Half Moon Bay: A Novel (Clay Edison Book 3)

Back at the office, doing what the county paid me to do, I got some good news.

A DNA hit on the tooth.

A parental match, to the state criminal database. Given the child’s fate, I wasn’t surprised to learn he came from less-than-sterling stock.

The severity of the rot, however, took me aback.

The matching profile belonged to one Frederick Dormer, aka Fritz, aka Frizzy. Sixty-seven years old, he was a founding member of the Nordic Knights, a violent white supremacist gang active up and down the West Coast. At present he was serving a double consecutive life sentence plus seventy years for racketeering, kidnapping, attempted murder, and murder.

Dormer’s catalog of sins made for stomach-turning reading. The murders were particularly ugly, because they had nothing to do with the business side of crime—disputes over money or territory, suppression of rivals.

What had landed him behind bars for good was plain, old-fashioned hate, married to unadulterated psychopathy.

On St. Patrick’s Day, 1994, Fritz Dormer and his fellow Knights were at their clubhouse in San Francisco’s Tenderloin, drinking and smoking meth. It was late on an unusually sultry night, and conversation turned, as it so often did, to the impending race war. The bulk of the Knights’ income derived from drugs, giving rise to conundrums: Who would be their target customers, after mud races were gone? Once the kikes had been eliminated and the banks all shuttered, where would they keep their money?

Fuckin shitbrain, you don’t have to be a kike to run a bank.

The opinion of Loren “Eejit” Sykes.

Gimme a goddamn calculator Sykes said. I’ll do it for you.

Vigorous debate ensued as to whether Eejit Sykes could work a calculator.

Gregg “Ape” Redding didn’t think so, seeing’s how Eejit could barely keep count of his own balls.

You all Fritz Dormer said are missing the fuckin point.

The room went quiet. When Dormer talked, everyone listened.

Did they really think, he wanted to know, that banks started with Jews?

No one answered. Apparently, many of them did think that.

Dormer corrected them: Banks, like sports or music or television or anything of enduring worth, were a white creation.

By rights they belong to us. So why’s it Goldberg, sitting behind the desk? Who put him there?

Silence.

We did.

What happened, Dormer explained, is that the enemy hid out, lying in wait for us to turn our backs so they could seize control. That was how they operated. Deceit was part of their nature.

It’s what they’re doing, right now, while we argue amongst ourselves like a bunch of fuckin pissants.

He stepped to the window, peering out at the straggling holiday revelers.

Saint Patrick was a white man. A fucking martyr. So tell me why, right now, right this instant, there’s a million fags struttin around in green hats.

Russell “Razor” Towne said Cause they stole it.

Cause we let them steal it.

Outside on the sidewalk, a man stopped to light a cigarette. He was black, wearing a white tank top with a rainbow-colored shamrock and gold hoop earrings, his hair in a picked-out Afro. He rested his foot on the bottommost step of the clubhouse entrance and took a drag.

Dormer smiled. He gestured at the man. I rest my case.

Eejit Sykes wobbled up off the couch. Fuck that.

Go on then Dormer said.

Eejit Sykes did not move. His compatriots attributed his lack of response to stupidity—Sykes being too dense to perceive the challenge thrown at his feet. They were wrong. Eejit Sykes was calculating on the fly. Eejit Sykes’s real name was Benny Palmieri, and he was an undercover agent for the California Bureau of Investigation. It had taken him a year and a half to infiltrate the Nordic Knights, and now he worked feverishly to determine a course of action that would cement his standing in Fritz Dormer’s eyes, short of beating the shit out of the poor doomed motherfucker enjoying a valedictory smoke, who continued to unknowingly worsen his situation by ashing against the metal clubhouse banister.

Dormer said This fuckin monkey.

Giving up on Eejit, he looked around pointedly for someone, anyone, to sack up.

Gregg “Ape” Redding humped to the clubhouse door and threw it open.

Hey faggot.

The man raised his head. The fuck you say?

Redding said Private property. Fuck off.

The man’s name was Anthony Wax. He was twenty-three years old, studying to become a dental technician. Now he stood up straight and stared back at Redding through tongues of smoke. The fuck did you say to me.

You heard him Dormer said, stepping to the threshold.

Behind Dormer and Redding gathered the silhouettes of ten more men.

Possessed of enough common sense to fold, Anthony Wax took one last drag and flicked the butt into the gutter.

You pick that up Dormer said.

Wax turned and walked away.

Faggot.

Wax kept walking.

