Black Rebel Motorcycle Club played from the Blauplunkts in the back. Later I could flip to news updates from London, Karachi, or suburban Mars. I’d slept at the zendo, sat morning zazen, and driven Duffy to the beach for a run. Ocean Beach is only a few blocks from Mom’s house, but Duffy loves to stand on the fine leather seat and peer appraisingly out the window like a right-seat driver. Another owner would blow a gasket at the thought of twenty sharp paw nails scratching across the pale tan leather; another owner would toss Duffy and me onto the street. But likeability is Gary’s forte: it’s not just that he can sway a jury to his side, but that his client and opposing counsel, expecting him to own the courtroom, make their decisions accordingly. In Duffy’s case, a seat cover was all it took for my brother to control the outcome. It was mid-afternoon before I got out of the city. The Ceskos’ town, Star Pine, was three or so hours up I-5. Gary’s warning about trees had not only been a jab about the embarrassing phobia that had dogged me since childhood—though I’d pretty nearly licked it—but his comment could hardly have been more unnecessary: I-5 runs from San Diego to Redding without a leaf to block the sun.
