I pulled out onto Manhattan Beach Boulevard and headed west toward the beach, eventually turning off and pulling up in front of my house. As I pulled into the garage, I saw Rowan waiting for me in her van in the driveway. Rowan was an ace mechanic I had helped early on, and she had taken on the responsibility of keeping my vehicles running smoothly since then. She had been instrumental in helping me get my Sting Ray restored to its original condition and keeping it running. I chuckled at the memory of the horrified look on her face when I had once suggested running unleaded gas in it. I then got a stern lecture on how doing something like that would ruin the engine and how converting it to run with unleaded gas would kill its performance, so I never brought it up again.
I got out of my car, grabbed my bag, and walked out to meet Rowan. She was already out of her van and unloading her tools. From the look on her face, I could tell she was eager to get at my Sting Ray. Rowan was nearly my height, with her dark hair in a rakish pixie cut and expressive brown eyes that easily conveyed her emotions. As she approached me, she said, “It’s time for a tune-up, Ray.”
I handed Rowan the keys to the car and said, “Have fun.” From the look on her face, I could tell my comment was unnecessary, so I added, “Can you look at my bike while you’re here?”
I loved my bike, but it was quite finicky, spending more time in pieces than on the road. I knew Rowan hated it, and she immediately confirmed that by frowning before she said, “Ray, you really need to get rid of that piece of crap and get a real bike.”
Rowan rode a 1981 FLHS 1340 Electra Glide Harley and considered anything else unworthy of being called a motorcycle. My bike was a 1980 BMW R100RT which placed it even lower than pond scum in her eyes, but she worked on it for me so she could get her hands on my Sting Ray. I turned and headed into the house, throwing over my shoulder, “Maybe I will someday.”
“Jo said she’d be over this evening,” Rowan said as I unlocked the door to the house and disabled the alarm. I had figured Jo had called Rowan to tell her I was coming home today, so I wasn’t surprised that she had invited herself over tonight. Jo, like Rowan, had been one of my early cases, and ever since then, she had become my ‘Girl Friday’ and a ‘friend with benefits.’
After entering the house, I went to my office and powered up my computer. While I waited for it to come up, I turned on the answering machine and called the LA Times to reinstate my personal ad in the Classifieds. It was a simple ad:
“1966 Sting Ray available for barter. Serious inquiries only. 310-545-4795”
I had put the word on the street that if you saw that ad in the newspaper, you could call it if you needed help. I also got a number of calls from people who took the ad at face value, so I needed the answering machine to help me winnow them out. It also helped because I didn’t have to wait by the phone to answer it. Sometimes, it would be weeks before I got a call for help, and sometimes, it would only be days before getting a call. Most times, it was a problem that I could easily take care of, and occasionally, it would be more difficult. Only once did I get a call that I couldn’t help with, and I directed them to the proper authorities for their problem.
When I hung up the phone, the computer was up and running. I used it to keep track of my clients, having built up a database of their skills and resources that I could tap into at a future time. I sat down and entered Marsha’s information, hoping it would come in handy sometime in the future before moving Dr. Khoury to ‘Retired’ status. My database was substantial; I’ve helped many clients over the years since I came out here in 1975. It made me happy to know that I’d been able to help them out of what seemed like hopeless situations at the time.
Once I finished that, I went through the mail, mostly junk that went straight into the waste basket. Then I opened the lap drawer of my desk and went through the picture postcards stored there. I pulled out one that showed a view of Los Angeles from the Griffith Observatory in daylight. I admired the picture for a moment before turning it over, writing a message before addressing it, and putting a stamp on it. I went out to the mailbox beside my front door and put it in before raising the red flag to let the postman know there was outgoing mail.
With that done, I unpacked before changing into jean shorts and a tank top. I went out to see how Rowan was doing. I found her under the hood of my Sting Ray, and I admired the view of her ass and how it moved as she worked under the hood. Unlike Jo, Rowan was not a ‘Friend with Benefits.’ We were too much alike, both tops, to make a go at a relationship even if we had wanted to, but that left us being good friends with similar interests in cars and riding bikes. I chuckled at the thought that Jo had the hots for Rowan, but Rowan wasn’t interested, preferring petite redheads. After a beat, I moved around to the other side of the car and asked, “How’s it look?”
Rowan paused, looked up at me, and said, “I’m just about done. Everything looked good, but I went ahead and replaced the sparkplugs and adjusted the timing belt. The fluids are all good, and as soon as I replace the air filter, you’re good to go.” That said, she finished taking the wing nut off the carburetor cover, lifting it off, and exposing the air filter.
I watched quietly as Rowan quickly swapped out the filter and put the carburetor cover back on. She straightened up, a satisfied look on her face, and said, “There. Good to go.” She carefully wiped everything off before lowering the hood, ensuring it was secure. I saw how she treated the Sting Ray like her baby and understood how she felt. We shared a look of pride before she stepped back and started gathering up her tools. Then she looked over at my bike with a look of resignation and headed toward it.
I had to laugh at the look on Rowan’s face, making her grimace in acknowledgment of how she felt about working on it. At least this time, it was all put together since it hadn’t broken down since the last time she had worked on it. Like my Sting Ray, it responded quickly and handled nicely when going through the curves while cruising up or down the PCH. It was a shame that it was prone to mechanical problems that often kept it in my garage.
I decided to let Rowan suffer in peace and headed back inside. I entered the living room and turned on the TV to watch the news. I opened the LA Times and went to the Local section to check out what was happening in the Beach Cities area. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. However, you could find some hidden gems occasionally that could be helpful in future cases.
A lot of the news was about the upcoming visit to LA by Pope John Paul II in September. This would be the first visit by a pontiff of the Church to the West Coast and his second visit to the US. I knew many of my Catholic friends were looking forward to it. I was conflicted since my lifestyle was condemned by the Church, making me feel like an outsider looking in. What kept me from turning away from the Church entirely were the few priests who tolerated my lifestyle even though they couldn’t acknowledge it publicly.