Motional Blur Read online

  In memory of Clair George

  Copyright © 2016 by Robert Eringer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Cover photo: iStock

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-1114-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-1115-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  1.

  When I think about it now, it’s like an old grainy black and white movie with a scratchy sound playing in my head. Sometimes, the memory makes me sad, other times, happy.

  My name is Luke Andersen, and I was just about to turn thirty-nine when I got the call.

  I’d had maybe the most normal day of my life. Slept in, which for me means about noon, unless the waves are whistling for me, which they weren’t. The dawn patrol dudes were still at it when finally I hit the beach after a mini-burger and fries at Tinker’s. Should have driven to Rincon, evaded the kooks, but I wasn’t sure if I still had alcohol in my bloodstream from the night before. As usual, I’d been drinking Jaime juice: shots of Herradura tequila and Bud Light chasers at the west side bar where I would host karaoke twice a week to supplement my part-time driving income.

  In fact, this was a Tuesday, a karaoke night, so I had to stay reasonably straight. Things took a negative downturn when I arrived at the bar past seven to set up the sound equipment.

  Eric, the bartender, pulls me aside, out of earshot of our boss, Anal Breath, who thinks we’re all in the marines.

  “A sheriff’s deputy stopped by looking for you,” says Eric.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No, man. He asked if you were here, and when I said you weren’t, he wanted to confirm you work here and what hours.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said you’re on call, no fixed hours.”

  “Right on. Did he say what it was about?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  I sort of already knew. I’d gotten three jury duty letters over the last couple months. The fourth—if they’re serious—gets delivered by a sheriff’s deputy, and then you’ve got some s’plaining to do before a judge, who fines you a fortune for refusing to accept a civic job way below minimum wage, and if you don’t show up for that, you’re in contempt and they issue a warrant.

  That’s life as I know it: judges and lawyers get paid the serious ka-ching while surfer dudes like me make a buck-eighty-eight an hour for listening to some insurance company’s lame excuse for not wanting to pay up.

  Last time, about ten years ago, I got out of jury duty by saying I believe in jury power, which I do, meaning that if a law is dumb—like marijuana possession—I judge the law guilty, and acquit the accused no matter the evidence.

  This time, I was planning to show up, I swear, get dismissed again the same way, but the waves that day were killer.

  Halfway through the evening, I get a text from The Drive Cycle asking me to call in for a job.

  I don’t really want a job right now, on top of which I’ve already had two shots of Jaime juice and I’m waiting for my lame-o boss to split for the office upstairs and bone one of the female flies, so I can tap myself a brewski.

  Then I get another text, and another saying if I don’t call in, I’m history, and so I think, okay, doesn’t hurt to call, tell them I’m over the limit, and that nails the situado dead.

  So I hand the mic to a gal who’s been singing and flirting with me all evening, and go outside, which gives me the opportunity to toke a spliff with a west side gangbanger—and why not, my birthday cuts in at midnight, the last in my thirties, and who the hell knows where my thirties went—or if I’d make it to forty.

  “S’up?”

  “Where’ve ya been, Luke?”

  “My Tuesday gig at the bar, you know. Sorry, dude, couldn’t hear the phone with Too-Tall singing the Bee Gees. Ugh.”

  “You’re supposed to call in. We have a job for you.”

  “I’ve been drinking.”

  “No problem, the job is tomorrow morning.”

  “Aww, man, you know, it’s my birthday tomorrow. Can’t you get someone else?”

  “He requested you.”

  “Who requested me?”

  “The fare.”

  “Why me?”

  A sheriff’s deputy trap? No way, those dudes are numbskulls.

  “Didn’t ask. Maybe you drove him before, a referral—how the hell should I know? You got fans.”

  I doubt that very much.

  “Airport run?” I’d get it done, get back in time for a wave or three, and grab a snooze late afternoon.

  “Nah, this one’s further. Vegas.”

  “Vegas? Aww, man … Why doesn’t he fly? That’s eleven hours there and back!”

  “Like I said, he specifically requested you, which is perfect because I don’t have anyone else.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “If you don’t take it, I need the vehicle back, and we’re done. Think about it and call me in fifteen.”

  “Son of a bitch!” I would have thrown my stupid smartphone against the wall but all I would’ve ended up with is a broken phone, and I couldn’t afford the lousy fifty bucks I’d make this evening to fix it.

  I go back in the bar. The gal I’d given the mic to is hogging it, making a butthole of herself, and I can see Anal Breath down the bar bristling like a warthog.

  ‘Where’ve you been?” he snorts.

  “On a break.”

  “You don’t get a break. And you’re not allowed to appoint a drunk to take your place.”

  “Who else, then? They’re all drunk in this place.”

  “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  Oh, joy.

  “I can be a real dick,” he adds.

  “We know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Whatever.”

