by M.T. Karthik, 2024

(6060 words)


To this Gate I gave the name of Chrysopylae, or Golden Gate; for the same reasons that the harbor of Byzantium was called Chrysoceras, or Golden Horn.

John C. Frémont, July 1, 1846

——–

On a half empty flight returning to SFO from Costa Rica, in seats 17B and C, Freddy Pico held hands with a stranger. She was in her mid-30’s and trying to get back to Vegas. She approached him at Juan Santamaria International and quietly asked if she could sit beside him on the half-empty, wide-bodied jet, confessing hapless fear during takeoffs and landings.

Her name was Elizabeth and she waited till he was alone. Freddy stood off apart from the others in front of a floor to ceiling window pane.

The harsh tube bulbs overhead were oddly made more stark by the rectangular plastic covers meant to serve as flat sconces. The ultimate effect was that everyone waiting to board, latinos y gringos alike, appeared undead.

Freddy was twisting his body around in front of the window, trying to position himself to actually see – to avoid the harsh glare and make out the fiery volcanic glow of the Poás in the distance – when Elizabeth approached and stammered her request.

Now, twenty years later and 3,000 miles away, standing on Ocean Beach, Freddy suddenly remembered what Elizabeth said during that takeoff, when she death-gripped his hand while their 747 banked slowly out to sea, leaving the ribbon of coastal Nicaragua behind.

She murmured, “I live in the desert because I don’t like change. People who like change need the ocean.”

Freddy remembered her looking up and away awkwardly to avoid any open blinds and the thousands of feet between them and mother earth. Her dishwater brown hair was tied up in a small bun. Her pale hazel eyes jumped to the no-smoking and fasten-seat-belt signs, the personal fan and light, the dull gray of the plastic stowaway bins – anywhere but the windows.

People always asked Freddy to do things like that: hold their hands during takeoff, or mind their stuff while they ran outside to feed the meter. He was easy-going. He wasn’t short or tall. He had a round, welcoming face, warm eyes. His paunch appeared and disappeared, a tide of the seasons, not the hustle of jogging.

The marine layer sat thick overhead. It made everything dark; the sea, the sky, the stone outcroppings in the gate. This contrast gave the sand a clean, beige hue. Freddy saw the boys running around on the sand and tried to implicate them in his flight mate’s analysis of what different people need, from so long ago.

Marcus, the eldest, liked change. Ricky was in constant change. Really, all the kids were.

“Kids,” Freddy thought, “need the ocean.”

“C’mon! Let’s go,” Freddy yelled at the sinewy black shadows running against the gray wall of sky and surf down the beach. He raised his hand when he saw Ricky looking back at him and swirled his finger in a wide circle in the air, reeling them back in. Ricky waved, turned away and chased down the others. Today there were four of them.

Two flying forms blew past Freddy tearing up the long beachhead. He didn’t get their names. Earlier, Marcus showed up at Freddy’s place with these two – brothers, maybe three years apart – easing in behind him. “Oye, Mr. Pico, I told these guys they could come along.” Freddy realized Marcus liked being the gatekeeper – bringing kids from the neighborhood around to his place.

It had started with one of Marcus’s classmates three years before, and today Freddy didn’t know these two brother’s names, but he knew their mother and had seen them around the neighborhood. As long as he knew the kids’ parents, Freddy never asked questions. He just gave as many as fit in his Gran Torino a ride to the beach and back, some fruit, a couple of bottled waters.

“You got towels?” the elder brother asked.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

Ricky strolled up with his shoes in his hand, eyes sparkling and blurted, “Man, the sand’s actually cold!” Freddy turned and looked back for Marcus, whose shadowy form he made out slowly trudging toward them. The fog and swirling sand intermittently swathed him in mist.

Marcus looked up the windy beach and made sure Mr. Pico turned back around before taking out the joint. He had been unable to light it on the beach without it being obvious. He spent a frustrating twenty minutes trying to get it lit before finally giving up.

It was the first time he had ever sneaked a joint on a beach trip and he’d brought matches, which he got free from the goldfish bowl at the hostess stand next to a dish of individually-wrapped, red-and-white peppermints in the foyer of Aldo’s, the Italian restaurant in his neighborhood.

He hadn’t thought about the wind at the beach and only now realized he should have bought a lighter. As a result, he never managed to get an actual hit. He brushed the charred, crumbly bits off the end of the pinner, pinched it and twisted it closed. He slipped it back into his shirt pocket under his hoodie and shell jacket.

