by Nathan Field
Her eyes shot away. “It wasn’t Sterling. I tripped on the stairs…”
“–You’re lying. Jesus, you can’t even look at me. Why are you protecting him?”
Her lips parted, and for a moment, I thought she was going to open up about her violent husband. But then she clamped her mouth shut and pushed past me, gathering her clothes from the bed. “I have to go.”
I blocked her path to the door. “Lucy, wait. I want to help.”
“Then leave me alone. Don’t you get it? This is exactly why I can’t be with you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do,” she insisted. “Please Johnny, I don’t need another bully in my life. Now get out of my way or I swear, I’ll scream this fucking hotel down.”
The look in her eye told me she was serious. I backed into the corner of the room, watching in silence as she pulled on her sweater and hurried out the door.
I waited until her footsteps faded down the hall. Then I went to the bathroom and studied my reflection, checking that the smirk I could feel on my lips wasn’t visible. Because even though I was fuming about Sterling’s abuse, and I felt awful for Lucy, a part of me – a small, selfish part of me – was pleased.
9. “Your face is putting me off my food”
I wasn’t a big fan of Chinatown. There were too many bright lights, the air reeked of twice-used cooking oil, and the streets were jam-packed seven nights a week. I could never get comfortable with the jumbled pace: the slow-moving tourists who stopped to inspect Chairman Mao lighters and bins of exotic herbs every few steps, thrown in with the bustling young couriers and local businessman who always seemed to be barreling straight towards me. It put me on edge, even more so than usual.
I cursed Bruno for picking a restaurant on Grant Avenue, right in the middle of the tourist stretch. Pushing through the meandering crowd, I completely missed the Red Drum on the first pass. Unlike most of the restaurants in Chinatown – where multi-colored signs, set menu specials and attractive young hostesses lured people in – the Red Drum was refreshingly discreet. The only clue to its location was an engraved copper plaque tacked to a wooden door.
Inside the tiny entrance lobby, I took a minute to remove my shades and steady my breath. I felt foolish getting wound up over a blind date, but after eight years of relative solitude, the prospect of making small talk for two hours was almost as frightening as having a murderer on my tail.
I climbed the stairs to the restaurant level. The Red Drum emerged as a spacious, crimson-hued dining room with a quiet, almost stately ambience: white tablecloths, black-lacquered furniture, formally dressed waiting staff and, mercifully, subdued lighting. Even the crowd was relatively restrained for a Chinatown restaurant – there wasn’t an office work party or excitable tour group in sight. I relaxed a touch, withdrawing my earlier slur against Bruno. He’d obviously chosen the Red Drum with my long list of phobias in mind.
I was having my coat removed by a slick-haired maître d’ when Bruno’s booming voice called me through. “Hey Sam, over here.”
They were seated at a round table by the front window: Bruno, Chloe and my dinner date, Maxine.
Maxine looked a few years younger than the rest of us, maybe late-twenties, but her style was all confident sophistication. Dark haired, dark eyed, and attractive in a proud, Vassar-educated way. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders, and she was wearing a plain white blouse, unbuttoned to reveal the beginning of a deep cleavage. Despite letting her hair down, and the teasing hint of flesh, she looked as if she’d come straight from the office.
I was taken aback. When Bruno had mentioned Chloe’s friend, I’d imagined someone similarly kooky. But where Chloe was a bottle-blond pet therapist who collected Peggy Lee memorabilia, Maxine looked like a paid-up member of the establishment – a career woman with a platinum card, a global stock portfolio, and a jet-setting lifestyle.
Why the hell would anyone think we’d be a good match?
“Sam, this is my friend Maxine,” Chloe beamed, oblivious to my discomfort. I liked Chloe, her heart was in the right place, but she was also one of the pushiest women I’d ever met. “And Maxine, this is the famous Sam Carney.”
