Tapping the Source (31 page)

Ike was getting it on his shoulder. The way he figured it, he could keep it covered with his T-shirt, then sort of spring it on people as a surprise, just when they were starting to think he was okay. It would be a little like having a secret identity. The old man passed a razor over his shoulder then washed it down with alcohol. He transferred the image with some kind of stencil. Ike felt hot and dizzy. He looked out through the greasy plate glass and into the street. There were a couple of very weird-looking chicks standing outside on the sidewalk now, watching him. They had haircuts sort of like Jill’s. One’s was very blond and the other’s was a strange shade of red, purple almost. The night, the malt liquor, the hot yellow lights, the punk chicks on the other side of the glass. It was like a dream. And the old man was full into it now with that needle. He worked with the needle in one hand and a sponge in the other to wipe away the blood.

At first his shoulder just felt hot and prickly, but the feeling seemed to grow and spread until he could feel the sweat breaking on his forehead and down his back. A wave of nausea hit him and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He asked the guy if they could take a break for a minute, but it must have been that the old guy couldn’t hear him, because he just kept going. Ike closed his eyes, wondered if he should try to force his voice a little louder, but in the end he just sat there, grimacing, until the old guy spun him around like he was in a barber’s chair so he could get a look at the tattoo in a small mirror over the sink. He gave it a quick swipe with the sponge so Ike could see it, before covering it with a piece of gauze and taping the gauze to Ike’s shoulder.

Ike had wanted a big one, but he was still a little shocked to see how big the damn thing actually was, it covered his whole fucking shoulder. It had somehow looked smaller than that on the wall. The shock passed, however, into a certain grim satisfaction. He had done it. He had joined the fuckups.

He damn near passed out getting out of the chair. The old guy had to give him a hand. “You all right, pardner?” the old man wanted to know. Ike said he was, that all he needed was a little air.

It was better on the sidewalk. There was a breeze off the ocean laced with the smell of the sea. Then he noticed those chicks again. They were about half a block down now and there were a couple of guys with them. They were hanging around in the shadows of some storefront. He heard one of the chicks say, “That’s him.” Someone else said, “Hey, man, show us your tattoo.”

He told them to fuck off and they all started walking toward him. So he turned and ran, back around the corner of the tattoo shop and down the alley. His legs felt like rubber and his chest burned, but he could have cared less. He had this half-assed plan of leading them down an alley and then ambushing them, beating their faces in with trashcan lids. He was even sort of laughing while he ran, alternately cackling and gasping for breath. They didn’t follow him very far, though, a few hundred feet down the alley. He even turned and yelled at them once, but they went back the way they had come. They probably thought he was crazy, or had a gun or something. He remembered Gordon telling him once that if you could make people think you were crazy, really crazy, they would almost never mess with you. He guessed maybe it was true, at least once in a while.

•   •   •

He took a leak in the alley then walked out to Main. He was starting to feel a little less drunk and his shoulder hurt, but he did not think of going home. The night grew cooler and the sweat dried on his face. Where he finally wound up was across the street from Preston’s duplex. He could see that there were lights on inside now, but he did not go to the door. Instead he sat down Indian style in the damp patch of grass that bordered the sidewalk, and stared. He was not exactly sure why he had come, or why he could not go to the door. Maybe the fact that he had come had something to do with the tattoo. But, whatever the reasons, he did not want to leave. It was almost as if there were some force holding him there. He stayed until the light went dead behind the curtains, leaving just the porch light, forgotten, drawing moths out of the night to flutter stupidly in its warmth, and even then he did not leave.

31

He must have passed out on the grass, because when he opened his eyes, the sun was bright and hot on his face, and he was still in the same spot. There were cars in the street now and blackbirds singing in the palms above his head. He sat up slowly and looked around. He was a bit amazed that he had actually slept here, like some wino at the edge of the curb, and that he was still breathing, having escaped punk gangs, rape artists, and God knows what other scum that crept from the shadows to prowl the streets of surf city when the sun sank into the sea. He felt a stab of pain in his shoulder and looked down to see some gauze and tape sticking out from beneath his sleeve. It took a moment for the night’s events to sweep back over him, and when he thought of what lay beneath the gauze, a sudden feeling of nausea passed through him. But then it was gone and he was thinking that it was what he had wanted, that a certain justice had been served.

He was just in the act of getting to his feet, no simple task, when he saw Barbara coming down the walkway toward the street. For a moment he looked for a place to hide but saw there was none and that it was too late, for she was already crossing the street, moving toward him.

“Jesus.” That was the first thing she said when she saw him, putting the back of her hand to her head. “Ike, you look terrible.”

“I feel fine.”

“I didn’t even know if you were still around. You really look bad.”

“I feel fine, really,” he said, swaying slightly. “I’ve been by a couple of times, but you were gone.” He thought, now that he was getting a closer look at her, that she did not look so good herself. She seemed paler and thinner than he had remembered, and she had been thin to begin with.

“I’ve been living with my parents. Actually, I moved back in with them, but I’m looking for my own place. I’m just here to help out for a couple of days. Jesus, Ike, what’s that on your arm?”

He turned to look at it himself, as if he were noticing it for the first time. “I fell.”

