“Who did this?” he asked.
“We don’t know yet,” I said. “I just got here.”
“Locals,” he said like he was chewing on one of those very healthy turds. His lips curled and he shook his head. He pulled his phone from his breast pocket. “This is destruction of property. Harassment of a business. This is actionable. I’m calling my lawyer. I’m going to sue the shit out of these people.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some human shit in these piles,” I muttered.
“This is bullshit!”
“Dog shit,” I muttered under my breath.
“Do these people really think this is going to stop me?”
“Judd, let’s not come in guns blazing,” I said. “We don’t need to make enemies. Let’s be calm and figure out a diplomatic way to handle this.”
“Do not tell me to calm down,” he said, already dialing. He held the phone to his ear and started pacing the sidewalk. “Dustin. Get me up to speed on what we can do about criminal mischief and harassment charges in a California coastal municipality. I’ll send you photos.” He snapped several with his free hand, the phone pressed to his ear, his face getting darker by the second.
I stood back and let him go. He wasn’t going to listen to me. Guys like Judd were used to people just getting out of the way. And when he didn’t get his way, he threw a tantrum.
“What’s it like inside?” I asked Pete.
“They didn’t go in.”
“I guess they weren’t interested in breaking and entering,” I said.
“Yet,” he replied.
Judd finished his call and turned to me. “This is your town,” he said. The emphasis made it clear that in this moment, the connection was not a compliment. He was blaming me. That wasn’t a surprise.
“I haven’t been here in four years,” I reminded him.
“You vouched for this location. You told me the community would come around once they saw the economic benefit. You told me there would be some noise but nothing serious.” He gestured at the building. “Does this look like nothing serious to you, Colt?”
“It’s seaweed and dog shit,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “It’s messy and it smells terrible, but it’s not structural damage. Shovel and a hose and it’s fine.”
“It’s a message,” he snapped. “And I don’t receive messages. I send them.”
I wasn’t sure why he was pissed at me.
“Get this cleaned up,” he said through the open window. “And get me names. Someone in this town knows who did this. I want names.”
He turned on his heel, yanked open the door of the sports car, and dropped into the driver’s seat. He hit the gas, squealing his tires as he went too fast down a street filled with tourists.
I watched the car disappear around the bend at the far end of Front Street. The two old men on the bench were looking at me. Not at the building. At me. The back of my neck was hot and it had nothing to do with the sun.
Judd was walking a fine line. I wasn’t one of his employees. I really didn’t appreciate his tone.
I turned back to Pete. “Know a crew that’ll handle the cleanup?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Add it to the bill,” I said.
“You know, people around here don’t like the idea of losing the tranquility of the place.”
“I see that.”
He nodded but said nothing. I realized we might have another problem. “Pete, are you quitting?”