Edited by Deep Blue C
*****
Jim Cravens stood in the motel doorway, breathing in the beach air, the salty tang waking him further from his sleep as he looked at his car parked just a few feet away, the morning mist dripping from the maroon paint. He debated whether to walk or drive to the diner down the street and mentally flipping a coin, decided that driving was better in the early morning foggy darkness.
He slid behind the wheel of his Malibu, locked the doors, checked his mirrors and backed away from the motel, listening to Ronny and the Daytonas sing about their GTO. Five minutes later, he pulled into the diner's parking lot and after parking far from the other two cars in the lot, slowly walked in, making sure his personal .45 automatic was hidden on his hip beneath his untucked green shirt.
The waitress, wearing a pink apron, took him several Formica tables down from the door and he sat down on the red bench seat.
Even though it was only 5:30 in the morning, he asked for iced tea while he read the menu before deciding on a waffle with two eggs over easy and hash browns.
As the waitress brought his drink over, he gave his order and then looked out the window to the mostly empty parking lot. It had been several years since he had traveled this far north from Los Angeles and he could see Morro Rock in the brightening distance, the fog starting to dissipate.
A light silver-blue Camry pulled into the lot and an elderly couple slowly moved into the diner, sitting at the next table over, the man leaning his cane against the booth. The waitress brought Jim's food and he put honey on his waffle, watching the butter melt into golden puddles that ran to the eggs. His attention was caught by two men that walked in, faces hidden behind pig masks, the gun in the taller one's hand waking him all the way. He slowly reached down and eased out his own, keeping it below the table, hoping that he wouldn't have to use it.
The waitress dropped the dishes she was carrying, the hash browns sliding across the floor and catching everyone's eye. The robbers moved closer, blocking Jim's view of the woman but seeing the gun move up and point in her direction.
"Give us the money, bitch."
The gun waved around, left to right and back again, then was aimed at the ceiling as two bullets tore into the plaster. Whether from nervousness or drugs, Jim didn't know but the willingness to fire the gun escalated the situation. The waitress was pushed toward the register, the robber now having his arm around her waist, the gun aimed at her head. She opened it and pulled out the paltry few dollars present, shakily giving the money over. The anger at such a small amount was evident as the robber pushed her down to the floor, aiming the gun at her.
Jim had seen enough, yelled "Hey!" and ducked as the robber aimed the gun at him and put a bullet through the window, glass shattering onto the table as the window collapsed. Jim quickly brought his automatic up and fired two shots, bringing both to the floor, the one with the gun dead with a bullet to the head, blood splattering over the wall, the other one hit in the stomach. Jim quickly walked over to the two, kicking the robber's gun away, then brought his cell phone out and called 9-1-1, giving the name of the diner and quickly explaining what had happened; five minutes later a police cruiser and then an ambulance arrived.
What had started out as a quiet morning had become a complicated mess. Identifying himself and showing his FBI credentials, he sat back down and finished his iced tea. The police had closed off the parking lot and the ambulance stayed after the second robber died from his wounds, the paramedics attending to the waitress.
"There's nothing you could have done, given what was happening," said the young officer. "I think these two boys had been sticking up several diners over the last month. You just saved us the cost of a trial."
Jim called the Los Angeles FBI office and explained what had happened, knowing that a mountain of paperwork would be waiting for him when he arrived back in LA. Vacation time was looking a lot like work.
An hour later, after following the young policeman to the station, Jim was giving his statement to the sergeant .
"You didn't identify yourself? You didn't know they were teenagers?" The officer stopped typing on his laptop and looked at the FBI agent.
"There wasn't time. I felt he was going to shoot her, so I just yelled at him and shot after he fired at me."
"I understand. It happens. Too bad it was a couple of boys." He put the document to the printer and after pulling out the papers, gave a copy to Jim to sign. "We'll call you if anything else comes up."
He thought about going back to the diner to get the rest of his breakfast but decided that it was probably closed for the day.
Returning to the motel, he plopped down on the bed and put his arm over his eyes, wishing the day had gone better for all involved. It was the worst vacation he had ever had.
A little over two hours later, he woke, wiping the sleep from his eyes. It was almost noon and he still hadn't had much to eat. After running his hands through his hair and then splashing some cool water on his face, he left the room and drove toward the beach to find somewhere to eat. Up ahead he saw the Galley Seafood Grill and decided to stop there. The restaurant was quickly filling up and he felt lucky to get a table with only a few minutes wait. Looking over the menu, he decided to have the salmon.
A half-hour later, he was done with lunch and thought he would return to Los Angeles, his vacation having lost its appeal. Although he had shot and killed several lawbreakers before, this time it felt different. He didn't know why, just that it did. Maybe it was the age of the two or the uselessness of it all. At times, this time in particular, he felt he was trying to stem the tide with just a small bucket and he was tired.
A short while later, he was driving south on the 101 coast highway headed back to LA and later that evening, reached home in Hawthorne. He had inherited the house from his parents, along with two classic muscle cars. They had been killed in a car accident, a wrong-way driver hitting them head-on the Fourth of July weekend a few years earlier. The emptiness of their loss still hurt him deeply and he kept to himself, not seeking any companionship since the accident. Between the house, the lawsuit and the insurance, he was well off enough that he didn't need to work if he didn't want to.
Maybe it was time to change his life and try something different.
The next morning he was at his old Catholic high school, talking to the principal about getting a teaching position. As luck would have it, two positions were opening up, one due to retirement and the other due to a coming baby. His biology degree allowed him to move in without too much trouble, just a short summer to come up to speed with the advancements made over the last fifteen years and the promise to get a Master's degree in an appropriate field.
Now, the hard part, turning in his termination papers with the FBI downtown.
*****
"You're kidding! You can't quit, we need you here." His boss was upset, more so than Jim had expected.
"I'm sorry, but I've had it. Sometimes I feel like it's just a futile business. It's time for me to go." Filling out the paperwork took several hours, complicated by the shooting in Morro Bay, and he turned in his badge, service weapon and credentials, keeping his automatic, his personal weapon. He looked one last time at the office and walked out.
He drove over to Loyola Marymount University near the beach and signed up to audit a general biology course to refresh his knowledge and then went to the high school to fill out the remaining paperwork. He was given the keys to the lab and went in to see what changes he wanted to make. The first thing he wanted to do, he knew, was to bring in some large aquarium displays, something the lab lacked. After checking the storeroom, he saw what he needed to do and then headed to the local pet store to order five large 60 gallon aquariums. This was going to be fun, he thought.
That night, he went online to get a California Scientific Collector Permit which would allow him to go to the beach and collect specimens for the lab.
