turned to look at Fletcher. His hair was pulled back flat against his skull, streaked with gray about the temples, and Fletcher could see the crow’s feet webbing the skin around the big man’s eyes, much, he imagined, as it webbed the skin around his own. Too many years of sunlight on the water, too many hours spent searching for those outside sets on seas made molten before harsh and declining suns.
“Nothing there but a bunch of redneck bars,” Harmon continued. “Kind of places I can’t go.”
When not booming at someone, or clowning with his exaggerated hick accent, Harmon’s voice was, in fact, quite soft and well modulated, belying somehow the power of its owner. It was in this soft voice that Harmon now spoke, enumerating in all seriousness a considerable list of things he could not do. He didn’t go out at night. He didn’t drive much. He did not seek out the company of others. Surfing, of course, provided the exception to these rules. One might drive in pursuit of waves. One might go out at night, if only to arrive at a given spot in time for the dawn patrol. The rest of it was bullshit.
Fletcher’s first impulse was to think of the woman he had seen at the top of the stairs. He had taken her for Drew Harmon’s wife and he wondered what she thought of these rules, for it seemed to him as if they did not allow for much of a social life. “Why not?” he asked.
Drew Harmon looked directly at him. “Can’t,” he said. “There’s people out there . . .” He looked toward the door where, at just this moment, Sonny Martin had appeared. The boy held a duffle bag in each hand. At his back, the sheets of rain, illuminated by a light above the door, shown about the outline of his shaggy head as might some dime-store halo.
“There’s people I can’t be around,” Drew continued. “People that will get me into trouble.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sonny said. “It ever quit raining around here?”
“Move the fuck out of the way,” Robbie called out from behind him. “You’re lettin’ it all in.”
The boys came on, dragging gear, the door slamming behind them.
“He’s just pissed,” Sonny Martin said. “Found his ex dancin’ at the Staide. Picking up quarters for Jap tourists with her cunt.”
Robbie Jones set his bags down, spun around with a lightning-fast wheel kick, and planted his heel in Sonny Martin’s solar plexus. The stricken youth made a great show of staggering about the room as if looking for someplace to toss his cookies.
Drew Harmon was still at his stove, a pot in one hand, a spoon in the other. He turned to Sonny Martin and Robbie Jones, as if seeing them for the first time. “Jesus,” he said. “This is what they got out there now?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
“It’s what the boss sent,” Fletcher told him.
Robbie Jones ignored them. On the wall opposite the workbench and hot plate were shelves filled with books and videocassettes. A small television set mounted by a VCR was perched there as well, among a clutter of books and magazines. Robbie read a couple of the titles out loud.
“ The Art of Wave Riding. Hawaiian Surfboards. ”
“Just about everything ever written on the subject,” Harmon told them. “That’s the goal, get it all. You look, you’ll even see Lord’s study on hydrohulls for the U.S. Navy.”
Robbie Jones just looked at him.
“That’s the book Simmons got his hands on back in ‘46. What made the modern board possible, you think?”
Harmon winked at Fletcher, for it was clear Robbie Jones had no idea who he was talking about. Robbie Jones returned to the case. “You got videos too,” he said.
“Them’s that’s worthy.”
Robbie pulled one from the shelf. He passed it to Sonny Martin. “Check this,” he said. “He’s got the Doc’s movie.”
“Let’s watch it,” Sonny said.
“Fuck it,” Drew Harmon told him. “Let’s eat.”
• • •
When they had polished off the tamales and chili and eaten
“Nothing there but a bunch of redneck bars,” Harmon continued. “Kind of places I can’t go.”
When not booming at someone, or clowning with his exaggerated hick accent, Harmon’s voice was, in fact, quite soft and well modulated, belying somehow the power of its owner. It was in this soft voice that Harmon now spoke, enumerating in all seriousness a considerable list of things he could not do. He didn’t go out at night. He didn’t drive much. He did not seek out the company of others. Surfing, of course, provided the exception to these rules. One might drive in pursuit of waves. One might go out at night, if only to arrive at a given spot in time for the dawn patrol. The rest of it was bullshit.
Fletcher’s first impulse was to think of the woman he had seen at the top of the stairs. He had taken her for Drew Harmon’s wife and he wondered what she thought of these rules, for it seemed to him as if they did not allow for much of a social life. “Why not?” he asked.
Drew Harmon looked directly at him. “Can’t,” he said. “There’s people out there . . .” He looked toward the door where, at just this moment, Sonny Martin had appeared. The boy held a duffle bag in each hand. At his back, the sheets of rain, illuminated by a light above the door, shown about the outline of his shaggy head as might some dime-store halo.
“There’s people I can’t be around,” Drew continued. “People that will get me into trouble.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sonny said. “It ever quit raining around here?”
“Move the fuck out of the way,” Robbie called out from behind him. “You’re lettin’ it all in.”
The boys came on, dragging gear, the door slamming behind them.
“He’s just pissed,” Sonny Martin said. “Found his ex dancin’ at the Staide. Picking up quarters for Jap tourists with her cunt.”
Robbie Jones set his bags down, spun around with a lightning-fast wheel kick, and planted his heel in Sonny Martin’s solar plexus. The stricken youth made a great show of staggering about the room as if looking for someplace to toss his cookies.
Drew Harmon was still at his stove, a pot in one hand, a spoon in the other. He turned to Sonny Martin and Robbie Jones, as if seeing them for the first time. “Jesus,” he said. “This is what they got out there now?” He seemed genuinely surprised.
“It’s what the boss sent,” Fletcher told him.
Robbie Jones ignored them. On the wall opposite the workbench and hot plate were shelves filled with books and videocassettes. A small television set mounted by a VCR was perched there as well, among a clutter of books and magazines. Robbie read a couple of the titles out loud.
“ The Art of Wave Riding. Hawaiian Surfboards. ”
“Just about everything ever written on the subject,” Harmon told them. “That’s the goal, get it all. You look, you’ll even see Lord’s study on hydrohulls for the U.S. Navy.”
Robbie Jones just looked at him.
“That’s the book Simmons got his hands on back in ‘46. What made the modern board possible, you think?”
Harmon winked at Fletcher, for it was clear Robbie Jones had no idea who he was talking about. Robbie Jones returned to the case. “You got videos too,” he said.
“Them’s that’s worthy.”
Robbie pulled one from the shelf. He passed it to Sonny Martin. “Check this,” he said. “He’s got the Doc’s movie.”
“Let’s watch it,” Sonny said.
“Fuck it,” Drew Harmon told him. “Let’s eat.”
• • •
When they had polished off the tamales and chili and eaten
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