San Clemente, Chapter V "Trestles"

The Costa Mesa Uniform Supply Shop was anything but merely a shop where police departments went to buy uniform essentials. It was an exercise in applied force technology. It had its own shooting range in the basement, so prospective clients could test the guns they were looking at buying. Police Officers bought lots of guns, or so Elmer, my front counter guy told me. Off duty police officers had to protect themselves from the criminals they arrested, because all of those criminals were being released back to the streets. He made releasing criminals who'd served their time sound like a high crime itself. I wanted to ask him if he thought all criminals, no matter what their crime, should be executed, but I refrained. There were other people in the store. They looked even more 'whacked out' than Elmer, with his long handle-bar mustache and single, uninterrupted, eyebrow.

I picked out a two sets of khaki uniforms. The place had the San Clemente Police Department on file. Elmer knew exactly what I needed, with the exception of shorts. Instead of long pants, I ordered the same shorts Costa Mesa Beach Officers wore. They looked neater and much cooler. For weaponry I asked for a Smith and Wesson. One of those 'wheel-guns,' Elmer termed it. He told me that my P.D. allowed, as a duty weapon, either the .45 Colt automatic, or the Smith & Wesson .38, using +P ammunition (which was more powerful). Elmer preferred the Colt. I asked for the Smith & Wesson in .44 Magnum, with a four inch barrel, so it would look like a regular duty weapon. "Can't carry that on the street," Elmer said, producing the heavy little monster-handgun. I merely shrugged. I didn't care. I was just back from the Nam, and I was not going to carry anything but the most overwhelming firepower I could find. "Anybody you know load hot rounds for it? Maybe with depleted uranium penetrators?" I said to the strange man. His eyes grew large and round, or at least as large and round as a human ferret's eyes can grow. He nodded, writing a name onto a scrap of paper, then pushing it toward me. "They ain't gonna be cheap," he replied. I shrugged again.

"That's just short of eight hundred dollars, including a couple of boxes of .44 hollowpoints, on the house, for you to go out and kill some of those bad guys." I felt his attitude across the counter. He was thinking of me as an idiotic, over-enthusiastic rookie. I knew that expression of attitude. In the Nam we called new, over-eager clowns, FNG's. Fucking New Guys. "I" Corps chewed them up and spit them into body bags like cherry pits from a full mouth load. I ignored the attitude. "The P.D. have an account?" I asked. Amy and I had thirty-eight dollars in our joint checking account, total. Elmer said nothing, just pushing the receipt over for my signature. "Gotta copy your I.D., for the records though," he said. I selected the proper I.D. from the assortment I now carried in my 'police' type wallet. I admired the way in which my new badge fit so neatly into one side of the wallet, with a little felt cover to cushion its polished brass surface. Elmer disappeared. I worried that he might be making a call, while he was back there, to Chief Murray, but he returned minutes later with no comment. I had no authority to charge anything, but I also had no money. I would worry about the particulars of finance a bit later.

I bundled everything into one bag on my own. Amy would have to do any tailoring. The Shop could custom tailor any hand weapon in the world, but they didn't sew. I kept the blue Smith & Wesson box aside from the other stuff. I liked the blue color of the box, with its silver writing, and the heavy feel of it's solid rectangular shape. I had everything but shoes. I decided, on my ride back to my coastal town, to simply wear white sox and tennis shoes.

I showed up the next morning early, at the supplemental parking lot of the P.D. The Bronco was there, as before, unmoved. There was a piece of paper under the driver side windshield wiper. I pulled it out. I was invited to visit the Headquarters of the San Clemente Life Guards by somebody named Maury. I had to check with Scruggs to find out that the headquarters building was located on the beach next to the quarter mile pier, which stuck straight out into the ocean from the center of town. Scruggs was impressed with my new uniform. Amy had worked to sew on the special patches. I would have to wait for my name tag, however, as I had had to order it. The big brass badge felt extremely heavy on my shirtfront. The ribbons, and small stuff of the Corps, had never registered that way at all. Scruggs asked to handle my sidearm but I declined. I wasn't about to start a controversy about the caliber of that weapon. I was already worried about how to handle the purchase order I had so confidently, without any authorization, signed.

