None of the dates answered their phones, so I'd left identical messages on three machines, asking them to call the minute they got in. At 7:40 Joey showed up.
“Fredreeq's stuck on the Santa Monica Freeway. I'm here to lend moral support until she comes.”
“Here's the plan,” I said. “We have no idea what Dylan Ellison looks like, but if you can somehow figure it out, intercept him and keep him occupied. I'll deal with the other two as best I can. Uncle Theo will help.”
Uncle Theo nodded and smiled, displaying more chicken than we cared to see.
“Piece of cake,” Joey said. “Think of this as a social triathlon. You'll make Fredreeq proud.”
At 7:45, Uncle Theo was at the front door handing out photocopied programs.
At 7:48 Jean-Luc bounded in. One of his buttons caught in Uncle Theo's crocheted vest; unaware, he walked on, until Uncle Theo's knees buckled and Jean-Luc was bungeed backward. They disengaged and shook hands.
Jean-Luc continued over to me and kissed me on both cheeks, smelling mildly, though not unpleasantly, of garlic. He took my hand and was reluctant to let go, so I led him to a chair in the back row, hoping to plant him there. I got him to sit by sitting myself momentarily, but then had to climb over him to exit the row. His hand slid from my waist to my derriere as I did so. He certainly was tactile.
Sterling showed three minutes later. Sterling was of African-American descent, not as tall as the Frenchman—or me—but more substantial, with an intelligent face and wire-rim glasses. I met him at the door and told him about the poetry snafu.
“Great,” he said. “I see movies all the time, but I've never watched poetry.”
Before I could suggest that tonight was no time to start, Uncle Theo took Sterling off to meet the evening's opening act.
Chairs filled up fast, due to the prospect of Thom Gunn, and only half the crowd were Wednesday night regulars. Some were neighborhood people—I recognized a Loo Fong delivery girl, and one of the hookers I'd made change for days before. This would please Uncle Theo, who liked to say that everyone was a poet, and poetry was for everyone. My stomach, though, was in knots as I scrutinized faces for signs of Dylan, and also for Mr. Bundt's secret shoppers. I'd had low-level anxiety about the poetry readings since the first Wednesday I'd lent the shop to the poets, after their previous meeting place, a church basement, had succumbed to earthquake damage. One Wednesday turned into several years, because who could evict poets? Also, the chance of getting caught had seemed remote. Until now.
Joey sidled up to me. “Three possible Dylans. From his phone interview we know he's writing his dissertation in sports medicine and voted for Ralph Nader. Now, there are three guys, each one alone, with shoes that suggest orthopedic awareness or third-party politics. A guy over by the snow globes cabinet has on Birkenstocks—with a suit—and then there's a serious pair of running shoes on—whoa, baby.” She pointed to a man in sweat clothes standing amid the Easter baskets display, joined by a man who kissed him lingeringly on the mouth. “Cross him off the list.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Uncle Theo called out, “it is now after eight and while Thom Gunn is not yet here, we have other poets to enjoy, so we're going to begin. Please take your seats.” Sterling joined me as Joey went to investigate the Dylans.
From the back row, Jean-Luc yelled, “Wolleeee!” There was one seat next to him, obviously saved for me. I grabbed a hand-painted $29.95 milking stool, and headed over, Sterling in tow.
“Jean-Luc, Sterling. Sterling, Jean-Luc.” I propelled Sterling into the chair meant for me and squeezed the milking stool between them. “Bad back,” I explained.
The poet, a grandmotherly woman, brought to the podium a cactus in a terra-cotta pot painted with the word “Woody.” She barked out a single word: “Breasts.”
Someone laughed.
“Breasts” again filled the room, a command, compelling silence.
“Breasts, breasts, breasts
Boobs, knockers, kachungas . . .”
Jean-Luc sat up straight. Sterling shifted his position. I kept very still.
“Love muffins.” The poet read like a schoolmarm, with equal emphasis on every word. “Lung mittens.”
My clasped hands were suddenly surrounded by Jean-Luc's hand, which felt like a damp sponge. I saw Sterling glance down. Whether he was looking at Jean-Luc's hand or my breasts straining against the pink angora sweater, I couldn't tell.
