"AND THEN THERE WERE NUN..."

I read the New York Times this day and was not surprised. On the left side, all the way down the front page, they began a story about protesting Catholic Nuns. There are about sixty thousand of them left out there in the world. At one time there were many many more than that. They, apparently, do not wear the revealing (and respect demanding) habits of the past. I kind of knew that from somewhere, but it hit home with this article. The substance of the article was about how the leadership of the Catholic Church (read Pope Ratso) is opposing the Nuns because they have kind of gotten together to argue against a few idiotic things still supported by the Roman Catholics of Rome. They oppose, for example, the required celibacy of priests. The Pope is still big on this malformed and unsuccessful doctrine. And it is not, or at least I do not think so, that the sixty thousand remaining nuns are simply horny and want all those priests for their own. No, I am afraid that the nun's logic is more factually grounded (however fun it might be to think otherwise). It seems that, over time, the celibacy thing just has not worked at all. Priests have been out there screwing just about any human they could get their hands on for many many years. The Catholic Church is currently paying out billions in reparations because of the failure of celibacy among its priests. It seems that the pent up sexuality of these guys has led them to exploit young boys under their care. But the payouts have not fazed Ratso. He contends that celibacy works and must be kept in place. All priests must be male and they must not have sex. The male only thing is another piece of studied stupidity that the nuns oppose.

I was raised a Catholic and went to Catholic schools all the way up through my undergraduate degree in college. My elementary school nuns were the most noteworthy of my teachers. It was Hawaii right after the big war. The nuns at St. Augustine Elementary School, just off Waikiki, had just returned from surviving the entirety of WWII in Japanes prison camps. Those nuns were in no mood to take any garbage from elementary school children. Later, I was to train and then serve in the United States Marine Corps. The Corps had nothing on those nuns. My D.I., SSgt. Baines, could not have gone one round with Sister Michael Marie (a.k.a. Sister Joseph Louis), much less the dreaded Sister Gregoria (called the 'Flying Black Axe' for reasons unknown).

I am a writer today because of those nuns. I miss their disciplined learning techniques. Techniques no longer applied to school children anywhere. I learned the ABC's, how to decline a sentence, phonics, and the Chicago Style Manual of English. I learned them by trial and error, and the studied application of attentive pro-active pain. Those nuns did not have to strike often. They used a form of willful psychology and parental support no longer existent within the confines of our culture. I learned to speak in front of groups and to overcome embarrassment and failure. I got a C Plus in English at the end of 5th grade. And I still write very regularly to Sister Michael Marie and Sister Gregoria. In fact, when my book was recently published, I sent Sister Michael Marie a copy of the book (lovingly inscribed) and a copy of my fifth grade report card. I high-lighted the C Plus I received in English with a yellow marker, to point out the error of her conclusion. That was a month ago. I got a letter yesterday. She sent me the report card back with a note stuck to it. "You have improved" it said, and there was B Plus written in red over the crossed out C Plus. She also noted a few grammatical errors in the final production hard-cover novel! I suppose that is why I, and my publisher's editors, did not get an A.

The Catholic Church has not supported nuns in any way for fifty years. The older ones live in near poverty under poor conditions in run-down care facilities. The few younger ones do not even get habits to wear. They are allowed to work for the Church for free and get by as best they can. It is a shame. The value those women provided to millions of children across the world goes unrewarded and barely even thanked. Yes, they did it for the love of God, but come on! The Catholic Church is run by men. By White old men living in splendor inside stone chateaus. They are just like human leaders everywhere on earth. There is no difference, and there is about the same level of compassion exercised and exhibited toward those whom worked to put and keep them there, as exists in the civilian world outside.

I loved those nuns and tried my heart out for them. I did that because I knew, down inside, near the bottom of my little well of souls, they wanted the best for me. I really believed that they wanted me to succeed and enjoy life, and a good measure of bliss. They wanted me to be successful, simply because, well, in their prayerful and hallowed way, they loved me. They loved God above all, and then all the children in their charge. They still do. Their belief in me, and my belief in them, sustains me to this day.

The numbers of nuns are dwindling rapidly, as the older ones die off and no new ones come aboard. This is part of the design of the Catholic Church. I do not know why. Maybe, like most male leaders everywhere, Ratso and his Italian Mafia fear women. I just don't know. But I lament their passing. They have been a force for good and love out here, across the surface of this troubled earth. Those nuns left now deserve honors and a great retirement. The young ones, the few, deserve our endearing support...financially and emotionally, because it is good for us all. I am not much of a Catholic anymore, but I know a good thing when I experience it. I love those nuns, and you should too.

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San Clemente, Chapter VII "Huey, Duey, and Luey"

Chief Murray and I stood, looking at the specially equipped and painted Boeing 707, until Kissinger, Haldeman and Ehrlichman disappeared into its side door. The plane was called Air Force One when Nixon was aboard it, but usually he flew a newer 707. The crew on the tarmac called the plane Sam Twenty-Six, for unknown reasons.

