Vinnie Zitti walked into the Beachcomber looking for Frankie Lester.
He paused inside the door while his eyes adjusted from the violet dusk to the tired yellow light behind the warped front windows. Thirty-five, broad through the shoulders, his skin browned by a life spent outdoors, he wore a white T-shirt, faded Levi’s, deck shoes without socks.
Nothing threatening about him until the room grew quieter when he walked in.
“Vinnie.”
“Hey, Vin.”
A pool player lowered his cue. Two women at the bar turned on their stools. One smiled. The other checked the doorway behind him, as though Vinnie’s arrival promised someone else’s trouble.
Vinnie acknowledged them without taking his eyes off the room.
“Seen Frankie?”
Nobody had.
That was the answer he had been getting for three weeks.
Vinnie crossed to his usual stool, the one that gave him the front door in the mirror and a clear view of the hallway leading to the restrooms. The bartender set down a Corona with lime without asking.
“On me,” called Eddie the plumber from the far end of the bar.
Vinnie lifted the bottle in thanks.
He seldom bought his own drinks. It wasn’t that he expected favors. Mission Beach simply took care of his bar tab for helping police the ’hood.
When Eddie’s back went out, Vinnie and a Mexican cook had carried a refrigerator up three flights. While bodysurfing, he had pulled a drowning tourist from beyond the break before the lifeguards reached the water. When Sally Burke’s former husband slapped her outside the Pennant bar, Vinnie walked the man to his car with one hand clamped around the back of his neck.
Vinnie had made mistakes, but none against the neighborhood.
Frankie Lester had made nothing but mistakes.
Roommate once.
Parasite eventually.
Vinnie had let Frankie sleep on the couch in his bungalow on Santa Clara Court after Frankie lost another job and another girlfriend. Then four ounces of cocaine disappeared from a coffee can behind the bathroom pipes. Frankie vanished before Vinnie came home.
For Vinnie, that settled who had taken it.
Four ounces ($6k)was not a misunderstanding. Vinnie told anyone who would listen that he was holding the powder until its rightful owner got sprung from County Jail for possessing far less than what was in the old Folgers can. That was how much Vinnie was trusted in Mission Beach.
Vinnie took a sip and watched the mirror.
Outside, Mission Beach was changing shifts. Tourists drifted toward hotels and vacation rentals while the locals claimed the bars, alleys and seawall. The roller coaster at Belmont Park clanked against the evening. Lovers whispered over happy-hour drinks at the Pennant down the block. Bicycles rattled past on the boardwalk carrying fishing poles, groceries and people with nowhere urgent to be.
Between Pacific Beach and Ocean Beach, the six-block-wide peninsula called Mission Beach was barely wide enough for a man to hide. Frankie was managing it anyway.
“You check Pacific Beach?” Eddie asked from his end of the bar.
“Twice. Someone saw him steal a bike at the Catamaran.”
“Any other hotels?”
“All the ones that’ll rent to him.”
Eddie asked, “What happens when you find him?”
Vinnie looked at the bottle. “He replaces what’s mine.”
“And if he doesn’t have it?”
Vinnie smiled. “He’ll think of something.”
***
Four college girls occupied the booth near the window. Three wore long shirts over damp bathing suits. The fourth co-ed had an orange bikini top and a towel cinched around her waist. Two sunburned Marines had already sent them a pitcher.
The girls let it sit untouched while deciding whether the gesture had raised or lowered the men’s value. Finally, the Marines joined them.
Near the jukebox, two barefoot milf blondes drank white wine and watched the door for men with Porsches. They worked for an architect near the coaster and could recognize an expensive watch in poor light.
Along the bar sat the Sallys, local women who worked in restaurants, salons and hotel offices and had survived enough beach summers to know the difference between a good time and a bad decision.
Several were actually named Sally. The rest had Gen X names like Emily, Madison and Hannah.
Sally Burke slid onto the stool beside Vinnie.
She asked, “You hunting trouble?”
"I think it just walked in,"
"Vinnie, I'm serious."
"Looking for Frankie.”
“That answers my question.”
“You seen him?”
She shook her brown ponytail, “Not since he tried to sell Gary Lutz a television that belonged to Gary Lutz.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Where?” “Party on St. Peter’s Court.”
“What addressr?”
“Couldn’t tell you. Blue bungalow with a second-story deck.”
“They’re all blue and they all have second-story decks.”
“That’s why God invented patience,” she said. Sally took his beer and drank from it. Vinnie let her.
“You ought to leave Frankie alone,” she said.
“He stole from me.”
“Frankie steals from everybody.”
“Then everybody ought to be looking.”
“They know better.” Vinnie reclaimed the bottle.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Frankie’s scared. Scared you're gonna hurt him."
“Good.”
She said, “Scared men do stupid things.”
“He was doing stupid things before he got scared.”
