I arrived in this shitty town on Saturday and by Tuesday I was so f**king bored I couldn’t stand it. For the first few days I spent mornings in the library and the nights drinking alone in my room. Now I’ve decided exercise might help pass the time. Breathing in the California air, I think that it couldn’t be any more different from the air in Australia. Thunder rumbles overhead and I watch as everyone scurries for cover. The rain comes down harder and blurs my vision. Flickers of lightning brighten the quickly darkening sky. I glance up to watch the flashes and notice a neon red sign that reads Beck’s.

Cutting short my run, I slip inside what looks from the outside to be a small hole-in-the-wall. But it’s actually pretty big inside. There’s a jukebox in one corner. A few booths line the wall to my right and a bunch of tables are scattered through the room. What really draws my attention is the giant bar. It’s shaped like an L and behind each side sits a wall of beer taps. There must be almost a hundred different brands.

Shaking the water from my head I make my way to one of the stools. The guy behind the counter is intent on his laptop screen but he closes it as I approach the bar. He stands and rounds the corner. “What can I get you?”

“Whatever you have to take the boredom away.”

He smirks. “If I had the cure for that I’d be out of the bar business, but rich as hell.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, probably. I’ll have a beer.” I turn to check out the wall behind him. “Fosters.”

“Paying tribute to the Aussies?”

“Something like that.”

He extends his hand. “I’m Beck Cavanaugh.”

“Ben,” I say extending mine. “This place yours then?”

He grabs a mug. “My Dad’s. I’m helping him out. Well more like I’ve taken over for him temporarily.”

“He sick?”

He tips the glass and fills it. When he turns around he says, “Something like that. What about you. What do you do?”

Just as I’m about to sip my beer, my cell phone rings. I pull it out and glance at the screen before saying, “Excuse me.”

He nods and flips his computer around to return to it.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Ben, this is Agent Bass. We’d like you to come in tomorrow morning to discuss your upcoming trial testimony.”

“Sure. I wondered when you’d be calling. What time?”

“Nine. I’ll send a car.”

I laugh. “Are you tailing me?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“How do you know I don’t have any means of transportation?”

She dismisses my question. “A car will be in front of your hotel at nine. I’ll explain what I can at that time.”

I sip my beer. “Okay then.” I guess she knows where I’m staying as well.

She disconnects and I just stare at the foam settling inside my mug.

“Another?” Beck asks.

I put my hand out. “No, I’m good. So what is it you’re doing over there?” I nod my head toward his computer.

“You know anything about social media and apps?”

I grin. “I know about them, yes. Do I have a Facebook or a Twitter? No.”

“Cool. You’d make an excellent beta tester then.”

I look quizzically at him as he grabs his computer and rounds the bar to sit next to me. He spends the next hour showing me an app he’s developing to combine all forms of social media into one easy-to-use program. It’s rather impressive.

As the work day ends and customers start to enter the bar, I decide to head out. I need to get my thoughts together . . . prepare myself to think clearly for tomorrow. I thought I had accomplished that while I was in Australia but this week I let my sharpened mind wander. I say my goodbyes and exit the bar.

When I come to the door, I stick my earbuds in, step out into the rain, and think about the case. Two of the heads of the Mexican drug cartel I’d investigated were arrested last October but there were always believed to be five people running the operation. Well, really, ever since Caleb presented the information to me I thought one guy was at the helm and the other four followed his lead—but I could never prove it. The fifth guy was actually the cleanest. Of course I uncovered a lot about the operation because Caleb gave me a lead that no other reporters had.

And what I uncovered was an enormous setup of drug runners selling methamphetamines, cocaine, heroin, and more. I always feel uneasy when I think back to what my initial investigation led me to—drops, people, routes, banking info, and other data I never even had a chance to dissect. Facts I had stupidly kept track of even after killing the story. Details responsible for the assault on Dahl. Information I gladly handed over to Caleb before I left for Australia. Fuck . . . why am I still involved in this thing? What am I missing?

***

The next morning I glance at my watch, a cheap Timex I bought off a street vendor in Times Square while I lived in New York City. Eight forty-five a.m. I make a mental note to go through the boxes in my mother’s attic when I go back to Laguna to see if my Nixon is in one of them. I was wearing it the day I “died” but I wasn’t allowed to keep it. All of my personal belongings were given to my mother. Serena bought me that watch for my twenty-first birthday because she knew I’d appreciate the tide watch dial.

A black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulls up to the curb and the door opens. Without a word from the man in a suit, white dress shirt, and tie, I hop in. We ride in silence to the white high-rise building on 11000 Wilshire Blvd. He pulls the car over, hops out again, and opens my door, motioning for me to get out. As soon as my feet hit the pavement another dude dressed just like the driver approaches me.