The Last Days of Ray Cobb

6. Chapter 6

2

Everyone who came out of the Big Bear Lake Dollar Tree looked like they were a single paycheck away from joining the trio of homeless men on the bench outside. Three men for whom only the bond of homelessness could bring together. A grandfatherly type surrounded by plastic bags, clutching the butt of his cigarette for dear life. Another stretching into middle age, silent, dressed in tattered hunting camouflage. The third was in cross-country ski tights that had seen better days and a faded Gore-Tex jacket. He was regaling the other two with an itemized receipt of all the toiletries he’d just scored for under ten bucks.

Ray kept his distance from the three stooges. They were the first and only homeless he’d seen in the several weeks since getting into town and were probably territorial. Even with fresh clothes, they would’ve spotted him from a mile away. The tourists and winter travelers did their shopping at the Stater Bros. supermarket across the way. Most patrons ignored the stooges, afraid to confront their own financial cliff.

And then one didn’t.

The kid had acne, a hawk’s beak nose, and a crooked smile. He braced himself against the cold and gave each of the stooges a handshake. They liked him. They knew him. He handed each of them a crumpled buck before shuffling across the slush to his rusted red VW beetle — the old model — the one that didn’t look like it came out of a vending machine.

Three tries and the engine wouldn’t turn over, but the look on the kid’s face through the salt-speckled windshield didn’t change or get frustrated. To Ray, he looked like someone who’d had some trouble early in his life, but was trying to stay positive in a world where second chances were s**t. The kid got out of the car, popped the hood and pulled up his sleeves to keep the oil off of them.

He almost felt sorry for him. Until he saw his arm.

Getting a glimpse of Bear tattoos around town had proven fruitless. Even with the heat blasting in every bar and restaurant, long sleeves were pervasive.

Ray watched the kid slam the hood and then the bug sputter away toward town. He’d abandoned Low Seward’s Audi deep in the woods when he’d arrived and had no way to follow. The stooges were going to come in handy after all.

“Hey,” Ray said to any of the three stooges who would listen. It seemed as good an opening gambit as any.

“What’s your problem?” Gore-Tex asked. The other two turned their attention toward Ray, but it didn’t seem like they were the talkative types.

“Nothin’. Just that guy, that one with the bug. He dropped his wallet in the slush when he got in his car.”

“Give it to us, we’ll get it to him,” Gore-Tex said, stretching out his hand.

“Not to insult you or nothin’,” Ray said, putting on a dumber vernacular than usual, “but I’d rather hand it off in person.”

Gore-Tex gave him a look up and down.

“Cops give you that shiner?” Gore-Tex asked. Ray could see him testing the waters. Searching for some story behind the fresh face in the mountains. Last thing Ray wanted to say was that a fat, naked man had given it to him in a tub.

Ray chuckled.

“My old lady. Caught me with some strange a few nights ago. Didn’t even have time to wash the p***y stank off my d**k, you know?”

The joke broke the suspicion. Camo Stooge chuckled.

“I hain’t washed in so long, probably got the last three p*****s still on mine,” Camo Stooge giggled through his missing teeth.

Gore-Tex still wasn’t sure.

“Your lady built like a line-backer?”

“Not when I met her, but boy did she balloon,” Ray said. “I was looking for a f**k that wouldn’t crush me underneath her.”

“Strange you’d run away to here of all places. Where you from?”

“Lucerne Valley. Just got on the 18 and drove. My piece of s**t truck died about halfway up. Seemed like a good place to stop. Figured I might get some seasonal work.”

“Ain’t nobody hirin’,” Old Stooge finally spoke up.

“You got a name?” Gore-Tex asked.

Ray stretched out his hand. “Leon McBride. Leo.”

Gore-Tex hesitated, then shook. The other two followed suit. None of them gave their names.

“Deuce works at the Grizzly Manor. Breakfast place up the road. Maybe he’ll buy you a pancake for your good deed,” Gore-Tex said.

Ray stepped off the curb before they could ask any more questions.

“Watch yourself out here, Leo,” Gore-Tex said, the name said between clenched teeth, “colder up here than it looks.”

He’d wandered down Big Bear Lake’s main street several times since he’d arrived. It was a typical small town, speckled with the trappings of a tourist culture. A strip of bars and restaurants the locals worked in, but never ate at. Shops full of coffee mugs and novelty t-shirts. Every corner emblazoned with the familiar brown bear found on the California state flag. There was no sign of the actual predators lumbering through the streets.