As he approached the cement ramp that eased up out of the sand to the car and the others, Marcus felt a sharp spasm of guilt. If he had been successful, he realized, he’d have felt worse. As he approached the big Ford, he feared Mr. Pico would smell it.

Unlocking the doors, Freddy called out ,”Hey guys, dust the sand off before getting in.” Ricky sat on a bench beside the old sedan, swatting the bottoms of his feet with his socks.

“So what’d you think?” Freddy asked the two new boys.

“It’s hecka cold, man!” the younger brother erupted, grinning. The elder boy shrugged. Freddy could see the kid was carrying something heavy all day. “So where am I taking you guys … to your mom’s?

Marcus walked up and interrupted before they could answer: “Just take us all back to your place. We’re gonna walk down to GameStop on the way home.”

The younger boys careened into the backseat, falling on top of each other. They fell asleep before the long, low Ford even hit the panhandle. In the passenger seat, Marcus had his ear buds in, his hood up and his face turned to the window.

Freddy noticed a recent change in Marcus’ demeanor, a posture of urban defiance. Marcus wanted people in the city to see him as East Bay: low-slung and closed-off. But Freddy knew he was drinking everything in, peripherally – Oakland style.

A guy in his mid-20’s with thick, black, designer glasses, wearing a gray scarf around his neck and a long, black overcoat that hung to the knees of his cuffed designer jeans, was standing on the corner texting someone, ignorant that he had the light. He stood just at the edge of the curb, tantalizingly close to stepping off, and yet … not doing it.

An Indian cabbie trying to make a right at the corner, was left hanging. Was the guy going to walk?

The Gran Torino was in the middle lane, paused at the light for traffic, so Marcus’ passenger window was immediately beside the cab and he could hear the woman in the back seat barking in rage at the cabbie to get a move on – unaware he could go nowhere until the guy on the corner either moved or looked up from his I-phone.

The full-bearded Sikh, who filled out the driver’s seat like a massive blue tuber, puffed his cheeks and let out a sigh that emptied his breast and crumpled his shoulders. His turban sank. Marcus sighed sympathetically.

“What’s up?” Freddy asked.

“Nothing,” Marcus murmured, “Just fools in the city.”

The marine layer lay thick across San Francisco as the big sedan slowly edged forward through traffic toward the bridge. The skyline was waist deep in it. The Pyramid, BofA and Salesforce were all masked in gray.

But as they came up on the 101, the gray evaporated. Halfway across the water, the fingers of the marine layer were melted away. Skies were clear over the East Bay and it was sunny; windows with views of the ever-changing chrysopylae reflected the sunlight, peppering the Oakland hills with white dots and shimmering lights.

Freddy reflected on how little the boys knew about the hills, or the city. Their world was the flats of Oakland, and only a few block radius. That was what had inspired him to take these trips to the beach; how it came to pass that Federico Ignacio Pico was the first person to introduce Marcus, Ricky and a half dozen other local kids to the Pacific Ocean.

He enjoyed watching them the first time, approaching the sea boldly, then as they got nearer the waves, more cautiously, until at last they put their toes in the water, yelped with frozen joy and leaped backward.

As his big Ford crept up the onramp to finally enter the bridge, Freddy noticed a man behind the wheel of a little gray sedan in the lane beside him, with an intense look of stress on his face.

“Driven near-blind chasing the cost of living.” Freddy thought.

It’s the same anywhere there’s hills and flats, cities and burbs; where there are people overlooking the overlooked. The hills have treasured views, and the flats get unaffordable rents. But here there’s a treasure in the flats – a glittering gem of silver and gray, blue, brown and green: the San Francisco Bay.

As the crazy, bastard pathfinder noted, at sunset from the Oakland hills: it’s golden at times, too.

The Pacific pours through this ever-changing chrysopylae under Our Lady of Perpetual Suicides. It breathes up the delta and down the South Bay, brackish. There’s continuity. If you stick your toe in Lake Merritt or Corte Madera Creek; San Pablo Bay or the Carquinez Straits, you always feel connected to the Pacific.

Freddy glanced at the boys in the rear view mirror, then tapped Marcus and spoke up to get through his music. “They don’t need to go to GameStop – they’re all crashed out. I’m taking ’em home.”

