FATHER'S DAY - NOVEL - EPISODE TWO

Hey Blogsphere Folks: Father's Day - the novel - is the source material for the feature film being produced by my production company. Hope you enjoy reading Earl's story.
...And please check out the exciting trailer - starring the amazing John Billlingsley (Star Trek, 2012, Hawaii Five-O) for the film HERE

FATHER’S DAY

Written by: James M. Russell

Copyright 2015© James M. Russell

CHAPTER 10: 

The nightmare would not release Earl, no matter how hard he tried to break free. So, he lay there, a few inches away from Wanda, who could have helped and would have helped if she had only known of the horror that gripped her husband. His grey flannel pajamas were soaked in sweat, his eyes danced about under closed lids and his fingers twitched ever so slightly, as Earl battled the hellish nightmare. After a few terrible minutes, Earl’s chest suddenly convulsed and his body launched into a heaving cough. Wanda awoke with a start.

“You OK Earl?”

Earl nodded then forced out the words between gasps, “Yeah. You smell smoke?”

Wanda paused to test the air, “No.”

Earl threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, “Just going to the bathroom. Glass of water.”

Wanda watched as Earl shuffled out of the room and listened to his footsteps on the hallway carpet as he entered the bathroom, shut the door, coughed twice more then fell silent.

---------

The second glass of water was colder than the first and its chill seemed to placate the tickle. Earl took a deep breath then stood upright, staring at himself in the mirror. He didn't remember looking so old and tired before. Perhaps it was just the way the pillow compressed the skin on his face, maybe it was the discolored fluorescent bulb that Wanda had asked him to replace several times. Perhaps it was the nightmare.

My God, what a terrible nightmare it was, he thought to himself. I can’t imagine a parent doing such a  thing to their own flesh and blood.

Earl dumped out what remained of his second glass of water then refilled it once more. The cold chilled his hand, not an unpleasant chill like a winter’s night but more like the fresh chill of a fall morning. Earl took another sip then turned off the bathroom light and exited, leaving the bathroom door open as he walked quietly, guided only by familiarity, down the dark hall that led to his and Wanda’s bedroom.

Earl had just passed the half-oval end table that Wanda bought last summer in a yard sale when something made him stop and stare at Ian's bedroom door. He stood there for a minute or two or perhaps three, debating, before leaning close to the faded L.A. Lakers pennant tacked to Ian’s door and listening to the silence.

Earl and Wanda had differences of opinion about Ian's room. Earl considered it to be Ian's space, private and off-limits to parents, house guests, or anyone.

“Nonsense,” she would reply when the subject came up. “I can go in there anytime I need to.” And she would ‘need to’ on wash day and whenever she suspected he hadn’t done his homework from the day before. Once or twice, when their son seemed to be acting ‘odd’ she searched his room for drugs, but she never found any.

Earl’s position was that “Ian’s room is Ian’s room.” And throughout the years, Earl never wavered from his conviction; so it took quite a bit of convincing before Earl was able to force his hand to reach out toward Ian’s door, grip the doorknob and twist.  But he finally did, and then pushed the door open just far enough for him to stick his head and shoulders inside.

Everything was as it should have been. Ian, dressed in the white pajamas that Wanda had bought specially for him, was in bed, asleep facing the door. His eyes closed, eyeballs motionless, face placid. It was the face of the boy that Earl loved and the sight of it suddenly unleashed thousands of images rushed through his mind. Every memory was louder than the previous one, each bumped into the other as they vied for attention, an impatient mass of thoughts rushing about but going nowhere, like a dozen fireflies in a glass jar.

Earl closed Ian’s bedroom door and smiled. He could go back to sleep now, reassured that his son was OK.

----------

Ian listened as his father walked the seven steps it took from Ian's door to his parent's room then snapped open his eyes, checked to see that nothing had been disturbed and drifted back to into the state of half-sleep, half-vigilance that inmates must learn in order to survive.

CHAPTER 11: 

Various sections of the house hummed with the sounds of running water, clanging pots, a murmuring radio, and drifting in from the street, the roar of early morning traffic.

Wanda hurried to Ian's bedroom door and knocked.

 “Morning, Baby. Dad's out of the bathroom and I’m starting breakfast.”

Wanda paused for a moment, "Ian?" Then waited, listening to the silence of her son's room before hurrying off. Minutes later, Wanda rushed yet again to Ian's door, leaned close, and called out, “Breakfast is on the table!” then hurried off.

Finally, Earl walked up to Ian’s door at a determined pace and banged twice. “Ian! It's eight o'clock. Time...” But, Earl's sentence was cut short when Ian, fully dressed in the same jeans, T-shirt and vest that he put on last night, jerked open the door.

 “…time to go to work. Why didn't you answer when your mother called you for breakfast?”

“Guess I didn't hear her. Had trouble getting to sleep. Nightmares.”

Earl laid his hand on Ian's shoulder and whispered, “I understand son,” then glanced at his wristwatch and gave Ian a playful punch.

“Come on champ. Don't wanna be late on your first day,” Earl said before hurrying down the stairs, rushing into the kitchen, plucking his canary-yellow hard hat from the back porch wall peg, picking up his battered metal toolbox then holding the back door open and waiting. Moments later, Ian strolled in carrying an old UCLA gym bag. Wanda, stood at the sink, with one hand in the soapy dishwater and the other holding a brown paper lunch bag. Her face lit up with pride at the sight of her son.

“Morning, Baby. I hoped that you would be able to have a proper sit-down breakfast.”

“Wanda!”
 Wanda shot a disparaging glance at her husband then renewed her smile.

 “Tomorrow I’ll make you something special. You still like your eggs scrambled don’t you.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Bacon crisp?”

Ian beamed, “Yes, Mom.”
 Wanda presented Ian with the bag, a bottle of juice, and finally, a carefully wrapped bundle of muffins.

 "Lunch is for later, but these are for the drive to work. You have to eat something."

Then she handed him a plastic cup filled with juice." And drink. This is fresh squeezed."

“Thanks, Mom.”

 Wanda turned toward Earl and waved her index finger at him.

 “And you! Don’t forget your twelve o’clock pills.”

Ian snatched up his gym bag and strolled toward the door.

“You got work clothes in there I hope.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Earl planted a peck on Wanda's left cheek, “Have a good day Babes,” he said, then bolted out the door.

"Bye dear," she called out after him then turned to Ian and straightened his leather vest.

“Your father and I love you very much Ian McCarthy Timmins. You be careful today, construction sites can be dangerous.”

“We’re gonna be late!” Earl shouted from a distance, but Ian paid no attention to his father, instead giving his mother a lingering hug.

“Love you Mom. Bye.”

And with that, Ian Timmins set out into the world on his first day of freedom in nearly four years. Wanda, full of pride, and smiling like a new mother, watched them, father and son, husband and child, as they backed down the driveway in Ole Grand and drove off.

Wanda was still standing at the back door, reveling in the wonder of this day when she heard the fire truck sirens. Suddenly Wanda’s smile disappeared and she retreated into her kitchen, closed the door, and locked it.

CHAPTER 12:

Earl hated commuting to work at that time of the morning, the 405 was usually a parking lot, and Sepulveda wasn't much better. Earl’s workday usually started at 6:30 but yesterday, before he and Wanda left to pick up Ian, he got a call from Nan that Home Depot couldn't deliver the three skids of two-by-fours until eight or nine that morning. No point for a framing carpenter to be on-site if there was no wood for him to build frames.

