Beasley said he’d meet me in ten. It was closer to twenty when he pulled up beside my rental in a salt-eaten Jeep Cherokee, climbed out, and knocked on the door. Were I compelled to summarize Beasley in a pithy sentence, it would’ve gone something along the lines of: Professional beach bum commando moments before a killing spree. A bruiser in a dark T-shirt and jeans, and steel-toed boots that had carried him through years of hiking. Buzz cut, thick neck and shoulders, huge thighs. Hard-bitten, half-tanned, and half-sunburned. At home in the arctic or Saharan desert. Ten to fifteen years on me, but moved as if he comfortably jogged five or six miles every morning before eating razor wire and guzzling lye for breakfast. A webwork of minor scars, plus a couple fit to start a party conversation. An almost handsome mug that appeared to have been used for soccer ball kicking practice. He wore a military-brand fighting knife on his belt. If it came to a tussle, this was the sort of character you immediately tried to cripple or kill; pain wouldn’t faze him.

We sized each other up. He rested his hand on the knife hilt. Wound tight from the events of the day, I stood in an interview stance, ready to punch him in the throat before he got the knife free of its scabbard. That was the hope, at any rate.

“Hey,” I said. “Anyone ever mention that you resemble Race Bannon’s meaner cousin?”

“Who? Really? Bannon kicked ass. I loved that cartoon.”

“Loved? I watch Jonny Quest in syndication every chance I get.”

“Know what?” he said with a wide smile. “You’re fuckin’ A-okay. I like you.”

I smiled back and it was three-quarters genuine. Still wished I was carrying.

“Well, I like you too, Beasley.”

“You got a nice shiner, huh?”

“I’ve had nicer.”

“Hungry?” he said. “I could eat the ass end of a rhino. There’s a swell spot up the street. Fish and chips are the best around.”

I was disappointed he didn’t say rhinoceros.

■■■

Beasley brought me to a “less touristy” restaurant with a nautical theme and real wood tables with real knives and real glasses. We took a spot with a view of some plants and a void that would’ve been a fine vantage of the Pacific during daylight hours. The fish and chips were as good as promised. Decent tap beer. This Beasley fellow drank with Lionel’s enthusiasm, except to no discernable effect besides a moderate decrease in his stoic scowling.

“You want to bend the doctors’ ears about Sean Pruitt?” he said.

“Dang it, man, you were doing so well. Belaboring the obvious counts as a party foul. You heard the messages.”

“New York. San Francisco. Healdsburg. Mendocino.”

“My itinerary,” I said.

“Right. You ran into some trouble with banditos on the road. Unless a telephone pole fell on your head.”

I pinched my thumb and forefinger together.

“That much trouble.”

He returned the sign. Then widened the gap between his blocky fingers.