“. . . pert little melons,
big blushing apples . . .”
A tap on my shoulder sent me nearly to the ceiling. It was Fredreeq, behind me, crouching. She beckoned me closer. “I'm here, Joey took off. She says none of the guys are Dylan, but I just found out, the guy in Birkenstocks is a Welcome! spy.”
My insides turned to ice. I whispered back, “How do you know?”
She leaned in closer. “He said to me, and I quote: ‘I have a message for the woman of your shop. She has stuff here that do not belong.'”
“My God, I've got a roomful of poets that ‘do not belong.' What else matters?”
Jean-Luc, on my left, leaned toward us, wanting in on the conversation. He massaged my hands. I pulled them away.
Like a train picking up speed, the poetess cried out, “Hot cakes, hot cakes, hot cakes, hot cakes. Flapjacks! Pancakes! Little balls of dough!”
Jean-Luc asked loudly, “What are flapjacks, please?” Heads swiveled toward us.
“NIPPLES, BOOBIES, TITS, PO-POS”
Heads swiveled back. My bra felt tight and nausea swept over me. I stood. Maybe the spy had been in the back room, seen Uncle Theo's hookah on the shelf, and mistaken it for drug paraphernalia.
“. . . wizened mammary love missiles
sinking down . . .”
Yes, there he was. Planted amid the snow globes, arms folded, the man in the suit had the look of an industrial spy. Beefy and stern. Early twenties. Too young to date me, I now saw. I sat, and turned to Fredreeq. “We're dead.”
“. . . ancient milk bottles”
Fredreeq gave my arm a supportive squeeze and scurried back to her seat.
“. . . seeking teeth.”
Yawning silence filled the room. Then came tentative applause. As the clapping continued, I turned to look at the Minnie Mouse clock, thinking, How much longer can this nightmare continue?
Which is when I saw Doc outside the window of my shop, looking in.
MY FIRST INSTINCT was to hurl myself through the glass window to get to him, and in that moment I saw how far I'd sunk, that I could get so excited over an unavailable chain-smoking ex-con I'd been mentally trashing for the past twenty-four hours. I did not give in to my first instinct. I mumbled an excuse to my dates, ran into the back room, through the freight entrance, and outside.
Jogging through the alley, I came around the outside of Bodega Bob to find a full parking lot and no sign of Doc. I paused at a Land Rover parked on the sidewalk, and wondered if he'd gone inside or maybe into hiding, crouched among the cars.
“Doc!” I called out softly, and then heard a noise over by Neat Nails Plus. Irrationally, I panicked and ducked behind the Land Rover.
And came face to face with a child.
She sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, apparently hiding too. She held a round pink suitcase, a piece of Barbie merchandise that was ancient—as old as I.
“Hello,” I whispered.
The child said nothing, although she looked straight at me. She was maybe ten or eleven, with a wide face and serious eyes. Too big for Barbie, I thought. She had frizzy hair and pale skin, and a vaguely doughy look to her.
“Hey.” Doc appeared out of the shadows of Plucky Chicken.
I looked up at him, then back to her. Dots connected in my brain. I said, “Is this your little girl?”
He smiled and stepped closer. The child stood, hugging her suitcase, and took his hand. She was close to five feet tall, I estimated, and maybe older than she seemed at first glance. Twelve? Thirteen? I had little knowle
dge of children.
Doc spoke to her. “Ruby, this is Wollie. Miss Shelley.”
“Wollie's fine,” I said.
He nodded. “This is Ruby.”
“Hello, Ruby.”
Doc said, “I've been telling her a lot about you.” There was an awkward silence. I noticed the red Converse All Stars on his feet, my own shoes. I noticed how the white of his T-shirt matched the white of his eyes. He was missing something he'd had the night we met and it took me a moment to figure out what it was.
Invulnerability.
I smiled, recognizing a home court advantage. I rose slowly, and spoke the word that was practically my middle name.
“Welcome.”
chapter sixteen
Two minutes later I was leading Doc and Ruby through the alley.
“We shouldn't have come,” Doc said. “I don't think we were followed, but—good God.”
“What?” I held open the freight door as they stepped into the back room.