  I get karaoke back on track—a ballad, “Henry the Crooner,” his no-cost therapy—lower the volume, and call my mother in Solvang. “S’up?”

  “Luke, are you okay?” She wasn’t used to hearing from me in the evening.

  “Fine, Mom. I may have to drive to Vegas tomorrow on a Drive Cycle job, you know, but I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’ll take all day—and it’s my birthday, remember?”

  “What does your supervisor say, Luke?”

  “He says if I don’t take it I’ve got to return their wheels.”

  She doesn’t say anything in that single parent way of hers that makes me feel like I’m still eight years old, and maybe I am, but I like it that way. “Luke,” she finally says, “you can’t go on losing jobs. And you won’t have a car anymore. You can celebrate the day after.”

  “Yeah, Mom, you’re right.”

  I click off, still planning not to do it.

  Through half-open saloon swing
doors I glimpse a police cruiser pulling alongside the curb.

  “Oh shit,” I mutter. “He’s back.” I approach Anal Breath. “Gotta go.”

  “You kidding me? You’ve got another hour.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? Don’t plan on getting paid tonight. Or coming back again. Ever.”

  I pull an exit-stage-left through the back door as Mr. Sheriff’s Deputy enters through the front.

  Fortunately, I’d left Abe—the Cycle’s eight-year-old Lincoln Town Car—on a side road.

  Unfortunately, Cheryl, the karaoke drunk, meets me there. “Hiding out from the bacon?”

  “Early day tomorrow, you know.”

  “Expecting bombers?”

  She’s talking about big waves.

  “Yeah.”

  She opens the door to her Honda.

  “You shouldn’t be driving,” I say. “You drank too much.”

  “So did you!”

  “No, just two shots, I’m good. You had about six. I’ll drive you home.”

  She thinks about it a few seconds. “No, I can make it.”

  “Don’t do it. Please? I’ll drive you. Your car is safe here overnight.”

  “Maybe I’ll go back in, sing a few more songs.”

  I knew she’d have a few more drinks instead—and then drive. “C’mon. I’ll drive you. Where do you live?”

  By the time we get across town and up onto the Riviera, her left hand is dangling between my legs. When we stop, she nuzzles her lips into my ear, whispering, “You coming in?”

  “I’d really like to,” I say. “You’re very attractive. But I gotta get up early tomorrow.”

  Truth is, I don’t like taking advantage of women who’ve been drinking too much.

  She bails, and I tap a key, connect to the Cycle.

  “Luke?”

  “Yo, dude. I’m sorry but …” Suddenly, a shooting star flares across the sky over the ocean. “… Whoa!”

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah. Wow, that was amazing!”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” And then I impulsively tell him I’ll take the job even though I’d intended not to.

  He gives me the pickup details, and I’m still wondering how my mind got changed, aside from that pesky sheriff’s deputy.

  “Eight thirty. And a specific request not to be late. Fuck it up like the last time and it’s your last run.”

  Last time I’d overslept.

  They know my own car needs a new transmission, so they think they have me by the balls, and they do.

  2.

  Next morning. No waves. No shots of Jaime juice. Just a grande Americano from Starbucks in a paper cup, waiting for my fare on the bricked forecourt of the Biltmore Hotel in Montecito.

  At 8:33 precisely the right rear passenger door opens. I hadn’t even seen anyone approach.

  “Charles Gearhart,” he says. “Would you care to open the trunk?”

  I flick a switch and pop the sucker. I’m about to get out and help, but he’s on it, so I sip my coffee, watch him remove his navy blazer, and settle into the backseat with an armful of newspapers.

  “We’re driving to Vegas, right, Mister Gearhart?” I connect my eyes with his in the rearview mirror.

  “Yes.”

  “Any particular routing?”

  There are only two choices, and both connect in Barstow for the rest of the way. We still have an eyeball gaze going.

  He shrugs. “You choose.”

  I ease Abe onto Channel Drive and join the freeway, 101 South. Gearhart immerses himself in the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal and doesn’t resurface until about an hour later when I’m about to get off I-5 and onto Route 14 toward Victorville, making good time.

  “I gotta take a pit stop in Acton,” I say. “It’s the coffee.”

  “How much do you drink?” he asks.

  “I like coffee.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Cute. I liked it better when he was stuck in newsprint.

  “A few cups a day.”

  “You sleep okay with that?”

  He was starting to sound like my mother, who still hadn’t called to wish me happy birthday.

  “It’s having to wake up early that interferes with my sleep.” That would hopefully shut him up.

  Acton is a carnival of gas stations. I pull into Chevron—nice clean gas—feed Abe, a serious guzzler, take a whiz, and grab a bag of Rold Gold pretzels for the road.

  “Need anything, Mister Gearhart?” I ask, adjusting my new wraparound Oakleys, an early present from my mom.

  He shakes his head, studying me through the rearview mirror.

