CHAPTER 12

As Ben walked back toward Hopkins, the rush he’d gotten from cursing at the fisherman faded into mild embarrassment. Yes, it had felt good to vent his frustration, but ultimately it was an adolescent response to the situation. Still, he had to admit that he’d enjoyed himself. After all, he reasoned stubbornly, stupid people required stupid measures. They seldom understood reason.

Oh, who are you kidding, he argued with himself. You’re just making excuses.

Along with the decrease in satisfaction came the return of the thoughts that had driven him from the office in the first place. He still had no better idea of how to deal with Caddie than he’d had an hour ago. She wasn’t stupid; if she were, he would just give up and tolerate her until it was time for her to leave. But she was smart. Too smart, he suspected. That made it all the more difficult. He couldn’t fool her with platitudes, or even bribery. He had to try to actually understand her.

He was so deep into his thoughts that he didn’t even notice the man standing on the sidewalk until he’d bumped into him. The collision of their bodies, slight as it was, came as a shock. Instinctively, he froze for a moment while his brain ran through the list of possible responses. Perhaps atoning for his earlier rudeness, he opted to apologize. “Pardon me,” he said.

“It’s okay,” the man said. “No harm done. And I shouldn’t just be standing here. I was just trying to get a better look.”

Ben, not understanding, followed the man’s gaze to a plywood wall. “Ricketts’s lab,” he said, recognizing the place instantly.

“Yes,” said the man, sounding pleased. “You know it?”

“Doesn’t everybody in Monterey?” Ben replied.

The man laughed. “Not if my experience is typical,” he said. “And if they do know what it is, that’s all they know. No one can tell me anything about it.”

“I guess there’s not much to tell,” said Ben. “The official name was Pacific Biological Laboratories. Ricketts started it in Pacific Grove in 1923. Moved it here in, I think it was 1928. This was Ocean Avenue then; didn’t become Cannery Row until 1958, although everyone called it that anyway. The place burned down in ’36 from a fire that started next door at the Del Mar Cannery. He rebuilt and worked here ’til 1948.”

“When he died,” the man said.

Ben nodded. “Three days before his fifty-first birthday.”

“You know a lot about the guy,” the man said. “You should give tours.”

“You live here long enough, you pick things up,” said Ben.

They stood in silence, looking at the wall. Then the man sighed. “I wish I could get inside and take a look,” he said. “Do you know why it’s boarded up?”

“To keep people out,” Ben answered. “It’s privately owned now. They only give tours a couple of times a year, usually as part of the Steinbeck hoopla. Actually, the wall isn’t usually here. I think they’re doing some repair work.”