It’s not like he’s drinking on an empty stomach, he tells himself and settles down to make this one last longer than the first. This second beer brings on the temptation to get reflective like he was on the last day at the tavern in Bimmerman, and that’s uncalled for because he hardly needs reminding of why he’s here in California. He takes a measured swig from the longneck and prides himself on sense of purpose while soaking up the unaccustomed warmth of a late-March sun.
After a visit to the men’s room, he returns to the parking lot and checks his estimate of the time against the clock on the tower. He’s not off by much; the clock reads quarter to eleven and his wishful thinking has it closer to eleven a.m., the earliest he can be sure Cliff Grant will answer his phone.
Hoop kills the final fifteen minutes with a routine inspection of his truck and its contents. He kicks each tire in turn, although he’s never understood what that was supposed to prove. Then he checks water and oil levels and makes certain no one has siphoned off any gas while he wasn’t looking. Inside the car, he tests the seal on the paint bucket, checks the clasp on the tool chest, satisfies himself everything is in order before smoothing out the makeshift pallet of old quilts that saw little use on the trip west.
At the stroke of eleven by the clock tower, he beelines for the nearest phone booth and calls Cliff Grant. A few bad moments go by before Grant answers on the fifth ring, and a few more go by when Hoop, for want of a pencil or anything to write on, is forced to memorize the driving directions Grant gives him. Afterwards, Hoop has the sharp feeling that if he’d asked Grant to repeat anything or wait till pencil and paper was found, the phone call would have ended right then and there.
On the drive to the city of Venice Beach where Grant lives, it’s only natural to ask himself why he’s remained loyal to the bad-mannered, smart-alecky reporter for so long. And while he’s at it, he might as well ask himself why, if he has such a terrible crime to report, he’s never gone to police officials in all this time. Both questions have answers—answers he could say out loud if he wasn’t so busy watching for signs pointing to Santa Monica and trying to guess what kind of trees he’s looking at that have smooth silvery bark, leathery-looking leaves, and roots that coil around aboveground like tentacles.
He makes the first three turns according to the directions he memorized and homes in on Venice Beach sooner than expected. A few more turns and he’s on the street where Grant said he could leave his car. He finds a place to park between two other cars with out-of-state plates, gathers up his goods and sets out on the last leg of the journey.
The footpath he’s supposed to use doesn’t show itself right away and that could be because he’s distracted by sight of the Pacific Ocean in the near distance. As he gets closer, he’s even more distracted by the honky-tonk nature of the place. There’s almost too much to take in where every third person on the wooden walkway looks like some sort of freak. And the half-naked roller skaters whizzing by on a paved path must be shameless drugged-up lunatics; there can’t be any other excuse for the way they’re flaunting themselves and tainting his first-ever view of the ocean.
The only good thing, if there is any, relates to his own appearance. If he was concerned with standing out, he can put that worry aside. In a place where anything seems to go, his flannel shirt, Big Yank dungarees, and engineer boots are only too warm for the surroundings, not too queer. The paint bucket and tool chest don’t make him unusual either; he could be just another vendor bringing trashy trinkets to market in whatever receptacle’s handy, like the guy he just passed who’s selling refrigerator magnets out of a tackle box.
Done with the two minutes worth of sightseeing, Hoop concentrates on
After a visit to the men’s room, he returns to the parking lot and checks his estimate of the time against the clock on the tower. He’s not off by much; the clock reads quarter to eleven and his wishful thinking has it closer to eleven a.m., the earliest he can be sure Cliff Grant will answer his phone.
Hoop kills the final fifteen minutes with a routine inspection of his truck and its contents. He kicks each tire in turn, although he’s never understood what that was supposed to prove. Then he checks water and oil levels and makes certain no one has siphoned off any gas while he wasn’t looking. Inside the car, he tests the seal on the paint bucket, checks the clasp on the tool chest, satisfies himself everything is in order before smoothing out the makeshift pallet of old quilts that saw little use on the trip west.
At the stroke of eleven by the clock tower, he beelines for the nearest phone booth and calls Cliff Grant. A few bad moments go by before Grant answers on the fifth ring, and a few more go by when Hoop, for want of a pencil or anything to write on, is forced to memorize the driving directions Grant gives him. Afterwards, Hoop has the sharp feeling that if he’d asked Grant to repeat anything or wait till pencil and paper was found, the phone call would have ended right then and there.
On the drive to the city of Venice Beach where Grant lives, it’s only natural to ask himself why he’s remained loyal to the bad-mannered, smart-alecky reporter for so long. And while he’s at it, he might as well ask himself why, if he has such a terrible crime to report, he’s never gone to police officials in all this time. Both questions have answers—answers he could say out loud if he wasn’t so busy watching for signs pointing to Santa Monica and trying to guess what kind of trees he’s looking at that have smooth silvery bark, leathery-looking leaves, and roots that coil around aboveground like tentacles.
He makes the first three turns according to the directions he memorized and homes in on Venice Beach sooner than expected. A few more turns and he’s on the street where Grant said he could leave his car. He finds a place to park between two other cars with out-of-state plates, gathers up his goods and sets out on the last leg of the journey.
The footpath he’s supposed to use doesn’t show itself right away and that could be because he’s distracted by sight of the Pacific Ocean in the near distance. As he gets closer, he’s even more distracted by the honky-tonk nature of the place. There’s almost too much to take in where every third person on the wooden walkway looks like some sort of freak. And the half-naked roller skaters whizzing by on a paved path must be shameless drugged-up lunatics; there can’t be any other excuse for the way they’re flaunting themselves and tainting his first-ever view of the ocean.
The only good thing, if there is any, relates to his own appearance. If he was concerned with standing out, he can put that worry aside. In a place where anything seems to go, his flannel shirt, Big Yank dungarees, and engineer boots are only too warm for the surroundings, not too queer. The paint bucket and tool chest don’t make him unusual either; he could be just another vendor bringing trashy trinkets to market in whatever receptacle’s handy, like the guy he just passed who’s selling refrigerator magnets out of a tackle box.
Done with the two minutes worth of sightseeing, Hoop concentrates on
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