He had come to the beach to prepare himself for the visit to the graveyard. He needed to submit himself to the ancient rhythms of the eternal sea, which wore at him as waves wore at rock, smoothing the sharp edges of anxiety in his mind, polishing away the splinters in his heart. The sea delivered the message that life was nothing more than meaningless mechanics and cold tidal forces, a bleak message of hopelessness that was tranquillising precisely because it was brutally humbling. He also needed another beer or even two to further numb his senses, so the lesson of the sea would remain with him as he crossed the city to the cemetery.
He didn’t need distractions. He didn’t need action. He didn’t need mystery. For him, life had lost all mystery the same night that it had lost all meaning, in a silent Colorado meadow blasted with sudden thunder and fire.
Sandals slapping on the tiles, the boy returned to collect the remaining twenty of his thirty dollars. “Didn’t see any big guy in a green shirt, but the other one’s out there, sure enough, getting a sunburn on his bald spot.”
Behind Joe, some of the gamblers whooped in triumph. Others groaned as the dying cockroach completed another circuit either a few seconds quicker or slower than its time for the previous lap.
Curious, the boy craned his neck to see what was happening.
“Where?” Joe asked, withdrawing a twenty from his wallet.
Still trying to see between the bodies of the circled gamblers, the boy said, “There’s a palm tree, a couple of folding tables in the sand where this geeky bunch of Korean guys are playing chess, maybe sixty-eighty feet down the beach from here.”
Although high frosted windows let in hard white sunshine and grimy fluorescent tubes shed bluish light overhead, the air seemed yellow, like an acidic mist.
“Look at me,” Joe said.
Distracted by the cockroach races, the boy said, “Huh?”
“Look at me.”
Surprised by the quiet fury in Joe’s voice, the kid briefly met his gaze. Then those troubling eyes, the colour of contusions, refocused on the twenty-dollar bill.
“The guy you saw was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt?” Joe asked.
“Other colours in it, but mostly red and orange, yeah.”
“What pants was he wearing?”
“Pants?”
“To keep you honest, I didn’t tell you what else he was wearing. So if you saw him, now you tell me.”
“Hey, man, I don’t know. Was he wearing shorts or trunks or pants—how am I supposed to know?”
“You tell me.”
“White? Tan? I’m not sure. Didn’t know I was supposed to do a damn fashion report. He was just standing there, you know, looking out of place, holding his shoes in one hand, socks rolled up in them.”
It was the same man whom Joe had seen with the walkie-talkie near the lifeguard station.
From the gamblers came noisy encouragements to the cockroach, laughter, curses, shouted offers of odds, the making of bets. They were so loud now that their voices echoed harshly off the concrete-block walls and seemed to reverberate in the mirrors with such force that Joe half expected those silvery surfaces to disintegrate.
“Was he actually watching the Koreans play chess or pretending?” Joe asked.
“He was watching this place and talking to the cream pies.”
“Cream pies?”
“Couple of stone-gorgeous bitches in thong bikinis. Man, you should see the redhead bitch in the green thong. On a scale of one to ten, she’s a twelve. Bring you all the way to attention, man.”
“He was coming on to them?”
“Don’t know what he thinks he’s doing,” said the kid. “Loser like him, neither of those bitches will give him a shot.”
“Don’t call them bitches,” Joe said.
“What?”
“They’re women.”
In the kid’s angry eyes, something flickered like visions of switchblades. “Hey, who the hell are you—the Pope?”
The acidic yellow air seemed to thicken, and Joe imagined that he could feel it eating away his skin.
The swirling sound of flushing toilets inspired a spiralling sensation in his stomach. He struggled to repress sudden nausea.
To the boy, he said, “Describe the women.”
With more challenge in his stare than ever, the kid said, “Totally stacked. Especially the redhead. But the brunette is just about as nice. I’d crawl on broken glass to get a whack at her, even if she is deaf.”