by Louise, Tia
“If you were lucky. Restaurants have obscene failure rates—something like 75 percent or more fail in the first two years.”
“I wouldn’t have failed.” I’m not letting him cloud my dream.
“You said you lost everything?”
“I still have a few things.” I trace my fingers along the edge of the mahogany credenza. “I have the lease on the space for two more weeks. And nobody wanted industrial-sized bags of flour and cinnamon. Nobody could use them.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands. “I think the location was a poor choice.”
“It was an excellent choice. Our research showed—”
“I think your idea has promise.” That shuts me up. “I think it would be better suited to a boutique location, like Monterey. Somewhere with a large population of wealthy young professionals with young families. A community where people hold gatherings, where you could develop regulars. San Francisco is too transient for what you have in mind.”
“Monterey is pretty far—”
“It’s an hour and a half.”
Crossing my arms, I face him. “What difference does it make to you?”
He shifts in the chair, flicking his blazer. “I don’t say this often, but I have a very large bank account.”
“Everyone who stays here does.”
“Mine is bigger than theirs.” It doesn’t even seem like he’s bragging, more just stating a fact. “I invest in companies, mostly military tech and healthcare initiatives. I’m here for that very reason, but the fellow I met with this morning didn’t have his numbers in order. I had to say no.”
Tilting my head to the side, I study him. “You want to invest in my restaurant?”
“Maybe.” He stands and reaches into his coat, taking out a slim phone. “Restaurants are a horrible risk. The timing couldn’t be worse. Still, I’m a bit of a gambler, and I have the capital. I like your passion and your drive. Do you have a phone?”
“Of course.” Reaching into my skirt pocket, I take out my iPhone.
“If you’re willing, unlock it, and I’ll give you my secretary’s number.”
My heart jumps, and I quickly unlock my phone and hand it to him. “You want to be my partner?”
“We would not be partners.” His tone is firm as he quickly types on my phone. “I would be an investor only. I’d loan you the capital to reopen, then you’d pay me back with interest.”
I know how investors work. I also know the current business climate. “How long would you be willing to wait?”
“I’ll give you until things are back on track.” He escorts me to the door. “If it’s still something you want to do, update your business plan, incorporate my recommendations regarding location, and send me your proposal when you’re ready. I’ll share it with my business partner, Remington Key, and he and I will discuss it. We usually trust each other’s instincts.”
My heart is beating so hard now. He’s talking about my restaurant like it could actually happen. This man could make it happen. I think about my song. I believe in angels.
Picking up the small bottle of body spray, I decide it must be lucky.
Slipping it in my pocket, I pause at the door. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”
“I can tell good people when I meet them.” His brow furrows like he’s sorting a riddle. “We’ll get through this time, but we can’t lose faith in each other.”
“I wasn’t sure people still had faith.”
“Of course, they do.” Placing his hand on my upper arm, he gives it a squeeze. “I think you’ve got what it takes, Hope Hill. Don’t let me down.”
My brow furrows, and I smile carefully. “I don’t want to let you down.”
That makes him smile, and pride warms my chest.
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
Jr
“Piss test.” A young woman in a navy uniform and black mask with a name tag reading Blank claps a plastic cup in front of me. She has short brown hair and brown eyes, which never meet mine. “Place it in the window. Come back here when you’re done.”
Taking the small cup, I go to the bathroom and fill it, following her instructions. It has a label bearing my name on it and a lid. Washing my hands, I swallow the fresh anger at being in this system—peeing in a cup, being forced to ask permission to go home to visit my son.
I sit in the metal chair across from Deputy Blank and study her thin face, thin wire-framed glasses. Her uniform seems designed to make her appear bulkier. A pistol is on her hip, and she looks like she just graduated from high school.
“Have you applied for work or secured full-time employment?” She reads the sheet on the clipboard like a drill sergeant.
“No.” My eyes are focused on her hands, bare, short fingernails.
She hesitates a moment. “Did you try?”
Blinking up at her, I sit straighter. “There aren’t a lot of options right now.”
Also, I’m a felon.
Her jaw moves as she chews her gum. “I’ll give you that.” Her eyes return to the clipboard briefly. “Dunne.”
I shift in my chair. “I was wondering, Deputy Blank, I have a son in South Carolina. What do I need to do to be able to see him?”
She blinks up at me, and my request seems to piss her off. “You might have thought of him before you started dealing drugs.”
Tightening my lips, I swallow the burn. “I don’t deal drugs. I was set up.”
Her eyebrows quirk as she returns to the list. “Not what the judge said.”
“Maybe not, but it’s the truth.”
“Sure it is.” She’s not interested in my story, so I don’t press it.
“Anyway, what do I need to do to be able to see him again? I’d really like to get permission to relocate, or—”
“Relocate?” The corners of her eyes crinkle, but it’s more of a wince than a smile. “What do you think this is? Summer camp? You don’t go home. Your butt’s staying right here in San Francisco where it belongs.” She mutters under her breath. “It belongs in jail, but that’s not up to me.”
My throat is tight. I want to argue. I want to snap back I didn’t fucking do it.
