San Diego Noir

lives there now in a two-bedroom condo by the bay that would cost a fortune, your soul, and your first-born child today, but was a steal back in the late ’60s. His eight-year-old daughter Summer lives with him there every June and every other weekend. He knows the best place to get a burger, the best place for Mexican, the best coffee of all blends. Hell, he even knows a great little Greek cafe called Kojak’s that plays Creedence Clearwater Revival on the juke box. He knows that the best place to get fish-and-chips is at this little joint by the harbor where he keeps the small tuna fishing boat he inherited from his dad who was in that line of work for over thirty years. He knows every single lifeguard by name and has dated most of the daughters of the aging owners of the small convenience stores and restaurants that have been around forever. He knows the ecosystem of the neighborhood, that the best dirt comes from the storekeepers, the bartenders, the guys in the restaurant kitchens, the security at the Sound Wave, a popular club that has live bands at night. He knows that the carnies at the fair games at Belmont Park see and hear everything. They all make the wheels turn in Mission Beach, not the landlords and rich people who rarely even come down here. This is where he eats. Where he sleeps. His comfort. His solace. His home. It’s easy as pie to use that ecosystem to find Teddy’s latest featureless white condo and safehouse, and that’s where he is now, looking for clues.

He’s been doing this a long time and knows how to search. He’s not inside the condo because breaking in could get him arrested, but it’s fair play if Teddy’s trash is on the sidewalk ready to get picked up. Of course, Teddy has slipped the noose again and isn’t there, but after some disgusting digging that only makes Moses angrier at Teddy, he finds a scrap of paper that says, Go see Legacy.

SECOND PROTOCOL: TRACK WHAT THEY DO

Brandon “Legacy” Penter is that kid every big city has who you just hate. Tall and athletic with spiky brown hair with blond tips and an I-just-got-away-with-something grin. He’s the son of a former San Diego lawyer turned judge, his mother a real estate mogul, his brother a councilman, and his uncle is CIA. Legacy is a junior at USD where his entire family went and is part of a snooty frat. Legacy is so dumb that he wouldn’t be able to find a seashell on the beach he lives twenty feet from. Daddy has to pay off the right people so he can pull off Gentleman’s Cs. If San Diego has royalty, the Penters are it, living in their mansion at the top of the very exclusive Soledad Mountain in La Jolla.

Moses goes to Mission Boulevard, the heart of Mission Beach.

In Mission Beach, every foot of space counts and is bitterly fought for and protected. Five surf shops, four bars, a handful of restaurants, a resort hotel, a Turkish-style coffee house, and a small amusement park named Belmont Park with the last wooden roller coaster in California are packed in tight here, wedged in and amongst the beachside homes. At North Jetty Road, the southwestern cap of Mission Beach, there is a well-known localsonly spot where Moses surfs with a group of middle-aged professionals called the Gentleman’s Hour; at the north end is the Catamaran Hotel, a ritzy vacation spot with suites costing up to eight hundred bucks a night and worth every penny. Compared to its sisters Pacific Beach and Ocean Beach, Mission Beach is a baby in age and much smaller than both.

Pacific Beach is losing to gentrification and crime spurred by alcohol, and Ocean Beach tries way too hard to be funky and pretend it’s still 1975. Hanging on to a true beach-town feel amid the commercialism of the age is no easy task for those who live there, but Mission Beach keeps it real. Fourteen streets and forty-six walkways cross Mission Boulevard, emptying out onto the brown mud banks of the bay on the east and the sand of the Pacific Ocean on the west. Delicious views of blue sky peek out from between the rows of homes; clouds pass slowly overhead. Here, boxy stucco houses with neatly manicured lawns sit next to fading wooden shacks whose gardens sprawl on their small front yards like they don’t have a care in the world. Towels sway lazily on clotheslines; wet suits hang over balcony rails to dry; surfboards lie piled on porches and on top of cars and in garages, still wet and slippery from morning sessions. Paint has peeled, facades dulled, and cars rusted, but this only adds to the funk of the place. Neighbors gather on the sidewalk to talk about the weather. For a city where the sun shines three hundred days a year, its citizens are obsessed with the weather and act betrayed and more than a little scared when it’s cloudy or, God forbid, raining. Moses doesn’t judge, he’s had his share of weather conversations.

Several people can be seen walking their dogs. People nod and wave at each other from the windows of cars. Surfers wax and hose their boards, talking story about the mythical perfect wave, and the height and ferocity of the wave gets bigger the more they drink. Shop owners linger outside storefronts, smoking and chatting and watching the street traffic. Restaurants don’t dare have dress codes (No shirts, no shoes? You can come in!) and more often than not have outdoor seating. Beach-front condos have every variety of life. You can see what looks like an MTV beach party on one patio, next to a group of retirees drinking red wine while enjoying their golden years, and a happy middle-aged gay couple holding hands as they absorb the sunset.

Houses face the streets and walkways, few blocked from view by trees or hedges, which gives the area a casual and friendly look. A puppy eager to please. Street performers like jugglers or reggae bands do their thing on the boardwalk. The whoosh! of the Giant Dipper roller coaster can be heard every few minutes and Moses remembers the huge block party thrown when it was reopened in 1990. If you didn’t know the locals, very few appeared to have a care in the world; for Moses, it’s everything a beach town should be and the fact that scum like Teddy and Legacy infect it makes him sick.

Legacy lives with some other trust-fund California kids in a nice stucco house and when Moses gets there, he finds the guy washing down his obnoxious yellow humvee with Creed blasting on the stereo. The awful, crime- against-humanity music only worsens Moses’s month.

“Hey, Legacy. You and I need to have a Come to Jesus meeting. You free?” Moses turns off the stereo; Legacy is lucky he doesn’t hurl it into the ocean.

Before Legacy can run into the house and lock the door, Moses has him by the neck. Moses is a big guy, 6'2” and 220 pounds, who was an all-state quarterback at Mission Bay High, and worst of all, he’s black, which, like, terrifies entitled assholes like Legacy. He has him backed up to his car with nowhere to run.

“C’mon, man! I didn’t do anything? Why you aggro?” Legacy whines. Moses doesn’t know what aggro means, but he’s guessing something like upset. Moses is fairly upset.

“Theodore Bear. You know him.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name!” Legacy tries to get by, but Moses pushes him back against the car.

“Legacy? I can smell bullshit from the next county.”

“I’m gonna call my dad!” Legacy screeches. It’s a good threat. Moses’s career is stalled because he pissed off Legacy’s dad by hassling him back when he was a powerful downtown lawyer and partner at the prestigious Burke, Spitz, and Culver law firm.

Moses doesn’t really care now though. He slams Legacy against the car again.

“Oww! Dude! Fine! I see the guy every now and then, sell him some X or weed.”