Oceanside

Michael Coville

Copyright © 2007, Michael Coville

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarity to places, events, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

This one is for Brian Way.



I arrived on the bus in Oceanside at 3:00 in the afternoon on a Friday. I had only one bag with a few items in it and I stood outside the terminal in the sun, feeling conspicuous in my prison jeans and tattoos, my hair relatively long compared to the buzz-cut Marines going to and from Fort Pembleton. I waited for thirty minutes before I gave up on my brother and got on a city bus. It eventually dropped me off three blocks from my parent’s house and I walked the rest of the way. The neighbourhood hadn’t changed much in three years. All medium-sized single-family bungalows on rectangular lots built in the early 80's. A lot of stucco and some siding exteriors, a mix of red tile and shingled roofs. It was a decent neighbourhood where people looked after their property, pride of ownership shown in the nicely landscaped yards with gardens and trees and freshly re-coated driveways.

As I was heading up the walk to the front door at my parent’s blue stucco house, a retired neighbour watering his grass looked up and stared at me as if I had arrived on a spaceship from Jupiter. I nodded in his direction and said, in greeting, “Mr. Fernandez. Nice day out.”

Mr. Fernandez merely blinked at me in response. I looked at the door and wondered if I should knock on it or not. I’d grown up in this house and it seemed odd to suddenly knock on a door I’d always felt welcome to just walk through for most of my life. But being gone for three solid years made you wary of just waltzing into a house uninvited, even if it was your family home. So I knocked first, waited a few seconds, then tried the knob. I found it open. When would my mother ever learn? I stuck my head into the front alcove and said, “Hello? You home, mom?”

“Ricky!” I heard her voice burst. Seconds later she appeared in the alcove, wearing the same dress I’d last seen her in when she visited me in Folsom. My mother was short, dark hair going grey, a little heavier in the hips every year, her eyes lined. She was the only person in the world who still called me ‘Ricky’ as if I were a kid. “Ricky, you’re home! What are you standing there for?” She gave me a hug and pulled me into the house, shutting the door behind me. “Where’s your brother?” She wondered, looking me up and down as if I might have been in an accident and needed to be checked for wounds.

“I don’t know. He didn’t show up at the bus depot.”

“He didn’t?” She frowned. “I didn’t think he was serious when he said he wouldn’t go...I don’t know how he can hold such a grudge against you. You’re his only brother. Anyway, let’s not worry about Gregory, come in, put that bag down, are you hungry? You must be hungry. Let me make you a sandwich.”

I followed her to the kitchen. I sat at a table I’d never seen before in an unfamiliar chair. My mother also had a newer fridge and stove. I had spotted a better TV and different wallpaper in the living room, too.

“Well at least you don’t look like they starved you in that place. You seem bigger. Did you spend all your time lifting weights? Your arms are all muscle. And where did you get those tattoos?”

“There are a lot of tattoo artists in prison, mom.”

“But why did you get them? Won’t they hurt your chances for getting a good job?” She spoke with her back to me, busily putting together a ham sandwich with lettuce, tomato and cheese on it.

“I’ll wear long sleeves to the interviews, don’t worry.”

“At least you didn’t get one on your neck. I see that more and more these days, especially on the Latino boys.”

Our neighbourhood had always been a mix of Whites and Latinos. I had grown up with friends of both persuasions.

“How are you getting along without dad, mom?” I asked. My father had died six months ago, while I was still serving time.

She turned to look at me, the knife in her hand. “I’m fine, Ricky. I miss him, but I’m fine.”

“I know I’ve asked you this before, but did he leave you alright with money?”

She turned back around to cut my sandwich and add a couple of pickles to the plate. “Yes, I have his pension and he had life insurance. The house was already paid for. We had savings. I’m fine, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I can help out, now. If you want, I can stay here and look after the house and help with the bills. I’m going to see Robert about getting my job back tomorrow.”

She put the plate on the table in front of me and went to the fridge to get a jug of iced tea out. She poured two glasses of it and then sat at the table with me. “Of course you’re welcome to stay here, as long as you’d like. It’s your home. I don’t need help with the bills, though. I get by on the money I have.”

I ate the sandwich while she caught me up to date on the news regarding my aunts, uncles and cousins, none of which I’d seen since I was arrested nearly four years ago. She spoke about the neighbours and her friends and her volunteer duties at the hospital. My mother had been a nurse for 25 years. Trouble with her feet forced her to retire early. My dad was making enough money by then she didn’t have to work anymore. He had been the service manager at Oceanside’s largest Chevy dealership. An unexpected heart attack had taken him from us one Sunday afternoon while he was watching a NASCAR race on TV.

After my mother had finished with the updates, I was done with the sandwich and I took the plate to the sink and rinsed it off. “Have you heard from Nina?” I asked, trying to make it sound casual.

My mother paused. “She hasn’t called in awhile now, Ricky.” I could tell she didn’t want to talk about my ex-girlfriend. “You know she used to call every two weeks, but this last year...she sent a very nice card and some flowers to your father’s funeral. I really haven’t heard much from her since then.”

“She didn’t go?” I turned to look at my mother. She was pale suddenly.

“I didn’t see her there, but I wasn’t in my right mind that day, Ricky. Maybe she did and just never got a chance to say hello to me personally.”

“Nina wouldn’t have done that. Either she went or she didn’t. You’re saying she didn’t.”

My mother shrugged. “I’m sure she had a reason. Maybe she had to work and couldn’t get out of it.”

“You’re a saint, mom, to make excuses for her.” Nina’s visits and letters had been regular for the first eighteen months I was in prison. Then the letters stopped and the visits became more infrequent until they just stopped, too. Without an explanation.

My mother smiled at me. “You know I’ve always liked her. Maybe now that you’re out, the two of you can get back together.”

“Do you mind if I take a shower and get changed?”

“You don’t have to ask permission, Ricky. You’re home now.”

Three years of having to ask for permission for everything was habit-forming. I smiled at her and went and got my bag. All I had in it were clothes, a few books and magazines, a handful of CD’s, and my bathroom kit. Most of the stuff I’d accumulated in my cell I had given to my friends who were still inside. I went down the hall to my old room. Pushed the door open and was surprised to see my old bed and dresser were still there. I hadn’t lived at home for several years before they sent me away, but my parents had always kept the room made up for guests. All my old hot rod and pin-up girl posters were gone, along with the model cars and WWII airplanes I’d built, but the dresser had the clothes I’d left behind at my apartment in it, and a large box on the floor of the closet had the things I’d asked my parents to pack up and keep for me. DVD collection, die-cast car collection, more CD’s, a laptop computer, various kinds of hot rod magazines, tech manuals, a couple of trophies, high school and tech school diplomas, and photographs documenting my life before prison.

I resisted the urge to look at the pictures I had of Nina. Instead I pulled out a die-cast model of a ‘55 Bel Air and opened it’s trunk. Tucked inside it was a tight roll of $100 bills I’d never told anyone about. I pulled it out and peeled off four of them and put the rest back.

I picked out an old pair of Levis and a plain black t-shirt, a long comb and a jar of pomade, and took them with me to the bathroom. A quick shower before I got dressed, and then the comb and pomade to style my hair in the duck-tail greaser look I preferred. I’d forgone it and spent most of my time in prison with short hair, waiting for the last four months to let it grow out in preparation for my release.

The t-shirt fit tighter around the arms, shoulders and chest than it had before, and my new tattoos stood out against it. The jeans still fit around my waist and I pulled on a pair of black mechanic’s boots before I went out and found my mother on the phone to one of her friends, spreading the news that I was finally home from prison.

I went out the back door and approached the garage with trepidation. It was only big enough for two cars. I went to the side door and found it locked. At least she had enough sense not to leave the garage unlocked, I was glad to see. I went back to the house and looked for the key to the door and found them on the rack she’d always kept for such things.

Inside the garage were two cars- my dad’s ‘66 Chevy Caprice, a 427 4-speed car with bucket seats, black body with a single red pinstripe from nose to tail, with black vinyl top and red interior, perfectly restored to factory original condition except for the 15" American Torque Thrust wheels, BF Goodrich tires, and Hurst mufflers. It had a fine layer of dust on it from sitting for the last six months.

Next to that was my own creation. A 1932 Chevy 5-window Coupe, done in an old-school hot rod style. 5" chop to the roof, no hood, no fenders, lowered over the frame rails, red steelies with baby moons and whitewall tires, painted flat black, the interior flat black as well with a red bench seat and a skull-head for a shifter knob. My dad and I liked the same colour combination, although his car was all shiny and new-looking, and mine looked aged.

The hot rod had solid red flames on the sides with a thick white outline. In the open engine bay was a 409 engine out of a ‘62 Bel Air with a high-rise intake and three two-barrel carbs on a progressive linkage. The engine had been beefed up internally as well and was mated to a 4-speed trans leading to a 4:11 posi rear end. I’d painted the block red and it had aluminum valve covers. The firewall was painted with black and white checkers. Nearly 500 horsepower in a body that weighed only 2700 lbs with the driver in it meant for some bladder-weakening acceleration. It was loud, nasty, rude, unrefined and rode just the way I loved it.

