A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (29 page)

The small one looks at me from under the brim of his hat and then turns to his friends.

“
C
’
mon,
”
he says.

And then they are following me.

We walk back, me walking to the side to prevent any funny business, ambushes, to the spot where we had been. Meredith is standing, dressed and with a towel in hand. She doesn
’
t know what to make of this.
They
’
re back?

“
All right, you better start looking. I hope you find it...
”
I pause as one of the girls throws me a disgusted look.
“
Because otherwise you
’
re fucked.
”

They spread out and start looking, pushing sand around with their feet. I stand to the side, where I can see all of them at once, my hands on my waist, overseeing. I am the foreman, I am the boss. They lift and shake the towel we were lying on. Each one does it at least twice, the shaking of that towel. They shuffle around, picking up sticks, throwing them toward the water.

“
Fuck this!
”
says one of the girls.
“
We don
’
t have the fucking thing. We didn
’
t do nothing.
”

“
Fuck you you didn
’
t do anything! That was assault, idiot! I mean, who do you think the cops are gonna believe? Two regular people sitting on the beach, or you people? I mean, sorry, but that
’
s the fucking truth. You guys
’
ll
be fucked
“

I am the cop, a friendly but stern cop. I am helping them. I assume one of them still has the thing, that they
’
re just stalling. I have to figure out a way to scare them, to get the thing back. Then I—
should I?
—/
shouldn
’
t say that
—okay, sure:

“
I mean, I don
’
t know what your status is with green cards and everything, but this could get really fucking ugly, you guys.
”

There is no visible reaction.

They keep searching. Meredith starts looking, too, but I take her arm.
“
Don
’
t. Let them do it.
”

One of the girls sits down, sullen.

“
I sure hope you guys find the fucking thing,
”
I say, thinking that it
’
s best that I be talking the whole time. I decide to throw out my last ace.
“
This was my goddamn dad
’
s wallet you stole.
”
I
’
m not sure how much to tell them but because I want the wallet back at all costs—

“
And my dad just died,
”
I say.
“
It
’
s all I have of his.
”

And it is. He had so few things, personal things, and we sold the clothes, the suits—the wallet was the one thing I kept, outside of a small box of papers, some business cards, paperweights from his office.

They keep looking. I look at their pants pockets, scanning for bulges. I briefly wonder if they
’
ll let me frisk them.

“
Listen man,
”
the short one says.
“
We didn
’
t fucking take it. What do you want?
”

I know the answer: I want the wallet, and then I want them in jail, and I want them miserable. I want them, all seven of them, or five of them, all of them, to be wearing gray uniforms that itch and chafe them as they sleep fitfully, on cots, their stupid heads full of regret, their cheeks wet with their weeping for forgiveness, forgiveness not so much from their simple God or jailer, but from me. They will be so sorry. Their tiny heads will implode with guilt and remorse. My dead father
’
s beautiful, frayed, soft leather wallet—

“
It
’
s not here,
”
he says.

“
Then you guys better come with me,
”
I say.
“
We
’
ll have to find a phone. You can tell the cops your side of the story, I
’
ll tell mine, and we
’
ll see what happens. But if you guys take off, you
’
re fucked because then they
’
re going to assume you took it.
”

We look at each other. He starts walking toward the parking lot, his friends follow.

Meredith grabs the second towel, shakes
it
out. We walk behind the three of them, to keep track. Three total—I can take two of them. All three even. I am massive! I am America!

No one talks. Our shadows, two each, crisscross and jump over the sand. The scratching of our feet. The lights from the houses above the beach are few. That weird windmill at the end of Golden Gate Park is straight ahead, black.

When we
get
to the parking lot, what I thought was a phone—a box attached to a lamppost—is not a phone.

We stand for a second under the glare. I look around, up at the houses across the Great Highway, all glass facing the ocean, looking for support, maybe someone on a porch, or a jogger, a biker; there is no one awake.

“
Okay, well have to walk across,
”
I say.
“
We
’
ll cross the highway and walk up until we get to a phone.
”

I
’
m still in charge. We
’
re a team. I am their leader, their stern but fair warden. They seem to consent.

I walk toward them, expecting them to turn and walk toward the highway. As I come among them, they don
’
t move. I am suddenly between all three of them.

Everything is new.

