The statue is based on the iconic photograph V-J Day in Times Square, which captured the sailor kissing the nurse. It was originally installed in Sarasota, Florida, but some San Diegans had to have one, too. Others did not. As they argued, private donors and city boosters ponied up a million dollars, bought another Unconditional Surrender statue, and installed it here on the waterfront.
Where it now loomed before us, immense and boldly lit. Twenty-five feet high. Bronze, but painted to resemble skin and clothing. An average human adult is roughly the length of one of the nurse’s shoes, and comes to about the middle of the nurse’s calf. The closer you get to it, the more vertigo-inducing and weirdly monstrous it is.
All of which was arguable to the scores of people milling beneath the sculpture — posing for pictures alone and together, trying to re-create the postures of the kissing couple — laughing and snacking and drinking as they ambled or stood or sat on concrete benches, craning their necks.
We worked our way to the edge of the mall in which the statue stood. The Midway presided to the north, the downtown hotels and offices sprouted densely to the east, and to the west I could see the twinkling necklace of Coronado on the black water of the harbor.
Ali carried his briefcase to an open bench and sat, facing Unconditional Surrender and the Midway. With his trim suit and briefcase, he looked out of place here among the tourists. Uptight and somehow false. All the easier for Caliphornia to spot. And to doubt?
Across the mall, Taucher stood with her back to the statue, taking or faking phone pictures of the aircraft carrier. Her apparent companion, O’Hora, waited not far from her with a convincing air of boredom.
From the Embarcadero, homeless Lark wandered toward Unconditional Surrender as if he’d walked all the way from Balboa Park.
But no Caliphornia.
I stood just off the Tuna Lane sidewalk, a hundred feet away from Hassan on his bench. Tuna Lane curved one-way past the statue and the waterfront restaurants, then back out to North Harbor. One side was bordered by diagonal paid-parking spots, much coveted during the holidays. Cars pulling in and cars pulling out, cars waiting, patience required. I scanned them, hoping that simple good luck would bring Caliphornia’s gray SUV into focus. I wondered if he’d switched vehicles for this meeting. Did Kalima have a car?
Turning away, I saw Lark, already ambling down the sidewalk along Tuna Way toward us.
Then:
CAL 5:58 P.M.
Leave the briefcase. Go back to your car.
HASSAN 5:59 P.M.
I was hoping to discuss our future. We need good warriors and we pay them well.
CAL 5:59 P.M.
Another time.
Text to the team:
BLEVINS 6:00 P.M.
(619) 555-5555
Ali and Ford leave case and clear toward Midway NOW. Keep going. Others, close only when subject has possession of case and BEGINS exit. O’Hora and Lark CONTACT. Taucher and Smith COVER. Clean and fast. Collateral everywhere. Get him down and tied and make me proud.
Hassan stood and turned my way. I stepped around the tourists, looking for Caliphornia or anyone else who might be closing on the money. Saw a couple with a stroller and twins. And an old couple, he with a walker and she with a steadying hand on his arm. A group of Japanese tourists. A laughing boy in overalls running loose, with Mom in hot pursuit. Sailors on leave, taking selfies for families or lovers — one of them maybe the next serviceman to be immortalized by a photograph.
Ali waited, then we started off toward the Midway under the dress of the kissing nurse. Drifted through Taucher and O’Hora with nothing more than glances.
Then, like a guest appearance in a strange dream, Hector Padilla came shuffling across the grass toward us, his face uncharacteristically grim and his eyes raised toward Unconditional Surrender.
40
Without breaking stride, I worked my phone: Hector incoming from north. Then, once out of earshot, I told Ali we had just passed Caliphornia’s partner in terror.
“That little guy?”
“Hector Padilla in the flesh,” I said.
“Change of plan, then,” said Ali, walking faster. “When we hit the sidewalk, you go to the truck like Blevins ordered. I’m going to join the tourists and loop back to the statue.”
“So am I.”
“I’m ordering you to the truck, Ford.”
“I’m not going. I’m in this thing, Ali.”
He looked at me, nodded, then veered into the southbound foot traffic.
Up ahead of us, Hector stopped just short of the grassy mall to hike his pants, still apparently gazing at the statue bathed in light.
Ali and I drafted in behind a bunch of grunts in desert camo, followed them all the way to North Harbor. Then I branched away, angling between a big Latino family dressed in their holiday finest and a Chinese tour group, many-footed and serious. All of whom bore me back onto the Tuna Lane sidewalk and into even heavier foot traffic.
I lumbered along, Inconspicuous Ford, a natural heavyweight in a suit and tie on a collision course with one beheading terrorist, his esteemed colleague, six armed FBI agents, fifty thousand cash, and two oblivious giants making out. Kept bumping into people, apologizing softly, my eyes trained on the briefcase, visible through the legs of the passersby. Turned my attention to Hector, plodding across the mall toward the money, his phone to his ear again.
I slowed and let the pedestrians eddy around me. Over their heads I had a good view of Hector as he moved across the mall, looking up at the statue again with a worried half-smile. He stopped, raised his phone, and took a picture of the big kiss, then turned around and lifted the phone for a selfie.
A middle-aged Vietnamese couple sat down on Ali’s vacated bench. Hector looked at them and shot another picture of himself. The couple talked and gestured and showed each other pictures on their phones, unaware of the cash at their feet, seemingly delighted to be alive in this time and place.
Then the man threw his head back laughing and knocked the briefcase over with his foot. Stopped laughing, leaned forward to give the case a good long consideration, then reached down and set it back upright. Said something to the woman, who said something back, and they both laughed. Another exchange. After which each of them looked out across the mall in different directions, apparently looking for someone to match the forgotten briefcase. They looked like people trying to ID a distant relative at a train depot or an arrivals gate, before the world became too dangerous for that. After a few moments of this, they stood and walked away.
Hector watched them leave, hustled to the bench, and plopped himself down. He took more pictures of the statue, lowered his phone, and looked around.
I could see Smith and Lark just beyond the statue, watching Hector from behind the nurse’s gigantic white shoe. Taucher and O’Hora had moved closer in, fussing over angles as they shot their own pictures of the kissers.
Blevins to the team, by text:
What’s he doing?
TAUCHER
Sitting by money.