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“This is the place,” I said, standing outside of what appeared to be a run-down surf shop called Hardshells.
Millie stood next to me, arms crossed over her chest, frowning around. “I don’t get it,” she said. “He lives here? I mean, San Fran’s expensive as heck, so maybe he’s working for Desmond.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, glancing at my phone. “Jack said he worked at this address.” I pointed at the shop.
She squinted and let out a laugh. “Maybe he owns it.”
“Let’s go find out.” I pushed open the dark orange door with peeling paint set into the corner of the building. Inside smelled like leather polish and musky cologne. Clothes were hung up along the walls, and the decor was mostly light-colored woods and mid-century modern sleek shelving units. Surf boards were staked in long rows, and several pictures of guys hitting the waves were hung and framed all over.
The place was empty. The cash register sat unguarded to our left. I took a step inside and the floorboards creaked. One table nearby was half covered in folded t-shirts, each of them faded, and half covered in what looked like old radios that were taken apart and left broken down. It was like a workshop vomited all over a Gap outlet.
Millie gave me a look and started browsing. I tried to picture Desmond coming into a place like this, and couldn’t. He was a buttoned-up kind of guy back then, and his favorite hobbies involved roleplaying games and text adventure simulators. He was the sort of guy that pined for the old internet of the 90s, even though he’d been too young to really experience it.
“Hello?” I called out. “Kirk Stowe?” I peered around the displays and found another table covered in junk: broken skateboards, a pair of rollerblades missing their wheels.
There was a noise in the back, then a door at the far side of the shop opened. A man stepped out wearing a white linen button down, sleeves rolled up, with jeans stained in several spots with black oil. He had long, dirty-blond hair pulled back in a messy bun, and deeply tanned skin.
It was him, all right. He’d aged, and not necessarily gracefully, but he was still thin, and though there were more lines around his eyes, and his hands worked at the hem of his shirt almost nervously, I could still see the young guy that used to hang around, looking up to Desmond like a younger brother, a wizard with a soldering iron.
“Can I help—“ he started, but then stopped himself and gaped. I smiled a little and held up a hand.
“I come in peace,” I said.
“Holy shit, Rees.” He took a step closer. I thought he might bolt—there was a look of surprise, but also of panic. But he surprised me, came forward, and gave me a hug.
Which I hated, of course. The bastard had always been way too physical. I caught Millie grinning out of the corner of my eye.
“It’s good to see you, dude,” Kirk said. “Holy shit, brother, what’s it been? Ten years? My god, you got old as fuck.”
“You did too,” I said, extricating myself from his embrace. “But you look good.”
“Hey man, living the dream, you know?” He laughed and slapped his hand down on a board next to him. It rattled against the others in its stack. “Can you imagine me out here, man? Last you saw, I was some hardware monkey, you now? Crawling around fixing computer. Did I ever tell you that I lost feeling in the tip of my left index finger from getting shocked so much?”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
He laughed and draped an arm around my shoulder. I regretted doing this.
“What can I do for you, man? You in town or something?”
“Something like that,” I said, and he steered me over to the cash register. He went behind the counter, mercifully letting me go, and stooped down to grab a bottle of vodka and two little glasses.
He poured drinks, held up his glass, and threw it back. Millie walked over, and I took my shot, more out of politeness than anything else. It was cheap and burned all the way down.
“Who’s this?” he asked, nodding at Millie.
“Kirk, this is my assistant Millie,” I said. “And Millie, this is an old friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, giving him a very good smile. They shook hands and he held up the bottle.
“You want one?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Your loss.” He poured himself a drink, offered me one, which I declined. He shrugged, drank, poured another, but sipped that one. I got a sudden and intense image of his life for the last decade: living out in San Fran, barely making ends meet in this rundown surf shop, drinking his days away, single and managing to survive, but not thriving. I wondered how Des fit into all this, but decided to take it slow.