Marcus didn’t turn to face him, “Yeah, all right.” The bay rolled by.

“What’s the tide doing?”

Marcus sat up, pulled out his earbuds and leaned to look: “hustlin’ out.”

“How’s the chop?” Freddy could see the water, but he feigned focus on driving. Marcus had learned a lot in three years.

“Hella caps … gotta be 20 … well, 15.”

Changing lanes across the wide, gray asphalt of the maze to the 580, and easing into Oakland, the white of the bridge, the cranes and the road stripes shone brightly – it was warm.

“Yo, man, just let me out on Telegraph,” Marcus added.

Freddy nodded and eased the GT through the criss-crossing traffic of the thousands homeward bound.

*******

Barbara Carter rented one side of a duplex in the middle of a typical East Oakland block. At one end there was an empty warehouse building. The other end of the street crossed a busy avenue. The corner had a pizza delivery spot, a bodega, a coin laundromat, a gas station and an eight story, glass and concrete condominium rising above them all.

The units in the condo were mostly 700-square foot studios. The tenants were all unmarried singles who either didn’t have much patience for kids, or feared them. They walked city-fast, headphones in, head down to their phones tapping apps on the way to BART to the City.

The kids had no place to be. The pizza spot had no tables. It was just a stand for delivery drivers, that served $5 gourmet slices to the condo residents. The corner store owner was fascist against kids hanging around his shop. The bodega and laundromat were no loitering zones and the gas station … well, it was a gas station.

The playground for the kids was the empty end of the block with its decrepit warehouse wrapped entirely in barbed-wire fencing. Realtors signs were tied to the woven metal with metal twist-ties every thirty feet, but none of the signs were legible as each had been tagged “Paloma” in sweet, lyrical, Belton Molotow Premium Azure Blue.

Barbara’s duplex was halfway up the block. The houses on either side were all single family homes. She had a housemate, Michelle, who was obliged to pass through a small common space, a foyer, to come and go. Michelle had closed the front door to the foyer and spun to face the street just as Freddy pulled up. Her pony tail whipped around and hit the screen door as it closed.

Seeing it was the boys, she turned, opened the screen door, unlocked the front door, and then, ponytail whipping back-and forth, turned and walked back purposefully in front of Freddy’s car to his window. She leaned in and lowered her sunglasses, shaking her head: “You don’t want to go in there.”

She saw the two sleeping brothers in the backseat. “Aw, look at that! That is so sweet what you do for these kids.”

Freddy smiled, “Whose Volvo ?” He nodded to the black EX-30 parked in the driveway they shared.

“PTA,” Michelle whispered, “They’re saying Eric stole something.”

“Which one’s Eric?” Freddy asked, as he emerged to let the kids out. Michelle helped rustle them to the sidewalk. “This,” she patted his head as she gently nudged him to the curb, “is Michael, he’s eleven. And that,” she said, nodding at the elder brother, “is Eric, he’s thirteen. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Eric murmured, half asleep, half-defiant. Freddy wondered if the kids’ sullen attitude all day had something to do with whatever was going on inside.

“Did you have fun at the beach?” Michelle asked the boys as they slipped out of the big back seat.

Michael turned and smiled weakly, giving a thumbs-up, then continued after the slinking figure of his brother toward the front door. Michelle gently patted Freddy on the back, “Good to see you Freddy, I’m telling you: Stay out of it.”

She crossed the street to her Honda and Freddy watched her start up and pull out, before turning to the duplex. He had already dropped Ricky off and, since Marcus had gotten out at Telegraph, this was his last stop.

The door to the foyer was ajar, and he could see Barbara inside as he walked up and heard her: “Oh, good. Come in,” as he waved through the screen door before swinging it open.

“Have you got a few minutes, Freddy?”

Michael and Eric’s mother was a formidable woman. She stood nearly six feet in heels and was thus slightly taller than Freddy. She had dark skin which gave her form broad, statuesque features. She stood in the entrance to the kitchen and didn’t move nearer the door as Freddy entered.

Eric was standing at the front of the living room, between them, head down, staring at his shoes. There was no sign of his little brother. A man and woman were seated on the couch. Freddy did not recognize them. Both rose when he entered.

Barbara quickly added: “How was the beach? Were they good?”

Freddy glanced about. Michael had dragged himself off someplace.

“They were great. We had fun.”

