little birdies singing like they were having a contest—and he wasn’t even hungover. Song lyrics jockeyed for position in his head, and “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” triumphed—it may not have been original, but it was awfully goddamn apt.

All the while, though, there was something small and nasty scratching at the back door of Pender’s consciousness. He tried to ignore it, but it slipped through while he and Amy were making sweet morning love, and he went embarrassingly limp.

“What is it?” Amy asked him, surfacing from under the covers.

“I just remembered where I’m supposed to be this morning.”

“I knew it—I knew you were married.”

“No, that’s not it,” he said miserably. “I mean, I am married, but that’s not it.”

Warily: “What, then?”

“I couldn’t…I mean, you wouldn’t want to— Aw, fuck it!” And suddenly, without any particular sense of having made up his mind, or even having thought it over, he knew what he was going to do. Or rather, not do.

The cop who drove me back down to Santa Cruz on Thursday afternoon made the one who’d driven me up to Marshall City seem like Mr. Rogers, but at least I got to sleep in my own bed that night. Seems that Fred and Evelyn had arranged for bail on the drug charges. But just in case you’re thinking the old folks aren’t so mean after all, here’s the kicker. They’d nailed down the bedroom window and hired an off-duty cop to sit outside my door all night. Probably afraid I was going to slit their throats while they were sleeping.

I wouldn’t have, though. I wouldn’t even have run away. I had faith in Hobby and believed him when he said he was going to get me walked. But when I appeared in court Friday morning, instead of Hobby, a red-faced old man with a bow tie, double-breasted suit, and white hair swept up into a pompadour was sitting next to the kid attorney from the first night. It was Ellis Brobauer, managing partner of Wengert & Brobauer. Even the judge seemed impressed. The kid attorney looked absolutely terrified.

Brobauer never actually spoke to me. They went right into chambers, came out five minutes later, and he whispered something to my grandfather, who was sitting in the first row of the courtroom.

And yeah, in case you haven’t guessed yet, they’d sold me out again. I was going into a private treatment program in Humboldt County, the judge informed me, and if I behaved myself, eventually the drug charges would be expunged.

So much for the fruit of the poisoned tree. So much for justice. “Thank you, your honor,” Brobauer said smugly, earning him a coveted spot on my fantasy revenge list, along with Fred, Evelyn, and of course Agent Pender.

Things moved pretty quickly after that. I wasn’t allowed to attend
my father’s funeral. I don’t even know if he had one. Instead I was bundled into the back of a white van with
THE MOUNTAIN PROJECT
stenciled on the doors. The driver, a thirtyish, sandy-haired psychologist called Dr. O, wore a corduroy jacket and a skinny tie. Kara, a relentlessly cheerful Viking with a long blond braid, rode shotgun. I wasn’t allowed to talk, but there were sandwiches and bottles of juice, and at least this time I wasn’t handcuffed. I couldn’t help noticing, however, that there weren’t any inside handles on the back doors of the van. I was still a prisoner, even though I’d never been convicted of any crimes.

On the drive north we stopped in San Francisco to pick up another prisoner at Juvenile Hall, high on a hill overlooking the city. The creepy Dr. O (his full name, I later learned, was Owen Oliver) stayed with me while Kara went inside with a paper bag full of clothes. Twenty minutes later an odd procession trooped out to the car. Behind Kara, there was a skinny little blond girl my own age, sandwiched between two uniformed deputies, each of whom had her by an elbow. Her feet were barely touching the ground.

I slid over, Kara opened the door, the deputies shoved her in. “Luke, this is Dusty. Dusty, that’s Luke. You can say hello now, but after that, no talking for the rest of the ride.”