When Maxine stood up and offered her hand in greeting, I suddenly realized how out of practice I was. Staring down at her naked fingers, I wasn’t sure if I should shake her hand or kiss it. Both gestures seemed inappropriate – one too business-like, the other overly familiar. I eventually decided on the handshake, which must’ve been the right choice because the table let out a collective sigh of relief.
I was seated on Maxine’s right – presumably so she wouldn’t have to look at my scars through dinner – and after everyone had commented on the great choice of restaurant and the enduring popularity of Chinatown and the mild weather, the spotlight turned on me.
“So Sam, I hear you’re a writer,” Maxine said in a velvety purr. She dressed and sounded much older than she looked, and I felt strangely juvenile in her presence.
“I’m more of an editor than a writer. I edit screenplays, write jokes for stand-ups, that sort of thing.”
“Sam’s the best gag-man in San Francisco,” Bruno said.
“He’s written all of Bruno’s best material,” Chloe chipped in. “I know it’s hard to believe, but Sam’s a comic genius.”
My eyes narrowed. “Why’s that so hard to believe?”
Chloe’s mouth dropped. A flush crept up her throat, like a pair of clawing hands. “Sam, it was just a turn of phrase,” she said. “I was trying to say how funny you are, even though you always look so serious.”
And suddenly I felt terrible. Chloe hadn’t meant anything by her comment – she wasn’t a malicious person. She only ever had nice things to say about me.
The table had fallen silent, everyone sharing in the embarrassment. “Jesus Chloe, I was only playing with you,” I said, forcing a hollow laugh. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“Don’t do that to me,” Chloe scolded, bringing her hands to her cheeks. “You’ve turned me bright red.”
“That’s Sam, always kidding around,” Bruno laughed, reaching for the wine. He gave me a sharp look as he refreshed the girls’ glasses. He could tell I was out of sorts.
Despite the uncomfortable start, dinner wasn’t the teeth-pulling exercise I’d been dreading. The food was delicious, the service faultless, and Maxine turned out to be pretty decent company, all things considered. For a marketing executive at Oracle, a job she thankfully didn’t describe in detail, she seemed remarkably down to earth. It helped that we were into a lot of the same things: the Giants, Japanese food and Louis C.K. to name but a few. She was even intrigued by the whole comedy writing process, and judging by her knowledge of the local stand-up scene, I sensed her interest was genuine.
Bruno and Chloe participated less in our conversation as the dinner progressed, talking softly amongst themselves. I could almost hear Chloe humming with pleasure over how smoothly the double date was going.
It wasn’t until after our plates were cleared that the evening turned sour. As we waited for our fortune cookies, I became aware of drunken laughter coming from over my shoulder. I turned around to find a pair of businessmen staring at me from a booth table. I suspected they’d been looking at me and laughing for some time. One of them immediately averted his eyes, sniggering with embarrassment, but the other businessman was unrepentant, insisting on his right to stare. He had a short neck and bullish shoulders. The sort of guy who chugged protein shakes and measured his biceps.
I looked away first. The silent exchange had only taken a second, and nobody at my table even noticed my head was turned. But when I tried to rejoin the light conversation, my attention kept diverting to the two men behind me. They were carrying on like overgrown frat boys, and I was certain the jokes were at my expense.
When Bruno got up to visit the bathroom, one of the businessmen started singing. It sounded like a cheesy show tune. When I recognized the chorus, I felt
the air constrict around me.
Beauty and the Beast.
Not only did the businessmen start whooping with delight, but a few nearby diners glanced over, their eyes widening in horror when they spotted my scars. Like I was the reason their dinner had been disturbed.
I folded my napkin and calmly pushed back my chair. Chloe and Maxine pleaded for me to sit down, but I was beyond caring. I calmly walked over to the offending booth.
The muscular businessman met my gaze squarely, but his friend couldn’t fix on where to look, his nerves already shot to pieces. They were both in their thirties, and judging by their chunky watches and tailored suits, doing very well for themselves.
“Good evening, gents,” I greeted pleasantly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’ve been making fun of me.”
The muscular businessman’s response was predictably aggressive. “Yeah, because your face is putting me off my food. So why don’t you sit back down before I lose my Kung Pao Chicken.”