It also had some dust accumulated. Supposedly my dad had kept it in running order for me while I was locked up, taking it for a short drive every now and then to keep everything moving properly and giving it a tune-up when it needed it. It was too rough and loud for him, even though his own Caprice was pretty unrefined by today’s standards, and it was a bit ironic that the younger of us preferred the older of the two cars. At least my hot rod had a Chevy engine in a Chevy body. My dad, a bow-tie fanatic down to his bones, wouldn’t have let me park anything else in his garage.

I got the main door open to let the light in. I took a slow walk around the hot rod to inspect it for any sign of damage or wear. It looked the same as I’d left it, except for the dust from the last six months. I worried that leaving the car sit for that long would cause problems. But I knew of cars that had sat for well over a year with no adverse effects, so I hoped for the best. I couldn’t have asked my mom to look after it after my dad died. She didn’t even drive. I had asked my brother if he would do me a favour that way- for both the cars in the garage- but he never responded to that letter, just like he never responded to any of the others I wrote him. I could tell by the dust on the cars he had ignored my request, even to the detriment of my dad’s car. I probably shouldn’t have asked- perhaps then he would have grudgingly done it out of respect for my father, instead of refusing to do it out of spite for me.

I opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. It felt good to be back inside my rod, so good I could have cried at that moment. For three long years I had thought of this day. Losing the freedom to drive my hot rod had been the second greatest hardship of being put into prison.

I got out of the car and resisted the urge to get to work on it right away. Instead I got my dad’s duster out and wiped the Caprice down before I popped the hood and checked all the fluids and looked under it for signs of trouble, then tested the air pressures in the tires and sniffed the gas filler with the cap off, before getting the keys and giving it a try. The thing started right up, the big 427 rumbling in a powerful note. I let it idle for some time to warm up all the fluids before putting it in gear and rolling it out of the garage carefully. I got out and took a walk around it, listening intently to the engine for any off-notes, watching the exhaust from the twin tail pipes for black or blue smoke, then got back in it and took it down to the street and turned right. I drove it around a four-block section of the neighbourhood, surprised at how agile it was for a big heavy car, the 427 making child’s play of the acceleration. Once I was satisfied the car was still in good running order, and I’d let it run for at least twenty minutes, I took it back to the garage and parked it.

Homage paid to my dad’s memory, I was able to get into my own car and turn the key to see what would happen. It went RRR-RRR, indicating a weak battery, but then turned over with a loud blast and filled the garage with the sound of one mean 409 with very little exhaust restriction. I went through the same process, letting it idle to get the temperatures up, then carefully putting it in gear and rolling it out of the garage. I stopped at the end of the driveway and got out to make an inspection, looking for dripping fluids or tell-tale signs from the colour of the exhaust. I’d almost forgotten how visceral it felt to hear that car run and to see it sitting in that aggressive stance, black with flames and beautiful in it’s way. I had not smoothed it out to the point where the body had no personality left. I liked it old-school, so that’s how I built it. All of the parts and modifications duplicated the late 50's, early 60's period of hot rodding a ‘32 Coupe.

Satisfied it was not sick from it’s extended stay in the garage, and silently thanking my dad for taking good care of it in my absence, I put it in first and rolled it out onto the street. I saw neighbours looking at the car, even through their closed windows, because it was nearly as loud as a Harley and with it’s low stance, menacing rake, unrefined paint and flames, it turned heads for better or worse.

I took it for a cruise. Night after night in prison I had dreamed of two things; Nina Vega and bombing around in my ‘32 Coupe. I knew how to find her, but I wasn’t sure if I should do that yet. I still felt like a man who’d landed on a distant planet and was trying to get oriented again. Even though most of the sights I saw were familiar, I was used to being hemmed in by concrete blocks and bars and the sense of freedom I felt was a little bit frightening. I thought everyone was staring at me. Of course, my car caused people to look. My ‘50's-era ducktail hairstyle and colourful tattoos only added to the show. People were looking at me, but not because I had a neon sign over my head saying, ‘Released from Folsom Prison Today’. I wondered how long it would be until that feeling wore off.

I drove down for a look at the beach and the pier. I parked near a stand and got a cold drink and sat on one of my front tires and admired the girls in their bathing suits, the kids laughing and running, a group of nuns in their habits baking in the heat as they bustled along like a bunch of penguins, studiously ignoring the criminal with the outlaw rod.

I saw a girl who looked like Nina from a distance and felt my heart stop. Then she turned and revealed herself to be just another pretty Latino girl. They had the same dark skin, long dark hair, similar curves, although few girls had curves like Nina did. I got back in my rod and started driving again. Looking at girls in bikinis after three years in Folsom was not doing me any good.

I drove by the shop where I used to work. My mother had assured me it was still there, but I had to see it for myself. The three years felt like ten while I was serving them. The idea that Oceanside itself would still exist when I got out seemed like a slim possibility, let alone all the places I was most familiar with. Robert’s Auto Body did still exist and looked as busy as ever, the parking lot in front stuffed full of cars in need of dent repairs and paint work. The serious accident victims were kept in back. It was just after six and the place was closed for the day. I saw Robert’s shop truck was still parked near the office door, however. It was a custom ‘56 Ford I had helped him with. Deep blue paint with yellow pinstriping, Radir wheels, pie-crust tires, lowered and shaved, we’d put a 454 Chevy big-block under the hood and did a retro-style lettering job on the doors. He drove it every day.

I parked beside it and got out. I didn’t know what sort of reception to expect. We hadn’t kept in touch while I was away. I hadn’t expected him to; between his business and family, Robert was a busy man. I tried the door and found it unlocked. The bell over it rang as I went through.

“We’re closed!” I heard him yell from within the office.

“I can read the sign.” I replied in a friendly tone.

“Well then why the-“ He had got up and stuck his head out the door to tell me to piss off and stopped when he saw who it was. “-shit. Rick Warren? That you?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “How are you doing, Rob?”

He stepped right out of the office and came to the counter. He held a stack of invoices in one hand, forgotten. He was staring at me, my much bigger arms and newer tattoos. “Shit, it is you. When’d you get out?”

“This morning.”

“Is that your old rod I heard?”

I nodded. “My dad kept it running for me.”

“How is your old man these days?”

“He died six months ago.”

Robert’s smile fell. “Shit, I didn’t know. Sorry to hear that, Rick. I liked him.”

I nodded. “Yeah, a lot of people did. Heart attack. My mom’s doing okay, though.”

“So you just bombing around the neighbourhood?”

“I see your truck still looks good.”

He grinned. “Hell, it still does, doesn’t it? People still stop and ask me about that thing. So what are your plans now? Got anything lined up?”

“I was hoping to come back here.” I said, trying not to look at the floor as I asked.

“Here?” Robert blurted the word, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. His body tensed, and creases formed around his eyes. “Yeah. Shit, Rick, uh, I don’t know what to say about that. I got all the guys I need right now.”

I glanced out the dirty window at the cars practically piled on top of each other in the parking lot. “You look busy enough.”

“Oh, well, yeah we’re busy, but there’s only so many work bays and I got guys in them all. In fact, I think I might have one or two too many, they’re tripping over each other out there. Not that I wouldn’t- I mean, if I had an opening, Rick, it would be yours. I’m not saying it’s because of the prison thing.”

I nodded. I had never expected him to keep a job open for me. It wasn’t like I’d joined the militia, I’d been sent to prison. “It’s okay. You know if anybody else is hiring?”

Robert sucked some air in through his teeth, squinting at the ceiling. “Shit. Hiring. Uh, not off the top of my head but...oh, you know, the Banderas Brothers might be looking for someone to do prep work. You could check with them.”

“I thought they only hired Mexicans.”

Rob shrugged. “If they need a guy and you’re available, what difference does it make?”

“I guess I could ask.”

“Where are you staying?”

“My mother’s house for now. I figure she could use the help, with my Dad gone.”

“Leave me your number. If I hear of anything I’ll call you. You know there’s always people coming and going in this business.”

I wrote the phone number of my parent’s house on the back of one of Rob’s own business cards and gave it to him. He tucked it into a shirt pocket. “Nice seeing you again, Rick. I gotta get back to these.” He waved the invoices in his hand. He held out his other one over the counter. We shook.

I walked out of the place, not expecting to hear from him again. Rob didn’t hire ex-cons. Guys who’d spent a couple weekends in jail over some minor things were alright, but anyone who’d been to a State or Federal prison for a stretch were not welcome in his shop. He ran a straight business, no shady stuff, and wanted to keep it that way. I supposed it didn’t matter that I’d spent two years there, doing what I thought was a good job, getting to be friends with him and his family, wife Mary, twin kids named Billy and Betty.

I’d been warned about that sort of thing while I was in Folsom. People you thought were your friends before, don’t want anything to do with you when you get out. It’s like you have a disease and they’re afraid you’re contagious. I got in my car and drove away. Perhaps I was overreacting. He probably did have all the guys he needed. It wouldn’t be fair to one of them to be let go just to give me a job. They probably had wives and kids to feed, and what did I have? A hot rod that needed gas, and an ex-girlfriend who was done with me, a brother who wouldn’t speak to me. That’s it.

