The thing is, I didn’t have any tattoos, and unlike many of my fellow SoCal natives, had never wanted any.  But times change.  When it was done, I had a sapphire-blue pentacle, a right-side up five-pointed star inside a circle, on my left shoulder. Then a brick came through the window, glancing off of my shoulder just below the tattoo and just missing Hope’s face, as she was bending over to pack away her tools.  There was laughing and the sound of tires screeching and a car speeding away.  I pushed Hope to the floor, pulled my pistol from its holster which I had left just to my right on the couch, and went out the back door. I circled the house, then scouted the street, but there was no sign of them.

“It’s covered in dog shit,” Hope said to me through tears, the brick in her left hand as I came back in through the front door.  “Are they gone?”

“For now.”

It was time.  I pulled out my cell and called Seth and left a message on his voicemail.  A plan was forming in my head.  Something clicked. It was those guys, Wilkes' goons that I’d seen leaving the bar the night before last. They tried to get Seth to go with them. They were going to see those “girls.” And they had been hoofing it north. Wilkes, I’d learned from my earlier research, owned some seedy old apartment buildings down by the beach, just north of Newport. Supposedly, they were homes for runaway girls. If he was running some kind of teenage whorehouse there, shining a bright light on it might be just what Ms. Torres and the people she was working for needed. I looked at Hope, big yellow dishwashing gloves on each hand, lifting the brick into a garbage bag with an old dish towel, shards of glass sparkling the couch and the deep blue carpet around her now flip-flopped feet.

“How many of your friends do you think you could get together for an emergency candle ceremony tomorrow night, late?” I asked.

“I don’t know, eight or ten maybe, if I told them it was an emergency, maybe fifteen.  Why?” she answered, tears still clouding her eyes.

“Just get them.  Tell them to meet at the seawall at midnight.”

“I could try to talk to Willow...”

“Leave Willow to me.  Tell them to bring candles.  And bring a few extra just in case.”

“Jay, what’s going on?”

“End game.”

I made Hope spend the night at one of her tattoo friend’s place.  Then I went to my house and got a piece of plywood from my shed, returned to her house and patched her window as best I could, not caring who I woke with the banging.  By then it was almost 2 a.m.  I drove the mile home, watching around and behind me the whole way, but I was alone -- not necessarily a good sign -- that they didn’t even feel the need to bother with me for the rest of the night.  When I got back home, I cracked a beer, and two and a half later, laid down. I set my alarm for early, then switched it off, deciding to let things take me where they would.  When I woke, I didn’t know where I was.  I’d dreamed of being chased by a big wave, constantly cutting back and forth to keep ahead of it, waking up when it was just about to crash over my head.  The next minute, my cell rang.  I looked at the clock – 8:05.  It was Seth.

“Is it time?”

“Yeah," I answered.

“When and where?”

“Tonight.  At the seawall.  Midnight.”

“I met your friend.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ms. Torres.”

“Good.  Let her know.”

“I’ll tell her,” he answered, then paused.  “And Jay, be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” I asked, not even trying now to hide the tone in my voice.

“No.  Usually not,” he responded, not trying hide the tone in his either, and as he did, I heard the voice of my childhood friend, like we were standing by the O.B. tower, two junior lifeguards, living the dream, long before…

Before what?  Before all this.  My first instinct was to get out into the water, make the day seem natural, but then remembered the tattoo.  I looked at my calendar, wondering if there was something I was forgetting in the midst of this whirlpool that was forming around me, but my schedule was clear until a court date the next week from an old divorce case. Maybe the spirits of the cliffs were conspiring to keep me free to do their bidding. Then I thought of the good Dr. Florentino.  I needed to see Willow, but I needed to stay busy, too. I was pretty sure that the goons would be watching for me today, and getting out of town for a few hours might be just what the situation called for. 