Ape Redding bit first, jumping down the steps and catching up to Anthony Wax near a fire hydrant. He tackled Wax to the pavement, and the two men rolled around, throwing punches. Despite Redding’s three-inch, fifty-pound advantage, he appeared to be losing the fight. Wax managed to get on top of him and began hammering away at Redding’s face and arms, while Redding hollered at him through blood to get the fuck out of here. He said this not to protect himself, but because he knew that Dormer and the rest of the Knights would be coming shortly. Redding did not want to be responsible for what happened to Anthony Wax when they did.

Ape Redding’s real name was James Finch. He was an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. As part of an interstate operation aimed at dismantling the West Coast narcotics supply chain, he had spent the last two years undercover, infiltrating the Nordic Knights. The FBI had kept the operation a secret from state law enforcement, including the California Bureau of Investigation. The CBI had done the same to the FBI.

Accordingly, neither Agent Finch nor Agent Palmieri knew about each other.

Run Finch said to Wax. Please.

That last word, “please,” had the desired effect. With his fist drawn back, Wax balked. On the stand Finch would describe Wax’s expression as confused—chagrined, almost, as if he resented being made to recognize Finch’s humanity.

Before Wax could reply, Fritz Dormer stabbed him in the back.

Razor Towne threw Wax to the ground, and together with Dormer joined in kicking and stomping and stabbing.

Agent Palmieri, in character as Eejit Sykes, stumbled from the clubhouse. In an effort to disrupt the altercation, he charged forward, “mistakenly” lurching into Towne and Dormer.

Dormer, mistaking Palmieri’s mistake for what it was—deliberate interference—whirled around. His attorneys would contend that Dormer thought he was being attacked by a bystander, and therefore was acting in self-defense when he plunged the knife into Palmieri’s chest.

The blade, an eight-inch bowie engraved with swastikas, pierced Palmieri’s breastbone, severing his aorta.

Agent Palmieri sank to his knees.

Agent Finch struggled up, attempting to restrain Towne from beating Wax to death.

Towne punched Finch in the throat.

Sirens began to approach.

Benny Palmieri was pronounced dead at the scene.

The next day, Anthony Wax died of his injuries at Saint Francis Memorial.

After the facts emerged, there was some bickering between the California attorney general and the US attorney about who should prosecute. On one hand, the feds took precedence. On the other hand, Jim Finch had gotten away comparatively light, with black eyes and a ruptured trachea. A state cop had died. The compromise was to divvy up the offenders.

The jury rejected Dormer’s self-defense claim.

Russell Towne was dispatched to the United States Penitentiary, Marion, Illinois.

Fritz Dormer settled into retirement at San Quentin State Prison.

—

I HADN’T HEARD from the UCPD detective, Tom Nieminen, so I called him. “Nice news about the match.”

He had no idea what I was talking about.

He hadn’t seen the DNA report, let alone read Dormer’s file.

I forwarded him both.

Three days went by before I got tired of waiting and called him again.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Sorry, I meant to…Little busy around here, you know?”

I assumed he meant the occupation of the park, now entering its second week and showing no signs of abating. The momentum had picked up, more protesters arriving every day, some from out of state, in response to calls put out on social media by the Defenders of the Park. There was a run on poster board and marker. While there’d always been a certain number of sidewalk tents in the neighborhood, more sprang up along Hillegass and Dwight, clusters that swelled, touched, and finally united into a bona fide, hundred-person encampment. Traffic around campus locked in a permanent snarl. Amy and I had begun allotting an extra fifteen minutes to get to work. Many of the stores along Telegraph had yet to reopen, and some of those that had, such as the bank, had been vandalized again.

Why any of that concerned Nieminen, I couldn’t say. With the unrest spilling off university property and spreading into the surrounding city streets, an overwhelmed UCPD had ceded control of the park perimeter to Berkeley PD. Plus Nieminen was an investigator, not a patrol cop.

“Did you get a second to look at the stuff I sent you?” I asked.

A beat. “Yeah, some. I mean, wow. You imagine having a fella like that for your pops? Guess I should head up there and ask old Fritzy what’s what.”

“Before we go,” I said, “we should make a game plan.”

“Oh. Yeah?”

Thrown. With good reason. Coroners don’t often tag along during interviews.

I had my own reasons for wanting to be in the room.

Fritz Dormer was the infant’s father—the baby’s sole family, so far. I had a duty to inform him of the death of his son. I could have shunted the task to Nieminen. But the guy didn’t inspire confidence.

“Dormer’s next of kin,” I said. “I’m required to notify him.”