I took a drive past some of the hang-outs I’d frequented with my friends before prison. I saw a lot of hot rods and customs cruising around and parked here and there, many I recognized, many I didn’t. The scene hadn’t changed that much, except I saw a lot more unfinished, rough-looking rods with no paint and the rust and dents left untouched than before. It seemed like ugly was the new cool. When I’d first built my car it had seemed rough around the edges, but at least it had paint and the wheels matched and the engine looked clean and reliable. Some of the stuff I saw now looked like it had been hauled straight out of a junk pile and breathed back to life by Dr. Frankenstein. Wicked chops and ultra-low ride heights were all the rage. My car looked almost mundane in comparison to some of the others I saw. I didn’t care. My rod was built to my taste. It certainly wasn’t out of style yet, but I wouldn’t care if it was.

I was considering whether I wanted to turn around and go back to a drive-in burger shop that had a few cars I recognized parked in front of it, wanting to re-connect with some of my old cruising buddies, when I noted a cop in my mirror and glanced down at my speedo to see I was rolling along about eight miles an hour over the speed limit. I slowed the car, but it didn’t matter, the blue and red cherries came on, and the siren gave one blip, so I pulled up to a stop in front of a Honda dealership.

The cop was female. Blonde and pretty, hair pulled back tight. She had a serious expression, though. “License and registration, please.” She was looking past me at the other side of the seat and the floor to be sure I didn’t have any weapons or drugs laying out in the open, keeping one hand resting on her gun.

I fished them out and handed them over. “Was I speeding that much?” I asked.

“Your license plates are out of date, sir.” She informed me. She looked at my paperwork and waved the driver’s license at me. “And this hasn’t been renewed in three years.”

I shook my head slowly and said to her, “I should have thought of that. I’ve been away for three years. As soon as I got back I just jumped in the car for a little spin. I completely forgot about the paperwork.”

She didn’t seem to care. “Wait right here, sir.”

I waited for ten minutes while she sat in her cruiser, probably learning all about my recent release from prison and tallying up the various fines she could give me. I was pretty sure my insurance had lapsed, too. She came back eventually and handed me my papers. I was surprised not to see a stack of tickets in her hand. “Sir, do you understand that if you’re going to drive around Oceanside you need to have your paperwork in compliance with the law?”

“I’ll take care of it first thing. I just forgot. I know you hear that bullshit all the time, but in this case it’s true.”

She gave me a steady look. “I know where you spent the last three years, Mr. Warren. You know I don’t often cut people like you a break.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

“I happen to be friends with your brother, though. So this one time I’m going to let you skate. But if I pull you over again, and I find anything amiss, I won’t be so lenient, you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I suggest you take this car straight home and leave it there until your paperwork is up to date.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” I smiled at her.

She gave me a bitter look and walked away. She waited for me to leave and then pulled out to follow. She wanted to be sure I would head back home and not just blow her off. She knew my address now, so I turned the next corner to get myself pointed in the right direction. She continued to follow me for another five blocks before she turned around and drove off. 90% of me wanted to ignore her request and go look for my friends. The other 10% realized that if she saw me again in an hour or two still driving my hot rod, she might not be so pleasant about it. Because of my probation, I was in no position to piss off the law at the moment.

So I took my car home. I went into the house and found my mother making supper. “There you are! We have to get you a cell phone, Ricky. I’m making your favourite and I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

I looked at the pots on the stove. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t be silly.” She looked at my hair. “I see nothing’s changed. Are you sure you want to get back into that life?”

“That life is my only life, mom.”

“I just hoped you would make a fresh start.” She glanced at my tattoos again. “Who are they supposed to be?”

“Marilyn Monroe and Bettie Page. You should recognize them.”

“Why did you get flames up both arms? You look like you’re on fire.”

“Because they’re cool. Don’t worry about my tats, mom. They’re just art. I don’t have swastikas or anything like that.”

“Get cleaned up, supper will be ready in a few minutes. I wonder where that brother of yours is?”

“Not coming, I suspect.”

She looked at me. “I told him he had to.”

“Greg’s a cop, mom. He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to.”

“Well if he expects to be welcome in this home again, he’ll show up like I asked him to.”

I went to the bathroom to wash up for dinner, feeling like I was ten years old again. My poor mother, one son a cop and the other a convict, trying to bridge an impossible gap between us.

I went back out and moments later, the front door opened and Greg walked in. He was dressed in his uniform, black shirt and pants with badge and gun and handcuffs. His hair was buzzed short like a Marines’. He was older than I was by two years. We stood the same height. Before I’d gone to prison, he had been bigger than I was in the arms and chest from working out. Now I was bigger than he was. He looked me up and down without saying anything for a moment. Then Greg observed, “Jesus, you even look like you’re fresh out.”

My mother turned on him. “I did not invite you here just to have you start trouble, Gregory. Ricky is your brother. Or have you forgotten that?”

He stared at me, his dark eyes and strong jaw set in hostility. “No, I can’t forget it, mom. The guys I work with remind me of it every day. ‘How’s the jailbird doing?’ ‘He got any new boyfriends in Folsom?’ I hear it all the time.”

“And I suppose you never thought to stand up for him instead of just letting them make fun.” My mother pointed out. Greg’s size and his uniform didn’t intimidate her in the least. Looking up at him she was like a bulldog with her aggressiveness. Greg regarded her and bared his teeth at me.

“You always were the favourite.”

“Gregory Warren, that’s nonsense and you know it! I love you both. Despite your faults. Now will you sit down and have a civil dinner with us?”

Greg pulled out the chair that had always been my father’s. He sat in it and waited for me to do the same. I reluctantly sat down with him. My mother filled three plates with spaghetti- two of them heaping, added some sauce to each and set them before us. Her own plate had less than half what ours did. There was warm buttered garlic bread in a basket on the table. She also had a bottle of red wine opened and ready. “Greg, will you pour the wine?”

“You allowed to drink any alcohol?” Greg asked me as he tipped the bottle into my mother’s glass. “I don’t want to be the cause of any parole violations.”

“He can have one glass of wine with his dinner.” My mother stated with certainty, as if they’d have to haul her off to prison if anyone tried to stop me.

Greg poured himself a glass and set the bottle down, leaving me to get my own. He picked up a fork and dug into the spaghetti. My mother wasn’t Italian but she made the best plate of spaghetti I’d ever tasted. Maybe it was just because I was used to her recipe, but I liked it better than any other I’d had. They served it often in prison- we got lots of pasta in there because it was cheap- but that had always been over-cooked and the sauce as bland as possible. Now it was nice to have a real plate of the stuff cooked right for a change.

My mother did most of the talking. She asked Greg about his wife and kids. She had wanted just the three of us for this particular dinner. She said to him, “I hope you don’t plan to rush off as soon as you’re done eating, I have some things I have to talk to you boys about.”

“I’m working, mom.” Greg pointed out to her. “I’ve only got an hour.”

“That’s long enough.” She looked at him. “Is that why you didn’t pick Ricky up at the bus station today? Because you were working?”

“I figured if he saw a cruiser coming, he’d run the other way.” He glanced at me. “You found your way home alright, didn’t you?”

I didn’t answer before my mother said, “It was the least you could have done. He had to take the city bus to get here.”

Greg shrugged. “He found his own way to Folsom, I figured he could find his own way home.”

I said, “You guys can stop talking about me as if I’m not here.”

Greg turned his mirthless grin on me again, “Sorry, bro, we sort of got used to it.”

“That’s enough.” My mother put her fork down with a bang. “Gregory, he is your brother and you will treat him like a brother. He made a mistake. He’s paid his debt. You don’t have to keep punishing him. It’s time we started over. I want you two to trust each other and support each other.”

“Trust him?” Greg blurted. “He’s a fu- a criminal, mom. I chase guys like him down and lock them up every day. They spit on me, take swings at me, threaten my wife and kids, they’re all scum. And he’s one of them.”

My mother stood up and shouted, something she never did when we were kids except in the most extreme circumstances. “He is not scum! He’s your flesh and blood and he’s all you have in this world!”

Greg leaned back in the chair. “All I have? I have you. I have Linda and Bobby and Angela. The guys I work with, they’re my brothers. I trust them. We support each other. Rick’s from a different world. He’s the enemy.”

“Enemy?” My mother exploded. She pointed at me. “He’s sitting right here, your brother, who you grew up with in this house, and you say he’s your enemy? What has he ever done to you?”

Greg stood up and tapped his badge with a finger. “Rick insulted this. When you insult this, you insult me. This is who I am. I’m a cop. I hate criminals. I’d like to take all those drug-dealing, child-molesting pieces of shit and line them up against a wall and execute them Chinese-style.”

“Ricky did not deal drugs or molest children! How dare you compare him to people like that?”

“He just spent three years taking showers and sleeping with them, that’s why. Those are his buddies now. Those scum-buckets are his brothers. Pimps and dealers and rapists. Wife-beaters and hop-heads. Guys who’d knife you for the change in your purse. That’s his family. Mine wears a badge. His wears the handcuffs. I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“Well you don’t have a choice.” My mother informed him, anger making her nostrils flare. “I’m not going to be here forever. And then it’s going to be just the two of you.”