He dug his chopsticks into a mound of fried rice and shoveled it into his mouth, pretending to have forgotten me already. The avoidance behavior suggested he wasn’t quite as sure of himself as he first appeared.
I shook my head slowly. “I’m afraid not. You threw down the challenge, and I’m accepting. There’s no avoiding a fight now.”
He looked up, really studying me this time. I sensed his mind ticking over, re-assessing what he was dealing with. “Don’t make this into a big deal, okay? I was just making a joke, probably in bad taste. I didn’t mean anything by it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my dinner in peace.”
“Sorry. You should’ve thought about that before you opened your mouth.”
“Look pal, I’m trying to apologize…”
“–Save your breath,” I cut in. “I already told you, you’re not walking out of this restaurant without a fight.”
The muscular businessman snorted with laughter, looking to his friend for support, but he was too busy inspecting the tablecloth for stains. His expression turned grave. “No way, I’ve got too much to lose. I’m a senior vice president – I can’t get into fights with every asshole who can’t take a joke.”
I laughed. “You’re not fooling anyone. Why don’t you just admit that you’re a big fat coward? You know it, I know it, and now your friend knows it. He’s going straight back to the office and telling everyone that you were afraid to fight a smaller guy. You’ll be the joke…”
Just then, the businessman stood up and tried to take my head off with a lumbering right hook. I’d anticipated the move, and was already leaning back, bringing my left forearm up to deflect the punch. With his face wide open, I threw a straight right that landed on his nose with a satisfying crunch.
Blood spurted from the businessman’s nose, and he gave a small groan before his body slumped back into the leather booth. His eyes fluttered and then closed.
The businessman’s friend had turned white as a sheet. Before he could find his voice, I reached across the table and set a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back against his seat. “That’s the end of it, okay? Wipe the blood off his face, and when he wakes up, leave.”
He nodded, his shoulder trembling under my touch.
I walked back to my table, flexing my smarting knuckles. The violence had been brief, but a handful of diners turned their faces away from me, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before news of the incident spread.
Returning to my seat, Chloe and Maxine were staring at me with open mouths
“Sorry about that,” I shrugged.
Chloe was the first to exhale. “Well, he did ask for it.”
Maxine laughed. “Wow. Did you break his nose?”
“I hope so.”
While the girls peppered me with questions, I noticed Bruno coming back from the bathroom. He glanced over at the businessmen’s booth, where the muscular businessman was slowly coming around.
Bruno chuckled when he pulled out his chair. “Fucking bankers can’t handle their booze.”
The girls giggled, but I was still tense from the confrontation, and could feel the adrenaline pulling on my face. I was also aware of the attention we were attracting from nearby tables.
“What’s up with you?” Bruno said to me.
“You’ll never believe what happened,” Chloe said.
Bruno followed her gaze to the businessman’s table. He frowned. “For fuck’s sake, Sam. Was that you?”
“He deserved it,” Maxine enthused. “Sam dealt to him with one punch.”
“We should go,” I said, standing up.
Bruno nodded, nervously scanning the restaurant. Virtually every set of eyes was now upon us. The maître d’ was blocking the stairs, arms folded. I guessed he’d already called the cops.
“Cash,” I said to Bruno, who understood instantly. He nudged Chloe, and between us we collected a handful twenties, throwing them on the table so the staff could see. Maxine started fishing in her purse, but I grabbed her arm. “We’ve got it,” I said firmly.
We left the restaurant in silence. Everyone was watching us, but no one was prepared to stand in our way. Even the maître d’ backed away from the stairs, presumably satisfied that we’d paid for our meal.
Outside, we decided to split up in case the police were on the lookout for a party of four. Chloe tried to split us into couples, but I insisted on leaving with Bruno, claiming we had important stand-up business to discuss. There was also the small matter of Maxine batting her dark eyes at me. My sunglasses didn’t seem to faze her. In fact, I got the feeling she found my weirdness a turn on. It was a complication I really didn’t need.