I started the Bronco. It didn't 'burble' at idle, like I thought it would. Not like my old beloved GTO. With all the mufflers it made almost no sound at all. I drove to the Cotton Estate. The Bronco looked cool, its giant tires grooved for sand running. They were slightly under-inflated. Under-inflated to the point that the vehicle was almost not drivable on the asphalt streets. I didn't even think of getting on the freeway. Optimal speed for the thing seemed to be around twenty-five miles per hour. It was cool, however, as many people turned to look at it and wave. I wasn't sure what to do about people waving. Were cops supposed to wave back? I tried to look serious and glare back, but that didn't feel right either.

I looked down at my radios. The regular police radio was closer. The other one, which was identical in make, except painted bright red in color, was the direct to Secret Service Headquarters radio. The local radio twittered and cooed all the time. Short static sounds were interrupted with police chatter. San Clemente only 'streeted' three cars full time (two on graveyard shifts), yet the back and forth traffic was constant. The Secret Service radio never made any sound at all. The local cops, and Scruggs, all used ten codes. They said the number ten, before they said another number code. I didn't know why. It seemed silly to me. "Ten-seven" meant you were home. But the officers all said "Ten-seven, home," anyway. Ten-eight meant at work. Ten-four meant you understood. There were more codes. I had a book of hundreds of them. I wondered how I would learn all of them. I especially liked "Fifty-One_Fifty," which meant that a person was stark raving nuts. The whole system seemed to be fifty-one-fifty to me. The driving codes were mildly humorous, as well. Code One was driving like you always do (which is fast, for cops). Code two was really fast, with your rear amber lights flashing. Code three was with siren and all lights. You could only got to code three with permission from Scruggs. I liked code 'Two-and-a-half," best,however. It was driving code three without permission, then lying to the dispatcher about it. The city of San Clemente was so small, and cove shaped, that running code three could be heard all over town, including at the dispatcher's desk. When someone ran code two-in-a-half, everyone knew. Scruggs would go nuts trying to figure out who was breaking the code three rule. Nobody ever admitted to it, but they did it all the time.

I decided to check in at the Coast Guard Headquarters. At 0900 exactly, I walked in the door. Nobody noticed me. There was a central open office, where several men in civilian attire sat at desks. They all wore their suit coats, so I could tell they were Secret Service. I twas too hot for coats. I figured it had to be one of their rules. I asked for the head agent. That made a few of them smile. "Ben Williams. You want Special Agent in Charge Ben Williams?" I nodded. I wanted to ask why agents were all called 'special' agents, but did not. It was like the FBI. I had never heard of a regular agent. The desk agent pointed me to a door located at the corner of the building. I went over and knocked. "Enter," a voice yelled, from within. I stepped through, closing the door behind me. Ben sat at his desk. His suit coat was on too. I wondered if they took the things off at home. His office was not cool either. "What do you want?" he asked. A phone sat off the hook in front of him. I presumed he had interrupted a call for me. "Ah, just introducing myself. I'm the Beach Patrol. I was hired by Haldeman, I think, or so he said. Hell, I don't know. I just thought I should check in with someone, before starting the day." I did not mention that I didn't know what to do during that day. Ben laughed out load.

"So you didn't want to check in with H.R.?" I just looked at his large smiling face. His smile fell away. "I can't blame you for that. First class prig of a man. What'd he hire you for?" I shook my head, but said nothing. "Typical. I wonder if he even knows. He's so damned busy trying to act smart he doesn't have time to be smart. Erlichman, though, that son-of-a-bitch is smart. Watch out for him in the clinches." I just stood there astounded. I could not believe that a secret service agent would talk the way the man was talking. "Who are you?" I finally asked.

"Ben Williams, head of the entire agency of the United States Treasure Department known as the Secret Service. This is the Presidential Detail. The class act of the whole shebang." I had to smile at the man's presentation. He was a hard man not to like, I realized. I also began reflecting on the strange arrangement of power I had stepped into. Obviously, the head of the Secret Service did not care much at all what a presidential advisor might think about his comments. Who was who at La Casa Romantica, and what power they actually had, was going to be a difficult thing to figure out.