“Henceforth, whenever Kissinger needs to be driven somewhere, you get to do the driving,” Murray said to me. His cigarette lay burning itself out on hot the concrete under our feet. I wondered, idly, if it might not ignite stray fumes and blow us all to hell. There must have been ten ‘no smoking’ signs visible, but Murray didn’t seem to care, and nobody confronted him about it.

I drove the big limo back to San Clemente at ninety miles per hour. There was no traffic, to speak of, on I-5 at off hours. Murray stayed silent in the passenger seat, unmoved by the high speed, smoking one cigarette after another. I wanted to ask my laconic passenger a ton of questions but could not work up the courage. He had let on that my Beach Patrol job was good for a year, funded by a Congressional earmark to the Department of Justice. It had to be redone at the end of that year, if it was to be redone. Amy called the job a phony exercise invented by phony people for phony purposes. The ‘Three-P’ job, it had become.

In truth, I did not patrol the compound area much at all. There was nothing to do along the short stretch of sand, except harass an occasional surfer, watch oblivious lovers or chase border crossers further North. I preferred to run up and down the beaches of San Clemente in the super-silent, near invisible Bronco. Those beaches had real people doing real things. It was also fun to patrol the streets on occasion, although I stayed away from car stops. The California Highway Patrol, termed as ‘Chippies’ by the local cops, had actually sent a car to inform me, specifically, that I was not to work the interstate highway at all. That would be ‘poaching,’ and it was not to be tolerated. Ben Williams, head of Secret Service had received a letter to that effect, as well. I had been called in. I listened to the lecture by the Chippies, then William’s brief nod, before I made any comment.

“The Bronco can’t even make it up to the minimum speed required to be legal on the freeway,” I said. “How the hell am I going to go out and catch speeders?” The Chippies ignored me, examining the Bronco from bumper to bumper, as if it was some classic car on display at a fair. Finally, seemingly satisfied, the tall men had climbed into their Mercury-Maurader Black and White and driven away. I smiled to myself when I noted that the Marine on duty at the gate made them show their wallet identification cards before he would let them out.

“You know what they really wanted?” Williams said, as we stood looking at the back of their patrol car, as it sat waiting to be let out. I shook my head, glancing at the man’s profile. He reminded me, uncomfortably, of ‘Howling Jack Taylor’ on the Marine Base. I said nothing, however.

“They wanted a chance to see the operations here so they could tell all of their buddies that they were on the inside of the compound command center.” He walked back through the door of the Coast Guard station, but stopped and turned before actually entering. “You tell them nothing. Not a damn thing, or I’ll have your ass. And that goes for Murray and the locals, your new long lost friends, as well.” I stood looking at him, making sure I wore no expression. I was not about to give him the benefit of any answer at all, unless I was ordered to. But I wasn’t. He simply turned, closed the door, and was gone.

I drove down, through San Clemente, to the base of the long pier. The drive was uneventful. It was Sunday afternoon, so there were plenty of people about, particularly at “T” Street, an area of sand that stuck out into the ocean about a quarter mile South of the pier. A high overpass ran from the cliff edge above the railroad tracks, and then directly down to the beautiful beach. Not only was it a great beach area, but there was ample parking along the side streets of the neighborhood atop the cliff. I drove the Bronco to “T” Street, through the crowds of beach goers, all moving out of the way of my vehicle. I had learned to have the radio on ‘outside speaker’ for such work. I could reach over, click the handset of the Motorola, and make a squawk come from the speaker. It was sufficient to get people to notice, and then move out of the way. The driving was fun, although watching for little children was a challenge. My tires were so big and soft though, I wondered if they would actually hurt a child if I did run over one. I didn’t want to find out the answer to that question, however.

I drove back to the pier. Ever so slowly, I worked the front tires of the Bronco over the edge of asphalt that separated the sand from the pier pad. First gear was really low so the small truck could move inches at a time, but with great power. I stopped, once I got up on the flat pad. People surged about, parting like moving water around the Bronco. They ignored it, and me, as if we were merely fixtures of the pier structure itself. I looked over at a low flat building built out onto the sand. It had a large clock tower sticking out of the top of it. I checked my watch. The clock was accurate. The building was brown, with the clock tower sticking up out of it. That was made of natural rock. The only bright color visible was yellow. Huge yellow letters were painted across the beach side of the building. They read ‘SCLG,’ which I knew stood for San Clement Life Guards.

I eased the Bronco onto the big flat parking area located behind the Headquarters building. The lifeguards had upward thrusting watch towers, unevenly spaced, up and down all the beaches I patrolled, with the exception of the area in front of the Western White House Compound. I thought I might just as well get acquainted with the lifeguard organization responsible for Marine Safetyin the areas I patrolled.

I shut my vehicle down, but left the ignition key on, with the public address speaker engaged, so the radios could be heard if I got a call. I had tried, at first, reporting my position to Scruggs all the time, like the other ‘regular’ units, but soon gave up. Scruggs didn’t care. I never got a call and he never responded to my position or activity reports. The Secret Service radio was even stranger. There was never any sound from it. I assumed the frequency to be totally private.