Most of the bears in town were standing upright and carved out of wood. The sculpture in front of the Grizzly Manor Cafe was no different. Selfie-ready for adventurers in ski gear before they made their way up the mountain. Ray huddled on the small wooden porch outside in the biting wind, waiting for a table with a group who looked like they’d spent their night with a bottle of Woodford Reserve and a jacuzzi.

The inside wasn’t what he was expecting. It was a single room. Griddle open for the patrons to see. Tables smashed together with barely enough space for the waitstaff to squeeze between them. A small counter wrapped around the back of the room. Hundreds of bumper stickers lined the walls in place of wallpaper. Most of them advertising Los Angeles institutions like Amoeba Music and Whiskey A Go Go.

“One?” the tattooed girl in the ripped Ramones tee asked.

“Yeah. Mind if I grab a seat at the counter?”

“Wherever’s open. Go for it,” she smiled. Either the girl was a better actress than any he’d seen in Hollywood, or she genuinely enjoyed her job.

Ray plopped down as close to the grill as he could and shook the snow off of his stocking cap before setting it down next to his cutlery.

“Coffee?”

He nodded to the woman behind the counter and blew into his hands to warm them. Deuce had taken over the grill from the morning prep cook and was grinning and jiving to the radio as he tossed down slab after slab of frozen hash browns. Pancakes worthy of the gods stacked up on a plate next to him as he ground up salt and pepper into the sizzling potatoes. He wore a stained sleeveless white t-shirt and bandana to hold back the sweat. The Bear tattoo snaked up his forearm.

After she delivered his coffee, Ray pulled a wad of crumpled bills out of his pocket and smoothed them out on the formica counter before shoving the folded bills back into his coat. It was the universal homeless symbol for I can pay. Don’t kick me out, but nobody seemed to look at him sideways.

“So, what’re you best at?” Ray called over to Deuce, who was folding diced onions and peppers into some scrambled eggs.

Deuce kept his eyes on the food, but smiled. “I’m good at everything. Close your eyes and point to the menu. You won’t go wrong.”

Ray smiled, keeping his tone light, “C’mon, I’m down to my last bills. Make it worth my while.”

Deuce looked up from the grill and gave Ray a once over.

“You got it, boss.”

“What’re you having?” the server asked.

“I got him, Tina,” Deuce said.

“All right then. Just gimme a holler if you need a refill.”

Ray took a big sip of his coffee and she topped him off before heading back down the line.

Blueberry pancakes browned to a perfect gold. Bacon crisp, but not burnt. Scrambled eggs that melted in his mouth. One of the best damn breakfasts he’d had in a long time.

“If you make the rest of the menu half as good as that, no wonder the locals keep coming back.”

“Most of the tourists won’t bother waiting in the cold. Their loss,” Deuce said, “I take it you didn’t come up here to enjoy the fresh powder?”

“My butler is waiting in the car. I only dress like this in diners to throw gold diggers off the scent,” Ray said. He winked at the server and paid his tab.

“I’d trust you to tip better than those snow hounds any day of the week, honey,” she said after counting the extra cash Ray’d set on the table. He was nearly out of scratch, but knew no one talked to a bad tipper.

“Figured I might go native a while. Change of scenery.”

“Should’ve come in the summer. Not as much work, but you won’t freeze your balls off,” Deuce said. “Order up!”

Ray pointed to his swollen eye. “Circumstances beyond my control.”

“I hear that.”

Ray stood up and put his hat back on. He downed the last of his coffee.

“I’m sure there are plenty of places for Muffy and Buffy to get a cocktail in this town, but I’m going to need something strong to warm me up later tonight. Where do the locals drink around here?”

“Depends on the night, but Murray’s is where we go on Tuesdays. Cheap tappers.”

Ray shoved up his sleeve as he went to shake Deuce’s hand.

“Maybe I’ll see you there. Thanks for the chow.”

It was there. A flicker. Pupils dilated. For a second. Then covered by a smile.

“See you around,” Deuce said. He went back to the grill without another word.

The last of Ray’s cash bought him a single bottle of beer at Murray’s and his patience bought him his first glimpse at freedom.

Deuce pushed through the doors of the bar like he was waiting for a firing squad on the other side. Ray nodded to him and gestured for him to sit down.

The kid sat down next to him ordered a Coors Light, but didn’t drink. Just sat and slowly peeled the paper label off the bottle.

“So, what now?” Ray asked.

Deuce whispered under his breath, “We gotta stick together.”

“Whatever you think this is, or whoever you think I’m with, I’m not,” Ray said. “You ever seen it before? I mean, on someone other than you.”

“Yeah,” Deuce said, “Once.”