Earl was a patient and careful driver, which was more than could be said for most Los Angelinos. Especially the ones hoving inches from Ole Grand’s rear bumper hoping to bully Earl into driving faster.

It took less than ten minutes for the morning sun to heat up the car’s interior. Earl loosened the top button on his denim shirt then rolled down the window trying to get some relief, but all he did was let in more of the hot desert air.

Ian, in the front passenger seat, sat in silence, cradling the cup of juice between his legs and wolfing down the last of his mother's cornbread muffin. Earl had just piloted Ole Grand on to Crenshaw when Ian nonchalantly tossed the muffin wrapper out the car window.

“Hey!” Earl shouted, just before slamming on the brakes.

A chorus of squealing tires and blaring horns filled the air.

Earl glanced into the rear view mirror then motioned with his arm for the cars behind to pass. He then eased Ole Grand into reverse and backed up, stopping beside Ian's muffin wrapper.

A guy in a red sports car pulled adjacent to Earl and shouted, "You on drugs or something?" then sped off with tires smoking. Several cars honked but through it all Ian continued eating nonchalantly.

“Pick it up, Son!”

Ian gestured apologetically toward the plastic wrapped sliced apple and cup of juice.

“OK, but I might spill the breakfast Mom made for me.”

Earl paused for a moment then eased Ole Grand into park, leapt out, picked up the discarded wrapper and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

“You cannot leave a mess an' expect other people to clean it up. Told you that before.”

“Sorry, Dad. It was a terrible thing to do and I really am sorry. Thanks for picking it up for me. I appreciate it. I really do.” But between the food that filled his mouth and calliope of blaring car horns, Ian’s apology was barely audible.

Earl took a deep, calming breath then eased Ole Grand into gear and drove off.

CHAPTER 13:

Ole Grand pulled onto the dusty construction site and stopped at the end of a row of battered pick-up trucks and ancient Japanese compacts, all suffering from various degrees of decay.

Beyond a white paneled construction trailer lay the cement floors of half dozen single-family houses.

Earl climbed out from behind the wheel, pushed his hard hat down on his head then hurried to Ole Grand’s trunk.

“Usually carry this myself but...”

Earl pulled the Boss compressor from the trunk with one hand then motioned toward the coiled hose and Hitachi nail gun that lay beside the spare tire.

“Race you to the trailer.”

Earl set off at a brisk pace then, when he was about mid-way, turned and looked back at Ian, who still stood beside the open trunk, his hands empty.

“Ian! Pick up the hose and gun and let’s go. Time is money son. Time is money!”

Earl reached the trailer first, set down his load and knocked. Hector Hernandez, a short Hispanic man with grey hair at his temples, jerked open the door in the middle of Earl’s knocking then smiled broadly when he saw who it was.

“Hey, Earl.”

“Morning, Nan. This is my son Ian. The one I told you about.”

“Good day Ian, son of Earl,” Nan said with a mildly Oxford accent as he shook Ian's hand.

“You work half as hard as your ole man and you'll do fine. You see the stairs you're standing on? Your father made them. He tell you? Best bloody construction trailer stairs I've ever seen. Usually, we just bust them up when we're finished but I'm thinking of transporting these with me to the next site.”

Earl blushed. “Nan.”

“No, really, bloody good stairs.” Nan looked Ian over. “You have work clothes?”

Ian hoisted his gym bag.

“You can change over in that shed then go see Jamie, the bloke in the yellow hard hat standing by the cement truck. He’ll get you started.”

Ian walked off, in no greater hurry than he was when he arrived; in fact, he even paused to light up a cigarette.

“Thanks, Nan. He's a good kid. He just needs a break.”

Nan half smiled, “Got two boys of my own.”

Earl and Nan spent a few moments watching Ian walk toward the shed before Nan glanced out onto the site.

“Crane guy wants to start lifting trusses…two or three-thirty this afternoon…we going to have walls to set them on?”

“No, problem.”

Earl hurried off, leaving Nan alone as he watched Ian, son of Earl; make his listless journey toward the shed.  

----------

It was late morning and Ian had just set down a shoulder load of two by fours, the third delivery he had made to the guys working on Lot 322, when he looked up and got an idea.

“What do you think you’re doin’ Timmins?” Jamie said in a matter-of-fact tone when he noticed Ian walking unsteadily atop one of the framed walls.

“Hey, this ain’t so hard,” Ian shouted.

“Get down Timmins. You fall and you’re not only likely to break your neck, but someone else’s too.”

Ian did as he was told, but not before he reached the end of the sixteen-foot section and had nowhere else to go anyways. Using his pencil, Jamie pointed towards the uncompleted basement set in the middle of Lot 345.

“Steady those overheads while Carl and Annie are installing the sewer connection.”

Ian snapped to attention and saluted.

“Yes, Sir. Officer Jamie. Sir,” then ambled to the lot, looked down at the two workers and smiled.

 ------

“You guys better do a good job. Jamie sent me over to supervise.”

Carl and Annie no doubt heard Ian but chose to ignore Ian who waited a moment or two for a response then sat on a concrete block and laid his hand reluctantly on the steel I-beam that supported the pair’s rope pulley. Within minutes, Ian yawned, his right leg bounced with absentminded energy, and his eyes began to dart from worker to worker, machine to machine, sky to ground where they fixed on an ant colony just a few feet away.

Ian’s leg bounced faster as he stared with disdain at the blanket of swarming ants, then when first one then three more of them began scurrying in his direction he glanced about for a weapon – a stone or stick – but there was nothing within reach. When two or three of the ants had raced to within a foot of him, Ian released his grip on the beam, stood and charged his attackers. It was at that moment Carl and Annie began moving a sizable chunk of concrete to correctly position the main feeder. And because of the hunk’s awkward shape, its weight kept shifting and with it the supporting I-beam started to creep, the very thing that Ian was there to prevent, or at least monitor.

The ants were no match for Ian’s fury as the heel of his boot pummeled them again and again until he was satisfied that not one remained alive. The shifting I-beam suddenly caught Ian’s attention. Turning sideways, and diving, he grabbed the beam when it was less than a quarter inch of falling onto the Carl and Annie’s head.

Ian smiled at his great ‘save’, then glanced about to see if anyone else noticed his heroism.

No one had.

Their task complete, Carl and Annie released the concrete chunk, taking the strain off the I-beam and allowing Ian to kick it back to its original position. He then sat back, laid his hand on the beam and scanned the dusty battleground for survivors.

CHAPTER 14:

Earl used his nail gun to imbed two more three-and-a-half-inch nails into the top plate of an eight-foot section of wall then lifted the heavy frame into place. Andy Lightfoot, a stocky, dark-haired man with SUV-sized hands, clamored up a ladder and began nailing Earl's section to the one next to it: the last wall of this back split townhouse.

“Saw your boy this morning,” Andy called out as he swung his hammer in graceful arcs, expertly driving each nail home with three, sometimes only two, raps.

“Yep. Name’s Ian and he's kinda between jobs. Nan said he would give him some work to do round the site.”

“You said he was going to some religious school up north, didn’t you?”

“No. Trade school.”

“So he’s all finished? He musta been there two, three…

“Four years.”

“Four! So he came though it all right?”

“Came through what?”

“School.”