I stepped through the back door of the big building and entered a different world. The building was mostly a shed for huge pieces of beach equipment. I had seen the sand cleaning machines but had not known where they were stored. I squatted down to examine one of them, to see how it worked. A rough mesh lined the bottom of the thing, I saw, but then was interrupted.
“Can I help you?” a voice right behind me said, flatly.
I jumped up and around.
“Just looking,” I replied, a bit embarrassed. The man in front of me was tall, I noted, much taller than my mere five foot nine inches. He was well built and had a thin mustache, like Errol Flynn. An unkempt shock of black hair ran across the top of his forehead, thinning slightly. I guessed him to be about forty years old. He wore a short sleeve khaki uniform not dissimilar from the one I had designed for myself. It was adorned with sliver lieutenant’s bars on each collar. A pang of regret went through me. I would never wear those bars, which I had so secretly coveted, while I was still in the Corps.
“Those screens shouldn’t be on those machines. The city crew screwed them on in order to recover change from the sand. I’ll bet they clear three or four hundred dollars a day that way.” He said the words with derision, as if culling the lost change from city sands was some sort of evil felony. I shook my head, not knowing what else to do in reply.

I had caught the inflection of his voice right away. There was something not right about it. By the time he finished talking about the beach machines I had fully pinpointed the oddness. The man had a lisp. A lisp so notable that homosexuality was instantly called into the social equation, at least to a former Marine like me.
“Morrison Myers,” he said, with a great infectious smile. He held out his huge right hand. I took it. We shook. There was no limpness in his grip, I noted,
to my relief.
“I was wondering when you’d stop by to visit. I’m second in command to the Chief here. He said we’d have to share the beach with you, although nobody seems to know exactly what you’re doing here.” He stopped talking, the smile remaining on his face, however, at least for a few seconds. We stared at one another for a few moments, until it became obvious that I wasn’t going to say anything.

“Let me guess,” he said. I tried not to allow any expression to come to my face when the word ‘guess’ came out ‘geth.’ I just waited. “You’re part of that new contingent out there,” he waved toward the South, and San Onofre Beach, with his left hand, although his eyes never left my face. “You have that Bronco everyone’s talking about, a new uniform and….nothing whatever to do.” The last four words had been delayed a good five seconds before he delivered them.
I laughed out loud.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” I asked, but did not wait for an answer.
“Nobody knows what I’m supposed to do, although everyone I run into seems to feel that I shouldn’t do anything that has anything to do with them or their operations. Not that they’ll say that, or much else.”
I had been surprised by the man’s penetrating intellect and the directness of his presentation. Gay or not gay, the man was the first person in uniform who seemed to have caught on to the fact that my role was more than just unusual.
No one had spoken to me so directly, except maybe Ehrlichman or Amy, since I had been appointed to be the San Clemente Beach Patrol.

We walked together slowly through the building, with Myers giving out information about all manner of Marine Safety equipment and space. I just listened, and tried to take it all in. We ended up in his office, he behind his desk, his back to the breaking waves visible through huge picture windows, and I sat in a chair facing him, enjoying the view.

Three men burst through the open office door. I turned to look at them. They were actually little more than very large boys, I noted. They wore red lifeguard swimsuits and matching “T” shirts, with the yellow SCLG initials emblazoned on their chests. ‘Rowdy’ was a word I would later use to describe them to Amy. Their immediate injection of loud boisterous laughter brought me out of my chair, to stand facing them. They ignored me completely, instead walking right up to the front of Myer’s desk and leaning forward. They laughed again. Myers stared at them with a deadpan expression, but did nothing about their noisy incursion. Two of the boys sat in the available chairs, one of which I had just vacated. They sprawled there.
“What’s the haps, Morri?” one of them said, then they all laughed again. Myer’s face grew red.

“It’s Lieutenant, to you,” he said, his voice menacing, but his lisp taking away any macho effect he attempted to transmit.
“Yeth thir, Lieutenant thir,” the largest boy, the one standing, said. His hand snapped up to perform a crooked salute when he said the words. He then stood at mock attention, his eyes staring straight out into the incoming waves.

I almost choked. I didn’t know whether to say something supporting the Lieutenant or laugh. It was a tragically funny scene. I recalled my own recent stint as a lieutenant in the Marine Corps. If three of my men had pulled such a stunt they would have first been humbled by a fifty mile forced march, and then led off to court martial.
The big lfeguard fell from a position of attention to one of relaxed indolence, half sitting on the front edge of the lieutenant’s desk. He turned to me.
“Who’s the Gestapo agent?” he asked, to no one in particular, then brought his attention back to Myers. He flicked his right thumb toward me.

I remained still, watching Myers. And then I was surprised. His anger somehow had turned off like a spigot of water. Instead of exploding physically at the guards, he became meek, to the point of smiling at them, as if they were merely children acting up.

“This is the officer attached to the Western White House Detail, out at Cotton’s Point.” Myers extended one hand out toward me, then left it hanging in the air, as if some fellowship or partnership existed between us. The gesture made me uncomfortable, but the outrageous behavior of the three guards held me to silence. The two sitting guards arose from their seats to stand by the larger of them. All of them were larger than me. I felt like I had fallen in among some association of lifeguard giants.

The three men stared at me, their expressions satirical, their smiles insincere.
No one said anything for a moment, until Myers spoke.