I said hi, she mumbled something back, but in our mutual humiliation we could scarcely look at each other. An hour or so into the ride, however, I glanced over and saw tears running down Dusty’s cheeks. As a show of solidarity I gave Dr. O and Kara both the finger, down low where Dusty could see it but they couldn’t. She looked over at me, our eyes met for the first time, and then she flipped them the bird, too, but with an added feature I’d never seen before. She turned her left hand palm up on the seat between us, stuck her middle finger out, made an upward, jabbing motion, like she was sticking it right up their ass, and wiggled it obscenely. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

We arrived at the Mountain Project headquarters in the dark. It was one of those fishing-hunting lodge deals, a two-story cabin
built of logs, with a big open central room, a high balcony on three sides, and the bedrooms on the second floor ringing the balcony. And you know those old World War II movies where the Nazi commandant tells the new prisoners that escape isss impossible? Well, I took one look at this place and told myself that escape isss very possible. But not just yet. Still queasy from the long car ride, I was so exhausted all I wanted was a nice soft bed to lie down on. I’d also have killed for a joint, but that obviously wasn’t happening.

Neither was the bed, apparently, soft or otherwise. Instead, Dusty and I were led to a big storeroom filled with camping equipment, and they handed us checklists. Backpack, sleeping bag, thin foam pad, single-person shelter. Two pairs each trousers, hiking shorts, one pair boots. Three pairs thick socks, three T-shirts apiece, underwear. Sweatshirt, rain poncho. Saucepan, eating utensils, so many bags of trail mix, so many prepackaged freeze-dried meals, so many protein bars. Canteen, flashlight. Toothbrush, toothpaste, floss. Three packets biodegradable toilet tissue, female sanitary products if necessary, etc., etc.

“Get it all, get it right,” we were told. Anything we failed to pack, we would have to do without, and anything extra was more weight we’d have to carry, in addition to the thirty-some pounds we’d already be packing. And of course: “No talking.”

I had already figured out that the reason they were having us do this by ourselves was that they
wanted
us to fuck it up so they could give us a big lecture. So I made double sure to follow the checklist religiously. They also gave us a diagram of how to pack everything. That was complicated, but I managed pretty well. When I was finished I tried to give Dusty a hand, but Kara wouldn’t let me.

Afterward I kept expecting an inspection of some kind, followed by a lecture, but all they checked was our boots, to make sure we’d picked out ones that fit. Then it was back outside and into a van. In the front of the van were two more counselors, which was what we were supposed to call them, like it was fucking summer
camp or something. Gary and Diane looked fit and tanned and disgustingly full of energy for that time of night.

In the back of the van were three more kids, two boys and a girl, dressed like me and Dusty in Mountain Project T-shirts and khaki hiking pants. From the way they glared at us, I guessed they’d probably been waiting for us a long time. The fat white boy was Brent, the tall black kid was Stephen, and the girl’s name was Cindra. Cindra’s head was shaved, and if her boobs had been any bigger she’d have had a hard time standing up.

The van took off down a dirt trail. After that first exchange of glares, nobody made much eye contact. Mostly we looked out the windows, not that there was anything to see in the darkness. After a few minutes the trail started climbing and climbing. Halfway up the mountain it petered out at a small campground with a couple port-a-potties and a water fountain. When Dr. O ordered us to unpack the van, I assumed we were going to set up
camp for the night. Wrong again.

“Drain your bladders over there, fill your canteens over there, and get your packs on your backs,” called Gary. “For we have promises to keep, and miles to go before we sleep.”

“It’s cold,” complained Brent.

“It’ll warm up once we get going,” Gary told him.

Brent sat down heavily on a log. “Fuck dat,” he mumbled, trying to talk like a black kid, or what he thought a black kid talked like. “I didn’t sign up to climb no fuckin’ mountain in da middle of no fuckin’ night.”

“Suit yourself,” said Kara cheerfully, and a few minutes later, we set off in a column. Dr. O was in the lead, followed by Stephen and me. Then came Kara, Cindra, and Dusty, with Diane and Gary bringing up the rear. The Death March had begun. A few minutes later we heard Brent crashing through the underbrush bellowing “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” as he blundered up the trail in the darkness. I have to admit, I thought that was so cold it was cool, leaving the fat slob behind like that, alone in the dark, to deal with the consequences of his stupidity. I didn’t learn from Dusty until later, after we’d finally stopped to set up camp for the night, that right after we’d started out, Gary had peeled off and doubled back to keep an eye on Brent.

By the end of that first night’s march, I had the game figured out. Bottom line: all this nature and survival crap aside, they meant to wear us down physically in order to break us down emotionally. So, exhausted as we were, once we had our tents set up (and what a drawn-out slapstick farce that was), they put us through a grueling group therapy session around the campfire.