“Jesus, mom, don’t worry about it.” Greg scoffed.

“I have a right to worry about it. No one expected your father to go as quickly as he did, so how do you know if I’ll still be here in a week or a month? Are you going to let me die not knowing that my sons have put aside their differences?”

Greg ducked his head with a scowl. “You’re not going to die next week.”

“For all you know I could die tonight!” She stated angrily. “You should know that by now. You can’t treat your brother as if you’ve got the next fifty years to make it up to him. Forget that badge you wear and think of your family. How would your father feel right now if he was here? He didn’t turn his back on Ricky.”

Greg moved towards the door. “He understood where I was coming from.”

“Don’t you tell me what your father understood, Gregory Warren. He expected you to come around eventually when you got finished being angry. People make mistakes. None of us are perfect, including you. How dare you hold yourself above Ricky as if you’ve never done anything you’re not proud of? Have you been a saint all your life?”

“Thanks for the spaghetti, mom. I know it’s Rick’s favourite. I’ll call you sometime.” He walked out and the door slammed behind him.

My mother fell into her chair, her face in her hands. I went over and put a hand on her shoulder. “Mom, it’s alright. I don’t care if he’s pissed off at me. I don’t need him to hold my hand.”

“I feel like a complete failure.” She confessed to me.

“A failure? That’s bullshit. You’re doing everything you can.”

“I can’t even get my two boys to talk to each other.”

“Oh, hell. I’ll talk to him, mom. I’ll take a case of beer over to his place some night and we’ll work it out, don’t worry.”

“Will you promise to try? For three years I’ve been begging him to be reasonable. He just refuses to see you as his brother any more. He acts like you’re a complete stranger to him.”

“It would be hard for any cop to have a brother in prison. It doesn’t make life easy for him. Other cops are probably suspicious of him. Maybe he’s not getting promotions he should have got. Who knows? It wasn’t easy for me, being inside, meeting guys Greg had arrested. I didn’t exactly advertise that he was my brother. But it’s my fault, what happened. I made life hard for both of us. For you and dad, too. I’m sorry about that. If I could go back in time and undo it, I would.”

“I know that.” She clutched at my hand for a moment. She stood up, looking at the table. “You haven’t finished your supper.”

“I’m not hungry anymore, mom. It tasted great, though. I really missed your spaghetti. Thanks a lot for making it.”

“Your Uncle James and Aunt Janet are coming over later tonight, they’d like to see you.”

“Yeah? Sure. Uh, listen, did you keep the plates and everything current on dad’s Caprice?”

She frowned at the question. “Well, I know he kept everything like that up to date before he died, Ricky.”

“Would you mind if I took it out? My plates have expired, so I can’t drive the Deuce just yet.”

She tilted her head at me with an indulgent look. “That car is yours, now, Ricky. He left it to you.”

I blinked at that. This bit of news had not got to me while I was incarcerated. I just presumed everything went to my mother. “He did? What about Greg, though? Isn’t he entitled to half?”

“Greg got his gun collection. Your father thought you’d appreciate his car more. And, well, obviously he couldn’t leave you any of the guns, under the circumstances.”

“No. So the guns are gone, right? Greg took them?” My parole conditions forbade me from having any guns in the house.

“Yes. And that car is yours. You just have to get the name changed over at the bureau. I thought it could wait until you got home.”

I nodded. So the Caprice was mine. Even though it had been six months since he died, I hadn’t ever considered that the car would be given to me. It was always just my dad’s. We’d never discussed things like what would happen to it after he died. He was still too young for conversations like that, at least before I went away to prison. Now I knew why Greg had ignored my request to look after it while I was still doing time. The car wasn’t our dad’s anymore, it was mine.

I got the keys for it and went back out to the garage. I looked at it with a new appreciation before I got in it. I had always been a hot rod guy, and always would be, but if I had to have a mid- 60's car, then the Caprice was a good choice. From the taillights to the front grill, it just looked mean. Technically, it wasn’t a muscle car, as it was a full-sized vehicle, but with that 427 big block, the 4-speed tranny, Hurst mufflers and the bucket seats, it sure sounded like one, felt like one, and drove like one.

I checked the plates and saw that they were current. The insurance papers were still valid. I jumped in the machine and started it again. I pulled out and onto the street. I just had to get away from the house and drive somewhere. Compared to my hot rod, the Caprice felt huge, and I could feel the extra thousand pounds on all the corners. But it went over the bumps a lot smoother and had more than enough power to carry it’s weight. It was a far more comfortable car to sit in and the power brakes, tilt-column power steering, and power windows were a treat. Having a radio didn’t hurt, either. Those were all amenities my hot rod lacked. I’d built it that way on purpose, of course, because that was true to it’s style. My dad had left the radio tuned to a classic rock station so all I had to do was turn up the volume a little.

I went back down the main drag, checking out the other cars and the Betties with renewed interest. I stopped for gas and picked up a six-pack of beer. I cracked one open and sipped at it surreptitiously as I continued to cruise, checking the gauge cluster regularly in case one of the idiot lights came on. The beer tasted funny after three years without one. I was sure I would get used to it again, though. I pulled into a parking lot where a bright purple ‘40 Willys built in a straight-axle gasser style was parked among flamed and chopped hot rods and customs of various years and makes. Most of the guys standing around looked something like I did, with retro clothing, hair, and lots of tats. The girls with them wore vintage clothing and had their hair done to match and were stiff competition in the tats department. I climbed out of the Caprice and approached a tall, snake-thin man in a brown bomber jacket and a flat-top haircut. When he recognized me his narrow face split into a wide grin. He stepped towards me with a fist out and I bumped it with my own.

“Well look what the fucking cat coughed up.” He greeted me. “If it isn’t the fucking criminal of the century. How the fuck are you doing, man?”

“Doing great right now. What about you, Streak?” My friend had earned his nick-name in high school on a dare to run naked around the court during a girl’s basketball game.

“I’m still hitting on all eight cylinders, man. When the fuck did they let you out?”

“Today. This morning. I just got back to town a few hours ago.”

He looked past me at the Caprice. “Where’s your rod, man? Don’t tell me you had to sell it.”

“No, no. It’s at home. The plates were expired. I’ll have it on the road soon.”

“Isn’t that your old man’s car?”

“It was, yeah. Mine, now, I guess.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. I forgot, man. I’m really sorry about that. I was at the wake. Did your mom tell you?”

“She told me a lot of my friends were there, Streak. Thanks for that.”

“It was a shitty deal they wouldn’t let you out for it. That’s just wrong.”

“All in the past now, Streak. So how’s your Willys holding up?”

“Oh, man. I got that fucker into the 9's. Come have a look at this. Hey, you guys, this is Rick Warren, an old buddy of mine, he used to run with the Rippers, you should see his fucking ‘32 Chevy, that thing is fucking wicked, man.”

He introduced me around to the other guys and the girls they were with, all people I didn’t know from before. Then we took a look at his Willys with the nose flipped over while Streak described the modifications they’d made to the 426 Hemi that powered it since I’d been incarcerated. The car had been pulling high 10's in the quarter mile the last time I saw it. It was one of the baddest street-legal nostalgic rods in Oceanside, built for duty on the drag strip as well, with skinny tires on front and big fat M/T’s on the back. It rode high, it’s purple paint full of metalflake, a bright orange flame-job over the nose and fat fenders really setting it off. Even in a town full of hot rods that thing stood out. He even had the words ‘Look at Me!’ lettered cartoon-style on the deck lid, a text-book case of redundancy. We had helped to build each other’s cars, along with a number of other guys. Streak was one of the few who had come to visit me on occasion.

After we looked over the car we hopped into it and he drove, wanting to demonstrate just how much faster it was now. He told me all about the races he’d been in lately and how he had posted a best time of 9.89 at the last big nostalgic drag meet a couple of weeks ago, an event I was sorry I’d missed. We lurched down the street in the wild Willys, Streak playing with the gas and scaring the soccer moms in their minivans, until he found a large open parking lot and pulled into it.

“Look for cops.” He instructed, and we both took a long hard scan of 360 degrees before we judged it was all clear. Then he got the revs up and did a powerful burn-out, sending up a monstrous white cloud that enveloped the whole car before he was done. The stink of the burned rubber made my nose tingle. That was a smell I had missed. I caught myself grinning.

“Hold onto something.” Streak warned me while he got the revs up again and then punched it. We launched hard, the nose of the car lifting so high we were looking at the clouds and a passing airplane before it came down again. Streak was sawing at the steering wheel to keep the Willys straight and the Hand of God was pressing me into the seat. We tore across that parking lot at a blood-curdling rate of speed. Streak shut it down and got hard on the brakes as the edge of the parking lot neared and got it to stop just feet from the guard rail.

“How’d that feel?” He grinned at me, watching for my reaction.

“She launches like a cannon ball.”

“I can get four feet of air under the front tires. I got video of it at home.”

“We’d better get out of here in case someone calls the cops.” I suggested.