“These are some of my guards,” he said, gesturing toward the boys. “Billy Morrel, Charley Mac, and Joe Marion.” He pointed from one to the other as he spoke their names. I reached out my right hand toward the middle one, Charlie Mac. He took my hand. He pressed hard, but I had been half-prepared for such a move. I squeezed back, to hold my own, which I did. I had not worked out every day for three years for nothing. The hospital surgeries, and time, had effected my walk, not my grip. We stood there for thirty seconds before Charley
gave up. We both stepped back, our faces smiling but not our eyes.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Charley’s eyes flicked down to my badge, then back and forth to the shoulder patches on my short sleeve shirt.
“Looks like another of those little San Clemente cops to me….” he said, his voice trailing away, but his sinuous challenging tone was unmistakable. I did not know how to answer. It was like being cast way back to a school ground confrontation, except we were all grown men. My mind raced for a response.

Vietnam flashed into my mind. The images reared up, then raced before me. The dead. The dying. My responsibility. My lack of action. My over-reaction.
I shook my head, ever so slightly, to clear my head. Without being aware of it, I adjusted my body, drawing my right shoulder back, exposing only the left, less injured side of my torso toward them. I was unaware that my right hand had languidly moved up to gently clasp the handle of my .44 Magnum. My expression had gone totally blank. I had no message to transmit. I merely waited.

One of the guards read something into my lack of expression, and the unrevealing slight adjustments I had made. His aggressive expression changed to an open smile. He stepped between the other two boys.
“Ah, I’m Billy,” he said, then went on. “We’re just messing with you. Welcome to the lifeguard Headquarters.” I took his hand in mine, guardedly, but the handshake was real this time.

“Don’t mind Charlie here, he’s the smartest one of us all, and Joe here, well, he drinks too much, but he’s funny as hell and his dog makes up for all the rest.”

I looked around for a dog, but didn’t see one. The three guards then left as they had come in, laughing, punching one another, and bouncing off the walls.
I nodded at Myers, who nodded back. He turned away to look over at the base of the pier out of his side window. I knew I had been dismissed.

I sat outside in the Bronco with the engine running. I thought about what I had just experienced. What would I tell Amy? That the lifeguards were run by some strange giant of a lisping faggot, while the men he commanded might better be named Huey, Duey, and Luey? I drove back to the base of the pier, so as to be among more normal humans.

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"The Pirates of the Caribbean"

There is a ride at Disneyland called Pirates of the Caribbean. It is a gentle sort of roller coaster ride through some movie theme pirate sets. Cannons go off, the pirates are fake scary, and there is some good music and sound effect material. I mention the Disney ride simply to illustrate the vast gulf between real pirates and those we have been exposed to by the media, of late. The supposed Somalia pirates.

They do not exist. There are no Somalia pirates. Whatever those extortionists from that part of the world are, they are anything but pirates. You see, it just does not compute, at all. For one thing, there just is no way that some twenty-five foot skiff, powered by an old outboard motor, can overtake and claim a huge transport ship at sea. Out there, on the real ocean, the waves run pretty high, the wind is unpredictable, and the currents are ever present. The big transports do not run close in to the shore. Those skiffs we see on the television would not fare well at all out on the surface of the wide open ocean, much less be able to run at twenty or thirty knots to overtake the ships. Then, how do you, as the captain of a pirate vessel, transport your men from the skiff to the big high ship? I mean, if you can latch on to the giant metal monster, in the first place? It is all beyond improbable. So assume the obvious. The pirates are revenue gatherers and sharers. They have the crew, or other interests located wherever the ship is from, coming from or going to, already in their pocket. They take the ship without combat or loss or violence of any sort. They 'hold the crew and cargo' for ransom. They get the money and depart. Then they quietly split the cash among all the paid off sources. The crew is one of those sources.

That is the only way this new piracy can work. The only. Real pirates kill people. All over the place. Just like in the old days. The violence, not the theft, is what brought all the civilized countries in the world down on them. How do you take a ship at sea that refuses to be taken? You shoot the hell out of it, lose some of your own people, then kill the survivors because you are mad as hell at them for hurting you! That was the way it was, and that is the way it would have to be today. Without all the communication we have today, that is. Now the 'pirates' can reach out through telephonic or computer means and contact their 'victims' to negotiate a deal. It is all money shifting. Who ends up with the money, really, and who loses it? Find the answers to those questions and you will have your pirates. And, trust me, you will be really really surprised!

The captain of that vessel, by the way, the one taken a few weeks ago, just spoke to Congress. Listening to him was just great good entertainment and high humor. He supposedly, and without serious injury to himself, surrendered his shop to the pirates overwhelming force. Then, while he was still (apparently) free aboard, he offered himself up as a hostage so his crew could go free. What a crock!!! Like any self-respecting 'real' pirate is going to take that deal? Why would he? Absolutely no reason whatever. And this 'heroic' captain, he is in front of our Congress speaking about how to prevent such occurrences in the future! Here is an easy and quick partial solution: Don't hire him, or his crew!!!

