month after Stella and I split, I’d wondered what my friend had seen in the woman. Then I realized it was that beautiful face and body of hers — all superficial stuff.
They were just too much alike. Poor Sophie .
I left my buddy and his daughter with a smile and a wave, and I blew little Sophie a kiss. She caught it and blew it back.
I wondered if that might be the last time I’d ever see them — or perhaps little Sophie’s dreams about me rescuing her might have actually been some sort of premonitions.
On the way to Smokey’s Marina, I made arrangements to meet two other old friends. They were towing my recently purchased, twenty-year-old Catalina 27 up from San Diego.
Then I checked in with my new parole officer, Tamara White Cloud. She wanted me to call her when I made LA, even if it was a Sunday. I informed her of my arrangements to meet friends at Smokey's Marina, and she was very accommodating — said she'd meet me there, as well.
* * *
As I pulled into the parking lot, Parole Officer Tamara White Cloud was the first person I saw, sitting at an outside table on the deck dining area of Smokey's Grog and Galley Restaurant.
Although I’d never seen her before, I knew right away it was her. She was as lovely as her phone voice, with long, straight black hair, dark eyes and tanned skin.
As I stopped beside the building, I noticed a couple of guys sitting in a silver Chevy with Illinois plates. They were parked at the far end of the small gravel lot, just out of sight of the dining area. Several cigarette butts below the passenger side indicated they'd been there a while. Besides their car and two others, the parking lot was empty — not a good sign for a SoCal sailboat marina, even though it wasn't yet prime sailing season.
I got out of my Shelby, gave the guys a nod and went toward the outside dining area. Neither of the meatheads in the Chevy acknowledged me. That was strike two for them. Strike one was the cigarette butts — I hate it when people think it’s okay just to drop them anyplace they want.
"You must be Mr. Ethan Zachariah Knight," Tamara White Cloud said as I stepped up.
I held out my hand. "Please, call me E Z, Tamara."
She shook hands briefly and smiled. "All right, E Z. And you can call me Parole Officer White Cloud."
Such a leap of informality! I thought. Oh, well — a one way street is better than a no-way dead end. Still, that was strike one for her.
I sat down across from her and smiled back.
"Let's get something straight, E Z," she said, looking at the thick file folder on the wooden table in front of her, "I'm here on Sunday morning at your convenience, for my convenience. The Federal government doesn’t pay me enough to work weekends. I have a personal appointment in the area at noon." She was still smiling, which was a good sign, but a very small, good sign. "Normally, you'll be expected to be at my office on the second Tuesday of every month at 11:00 AM sharp, starting next month. Do you understand and agree to that?"
Strike two , I thought and answered, "Yessir." I made no attempt at correcting my Freudian slip.
Her smile disappeared. "Already you see that I'm a hard-ass? Good. Don’t ever forget."
I usually give people three strikes before I swing back. This little lady just fanned out. "Don't know," I answered.
She frowned at me. "What?"
I'm batting, now. "Don't know how hard your ass is. Haven't seen or felt it to be sure, yet ."
Her jaw muscles tightened. "Mr. Knight, you're being disrespectful and bordering on contemptuous. Don't you realize I am an officer of the Federal court and have the power to put you back in prison where many authorities think you belong?"
I parried, "Parole Officer White Cloud, you're disrespecting me. You might find that I can be a very good and useful ally, or I can be a huge prick — a real bur in your panties. I know the law, and I'll abide by it."
"Abide by it? You'll have to prove that to me. Do you know what's in
They were just too much alike. Poor Sophie .
I left my buddy and his daughter with a smile and a wave, and I blew little Sophie a kiss. She caught it and blew it back.
I wondered if that might be the last time I’d ever see them — or perhaps little Sophie’s dreams about me rescuing her might have actually been some sort of premonitions.
On the way to Smokey’s Marina, I made arrangements to meet two other old friends. They were towing my recently purchased, twenty-year-old Catalina 27 up from San Diego.
Then I checked in with my new parole officer, Tamara White Cloud. She wanted me to call her when I made LA, even if it was a Sunday. I informed her of my arrangements to meet friends at Smokey's Marina, and she was very accommodating — said she'd meet me there, as well.
* * *
As I pulled into the parking lot, Parole Officer Tamara White Cloud was the first person I saw, sitting at an outside table on the deck dining area of Smokey's Grog and Galley Restaurant.
Although I’d never seen her before, I knew right away it was her. She was as lovely as her phone voice, with long, straight black hair, dark eyes and tanned skin.
As I stopped beside the building, I noticed a couple of guys sitting in a silver Chevy with Illinois plates. They were parked at the far end of the small gravel lot, just out of sight of the dining area. Several cigarette butts below the passenger side indicated they'd been there a while. Besides their car and two others, the parking lot was empty — not a good sign for a SoCal sailboat marina, even though it wasn't yet prime sailing season.
I got out of my Shelby, gave the guys a nod and went toward the outside dining area. Neither of the meatheads in the Chevy acknowledged me. That was strike two for them. Strike one was the cigarette butts — I hate it when people think it’s okay just to drop them anyplace they want.
"You must be Mr. Ethan Zachariah Knight," Tamara White Cloud said as I stepped up.
I held out my hand. "Please, call me E Z, Tamara."
She shook hands briefly and smiled. "All right, E Z. And you can call me Parole Officer White Cloud."
Such a leap of informality! I thought. Oh, well — a one way street is better than a no-way dead end. Still, that was strike one for her.
I sat down across from her and smiled back.
"Let's get something straight, E Z," she said, looking at the thick file folder on the wooden table in front of her, "I'm here on Sunday morning at your convenience, for my convenience. The Federal government doesn’t pay me enough to work weekends. I have a personal appointment in the area at noon." She was still smiling, which was a good sign, but a very small, good sign. "Normally, you'll be expected to be at my office on the second Tuesday of every month at 11:00 AM sharp, starting next month. Do you understand and agree to that?"
Strike two , I thought and answered, "Yessir." I made no attempt at correcting my Freudian slip.
Her smile disappeared. "Already you see that I'm a hard-ass? Good. Don’t ever forget."
I usually give people three strikes before I swing back. This little lady just fanned out. "Don't know," I answered.
She frowned at me. "What?"
I'm batting, now. "Don't know how hard your ass is. Haven't seen or felt it to be sure, yet ."
Her jaw muscles tightened. "Mr. Knight, you're being disrespectful and bordering on contemptuous. Don't you realize I am an officer of the Federal court and have the power to put you back in prison where many authorities think you belong?"
I parried, "Parole Officer White Cloud, you're disrespecting me. You might find that I can be a very good and useful ally, or I can be a huge prick — a real bur in your panties. I know the law, and I'll abide by it."
"Abide by it? You'll have to prove that to me. Do you know what's in
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