He took us back to the burger joint where the others were waiting. I noticed a couple of guys looking over my Caprice, one of them looking into the driver’s side window at the gauge cluster and the other on his back, his legs sticking out from under the trunk. I got out of the Willys and Streak came with me to go over to them. One of them looked up at me. “You know who owns this car?”

He had grey hair and wore a leather Corvette jacket.

“I do.” I answered.

“That a real 427 car?”

“Numbers-matching.”

He nodded. “You consider selling it?”

“Sorry, no. It was my dad’s car and he left it to me.”

“I’d pay the right kind of money for it.”

The second man got up from under the car, dusting off his hands on his jeans. “All good.” He told the Corvette guy.

“It’s not for sale, sorry.” I informed them both.

“Sure you won’t think about it?”

“Very sure, thanks.”

The man fished out a business card and handed it to me. “Just in case you change your mind. I’m looking for a car just like this. Even if you hear of another one, give me a call, okay? Money’s not the issue. It’s finding the right car.”

I took the card. “Don’t hold your breath on this one, though. It’s not going anywhere.”

He held out his hand. “Jim Breaker. Just give it some thought for me. Nice meeting you.”

We shook and he walked off with his friend, the two of them discussing the Caprice as they headed towards a ‘63 split-window ‘Vette painted a very dark green, looking like a 100-point show winner. The Corvette rolled out with a nice burble.

Streak said, “I didn’t know Caprice’s were such collectibles.”

“Compared to Impalas and Chevelles, they aren’t.” I shrugged. “But finding one like this wouldn’t be easy.” I looked at the card. It identified him merely as a licensed Auto Appraiser and supplied a cell phone number and nothing else. Which reminded me that I had to get a cell phone of my own. I looked at my watch and saw that it wasn’t yet 9:00. “I’ve got to go.” I said to Streak, “I just got back and there’s a lot of shit I need to do.”

“Aw, man, let’s go have a few beers. I’m buying.”

“Maybe later, buddy. I got business first.”

“You know where to find me, right?”

“I’ll see you soon.”

I drove to the nearest place that sold cell phones and spent twenty minutes discussing my options with a pretty salesgirl who flirted with me the whole time, demonstrating how to program a number by putting her own cell number on it for me. I parted with $120 and she had it activated for me on the spot. The phone was a lot smaller than the last one I’d owned, and it had a lot more features, too. It doubled as a camera and I could even access the internet on it. I sat in the Caprice with it for however long it took to set up a basic e-mail account and an answering service to take voice messages. I programmed my mother’s phone number into it. I realized I didn’t have any others at that time to add to it. How was that for a measure of my social life? I was going to delete the salesgirl’s number but decided to leave it there for now.

I called my mother just to make sure the thing was working.

“Your aunt and uncle are here to see you.” She said in a disconcerted tone.

“Tell them I’m sorry. I’m catching up with some old friends. The time got away.”

“Well are you coming home soon? How long do you expect them to wait?”

This was one of several sets of aunts and uncles who did not come to my trial and had not visited or corresponded with me while I was in prison. I felt no need to interrupt my busy schedule to go see them. “It’s not as if I’m going back to prison tomorrow, mom. I’ll see them some other time.”

“Ricky, you’re being rude. I told you they were coming.”

“Mom, it’s Friday night. I’ve got friends I want to see. People who stuck by me all this time.”

She got the hint. “Okay, I’ll give them your apologies. Don’t get into any trouble, young man. I know those friends of yours are a wild bunch.”

I took a sip of beer. “Thanks, mom. Don’t wait up for me, okay? But leave the back door unlocked; I don’t have a key.”

I turned the phone off and drove half-way across town to a rougher neighbourhood where most of the cars were low-riders and the population was 80% Mexican. I pulled up in front of a clothing store that was closed and went to the door that was squeezed between it and the electronics store next to it. I found it unlocked and walked up the stairs to the second floor, which led to a hallway with two doors on either side leading off it. All of the stores had apartments above them. I went to the second one on my right and knocked on it. I had no idea if the girl I was looking for still lived there or not.

“Who is it?” The voice was Mexican.

“Rick Warren.”

I heard a lock turn and a chain slide off. The door opened and the big brown eyes of Alicia, my ex-girlfreind’s older, fatter sister blinked at me. She only held the door open a foot. A TV was on behind her, a couple of kids laying on the floor in front of it. I saw a man’s feet on the raised footrest of a recliner, a hole in one of his socks letting his big toe stick through. The rest of him was obscured by a wall.

“When did you get out?” Alicia demanded.

I often wondered if Nina would gain the same kind of weight and not take it off if she had a couple of kids. Alicia was still a pretty girl, she was just heavy now. Heavier than I remembered her. “How are you doing, Alicia? Are the kids well?”

“The kids are fine, Rick. What do you want?”

“I just got back to town today and I wanted to say hello.”

“That’s bullshit. She doesn’t want to see you, Rick. She’s got someone new.”

I had suspected as much and tried to prepare myself for the news, but it still felt like a wooden stake in the chest to hear it confirmed. “Where can I get in touch with her, though? Just to say hi.”

Alicia’s husband-of-the-month called out something to her in Spanish.

“A friend of Nina’s.” She replied to him in a cross tone. She turned back to look at me. “I can’t get in the middle of it, Rick. You know that.”

“A phone number, Alicia. She can tell me herself that way.”

“She doesn’t want you to call her. She’s started over. You’re in the past now. Just leave her alone.”

“Nina and I were in love, Alicia. You know that. We were going to get married.” She narrowed her eyes. “Well, it’s a good thing she didn’t do that, then. She doesn’t need a man who ends up in prison. She can do better for herself. You go find yourself another girl.”

“What if I give you my number? Can you pass it on to her? Then she can call me if she feels like it. Tell her I just want to talk.”

“Just leave us alone, Rick. She doesn’t need a jailbird. She has a good man now. She’s happy, so you leave her alone.” Alicia shut the door on me. I heard the lock turn and the chain slide back on.

I went back down and got the Chevy rolling. Crossed back over to the main cruising strip and rode along in the big car for awhile, thinking of Nina, my freedom still artificial, as if I expected the guards to come rolling up in a prison bus and grab me and take me back to my cell. I spotted a bright yellow hi-boy roadster with a large pair of Mooneyes on the deck lid. I pulled up beside it and leaned over a little towards the passenger window to yell out of it, “Hey, Pretty Boy, you got that twenty bucks you owe me?”

Pretty Boy- his real name was Floyd, and with a heavy, pock-marked face he was anything but pretty- did a double-take when he saw who was driving beside him and grinned at me. “I gave it to your mother!” He yelled back with a laugh.

“Don’t tell me about your sex life, I want my money!”

He pointed ahead with a heavy finger, indicating I should pull up. I drove around him and then to the side of the road and stopped. Pretty Boy stopped right behind me and climbed out of his little yellow rod and walked up to my driver’s window. His co-pilot was a gum-smacking platinum blonde with huge tits. She stood beside him eyeballing my car while Pretty Boy slung a heavy arm around her. His pot-belly had gotten smaller since I’d last seen him. “You’re losing weight.” I remarked. “What are you doing to him, Caroline?” I asked his girlfriend.

“She makes me work it off in bed.” He grinned. “We’re trying to get pregnant.”

“Where are you gonna put kids in your hi-boy?”

“Rumble seat.” He shrugged. “I already put it in.”

“So how have you been?”

“Pretty good. I’m shop foreman now over at Precision. Got a good raise. We bought a little house on Orange Grove Lane. You should come over, we’ll barbeque some burgers.”

“What happened to your other car?” Caroline asked me. She was a transplant from Brooklyn and still had the accent.

“I’ve still got it. This was my dad’s. He left it to me. I’m just out giving it a test-drive.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?” She asked.

“I got parole. They let me out this morning. Have you two seen Nina around?”

Pretty Boy responded, “Nina? You mean she didn’t keep in touch?”

“She did at first. I haven’t heard from her in almost a year now. I just wanted to say hello to her, let her know I’m free again.”

Pretty Boy frowned and thought about it. “I haven’t seen Nina in six months, dude. I don’t know where she is.” He looked at Caroline, “Is she still working at that place?”

The blonde shook her head, “No, she quit that job. Last time I saw her, she was out with some guy in a chopped Merc. But that was awhile ago. I don’t think she’s even in town anymore.”

“Do you know anyone who might know where she is?” I asked.

Caroline shrugged, then said, “I’ve got my phone in the car. I’ll call a couple girls I know.” She walked away. Pretty Boy watched her go.

“I’ve been trying to get her pregnant for five months.” He told me. “She’s in a bitchy mood all the time because it isn’t working. I think I’m shooting blanks. Remember that time we went to Tijuana?”

We were young and we there to blow our money on girls and tequila. I came out of it okay but Pretty Boy got the clap. “Yeah, I remember.”

He shrugged, grinning at the memory. “Anyway, we’re gonna go see a specialist if nothing sticks in the next month.”

“Well I wish you the best of luck there.”

“I married her.” He held up a ring for me. “A year ago. Wish you coulda been there, man. We missed you.”

“Hell, do you know how much I wish I could have been there, too?”

