The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 9

After I dropped Andy home I went back to the shop to change. The Chad Taylor service was at midnight on the beach at Bigfoot's. I figured this would be a less dressy affair so I wore jeans and a t-shirt and took the motorcycle.

During the daytime the best way to get to Lighthouse Point from North Beach is by water -- right across the bay. Even at night you could go that way, and I love sailing by moonlight. But I usually wait until three or four in the morning when the bay is silent. Otherwise, sailing in the dark is a treacherous endeavor. The speedboats are still out en masse, they can't see you and their pilots have probably been drinking all day.

By road you have to go all the way down the west side of the bay, cross the river at the first bridge and then go back up the east side of the bay on the Point. Traffic is heavy most any time of day, but by late evening the traffic is fairly light and mostly coming the other way. The daytime beach-goers are going home and most of the people on the party circuit are still at the bars.

Bigfoot's is practically at the end of the Point. The lower half of the peninsula is mostly populated by family cottages and condos. As you move farther up the point you start hitting the restaurants and hotels and trendy shops where you can spend $50 on a straw hat.

The shops face the main road, which becomes narrower and more clogged with pedestrians the farther up you go. Behind the shops on the bay side there's a service alley and across the alley are the rear entrances of the bars, which are situated to face the beach.

I parked my bike at the end of a row Harleys and walked through the sandy gap between two bars towards the beach. I noticed yellow tape surrounding the rear balcony of one of the buildings. As I walked between the buildings it became clear that the raucous party music I'd been hearing since I turned off the main road was coming from six-foot speakers on the beach in front of the same building -- Bigfoot's.

It was a warm night and the beach was still active with nearly naked young people and a dozen or so sat around umbrella tables in front of the bar.

Out near the shore a man and a woman were setting up a few dozen white plastic chairs for, I supposed, the memorial service. At first glance the woman seemed attractive -- trim figure and long blonde hair, but her face had that hardened look of someone who has long ago experienced everything there is in life, the good and bad and most of it twice. I could hear her giving orders to her helper and she had a voice to match her face -- harsh and raspy from cigarettes.

Bigfoot's doesn't exactly have a front door. You go from the cluster of umbrella tables on the sand to a deck which has a roof but no walls, and then through one of two open garage doors into the actual building, which is itself not very big. There are half a dozen booths and a few tables and the bar, which is nothing fancy -- a long plywood counter painted blue and carved with decades of initials, hearts and daggers. Behind the bar was a young woman in a skimpy red bikini and bright green hair.

I went up to the bar and ordered a bottle of beer. The girl with green hair said nothing and just pulled a bottle from a cooler under the bar, flipped off the cap and slid it onto the bar with the fluid motion of one who had done it thousands of times.

"Thanks," I said and put some money on the counter.

She was perhaps 21 with very pale flawless skin and short hair the color of new grass. Her eyebrows and even her irises were the same color and while the eyes might possibly have been natural I was guessing contact lenses were involved. As for her bikini, it was pretty much as small as they come, covering only those areas of the female body specifically mentioned in state law. She had a bar rag tucked under the strap on one hip and it covered more skin than her suit.

Since the outdoor speakers were pointing away from the building the music inside was not nearly so deafening. Four smaller speakers piped the same music to the inside patrons, but the volume was comparatively low.

Looking for an excuse for conversation that didn't seem like a come-on, I gestured out to where the chairs were being set up. "Is that for the memorial service?"

She nodded and looked at me for the first time. "Were you a friend of Chad's? I don't remember seeing you around."

"No, I never met him," I said. "But the same person who killed him also blew up my place across the bay."

"Really?" she said, the look of disinterest finally gone from her face. "Are you the bookstore guy or the bar guy?"

"Bookstore," I said. "Name's Jack Durham." I held out my hand and she shook it vigorously, as if meeting a lost relative.

Since the connection of being fellow bombing targets seemed to resonate I figured I'd go with it. "Yeah, I went to Mrs. Brinckman's funeral earlier today and figured I'd come to Chad's too as ... sort of a show of solidarity."

"That's sweet of you," she said, cocking her head to one side.

"I read the story about him in the paper," I went on. "Seemed like a great guy."

"Oh he was," she said. "Really fun. Of course he was an asshole too sometimes, but all men are -- no offense."

