The sky was crystal blue over the Santa Barbara beach, with a few trailing wisps of cloud over the ocean. Near the beachfront, the breakers rolled in to splash and wash the damp sand; a few discarded beach toys rolled over and over, tumbling a few feet closer to the sea with each receding wave. Overhead, the ever-present seagulls wheeling and crying mixed with the quiet rush of the ocean. In the summer, there would be more sounds: children laughing and fighting in the shallows, the latest rock or indie music blaring from boomboxes near the seawall, easy banter between the habitual sunbathers as they struck up new flirtations. But now, in the early weeks of February, the beach was almost empty.
A few diehard sunbathers shivered in the windy brightness near the boardwalk; farther down the beach, a straggling band of beach bums searched for seashells, frequented the Fun Sun Ice Stand, and flirted desperately with any females they encountered. On the boardwalk, a couple struggled to kiss against the wind while several women watched for birds and wildlife in the fenced-off dune preserves.
"Okay, tell me honestly." Shawn Spencer adjusted his glasses and took a big lick of his pina colada ice before turning to his companion. "Is this not the most awesome, not to manage best, place to relax at? Especially when you have several uptight Santa Barbara detectives getting on your case, literally?"
Gus gave his friend a look. He should be used to this by now; Shawn's crazy shenanigans were well-known at the police station, Central Coast Pharmaceuticals, and, thanks to Telemundo and YouTube, the greater Santa Barbara area. And as shenanigans went, walking barefoot down the deserted beachfront was fairly low.
"Look, Shawn, it's not that I don't like this and all," Gus said, motioning at the empty beachfront. "But seriously? You called me away from the office to-"
"To take a walk on the beach with me," Shawn interrupted. "That's right, Gus. To walk down an empty beach with no shoes on, listening to the cool clear sounds of nature and breathing in the... fresh, clean, ocean air. If you can look me in the eye and tell me you'd rather be locked in Dilbert's cubicle, slaving away at a hot computer..."
"The fresh ocean air smells like fish," Gus put in. "And marijuana, from those homeless guys by the piers. I can't keep skipping work like this, Shawn. Unlike you, some of us have a job with deadlines."
"And overworked employees and hot receptionists and hilariously inefficient office managers," Shawn said. "I know, I've seen it." He lifted his waxed paper cone and sucked in a big mouthful of flavored ice slush.
"That wasn't my office, that was on NBC," said Gus. "I'm just saying, you need to give me at least two hours' notice before you call me out and- are you even listening to me?"
"Not really," Shawn admitted. "Hey, isn't that shop new?"
"What?" Gus tried to follow his friend's eyes, not an easy task when said eyes were concealed behind dark sunglasses. Just beyond the main entrance and car ramp, a line of chintzy, touristy souvenir shops crowned the seawall. "Are you talking about the beach shops?"
"Pfff, yes. Look at that one in the middle, the one with the seagull. I swear, Gus, it wasn't here last time."
"Are we talking about the one with the giant seagull windcatcher, the found art seagull statue, or the painted pressboard seagull that looks like it got doused with Smilex?" Gus asked. "Be specific, Shawn."
"The one with the laughing seagull. C'mon, Gus, let's go check it out." Shawn downed the last of his ice cone and headed down the beach towards the shops.
"What- you can't go in there! Shawn, it's a tourist trap," said Gus, hurrying to catch up with his friend. "You want to know what's in there, I'll tell you. There will be a bunch of dead starfish, some shells painted in China, and a bunch of overpriced T-shirts with creepy laughing seagulls."
Shawn stopped, lifting a hand to his head.
"Ope- oh my God, Gus, no. I'm getting a vision."
Gus sighed and rolled his eyes.
"You are not," he argued. "Don't try that B.S. on me, Shawn."
"Oh- yes- yes, I am. I see a beautiful woman inside that shop, alone, sad, probably scantily clad-"
"Shawn, I am not falling for this."
"-and she's waiting for you," Shawn finished.
Gus raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"For me?"
"That's right. Oh- and she's got arms like Zoe Saldana," said Shawn.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" Gus said, turning back towards the shop. "Let's go check it out."
Behind him, Shawn started laughing, but Gus chose to ignore it. Just outside the touristy shop's gaudy sign, he stopped to brush off his feet and slip his shoes and socks back on.
"Dress shoes, on a beach? Really?" Shawn said. "Oh look, gumballs!"
Gus ran a hand over his hair, mentally shaking his head as Shawn moved over to the gumball machine and began shaking it with the careful skill of a practiced gumball thief.
"These are the best," Shawn said over his shoulder. "Dubble Bubble, twelve different flavors. And I've seen this model before; if you shake it just right you can..."
Gus put a hand on his friend's shoulder and silently handed him a quarter. Shawn took it without looking up or pausing in his babble.
"Okay, I'm going in to look around," said Gus. "You meet me when you're done getting your gumball, singular. No stealing."
Shawn sighed and shook his head.
"Gus, man, where is your sense of adventure? Of lovable roguery? This is me, Shawn, the poor, underpaid psychic detective, taking advantage of a poorly constructed candy dispenser made by a large and soulless gumball corporation."
"Don't steal, Shawn," Gus warned him, just before ducking inside the shop.
Shawn shook his head, mouthed the words 'party pooper,' and turned back to the machine. He had retrieved one blue raspberry gumball with the quarter and was carefully tipping the machine in hopes of loosing a green apple when Gus came flying out of the shop and nearly slammed into him from behind.
"Gus, what is with you?" Shawn said. "Can't you see I am-"
"Shawn," Gus panted, his eyes about the size of silver dollars, "you're not going to believe this. Guess who was in there."
Shawn shrugged.
"I don't know, Zoe Saldana and Chris Pine?"
"No! This is serious, Shawn. It's Mr. Yang."