Eric stood in front of a big, flat, wall-mounted monitor. When on, it dominated the small, neat living room. Off and silent, the monitor created an immense black backdrop for Eric, who looked even more isolated as he faced the interrogation taking place.

Barbara walked across the room to Eric’s side: “Well, I’d love to hear all about your first trip to the beach, but unfortunately, we’ve got to address a problem.” She took her place behind him, supportively, and put her arms on his shoulders before turning to the others.

“This is Mr. Pico. He took the kids to the beach today,” and, turning to Freddy: “This is Lynn Chen and Paul Wallace, with the PTA.”

There was a low, round table in front of the couch, and the two stepped out and around to greet Freddy. The Asian woman seemed to be Chinese, but Freddy couldn’t tell her direct heritage. She wore a simple black dress, with white shoes and a simple medium length string of pearls. She put her hand out confidently, “Nice to meet you, I’m Lynn. Are you the boy’s guardian?”

“The boy,” Freddy thought, as he shook her hand before replying, “Oh, no-” but Barbara interrupted:

“No. He’s a neighbor.” She stopped full then added, “and a friend.” There was tension for a half second before Barbara turned to Freddy, “But I may need you in a professional capacity.” and then to the others, “Mr. Pico is a police officer.”

Freddy let go of Lynn’s hand, shaking his head, “No,” he demurred, as he turned to the tall man with thinning brown hair and glasses beside her. Middle-aged, in brown slacks and a beige blazer over a rumpled but clean, white-collared shirt, he looked a little lost.

Freddy continued, “I’m a graduate of the Oakland police academy, but I’ve never served as an officer.”

“Ah.” the tall, clumsy man said, noncommittally. “I’m Paul. Paul Wallace.”

Freddy explained, “They needed bilingual candidates and I signed up, but I was in the graduating class after the budget cuts. There were limited positions, so I deferred.”

As they shook hands, Paul nodded vigorously, approving, “I see, I see, well …” He was the type that trailed off. Freddy wondered if it was because Wallace was often in rooms filled with opinionated parents. Freddy imagined he’d grown accustomed to being deferential at the PTA.

There was dead air as they continued shaking hands and staring at each other. Seeing Wallace wasn‘t about to say anything else, he continued: “Please, call me Freddy.” He turned to find a place to sit. Barbara took Freddy’s arm, “What I meant was we may need your services as an investigator.”

There was an empty armchair to the right of the couch and Freddy took it as Paul and Lynn returned to the sofa.

“Yeah, they needed either Chinese or Hmong or Tagalog speakers so I gave up my spot.”

The tone in the room, unreeled carefully by Eric’s mother, had shifted with Freddy’s arrival. She now asked, “Would anyone like coffee?” and to the general lifting of mood and nods all around, “Great, just give me a second. Eric, honey, why don’t you come help me?”

“Terrible business, this … ” Paul muttered, trailing off.

Lynn looked to Paul but was obviously used to him, because she waited only a brief, perfunctory moment – it was like she was staring at him counting to some number in her head; a limit – before she shook her shoulder length hair and turned to Freddy to take charge of the situation.

“I think the boy’s involved with whoever has taken a valuable sculpture from the grounds. They melt them down and make good money – it’s happened before.”

“They,” Freddy thought.

“Now, Lynn,” Paul was used to this role, already back-tracking, “Slow down. Until there’s some clear-cut evidence, we shouldn’t go accusing …”

“Until,” Freddy thought.

Not knowing what else to say and eager to turn to someone else, Paul looked to Freddy, “Honestly I didn’t want to come …”

Lynn stopped short and looked at him, wounded, as he continued, “The police came when we reported it of course, but they have no leads or …,” his voice disappeared again into thin air. Then he started fresh, “The District will be conducting our own investigation,” and then he paused again, before muttering, “but perhaps you could be … of some … “

He was like an engine that just won’t turn over. “Well, I’m happy to do whatever I can for Barbara and Eric,” Freddy replied, “But I’d be working on their behalf. We’re neighbors.” He paused and looked at Lynn, “And friends.”

Lynn, visibly exasperated by the sudden appearance of someone even less allied to her views than Paul, realized she had to be diplomatic, “Well, it’s just we need to act fast because whoever’s got it is going to melt it down and turn it into cash as fast as they can. They’ve got to get rid of the evidence. And I think that boy,” she said, pointing at the kitchen, “knows where our Cooper’s Hawk is at this very moment.”