"Hard to argue against that point," I said with a shrug. "So did you know him well?"

"Yeah, pretty well," she said, getting a little teary. "I knew him for years. He was a really good friend and I liked him a lot."

"Romantically?"

"Oh, God no," she said, making a face. "He was old, like 35 or something."

"Ouch," I winced.

"No offense."

As we were talking Bigfoot himself came behind the bar carrying four cases of beer as easily as if they were empties. I recognized him from the photo in the paper, but he'd be easy to spot anyway. He was probably 6'5" and over 300 pounds, bald except for a band of hair around the base of his skull, and that little bit he had let grow long enough to pull into a six-inch braid at the back of his head.

He started filling a cooler under the bar with bottles of beer. "You should have filled this half an hour ago, April," he complained. "People don't like paying for warm beer." His speech was slurred and his eyes were bloodshot.

April gave him an annoyed glance. "I was getting to that. There's still plenty in there, and I have never served anyone a warm beer. Besides, you are supposedly not working tonight."

Bigfoot, three times her size, turned to face her. "Don't give me shit in front of customers, young lady," he said. "It's bad enough you do it at home."

She patted his cheek, playfully. "Sorry Daddy. But hey, this is that guy from the bookstore on North Beach who's place got blown up too." She turned to me. "I'm sorry. I forget your name."

"Jack Durham," I said, putting out my hand. Bigfoot's hand swallowed mine as we shook.

"Mr. Durman wants to show solidarity with us against the bomber," April said. I glanced at her, wondering if this was sardonic mockery but couldn't tell from her expression which remained pleasantly impenetrable.

"Well thanks for coming, bud!" Bigfoot µexclaimed and slapped his big palm on the bar, causing a tsunami of vibration that jiggled glasses and bottles all the way down the bar. "I'll tell you what," he said pointing a finger at me. "When they catch this prick they can just save the taxpayers a bundle and give me ten minutes alone with him. No need of a trial then by god. You could just sweep up whatever parts were left and burn it with your fucking trash."

He was redfaced and ready to say more, but April put her little hand on his massive shoulder and the touch subdued him immediately. "Daddy, I think Billie is almost ready for the service."

Bigfoot blinked and nodded, his anger instantly gone. "Seeya round, bud," he said to me, and then over his shoulder to April he added, "his next one's on the house."

April turned back to me apologetically. "He's not usually like this. He's just still really upset about what happened."

"I can see that," I said, waving it off. "And I can see he's got someone taking good care of him."

Her green eyes went misty again. "That's right ... Mr. Durham." She whipped another beer out of the cooler and opened it with a movement I did not quite see and put it on the bar. "On the house."

"Thanks," I said. "So, Chad and your dad were partners here?"

"Yeah. Daddy ran it by himself for a few years, but he was having a hard time making it and he never had any time off. So about four years ago he sold half the business to Chad, and things worked pretty well. Chad brought in the speedboat rentals and the hang gliding and all that. Daddy and I run the bar and Chad is always ... was always outside stirring up action. He was a real showman kind of guy."

Down on the beach the stringy-haired woman, who I realized was the Rev. Billie, blew a sharp whistle through her teeth and people began filtering down to the water for the service. April came out from behind the bar and I followed her down to the beach, doing my best not to look at her nearly-bare behind.

About 40 people were already gathered on the white plastic chairs set up in the surf. The chairs were facing the bay and the people in the first few rows had their legs in the water. The Rev. Billie Rae stood knee deep in water, holding an urn.

"We are here tonight," she began in a cigarette-hardened voice, "to say goodbye to our good friend Chad Taylor, one of God's children." She held up the urn. "This here, people, is all that's fuckin' left of a good man who never cheated anybody and who paid his own goddamn way every step he took on this shit-infested planet." I could tell this wasn't going to be an ordinary funeral.

"Chad Taylor was a sweet guy," Rev. Billie Rae nearly whispered. And then her voice suddenly rose to a raspy shout: "Chad Taylor was a FUCKin' sweet guy! Ain't somebody gonna say amen to that?" Several people called out amens.