“Oh yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

We arranged to meet at the prison in a few days’ time.

—

ON THE MORNING of, I came back from a walk, ready to hand the baby off and hit the road. A roasty smell wafted from the bathroom. I found Amy ironing her hair.

“Are you going somewhere?” I asked.

“Work.”

“You’re not working today.”

“Yes, I am. I’m covering for Melissa. She had her baby. It’s on the calendar.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“It’s there. Check if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you,” I said. “I have an appointment today.”

“Did you put it on there?”

“I thought I did.” I tugged out my phone, thumbed through our shared calendar.

Sure enough, the day had but a single event blocked out: Amy at work.

“I definitely put it on,” I said. “I remember putting it on.”

“Maybe there’s a bug in the app,” she said charitably. “What’s your appointment?”

“Notification visit. It’s important. Can you reschedule?”

“Wish I could. I really can’t do that to Melissa. She covered for me the whole time I was out.”

“Right.” I was irritated with myself for coming to the negotiation unarmed, having squandered all my brownie points on the meeting with Peter Franchette.

Amy set the iron down. “I can see if my mom’s available.”

“Would you, please?”

Theresa Sandek had to teach. So did Amy’s dad.

I called my mom and left a voicemail.

Neither of us suggested my father. He was at work, his phone turned off. He kept it off at home, too. Nobody could understand why he bothered to pay for one.

I leaned against the kitchenette counter, Charlotte wriggling in my arms, while Amy assembled her handbag.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “Any other day I’d do what I can.”

“Don’t be. It’s my fault for not checking the calendar.”

“Where are you headed? Could you take her with you?”

A title screen flashed in my head. Lockup: Diaper Rash.

“Go,” I said. “I’ll figure it out.”

She kissed us both, shouldered her bag, hesitated. “You’re sure you’ll be okay.”

Wavering, her soft heart.

One tiny push; that’s all it would take to spring the trip wire of maternal guilt. I’d have my freedom, and she’d have a day to devote wholly to her daughter.

Win–win.

I feel like I’m failing at everything.

“Of course we will.” I waved Charlotte’s arm. She was making her patented skeptical face: eyebrows raised, mouth aslant.

I let Amy’s footsteps fade before dialing my brother.

—

“DUDE. WHAT IS happening. Long time. It’s like you died. How’s shawty?”

Already I could see my mistake.

“She’s good,” I said, lifting Charlotte to burp. “That’s actually why I’m calling. I’m kinda stuck here.”

Luke couldn’t babysit, either. “Love to, but I got business down the Peninsula. We developed a strain for intense focus. Sour Diesel bred in with some highly specialized Nepalese shit. It’s called Lazer Beam. With a ‘Z.’ These coders, man, can’t get enough of it.”

My brother worked for Bay Area Therapeutics, a cannabis and lifestyle company founded by a high school buddy of his. While I thought it a questionable career for an ex-con and drug addict, it seemed to make him happy. Certainly my mom made sure to inform me, whenever we spoke, of how well Luke was doing; how he’d really managed to build a new life for himself.

He said, “Scott gave some to a friend who’s C-suite at—I mean, I can’t share the name, at the present moment, but trust me when I say you use their products every day. She loves it, goes wild, starts talking about bringing us on as wellness consultants. Everyone’s psyched: whole new revenue stream, total blue ocean. We’re presenting to the head of HR next week, so me and my team got to powwow about the deck and get that bitch shipshape.”

By now you’d think I would’ve gotten used to the corporatese, but it still sounded bizarre coming out of his mouth, like he was speaking in tongues. “Gotcha. Thanks anyway.”

“Hey, you know what, though? Andrea might be free.”

“That’s all right.” Charlotte spit up down my neck. “I’ll manage.”

Luke shouted, “Baby? Baby, are you…Oh shitballs,” he whispered. “She’s meditating. I’m supposed to be quiet. I can have her call you back.”

“It’s fine.”

“Hey, though, I really have been wanting to see you guys. I mean, she’s my niece, right? She’s got my DNA and everything.”

“Some of it.”

“Hmm. Man, fuck it. Gimme twenty minutes to get over there.”

Amy’s voice in my ear: No.

“What about your meeting?” I asked.

“I can push. Blood be blood, fam. Sit tight, I’ma Mr. Mom you the fuck up.”

I heard Amy’s voice again, something she’d said to me a few years back, when my brother was fresh out of prison and I was struggling with how to be around him.

Believe him when you can.

I was pretty certain the advice didn’t apply in this context.