"Actually, I do know a bit about you," Ben said in follow-up, "and you don't have to check in with me, or anybody else you're likely to run into around here. Whatever you're really here for is a mystery. Somebody high up over there," he waved in the direction of the estate, "wants you around for something. That's okay with the Secret Service. It may not be okay with you. I don't know. You have a pretty damned good war record. Maybe they want you because of that." I didn't know what to say to his presentation, so I didn't reply directly. Instead, I hedged a bit. "I've got a Bronco out here with San Clemente Beach Patrol written on the side of it. I'm being paid from the White House though. I thought I'd just try to do the Beach Patrol job until somebody tells me to do something else. One thing though, H.R. told me that everyone started at 0900 around here. What did he mean? Am I supposed to report in? If I am, then to who?"

Ben stood up and stuck his right hand across the desk. "You have my approval, which you don't need. Nobody really reports in to anybody at the level those guys are operating at. I'd just go about my business and wait to hear from them. They're not bashful, those people. But good luck. I'm sure we'll see one another around here." I shook his hand, went back out to the Bronco and headed for the beach. I had a lot to learn about creating a beach patrol out of nothing at all.

It took me almost half an hour to figure out how to get to the beach. Where the bluff did not rise too high to drive down, like along the entire front of the estate, brush grew so thick it was basically impenetrable to any kind of vehicle. Finally, I drove North to the first public beach I ran into, called Calafia Beach Park, then drove over the railroad tracks and onto the sand. The Bronco came into its own on the soft sand. It rose above the sand on its huge grooved tires. The detuned V8 was not so much detuned as it was set up to provide most of its torque at low RPM. The vehicle powered over and through things with an inexorably slow gait and inertia. On the street it was one of Ralph Nader's 'Unsafe at any Speed Vehicles,' but on the sand it was home. I drove to Trestles beach. A group of surfers sat on the shore working their surfboards, drinking beer and puffing on home made cigarettes. My silent arrival in their very midst caused a universal cessation of movement. I stopped in the middle of, what appeared to be, more than a dozen frozen beach mannequins.

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San Clemente, "Chapter III, "Losing My Religion"

I left the estate through the door I had come in. The door that was really made to be part of a bank vault, rather than an an old Spanish hacienda. I drove back to the sawhorse. The Lance Corporal was there, but he didn't move the barrier. Instead he walked around to my open window. "Here is your I.D. card, sir," he said, then snapped another perfect salute at me. He moved the sawhorse. I put the new card in my front pocket, then headed the Volks toward home. I realized that I did not have to make the thirty-three mile trip, one way, to the 1st CAG anymore. My apartment was only two miles from the Cotton Estate. I might be fueling up once a month instead of twice a week. I smiled at the thought, hoping that my wife, Amy, would be happy with that part of our new situation. Amy was Irish, second generation, but Irish to the roots of her nearly black, and full, head of hair. I got home, and limped, as quickly as I could, up the stairs to our small abode. I was smiling. I had prospects.

"So, let's see if I have this straight," Amy said, her expression of the words holding out no hope for a question mark. "You now work for this blond guy, H.R. Haldeman, who, supposedly, works as an advisor to the President of the United States. That would be Richard Milhous Nixon. You have this new I.D. card, which tells us that you are "STAFF," whatever that is." She paced before him, up and down the small expanse of their living room floor, while she talked and thought. The new Military Style but not military identification card was in her right hand as she moved. I'd explained everything I knew, from my seat on our couch, but agitation had set into her before I'd finished. She had to move. It irritated me, to have her tower over me, but it would look ridiculous for both of them to pace about together, so I stayed seated.

"And Colonel Howling Jack Taylor, your commanding officer, knows nothing, and can't even ask you about any of this?" She might have paused, at that point, to get an answer, but she didn't. She paced some more. "And then there is you. You didn't bother to ask anyone what you would be doing? Where you would be doing it? Or why?" The sound of her deep sigh of disappointment would have been heard in the adjoining apartment, the walls of the one bedroom place were that thin, except it was daytime and nobody was there. Amy was the only female in the complex who was a housewife, and it was mid-day. Finally, she paused in her moving routine. She slapped the thick plastic card down onto the top of their cheap coffee table, then folded her arms facing him. Her normally smooth forehead was deeply furrowed. Her beautiful brown eyebrows were pulled together so close that the seemed to form one continuous line.

"Are you a complete and total idiot?" she asked, dead serious. Her tone was flat and level. I nodded, not being able to think of anything to say at all. I knew I should have asked questions of everyone, but I had not. I was a Marine. I knew how to take orders. And that's what I had done. I still had several weeks to serve, and although the Marine Corps and I had been going in different directions from the time I was wounded, I would serve out my time as a real Marine. And not a Marine like either of the 'Homo Vomitus' cretins I worked with at the CAG. But Amy gave me pause to think.