"That's better. Now some-a y'all may be sayin' 'well, Chad wadn't too sweet that time he beat my ass in that boat race, or the time he squished me like a ant on the basketball court. Well lemme tell you: get over it! Chad Taylor was a man. He didn't do nuthin' fuckin' half-way. You play you pay, and after it was over he'd pick your sorry ass up off the floor and buy you a beer, wadn't that right? Huh? Wadn't that right?? Amen!"

The rest of the service went on mostly this way. I was standing off to one side so I could watch the service and most of the crowd at the same time. On the opposite side, positioned about the same as I was, stood Detective Arkin wearing jeans and a t-shirt but still looking like a cop. He was looking at me so I flashed him a friendly smile.

He would think whatever he was going to think and I couldn't do much about that. And there was someone else in the crowd who interested me. Aside from Arkin she stood out as not belonging in the crowd. She was about 35 and dressed for a real funeral, in a conservative black dress. From her expression I guessed she was impatient with the Rev. Billie's vocabulary.

As the service broke up I followed her back to the deck where she took off her shoes one at a time to get out the sand. I could tell she wasn't going to stick around for a round of drinks to old Chad so I heaved a sigh as I came past her. "That sure wasn't the kind of service I expected," I said shaking my head.

"Knowing him, it's what I should have expected," she said, still irritated as she picked sand out of her nylons. From the bar came raucous shouts.

"Well, I didn't know him myself. Just wanted to pay my respects given what happened to him. "

She put her shoe back on. "That was very decent of you, Mr. . ."

"Durham. Jack Durham." I put out my hand and she shook it.

"Allison Taylor."

"A relation?"

"You could say that. He was my ex-husband."

"Oh I see. I'm very sorry for your loss, Ms. Taylor."

"Thank you," she said, a bit of emotion choking her voice slightly. "Well it was nice to meet you Mr. Durham, but I was just leaving."

I nodded. "I'm on my way out also. I'll walk with you if you don't mind. Are you staying up at Hilton Point?"

She gave me a quick look and apparently decided I wasn't going to attack her under the streetlights with a crowd of people around. We walked together and I said, "he certainly seems to have had a lot of friends."

"Charlie never lacked for drinking buddies."

"Charlie?"

"He didn't start calling himself 'Chad' until after we split up and he moved here."

"How long ago was that?"

"A few years. Long enough to be over him, but not long enough to be finished being angry at him." She said it evenly but the emotion was just below the surface.

"Sounds like it was pretty decent of you to come too," I said.

"It's a long story," she said. We were at the intersection by the parking lot and across the street was Hilton Point and "Julienne's," a pricey bar where mostly older people go.

"I hope you won't mistake my intentions," I said in a very dignified way, "but would you care to have a cup of coffee and tell me that long story?" I gestured to outdoor seating at Julienne's.

She looked at me surprised and seemed to be deciding whether to be offended.

I held up my hand, palm out. "I know that probably sounds like the world's most inappropriate pickup line, doesn't it? I only suggested it because when a person suffers a loss, even an ex-spouse that you're still ticked off at, it's good to be able to talk to someone. You've come all the way here from somewhere for this frat-party funeral and now you're going to go back to your hotel and be alone with nobody to talk to. My place got blown up too, but fortunately no one was hurt. Then a couple days later there was another explosion just a few shops down from mine. That's the one where the first person died, and I went to her funeral because, well, it seemed like the thing to do. And I came to this one for the same reason, even though I didn't know him. That's all I meant and I apologize if I offended you."

She sighed and seemed to let go of some of her tension. "Actually, that's the nicest offer I've had all day. But if you don't mind, what I really need is a vodka tonic."

A few minutes later we were seated on the deck at Julienne's and she was ordering her vodka tonic. I had a whiskey and Coke.

"Okay," I said. "I'm ready for that long story."

"Are you sure? It's pretty boring, really."

"Only one way to find out. If I start to nod off in the middle you'll have your answer."

She smiled for the first time. "I'm sure you're too polite to nod off, Mr. Durham."

"You can call me Jack if you want."

"Are you sure you're not picking me up?"

I wasn't quite sure what answer she wanted so I just smiled and said, "well not tonight at least. That would be tacky -- trying to pick up a pretty woman at her ex-husband's funeral. One has to defer such things until a more appropriate time."

She acted like she was blushing, but I couldn't tell in the light, and then the waiter came with our drinks. She took a long swallow of hers through the straw and sighed again. I could see the tension drop a little more from her posture.