Next time, my darling, choose your words more carefully.

“Park on the street,” I said. “Don’t block the driveway.”

—

TWENTY MINUTES ENDED up being closer to sixty—ample time for buyer’s remorse. Assuming Luke had bailed, I started composing an email to Nieminen, explaining that I’d gotten caught up. A loud knock came at the door.

I opened it with my finger over my lips.

“Whoops,” Luke said. “Sorry, dude. She’s asleep?”

“Probably for another half hour. There’s a bottle on the counter with formula premeasured. Add six ounces of filtered water. Six ounces. Filtered only.”

“Roger.”

“Mix it slowly so it doesn’t get air bubbles. You don’t need to warm it up. Room temperature is fine. In fact, definitely do not warm it up. I don’t want her to get burned. Once she’s eaten you need to burp and change her. Do you know how to do all of that?”

“I mean.” He scratched at a burly arm. Since his release he’d become fanatical about lifting weights. Every time I saw him, he seemed to have expanded. “Is it more complicated than that?”

“Yes. She—you have to—yes. Sit down.”

I walked him through the entire process: what angle to hold the baby at, how to take breaks so she didn’t spit up, regular versus overnight diapers, butt cream. His attention began to drift, and for an instant I saw what he was seeing, my hair greasy and my eyes like pits. Sitting amid dried-out baby wipes and stray socks, the unmade futon, mug rings crusting the coffee table. I am, if not quite a neat freak, then a dedicated neat enthusiast. Always have been. Growing up, Luke and I shared a bedroom, and you could draw a line up the middle of the carpet, entropy on one side, alphabetized books on the other.

It must have gratified him to find me at wit’s end.

“Are you getting this? Do you want to write it down?”

He recited the information back to me, verbatim. He’s smarter than he appears.

The problem has never been a lack of intelligence.

I said, “Any questions, call me. If you’re not sure whether something is a question—”

“Call you.”

“I’ll be back before Amy gets home. If for some reason she gets here first—”

“I’m visiting,” he said. “You were with me the entire time. You ran out to pick up diapers.”

I felt bad. For asking him to lie; for the implied insult.

He said, “Don’t worry, man, we’re good to go.”

“Thanks.”

“No stress. One thing: Does she prefer indica? Or is she more of a sativa lady?”

“That’s not fucking funny.”

Luke patted my arm. “Go on, bro. Do justice.”

—

DESPITE MY EAGERNESS to get on the road, I paused briefly outside to look at Luke’s car. You couldn’t not look at it: a metallic green Camaro, kitted out with snarling custom grillwork, twenty-four-inch rims, a spoiler. Parked beneath a birch, it shone with fresh wax, standing out amid the neighborhood Subarus and Priuses like a grenade in a gumball machine. My own car, a mid-aughts import, appeared positively anemic in comparison.

My brother has always been a motorhead, with a particular weakness for muscle cars. It was just such a vehicle that landed him in prison, when he capped off a multiday crack-and-vodka binge by hotwiring a Mustang and careering through the streets of Oakland. The joyride came to a quick end. He blew threw a red light, colliding with a compact Kia and taking the lives of two young women.

A little over two years had passed since his release. In that time he’d already bought and sold several cars. He worked on them at home, at night and on weekends, steadily trading up. The Camaro I’d never seen before. What did it say that the stolen Mustang had also been bright green? The cynic in me detected an attempt to rewrite history. Riding around in this echo of the past, making full stops and signaling every lane change, he became a responsible citizen; not Luke Edison, convicted felon, but a stand-up, hardworking guy in his midthirties with a wife, a mortgage, and a cool car. A hardworking guy in his midthirties deserved at least that much. He had a job, albeit a legally nebulous one. He made our mother proud.

In her defense, I don’t think she meant to gloat about his newfound success or to denigrate my choices. More that she had to boost him up in order to stave off her own guilt. She’d invested a great deal of hope in his rebirth. They both had.

Maybe I was being too harsh on him. I had a tendency to do that. Maybe he just liked the color. The Bay Area Therapeutics logo was a snippet of DNA with leaves budding at the edges, rendered in marijuana green. Maybe Luke was showing company pride.

I had to wonder, though: If the family of his victims spotted him idling at a busy intersection, waiting obediently for the light to change, how would they feel?

I peered down the driveway toward the guest cottage. The view was obstructed, so that I couldn’t quite make it out from where I stood on the sidewalk. I lingered, listening for the sound of my daughter’s cries, hearing nothing but the rasp of dry leaves.