She bent some at the waist. “No, you didn’t. I’ve seen enough of those. You got tattooed, Ike.” She straightened back up, shaking her head.

He felt that he should apologize for something, but he didn’t, and it would have taken too long to explain. So he just stood there, feeling sheepish, staring into the grass at his feet.

“Well, look,” she said. “I’m not going to be around very much longer and I’ve been hoping we could talk. Why don’t you come with me? I’ve got to go to the drugstore and I’ll buy you breakfast on the way.”

•   •   •

They wound up in the depot restaurant, the seediest place in town, but it was across the street from the drugstore. Ike was feeling dizzy and very washed out by the time they got there. It was hard to concentrate on the present because he kept dredging up some forgotten detail of the night, and his shoulder was hurting. He ordered a cup of coffee and waited to see what Barbara had to say.

“I called you a couple of times at the Sea View,” she said, “but couldn’t get you. I was hoping you had left town, if you want to know the truth.”

“Why?”

“Preston told me why you’re here.”

He stared into the chipped Formica before him.

Barbara placed her hands on the counter and studied her fingers. When Ike said nothing, she went on. “It’s not really like him to talk about things like that. But then he talked about a lot of things while he was in the hospital, particularly during the first few days after the operation. He was pretty doped up.”

A waitress came and poured coffee, took their orders. Ike wrapped his fingers around the mug. “What else did he talk about?”

“A lot of things; some pretty crazy things. He didn’t always make sense.” She paused for a moment. “He mentioned Janet Adams,” she began again, slowly. “He called to her. And some of the time I think he thought he was talking to her, thought I was her or something. But I guess it made me start thinking back to what you and I had talked about. Anyway, one day I went to the library. They keep old newspapers there on microfilm and I wanted to see what had been in the papers about Janet Adams. All I had ever heard on the subject was talk; and like I told you, it was some time ago.”

Ike took a sip of his coffee and burned his mouth. The waitress showed up with their breakfast. Plates rattled against the counter. The greasy smell of fried eggs hit him in the face.

“I found the articles, one in the local paper and another in the
L.A. Times
. There were a number of things I hadn’t known or hadn’t remembered. You asked me once about Milo Trax. Well, the article in the
Times
concentrated mainly on him. He is the guy who owns the Trax Ranch. Apparently his father was one of the first Hollywood movie moguls. He was the one who bought the land and had the house built. At any rate, his son Milo owns it now, he’s some kind of playboy, I guess, and for a time he was into making surf films. Evidently that was what was going on when Janet died. Milo Trax had taken Preston, Hound, and Janet down to Mexico on his yacht. Then the men came back alone, without Janet. The first story was that she had drowned. Then some Mexican fishermen found the body, and that was when it was discovered that her death had been drug-related. And they found something else out, too, that she had been pregnant.”

Ike had not touched his food. He was still staring into the pink Formica. The sunlight was coming through the glass behind them now, heating up his neck, and there were flies buzzing against the glass. Barbara put down her fork. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I’ve just started,” she told him. “Stupid, isn’t it?”

Ike shrugged. The only thing he could think of just now was the similarity of two stories: two trips to Mexico. Two girls who had not returned. When he closed his eyes, he saw the faded photograph in the shop, Janet Adams smiling at him out of the palest of skies. Certainly the similarity had not been lost on Preston. Was that why he had never said more, because to admit that he had a good idea of what had happened to Ellen would be to admit some involvement in the death of Janet Adams? New questions were forcing their way into his aching head with frightening speed.

“I don’t know how you think all of this connects with what may have become of your sister,” he heard Barbara say. “But I figured maybe that was why you were so interested in Hound and Preston. Preston said that your sister had been involved with Hound, or so you thought. And that was what you were up to, trying to find out something.”

“Is that all he said?”

“Basically. It was a fairly one-sided conversation. I know he thinks it’s a bad idea, that you’re going to wind up involved in something you may not find it so easy to get out of.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But he knew well enough what it meant.

Barbara shook her head. “I don’t know. But I have the feeling he’s probably right, for once. I’m frightened for you, Ike. You can’t get involved with people like Hound Adams and expect any good to come from it.”

The trouble was, he was not even listening now. A new and terrible thought was slowly seeping into his consciousness. If there had been other trips to Mexico, other girls who had not come back, what about the future? What about Michelle? He had already heard Hound talk it up, and he had heard Michelle say she wanted to go. Christ, she would go in a minute now. He was sure of it. And then another thought struck him: the girls, the parties, the movies. Could that have been what Hound was up to, looking for a certain girl, the right girl for some terrible end? He felt his pulse hammering in his temples, and when he thought back on his stupid attempt to talk to her at Hound’s, he felt that he might be sick on the counter. He even imagined that he was responsible, that he had driven her to Hound with his own paranoia and erratic behavior. But he was sure of one thing: He would not stay in Huntington Beach and see Michelle leave with Hound Adams. He would not wait for Hound Adams to come back alone. It would not happen like that this time. He would find a way to stop her. He would find a way and he would make it work. It was suddenly all that mattered.

•   •   •

He could scarcely remember what else he and Barbara said to each other on the way home. All he could think about was Michelle, and that he wanted to talk to Preston again, consequences be damned.