"Okay Jack," she began. "Here's the not-too-long version. Charlie and I met in college. I was quiet and a good student. He was charming, fun and popular. We were a good match. He helped me make friends and I helped him pass his classes. I even took a test for him once."

"That must have been quite a disguise."

"It was a big lecture class -- 300 students or so. Everyone just dropped their tests in the bin at the end of the hour so I sat in for him and got him through."

"So what happened after college?"

"The usual I guess. We lived together a couple of years and I pushed him into getting married. I thought he would grow up eventually; he never did. I wanted kids; he didn't, so we never had any, just as well. Eleven years later we got divorced and he moved up here to play Beach Dude."

"Was that a big career change for him or was he a professional Beach Dude down in ... where was it?"

"Cincinnati. No, he was in sales -- mostly to building supplies outlets, contractors and so on. Everything from earth-moving equipment to nails. He was good at it when he tried. He could charm almost anyone and he was very competitive so he was always trying to beat the other sales people."

"It sounds like he was successful."

"He made good money, when he was working. But he'd quit over an argument with his boss, and once he got fired for fudging numbers on his sales report -- again trying to win some sales contest. I made a good income too -- I'm in banking -- and we didn't have kids so money wasn't a huge problem. But he was always overspending so we could have the coolest cars and the grandest homes. I didn't need any of that, and I hated seeing money just thrown away. And it wasn't just material things. He'd 'invest' in the most ridiculous get-rich schemes that sounded too good to be true -- and of course they were. I had to go to a lawyer to make sure my money was kept separate from his and when he begged me to loan him money for another 'investment' I told him to forget it and he borrowed it from his own mother."

"Did he lose that too?"

She drained her drink through the straw. I hurried mine along so we'd be more-or-less even. "Oh sure he did and I have to tell you I really wanted him to finally have to face the music for once in his life, but being Mr. Lucky he slipped by again." She raised her empty glass to get the waiter's eye.

"Two more," I said when the waiter came to our table. When he was gone again I asked, "How did he get lucky?"

"His mother dropped dead of a heart attack at 63, no history or warning -- just bingo, gone -- so he inherited the money he'd already borrowed, plus more. Then guess what he did?"

"Uh, lost all of that money too?"

"Nope. He divorced me and came up here to buy a bar. That's when he transformed himself into 'Chad' apparently."

Fresh drinks arrived and she made a quick dent in hers. "I'm sure that was a hard time for you. But is it fair to say you were better off without him?"

Her eyes welled up but she didn't cry. "Yes that's true and I've been over it a long time. I saw him once about a year ago. He was in town and called my office. We went to lunch and he bragged about the bar and how well he was doing and some kind of boat race he'd just won. And I felt fine about it. We had a nice time and hugged afterwards. I thought of him as an old friend; someone I grew up with. Well, I grew up anyway."

Her glass was empty again and it was almost closing time. I was afraid she might want another. "Well thanks for telling me your story," I said. "That was better than sitting alone in your hotel room wasn't it?"

She looked at her watch. "God it's incredibly late."

I left money on the table, along with most of my second drink, and walked her over to the entrance to the hotel.

"Thanks for listening," she said, a little wobbly in her heels. "Are you sure it wasn't all just an elaborate pickup line?"

Uh-oh, I thought. This could get awkward quickly. "Not tonight," I said with an air of dignity and then turned and walked away.

It was about 2:30 when I got back to the parking lot where my bike waited. I was tired and not looking forward to the long drive home. But I looked up at Chad's apartment with the crime scene tape around it and decided this would be a good opportunity to have a quick look at his apartment above Bigfoot's.

I climbed the steps silently and slipped under the crime-scene tape to take a quick look around the balcony. Nothing of consequence -- just the usual outdoor furniture and some neglected plants. I cupped my hands and looked through the glass door. I couldn't see much in the faint light but it seemed an ordinary messy apartment of a single guy who died before he had a chance to tidy up. I knew I could pop the latch of the sliding door in five seconds, but there wasn't enough reason to do so. The investigators had already been here and would have taken away anything truly interesting.

I turned to go and was ducking under the crime-scene tape when I saw him. Bigfoot was at the bottom of the stairs, his big arms folded across his chest. "You just bought yourself an ass-kicking, bud," he said and started climbing the stairs.