Sally looked toward the mirror behind the bar. “You ever think maybe Frankie didn’t take your shit?”
Vinnie turned to her. “No.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Why?”
"Cuz," She smiled, but there was nothing playful in it. “Even Frankie Lester isn’t guilty of everything that goes down bad around here.”
***
The Beachcomber filled around them. Pool balls cracked. The jukebox found an old Stones song about this being the last time. Someone laughed too loudly near the front windows. The blondes finally received two Porsche men fresh from a Padres game, still wearing team polo's and six run lead confidence.
Vinnie stayed on his stool. He watched both doors. At ten-thirty, Eddie left. At eleven, the college girls followed the 30-something stock brokers out to the seawall, leaving the pitcher behind.
At eleven-fifteen, Sally returned to the Beachcomber. She touched Vinnie’s arm. “There’s another party tonight.”
“Where?”
“St. Peter’s. Blue bungalow.”
“Second-story deck?”
“Naturally.”
Vinnie stood. Put his arm around her bare shoulders over a yellow tank top.
“Sally, didn't we just talk about this, today?"
“Okay,” she said with a grin. “Next door, then.”
"You gonna be at the party?"
"Yes, but I gotta favor to ask. Don’t break him,” Sally said.
“I only want what he took.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Through the loose armhole of her top, Vinnie could see she wasn’t wearing a bra. Two reasons right there for liking Sally. She looked great undressed.
“Leave him alone.”
“No. He's a slime.”
“Take it out on me.”
“No way.”
“What’s the difference? I'll let you dance on me and everybody goes home happy.”
“He stole four ounces of cocaine from me. No offense, gorgeous, but no broad in this burg could cover ten grand.”
“Your stuff’s old. Six grand, tops.”
Vinnie studied her. “You know a lot about it all of a sudden.”
“I know men exaggerate.”
“Your skinny ass couldn’t take the beating.”
“Let me try. That’s only six guys.”
“At one time?”
"OK, but if I haf to I can pull a train. That way it’s over in one night.”
“If it was mine, you’d be worth it, Sal. But I’m holding it for a friend doing a stretch at County.”
Vinnie took a longer look at her. “You’re soft on Frankie, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Maybe I just want to be with you in bed for a month.”
“Stay with me tonight and I’ll give him a week to get out of town.” Vinnie stood up to leave. He put five dollars under the bottle, although he had not paid for it, and stepped toward the door. He stopped and looked at Sally. “Door’s open. You gonna show?”
“Yes.” Vinnie grinned.
Sally didn't want to blush but she did."
Vinnie stepped into the night.
***
The fog had burned away hours before, but the ocean air remained cool and damp. He walked north beyond the roller coaster, along the boardwalk, past bicycles chained to railings and towels sagging from balconies.
The ancient seawall held its usual congregation—teenagers sharing cigarettes, fishermen studying black water, old men sitting together without speaking because they had already heard everything the others might say.
Vinnie turned into St. Peter’s Court toward the bay side. The alleys and sidewalks were the true streets of Mission Beach, sand-powdered slivers between tired fences and salt-scabbed bungalows. They were wide enough for a bicycle, a trash can and whatever trouble a man had brought home.
The party announced itself halfway down the court. Bass shook the windows. People crowded the patio and stairs. A young woman sat on the hood of a Volkswagen, crying into a plastic cup while her boyfriend explained why wearing her bikini top at midnight was unreasonable. He was an asshole. So were his buddies. She deserved better, But it wasn't his fight.
Vinnie climbed the steps. Inside, the bungalow was hot with beer breath and bodies. Someone had pushed the furniture against the walls. A lamp without a shade turned the room the color of old nicotine. The kitchen counter held three liquor bottles, two bowls of melting ice, bags of chips from Costco and a ham no one had touched.
Vinnie saw Frankie beside the refrigerator. Frankie wore a windbreaker zipped to his chin. His hair was damp at the temples. He held a beer he had lifted from somebody who had left it there to take a piss. He was drinking it quickly, as though finishing it would make it his.
His eyes found Vinnie. The bottle stopped halfway to his mouth.
Vinnie crossed the room. People moved aside without knowing something was about to happen. “Put the beer back,” Vinnie said.
The owner of the Coors stepped between them, took the bottle from Frankie’s hand and continued into the crowd.
Frankie’s jaw twitched. He expected Vinnie to punch him any second.
Vinnie did. Fist connected.
Frankie hit the floor, then bounced up like he had landed on a trampoline. “You’ve been looking for me?”
“You know I have.” Vinnie punched him to the floor again.
Frankie got up a little slower. “I heard you were telling people I robbed you.”
“First true words I've heard from you.”
“Better not call me a thief again or I’ll tell the cops what you're up to.” Frankie went down. This time for the full count. Vinnie studied him. The party paused briefly, then continued. He remembered Frankie on the couch, sick and sweating, swearing he would straighten himself out. He remembered giving him fifty dollars for groceries and learning later that Frankie had spent it on a woman named Rainbow who lived in a van. He remembered finding the empty coffee can behind the bathroom pipes.