The media is playing right along with the whole pirate mythology. They do not care about the truth anymore at all. They just want headlines. They want heroes, fake or otherwise. They plainly have no surviving ethical standards. That factor alone is why nobody wants to watch them or read the newspapers. The Pirates are a huge manufactured lie. The Swine Flu is a lie. Torture is a lie (oh, we did it all right, but we did real torture, not this watered down 'sleep deprivation,' 'hanky-over-the-nose' crap!). What is going to come our way over the next few weeks? We can always bring back one of those, and maybe improve on one of them, here and there. More likely, however, we will have some more giant lies to merely replace those.

I wrote of 'Dark Matter' and the Uncertainty Principal last week. I am working away toward discussing the real problem about all of this. If everything is fake, then nothing is real. If the roof is fake, then making believe you are not wet when it rains is absolutely required. If the food is fake, then you must work very hard to believe that you are full, and not hungry. If the heating is fake, then you must find a way to think that you are not cold. Or not. You can look up and see there is no roof. You can check your waistline and tell that you are emaciated. You can check around and note the frost covering everything about you. If you do those things, and only if you do those things, can you get to a point where you take action. If some external source, or group of sources, is constantly selling you on the idea that those fake things are real, and you are believing that, then it is very very hard to take any action.

We are being sold a package, about life itself, by the media we allowed, and encouraged, to be in all of our lives. We have to start paying attention to what we can truly perceive for ourselves. We must stop listening, reading and looking at that tube and believing. We have to find a way to get back to reality. Only then can we take rational action to do anything about anything. Our roads and bridges are crumbling. Our space program is a tottering disaster of a fake. Our airlines are barely airlines at all anymore. Our car industry is in shambles. Our factories are broken down and closing, those that are left. You know these things to be true. You drive the roads and bridges. You see the factories, or the shells they once occupied. You ride on the cramped crummy airplanes. Do you see that? Our culture has lost its feelings of bliss and hope. Do you feel that? We have become a nation of depressed souls living off pyschotropic drugs and sleep medications. Do you understand that?

We are at the point where we have come to understand that what we are being presented, almost everywhere, is fake and phony. But we do not yet see the truth. We are in the Twilight Zone, caught between those two things. We are depressed, and have lost hope, because we cannot understand what to do about any of it. Yet.

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San Clemente, Chapter VI "Riding For the Brand"

The heat of the mid-day sun required that the Bronco be made to move, for some air-circulation, if the windows were to be left down. If the windows were up, then the air-conditioning had to be running, but then outside sounds could not be heard. The solution was to keep the vehicle moving with the windows down. I drove very slowly up and down the beach of my responsibility, occasionally rolling on the beaches of Northern Camp Pendleton or South, up onto San Clemente State Park territory. The movement made me feel that I was actually doing something, other than riding around in a costume of my own design, inside a Bronco of the mythical San Clemente Beach Patrol.

The weeks rolled by, one bright sunny day passing on into the next. The evenings cool and invigorating, filled with the aroma of ocean water and the liveliness of fresh moving sea air. I rode the smooth and roughened sands of San Clemente's most abandoned beaches, the surf in certain areas breathtaking on good days, and deafening on huge days. I had come to an accommodation with both the lovers and the border-crossers. Other than the surfers, those comprised ninety per cent of the people I saw. The lovers I allowed to stay, and make love, as long as they did not complain about the presence of my vehicle in any way, or the presence of me and my binoculars. The mildest look of antagonism, however, assured them of a rapid escort to the borders of my beach area. The State Park closed at ten p.m. Camp Pendleton was off-limits at all times, and my area had no limits I had heard or read of. So it was my beach, the way I saw it, and I treated all who inhabited it accordingly, using my own rules. The aliens from Mexico were another matter. They never argued. I gave them a free pass through the area every time I found them attempting to creep North. I made them crouch low, along the surf line, and run. In my analysis of the compound security system I had discovered that weak link. The low level radar did not cover the area between the high sand berm and the water's edge. If the aliens could not understand, or disobeyed and went up onto the dry sand, where they could be instantly 'painted' by the radar, then I had no choice but to detain them and call for the Border Patrol.

And I hated that. The beyond poor, totally bedraggled Mexicans, were so pitiful that they pulled at my heart strings. And my observation of the brutal manner in which the Border Patrol took them into custody, and treated them, did not motivate me to cooperate at all, in that regard.

The first three weeks of my new work were mildly exciting. I had been 'boarded out' of the United States Marine Corps with zero percent disability, but with a designation of 'totally disabled.' That allowed them to dump me, but not pay me anything. I was given forms to submit to the V.A., which I threw in the wastebasket. I had heard enough stories of horror and woe about that organization. I liked the beach work, for the most part. I liked watching people have sex, right there in front of me, at all hours of the day and night. I liked the freedom of reporting in to no one. But I did not like going home to Amy's criticism. My claim, that I was guarding the President of the United States, only made her laugh out loud.

"You went through OCS, became a Marine Officer, were wounded in Vietnam, got all those medals, and you are happy being an unknow low-life security guard on the beach. What is wrong with you?" Her words had been hard, but not as hard as her tone. Somehow, she intrinsically knew that I wasn't even a guard, which bothered me even more. The P.D. would not allow me to do regular police work in the local community until I had gone through the academy at Rio Hondo. That class would not even start for months. One of the police-lieutenant's had even taken exception to my being allowed to carry a firearm. Chief Murray had over-ruled him, but then called me into his office.