“What the fuck are you doing, Sam?” Bruno said as we walked up Grant.
“I told you I’m stressed out. And that guy really did deserve it.”
“Not that, I’m talking about Maxine. She was all over you.”
“Sorry, she’s not my type.”
“Why? Because she doesn’t charge by the hour?”
I was too preoccupied to take offence, frantically scouring the street for a bar of coffee shop that didn’t appear too packed or claustrophobic. In the thick of Chinatown on a Thursday night, that was no easy task.
“What’s the big rush?” Bruno groaned, struggling to keep up. “So you punched a banker. That doesn’t make you America’s most wanted.”
“Just help me find a quiet place, okay? I’ll explain in a minute.”
“Fuck, okay. Follow me then.”
We veered off Grant Avenue and left the neon glitter of Chinatown behind us, crisscrossing our way into Russian Hill. Soon we were walking through quiet residential streets flanked by smartly renovated three-story houses. Bruno pointed to our destination: a traditional English pub sandwiched between two villas. The sign below the vintage gas lamps claimed 1912 heritage and the city’s finest range of ales and stouts. I nodded my approval.
I copped a few stares from the mostly male crowd as we entered the pub, but they quickly went back to their huddled conversations. The muted light and low-key atmosphere had a soothing effect on my frazzled nerves. I felt my heartbeat slow; my temper cool.
We took our pints of ale to a dark corner table where I was able to remove my shades. Bruno cut straight to the chase. “What’s the deal, Sam? What’s so goddamn stressful in your life that you’d turn down free pussy?”
“C’mon, Maxine was only keen on me after I knocked that guy out. Women like that I can do without.”
Bruno shook his head vigorously. “Don’t write her off as some crazy bitch. Maxine just respected the fact you stood up for yourself. And you were getting on great during dinner.”
I stared down at my beer, unwilling to concede the point. It was true that I’d had an easy rapport with Maxine. We had a lot in common, and there was definitely a bit of chemistry between us.
And therein lay the problem.
I couldn’t afford to let my guard down, especially now. It was easier to sever contact before we took anothe
r step. “I’m sorry,” I said decisively. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Why the fuck not? She’s an attractive girl, and smart, too. Not to mention the tits on her. Jesus, what I’d give to be alone with them for a few hours.”
“She’s hot, alright? No argument there. But I’ve got bigger things on my mind at the moment.”
“Yeah, yeah. Your dodgy office partner. Ralph whatshisname.”
“Ralph Emerson.”
“Yeah,” Bruno sighed, reaching for his pint glass. “What’s he done now?”
“He’s dead.”
Bruno took a long slide of beer. He put down the glass and stared at me. “What?”
“He was murdered.”
“That’s fucked up, man,” Bruno frowned. “You shouldn’t joke about things like that.”
“I’m not joking. Someone beat him to death with a golf club. It’s all over the news if you don’t believe me.”
Bruno’s frown deepened. “Jesus. That’s….Jesus.”
“You haven’t heard the best part…” I said, and proceeded to run through the shocking events of the past forty-eight hours – from the nasty twist in Eleanor Cook’s script, to my recent discovery that Ralph Emerson was not, in fact, my office partner.
Bruno listened in silence, rubbing his big jaw thoughtfully. When I’d finished, he said, “Are you absolutely certain the photos in your office were of Ralph Emerson?”
“Yes. They matched the pictures in the paper.”
“And there’s no way he could’ve been holding down two jobs?”
“Nope, I thought about that. He was a partner in a Silicon Valley law firm – why would he need another office forty miles away, in a crappy building near the Tenderloin? And even if he did, that wouldn’t explain why his stuff suddenly disappeared. Or why the police haven’t tried to contact me.”
“Hmm, that is strange,” Bruno agreed, pausing to drain his beer. He wiped his mouth and exhaled a long sigh. “Well, I suppose there’s one obvious thing you can do.”
“What?” I asked, momentarily hopeful.