Frankie came to. He was bleeding from his mouth.
“Thief,” Vinnie said pointing at Frankie's face.
“It wasn’t me,” Frankie shouted from the floor. “I was with someone else. We didn’t have anyplace to roll around, so we waited until you left your place”
“A woman?”
“Yes. We used your sofa then left. We didn't take anything."
“Get up, you lying asshole,” Vinnie bellowed.
“No way. You’ll keep punching me until I’m dead.”
“That’s my plan.”
Frankie’s right hand disappeared inside his windbreaker.
Vinnie saw the movement but not the gun until it cleared the pocket. A snub-nosed .38.
From the floor, Frankie aimed at Vinnie’s chest.
“Don’t,” Vinnie ordered.
“Self-defense.” Frankie fired. The shot flattened every sound from the beach to Baja. The party was over. Bodies flew out of the bungalow except Frankie and Vinnie. Men shoved toward the doors. Women screamed. Someone fell against the stereo, cutting off the music in the middle of a lyric.
Vinnie dropped straight down, striking the floor on one knee before rolling onto his back. He looked around, surprised that he had fallen and even more surprised that he couldn’t get up.
Frankie rose and stood over Vinnie with the revolver hanging at his side.
Vinnie looked up at him. “I don’t feel a fucking thing, but I can’t move.”
“You’ll feel it, don't worry.”
“Who stole my stash?”
Frankie didn’t have to answer.
The pain rolled into Vinnie like some sonofabitch tsunami. Vinnie’s mouth moved. No sound came out.
Blood spread across the white T-shirt. He was dead.
Frankie crouched and pressed one palm against the wound, performing concern for anyone still watching. “Call somebody,” he shouted. “Jesus Christ, call somebody.”
No one was left in the place.
His other hand slipped into Vinnie’s back pocket. Quick. Practiced. He took the wallet.
***
Sally Burke stood in the kitchen doorway with a dish towel in her hand. She had followed Vinnie from the Beachcomber after giving him enough time to believe she had not.
She saw Frankie take the wallet.
Their eyes met.
Frankie knew she had seen.
Sally knew that he knew.
He rose and gestured with the back of his hand. The gun was still in his grip. “You didn’t see anything.”
Sally’s face became still. Her hand found a steak knife in the sink behind her.
“No,” she said. “I saw nothin'.”
Frankie turned away and looked at Vinnie.
Sally lunged.
Frankie felt the knife go into his neck. She twisted the blade.
Hard.
Brutal.
He coughed, gasped and started to cry while trying to extract the blade that she had jammed into his vertebrae. A second later, he rag-dolled-it on top of Vinnie. Dead.
Sally looked down at both men. “Sorry, Frankie, but you shot the wrong guy.”
She took Vinnie’s wallet from Frankie’s hand, picked up the revolver and slipped the knife into the back pocket of her jeans. Nobody saw her leave.
She ran down the stairs and through the court, hitting a trash can hard enough to overturn it. At Mission Boulevard, she found a cab idling outside a liquor store. The driver had a Del Mar racing form spread across the steering wheel.
“Santa Fe Depot,” she said out of breath.
The driver looked at her face. He judged in an instant if she was good for the fare.
Sally had looked into Vinnie's wallet. Saw plenty of C-notes. She looked up at the cabbie and smiled. "I'm good for it."
“Santa Fe Depot," he repeated..
Behind Vinnie's driver’s license was a photograph of a younger Vinnie standing beside his Newark mother in front of the roller coaster. Sally only removed the cash.
Minutes later, from the crest of the bridge that headed back downtown, she flung the wallet into Mission Bay, followed by the knife.
"Who'd you kill?" A pair of eyes looked at her in the rear-view mirror.
"My past."
"Where you going from there?"
"Anywhere."
"Why the train?"
"I can climb on and don't have to answer to cops or pay the conductor until we're rolling out of town.
"Makes sense."
***
Back in Mission Beach, the party had repaired itself after the ambulance left. Then the white morgue van departed, followed by the cops.
Ice clinked in plastic cups. The stereo played louder than before. Someone had mopped Vinnie’s and Frankie’s blood but left a pink stain across the floorboards. By morning it would turn brown.
Somebody drunk lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the trash can.
Sirens had drawn a crowd.
Newcomers walked into the party and saw flames coming out of the kitchen. “Jesus, someone call the fire department.”
Nobody answered except a skinny teen. “By the way, anyone seen Vinnie?”
***
Thomas Shess is author of "Cantina Psalms" and "Tough Love." For more free short stories: ThomasShess.com
Illustration by F. Stop Fitzgerald, PillartoPost.org
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| Mission Beach looking south along Mission Boulevard. Pacific Ocean, right, Mission Bay, left. |
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