I took the next day off.  I’m not sure why.  I could have logged some more hours on the doctor’s case, but didn’t. The surf was up, and I did pretty well.  I was making my way out to rinse off by the lifeguard tower, feeling pretty good about the morning so far, when I caught sight of a couple of Wilkes’ goons walking towards me from the seawall.  I waved and kept walking, hoping they would leave me alone, but they intersected me right in front of the shower.  I smiled.  One of them pushed my board out of my hands and kicked it, the other one shoved me down, and they walked away laughing.  Great, I thought -- bullies kicking sand on me at the beach.  Good thing there were no girls around. I showered off, picked up my board, and turned to head home, but this time I saw four of them coming toward me, the first two, and two more, laughing and pointing. And a bit of a peanut gallery was forming, as well -- a couple walking their dog, several young surfers and the three hobos who had crashed out by the seawall. I thought to myself, Listen Jay, stick to your plan. Lay low. Let the goons have their fun. And then I completely ignored my thoughts and swept my surfboard at the ankles of the closest pair and they went down like sacks of wet flour. The other two, apparently confused, because they were expecting submissive me, stared dumbly at their friends for a moment, which gave me the opportunity to swing my board up into the testicles of the one on the right, and then pivot and get the other one square on the left side of his head with the other end of the board, flattening him. At this point, the first two were attempting to get up, and I bashed them each in the teeth with the tip of my board, successively, then turned and started walking away, the peanut gallery now laughing hysterically and pointing. Things were heating up fast.

When I got home there was a message from Susan, the bartender.  The boyfriend wanted to meet.  She wanted to know if I could be at the bar around six.  Hope and I weren’t getting together until 9:00, as she had a custom tattoo job to do, so I called Susan back and told her I’d be there.  Looked like I’d be working after all.

“I think he thinks that he’s finally gotten to me, that I’m caving,” she said, worriedly.

“Good,” I answered.  “Then maybe he’ll do something really stupid.”

She laughed, and it was a lovely laugh.  She thanked me again, and we concluded our call.  It was only 3:00.  I had a couple of hours to kill, and wondered what to do.  Then, I suddenly remembered a candle I’d gotten from Willow several months back that I’d never burned.  It was for protection.  Maybe it was time.

I heard her words in my head that she’d said when I’d bought it:  “Hold the candle in your hands and concentrate on your safety and protection from things, known and unknown.  Imagine your thoughts and wishes flowing into the candle.  When you are done, carve your initials in the candle, rub some of the oil on it, and light it.  Put it in a place where it can burn safely until it’s done.”

I grabbed the candle off the bookshelf, found an old candlestick of my wife’s in the back of the cabinet under the bathroom sink, and placed them both on the kitchen table. Second cup of coffee in hand, I began the procedure set out by Willow, when Gray, who had been napping in the living room, walked in and jumped up on the table next to me.  I decided to take it as another good sign, though there was probably no reason to, and in a short time, I was done. I placed the candle safely in the middle of the stovetop, made and inhaled a quick ham sandwich, then went into the bedroom for a nap.  In spite of the coffee, and maybe somewhat soothed by the candle lighting, I was suddenly sleepy.  An hour later, I woke to the insistent beeping of the alarm, not even remembering falling asleep.  Groggy, but somewhat refreshed, I poured myself one more cup from the dregs of the pot that was still on the burner, and thought about the evening ahead.  The thing with Susan’s boyfriend might be fun, so long as he didn’t bring a bunch of his friends, which I didn’t think he would.  And the place where she worked wasn’t a usual hangout for Wilkes’ goons, which was good.  And probably too early for them to be up anyway, which was also good. And then there was Hope.  She said she had special plans for the evening. I wondered what that might mean.  Witchcraft?  A ritual?  A picnic?  I had no idea.  At 5:00, I showered and shaved, put on a clean shirt and jeans, and headed over to the bar.

The boyfriend was just what I’d expected.  I knew him the moment he walked in.  Raybans, frat boy gelled hair, expensive jeans, a designer t-shirt, Rolex, and $125 leather flip-flops.  I was sitting at the long bar sipping a soda and lime, all the documentation Susan had put together in a folder in front of me padded with some blank pieces of paper I’d brought along.  He strutted in, surveyed the place like he owned it, and then took a seat at the end of the bar by the waitress station.

“Here he is,” said Susan, a tall, natural blonde who you could easily fall for.

“I know,” I answered, matter-of-factly, moving to get up.  “Introduce me.”  She nodded and made her way to other the end of the bar.  I waited half a second, then got up, my drink in one hand, the folder of papers in the other, and walked over. When I sat down in the stool next to him, he shot me a hostile look.

“This is private.” he sneered, dismissively.

“Not anymore,” I answered.

“Stewart, this is Mr. Sapphire.  He’s a private investigator.”

He flinched, and I enjoyed it.  “I’m outta here,” he said, and moved to get up.  I placed my hand on his shoulder, my drink now on the bar, and urged him back into his barstool.  “Just a minute, Stu.  We have some business to conduct.”

“I…” he protested.

“Shut up,” I commanded, holding up the folder of papers.  “What I have here is documentation of you and your buddies coming in here and disrupting business during Ms. Graham’s shifts.  That constitutes a pattern of behavior with intent to injure, and is sufficient to acquire an order of protection, which would, for all intents and purposes, keep you off Newport St. any night that Ms. Graham is working.  Do you understand what I just said?”

I still had my hand on his shoulder, and he shrugged it off, but only because I let him.  He was upset, but I could see he understood.  “This sucks.  O.B. sucks.  You suck. Fucking cunt!” he cursed, first at the bar, then at the beach, then me, then Susan.   He made like he was going to get up again, then grabbed for the folder in my right hand.  I deflected him with my left, which had the double effect of splashing soda and lime all over his designer t-shirt and landing him on his ass on the floor.  At this, the bouncer walked over.

“Problem, Susan?” he asked.

“This guy’s drunk,” she answered without hesitation, pointing at her now wet stalker.  Good girl, I thought.

“C’mon buddy,” said the big guy, grabbing him by the arm.

“Fuck you!  Fuck you all! This town sucks!” he screamed, and twisted from the grasp of the bouncer and stormed out.

“Thank you,” said Susan, smiling a lovely smile.

“No problem,” I answered, handing her back the folder.  “Keep this.  And let me know if he bothers you again.  I’ll send you a bill.”

“Can I buy you a beer?” she offered, smiling some more, and continuing to be lovely.

“No thanks. I’ve got a date.” I smiled back, sure I would have stayed if I didn’t, and stood up to leave. And as I did, I saw that my friendly neighborhood detective, the one who’d paid a visit to my front door with the two uniforms, had suddenly appeared, and was talking to the bouncer. I waited a moment as he got a frustrated look on his face, flashed me a nasty glare, then turned and left. I grabbed my soda and lime, which Susan had just refilled, downed it, and followed, a safe distance behind.

When I got to Hope’s at nine, instead of the usual pulsing blue glow, I found two folding chairs and a lamp set up in the middle of the room.  She held up her tattoo needle and smiled.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Chapter 25 coming 10/1 (or so…)!!!