"Do me a favor, son," the big man drawled, his ever-present cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth, "don't shoot anybody with that thing." The smoke from his cigarette trailed upward to curve out and over the brim of his doeskin cowboy hat. His old clear eyes peered out from under the edge of the brim. The eyes traveled down to the special split clam-shell holster I carried the Smith in, on my right hip. My hand went instinctively to it, my thumb caressing the snap at the top, which held it together.

"That is a regulation .38, isn't it," the Chief asked, softly. He swept his eyes up to mine. I nodded. My eyes were steady, but my brain was not. Even though I had paid for the weapon, or would pay for it, it was anything but regulation. I had learned plenty about ballistics, in Artillery School and in Vietnam. A .38 round would barely penetrate the front windshield of a modern automobile, much less go through its doors or its trunk. The .44, even with a four inch barrel, could send a hot-loaded, depleted-uranium round completely through a telephone pole. And it was almost impossible to distinguish between the .38 and the .44, when they were in the special holsters. It was a little fatter in girth. But if you took it out, and looked down the barrel, you felt like you were looking down the barrel of a cannon.

I could tell that Murray did not believe me. Our eyes held for a few seconds. The Chief looked away. "Yeah, whatever. Don't shoot anybody, anyway, whatever the hell it is." Those words were said with an edge to his voice. I assumed, correctly, that I was being dismissed, and headed for the door. I got into the Bronco and drove back to my beach. I backed the vehicle into some big rocks, then shut it off to think. I was working swing. The P.D. divided up every twenty-four hour period into three chunks. The day shift was from eight to four. The four to midnight was called swing, and the the midnight to eight was graveyard. I liked swing. A bit of day and night. As of yet, nobody seemed to care what I did, anyway. The pay was considerably more than I had received as a lieutenant in the Corps so the bills were being paid. I could get the money back from the U.S. Government for my gun and my other stuff, or so Murray had said. I just had nowhere, and nobody, to submit a bill to. Haldeman didn't seem like the kind of man to accept bills. I wondered, in my reverie, whether there were weapons inspections held at the P.D. My forehead creased at the thought.

"Beach Boy," came out of the radio speaker, jarring me from my thoughts. My hand darted to the Motorola microphone. "Forty-six-six-seventy-three," I replied, crisply and flatly, in my best policeman voice. My code was five numbers long, which was never explained, as the entire department only fielded twenty-seven officers. "What's your problem, forty-six-six-seventy-three?" came back from Scruggs. His tone did not indicate a question, more a bored
'what the hell is this crap' attitude.

"Beach Boy," came again through the speaker. I realized that it was the Secret Service speaker. I grabbed the other microphone, without bothering to answer Scruggs. "Yes, sir," I said, pushing down on the transmit button. There were no codes or numbers with the Secret Service. When I had asked them about that they had just looked at me, then ignored me.

"See the man," a deep male voice said. I replaced the mike, slowly back into its slot. I pushed the transmit button down once, before I let go of it. I had been taught that that was radio slang for "10-4." There was no answer or click back from it. I stared the Bronco then turned to move North. The only way to get back to the compound quickly was to go up through the State Park trail, then use the city surface streets. Once I got onto the streets, I took the Bronco up to its unsafe maximum of forty miles per hour. I careened toward La Casa Romantica.

The Marine had the sawhorse pulled aside as I arrived. He merely waved. My adrenalin went up. It was the first time I had not been required to show identification. I was not even asked to stop. I parked by the phony door leading through the wall, after working my way around an odd looking Lincoln Towncar. The top of the black Lincoln was festooned with antennas of every sort. I walked to it, using my hand to shade my eyes, and peered inside. I was amazed to see no radios or other electronics visible anywhere in its interior. I went to the door in the wall, tapped and was admitted. A group of men in suits stood talking together. One wore a cowboy hat. I recognized Murray. Next to him stood H.R., with Erlichman at his side. All three were being attentive to a fourth mean I did not recognize. He was a fattish man, wearing a blue suit, his face long, drawn and serious.

"Martin," Murray stated, using only my last name. I nodded at him but said nothing. He smiled back, his usual welcoming warm smile. I relaxed a bit, but held to Parade Rest once I stopped in front of the men.

"This is Henry Kissinger," Murray said, motioning with his right shoulder toward the stately man in the blue suit. The man looked down the hall, ignoring his presence, as did both H.R. and Erlichman. The three men whispered to one another, then laughed together.

"Take that limo, the one you passed when you came in, and drive Doctor Kissinger to El Torro Marine Base. Air Force Two is waiting on the tarmac. We'll all ride along to keep you company." I looked at the Chief strangely, but Murray only smiled back, then shrugged. Everyone turned and walked back toward the faux wooden door. I got into the driver's seat of the limo. The keys were in the ignition. I adjusted the mirrors, then checked to see that everyone was getting into the back. They were, except for Murray, who slipped into the front passenger seat. He had removed his hat, but his head still touched the lower surface of the interior liner. I turned the key. The Lincoln's engine caught immediately. I checked the mirrors to make sure all the doors were closed, and then pulled out onto the access road and headed toward the checkpoint. The Marine Guard was saluting when I went through, the sawhorse gone.