"Yep. And, I'm thinking he might just follow in his ole man's footsteps. I remember the first time he got into my toolbox. Picked up a tape an’ started measuring things. Wanda said he's bound to have wood flowing through his veins somewhere. My father was a carpenter an’ his ole man’s a carpenter so it stands to reason. Then again, he'll probably turn out to be a dentist.”

Earl and Andy laughed with the ease of old friends as they continued working.

A few moments later, Ian, a cigarette dangling from his lips, sauntered around the corner of an adjacent, nearly completed duplex, bending to pick up the occasional scrap of wood.

“How's it going champ?”

“OK.”

Earl, who had been kneeling on the ground tightening floor anchor bolts, struggled to his feet, fighting the stiffness in his right knee, then smiled and waved to get Andy’s attention.

“This is my boy.”

“Ian, Mr. Lightfoot."

Andy wiped his dusty hand on his pants then reached down from atop the skeletal wall and shook Ian's with unreturned warmth.

“Nice to meet you, Ian.”

“Hey! Timmins junior!” Jamie's voice was loud and impatient. And, although Earl and Andy turned toward Jamie immediately, Ian was the last to look.

 Jamie stood about forty yards away making broad sweeping motions over the littered ground.

“Thought you said you already picked up this crap.”

Andy turned and climbed his ladder while Earl smiled, a little embarrassed, and whispered, "See you later son," then knelt on the ground and resumed his work.

“Comin'!,” Ian shouted reluctantly.

-----------

Ian's arms were half-full of miscellaneous bits and pieces of scrap wood when he came across someone's orange plastic toolbox. A shiny, brass cigarette lighter sat on the top tray. The Harley Davidson logo gleamed in the mid-day sun. Ian glanced about to see if anyone was watching then snatched it from the toolbox. It was still nestled in his hand when someone spoke from close by.

“Heard you killed a guy.”

Ian spun around to find Shawn, one of the cement guys, standing a few feet away.  Shawn carried a battered shovel perched atop his right shoulder. Grey dust coated his blue overalls. The sprinkling seemed heaviest on his face where the dust had matted atop the scraggly patches of hair on his upper lip and chin.

Ian was certain that Shawn saw him take the lighter from the toolbox yet nothing in the man’s eyes communicated blame, nothing in his voice sounded accusatory.

“Yeah? Where’d you get that?”

“My buddy is one of the electricians on the site. Said he did some time at Moslow when you was there. So you did or didn’t kill a guy?

“Yeah.”

“Fight?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“Cool.”

Shawn extended his hand abruptly.

“Shawn.”

Ian reached out hesitantly.

“Ian Timmins.”

“Cool. See ya.”

And with that and nothing more, Shawn ambled off, whistling a merry tune through his pursed lips.

Ian watched Shawn depart then resumed picking up scraps of wood, but with renewed enthusiasm as he headed toward the Johnny-on-the-Spot.

----------

Ian winced from the smell as he stepped into the portable toilet and pulled the flimsy door closed. But the gut-wrenching stench of heated, week-old feces and urine was soon forgotten when he flicked the lighter and a thin orange flame shot into the air, hissing angrily. Ian raised the lighter to eye level and watched his old friend with a childish glee that prevented him from even noticing the annoying two-note melody played over and over by a nearby horn.
“Coffee truck,” someone shouted, then another voice, further in the distance repeated “coffee truck,” then another voice and another until gradually the spell was broken. Ian smiled as he eased the lighter into his pant’s pocket.

Lunchtime on a construction site is always a casual affair. Workers with hangovers from the night before, or drug addicts, and noontime nappers usually retire to their vehicles for privacy and solace. The remainder of the dusty crew generally congregates in whichever area offers the most noontime shade. Workers not afraid of gambling with the well-being of their digestive tract patronize the coffee truck, everyone else brings their lunch. Career trades people like Earl and Andy have coolers that double as stools, while the greenhorns carry their lunch in plastic shopping bags and sit on whatever piece of machinery or scrap of building material is available. Today the staff dining lounge was in the living room of Lot 351, a back split with three quarters of its plywood under-flooring already installed. Earl was the second to arrive, a half-dozen others, all customers of the coffee wagon, began trickling in soon after. In all there were perhaps a dozen, all men except for one woman. Each of them found something to sit on although Earl didn’t think that the electrician sitting on the pile of framing scraps looked very comfortable. Ian was one of the last to arrive. He entered without making a sound then smiled sheepishly at any of the workers who looked up although most didn’t.
Earl’s face lit up immediately when he finally noticed Ian.
“How’s it going Son?”
“Great Dad,” Ian replied then sat beside his father and began eating the sandwich his mother packed for him.
Bucky, a carpenter like Earl, cleared his throat then continued the sentence he started before Ian arrived, “So anyway. There’s no way that more than a couple countries in the world still use imperial measurement.”
"Naw. I don’t think it's that many. Pretty well just the U.S.,” said Tommy-Tunes, a name the other workers gave him because he spent some much time watching cartoons on his cell-phone.
Amed, a roofer with a thick accent, swallowed his mouthful of pizza then shouted something that, although in English, was undecipherable. So, as is often the case, his friend Vladimir, a Russian immigrant, translated.
“He said, ‘When did Canada change anyway? Must have been 1992?”
Ian spoke almost matter-of-factly, “ the bill switching us to metric was introduced by Prime Minister Trudeau in 1970.”
Earl who had been staring at the recently installed floor and renewing his hatred of nailing guns because of how they chewed up perfectly good plywood, suddenly looked up and beamed.
“Very good son!”
Ian looked up from his sandwich, noticed the impression he had made on his co-workers, blushed, then muttered, “We learned it in school.”
“Should have done it in 1870 if you ask me. Math is way easier in metric,” Bucky added.
“And your dick is bigger in metric.” Ian said then laughed nervously.
The chorus of “Uhhhh!” was long and deep. It wasn’t very often that Bucky got put down so completely, no neatly, that everyone was impressed.
Everyone except Bucky.
“Say again!”
Ian saw Bucky stand but didn’t dare raise his eyes. Four years at Moslow had taught him that lesson well.
“No I just mean that the numbers are higher in metric so...”
Earl had heard stories about Bucky so he new that he had to diffuse the situation quickly.
“So Cappy, did those trusses eventually settle down?”
Cappy, a framing carpenter with only eight fingers, refused to answer, hoping that a slugfest starring Bucky and the new kid would provide some much need lunchtime entertainment.
“Cappy?” Earl repeated.
By then Bucky was beginning to have doubts whether he had a justifiable excuse for killing Timmins junior, which he probably didn’t want to do anyway, just out of respect for Earl who was, in Bucky’s words, “a stand up guy.”
Since the show as obviously never going to happen, Cappy figured that he might as well answer.
“Suppose that means you want me to have a look?,” then stood with all the energy and enthusiasm of an eighty-year-old. Muttering “Fuck me,” as he shuffled toward the yet-to-be-installed front door.

By then their thirty minute lunch was pretty well over so the workers began to drift away, singly or in pairs until only Earl and Ian remained.
“That was pretty impressive you knowing all that stuff about metric.”
“Yeah. Those college kids got nothin’ on me.”
“We missed you son. Your mother and I. We missed you.”
“Missed you too Dad.”
“You know if you ever want to talk about that place I’m always willing to listen.”
Ian shrugged his shoulders, “Nothing really to talk about.”