The Cotton Estate had only been rumored to have been sold to Nixon. There had been no confirmation, either in the local paper, or on television. Word had simply been bandied about the community, and mostly with negative connotations. San Clemente was a small Spanish town. It was mostly Democratic. It's close proximity to Camp Pendleton Marine Base was a constant source of unhappiness, if not outright distaste, for almost all of it's citizens. The livid scars of a continuing lost war were ever present, and directly attributable, to the military personnel who constantly circulated in, and around, the town.

"And what about pay?" Amy asked. "We have nothing. And what about after they dump you out of the Corps? Benefits? Transportation? Medical help for your healing?" She had begun pacing as she had started talking, firing out the short questions like shots out of a semi-auto rifle. I knew she was still upset by the medical board decision. I was going to be discharged with Zero percent disability. I was going to be determined to be too disabled to be a Marine, but not disabled enough to get any money. Amy called it a 'typical' Marine discharge, to their few friends, who were mostly Marines, or dependents of Marines. I had not thought about the discharge or the money when I had stood, looking out at the breaking surf, with the strange flat-topped man.

"Why you?" she said, "You're a mess, physically and mentally. You can't walk right and you have that thing open along your stomach," she waved her hand at me, as she paced. "Or is this a reward for your medals, I mean, except that Purple Heart one....I guess it would be maybe a punishment for getting that one, since your beloved Corps does not seem to care for injured Marines, much at all." She sat down on the couch next to me, but they didn't touch. "I don't get it," she said, at last. Taking a pack of Kent filtered cigarettes from the table, she produced a lighter and lit one of them. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. I had never smoked, but I also never commented on her habit. I liked it. It was somehow meaningful pleasant to our relationship. She handled the slender white tubes in a way that added to her, already considerable, sexuality. Her short blue skirt had ridden up to mid-thigh. She looked at me looking, then blew smoke in my direction and crossed her legs.

"I suppose they told you that you couldn't tell me anything either," she said, then flicked a small piece of tobacco from her lip with her free hand. I looked down at the dark band, which indicated the top-most part of her pantyhose. It was peaking from under the slanted edge of her skirt. "Actually, nobody said anything about you at all. They said little about anything. I'm supposed to go in tomorrow and do what they tell me, I guess. But, I'll ask about the money, and the other stuff. I can't imagine that they are doing this just to occupy me for my last couple of weeks in the Corps." I brightened with my own words. I had thought, until turning the situation over in my mind, that I would simply serve out my time in the strange old Spanish villa. The guard had called it 'Casa Pacifica.' The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a new opportunity, however. Aside from the Lance Corporal, serving as a gate guard, there did not seem to be much for a Marine Lieutenant to do there.

Amy's anger faded, as the afternoon waned. A Manhatten before dinner helped even more. I sat up by myself until late in the evening, wondering about different details of the strange day I had just experienced. Amy had gone down early, and there had been no opportunity to enjoy anything she possessed, above the darkened pantyhose line, I had gazed upon earlier. Finally I sighed, went upstairs, and crawled into bed.

I awakened just before first light, as was my habit. I carefully displaced myself from the bed, so as not to wake Amy, as I did every day. As with every other day, I failed. I had realized early on that if I ever had an affair which ran late into the night, I would not be sneaking under the covers without my wife waking. She had detectors. Better than the sonic stuff we had used 'in country.'

"Are you awake?" she asked, unnecessarily, looking at me with one eye, her head sunk deeply into her pillow. "Yeah," I murmured in response, just like every other morning. She said no more, as I went through my morning regimen to prepare for work. Showered, shaved, shined and fully dressed, except for my tight green Class A uniform blouse, I watched the coffee perk up and down, time after time, in the top glass of our small stainless coffee pot. Amy came down, wearing a fluffy cream robe and huge, ridiculous, bathroom slippers. The phone on the wall between us rang. I looked at it, as did she. Both of us frowned. The phone never rang in the morning, especially not before seven a.m. I picked it up on the second ring, with a bad feeling.

"Marteen," a cold male voice said. It was not a question. I had not even had time to say hello. "Martin, its Martin," I said back. "Martin," the voice corrected, then paused. "Yes, sir," I added. The voice seemed like the kind of voice I should say that to.

