Page 113 - Just Deserts
P. 113

The Sirocco Lites 26K Run for the Money

          Caltrop regarded him through piercing blue eyes. From the waist
        up he looked like a surfer: muscular torso and arms, sunburned skin,
        long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.
          “Yeah, lots of things. This is a nice place, Mr. Holden. Thanks for
        inviting me.”
          “You’re  welcome.  I  don’t  think  I’ve  ever  seen  you  around  Isla
        View before, and I know most of the permanent residents.”
          “Oh, I live up the coast a few miles with some friends—near the
        old CCC reclamation camp.”
          Holden changed his tone; this was not a voter he had to worry
        about. “Right. I’ve driven past it a thousand times.”
          A waiter arrived, pencil poised above order pad. Holden quickly
        chose  a  mélange  of  ingredients  he  hoped  would  materialize  as  a
        familiar dish, and Caltrop ordered a double cheeseburger and fries.
        The afternoon sun broke through the marine fog layer, necessitating
        an adjustment of the table’s umbrella by the waiter before he left with
        the order.
          The  councilman  got  down  to  business  immediately,  rather  than
        fish for a mutually intelligible topic of conversation. “So, Mr. Caltrop:
        do  you  run—I  mean,  uh,  participate—in  the  Isla  View  marathon
        every year?”
          “Well, I’ve been in it four years in a row. Wouldn’t miss it for the
        world, actually. Gives me a focus for my training. Good to have a
        goal, isn’t it?”
          Holden had also been a regular attendee at the race—as an official,
        of course, not a runner. He found an image in his mind of the two
        dozen or so wheelchair racers who started the course well before the
        runners,  joggers  and  walkers  who  got  the  most  attention.  The
        stripped-down  wheelchairs  with  cambered  wheels  and  riders  in
        aviator goggles and leather vests whizzed past the reserved section
        like compact rolling bats out of hell, a black vision of hypertrophied
        necks and shoulders, bizarre tattoos and facial hair.
          “Goal? Ah, yes, indeed. Well, that’s what we’re here to talk about,
        really.  A  mutual  goal:  keeping  our  little  tourist  attraction  alive  and
        well.  You must be aware,  although you  do not live within the  city
        limits,  that  Isla  View  is  facing  the  cancellation  of  the  marathon.  I


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