Free California Girl by T. Jefferson Parker Page B

said Lobdell. “The Laguna thing had to be queers.”
    “Laguna PD’s playing it pretty tight,” said Nick. The Sheriff’s Department had gotten the statewide bulletin from Laguna Beach PD that morning. Fatal stabbing at the Boom Boom Bungalow, a beachfront motel that catered to men. No suspect, no witnesses. Dead victim was Adrian Stalling, age twenty, of Bakersfield.
    “A stiff at the Boom Boom,” said Lobdell. “Ours is at the old packinghouse near Tustin?”
    “That’s right, Al.”
    “Should have torn it down years ago. City Council tried to, but it’s just outside the city limits.”
    “Yeah. It’s been empty awhile.”
    “Bums and rats. Kids doing the wrong things. That was Shirley on the phone. Kevin got suspended from school today for cussing a teacher. Like he does his mom. Three days of suspension.”
    “Sorry to hear that, Lucky.”
    “Not as sorry as me.”
    “What were you doing when you were seventeen?”
    Lobdell looked at Nick, then back through the window. Lucky was a big man, barrel chest and small feet. He seemed preoccupied at times, like his back was up against a wall that Nick couldn’t see.
    “I graduated early with job credits,” said Lobdell. “Joined the army.”
    Nick steered off Fourth Street to Newport, then drove the service road along the railroad tracks. Still a few groves around the packinghouse. Gravel popped under the chassis and the orange leaves shifted in the wind. Silver and green and silver again. Sun bright and low in the west.
    Nick thought of himself and his brothers tossing the SunBlesst packinghouse crate labels in the air on a day like this. That dark-haired beauty and her big orange raining out of the sky for days. Remembered the rumble. The crack of Lenny Vonn’s nose. The terrific pain when they clubbed his head with the tree branch. And Andy flying out of the trees to spear Lenny Vonn. Clay. All because of Clay. Be five years next month since he died. November 22. And the war getting worse and worse.
    Nick parked the Ford by the railroad tracks. Tustin PD had a couple of units there, and the Sheriff’s had two more.
    And Andy’s convertible Corvair Spyder. Custom rims and an ice blue paint job. White top, turbocharged. Press card taped to the inside of the windshield. Andy was a hotshot reporter now for the Journal. Won Orange County Press Club awards left and right. Had a police band radio in his car, another in his house, another on his desk at the Journal building in Costa Mesa. Said he never turned them off, which was probably true. Made half the crime scenes faster than the detectives. Middle of the night on some dismal 187 down in the bad section of Santa Ana there was Andy with his ice blue Corvair and his notebook.
    Nick got his case from the trunk. Brand new. Bought his own, the kind with the lock. Organized exactly how he wanted it. Good feeling, to have the tools you need and know how to use them.
    He climbed up the rotting old steps of the packinghouse. Smelled the creosote. Felt the boards giving under his feet as he walked across the platform toward the big sliding doors. Heard the metal roof shimmying in the wind. Saw the stains on the roof where the nails had rusted through. He could still see the faint image of the SunBlesst girl and her orange. Faded with age. Her face alone as big as he was.
    Inside, the sunlight came through the wall slats in slanting beams. Dust rose in the shafts and a feather zigzagged lazily down. Nick heard the flapping and cooing above him. Didn’t bother to look.
    It was pretty much just one huge room. Rafters high up. Big industrial light housings still hanging, dented up from kids heaving rocks at them. Bulbs long shattered. Mullioned windows along all four sides, glass busted out years ago. Some of the safety screen still twisting from the frames. A row of desks, drawers gone, along one wall. Floor covered with crate labels and old newspapers that shifted in the drafts. Little circles of rocks where the