The gallery of the lovely Ms. Rosalind Smith, the doctor's painter mistress, wouldn’t be open until noon, so I put on a pot of coffee.  After two cups, I shaved, covered my new tattoo with plastic and tape, bathed as best I could, then put on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt and headed to the diner.  As I entered the place, I scanned for any of the goons, but the place was clear.  Maybe the vampires weren’t up yet.  After fortifying myself on sausage and eggs, I took a leisurely stroll down to the seawall. It was only 10:30, and I had some time to kill.  I got another cup at Jungle Java and walked up on the pier and watched the few people that were out that day catch a couple of modest rides.  At 11:15, satisfied that I’d made a casual appearance, I took a piss at the public toilets by the lifeguard tower, walked the few short blocks back to my house, got in the car and headed to the Village of La Jolla. I was waiting at the door of the lanky brunette's little side street gallery when she arrived.

Ms. Smith smiled, pulling her keys out of her bag.  “Good morning,” then realizing who I was, to her credit, continued smiling.  “Here to look at some paintings?”

And she was pretty good. I mean, I liked her paintings, for as much as that counts. And she didn’t know about the prenup. Or more accurately, she knew there was one, but the good doctor had lied to her and shown her a bogus one. She openly admitted they were in love. "We make videos together," she said, smiling. She couldn’t explain it, she went on, except that he was a great artist, as weird as that might sound coming from a painter, and she loved him. I was just the first private eye who’d ever thought to openly confront her. She said she could never understand why the other PI’s were always bothering them, because she thought the prenup covered their relationship, and that the wife was just being a bitch. “He doesn’t want to admit he loves me, but he does.” She smiled at me, seeming completely at ease.

I told her that if those videos clearly showed they were in love, the good doctor could be divorced and lose half of everything, and reminded her, as gently as I could, that he’d lied to her.

Another smile crossed her face, and this time I thought I saw, not the Rosalind Smith of La Jolla, but Rosalind Smith the painter, who I thought was pretty good.

“He’s been promising me he’d leave her for over a year now,” she said. “I think it’s time.” And then she added, now smiling a little less, “He could lose three-quarters of his money and still be filthy rich. I’ll take care of it.”

Famous last words, I thought, but who was I to pry? It was none of my business. Not anymore, anyway, whatever happened. I billed one more expensive meal to the wife, my case that had promised to be thick with billable hours now over, and got a ticket for running a stop sign, which I didn’t, driving out of the beautiful Village of La Jolla. And which I would also bill the wife for.

I got back to O.B. at about 4:15 and went straight to see Willow. She was sweeping up broken glass in front of her store from a different shit-covered brick thrown through a different window, and informed me that someone had seen a cross burning in my front yard. I winced, and told her of my plan as I helped her temporarily board up her window with some plywood that she’d sent a couple of the girls to go get. She said she’d be there. And I didn’t bother to tell her to be careful.

I found broken glass at my house, too, but this time it was from an old, piss-smelling surfboard that had been thrown through my living room window. And, as Willow had told me, there was a smoldering cross of four by fours on a blackened patch of my little front lawn. Ms. Torres' plan had worked perfectly, at least so far. I was the blunt instrument that she had needed, and had drawn the ghouls out into the open. But there was still one more thing to do.

I found Gray huddled under the bed, and pulled him out and held him and stroked his head and told him it would be OK. He squirmed out of my arms and ran back under the bed, and then I did as Willow had been doing, and cleaned up the shards of glass from the floor, the couch, and the window frame. I put the stinking carcass of the surfboard in my back yard by the shed, and, as crazy as it sounds --that this had become part of my new routine -- I got back in my car and went and got one more piece of plywood from the home center.  By the time I’d patched the hole, it was just past eight, and I decided on one more nap, setting the alarm for 11:00. As I put my head down, Gray jumped up next to me, and his eyes met mine.  I dozed off, looking into my cat’s eyes, wondering if I’d wake up with my house on fire. Or not at all.

Chapter 26 coming 11/1 (or so…)!!!