“This place,” he said. “This is some—place.”
He and Ruby stared, taking it all in, the off-season displays and oversized decorations hanging from the ceiling and climbing the walls. There were posterboard evergreen trees and Santa Clauses, a Fourth of July Revolutionary War marching band and an entire pumpkin patch. There were Styrofoam pilgrims, a six-foot menorah, and a papier-mâché heart the size of a small hot air balloon suspended over my drafting table. “It's the back of my shop,” I said.
“It's like walking into an album cover from the sixties,” Doc said.
Ruby nodded, big-eyed. I couldn't recall a child ever being in the back room before.
“It's the overflow of my life,” I said, suddenly needing them to like it.
Ruby turned to me. Although quiet, she didn't seem shy. I returned her look, my own shyness around children overcome by curiosity. She resembled Doc, but it was an overexposed resemblance, her coloring lighter. What features they shared, a strong nose and thick eyebrows, didn't work as well on a girl. Maybe she'd grow into them.
She looked beyond me, and tugged at her father's sleeve, pointing to the north wall. High on the concrete hung a bicycle built for two and a pair of stilts.
“My uncle's,” I said. “I store things for people, stuff that has no place else to go.”
A burst of applause from the shop floor brought me back to reality. “I have to get in there,” I said, and explained the poetry reading. “But no one will bother you here. At intermission, people come looking for the bathroom, so stay around the corner here, by the sofa. As soon as I can I'll come and take you up to the apartment. That's where Margaret is.”
At the mention of Margaret, Ruby snapped her head around with an expression of such radiance, she was almost pretty. She plopped down on Joey's red sofa, hands folded on top of her suitcase, as though the sooner she started waiting, the sooner the waiting would be over.
And all this time, she hadn't said a word.
INTERMISSION WAS UNDER way. Sterling was eager to discuss the poetry, so I parked him with Uncle Theo, who was on the phone tracking down his featured artist, Thom Gunn.
Jean-Luc joined the audience stampede to Bodega Bob for second-act provisions. I nabbed Fredreeq as she headed toward the back room. “Where's the secret shopper?”
“Outside,” she said. “Get this, he's having a cigarette. Must be part of his cover, because I can't see Bundt hiring a smoker. Especially one hardly old enough to shave.”
Something occurred to me. “Fredreeq, when he talked to you, did he point me out? I mean, would he know me on sight as the Wollie of Wollie's Welcome! Greetings?”
Fredreeq frowned. “Let's see, I was giving someone change from the register, and that's when he asked me if I work here, and I said yes and he gave me the message ‘for the woman of the shop.' He's foreign, did I mention?”
“Foreign? What kind of foreign?”
She shrugged. “Like one of those films Joey's always making us watch.”
“Foreign films? Seven Samurai? Fitzcarraldo? The Garden of the Finzi-Continis?”
Fredreeq closed her eyes, then opened them. “No, none of those. I'll know it when I hear it. But go check it out yourself—I can see him from here.” She nodded toward the window. “He's hanging with another kid who's got a really serious widow's peak.”
WHEN I SAW him up close with his fellow smoker, I knew he wasn't Mr. Bundt's spy. He was definitely not Dylan Ellison. And the “stuff” he cryptically referred to, I suspected, had nothing to do with my shop. It was Carmine's merchandise he wanted.
The two guys, in dark suits, leaned against the window of Neat Nails Plus, at a right angle to the shop. A trio of older women, also smoking, partially blocked my view, as they huddled against the side of the building. I stood in the shop's doorway, studying the pair.
They weren't exactly kids—more like mid-twenties, I decided, but something about them made them appear younger. The hair, maybe: short, and just enough of it to qualify them as blonds. The Birkenstocker's fellow smoker was slight, with a pronounced widow's peak. He wore some sort of high-tech rubber sandals. The footwear certainly altered the effect of the suits, reminding me of little altar boys with Keds peeking out from under their robes. I can't say why I felt they were dangerous, but these two gave me a bad case of the creeps.
I wanted to know what they were saying.