Once out on Interstate Five, I looked in the rearview mirror. There was no limo partition, I noted. There was no conversation in the automobile until I drove through San Juan Capistrano.

"What is he?" a deeply accented German voice said, from the rear seat area. "How can we speak in here?" it added. There was a silence. Murray reached his hand over and patted me on the shoulder. I glanced at him, then put my eyes back on the highway.

"This is the guy Mr. Haldeman hired. From that Marine Outfit. He doesn't talk, at least not about this stuff. He's cleared. Isn't that right sir?" Murray craned around to look back at Haldeman, but the man said nothing. I looked at the German in the rear view mirror, finally recognizing him. I had seen him on television before, at the White House, but I could not remember what his job was.

"Ich spreche nichts," I said, using the German for 'I don't know.' There was a complete silence in the vehicle for several seconds, then Murray started laughing.

"Sprechen sie Deutsch?" Kissinger asked me.

I answered in German, telling him that, indeed, I did.

""I'll be damned," H.R. said, which surprised me. Haldeman and Erlichman had both been described to me as being devout Christian Scientists who did not drink, swear or smoke. "I guess we get another bonus, huh, Doctor Kissinger?" Murray said. I looked in the rearview, once more. Kissinger stared at the back of my head, his expression, however, not one of welcome or warmth, but one of deep suspicion.

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 IV, "Beach Patrol"

Chief Murray shook my hand once again. I knew he was done with me, but I had more questions. I did not want to go home again with inadequate answers, much less no answers at all. "Where do I work?" I asked, standing at the open door. The Chief shrugged. "They don't talk much down there." He waived one hand in the general direction of the South end of town, when he said the words. "And a uniform?" I went on, but he just shook his head again. I looked at the man, who seemed so commanding and sure of himself, yet had no answers at all. "What about pay? How much does a Patrolman III earn?" But it was the same. He pointed South. I was going to have to get my information from La Casa Romantica, or whatever the hell they were calling it. I turned to leave.

"Here, you'll need these," he said, almost as an afterthought. A set of keys came at me, thrown from his left hand. I caught them before they hit the wall next to me. I examined them. They were Ford keys. Chief Murray walked over to the long narrow side window which looked out on the back parking lot of the station. He pointed at a sand colored vehicle. "You'll be using that." I followed his pointing finger. A Ford Bronco sat alone at the corner of the lot. It was a strange looking Bronco, however. It didn't have regular tires. Instead it had huge fat things at each corner. They stuck out a good six inches from the sides of the vehicle. The fenders had been rough cut to fit them. The flared parts that had been added were obviously cut from raw aluminum sheeting, then hung onto the remains of the regular fenders with little round rivets.

"She's brand spankin' new. Paid for by U.S. Government dollars. She's got duals, with three mufflers on each side. Silent as death in the sand. Got a three-oh-two V8 under the hood, and even air-conditioning. I'd give my left tit to own her myself." Murray stared at the vehicle he had so lovingly described. I looked at it. It was cool. There was no question about that. But it was also just a small truck. I wasn't in love with its appearance. I peered at the driver's side door. There was black lettering arced across it. "What's the San Clemente Beach Patrol?" I asked the Chief. "That's you," he said, grinning one of his engaging smiles, "and whoever wants to ride with you." I didn't understand what he meant by that, but I had bigger questions I had to get answered, and there was only one place I could ask them.

I went back out front where Scruggs operated the radios. I stood at the counter, as he finished some interaction with his desk microphone. "Come back here," he said, "you're an officer here. Out front is for our customers." He laughed after he said 'customers.' I presumed the word usage to be police humor. There were two doors to the back entry. I found them without help. Scruggs walked over to an ancient manual typewriter and sat down. He rolled a blank card into the machine, then typed letters onto it from a file next to him. I couldn't see what was in the file. Then he stopped. "What do you want to be?" he said, his hands poised over the keys. "Huh?" was all I could manage. "I mean, like, patrolman, beach patrol officer, reserve, special agent, or what? The Chief told me you'd know what to put in here." I looked at the little nome of a man, to see if I could detect more of his arcane sense of humor coming out, but I found none. "Ah, 'Reserve Patrolman' will be just fine. He typed. He pulled the finished card out. "I'll have the Chief sign it later. You can have it tomorrow morning." I shrugged. I walked out through the doors to the front of the building. As I exited the area before the counter I heard Scruggs yell. "Hey, welcome to the farce." I smiled back, then waved.

I drove the Volks around to the back lot. I got out, opened the Bronco with the keys Murray had given me. The Bronco was equipped with a Motorola police radio, full emergency light controls, and, ominously, a Remington twelve gauge pump shotgun. The gun was vertical, with its stock mounted down into the footwell on the passenger side. It was locked with a latch system. I looked at the lock. It took a tiny key. I checked the car key ring. There was a tiny key on the chain. I sighed. I was armed and dangerous once I got in the vehicle. But I didn't get in. I was wearing my Marine Officer Class A Green uniform. It just didn't seem right to drive the Bronco wearing it. I got back into the Volks, and headed for the South of town.