The court appointed psychologist had told Earl that sons traditionally had more difficulty expressing their inner feelings to their fathers than to their mothers and that Earl needed to be more open and make the effort to facilitate communication with Ian. The doctor was probably right, after all she was an expert.

It was nearly three months ago that he and Wanda learned the date and time Ian was going to be parole,  and from that moment Earl resolved to be ‘more open and initiate communication’. His first efforts did not meet with success however.
“Will you shut the fuck up Earl! What’s gotten into you? Christ! You talk more than my teenage girl!” Cappy said on the second day of  Earl’s ‘communication campaign’.

By the fourth day Earl had gotten the feeling that guys on the site were avoiding having to work with him so Earl decided to shift his campaign closer to home. But even Wanda was not impressed by his efforts.
“Earl Timmins will you please shut up. I’m trying to watch the show.”
It was at that point that he figured that the psychologist was probably only referring to father and son communication.
“Your mother makes a mean bacon and tomato sandwich.”
“Sure does. You take your lunch time pill Dad?”
Earl laughed that hardy laugh of his then dug down into his lunch box and retrieved the clear plastic bottle that contained his blood pressure medication.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you and your mother keeping me honest.”

Earl kept his eye on Ian the remainder of the day. Not so that Ian would notice. Earl didn’t want his son to think he was spying. And he certainly didn’t want his son to think that his father was worried about him – that was his mother’s job. Still, Earl had noticed a change in his son long before ‘the incident’ four years ago. As a boy, Ian had a smile that could light up a room but early in his teen years that smile – his mother’s smile really – was increasingly replaced by a cold and distant stare and unexplained fits of anger .

---------- 

When Ian was first sent to Moslow, Earl and Wanda visited him every Sunday for nearly six months. But when Ian complained that their frequent visits disrupted his exercise schedule they cut it back to twice, then once a month – the first Sunday to make it easy to remember.

It was a day that Earl and Wanda looked forward to. The afternoon before their visit Earl washed the car and vacuumed the inside. That night, Wanda made egg salad sandwiches, Earl's favourite but insisted on making them with whole wheat bread, which he despised. She was careful to pack several servings of vegetables and fruit – both important for people their age. To drink on the long, hot trip, she brought lunchbox-sized containers of vegetable juice, although Earl always complained that the stuff had the consistency of coagulated blood and needed salt. Fifteen minutes before the beginning of their journey, Earl filled the picnic cooler with ice while Wanda slipped the sandwiches, veggies and fruit into plastic bags and buried them deep in the icy bath. She already had Earl's noontime medication in her purse from the night before.

They always left at 5 a.m. – sharp, for the six-hour drive up the Interstate 5 to Sacramento, then west to Moslow. Visiting hours were from 8 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. If there were no serious accidents on the highway, and there rarely were, they arrived by 11:30 or 12. Wanda didn't drive though she had her license. She didn't like highways. Said everything moved too fast for her liking. So Earl bore the all the driving duties. He told her he didn’t mind, and probably didn’t.

Considering the distance, their journey went pretty quickly as he and Wanda talked and played trivia games and listened to the radio. After the first couple of trips, Wanda made a handy list of their favorite radio stations; where their signal coverage began, and where it started to fade.

Over the years, they never missed a visit. At first, Ian seemed genuinely happy to see them, then as the bass beat of time droned on Earl got the feeling from Ian’s droll expression and lingering periods of silence that their visits were more of a burden to Ian than a joyous family get-together. Earl didn't dare bring up the subject with Wanda, so he had no idea whether she noticed it too, but he doubted it.
--------

Earl and Philly, a carpenter Nan hired after Ole Roscoe broke his wrist, worked the whole afternoon framing the units on Lot 309 and 311. Roscoe was a crackerjack worker and an OK guy, but he was always telling the same stories, intermingled with the same jokes, day after day.  Neither of which were mildly interesting or funny, even the first time.

It was in the middle of Philly’s story about his wedding night that Earl found himself replaying the various versions of Ian’s smile. Ian’s beach smile. His camping smile. His gardening smile. Everyone of his birthday smiles. The eight-millimeter images raced through his brain at 24 frames per second in a continuous loop of joy until the past had not only erased all vestiges of the present concerns.

By 4:30 the lazy afternoon sun was casting long, lanky shadows across the sandy soil and a slight breeze, drifting over the beach community of Santa Monica, had cooled the desert air significantly. Ian had already changed into his street clothes and was busy pacing a circular pattern beside Ole Grand when Earl arrived.

“Well, another day, another dollar. How'd it go, son?”

“No problemo.”

“So we ready to go home? Got the whole weekend to relax an’...”

“Think I'll take in a movie. Can you jus' drop me off in the Marina on your way home?”

“Sure. You want company? Haven't seen a good movie in a long...”

“Thanks, Dad but it's really not your kinda picture.”

“No problem.”  

And with that Earl set his toolbox into Ole Grand's cavernous trunk then opened the driver's door and lowered his frame into the front bench seat, still covered with the original black ranchero premium seat fabric.

“Ahh. That feels good.”

“You're sure champ? I'll treat.”

“Maybe next time Dad.”

“No problem.”

Earl sighed quietly, then fired up Ole Grand, waited a few seconds for the 302 c.i., V-8 engine to warm up then eased the gear lever into drive and headed toward the gated construction site entrance.
------

The white-hot afternoon sun had grown tired and stooped by the time Earl steered Ole Grand off the southbound 405 and onto 90 west but had lost none of its glory as it bathed the landscape with a fiery glow. It was a picture perfect sunset, the kind that elevated Kodachrome 25 to near mythical status among photographers. On the ocean’s ruler straight horizon, the sun put a spectacular show as it slowly sank into its watery grave off the shore of Marina Del Rey.

------

It began in 1887 as the grand vision of real estate developer M.C. Wicks. He had the idea of turning a section of Playa del Rey into a major commercial harbor and invested $300,000 to make that dream come to life. It didn’t, and Wicks declared bankruptcy three years later. But the area remained popular with duck hunters until around 1950 when the Los Angeles Country Board of Supervisors decided to have another look at the area, possibly as a recreational small-craft harbor. In April 1965, Marina del Rey was formally dedicated. The boat slips, more than six thousand of them at last count, still exist although they now have been relegated to obscurity behind a wall of million-dollar condos, expensive restaurants, and cutesy shops.

Earl guided Ole Grand into the open-air parking lot of Villa Marina Marketplace and pulled to a stop outside the United Artists theatre.

“My stop,” Ian announced, before throwing open his door and leaping out.  

Earl struggled to remove the wallet from his back pocket then flipped it open and handed Ian twenty of the thirty dollars nestled amid the receipts, photos, credit cards and other miscellaneous documents that over the years had inflated Earl's wallet to obese proportions.

“Hope this is enough to cover the movie and...you know...grab something to eat.”

Ian snatched the money from his father's hand and tucked it into his front pocket.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome,” Earl replied then slid a shiny new key off the spiral ring that held his keys.

“Oh, and an extra house key. So you can get back in tonight.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

Ian smiled one last time then turned and began walking away.

“Call me if you change your mind about the movie. Gonna get the stuff ready for our big fishing trip tomorrow morning. Santa Monica Pier OK?”

It was doubtful that Ian ever heard much of what his father said but waved his approval nevertheless, then joined the early evening crowd, his prison-honed swagger, crude tattoos, and black leather demeanor blending in about as well as would a backwoods cowboy at a hip-hop concert.