“What was it like, man? Folsom?”

I shrugged. “It was prison. You’re not supposed to enjoy it.”

“You get into any beefs in there?”

“I minded my own business. It wasn’t always easy. You’ve got the Aryans and they expect you to join up if you’re white. We were outnumbered by the Mexicans. They had a bunch of gangs and were mostly at war with each other, though. I stayed neutral. Can you believe I made license plates?”

Pretty Boy laughed, one gold tooth shining. “No shit? They still do that in the prisons?”

“Yes, they do. I had experience with metal work, so they put me in the license plate shop. All I did was feed the stamping machine, sometimes I’d pack up the finished plates, anyone could have done it.”

“You worked out.” He noted, looking at my arms. “And you got some flames. Those are fucking good, man, who did them?”

I held an arm out for him to inspect the artwork. “Guy inside named Da Vinci. You should see the stuff he does. He’s in for life, no parole, they’ve let him have his own cell, he’s got a whole shop set up in there, the walls papered in samples, you’ve got to make an appointment to see him, pay in advance, and he doesn’t work cheap. But look at this stuff. Look at my Marilyn. Have you ever seen a better one?”

I turned in the car and pulled the sleeve up on my right shoulder to expose the Marilyn Monroe on the side of my upper arm.

“Shit, man, that almost looks like a photograph.” Pretty Boy remarked. “Maybe I should get sent to Folsom so I can meet this guy. I got a new P-51.” He turned and pulled up on the back of his t-shirt to show me the WWII fighter plane he had tattooed on his right shoulder. It was a good job.

“I like it. Is that Max’s work?”

“Yeah.” He turned back around. He pulled up on a pant leg and turned his ankle so that I could see a likeness of Jayne Mansfield on his calf. “That’s who Caroline wants to look like.”

Caroline might have had the tits and hair, but the rest of her had a ways to go. I didn’t say so. “The tat’s great. Max is getting better.”

“This isn’t Max. He’s got some new chick working there. She did this one. Cherry’s her name. Sweet babe. Next time I might get her to put something on my dick.”

I laughed. In a moment, Caroline was back, still smacking gum. “The news is, she met a rich guy, lives in a swanky house on the beach, doesn’t have to work anymore, they go up to L.A. to shop on Rodeo Drive and meet with movie stars for lunch. I’d say you’re out of luck.”

“Did you get a name or an address?”

“His name’s Lucas, but not George Lucas. The house is supposedly on Bay Beach Road, but I didn’t get a number. He’s the guy with the ‘51 Merc I saw. Apparently he has a whole collection of cars. People have seen her in a ‘64 Impala and in a ‘33 Ford, all of them supposedly gorgeous cars, always with the same guy. Oh, and he’s gorgeous, too. Looks like Brad Pitt or something. I’d say you’re out-classed.”

“Thanks, Caroline.”

“No problem. I got a sister who’s single, she don’t mind guys who’ve done time.”

“I’ll let you know if I need a date.”

Pretty Boy asked, “Have you seen Lenny yet?”

I shook my head.

Pretty Boy noted the grim look on my face. “He’s around. He doesn’t drive that ‘56 anymore, though. You looking for him?”

“I’ve got to watch myself while I’m on parole. I’ll catch up to him eventually.”

Caroline was looking between us. “What did Lenny do?”

“Ratted Rick out for a reward.”

I asked, “What kind of car does he have now?”

“A ‘39 Ford. Johnny Marks built it, you probably know it. Wicked chop. 331 Cadillac mill. Blue suede paint. Black wheels with bullet caps. You can’t miss it. I see him around.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Where are you going now?”

“I’m just cruising.”

Caroline spoke up, “I gotta work in the morning. We can’t be out late.”

Pretty Boy shrugged. “She’s waiting tables at this breakfast place, they open at 6:00 am.”

“Then I’ll see you later.” I smiled. “Oh, I got a new cell phone.” I told Pretty Boy the number and then I left them.

It was bad enough that Nina had found another man. That he was rich and lived on the beach didn’t help any. I tried to remember if I knew anyone named Lucas with a collection of hot rods. I didn’t, but that wasn’t too surprising, since I’d never run with the rich crowd. Also, our hobby was suddenly in vogue, so that instead of the millionaires looking down their noses at what they called ‘rat rods’, instead they were buying them up and driving around in them for the ‘hey, look, I’m cool,’ factor. Perhaps that was what Nina had found herself, a rich boy who was playing at being a hot rodder because he had the money to buy them.

I looked closely at all the dark-haired girls in all the nicer cars I saw on the strip in the hopes of finding her, but after an hour of driving and down to my last beer, I was tired from a long day that started at dawn when I got up and finished packing my things in my cell and waited to be processed out of Folsom. I took the Caprice home and locked the garage. I went in through the back door and locked that, too.

I went to my room and drank my last beer, sitting up on my bed, looking at the photos I had of Nina. Standing next to my Coupe when it was finished, grinning and posing like a pin-up girl for a car magazine, wearing cut-off denim shorts and a white Von Dutch t-shirt tied in a knot to expose her midriff. Nina at the beach in her pink and white polka-dot bikini. Nina at the nostalgia drags with my arm around her, wearing a red dress with my black leather jacket over her shoulders. Nina with her back turned to me, showing the new tattoo of my ‘32 Coupe on her lower back.

Nina had long dark hair, black and wavy, brown eyes as deep as a water well, a chin that came to a soft point, lips that pouted like a cupie doll’s, a small aristocratic nose. Her skin was sandalwood in colour, her shape nothing short of spectacular, shoulders and hips in perfect proportion, full firm breasts and buttocks with a narrow waist, neither too thin or too heavy, able to turn heads in any company. She could have been a model, but eschewed the many offers. She never craved the spotlight; she didn’t want thousands of men to adore her, the one thing she craved was love. And only from one man. She was the most passionate woman I’d ever met, really just a girl when we first started dating, no more than 17 at the time. I was the first white boy she’d ever gone out with. I was in love with her ten minutes after we’d met.

I’d wanted to marry her but her family refused to hear of it until she’d finished school, not just high school but secretarial school after that. They wanted her to become a medical secretary so she could meet a doctor and marry him. Instead she met me.

She fell in love with me and the whole hot rod lifestyle, the cars, the music, the parties. She loved the clothes and the hairstyles and the tattoos. She dropped being a secretary and took a job in a shop that sold vintage clothing and accessories, making decent money on her sales commissions. She was immediately popular everywhere I took her.

Despite her devastating looks, the other girls liked her rather than got catty with her, with a few memorable exceptions. She was modest and always quick to compliment others. She was a genuine sweetheart with the temper of a tornado. We had fights, too, yelling that woke up the neighbours, plates and lamps flying through the air in our little apartment, declarations of war, she was often packing her suitcases and threatening to move back home, or in with one of her many sisters.

I bought a lot of flowers and candy and did a lot of apologizing so that I wouldn’t lose her. I could still appreciate a good-looking girl, but I didn’t want anyone but Nina Vega. She was the only girl in the world I could love.

I went to sleep and had dreams of her. In some of them she was with me, but in others she was running away and I couldn’t catch her.





I woke up at 6:00 because that’s what I’d been doing for the last three years. I did two hundred push-ups, two hundred sit-ups and two hundred lunges before I hit the shower. It was a luxury to have a bathroom to myself, to take a shower without a dozen other men doing the same around me, and not to be pressed for time while I was in it.

I got dressed and went straight out to the garage. I got my tool chest open and started selecting wrenches. My dad had taken good care of my hot rod but I still wanted to give it a full tune-up and double-check all the working parts before I started to drive it hard again. I had the heads off and was checking all the valve springs for any signs of cracks or wear when my mother showed up at the garage and informed me my breakfast was ready if I wanted it.

I reluctantly left the car to go in the house for some bacon, eggs and pancakes. It was delicious. “You have no idea how much I missed your cooking.” I informed my saintly mother as I ate it up. That made her smile.

“Are you going to see Robert about getting your job back today?” She wondered.

“I did that yesterday. He said no.”

“After all you did for him? That’s not very noble of him.”

“Well, what he said was he would hire me back except he already has too many guys at the shop now.” I shrugged at it, still not able to believe him.

“So are you going to look for another job?”

“Yes, of course. I can’t just sit around the house. The Banderas brothers might be hiring.”

“As long as you find something. It doesn’t have to be right away. Just be sure it’s working with the right kind of people. You don’t want to get into any more trouble.”

“I know enough people around town, I’ll be able to find something.” I finished my breakfast and went back out to the garage. Shortly before 11:00 my mother came out to say she was going to the hospital to do her volunteer duties. If I wanted lunch there was plenty of sandwich meat and fresh bread in the house.

“Give me a second to get cleaned up and I’ll give you a ride.” I offered. My arms were black with grease to the elbows, most of my flame tats covered with it.

“No, don’t stop what you’re doing, I’ll take the bus. It’s only a twenty minute ride.”

“I can get you there in ten minutes, though.”

“And then I’d be early. Never mind about me, just remember to take your keys and lock up the house if you decide to go anywhere.”