I entered the small road which led to the Cotton Estate gate. A full corporal was on duty, as opposed to the Lance Corporal of the day before. "Good Morning, Corporal, I said, easily, after rolling to a stop. I pulled out, then steadied, my new STAFF I.D. card. The Corporal took the card from my hand, then carefully read everything on it. I was impressed. "Thank you, sir," he finally said, handing the card back, then snapping off a crisp salute. I prepared to proceed, shifting the Volks into first gear, until I heard a horse whisper. The whisper said, "button your blouse before going in there, sir." I looked at the Corporal, but he stood as before, staring over the top of my car, still holding the salute. I frowned. The Marine was correct in fact, if not in etiquette. I followed his snide but wise direction and buttoned the front of my blouse up before proceeding.

"Two weeks, and a wake-up," I said to myself, as I eased down the road to park near the door that was not a real door. I knocked, as before. A Secret Service Agent, stood, as before, when the door had moved aside. He motioned with his head for me to proceed down the hall, the spring loaded wire leading up to his ear, stretching taut, then bouncing back when he had finished with the movement. My regulation leather heels made solid clicking sounds as I walked the surface of the Spanish-tiled hall. The great room was the same, except I noted two new tables set near the long row of windows, which faced toward the surf line. A man sat in each chair, facing out. Each had a hot steaming mug next to him. One was easy to identify from his hair color and cut. It was Haldeman. Neither man seemed to notice my presence. I stopped, waited, then walked next to Haldeman's table and stood there. They watched the surf. So I watched the surf. An offshore wind made the waves appear larger than they really were. The waves stood higher, and held their shape longer, because of it. White spume blew back from the edge of each wave, just before it folded over and broke. It was hypnotic to watch. A morning red sun behind the waves gave the scene a surreal 'moving scenery' kind of effect.

"This is Erlichman," H.R. said. "He handles domestic." Haldeman waved toward the man next to him, extending a small tea cup in the air. He held the cup by the lip, with thumb and index finger. I noted the full extension of his stiff little finger sticking out from the side of the cup. No Marine on earth would ever hold a cup in that manner, I knew, not, at least, where another Marine might see him.

"Lose the uniform," Erlichman said. I puzzled over the order for a moment, before responding. "Ah, what should I wear, then?" I asked, truly curious. "You can wear one of those khaki get-ups they wear around here, or go to a uniform shop and pick one out." Erlichman drank from his own tea cup when he was finished talking. I gaped. I did not know how to handle what I'd been told. I didn't even know what a uniform shop was, much less where it might be. I looked at the man, drinking his tea, and watching the surf line. He was as serious as H.R., I decided, but his long stringy black hair, seemingly unwashed and unkempt, gave him a disturbingly seedy appearance. I was uncomfortable with Haldeman, I realized suddenly, but I plainly did not like Erlichman.

"No, forget that," Erlichman suddenly said, turning to look at me. His eyes were dark and intense. I felt like he had instantly caught the distaste I felt for him. Caught it and didn't care. "You'll be Opcon to the local police here, so make yourself look like one of them. Do whatever they tell you to do when we're not telling you what to do." He stopped then, and began to laugh out loud. Haldeman joined in the laughter. I looked at both men. I didn't get the humor. I had been more comfortable with Scruggs basal humor, although I had not found it very funny either. While I waited, I remembered Amy's criticism of my poor inquisitor skills.

"What is it you want me to do?" I asked, after they had stopped laughing. Haldeman put his tea cup back onto its saucer with an audible 'clink.' He had fallen silent and contemplative again, watching the surf. I waited. "Until the Marines let you go, just show up every day," he said, then went on, "Check out the security system. Get to know and understand it. Get to know the people around here, except the Secret Service guys, they're not people. Get to know the beach. Arrest some aliens. They're all we get going by here. Look at some live sex. We get some of that too. Get familiar with all the procedures of the police agencies around here. Murray is sympatico." When he finished with the last, both he and Erlichman looked at one another, then nodded to one another. I felt dismissed, but I could not go home without having one other question answered. "Do I get paid? If I do, then how much?" There was another silence. "A thousand a month, I think," Erlichman said. "Check with somebody else. We don't get into those things." The two men began to talk to each other in low tones. I did not have to be told to leave.

A thousand a month was five hundred a month more than I made as a Marine Lieutenant. I didn't know about benefits, or anything further. But a thousand alone would guarantee me a little more access to the areas above Amy's darkened pantyhose line, and that made me smile. I walked back down the hallway with a Secret Service agent at my side. "What, exactly, is my job here?" I asked him. He shook his head. "i don't know. The Coast Guard station out back has some offices in it though. My boss is over there, and the head of the U.S. Marshalls. Check with them. I'm sure they'll want to know what you're up to." I went though the door, and out to my Volks. A lot of people seemed to be interested in what I was doing. I was interested in what I was doing. I just had no idea at all what it really was, or why.

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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.