CHAPTER 15:

The movie didn’t start for another hour so Ian decided to take a walk, looking for something decent to eat that wasn’t too fancy or expensive.

A restaurant, named Aunt Lizzies Soul Food Porch, caught his eye, but after glancing through the front window he decided that he didn’t like the look of the place. After four years of prison, he’d had enough of those people.

A few feet away was a fast food joint called Koo Koo Roos, so he wandered in. He was still trying to make sense of all the items on the menu board when the tall Chinese kid behind the cash register asked, “Can I help you?”

Ian didn’t like the way the snotty nosed rich kid spoke to him but he also didn’t want the kid to think he was one of those people who were too stupid to make up their mind, so Ian picked the first item in the menu.

“Ahhh. Haaaand carrrrved turkey sandwich.”

The rich kid jabbed the cash register three times with his forefinger then asked, “White, whole grain, or sourdough?”

“White,” Ian replied – he didn’t like fancy bread – never did.

“Drink?”

“What?”

“Would you like anything to drink?”

By now the rich kid was pissing Ian off, so he figured he'd play with the fool, “Yeah, gin and tonic, an’ hold the tonic,” Ian shot back. But the rich kid didn’t get the joke.

Probably too stupid.

“Jus a Coke!,” Ian added.

After four or five pokes with his finger the rich kid announced, “That will be ten dollars and twenty-five cents.”

Holy fuck! Ian thought to himself. More than half of the twenty gone in one shot! But Ian was careful not to show surprise or annoyance. He didn’t want the rich kid to think that he wasn’t good for the $10.25. So Ian casually handed the Chinese kid his father’s limp twenty then pocketed the change.

“Nice jacket,” Gloria said to Ian as he stepped in front of her three-foot wide station, which, according to the overhead sign, was called “dress it up!”.

“Thanks,” replied Ian after a brief, but unsuccessful, attempt to find something more substantial to say.

A ‘Dressing Specialist’, Gloria pulled on her clear plastic gloves, then, with her hands poised over Ian’s naked sandwich, asked, "And what would you like on your Hand Carved Turkey?"

“Everything, but no onions or hot peppers and lots of mayonnaise…please.”

Ian loved mayonnaise. He loved the milky white look of it. He loved the creamy taste of it.

Mayonnaise was a bi-annual addition to the menu at Moslow, appearing every Thanksgiving and Christmas. On the other three hundred and sixty-three days of the year the inmates had to make do with the sickly yellow government surplus margarine that the cooking staff shoveled out of twenty-gallon tubs.

Gloria grabbed the tall plastic bottle in her slippery palm and squeezed, making several circles of mayonnaise before the bottle farted an air bubble. A second squeeze, two more full circles, then Gloria closed up her creation, wrapped it in wax paper, and set it on his tray.

“Thanks… Gloria,” Ian blurted out while trying to make eye contact. But Gloria was staring at the overhead monitor, struggling to understand the next customer’s order. She did, however, manage a limp, “You’re welcome. Enjoy.”  

Scanning the mostly empty dining area, Ian decided to sit at a table across the aisle from one occupied by four guys, all about his age, who were in the middle of a heated debate about last night's basketball game.

Ian smiled and nodded to the group as he sat, but none of the guys noticed. Nor did they pay any attention to Ian, who soon gave up any hope of striking up a conversation.

Ian finished his sandwich in less than a minute, glanced at the guys once more then stood and walked out of Koo Koo Roos. He was still early for the movie, but he figured he’d go in anyway, just to make sure he got a good seat. He was in line, three back from the ticket booth, when he realized that admission after 6 p.m. was $9.80 with tax. He was five cents short. No problem, he thought to himself. He could find that much in a newspaper box or lying on the sidewalk, so Ian stepped out of line, lit up a cigarette and began walking.

Looking north, Ian didn’t see much but a solid wall of townhouses, so he decided to go south along Mindanao. He had already checked all the newspaper boxes in the plaza and came up empty. Ian walked through the lights at the 90 freeway, then turned right at Admiralty. There wasn't much in the way of scenery. No coins either unless he counted the chewed up Mexican Centavo that he found at the curb. But Ian continued walking, passing the time by trying to identify the makes and models of the cars that whizzed past him.

He even impressed himself, naming every one except a couple of new Japanese sedans. One, a BMW 520i, looked just like the one he had in his scrapbook. Even the same colour. Occasionally a sweaty jogger or jaunty senior pasted him but mostly he had the sidewalk to himself. Nobody walks in Los Angeles.

Ian’s left heel was beginning to blister so he paused in front of the Marina Waterside Center, an open-air mish-mash of restaurants, clothing stores and coffee shops. It took a couple tugs before Ian managed to pull the problematic creases out of his left sock. He had his foot back into his boot when the blast of a car horn shattered the night air. Ian looked up to find a new red Miata racing straight toward him while the driver waved for Ian to get out of the way. Ian glanced about, noticed that he was standing in the middle of the plaza’s driveway, then took two quick steps to the side. The Miata rocketed into the parking lot and squealed to a stop beside a group of teens, mostly girls, standing in front of the Rainbow Acres Natural Juice Bar. The teens surrounded the driver, a guy about Ian’s age, asking a lot of questions about the car. A couple of the girls amused themselves by running their fingers over the Miata’s glossy red body.

Ian continued walking for a short distance but stopped when he spotted a racing-yellow Ferrari Dino parked at the curb. He swerved off the sidewalk, drawn magnetically to the car. At first he was content to admire it from a distance but, noticing that no one was around, he began walking clockwise around the car, each revolution bringing him closer and closer until he was less than a foot from the driver's window. Ian cupped his hands around his eyes and leaned toward the driver’s side to get a better view of the interior but the thief alarm, activated by his touch, began to wail.

Ian jumped back then scampered off, laughing.

Thirty minutes had passed since Ian began his search; even if he found the change he needed, there was no way that he could make it back to the theatre in time, so Ian decided to save his money for another time and just go for a leisurely stroll, maybe look at the yachts.

Although the streets of Marina Del Ray are expertly laid out, they can still be a little confusing so when Ian eventually became lost he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, turned left then right then left again, trying to figure out in which direction was the water.

It was a baby’s piercing cry that caused Ian to turn then watch as a man and woman, him taking up the rear, and her in the lead, pushing a stroller, walked toward a steel grey Mercedes E330 parked about twenty yards away. The couple was still ten or so feet from their Mercedes when the man aimed his remote and unlocked the doors.

Ian was about to turn away when he noticed the woman set her purse on the car roof while she and the man began to empty the stroller of diapers, bottles, wet naps and all the other paraphernalia that small children require.  

“Jack. Jack Caufey!”  The grey haired, middle-aged man called out from beside his car, parked a hundred or so feet away.  

Jack smiled and waved back.

Jack didn’t know Sammy well. The guy worked for that asshole Burber in the commodities department. Still, Sammy seemed like a nice enough guy and although Jack had no intention of shooting the shit, he didn’t mind saying hello and maybe spending a minute or two in polite small talk.

“Hey Sammy.”

“Back in a sec,” Jack said to his wife.

"Bobby is tired and so am I,” she said in a whinny tone.

“And he'd be home by now if we hadn't spent the past hour listening to your great-uncle Saul wax nostalgically about all manner of bull shit. I said I'd be back in a second.”