I went to the nearest autoparts store to get an oil change kit and a new fuel filter. I was walking back to the Caprice when I noticed a dark blue ‘39 Ford with a wicked chop rolling into the parking lot. I stood still and stared at it as the car pulled into a parking spot about ten spaces away from mine. The driver’s door opened and Lenny Vickers stepped out of it, his blonde hair greased back, big nose held high in his usual rooster’s walk. He was wearing a red car club jacket and sunglasses. He noticed the black Caprice as he was walking towards the entrance and then he noticed me standing next to it. His feet faltered and hesitated and then he came to a stop. He seemed to ponder his options for about a second, then turned and ran back to his rod. He couldn’t get into it fast enough. He started it with a blare from the exhaust and tore out of the parking lot leaving white smoke behind. He nearly clipped a half-ton truck that was turning into the entrance as he fish-tailed out onto the street and roared away, cutting a yellow at the next intersection and swerving around a kid on a bike who had jumped the green.

I thought of going after him, but decided not to. I had two years of parole to consider. The last thing I wanted to do was go back to Folsom for all that time. I had to find Nina and get her back. That was job number one. My revenge on Lenny Vickers would have to wait. It certainly couldn’t happen in broad daylight in front of fifty witnesses.

I could feel my heart hammering my ribs and saw that my knuckles were white around the bag I held, though. I slowed my breathing, opened the trunk and put the stuff in it, slowly closed it and got back into the car, all as if I were underwater. I took a moment to wait for the red to clear from my vision. I’d learned to keep my temper and impulses in check inside Folsom. There you had to pick your moments to show emotion and act on your anger. It was only that self-imposed discipline that had kept me from running across the parking lot and pounding Lenny’s head into the pavement.

I drove back home and finished the work to my hot rod. By the time I was done that, I was calm again. I took the Caprice to the nearest satellite office for the license bureau. They were open Saturdays until 4:00. I got the plates and my driver’s license renewed. I stopped to get a slice of pizza because I hadn’t had any good hot pizza in three years, just the bland, room-temperature kind they made in the prison. The first slice tasted so good, I had a second one with a beer to wash it down. Beer didn’t taste funny any more, it just tasted good again. I resisted the urge to drink a second one.

I went home and put the Caprice away and got into my hot rod after putting the new sticker on the license plate. I took it out for a drive. It ran better, pulled harder, and sounded mean. I drove all over town in the thing. Took it on the freeway and hammered it, watching closely for cops as I doubled the speed limit for a stretch, then backed it down to a reasonable speed. I went out of town for some open highway and felt the air and the sun and the reverberation of the heavy motor in my bones.

It felt almost like heaven except it was wrong. It felt all wrong because Nina wasn’t sitting on the seat beside me. She had been a fixture in the rod since the day I finished building it. I was used to having her with me, especially on a Saturday afternoon, but she wasn’t there now and I felt her missing as if my right arm had been taken off.

I turned the Chevy back towards Oceanside. I drove to her sister Maria’s house. It took twenty minutes to get there. The house was small and had pink stucco and hundreds of flowers in the postage-stamp front yard, no grass at all, just flowers of every kind and colour, even a couple of cactuses in their midst. A Harley was parked in the driveway, red with silver flames on the tank, long forks and an extra-fat back tire.

I went to the door and knocked on it. In a moment, a big Mexican man with a long black beard and a round gut answered it, a can of beer in his hand. He wore a leather vest and no shirt. He had sloppy blue prison tattoos on his arms and chest. He gave me a suspicious look. “Yeah?”

“Is Maria home? I’m Rick Warren.”

“Who?” His voice was like gravel.

“Rick Warren. I used to go with her sister, Nina.”

He turned away. In a moment, Maria was at the door, her biker boyfriend standing right behind her and watching me. Maria looked good, still thin, maybe too thin, her hair long and straight, she wore a yellow summer dress. She didn’t have Nina’s curves but she did have her sexy pout and deep dark eyes. She came right out of the house and gave me a hug that I did not expect.

“It’s good to see you, Rick. They treat you okay in there?”

The biker came out to keep an eye on us. I stepped back from Maria and smiled at her. “Yeah, I got along alright. I just got out yesterday. How have you been?”

“Good. This is Tito, I don’t think you’ve met him.”

Tito seemed like an unlikely name for a big scary-looking biker. I offered him my hand. He shook it wordlessly, still waiting to see what I wanted and not liking the friendly reception I was getting from Maria.

“You want a cold beer?” Maria asked, then said to Tito before I answered, “Get Rick a beer, would you, he must be thirsty. Let’s sit down.” She indicated a brown picnic table that was in the driveway next to the Hog. We went over to it and sat. In a moment Tito came back out of the house with two cans of beer and sat one on the table in front of me. He remained standing at the head of it while Maria and I sat across from each other.

I had expected to see some kids at the house, Maria had at least two of them the last time I saw her. I asked about them.

“With my mother for the weekend. We’re going down to San Diego tonight.”

“How is your mother?”

“She’s doing good. She’s got lots of grandkids, so she’s happy. Always a houseful of them at her place, you know, she babysits for everyone.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s happy. How’s Nina doing?”

Maria paused. Her expression changed to one of wary realization. “She stopped visiting you, didn’t she?”

I nodded.

Maria turned to Tito. “My sister Nina and Rick were together before he got sent to Folsom.” She explained in Spanish. To me she said, “How long has it been since you spoke to her?”

“Almost a year.”

“Didn’t she at least write you?”

“A ‘Dear John’ letter, you mean? No. She just stopped coming to visits and stopped answering my letters. I tried to phone her, but the number was disconnected.”

“That’s harsh.” Tito said, as if he knew how it felt.

“I don’t think she has the strength to tell you.” Maria said in a gentle voice.

“Tell me what? I know she’s got another guy.”

“She wasn’t looking for anyone, you know. She just happened to meet this man...and you weren’t there anymore. I know it’s no excuse, especially if she promised to wait for you, but these things happen. Sometimes you just meet someone new and fall in love.”

That wooden stake was back in my chest and Maria was twisting it. “What do you mean, ‘fall in love’? I heard this guy was rich and she was living the high life.”

Maria nodded. “He does have a lot of money. That’s not why she’s with him, though. You know Nina never cared about that. She just needs to be loved by the right kind of man.”

“What does right kind of man supposed to mean?”

“One who puts her first.” Maria clarified, holding my gaze. She was being kind but firm.

“She thinks I didn’t put her first?”

“She thinks you wouldn’t have done what you did if you truly loved her, Rick. You wouldn’t have taken that risk. Why would you want to go to prison for all that time?”

“I didn’t want to go to prison. I was only trying to help my friends.”

Maria reached across the table and put her hand over mine. “You have to understand, though. She did forgive you for that. She was willing to wait for you, you know, she told me she would, but then she met Lucas and one thing led to another. She’s very happy with him. She has a new life now.”

“She needs to know I got parole. All I want to do is talk to her myself. If she really is in love with this guy and doesn’t want to see me again, I need to hear it from her.”

“It’s probably best if you don’t.” Maria assured me.

“Look, you know I would never hurt her. No matter what she says to me, I would never touch her in anger. There’s no danger. I just want to talk to her once. I just need her to tell me it’s over, if that’s how she really feels.”

Maria looked at Tito for help. He shrugged. Matters of the heart were probably not his forte. “I feel for the dude.” He put in on my behalf. He’d been there. Prison, separation, trying to win a woman back, it was all over his face. He knew exactly how I felt.

Maria reluctantly said, “Why don’t I call and tell her for you? And if she wants to see you, I’ll get back to you. Okay?”

I pulled out my new cell phone and held it out to her. “Can you do it now?”

She looked at the phone. “I think I’d rather do it in private, Rick. No offense.”

“Will you call her before you leave for San Diego?”

She nodded. “Yes. I promise. I can’t promise she’ll call you, though.”

I gave her my number. She gave me a parting hug and said I was welcome to visit, no matter what happened with Nina, we were still friends. I shook hands again with Tito and we exchanged a look of acknowledgement. Two guys who’d been in the same hard places. I got back in my hot rod and drove away. It was the best hope I had. Maria was the peace-maker in the family, the sister all the others went to with their troubles.





When my cell phone rang ten minutes later my heart froze in my chest and I had to pull over on the shoulder before I could answer it with a hand that shook like I was freezing to death. “Hello?”

“Ricky? Are you coming home for supper?” It was my mother.

“Mom?” I felt fifty pounds lift off my chest. “How’d you get this number?”

“It showed up on my phone when you called yesterday.”

“Oh.” Modern technology. She was starting to embrace it. “Uh, it’s Saturday night, mom. When have I ever been home for supper?” I felt like I was sixteen again.

“Well, under the circumstances, I thought it might be a good idea. You’re not going to go racing, are you?”

I grinned into the phone. She knew me well. “I’m just looking up old friends.”

“All your old friends like to race those cars of theirs.”

“I’m not planning on getting arrested for anything.”

She sighed. “Whoever plans to get arrested, Ricky?”

“You’d be surprised.” I replied to that. “Look, I’m expecting a call from Nina, so can I hang up now?”