Group whining session was more like it. Listening to my fellow campers bitching and moaning, I quickly lost what little sympathy I had for them. Their parents didn’t understand them. Boo fucking hoo. Society was phony, everything was bullshit, and everybody but them was a hypocrite. Big fucking news, Holden fucking Caulfield. You want parents who don’t understand you, I wanted to tell them, try asking Big Luke or Teddy for lunch money when they’re tweaking. You’ll get more than your feelings hurt.

I didn’t say anything, though. When it came my turn to talk, I told the group that as far as I was concerned, I was still in jail, even if it was a jail without walls. And in jail, my father had taught me, you don’t put your personal business out into the population, so I would pass on the soul baring.

“Passing is not an option,” said Dr. O.

“You can’t make me share,” I replied.
Share
was their word for whine.

“No,” he said. “But I can make sure nobody eats or sleeps until you do.”

I looked around the campfire. Everybody was giving me dirty looks. Peer pressure: when you’re a teenager they’re always telling you not to give in to it, but then they use it against you whenever it suits their purposes. But I didn’t give in because of the peer pressure, I gave in because I was hungry and tired. So hungry and tired that this time when I told the story, I left it all in, even Teddy’s titties.

“Your stepmother had implants?” asked Dusty.

“My stepmother,” I told her, “had a dick.”

In the old days, FBI special agents were required to be on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, even when they were off duty, because, of course, special agents are never off duty. Until the advent of sky pagers, they were expected to leave one or more telephone numbers at which they could be reached, and/or call in their whereabouts at frequent intervals. You could always tell a G-man by the dimes jingling in his pocket, the in-joke ran, back when a phone call cost ten cents and there was a booth on every street corner.

Technically, then, Pender was already in violation of Bureau regulations when he left the motel Wednesday night without his newfangled sky pager. He only dug himself in deeper by not calling
in Thursday morning, not to mention failing to report to work. But any residual guilt he might have experienced was more than trumped by the relief that came with realizing that he didn’t have to watch any more goddamn snuff videos.

Thursday afternoon Amy dropped him off at his motel so he could check out. Just seeing the Bu-car parked outside the motel room was a material reminder of all the stuff he’d been putting off thinking about. Little stuff like turning in his resignation and telling his wife that he wouldn’t be coming home. But he wasn’t ready to deal with any of that just yet. Maybe Monday, he told himself, and quickly went back to
not
thinking about the stuff he wasn’t thinking about.

A second night of free drinks, slow dancing, and vigorous sex, followed by a second day lazing around the farmhouse, left Pender feeling like a gigolo. So when one of the Nugget’s two bouncers called in sick late Friday afternoon, he gladly offered to fill in. By then he’d met most of the full-timers—Steve, the head bartender; Barry, the head bouncer; Nestor, the cook; the waitresses, Karen and Mindy. And if their reception was a tad grudging at first, he understood they were only being protective of Amy.

Just in case he hadn’t understood, Barry took him aside to let him know that he was one lucky son of a bitch and to warn him that if he mistreated Amy in any way, he’d find himself in a world of hurt.

“Now that that’s behind us—Amy says you have some experience as a bouncer?” Barry was around Pender’s size, but looked taller in his cowboy boots and high-crowned Stetson hat.

“It was a long time ago, but yeah.” Like most of his colleagues in the Cortland County Sheriff’s Department in the late sixties, he’d done his share of moonlighting in bars and at shows.

“’Cause no offense, hoss, but you look a little out of shape to me.”

“Maybe, but I reckon I can still eighty-six a drunk with the best of ’em—hoss.”

The first few hours, there wasn’t much work for the bouncers. Pender helped Barry break up a fight, took the car keys from a falling-down drunk, and called a cab for him. By the end of the band’s second set, when he did have to run a bottle-throwing customer, the come-along hold he’d learned as a young deputy sheriff in Cortland came in handier than anything he’d been taught in the FBI Academy. What you want to do, Sheriff Hartung used to tell his men, is leverage the subject’s wrist up past his shoulder blade, so he’s too busy treading air to put up a fight.