“Hmm, well,” Freddy said. “I can tell you I spent the day with Eric and his little brother, Michael, and they were great on our outing.

“I began giving kids from this neighborhood monthly rides to the beach a few years ago-”

“Oh wait-” Lynn said, “I’ve heard of that.”

“of that,” Freddy thought, before continuing, “Different kids, and if there’s room, some kids come back.”

Lynn smiled and sat back. Paul nodded vigorously, incapable of an appropriate response. Freddy let them off the hook:

“So this is one of the bronzes in that series the school commissioned last year? The Cooper’s Hawk is just one, right? of several that depict native flora and fauna reproduced in bronze?”

“That’s right,” Lynn responded, “I was on the selection committee. It’s an important work. We can’t have elements of it just walking away-”

The need for increased security for the remaining statues hadn’t struck her yet and she interrupted herself, trailing off, “The other statues …”

Barbara returned with a coffee pot and a tray with cups, which she set on the low table. There was creamer in a small, cylindrical metal pitcher with a hinged lid and spout and brown sugar in a crystal bowl with a spoon, rather than lumps. She poured Freddy a cup, handed it to him, then poured coffee into the remaining three cups on the tray and took one for herself. She gently added a dash of creamer. Paul and Lynn quickly and mindlessly did the same, as Freddy continued:

“Those statues are installed along the creek, I believe. But I’ve noticed the Cooper’s Hawk has a vulnerability in its design. At the point where the legs meet the branch, the metal’s quite thin. It has delicate talons.”

Freddy’s crisp, direct investigative approach silenced the room. The quiet unassuming fellow who strolled in like the driver or sitter was gone. In his place, a shrewd and observant local emerged. He took their silence for agreement and pressed on.

“So that’s the weak point. But it’s installed at some height, I believe.”

“Yes, that’s right,” answered Paul, “It’s meant to be seen from the ground at rest on a branch, perhaps like it’s hunting for mice. It’s probably fifteen feet up there.”

“So how did the thief get up there unseen?” Freddy continued.

“That said, it would’ve been pretty easy to break the sculpture off the branch at the thin point near the talons,” he paused, “Once you were up there – you wouldn’t need a torch.” Freddy looked directly at Lynn, “A child could do it.”

Lynn sat back smugly and listened to see where this was going.

“When was it taken? Who first noticed it missing?”

Paul replied, “It was discovered missing by a student and his father who bike the creek to school together. They noticed it on Saturday, on their way to the farmers market. The father called me to report it. So …”

Lynn interrupted more quickly this time, “So it was taken sometime Friday night.”

“Or early Saturday morning,” Freddy concluded.

Since his mother had taken her coffee cup to the other armchair opposite Freddy, Eric looked even more isolated, standing, awkwardly, staring at his shoes.

Freddy turned to him, “Eric, do you know anything about this?”

“No.”

Lynn sat up straight with alarm, “There are a group of kids who hang out together every afternoon. They hang around the campus and they … they …” she sighed, constrained by language, “they get into a lot of who knows what?

“I’ve been told for seven years now as my kids grow up in this neighborhood that we don’t use the word, ‘gang,’ because it’s inappropriate and stigmatizing, and in fact, ” she quickly turned to Barbara before continuing, “I agree with that, I do. But we need to admit we have at least one group of kids that hang around only with each other and roam about doing mischief.”

Barbara looked as though she might explode in reaction had she not immediately stood, taken a large deep breath and returned to her son’s side. Instead, she asked simply and slowly, “Do you have some specific evidence against my son? Or are you singling him out for hanging around campus after school with his friends?”

“We’re not singling him out,” Paul countered, “We’ve sent parent/teacher pairs to each of the other parents, too. So we’re not … ”

Lynn again jumped in, “On Friday afternoon, Eric and his friends were seen not just hanging around, but standing under the Cooper’s and throwing rocks at it. There were a whole lot of kids who saw them. They said they probably knocked it off the branch with a rock and took it. We’re following-up on what the eyewitnesses-”

“Eyewitnesses?” Barbara retorted, “To what?”

Freddy spoke up, “Eric, were you and your friends throwing rocks at the Cooper‘s Hawk statue?”

Eric shifted weight and looked at Freddy, “Yeah, we were trying to hit it.”

“See?” Lynn spat triumphantly.