“Nina? You got in touch with her?” My mother sounded excited. She loved Nina.

“It’s a long story. I have to go, okay?”

“So I’m having supper by myself again.”

Now I felt guilty. “I’m sorry, mom. Don’t you have friends who come over?”

“Yes, if we make plans. But you were supposed to be home this weekend.”

“I was at the house all day, though. I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise I’ll have supper with you then.”

“Fine. I guess I should have known better. It is Saturday. Be careful, please.”

“I will. Bye.”

I found Streak at our usual Saturday night hang-out. Some things never changed. He was there with a gang of people, some I knew, some I didn’t. A wide array of old-school hot rods filled the parking lot. His Willys stood out among them, easy to see from a distance. I pulled in and found a spot next to a ‘34 Ford pick-up that had been slammed to the weeds. It was primer brown with white lettering on the doors made to look old and faded on purpose. They read, ‘Creep’s Hot Rods & Customs, Oceanside, Calif.’

I got out of my rod and greeted Streak and a few others who approached me. The guys I didn’t know came over to check out a rod they hadn’t seen before. The guys I knew- Jimmy Dean, Bugs, Creep and Bullet- were all members of a club we’d formed right after high school, The Rippers. We’d helped to build each other’s cars, raced them against each other and all challengers from other clubs, partied every weekend, lived for rockabilly music, old school rods, and especially girls who loved nostalgia.

Streak shouted, “I fucking knew you’d show up here! You got your rod on the road again. This thing is still so fucking cool!”

I slapped backs and shook hands and even accepted hugs from the rest of the guys and a few of the girls I knew. Linda, Veronica, and Sally were all familiar with me. Creep owned the ‘34 Ford pick-up I was parked next to. He and Veronica were a couple. He was medium height, had black hair, a sharp nose, always had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, was dark and brooding, always hunched, but smiled easily, always as if he knew a secret. He didn’t actually own a hot rod and custom shop, he just lettered his truck to make it look like that. He worked as a welder on construction sites. We went back to the ninth grade together. Veronica was a blonde who looked like Gwen Stefani.

Bugs was a fish-faced skinny guy, shorter than the rest of us, always full of energy and always ready for a party or a fight. He drove a ‘50 Ford with a hopped-up flat head, chopped and lowered and sporting lakes pipes down the side, primer black, pin-striped with the words ‘Founding Member of the Rippers’ lettered across the bottom of the trunk lid.

Jimmy Dean looked just like Jimmy Dean and dressed the part as well. He had a ‘49 Mercury with all the traditional mods, chopped, shaved, slammed and flamed, with fender skirts and working spotlights. The engine was a 394 Oldsmobile mill. He eschewed the primer look for slick black paint laid over with dark blue flames. With white tuck and roll upholstery, his was the most ‘finished’ and refined car of the bunch, capable of winning trophies at the trailer-queen shows, except he drove it daily and it was all built in the traditional way, no modern pieces on it anywhere. Even the tires were bias-ply white walls.

Linda was his girl and like so many others in our crowd, she looked just like Bettie Page, hair, clothes, figure, all of it. She even modelled part-time for photographers who wanted that look. She and Jimmy and his car had all been featured in an old school customs magazine.

Bullet was fire-plug shaped guy who never wore anything but black jeans, a black t-shirt and a black leather jacket, unless we were at the beach. There he revealed that he was tattooed from neck to toes. He had started going bald in his late teens, so he shaved his head now and earned the nick-named because of the way his dome came to a peak. His face looked like a bunched fist. He scared people until they got to know him. He could tell jokes all day long, was quite gregarious and loved to dance. He never grew tired of Elvis or Buddy Holly or Chuck Berry. He worked at a custom shop doing high-end paint jobs. He’d shot Jimmy Dean’s Merc.

He drove a ‘36 Ford 3-window Coupe with the necessary chop and lowered stance, painted a suede-textured red, it had reverse-chromed wheels and wide whites, ran a 400 Buick Nailhead and sported a fetching Betty Grable in one of her classic poses on the roof, just like she would have appeared on the fuselage of a WWII fighter jet.

Sally was his wife of two years, girlfriend for four years before that. His scary looks didn’t bother her at all. She was a Mary-Ann from Gilligan’s Island type, bright-eyed and sweet-faced girl-next-door, with curly brown hair and a shapely but compact figure, an unlikely pairing that had always worked out well. He made her laugh all the time and could spin her around on a dance floor like a top.

“So did you make many boyfriends in there?” Bullet grinned at me as she shook one hand and pounded me on the shoulder with another.

“I gave them all your number.” I winked. “They’ll give you a call as soon as they get out.”

He laughed. Then stopped and looked at me seriously. “No, but really. Did you get butt-fucked?”

“No.”

“Suck any dick?”

“No.”

“Didn’t have to play wifey for some 300-pound Mexican biker?”

“No.”

“So you’re not a fag now?”

“No. Not until I saw how sexy you look with that chrome dome. I’d forgotten how you get my juices going, Bullet.”

He gave a relieved look to the rest of the crew. “It’s okay, folks. He’s still normal.”

Everyone laughed. Talk of my experiences in prison changed to how much time I must have spent in the weight pit as my new physique showed. I’d put on a good twenty pounds of muscle and trimmed my waistline. I had always been in good physical shape before, but the added muscle changed my appearance notably. The girls squeezed my biceps and cooed over them playfully and everyone wanted to see my new tattoos.

Someone put a cold beer in my hand and I took it gratefully. The Stray Cats played on a CD player that sat on the ground next to Streak’s Willys. The cops did a slow drive-by and took a long look at us, but we were used to that and kept our beers out of sight. Bullet waved and smiled at them.

As I got caught up on everyone’s news- changing jobs, changing addresses, marriages and engagements- I kept waiting for my cell phone to ring. I was still aching to hear from Nina. Even if it was bad news, I needed to hear her voice. I believed that if she knew I was out and we could talk she’d realize she still loved me. It was just my absence that made her lonely. Lonely people are vulnerable. Nina loved to be held, she needed physical attention. So she couldn’t take three years of lonely nights. I could forgive her for that. It wasn’t her fault I went to prison. But I wanted her back. I didn’t want any other woman.

She didn’t call as I talked with my friends and drank a couple of beers and then joined them in a cruise. Bugs left his car in the parking lot and rode with me so we could talk about the car he was currently building in his garage, a ‘53 Pontiac with some radical body modifications.

We drove the strip as a group, Bullet leading in his ‘36 Ford, Streak bringing up the tail in his ‘41 Willys. We checked out the other hot rods and customs on the prowl, shouting at people we knew, with Bugs whistling at the girls he liked.

“Nancy dumped me.” He informed me after whooping out at a teenage blonde with a tight skirt who was walking down the sidewalk and ignoring him.

“That’s too bad.”

“Ah, I’d pretty much fucked her out by then anyway. It was time for some new trim.” Bugs had deplorable luck with women but liked to talk a good game. “You looked up Nina yet?”

I told him about Maria and how I was waiting for a call.

“Fuck that. She won’t call. What’s she going to say? I met some rich dude who buys me diamonds and gold and I dumped you for him? She hasn’t got the guts.”

I shook my head. “Nina’s got the guts. If she’s really done with me, she’ll say so.”

“Then why hasn’t she told you already? Why not write you a letter, at least, tell you to move on with your life, she’s moved on with hers?”

“Because that’s not how she feels. I know it, Bugs. She hasn’t swung the ax because she’s waiting for me to get out.”

“You hope. Or she’s just forgotten you even exist because she’s got the good life now. That fucking guy she’s with, you should see the cars he drives.”

I looked at Bugs. “You know him?”

“I see him around.” He shrugged.

“You know his name?”

“Sure. He’s got a lot of cars. I’ve worked on some of them.”

Bugs was a mechanic at a garage that catered to customs and rods, doing repairs and maintenance for the kind of people who owned the cars but never got their hands dirty. That was a fast-growing demographic.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Lucas Johnson. He lives on Bay Beach Road. He’s got three garages, all full of cars. You should see the fucking ‘57 Cadillac he has.”

“You know which house is his?” Bay Beach Road had a lot of nice houses, many of them hidden by high walls or 7' hedges.

“Sure, I can point it out to you. You want to go knock on his door? I think it’s got one of those security gates, though. Good luck getting through that. He’s not taking any chances with that collection he’s got.”

I pulled out of the line and passed the cars in front of us with a hard push on the gas, getting surprised looks from Jimmy Dean and Bullet as we blew by them. In a moment I heard a cell phone buzzing with ‘Rock Around the Clock’. Bugs pulled out his cell and thumbed a button on it. We might all be old-school but we didn’t ignore helpful technology. “Hey, Bullet. How’s the weenie hanging?” Bugs looked at me. “He wants to know where we’re going.”

“Tell him Bay Beach Road. I need to see this house.”

“Ricky Ricardo is still in love with Lucy and wants to see her new house. I guess he wants us to go down Bay Beach Road so I can show it to him. Okay.” He put the phone away. “He says slow down a little so the rest of them can keep up.”

 
If anyone wants to read the rest of this story (110 pages including 26 above) just ask and I will happily post it here.