Opportunity was at my elbow. A pack of Marlboros sat on the cement ledge of the building, along with a yellow plastic lighter. I looked around, withdrew a cigarette from the pack, lit it fast, and inhaled carefully. I didn't choke, but I went weak in the knees as that thing that gives cigarettes their zing coursed through my bloodstream. I wobbled past the trio of women and took my position in the de facto smoking section.
The guys, maybe six feet away, didn't see me. I inched closer.
It took some listening for their mumbles to give way to actual words. Unfortunately, the words were foreign. Fredreeq was right, we'd seen this movie. What was it?
I closed my eyes and concentrated, running through films Joey had exposed us to over the years. Rules of the Game . . . The Spirit of the Beehive . . . Potemkin . . . No. It wasn't Italian, German, French, Japanese, Russian, or Spanish. What else was there? The language was animated and singsong. Then I recognized, just barely, “La Cienega,” “Sepulveda,” and “LAX,” and deduced they were engaged in the classic L.A. debate, Best Routes to the Airport.
I wanted a good look at their faces, to be able to describe them to Doc. A breeze wafted by, momentarily dimming the glow from my cigarette and bringing inspiration. Before my mind could reconsider, I snuffed out the glowing ember against the side of the building, then moved forward, and said, “Excuse me. Do you have a light?”
The guys looked at me, then at each other, clearly taken aback. The heavy one, with the Birkenstocks, asked a question of the widow's-peaked one, who gave a short reply, all in their singsongy language. The Birkenstocker responded, then turned to me, showing crooked teeth. It took a full nine seconds for me to decipher his response to me as “Vee Double-You,” during which time his focus slid downward and stopped, riveted to my pink angora breasts.
VW. He was talking about my car. He knew me.
Were these the guys from the Alfa Romeo?
I couldn't be sure; it had been too dark to see them, but the thought made me go wobbly again. I tried to turn away, but my body parts were slow in receiving my brain's signal. The Birkenstocker, still riveted to my angora, reached into his breast pocket. Presumably he was going for a lighter.
But what I saw was a gun.
Here we go again, I thought, unbelieving. The gun was in a shoulder holster, with only the handle visible, black and stark. I was close enough to see a black screw, a rough surface, something stamped into the steel.
I kept staring, in fascinated horror, until the jacket flapped shut and a plump, hairy hand reached toward my face with a silver lighter attached to it, bursting into flame.
I rec
oiled automatically, backing into the widow's-peaked man, who'd moved behind me. Ruta's face popped into my head, and her reassuring voice. Stay calm, it said. Act normal. Hand shaking, I brought the shortened cigarette to my mouth and managed a pitiful inhale, igniting nothing. The Birkenstocker's other hairy hand took mine, steadying it, as he stepped closer. There was a rancid intimacy about all this, but “normalcy” dictated playing it out, so I sucked hard, got the Marlboro going again, and went utterly dizzy. The drum section of a rock band had taken up residence in my head.
“You leave here? Work here?” the guy said, which puzzled me, until I realized that “leave” was “live” with an accent.
“No habla españ—uh, inglés,” I said instantly. “No habla inglés.” Belatedly, I realized I'd already spoken to him in English.
His smile grew bigger, the crooked teeth now showing gaps. Quite unattractive. “Your man,” he said. “He is here?”
“Hombre?” I said, feeling less calm and normal by the second. Was hombre the word for man, or the word for hat? What was the point of this, anyway? I looked around for the trio of smoking women, but they'd disappeared. The blond guys were moving in on both sides, so that I was sandwiched between them.
“Tell your man,” said the Birkenstocker, “if he leaves, tell him—” he paused, for effect.
If he leaves? No—if he lives. Dear God, I wanted to scream, of course he lives. Do I look like a girl who consorts with dead men?
I wasn't destined to hear what words followed. From the direction of Bodega Bob came a shout of “Woll-eeee!” with much waving of hands and a moment later, the enthusiastic approach of Jean-Luc.
The blond men melted away into the night.
HOW I GOT through intermission and dealt with Sterling and Jean-Luc I'll never know. Half my mind was on the foreign guys, their inherent creepiness, and that gun. The gun in particular, and something about it that I couldn't quite remember kept fear stapled to my stomach.
Dating Dead Men Page 12