Freddy put his palms out, face down, and patted the air between them, saying gently, “Hang on, now.” He turned back to Eric, “You didn’t knock it down?”

Eric sniffed, “No way,” he shook his head, “It’s bronze. I mean we were just throwing tiny little rocks …”

Barbara turned to Lynn sternly: “So you interviewed a bunch of little kids who wouldn’t know a bronze like that can’t be knocked off a branch by a pebble and that’s why you’re here?”

“Do you know how bronze statues like that are made, Eric?” Freddy asked, in part to ease the tension.

“Um, no.”

“Well, the metal is liquefied and poured into a form, a mold. The mold is made out of a material that’s sustainable.”

Eric listened and shrugged.

Freddy turned to Lynn, “Which means the artist can reproduce the work, right? I mean, they still have the forms for each of the pieces.”

Lynn Chen was not pleased with the direction this was going. “That’s not the point-”

Freddy continued, “I’m not sure on what criteria you made your decision on this project … delicate bronzes in public space? and he paused, “but I guess it’s a good thing you can secure a replacement.”

Lynn stared at him coolly. “That’s true.”

“And maybe the artist can strengthen the point of contact,” Freddy continued, “or make the work more secure somehow,” Then he shook his head, “But I just don‘t think Eric here would have any idea what to do with a bronze to make money off it. Can’t speak for his friends …”

He turned to Paul: “Can I get a list of the other parents whose kids are involved?”

Paul shifted uncomfortably, “Oh. Well, see. You understand, Mr. Pico- I mean, you’re not even a parent. It’s just not something …”

This time it was Barbara who seized the empty space of Paul’s indeterminacy. “I’m going to get on the phone tonight and find out what’s going on.” She turned to Eric and said, “Honey, I know you must be tired and sandy. Why don’t you go up and take a shower and get ready for dinner?”

The gratefulness in Eric’s eyes belied no trace of guilt. He turned and ran. “Make sure Michael gets cleaned up too!” Barbara shouted at the shrinking form of her eldest son.

Lynn sat back on the couch as if to fix herself there and crossed her arms. “We need to ask him what he was doing with those kids on Friday afternoon. Did he go back to the campus later that night? Where was he Friday night, Mrs. Carter?”

Freddy interrupted, “I’ll talk to Eric. I’ll ask him about it.”

“Right.” Lynn was skeptical, “and you’ll tell us if he and his friends did it?”

Freddy replied, “It doesn’t serve my business reputation to cover up crimes. If there’s more to discover, Barbara and I will let you know.”

Barbara stood to imply the meeting was over. Wallace stood immediately thereafter. Freddy slowly rose and gestured, and finally, begrudgingly, Lynn stood to shake his hand.

As they left, Freddy remarked, “I think you’ll find kids’re more forthcoming to their own families. You really ought to let the parents of the other kids talk to them first. I’ll be happy to help.”

Lynn softened, “If it wasn’t Eric, I’m sorry. I just feel we have to hold the kids responsible for their campus.”

Barbara spoke more gently as she walked them out, “I don’t want to believe he’s involved in this, but if he is somehow, I promise you, we’ll get to the bottom of it and Eric will take responsibility.” She shook hands with Paul and Lynn once again on the porch, a considerably more amicable air between them.

*****

Freddy pulled into the driveway and noticed his housemate wasn’t home. Raj had a separate entrance and the porch light over his door was on. His bicycle, usually locked up on the side of the house, was gone. Freddy went in and turned on the radio. The evening news had just begun.

Before they left for the beach, Freddy had left a filet of wild caught salmon to thaw in the refrigerator. He pulled it out and a shallow dish, which he sprinkled with salt. He squeezed half a lemon into the dish and laid the fish in it, flipping it so both sides absorbed the marinade. He let it sit covered as he filled and set the rice cooker.

He pulled a head of broccoli out of the refrigerator, cut and washed some florets and tossed them into the inner vessel of a range top steamer. He found two carrots in the crisper and diced them in.

Then Freddy pulled down a pan, set it on the range and drizzled it with avocado oil. He turned on the burner, and when the pan was sufficiently hot, set the fish inside, pouring the excess marinade from the plate on top. In a few minutes the aroma of the salmon filled his flat. He flipped on the fan in the hood and turned to peel and dice a chunk of fresh ginger which he tossed in with the fish.