I don’t.
I swallow those feelings and force a smile. “I’m sorry. I just miss my son.”
“How about you answer my questions, and we’ll take it one week at a time.”
One week at a time.
I promised Jesse I’d be home soon.
I said soon.
Walking from the precinct to the studio apartment I’m renting on Divisadero Street, I think I should have punched my dad when I had the chance. I called one of those rocket lawyers, and she said the only way to get a conviction overturned or “set aside,” is to find new evidence—DNA or some kind of written or verbal confession.
I almost laughed in her ear. Then I almost threw the phone across the room. How the fuck am I supposed to get something like that? For all I know Clyde Shaw is long gone by now.
For all I know…
Standing in the street, looking up at the ancient, second-floor apartment, I decide I’ve got nothing to lose and nothing but time.
I dig a metro card out of my pocket and hop on the bus, taking it all the way out to Golden Gate Park. It’s late afternoon, so I’m not expecting much. Still, I want to retrace my steps.
Fog clings to the mountains and dark-green ivy climbs all over everything. It’s cold and foggy all the time. I never liked San Francisco. I only came because my dad was diving deep into supplements as a new source of income.
He claimed this shilajit would put us on the cutting edge of adaptogens. Supposedly the goop gave you more energy, improved sex drive, better memory and focus. It all sounded too good to be true to me. Snake oil.
Still, Clyde Shaw was a top distributor of the resin, which he claimed was sourced directly from small farmers in the Himalayas and thoroughly tested for heavy metals and pollutants. He
claimed to be a holistic guru-type. I thought he was a creep. Clearly, I underestimated him.
The bus stops, and I trot down the steps, nearly colliding with a girl with long, pale dreadlocks. She has a bandanna over her face and ratty clothes, and she carries a longboard. I watch as she drops it and skates down the promenade without a word.
This is the weird part of town, where everybody smells like pot and dresses like they’re homeless. I remember wondering what the hell I was doing meeting a supplier here.
Rainbow Falls is right in the middle of the park. Clyde said it was part of his daily meditation ritual. He really sold the whole package.
I left my rental car parked on the street while he told me about the benefits of controlled breathing, the way you could slow your heart rate by breathing in for five seconds then breathing out for six.
Standing in front of the giant stone cross, I can’t believe I didn’t see through that guy. Old anger starts to heat my chest, but as I look up at the cross, an idea forms in my mind…
Clyde Shaw counted on me trusting whatever he said. When I got busted, he vanished like a ghost after Halloween. At the same time, I have no reason to believe he’s not still in the city.
He was well connected. Shit, the day we met, two burnouts buzzed by and bought pot from him. Why would he leave? Or if he did leave, why not come back when the heat wore off?
My heart beats faster as the plan unfolds. I’ve just got to shake the bushes and let the bugs crawl out.
The prospect of finding that asshole and beating a confession out of him makes me smile. Closing my eyes, I know what I’ve got to do. I won’t let my son down. I will be home soon, and once I’m clear, I’ll find my girl.
For a week, I’ve been coming to the stone cross behind Rainbow Falls. I didn’t know much about Golden Gate Park before this, but it’s a lot like Central Park in New York City, long and rectangular, with different attractions scattered throughout.
I usually pack a lunch and read a book or listen to music while I sit under the trees and wait. I don’t know what I expect to find, but I’m holding onto hope.
Hope.
I miss her. I miss her cute little smile. I miss the way her nose wrinkles when she’s teasing or doesn’t like something I said or Scout said. I miss the way she used to sneak glances at me when we were driving, when I was so pissed, I could barely unclench my jaw. I miss her soft skin, and the feel of her body beneath mine. I miss her lips, her scent of flowers and coconut, like the beach in summertime.
I’m kicking myself for not getting her phone number. I was so fucking distracted. How the hell am I going to find her?
I’ve gone to that old beach shack where I picked up the car a few times, but it’s completely deserted. I tried calling Car Heaven, but they wouldn’t give me any information, citing privacy reasons.
She said her dad was in a nursing home, and her friend with the unusual first name is… somewhere. Dammit.
Where are you, Hope?
Frustrated, I lean back against a tree, looking up at the massive falls. Water spills over smooth, gray boulders, and a path with a wooden bridge is about halfway to the top. Hikers and kids walk across it, occasionally stopping to take pictures.
The place smells like damp leaves, metallic water, and skunk weed. Strange, trumpet-shaped flowers hang from the trees like upside-down vases. They’re bright yellow with red-orange petals curled back. They look like something from another planet, or maybe I’ve got a contact high from sitting here so long.
Scrubbing my fingers against my forehead, I do my best to remember Clyde and the two burnouts. When we met, he was dressed like anybody else you’d see in this park, but instead of a laid-back vibe, he was focused, watching. At the time I chalked it up to the supplement he was hawking, but now I realize he was on guard for any sign of a setup.
I was the one being set up.
Another meeting with my asshole parole officer, another week of sitting in the park, and I’m ready to quit.
I have no idea what makes me think I’ll find this guy. I watch the water slam against the bottom of the falls, and I feel like one of those rocks. Defeat is heavy on my shoulders and pot is in the air.