  I study him back through mirrored glasses. He seems oddly familiar. I’ve seen him before, just can’t figure where or when. Maybe on TV? Happens a lot in Santa Barbara, wannabes and has-beens—and sometimes the real thing in between.

  The road is now lined on both sides by cacti and telephone poles, a hot sun blaring down on us. Thank the Lord for AC.

  “You live in Vegas?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Like to gamble?”

  “No.”

  “Going to see a show?”

  “No.”

  I should have known there and then something else was going down. But I was just trying to make conversation, pass the time, so I gave it no further thought and retreated into my mind. Yeah, if nothing more, I’d fixed that sheriff’s deputy with my absence today. He’d go to my home. No one there. Maybe back to the bar. No longer works here. After that, they’d give up. As if they didn’t have something better to do.

  Meantime, Gearhart dips into a large leather and canvas satchel beside him and grabs a book to read, something called The Path by Richard Matheson. He’s wearing a button-down blue shirt and khaki trousers and the kind of burgundy loafers that have tassels. An East Coast look, his thick head of hair somewhere between red and gray; looks like he once had a shitload of freckles, the kind I hated when I was a kid.

  At Barstow I need coffee.

  Gearhart gets out to stretch and walk around, but that’s it. (Strong bladder for an older dude.)

  Then we’re off again.

  A couple hours later, Mr. Personality finally perks up. “What’s that coming up ahead?”

  “Nevada. It welcomes you with a casino at every border crossing, you know.”

  He stares at the cheapo gambling complexes in awe, one on each side of the road to catch comers and goers.

  “You’ve never seen that before?” I ask.

  Silence. I assume he isn’t going to answer, but then: “I’ve seen a lot of the world. But not much of my own country. This looks tacky.”

  “Yup. You just defined Nevada. This will be your first time in Vegas?”

  He doesn’t answer, but continues his silence staring out the window while crossing the border, reminding me why I’d left my stash at home—Nevada is friggin’ fascist when it comes to pot possession—another reason why I wanted to dump this old-timer and haul ass back to Summerland.

  Gearhart catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “You’re not carrying any marijuana are you?”

  It’s as if he’s reading my mind and I freeze and my eyes feel like a deer about to be shot. How does he know about my habit? This is it, I’m going to get seriously busted, and I bet my own employer, the car service manager, is in on it, a full-on setup, maybe Anal Breath, too.

  “No, I’m not,” I squawk. I really wasn’t, but I couldn’t be sure about whatever crumbs are clinging to Abe in dark corners and crevices. “Why?”

  “California may be okay with weed, but Nevada is the exact opposite.”

  So that’s the plan—get me across into Nevada, carrying, lock me away forever!

  3.

  Finally, precisely five hours and twenty-three minutes since launching, the Vegas skyline looms. I can be back in time for buffalo wings and a potion at The Nugget.

  Gearhart remains absorbed with
his book.

  “Shall I get off at the Strip?”

  He looks up. “No. Keep going.”

  “You sure? Frank Sinatra Drive is the big one. What hotel you need?”

  He doesn’t say anything, just keeps reading his damn book. Maybe he’s going to the convention center, North Vegas; he’s certainly dressed for business.

  Driving alongside the Strip, past the pyramid, New York New York, the High Roller Wheel, Harrah’s, I joke, “We’re running out of Vegas.”

  He doesn’t answer, no expression, nothing.

  “Can you at least tell me what road to take?” I finally say. “Because otherwise we’re going to end up in Utah.”

  He finally puts his book down. “Good idea,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think I’d like Vegas. Utah sounds better.”

  I can’t believe my ears. “You must be kidding me!”

  “No. Let’s go to Utah.”

  “Where in Utah?” Not that I have any intention of going there, but at this point I need to determine if I’m dealing with a mental case.

  “Utah was your idea—you tell me.”

  “Utah wasn’t my idea. I just said that’s where we’d end up if we didn’t get off in Vegas!”

  “Okay, so let’s end up there.”

  “Where?”

  “Utah.”

  “Where in Utah?”

  “Someplace where the sky doesn’t fall.”

  I realize this conversation is going nowhere fast and that I’ll need another opinion on this matter.

  “Pit stop,” I announce, nailing the last exit in North Vegas. “We need gas.”

  Maybe he’d finally get out to relieve himself and I’d leave him right here. But he says he doesn’t have to go, and he doesn’t budge from the backseat.

  I pump gas, go inside for a whiz, and connect with headquarters.

  “I’m in Vegas and Mister Gearhart has changed his mind, says he wants to keep driving, to Utah, but doesn’t know where in Utah. What should I do, boss?”

  “We have his credit card details on file, the cost to Vegas has already been authorized. Put him on and I’ll get him to authorize another payment.”

  “But I don’t want to go to Utah! I want to go home! The deal was Vegas!”

  “Haven’t you heard, the customer is always right?”