Chapter 3: Culture


But not so fast. Just as the hippie wagon rolled by, so too did a sheriff's deputy. The officer wore sunglasses, a stone face and not much else. He lit up his flashers and pulled over the bus.

Must be some kind of parking-ticket push by the county, Jake figured, a gambit for jacking the county coffers on the backs of hot hippie broads and anyone else parked illegally or, in this case, with an improperly affixed surfboard.

Parked a safe distance away by the Bolinas Museum, Jake took a snort of Canadian Club from his secret hip tooter and watched the cop write his ticket. Jake thought it curious that the cop wasn't wearing any pants. His underwear was decorated with images of tiny colorful racecars. Jake had heard Bolinas was a live-and-let-live sort of place.

As Johnny Law was pocketing his pen, the lithe arm of the passenger reached out and handed him a bright-green piece of paper. The cop read it as the VW drove away, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into a garbage can, for two points.

Interesting, Jake thought. He didn't want to lose sight of the vehicle as it headed out of town, so he hurried to the trash and fished out the wad of paper. It was an old handbill for a show of some sort at a place called the HopMonk Tavern in Sebastopol. The show was from a couple months ago and featured a jazz singer who went by the name of "Lady Miss Molly."

Young Ms. Pemberton appears to live a pretty interesting life up here in the North Bay, Jake thought, then eased his car into gear. He followed the bus at a safe distance as he passed the Bolinas Lagoon.

"Nice up here," he thought. . . .

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