Ian broke into a smile as he watched Jack leave his wife and hurry toward his friend. A quick scan of the area revealed that there was no one in the immediate vicinity so, approaching from the woman’s blind side, Ian crept closer to the Mercedes until he was only a car away. Still unaware of his presence, the woman lifted the still crying baby from his stroller, set him on the rear car seat, then struggled to buckle him in. Ian hunched over then sprinted up behind the woman and reached for the purse.

It was only a brief movement in the corner of her eye, but it was enough to get the woman’s attention. She turned and saw Ian immediately as he grabbed her purse then darted toward Admiralty Boulevard.

“Hey!” she shouted then stood abruptly, whacking her head on the doorframe.

Grimacing in pain, she pointed toward Ian.

Her shout of “Stop thief!” got her husband’s attention immediately and he took off in pursuit of Ian but the badly out of shape Jack was soon passed by a group of four teenagers who had also heard her cry and took up the chase.

Ian crossed Admiralty and turned east on Mindanao. He wasn’t a better runner than the guys chasing him, but he was just as fast so he managed to stay ahead of them. Ian figured that he’d lead his pursuers into the heavy traffic, then, when they weren't looking, he'd change direction and lose them in the trees and bushes on the east side of the wide boulevard. A sharp left around the dwarf palm coming up and he would have had a clear shot at the street but just before Ian turned he saw two more guys coming from the opposite direction. So instead, Ian made a sudden right, so sudden that the leather soles of his cowboy boots slipped and he skidded to the ground with the grace of a hapless minor leaguer trying to slide into home. Ian managed to stand but before he could continue running two guys tackled him hard. Ian skidded, face first, to the rough asphalt, grinding the skin off his chin and knuckles. Suddenly they were all over him, punching at his body and tearing at his clothes.

“Fuck you guys!” Ian shouted just before a fist split his lip and somebody jerked the woman’s purse out of his hand.

Ian learned from prison not to fight back in these situations so he just curled up to protect his face and ribs and waited while the blows rained down on him. Suddenly, some breathless guy shouted,

“Stop it!”

And they did.

Ian's left eye was now swollen shut but through his right he could see that he was surrounded by four or five guys, their faces sheathed in darkness. Whoever shouted for them to stop was still about twenty yards away, and through the blood, Ian thought that it looked like the Jack guy. At the same time he suddenly realized that none of his attackers seemed to be paying much attention to him so he flexed the muscles in his legs to see if either one was broken then leapt to his feet and ran like hell. Ian couldn't afford to look over his shoulder but from the volume of the footsteps he knew that his pursuers weren’t very far behind.

As Ian ran around the corner of the Corinthian Yacht Club's building, he suddenly found himself facing a sweeping harbor of glistening, black water. Once over the chain link fence he tried climbing aboard a nearby cabin cruiser but the moment his foot touched the deck an onboard burglar alarm began wailing.

Meanwhile, the staccato beat of his pursuers’ shoes on the floating wooden dock grew nearer, and louder.

Ian was boxed in on three sides, which left only one avenue of escape.

Although his parents had enrolled him in lessons, Ian never learned to swim, partially because he hated water. Pool water burned his eyes and tasted foul; ocean water, which he had only encountered once before, gave him the creeps with all that fish and sharks and seaweed floating around. Just the thought of being in the ocean, vulnerable to attack, blind to what was below, made his stomach churn. But he also recognized that the oily black water directly in front of him represented his only hope. So, as the horde of thundering feet approached, Ian took a deep breath, pinched his nose and leaped, feet first, into the mighty Pacific.

 --------

The first thing that Ian noticed, after breaking through the surface and plummeting down into the water like a hapless juggernaut, was the thick silence, then sudden cold as the icy water enveloped his aching body.

It was hard for Ian to tell if he was still sinking, rising, or stationary. He couldn't remember somersaulting when he hit the water so he figured that up should still be over his head, but he was just guessing.

Ian’s attackers must have kicked out a tooth or two because his mouth was filling up with thick liquid and it wasn't water. He was afraid to swallow, just in case he choked, something he figured wouldn't be a good thing to do underwater, so he just tried to hold the pool of blood in his mouth until he reached the surface. It took three kicks of his legs before his head broke the surface and took several deep breaths of the cool evening air before conducting a quick inventory.

Jacket.

Lighter still in his pants pocket.

Cap. Gone.

“Fuck! He was here a second ago.” One of his attackers shouted.

Ian’s eyes darted right and then left with out seeing a single one of them. Only heavy wood posts and the water’s rippling surface.

It was then he realized that he had resurfaced under one of the docks.

Suddenly the heavy thuds of six or seven people's feet began pounding a frenzied tempo on the dock.  The mob had evidently grown.

“Let's split up. You guys go north, along the esplanade, and the three of us will head south as far as the traffic light.”

Ian wrapped his arms around one of the moss-coated posts and waited until the wooden planks above fell silent. Then, cautiously, almost meekly, he peeked out from his refuge. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean that he had a chance in hell of making it to a transit stop and onto a bus without being seen. Nor could he stay much longer in the water, his legs were beginning to cramp.

Through his one good eye, Ian though he could see something floating in the distance, a green light at one end and a red light at the other. Ian figured it was a boat, hopefully, deserted. He didn’t have much choice anyway, further from shore was the only route he could take without running the risk of meeting his attackers again. So Ian peeked out from under the dock once more, then began paddling out to sea, often choking on the diesel-fouled ocean water that lapped into his mouth.

16:

Katie disliked calling her father. So, even before she started dialing she would hope that luck would be with her today and the Veterans Administration Hospital's phone system would be out of service, or her dad would be in physio or napping, or her cell phone battery would die. But this, the last few hours of her undistinguished life, were going to be devoid of luck for …

FULLER, Kathleen Christyne, née Viceroy, long time resident of Marina del Rey. Born December 25, 1946, loving mother of Jason, devoted daughter of Ellen (deceased) and James. Died suddenly June 18, 1992, on her beloved cabin cruiser, the Sufferin’ Succotash.

“Three North, Nurse Lamport speaking.”

Katie switched the heavy Motorola cell to her right ear, leaned back against the aging deck cushion, and swung her feet atop the five-gallon ice cream tub she used as a footstool. For the past twelve years, the cabin cruiser’s single room living quarters had served as her bedroom, kitchen, office, library, and sanctuary from her ex-boyfriend, as well as the rest of the world.

“Hi Nancy, it's Katie. Is Dad around?”

“Oh hi, Mrs. Fuller. I saw him just a few minutes ago. Let me check his room.”

Katie always treated the staff with respect and courtesy, something she rarely got during her thirty years as an emergency nurse at USC Medical Center. Thirty years of gunshots, stabbings, domestic assaults, car accidents, heart attacks, and wailing kids. Thirty years of “Nurse!” this and “Nurse!” that. Thirty years of being treated like a flunky by doctors. She got out as soon as she could and although early retirement only paid thirty percent of her full pension, that and her first husband's life insurance policy were enough to live on, if she was careful.

Even though the telephone was lying on the nursing station desk, about thirty or so feet from the common room, Katie could still hear the party room’s television blaring. Nearly all the patients in the VA Hospital in Westwood were veterans of WW II and all were well into their late 70s and 80s and either partly or completely deaf. Two of the patients on her father's floor, Mr. Kramer, a veteran of Korea, and Jeff Collins, a Viet Nam vet, probably had normal hearing, but both of them were always heavily sedated and spent their days in their beds staring at nothing in particular.    