"This is the San Clemente Police Department. Present yourself here by oh-eight-hundred hours. The Chief wants to see you." The voice disconnected before I could answer. I stood holding the phone up to my ear. Slowly, I replaced it, still lost in thought. I also reflected upon the fact that I didn't know where the San Clemente Police Department was.

"Don't tell me," Amy said, holding up her left hand, which already had a Kent lit and smoking between her fingers. She held a steaming cup of black coffee in the other. "Its them." The tone she used, when she said 'them,' left not doubt as to who she was talking about. I nodded, "well, not exactly. That was the police. They want me to come up and see the chief. I suppose we have one, don't we?" I said.

"One what?" Amy asked, blowing more smoke.

""A Chief of Police," I answered, in exasperation. I pulled out the local phone book and went to the index. I finally found the address and approximate location. The place was in almost the exact center of San Clemente. I replaced the book, then sat down to drink a cup of coffee with Amy. Talking to her was one of the most pleasurable things I did in my life. But not this morning. She was unsettled about the day before, and how this one had started. I finished the coffee, grabbed my jacket, making sure not to disturb any of the ribbons, or other things, that hung from it, then headed out to the Volks.

I drove South on El Camino Real, until I ran into the correct cross street. I drove under the freeway, and there it was. A small flat building constructed in a cut-out half way up the side of a huge bluff. I drove into the drive way on one side. The Fire Department was headquartered in the same building I noted. Half the building was taken up by hangar-sized garages, behind which, no doubt, fire trucks were parked. A short line of police cruisers were parked at an angle in front of the far half of the building. I parked next to one of them. I got out of the car, put on my coat, buttoned it, then checked in my outside rear view mirror to make sure it was correctly buttoned and positioned. It was.

I went through the glass front door. A low counter ran across the opening, just inside the door. A half door, closed, was located at one end of the counter.

"You Martin?" the man said, rising from in front of a desk mounted microphone.

"Yes, sire," I answered, as if I was reporting in at the Marine base.

"Through that door," the man pointed at the half door, "Murray's office is down the hall, the door at the end. I'm Scruggs, radio officer, at your service." The man returned to his seat. I noted that he was not old, but entirely bald, and his face was a florid red color.

"Who's Murray/" I asked him. He looked over at me, as if I was a specimen of some sort. "The door at the end of the hall," he said, pointing. He had raised his voice much higher to say those words, like he was talking to a person hard of hearing. I shook my head, then went through the half door.

I got to the last door, which was closed. I knocked, lightly. "In," a voice boomed from behind it. I stepped through quickly, closing the door behind me. I felt like I was in OCS again. Until I looked up an saw the man's face. He was no drill sargeant. His smile was too big and too genuine. He got up from his desk, then came around it with his hand extended. We shook. He had strong grip, but not one of those grips intended to dominate. I noted that he wore a cheap blue suit, instead of the khaki uniform the radioman had had on.

"Sit," the big man said, returning to his own executive chair. I sat in a small hard-back in front of his desk. "So, you're the mysterious Martin." I just looked at him, wondering why I was mysterious. I didn't know what to say, so I said what I was trained to say. "Yes, sir." He nodded. I decided to go a bit further. "Ah, Chief, why am I here?"

"Damned if I know," the Chief responded. But I can tell you this. Those guys down there are paying you the salary of a Patrolman III, as of today. You'll only be a reserve officer here, I mean, when you're not working down there for them. You have to go to Rio Hondo Police Academy the next time they run through a bunch of recruits, and you have to buy your own gun." He stopped and looked at me.

"What?" was all I could manage. "I'm going to be a police officer?" I asked, haltingly. Murray smiled one of his open welcoming smiles. No, not exactly. "You are about to become a Peace Officer of the State of California. Raise you right hand, and repeat after me." He held up his right hand, so so did I. I repeated the words he said, but instantly forgot them. He tossed a big gold badge across the desk to me. It was the size of a closed fist. I picked it up. "Now you're a Peace Officer. Welcome aboard." He held out his hand again. I took it. "Scruggs out there will make you an I.D. card. Pick it up tomorrow."

I stood in front of the big man. I was a Marine Lieutenant, with a military I.D. I was working for H.R. Halderman, with a Presidential I.D. And now I was working for the San Clemente Police Department with a Police I.D. Somehow, with all those identifications.....I had lost my own.