Bullets of Rain Read Free

Jose. The guy's truck proclaimed him to be one of the Sons of Chispa Verdugo Villa , the company specialty being grave monuments. Leftovers, bad cuttings, and failed tombstones made up the jetty, which curved far out into deep water, a crooked, pointing finger of rock. At its terminus was a gigantic military microwave dish, its convex ear usually targeted straight up, like a birdbath stopover for rock-sized mythological predators. At different times, Art thought it resembled a huge sundial, which is what he generally called it. It was engirded by hurricane fence, razor wire, posted warnings. He'd never seen any staff or service guys, if there were any. Local scoop had it that a lighthouse had once occupied the spot. That was irresistibly romantic, and Art had sketched it more than once. He loved the idea of its beam circling far above his home, cutting some storm.
        His nearest neighbor was the Spilsbury place, built on the adjacent property sometime in the 1970s, a more classic sort of timbered beach house on stilts and pilings. It sat closer to the highway; Art had given his own place a long and nonlinear driveway on purpose-an S-shaped double switchback that permitted distance and foliage to obscure the road over there… somewhere. The Spilsbury place was boarded up for the winter.
        But that was the party house, half a mile downbeach, give or take. Half a mile was approximately 2,640 feet, or almost nine football fields; half a klick and change, or 160 rods, if you wanted to get totally ridiculous about it. Art didn't know much about the place except that it was slightly more modern that Spilsbury's, with a big show-off glass turret pointed toward the sea. It was usually a shadow in the mist, indistinct even when he peeked, using his telescope, from his own west deck. Lights had recently become visible at night. Somebody was there, right now, broadcasting occasional life signs without detail. No strays had yet wandered as far as the jetty.
        High tide brought the Pacific Ocean swells to within eighty yards of where Art's house was dug in; safe distance, even for stormy times.
        East, behind the house, sufficiently obscured by dunes and brush, was the coast road. San Francisco was an hour to the north. Once per week he could hear the distress siren that still sounded from the fire station in Half Moon Bay, as though air raids by the forces of Hirohito were still imminent. It was an evocative and mournful noise; it put Art in mind of blackouts, and vigilance, and staying prepared.
        The nearest convenience mart, if you could call it that, was a Toot 'N Moo fifteen miles down the highway. It had begun life as a truckstop and featured enough rest rooms for ten people, with showers. The shitty coffee shop had shut down within one fiscal year and Art only stopped there for gas, once he'd quit smoking. The counter was usually manned by a former skate punk named Rocko (according to his handwritten name tag), who mopped up, played a lot of speed metal too loudly, and fed the slushie machine from a large, vile-looking bucket whenever he wasn't zipping around the parking lot on his board. Rocko had been known to shut the store down whenever he had band practice, so operative business hours were a hazy concept at best. There was a sort of smalltown market in Half Moon Bay, but it was only open from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon, administered by a couple who otherwise qualified as retirees. Instead of repairing to some bedroom community to play shuffleboard and watch cable, they invested their market with the sort of attention your grandma would devote to vegetable gardens, or quilt making. The market would die as soon as they did. Small, friendly groceries with creaky wooden floors were a last-gasp anachronism from the twentieth century, not destined to persevere.
        Art drew a deep nasal hit of the salt air and felt his sinuses sluice. It was better than gulping