“Hello, hello.”

Mr. Viceroy’s voice cracked from fatigue and disuse.

“Hi Dad, its Katie."

“Hello, Dear.”

“Just called to see how you’re doing.” 

 “Oh, I'm OK. Food's not getting any better and that jackass roommate of mine keeps calling me Jimmy, but other…Oh and the nurse said that my blood pressure was a bit high last Thursday or was it Friday? But other than that I'm OK. How's my grandson?”

“Last time I spoke to Jason he said he was fine. Exams are coming up so he's spending a lot of time in the library.”

“Well, why don't you just keep more books on the boat, buy a decent set of encyclopedias, that way he doesn't have to take that stupid dinghy back and forth to shore.”

Her father used to have such a sharp mind that it hurt her to hear him talk like that.

“Jason's not living on the boat with me any more. He's in residence at the University of Toronto, in Canada.”

“I know where Toronto is. Well, when did he leave? And how come he never said goodbye?” 

 “He did, maybe you just don't remember.”

“I remember everything just fine thank you. If he said goodbye you can be damn sure I would have remembered.”

A silence fell between them while Katie struggled to think of something to say.

“Hello? You still there?”

“I'm here Dad.”

“He take that dog with him to Canada?”

Mr. Viceroy always referred to Diefenbaker as “that dog”.

Katie bought Dief, as she called him, full grown from the Union Street Animal Shelter when Dief was nearly four years old. A PG&E meter reader found the battered and bloodied dog chained to a post in the backyard of a seemingly deserted house on his route. The half collie and half mongrel spent two weeks in the Shelter’s infirmary recovering from his wounds. Katie couldn’t imagine anyone taking out his or her anger on a poor defenseless animal.

Katie and Dief got along from the moment they met and had been constant companions since he joined Katie onboard the Sufferin’ Succotash, Katie's thirty-one-foot floating monument to duct tape and waterproof caulking.

“His name's Diefenbaker Dad and no, Dief is my dog, so he didn't go with Jason.”

“Don't know why you need a dog. Small boat like that. A dog needs exercise.”

“It’s OK Dad.  Dief loves to swim and he takes good care of me.”

Her father was becoming belligerent; he always did toward the end of their conversations but only recently. When she was a child, she and Dad used to lie on the soft, green grass in the back yard and stare up at the sky, just watching the clouds drift past. They'd talk about lizards, locomotives, liars and life. He’d answer every question she’d ask, and she had plenty. But that was long ago and ‘long agos’ were just that and nothing more.    

“Anyway Dad, just called to see if you are OK. You need anything?”

“I need to get out of this God-damned cursed place.”

“Soon as the doctor says that you are well enough to go home. OK?”

“Don't have much choice, now do I?”

“Night Dad.”

“Night,” and then she heard him hang up.

Their conversations always ended in the same tragic mini-play. The dialogue began with him wanting to leave the hospital and ended with her promising that he could as soon as the doctor said that he was well enough. But they both knew that he would never leave that place alive.

 ---------

Bedtime was a bit of a routine for Katie and Dief.  At nine-thirty, Katie sent him up the stairs to the deck to do his business in the dog potty while Katie filled the kettle and set it on the propane stove for her nightly cup of Twinning, raspberry tea with a dash of rum. Katie and Dief were usually in their beds by ten. That evening they were twelve minutes behind schedule by the time Dief curled up on his lemon-meringue-yellow beach towel and Katie climbed into her bunk, protected from the evening chill by her floor-length flannel nightie and a snow white duvet that she picked up nearly ten years ago at a Sears and Roebuck White Sale. The two lone occupants of the Sufferin’ Succotash were asleep within minutes; neither of them heard Ian's desperate coughing.

 

CHAPTER 17:

When Ian grabbed the boat’s rear shelf, his frigid, white fleshy palm clung to the blistered surface like fresh putty to sandpaper. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself from the water and collapsed face up on the rickety aluminum platform. It took a long time before his heaving chest began to calm, only to buckle again with short-lived laughter.

The Pacific lapped quietly all around him while the ink-black sky filled his field of view. Ian lay listening, not to the solitude and peace, but for any noise that might indicate that he was not alone on the boat. After a few minutes, he forced his aching body vertical then scanned the area. Ian figured his pursuers had probably given up by now and there were no other boats within a hundred yards, nevertheless, Ian knew that the first thing he needed to do was find a weapon - just in case - so Ian lifted his bruised left leg over the gunwale and set it gently on the deck. No alarm went off, so he did the same with the right leg. As he stood at the rear of the boat, the lights from the dock were strong enough to allow him to recognize that what he was standing on was nothing like boats he sometimes saw in the magazines. Instead, this boat was a floating junkyard, filled with old furniture and rusty metal. The wooden deck under his feet felt bare and blistered, the rails and other ornaments, held together with a combination of rusty bolts and tape.

"Piece of crap," Ian muttered in disgust as briefly scanned the landscape of junk before snatching up a handle-less pruning saw and wrapping an oily, grey rag around its tang to give him something to grip. The saw wasn’t as intimidating as a gun, or as effective as a knife but he figured that would still come in handy if he needed to defend himself.

“Just my luck to end up on a shit boat!” he thought as he surveyed the Sufferin' Succotash then briefly considered swimming out to one of the other boats in the marina. Something a little more luxurious. And classier. But decided against it. The ole tub was available and safe, and dry, so Ian figured he'd stay for a while, take a look around, make himself something to eat, maybe even take the ole tub out for a cruise.
Captain Timmins!

Ian smiled at the thought of it, Yes, Sir, Captain Timmins! Land dead ahead Captain Timmins! Thar she blows Captain Timmins!

The lure of his first command was stronger than his need of food or drink so Ian wound his way through the clutter at his feet to the ladder that led to the upper deck then began climbing. 

The second step of the four-step ladder groaned loudly under his weight, but he didn’t care, the vacant boat was now under the command of Captain Ian Timmins.

-------------

Dief lifted his head immediately when he heard the sound and exhaled a low, cautioning growl. Katie awoke slowly, dragged reluctantly from a deep sleep.

“What is it Dief?” Katie half whispered, half moaned.

Katie and Dief followed the trespasser’s movement with their eyes. She laid her hand on Dief's snout to keep him silent then swung her legs out of bed and wrapped her fingers around her son's game-winning Ted William’s Little League baseball bat that hung over the wine fridge. Katie then crept to the cabin door and slid back the cheap brass bolt, which was only useful for preventing the door from flapping in the breeze.

“Stay!” she whispered to Dief before she swung open the door and paused to listen.  

Katie immediately noticed the wet footprints that led across the deck to the ladder. Cautiously avoiding the second step, which had been loose since last summer, she crept to within five feet of the trespasser who was so busy turning every knob on the control panel and flipping every switch that he didn’t hear her approaching.

She never intended to actually hit the trespasser with the bat but when she saw he old pruning saw in his left hand, she figured that the kid meant trouble. That’s when she decided to give him a little love tap in the ribs, just to show him she meant business.

Unfortunately, her aim was a little off and she instead connected with the side of Ian’s head just below his right ear. The impact produced a loud thud and he crumpled to the ground immediately, his arms and legs each pointing in a different direction.

A rolling swell passed under the Sufferin’ Succotash, lifting her gently then setting her down. Katie grabbed a handrail to keep from losing her balance then turned toward the cabin door when she heard it slam shut. 

Diefenbaker barked.