"Hey, I'm sorry to trespass," I said, affecting a good-natured drunken smile. "I was just ... curious."

"Don't try to bullshit me, bud," he said wearily. "I warned everybody to stay the fuck away from Chad's place. No exceptions." He kept climbing the steps with that unguarded confidence you see with men his size. They don't bother trying to protect themselves because they can usually take your best shot without flinching and then grab your fist and yank your arm out of joint. On the other hand, they win most of their fights against guys too terrified to fight back so they tend to be unprepared for a real opponent.

Bigfoot was only about ten steps away and I knew the easy route for me would be to just kick him in the face and send him rolling back down those stairs. But I still hoped to diffuse the confrontation, so instead I vaulted over the railing and dropped ten feet to the sand below. I landed in the carport area under the deck and behind the bar. It was fenced in on three sides, a fact I realized a little too late. And Bigfoot reacted quicker than I would have guessed for a man his size. He skipped down several steps and jumped over the rail himself, blocking the only way out.

I stepped back again, giving myself some room. There was a sporty little white Toyota taking up half of the carport. Bigfoot stood in the open area where a second car might enter. "There's no way out, bud," he said. "You're gonna take your punishment."

The first rule about fighting a guy who is 6'5" and 300 pounds is ... don't. Not if you can help it. Guys like Bigfoot are hard to hurt with your bare hands, and even though they're slow they only have to get a grip on you once and you're done for.

I stood where I was, letting him come to me. "You know, we don't have to do this," I said, knowing it would do no good except to provoke him, which I figured at this point I might as well go ahead and do.

"Oh yes we do, bud." With that he came lumbering at me, making no effort to surprise me. As he grabbed for me I spun out of his reach and kicked him hard in the side, just below the ribs. He nearly went down but kept on his feet.

Now he was mad. But I could tell the blow had affected him. Big guys are nearly invulnerable, but everyone is weak in the kidney. He wasn't talking anymore, which was fine with me. I just wanted to keep my concentration and get this over with. He came at me again, and I used his weight against him, leading him off balance and then throwing him against the car and gave him a quick jab in the side before leaping out of his reach.

He made a lunge at me, but I stepped aside and landed a right on his jaw, just below the ear and he fell against the white car. If I'd been really desperate I could have hit him in the Adam's apple instead. That's a debilitating blow against any opponent, but a dirty one and also dangerous because it doesn't take much to break someone's windpipe. I just wanted to wear him down, not hospitalize him.

By this point I was on the other side of him, at the open end of the carport. I could have made a break for it and run for my bike. But I was pumped up now and didn't feel like running away.

Bigfoot pushed off the car and stumbled towards me but he was winded and confused and I hit him with a left to set him up and then another solid right just below the eye. This time as he fell he groped for something to hold onto and caught the little spoiler on the back of the Toyota. But his weight was too much for it and one end popped off and he fell to the sand.

As he had with every other blow, Bigfoot got up again, but this time his focus had shifted from me to the damage to the car.

"Oh man!" he said, trying to put the spoiler back in place. "Damn, April's gonna kill me. She loves this car."

I stood panting and tense, expecting another attack, but he was no longer paying any attention to me.

"Man they don't make cars like they used to," he complained I could have left, but something held me in place and I watched in fascination as he fretted over the broken car. "It probably wouldn't be hard to fix that," I found myself saying.

"Yeah, I was just thinking that," he said,. "I got some of that auto body adhesive would take care of it, but that shit needs 24 hours to dry. I need to sneak this car out of here for a whole day."

He seemed to have entirely forgotten the fight, or at least the reason for it. "Well," I said, relaxing a little. "Maybe you could tell her it needs a tune up or some other regular maintenance."

He snapped his fingers in agreement. "That's a good idea, bud. I do all that shit for her anyway and she don't know when nothing is due anyway. I could take it over tonight and if she notices tomorrow morning I could say it was a maintenance thing."

I took a few steps backwards but he seemed not to notice. "Well ... good luck," I said.

"Later, Dude," he called, as if we were old friends parting after a few beers. I headed back to my bike, keeping an eye on him in case it was all a trick but he paid no more attention to me and I started the bike and puttered away into the night.