Blue Twilight by Jessica Speart Page B

promptly devoured them and she returned with our bill. I wondered if it was a requirement to wear over-sized camo pants, a tight T-shirt, no bra, and a belly-button ring to work in this place. A quick glance at the other waitresses revealed that it was her own bad fashion sense.
    I immediately caught myself and wondered if I would have had a similar reaction just ten years ago. Then a worse thought hit me. It was a knee-jerk response to the fact that I was getting older. Terri’s gaze met mine and I knew he was thinking the exact same thing. We nodded in silent agreement, as if secretly vowing to buy identical outfits and make ourselves wear them at home in order to feel younger.
    “Keep the change,” I said, giving the waitress a hefty tip as a form of penance. “By the way, do you happen to know where Bill Trepler lives?”
    Our Lady of Camo wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. “That old coot?” He lives at the end of town near Portuguese Flats. But I don’t know why you’d want to go see him.”
    “Oh? Is there a problem I should know about?”
    “Only that he’s one of the most unpleasant people ever to walk the face of this earth. That is unless you have a soft spot for right-wing, obnoxious jerks. Then it’s a whole different story. I guess it pretty much depends on which side of the issue you fall.”
    “What issue is that?” I questioned.
    “About turning this area into a developer’s wet dream,” she said, nonchalantly scratching her breast. “If Trepler had his way, every inch of Mendocino would be built up and changed for the worst. You’re not here to see him about anything like that, are you?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
    For chrissakes, I might be a few years older than Our Lady of Camo. But no way did I look like some sort of conservative businesswoman. I took a quick gander at my jeans and sneakers just to make certain.
    “No. It involves something totally different,” I assured her.
    “In that case, his place is easy to find. It’s the one with the mountain lion skull over the door.”
    “The guy sounds like a real charmer,” Terri remarked, as we left the restaurant and walked downstairs. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hang around town and let you see Trepler on your own. I spotted a few shops I’d like to check out.”
    “That’s fine,” I agreed, figuring he had the better end of the deal. “What say we meet inside that place around three o’clock?” I pointed to an art gallery just down the street from where we were parked.
    “Sounds good to me. Break a leg, sweetie. Just remember, don’t think twice about slapping him around with some of those fancy moves you’ve learned if he tries anything funny.”
    I promised to do my best, jumped in the Ford, and took off.
    I drove toward the opposite end of town, taking note of all the expensive restaurants and boutiques that were scattered about. Each was quaint enough to make me wonder if Martha Stewart had been set loose in the place. Mendocino was proving to be an interesting mix of hippies, rednecks, and yuppies, with a large dollop of tourism rolled in.
    Turning my head, I looked across the street toward the bluffs and, for one crystalline moment, my heart came to a stop. Striding along the cliffs was a large, imposing figure.The man seemed to have the same startling effect on a few adventurous tourists, who quickly scurried out of his way.
    Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he towered close to six feet five and wore duck boots, carpenter jeans, and an army surplus jacket. Slapped on his head was a navy knit cap, even though it was a warm June day. Long salt-and-pepper dreadlocks hung out beneath, their braids as dark and dense as the links on a ship’s anchor chain. They matched the crinkly dun-colored hairs of his shaggy beard.
    I could almost feel the vibration that came with each step he took, as though the earth were slightly giving way beneath his feet. A worn canvas bag and thick walking stick