"It's OK Dief, I got him.”

Katie stared at Ian’s inert body for twenty, maybe thirty seconds before she noticed the blood oozing from beneath his head.

She used the bat to ease the pruning saw from his fingers then gave it a kick, propelling the saw across the deck.

Katie was afraid that she had killed the kid so she hurried into the pilot's seat and switched on the ship-to-shore radio, unleashing an ear-piercing screech into the air then spent several seconds wiggling the faulty squelch button trying to silence the speaker.

The radio’s squeal shot through Ian's head like a white-hot arrow, dragging him into consciousness. Ian could see the dark form of a woman sitting in the chair a few feet from where he lay. And he saw the bat, still in her left hand. Pretending to be unconscious, he closed his eyes and kept them shut while first his left then his right hand searched for something he could use as a weapon. He eventually found the saw.

Katie had the microphone in her hand and was about to transmit when Ian stabbed her in the back. Katie let out a brief scream and dropped the bat just as the saw’s tip punctured her clothing, although it barely broke through her skin.

Moments turned to seconds as they both tried to decide what to do next. Ian recovered first and took another swing at Katie, this one a roundhouse that he hoped would connect with the woman’s side, but instead the saw found the soft flesh of her armpit and traveled far enough to both sever a vein and puncture her right lung.

Ian was surprised by all the blood. It was more than he had expected but, then again, other than that time in the prison auto shop, he’d never stabbed anybody.

By now Dief was barking and growling, and banging up against the door, as if possessed by a demon.

Katie tried to remain standing but within seconds her body slumped over the steering wheel, then slid off and collapsed quietly onto the deck like a water-filled balloon.

Ian stared at the woman dispassionately as she lay in her blood. Every once in a while she would twitch or her mouth would gape as if to speak, but Ian figured she was just taking her time dying. He thought of giving her a little thrill before she kicked off but she was old and ugly so he couldn't be bothered.

As Dief continued to bark and bang on the door, Ian grew nervous, wondering how far the sound would travel. But glancing about he could see no sign that anyone had heard the woman’s scream or the barking dog. The brightly lit docks remained deserted and the neighboring boats, dark and silent.

He figured he was safe for now but knew that sooner or later he would have to deal with the annoying dog. For now, however, he needed to get rid of any prints, blood, DNA - anything that the cops could use against him in court. He had only stabbed the woman in self-defense, but he was an ex-con. Easy target for some prosecutor who needed another notch in his career. No way he would get a fair trial. Didn’t get one four years ago and wouldn’t get one now. Soon as the cops made the connection between one dead woman and one guy with a ‘history of violence’ plastered on every page of his file he would be Public Enemy Number One. Fair, or justice, or due process, didn’t matter. They railroaded me four years ago and they would do it again,  Ian said to himself.

Ian began to retrace his steps mentally but soon realized that he had touched, and stepped on, and probably bled on more stuff than he could possibly remember and that’s when he in a malevolent whisper, “I’ll just sink the fuckin’ boat,” then smiled.

But how?

It was after he climbed down to the main deck, staggered to the boat’s gunwale and tried to figure out a way to punch a hole in the side that he noticed a small aluminum dinghy bobbing in the water beside the boat.  The red gasoline container at the rear of the dinghy, near the outboard engine, provided him with the solution he was looking for.

Once in the dinghy, he closed the choke, then started the engine with the first try. The gas container was full, and heavy, but he eventually managed to hoist it over the gunwale and onto the deck.  It was then he noticed the words neatly stenciled on the side of the boat.

“Sufferin’ Succotash? Stupid name but hey… pleasure to meet you Suc.”

Climbing back onto the boat from the bobbing and pitching dinghy was a lot more difficult than getting in but he succeeded after a few tries. Ian unscrewed the container’s cap then began spreading the volatile liquid with child-like glee. He was just about done when he noticed a dog leash curled up in a dark corner of the deck. Ian picked it up then suddenly had another great idea…

I’ll save the dog’s life! Why not? The stupid mutt didn't do anything to me. So why should it have to die?

Ian used a rusty bar to pry the cabin door open. Dief, mouth wide, teeth glistening even in the pale, moonlight, immediately lunged at Ian’s midsection but Ian used his foot to hold the door partially closed while he fashioned a noose out of the leash then wrapped a rag around his left arm just for insurance.

“Nice doggy. Would you like to come home with me and be my pal?” Ian said in a soothing tone, but Dief responded with renewed fury, barking, growling and clawing at the door.

Ian moved his foot back a few inches, allowing Dief to jam his head far enough through the opening for Ian to slip the noose leash over it. Confident that he had formed the beginning of a new friendship, Ian, released the door then stepped back, smiled and said, “Nice do…” But Ian didn't have time to finish his sentence before Dief lunged, teeth bared, toward Ian's throat. It was only reflex that caused Ian to raise his left hand. Dief sank his teeth into Ian's wrapped forearm and clamped down with bone crushing force.

Ian’s pain turned quickly to anger and with Dief’s mouth still clamped around his forearm, Ian spun, lifting the dog into the air and slamming it against the upper deck ladder.

“Stupid fuckin’ dog,” Ian shouted then slammed Dief against the ladder again.

“If that’s the way…”

Then slammed Dief against the ladder a second time.

“…you want it…”

The third blow must have knocked the wind out of Dief, or cracked a rib, because Dief suddenly released his grip and fell hard to the deck where he lay motionless, breathing in shallow gasps and whimpering quietly.

“Asshole!” Ian screamed at poor Dief then quickly tied the loose end of the leash to the upper deck ladder and stepped back to catch his breath. It only took a few seconds until the pain replaced the rage and his arm began to throb.

Ian partially unwrapped his forearm and it was while he stared in disbelief at the two purple puncture marks that Dief suddenly recovered and lunged again. This time, however, Ian only had to lean back a few inches to be safely out of Dief’s reach.

With each lunge the noose dug deeply into the dog’s neck but Dief’s fury was greater than his discomfort and he continued his frenzied attack while Ian emptied the last of the gasoline onto the dock then climbed over the gunwale and into the dinghy. 

Ian started the dinghy’s outboard, then tore a thin strip of fabric from the rag wrapped around his forearm and flicked his lighter several times before a vibrant blue and orange flame finally shot into the air. After tying the strip around the lighter to hold the valve open, he steered the dinghy ten or so feet from the Sufferin' Succotash then casually tossed the flaming lighter in the direction of the cabin cruiser. The fumes from the gasoline ignited into a fireball before the lighter even touched the deck.

Ian had just unzipped his pants when his eyes widened in horror at the sight of Dief, propelled by a powerful leap, sailing through the angry flames trailing his burning leash. The dog slammed into Ian, knocking him down and killing the outboard engine.

     Dief growled angrily as his teeth ripped Ian's flesh, bloodying his other forearm, then his shoulder and chest. Finally, Ian managed to grab the dog’s leash and using it as leverage, he pushed the dog over the side of the dinghy and into the water.

Dief swam quickly to a nearby navigation buoy, dragged himself out of the water, then continued to bark as the current carried the dinghy past, just out of his reach.

With the outboard motor now still and silent, the dinghy continued to drift through the water, lit to a golden hue by the roaring inferno. Ian lay in a fetal position on the dinghy’s floor crying softly, but his sobs were soon drowned out by the distant wail of fire trucks.

CHECK BACK NEXT SUNDAY FOR EPISODE THREE