“
Fuck you,
”
says the tall one, swinging at my head. I have no time to move, but he misses. Another swing, from behind. Nothing. Then a leg appears and the foot lands in my crotch. I fall to my knees. I stare at the cement. Gum, oil stains—

They run away, arms and legs, like big spiders, laughing.

How long do you stay on your knees in a situation like this?

“
Fuck you!
”
they say. Creative.

The kick wasn
’
t bad. I still have breath. Then Fm up! I am up and running after them. Fm in the middle of the parking lot road and I see them just off to the right, fifty yards ahead, getting

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A.H.W.O.S.G

into—there are—what? Fuck! fuck!—two cars, in the middle of the street, ready, revving—

How did they know? How did they know?

As I reach the middle of the street the doors shut; the cars start toward me. The front car is an old convertible, dark green with a black top, huge hood. One of the girls from before is driving. Holy fucking shit.
Like a getaway car!
I stand in the middle of the street as they come toward me. I
’
m going to get the fucking license plates.

They drive at me, slow at first but then faster. I have them. License plates, suckers! License plates, fuckers! As they come toward me, I yell the numbers of their plates out loud, pointing at them with every digit, exaggerating the pointing to make sure they know what I
’
m doing, that I
’
ve got them—
got them!

“
G!

“
F!

“
Six!

“
Seven!

“
Nine!

“
O!
”

Beautiful! Beautiful, you fuckers! You dumb stupid motherfuckers!

They swerve around me, yelling, laughing, waving their little middle fingers at me.

I am yelling, thrilled,
high.

“
Ha ha you fuckers! I got you! I got you motherfuckers!
”

They pass, then turn onto the highway, accelerate, are gone. I got the first car
’
s plate but not the second
’
s. I run back to Meredith. A block away we find a phone.

“
Wait, calm down, where are you?
”
the operator says.

“
I don
’
t know. The beach.
”

“
What
’
s wrong?
”

“
We were attacked, robbed.
”

“
By who?
”

“
Bunch of Mexican kids.
”

I tell her what the car looked like. I try to tell her the license plate number, but she says she can
’
t take it, to tell it to the officer when he gets there, she says. I hang up.

G-H...6-0...

Fuck.

G-H-O-0-

Fuck!

We sit down.

I
’
m not hurt. I think about whether or not I
’
m hurt. I
’
m not. We sit on the cement wall of the path and for a moment I fear they
’
ll come back. Maybe there
’
ll be guns, maybe to eliminate the witnesses, a drive-by. No, no. They
’
re gone, they
’
re gone. Won
’
t be back. I jump down from the wall; I can
’
t sit, I
’
m wired. I pace in front of her. /
got their plates!
Stupid assholes.

The police car pulls up two minutes after. It looks huge. The engine roars. It
’
s immaculate, shiny like an enormous toy. The officer steps out and he is burly and mustached and—is he? It
’
s after 2 a.m.—he is wearing sunglasses. He introduces himself and asks us to get in the back of the car and we do. It is a beautiful car, clean, the black vinyl bright, perfect. I answer:

“
Yeah, we were just hanging out on the beach.
”

“
Seven of them.
”

“
Mexican.
”

“
I
’
m sure of it. Their accents, their looks. Completely. They spoke English, but with a Mexican accent.
”
I try to think of what they looked like, who the older one looked like.
Baretta.
He looked like Robert Blake.

“
They took my wallet.
”

“
I don
’
t know how much. Maybe twenty dollars.
”

“
We were calling the police to straighten it out.
”

“
Yeah, they came with me.
”

“
I don
’
t know why. Because they said they didn
’
t take
it.
”

“
But then they kicked me in the groin [groin being the more
police-report-appropriate word for
crotch]
and then they got in two cars and took off.
”

“
A big dark green convertible with a black top.
”

“
Yeah, yeah, I had it down before. Fuck. It start with G-H, and there
’
s a six in it, and a zero. I think it ended with zero. Is that enough? Can you go on that?
”

The car is so clean. I love the car. A shotgun hangs at eye level in front of us. The computer next to the steering wheel glows blue, beautiful thing. The radio fitzes and beeps. The officer listens and answers questions on the CB. He turns around.

“
Okay, it looks like we have some suspects. We
’
ve stopped a car just off the highway. We
’
re going to have to go there so you can make a positive I.D.
”