U Is for Undertow

or ten years, unless you have a prior, in which case it’s fifteen years to life.”
    “Fuck.”
    “When did you get a DUI?”
    “Two years ago. Look it up. The date escapes me.”
    “You’ll also be charged with VC-20001, subsection C—felony hit-and-run after a fatal DUI accident—”
    “What are you talking about? What hit-and-run?”
    “Yours. You left the scene. The cops found you half a mile away, trudging down the pass all by your lonesome. One shoe off and one shoe on. Remember the nursery rhyme? ‘Diddle diddle dumplin’, my son John, went to bed with his trousers on; one shoe off and the other shoe on . . .’ ”
    Walker said, “Quit already. I know the one you mean.” He would have denied it, but he suffered a quick flash of himself stepping on a rock. He’d cussed and hopped on one foot, laughing at the pain.
    Herschel continued in the same mild tone, his gaze fixed on Walker’s. Walker wondered if it was malevolence he was seeing in his eyes, Herschel Rhodes’s long-awaited and oh-so-delicious revenge for past slights.
    “You’ll also be charged with VC-23153 A and B—DUI causing injury. If you’ve been convicted of a DUI within the past ten years, you could be charged with second-degree murder under the Watson case—”
    “Shit on you, Herschel. I just got done telling you I have a fucking prior so why don’t you stick VC-23153 up your ass?”
    “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”
    “Just you and my wife. Believe me, that’s more than enough.”
    Herschel leaned closer. “Because I have one piece of advice for you, pal: Keep your mouth shut. Don’t discuss this with anyone. If the subject comes up, you button your lip. You’re a deaf-mute. You no speaka da language. Are you hearing me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. The doctor’s talking about releasing you tomorrow morning—”
    “So soon?”
    “They need the bed. I’ll see if I can talk the cops into waiting until you’re home to take you into custody. Otherwise, they’ll arrest you right here, handcuff you to the rail, and post a cop outside the door. Whichever way it goes, remember these two words. Shut. Up .”
    Walker shook his head, saying “Shit” under his breath.
    “In the meantime, you’d be smart to put yourself in rehab, at least make a show of cleaning up your act.”
    “I can’t go into rehab . I have a family to support.”
    “AA, then. Three meetings a week minimum, daily if it comes down to it. I want you to look like a guy renouncing his sins and repenting his evil ways.”
    “Are you going to get me out of this mess?”
    “Probably not, but I’m the best hope you have,” Herschel said. “If it’s any comfort, you won’t go to trial for another three to six months. Speaking of which, I need a check.”
    “How much?”
    “Twenty grand for starters. Once we get to court, we’re talking twenty-five hundred dollars a day, plus the cost of expert witnesses.”
    Walker kept his expression neutral, not wanting to give Herschel the satisfaction of seeing his dismay. “I’ll have to move money over from savings. I don’t keep cash like that in my checking account. Can it wait until I get out?”
    “Have Carolyn take care of it. Nice seeing you.”

13

    Monday, April 11, 1988

    Peephole, California, is essentially two blocks long and ten blocks wide, a stone’s throw from the Pacific Ocean. A Southern Pacific Railroad track runs parallel to the 101, separating the town from the beach. A tunnel runs under both the train tracks and the highway, making it possible to reach the water if you’re willing to walk hunched over through a damp and moldy-smelling fifty yards of culvert. At the northernmost end of town there’s a banana farm. The only other businesses are a service station selling no-name gas and a fresh-produce stand that’s closed for most of the year.
    I activated my left-turn signal and slowed, eyes pinned on the rearview mirror to make sure no one was plowing into me. At the first break in oncoming traffic, I turned off the highway and crossed the tracks, which put me at the midpoint, half the town to the right of me and half to the left. The ebb and flow of the surf and the surging and receding waves of cars on the highway created a hush of white noise. There was something lazy in the air. My driving tour was brief because there wasn’t much to see. The streets were narrow and there were no sidewalks. There were roughly 125 homes in a hodgepodge of architectural