Freddy drew a bottle of white wine from his makeshift stores: a cool, dry cupboard under the stairs that led up to Raj’s flat. It was a 2011 gewürztraminer from Navarro he’d bought the previous month, when he passed through Anderson Valley on the way home from a fishing trip to the North Coast. He uncorked the wine, poured a glass, then flipped the cork, reinserted it into the bottle and put it in the door of the fridge.

Sipping the gewertz, Freddy turned the fish and peeled back the skin, stir frying it separately in the edge of the pan. He diced a serrano pepper and tossed it in with the bits of skin at the edge of the pan. In the end he’d add the spicy, crispy, fried skin to the cooked rice. Freddy poured a shallow amount of water into the outer vessel of the steamer, put it on another burner and waited for it to boil. Then he gently set the inner vessel into the steamer and closed it.

Freddy’s cel rang. It was Raj. He answered: “Hey man, I‘m making fish and rice if you’re hungry.”

“I’m good,” Raj replied, “Meet me for a drink after.” Freddy agreed and stabbed at the face of his phone with his little finger to hang up.

The rice was finished. He removed the lid from the cooker and flipped the salmon skin up into the rice with the spatula. He broke up the filet in the pan to reveal the bones, then plated the rice, vegetables and half the fish. He turned off the burners, put a lid on the remaining salmon, refilled his wine glass and took his plate to the bar in the living room to eat and listen to Minds Over Matter, the radio quiz show.

He called in to answer but his guess was wrong. It was Margaret, queen consort of Malcolm III who was “first to cross the firth at Forth.”

*****

The lights of the logos for Walgreens at the corner of Telegraph and 51st had the ‘W’ of the scripted neon blown out for years. So it said “Al Green’s” for so long that’s how people liked it. The Ethiopian manager was down, so he let it be. Tricked out strip mall lighting and rolling graffiti are often misread as blight rather than culture.

Marcus strolled in under the watchful gaze of the security guard by the door. The older African recognized him as one of the neighborhood kids, knew he didn’t steal and gave him a head nod and a big smile. He wanted kids like Marcus to like him.

Marcus went straight to the counter and asked for a black Bic. He tested it with a flick, like he’d been taught to do by the kid who gave him the joint. He paid for the lighter and took it outside where he peeled off the white adhesive warning label and tossed it in the trash can on the corner. He fingered the joint in his pocket and looked down the block.

He walked to Bushrod park and found a stand of trees set off away from the playground. He stood under an oak, alertly looking around for cops or nosy adults as he lit the joint. This was only the third time in his life that Marcus had ever smoked weed, and it was the first time he was doing it alone. He coughed and struggled to hit the joint. A thin, twisting line of whitish smoke drifted upward from the tip. After just a few tokes, his mind went blank. He stubbed the joint out against the trunk of an oak, twisted the end closed again and dropped it back into his pocket. In the waning glow of twilight he wandered out of the park toward home.

*****

Barbara could see the boys were exhausted. After nodding slowly over the course of dinner, little Michael finally just fell asleep in front of his plate. His chin rose and fell on his chest as he snored lightly. Beside him, Eric was just staring into his remaining food, stirring what was left of the vegetables.

During dinner Barbara had exchanged texts with most of the other parents. Sunday evening was precious relaxation time for all the families. They collectively agreed – through a quick series of texts – to put the kids to bed and discuss the missing Cooper’s Hawk by email, or when convenient on a call, within a day or two.

“You guys must have had fun,” Barbara said quietly. “Go ahead and take your brother to bed, Eric. I‘ll come and tuck you in after I clean up.”

Eric woke Michael up with a nudge and the boys headed off to the room they shared. Barbara cleared the table, brushed the leftovers into the organics, rinsed the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher. She wiped down the table and countertops and put her smaller kettle on for tea.

Checking the time, she calculated so she could program the television. She started a Netflix show she’d saved, then paused it. Then she scheduled a new episode of her favorite show on HBO to interrupt when it was due to begin later that evening.

She went to tuck the boys in, but found them both passed out on their beds with the desk lamp on. Percy Jackson’s Battle of the Labyrinth lay splayed open across Michael’s chest. Barbara picked up the novel gently, grabbed a baseball card from the bedside table and used it as a bookmark. She set the book on the table and gave Michael a kiss. Then she drew the blankets across her two beautiful sons, turned off the lamp and left them to their dreams.


The End

Chapter One of

The Ever-Changing Chrysopylae

a Freddy Pico Mystery