I’m ready to walk home when a skinny guy in loose jeans and a poncho strolls up and takes a seat. His dark dreads are tied in a thick bundle at the back of his neck, and a scarf is tied over his mouth and nose. He sits like a Buddha at the base of the cross.
A long strand of jet-black beads is around his neck, and a memory hits me. Clyde wore a similar strand the day we met. I thought they were onyx. He laughed and said no way. They were “magical.”
Magically, I did not roll my eyes.
This guy isn’t familiar, but he’s as close as I’m going to get.
I have to go for it.
Taking a slow breath, I think about Scout. I relax my shoulders and do my best to channel his carefree, laid-back style of talk. “Hey, Namaste, man.”
I feel like an idiot.
Bloodshot, eyes blink open to meet mine, and he’s clearly high. “Peace and love.”
Keeping a safe distance, I do my best to sit in a similar style as him, wondering what these guys say to each other. I don’t know a lot about hippie-speak, but I read a book by Stephen Hawking about the history of the universe.
“The world is turning at a thousand miles per hour.” I look towards the falls. “We’re just along for the ride.”
He nods. “Like sands through the hourglass.”
“Turtles all the way down.”
His eyes widen. “You’re into Hinduism?”
“Hawking.”
“Good stuff. Happiness is a direction, not a place.”
I don’t think Stephen Hawking said that, and I don’t care. I’ve got to find Clyde. “I was looking for a friend. Maybe you know him?”
“Maybe.” He closes his eyes and starts to Om.
I put my hands on my knees and wait. I don’t want to rush him.
Ironically, a turtle crawls to the edge of the small lagoon and stretches his head out of the water. I picture a flat earth balanced on the top of his shell and him standing on the back of another turtle and another below that… It’s the universe people once believed.
Stoner Dude’s lips have stopped moving, and now he’s deep breathing, in and out. My stomach is tense, and I’m praying I don’t blow my cover.
He exhales loudly and rises to his feet. “Just got my word. I was on another plane, watching the thoughts roll by like pebbles in the stream.”
I stand with him. This is it. “So Clyde told me to drop by next time I was in town.”
A smile breaks across his face. “You know Clyde, man? I just saw him over at Hidden Hemp.”
You don’t say? “Is he in the same place? Frederick and Clayton?”
“No way, man, he left there two years ago. He’s north of Buena Vista now—over the coffee house.”
Two years ago, as in right after my shit went down. “Thanks…”
“Arlo.” He holds up his hand, palm facing me. “It is not how much we have, but how much we enjoy.”
“See you around, Arlo.”
“Stay beautiful, Turtle-man.”
He wanders off in the direction of the ocean, and as soon as he’s out of sight, I take off jogging back towards the bus stop.
Buena Vista is a smallish park east of here. I have no idea which coffee house he’s talking about, but I’m pumped. I’m ready to get justice.
Hope
“You were in her room, mask off, sampling her cosmetics…” Yarnell stalks around the living room like she’s so astounded.
“I wasn’t sampling her cosmetics!” I’m on the couch, hiding under a blanket, where I’ve been since I fled the hotel. “My mask was off because I was scenting her colognes.”
“Watching Netflix, going through her stuff, not making the beds…”
“She really overreacted.” I recall the scary woman with the Cruella de Vil hair screaming like I had a gun
on her. “People are so on edge right now.”
“You stole her body spray!”
“I didn’t mean to steal it! She kept calling me a thief and yelling for security. I panicked.” Pulling the blanket tighter around me, I sink lower on the couch. “She was like a scary witch.”
“That scary witch is married to one of the richest real estate developers in California.”
“Then I don’t know what her problem is. That body spray is only twenty dollars.”
I looked it up, thinking I’d mail her the money.
“That’s not the point, and you know it.” Yars shakes her head. “You’re lucky Sonny likes me as much as he does. He’s not going to dock your pay. He said you can come back to work after she checks out tomorrow.”
“I don’t know, Yars.” My nose wrinkles. “I don’t think I’m cut out for that job.”
I think about having to make beds and clean toilets and vacuum.
The vacuuming part I didn’t mind, actually. It was sort of gratifying to watch the little bits of dirt or paper or whatever being sucked up by the machine, leaving the dark floors shiny and clean. It took my mind off thinking about JR all the time.
“Not cut out for the job,” Yarnell huffs. “The point is it’s a job. You need a job, remember?”
“I need to update my business plan and salvage what I can from the restaurant before my lease expires.”
“Then you ran into Mr. Hastings’s room.” She goes to the kitchen and pours a glass of wine. “You’re really lucky he didn’t complain. He’s the richest venture capitalist in Manhattan.”
“That’s what he said.” Pressing my lips together, I remember how arrogant he was, like whatever he decided was the law. “He was like a king.”
“He’s about as close as you can get in this country.”
“He said he might help me.” Pulling the body spray out of my pocket, I give it a pump, watching it rain over my legs. “I think this stuff is my lucky charm. If I hadn’t sprayed it at him, he might not have started asking questions.”
