TIPPING POINT

Chapter 11

Money… He simply didn't have enough of it. He knew, instinctively, that staying in hotels for an extended period was beyond his means. It irritated him. Money had always struck him, intellectually, as unimportant; a means to an end. If you had to think about it too much, then you lost sight of what life was really about. It wasn't that he was greedy. He appreciated fine things: some cars; a piece of artwork, here and there. But mostly, he appreciated freedom, and the minute you had to start doing the sums, that freedom diminished. And now he was having to do just that. His options were limited. The most obvious was to go home. Even as he thought it, he knew he wasn't ready. That day might come, but it hadn't yet. He could sell the thirsty Jeep… He could drive around in a compact, although the idea held few attractions. He liked the Jeep and it was being good to him. He made a few calculations, and decided the savings didn't warrant the sacrifice. So drive the damned thing less…

His thoughts were heading towards staying here, in California, for a while. Find somewhere to rent. It made sense. As long as he paid less than he was receiving for the condo, the figures would work. Anyway, he rather fancied having his own place again. He was bored with eating other people's cooking. Looking after himself appealed.

He started researching rental property, and quickly became depressed. He was seeking more solitude than seemed to be on offer. And it had to be near the sea. True beachside property was out of his reach, and mostly too close to the neighbors. Visions of kids and cook-outs made him shudder. He drove north for a while, clinging to the coastline. Nothing.

Miserable that he couldn't find a solution, he returned to the hotel. It wasn't logical, but he thought he'd check out of the hotel, and drive all the way to San Francisco, looking for property on the way.

"I may be back," he told the desk clerk, as he paid his account.

Loading up the Jeep, he hit the road – again.

Horatio discovered he didn't enjoy San Francisco as much as he expected to. It wasn't his first visit, but the other times had been many years ago. At a younger age, he'd seen it as a tolerant free-wheeling sort of place, with an appealing shabbiness, and he'd liked its culture. Now, it seemed to have smartened up, and to be trying too hard. New Orleans' hedonism had been unforced and natural, born of its racial diversity, steamy climate, and laissez-faire attitude. Perhaps even its recent tragedies. San Francisco's legendary open-mindedness by contrast, seemed to him a bit in-your-face; the air heavy with the smell of weed, and no doubt other substances, gay bars on every corner, every conceivable manner of dress and undress… It wasn't that he objected – 'each to his own' summed up his current frame of mind – but it seemed everyone was acting, somehow. Nothing relaxed about it. Sort of 'look at me'. Maybe he was getting old. Maybe just bitter.

The city did, however, provide some amazing sights. Its topography meant it could hardly avoid doing so. The scenery was spectacular, the historical buildings a joy. He spent a pleasant week sightseeing, visiting galleries and museums. He went out to the Point Bonita, the stupendous views stunning him, the hiking trail making him realise how unfit he'd become. And he felt keenly that he had no one to turn to and say 'wow, look at that…' He rode a cable car. He visited Alcatraz. He resisted the urge to try smoking marihuana – it would have been a first for him, and he generally liked new experiences. God knew, they were few enough at his age. He was tempted with the drug several times, during pleasant evenings in a bar, as more than one San Francisco native bent his ear about its many virtues. He decided to head back, slowly, towards Los Angeles.

It didn't work out like that. On his last day, while waiting at an intersection, his Jeep was rear-ended, heavily, by a BMW driven by a spaced-looking youth. It was severe enough to fire the airbag. Horatio escaped with minor whiplash, a sprained wrist, and a burn on his face, the Jeep with a damaged rear door that would no longer close. The BMW definitely lost the fight, but its driver turned out to be both high and uninsured. The consequences – calls to his insurance company, police involvement, plus the need for repairs that kept the Jeep in the shop for nearly two weeks - and he spent longer in San Francisco than he intended. Anyway, he was too bruised to attempt a long drive straight away.

He gave the city another chance, and, while he knew he'd never leave his heart there, as the song said, the time passed easily enough. He could have hired a replacement car, but instead walked or used public transport, conscious that he was getting lazy and was much less fit than was comfortable.

He had, for the time being, stopped thinking about his past. It was dimly there, in his background consciousness, but as long as he kept 'busy', concentrating on other things, the background was where it stayed. When he saw cops on the street, he felt no kindred spirit. If he was honest with himself, he had very little feeling at all. He had to work at it, and it was as if his mind knew not to let his guard down; not to think of Miami, or Eric, or anything much. His lapse, in the middle of the Arizona desert, had taught him that much. He was more concerned about his immediate plans, of finding somewhere to settle down. It was proving elusive.

One evening, he was walking back to his hotel, via a shortcut he had discovered. The fact that it took him through a less than salubrious alleyway did not concern him, either because he was used to taking risks, or, more likely, that he no longer cared. Usually the place was deserted anyway. Just a place for the back entrances and dumpsters of nearby shops and restaurants. This evening, however, he heard voices. His eyes adjusting to the gloom, he noted two white men and a smaller black man, who all appeared to be arguing. His cop's instincts surfaced. He didn't choose it, but something honed to an edge over so many years was hard to ignore.

It was immediately obvious to him that the small man was scared, and being threatened. As he approached, however, all three adopted a nonchalant demeanor, with false laughs. He slowed slightly, trying to catch the eye of the frightened man.

"What you looking at, man?" The tone was overtly threatening.

He shrugged. "Nothing at all. Just going home."

"Keep going then."

He looked directly at the black man. "Everything okay?" You're an idiot, Horatio… They could be armed… Guns, knives…

One of the others answered. "Everything's fine. Now mind your own business."

"I want to hear it from him."

"It's fine, isn't it, Jamal? Tell this old guy to get lost."

"Fine…" It was an unconvincing whisper.

Being called 'old' stung. Horatio walked on a few steps, to give himself some space. He hadn't seen any weapons, but suspected they were the sort who would carry knives.

He turned back. "Let him go."

"Or what, dude?"

What indeed? Horatio was, in fact, armed. He shouldn't have been, but his Beretta was nestled at his ankle. As he'd seen it, he'd had no real alternative. With the car in the shop, and a hotel room without a safe, the simplest thing had been to wear it. Vague thoughts about legality and jurisdiction, neither of which was on his side, flitted through his mind.

He bent as if to adjust his shoe and stood up with the gun in his hand. Three sets of hands shot into the air, confirming that the men had no weapons of their own. Or none that they were prepared to use.

"Now let him go. And you get lost."

"We'll call the cops…"

Horatio laughed. "Oh yeah? I am a cop, you fool." Liar… "I'll count to three…"

The three took off, two away from him, the one he had perceived as being the victim, towards him.

"Thanks, man," he gasped, as he dashed past him and disappeared.

Horatio holstered the gun and walked briskly to the hotel. His heart was thumping. And what was that little show about, Horatio? You'll end up in jail. He knew it would have been an overreaction, even if he had still been a cop and on home turf, although the flood of adrenaline had been oddly enjoyable. You're losing it, pal… He was fairly sure there wouldn't be repercussions, this time. Nevertheless, he was somewhat relieved to get his car back the next day. He locked the Beretta in the glove box, checked out of the hotel, and started back.

TBC