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— One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,
KEN KESEY
SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB,
HARBOR ISLAND DRIVE
3:01 PM PDT
USING THE ENTRY-CODE Dr. Smarty Pants gave him— after tying the guy up and sticking a gag in his mouth— Big Ed Walker drove into the yacht club’s parking lot. But he hadn’t gone down even one lane looking for a parking space before his well-honed spidey-sense started going off, telling Ed danger was nearby and, lickety-split, he was backing the van into a parking space between a Mercedes Benz and a Mustang. Sure as shit, wasn’t more than a minute later a goddamn police car went rolling by carrying two women cops Ed could tell right off was dykes. Big Ed thought shit was going bad and even went so far as to pull the 9mm from his pants . . . but then, without even pausing, the dykes kept on going. Ed watched them prowl around the lot, checking shit out but never bothering to hoist their fat asses out of the car, and five minutes later they were rolling out the front gate and off down the road.
But still, Big Ed’s spidey-sense kept on squawking.
Ed sat a spell, pondering on the situation and wondering if it really was his spidey-sense squawking or just all the speed in his system plus the fact he hadn’t slept in three days and had consumed four bottles of Mr. Jack Daniels’ and a case of beer with nothing much to eat except some cheese doodles . . . then thought, fuck no, he was Big Ed Walker and made of tougher stuff than any man.
On the way over to the boat-yard, Big Ed had listened to AM radio— buncha blabbermouth, know-it-alls spouting goddamn opinions like they was so much better than everybody else— and that’s how he caught the news-report about a police officer who’d called in about finding bodies in a van before he himself disappeared. No mention of a carpet-cleaning van, though police were looking for a man described as 5'2 to 5'5 with greasy hair who’d been seen at the Crow’s Nest shortly before the officer disappeared. Big Ed tried remembering if he’d seen such a fellow in the bar, but couldn’t recall any really small men in there, greasy hair or not.
Ed also caught a report about police suspecting foul-play after a Normal Heights’ man disappeared and blood was found in the apartment. That would be the smart-alecky homo who complained about Ed bumping his lamp and who now resided in a dumpster behind Herbertito’s Taco Shop #3 along with the Krispy Kreme cop. Something Ed found interesting was the reporter saying police thought Smart-Alecky Homo’s disappearance might be revenge over a huge swindle the guy pulled on some casino Indians. Again, no mention of a carpet-cleaning van, but Big Ed knew his luck wouldn’t hold much longer: any moment, they’d realize the last thing these people did was get their carpets cleaned by ChemSteem Carpet Cleaning & Upholstery Specialists. And when they did, the fat would really hit the greasy.
The other thing Big Ed caught on the radio was how the FBI and police was still looking for a missing doctor believed to have been kidnaped. When the woman started describing Dr. Smarty Pants, going on about how famous he was, this super hot-shot scientist guy, it made Big Ed kinda proud to think the whole world was looking for a guy who was bleeding to death in the back of Ed’s van. More than anything, really, it made Ed feel like a proud papa.
Finally, though, Big Ed decided he’d worried enough about his goddamn spidey-sense because, what the hell, there wasn’t nothing his cat-like, speed-enhanced, ninja reflexes couldn’t handle. So, after checking on Dr. Smarty Pants, Ed got out of the van— making sure he gave the Mercedes Benz a quality door-ding— and grabbing his clipboard to get that official look, set off in search of Dr. Smarty Pants’ boat.
Smarty Pants had told Ed his boat was called the Maltese Queen and docked at slip J-37. When Big Ed asked what the fuck was a ‘slip’ and Dr. Smarty Pants explained it was the space where a boat was parked, Big Ed said, “So then why not just call it a fucking parking space instead of making shit up?” Smarty Pants clearly wasn’t that smart because he didn’t answer.
The gate nearest the van was marked SLIPS D-F. Beyond it was a walkway that led down to the slips and all kinds of really cool boats, big power-boats and yachts, plus the sail-boats to which Ed felt more partial. Admiring the boats, Ed passed SLIPS D-F and was walking in the direction of SLIPS J-L when his spidey-sense started squawking again.
Super casual-like, Ed knelt to tie a sneaker, glancing around, see if anybody was watching, but nothing in the parking lot out of the ordinary caught his eye. He tied the other sneaker and let his gaze drift over the boats, but he couldn’t see nothing out there neither. So, grabbing his clipboard, he continued toward SLIPS J-L whistling a Merle Haggard tune.
It was almost dark now, the sky gone to reds and purples and looking about as pretty to Ed’s eye as this world could ever be, and he paused to take in the last of the sun . . . and a little flicker of movement caught his eye. Without turning his head, Ed’s gaze went to a building marked SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB, a wooden two-story with big windows overlooking the boats, and through the windows Ed could see people in the restaurant. Ed relaxed, realizing that’s all he’d seen, some rich jerk-off eating his lobster or something—
This time, Ed saw the movement clearly, a head silhouetted against the sky, someone on the roof of the building . . .
Just like that and slick as you please, Ed was consulting his clipboard again . . . spinning around a couple times like he was lost, doing the ‘complete dipshit’ bit . . . then pretended to check out the clip-board again while, beneath the bill of his ChemSteem ball-cap, he snatched a glance up at that roof. Hmmm. Whoever was up there was watching him with a pair of binoculars. Who they were, Ed had no idea, but he knew it couldn’t be good, not with a van-load of bodies and Dr. Smarty Pants back there.
So, Ed spun around again, putting his hands on his hips. “Motherfucker,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry across the parking lot. Peering around, then in the direction of another marina. He looked at the SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB sign, giving it a quality, Fred Flintstone double take. ““Motherfucker cocksucker son-of-a-bitch shit,” he said then hurled the clipboard— not far, mind you, but far enough— before stalking around a bit. Finally, fetching the clipboard, Big Ed huffed off in the direction of the van, cursing while taking obvious looks at a distant marina.
That and worry about all that damn blood and hoping none of it was leaking out now.
Fucking blood.
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