Free Tapping the Source by Kem Nunn Page A

in the alley, but he didn’t. It was Preston’s business and Ike did not guess Preston was the type to appreciate prying.
    “So you really like it out there,” Preston said at last. He made it more of a statement than a question, but Ike answered anyway. “Yeah, I do. It’s different. I think about it a lot. Like when I’m working, or doing something else, I find myself wondering about conditions, about what the tide’s doing, thinking about what to work on next time I’m out. I need some new stuff. I want to get a wet suit and a leash for my board.”
    “Buy a wet suit. Fuck the leash. Learn how to hang on to your board.”
    “It’s hard.”
    “Come on, man. I thought you were Billy the Kid. I thought you were here to take on Hound Adams. It’s hard,” he added, mimicking Ike but making his voice high and whiny. He looked up at Ike after he said it, sort of one-eyed, like he had before. He was squinting because the sun was in his face, but it looked to Ike like he was grinning some too. “You ready for another beer?”
    Ike shook his head. “I still have some.” He took another drink. “Christ,” he heard Preston say. “So what about Hound Adams?” Ike said. He worked at making his voice as conversational as possible. “You known him long?”
    “Long enough. I happen to know he never uses a leash.” Preston seemed to find that amusing for some reason. He chuckled and poured some more beer down his throat—what looked to be half the can. “So you’re really gonna hang around. You’re serious about all this shit?”
    Ike nodded. He tilted his head back and chugged what was left of his beer. He folded his can and squashed it, tossed it into the pile at Preston’s feet. Preston passed him a fresh one.
    “So what’re you going to live on? You gonna get a job?”
    “I guess.”
    “What?”
    Ike shrugged. “Anything.”
    “Yeah, well, shit. There’s work. You go to work on bikes in this town and you just might put More Ass here out of business. Course, More Ass might not appreciate it. But then, come to think of it, he’s not too crazy about your ass anyway.”
    Ike shrugged once more.
    “Tell you what,” Preston told him, but was interrupted before he could say more by the sound of a bike—Morris pulling into the drive. “Here’s his highness now,” Preston said. He stood up and finished his beer, chucked the can and hitched up his dirty jeans. He picked his shades off the trailer and slipped them back on. “Who knows,” he said, and tapped Ike in the chest with the back of his hand. “Maybe I can say something to the treacherous old pig-fucker myself. Put in a good word for you, as it were.” He winked and walked away.
    Ike watched him go, sauntering in an exaggerated sort of way over to where Morris was kneeling near his scooter, unwrapping a handful of small parts he had apparently been out for. Ike could hear them talking for a few seconds in muffled tones. Then he could hear Preston’s voice clearly. “I know you got to tear down that Shovel.”
    Finally Morris straightened up and wiped his hands. He said something to Preston and then walked over to the fence and spoke to Ike through the chain link. “I’m gonna pull a bike apart next week,” he said. “You interested?”
    Ike nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Sure thing.”
    Morris just looked at him for a minute, like he was trying to decide if he’d made a mistake or not, then he turned and walked back to his bike. Preston said something else that Ike could not catch and then turned himself and moved to meet Ike coming around the fence.
    “Thanks,” Ike said.
    Preston held up a hand. “Just don’t turn your back on him,” he said, and then laughed out loud at the prospect of this new partnership.
    Ike stood there for a moment, waiting. There was a stiff wind kicking down the drive and when Ike spoke again, it was of the surf. “Be blown out now,” he said.
    Preston nodded and as Ike watched him he could see the sky