by Julie Smith
“I’ve got to phone in,” said Rob. “Can I use your phone?”
“You’re not gonna put nothin’ in about Lou, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“The phone’s in the bedroom.” Art pointed, rather with pride, I thought. I saw what Rob meant about the Chronicle having an odd effect on people. Even though his brother was in only slightly less trouble than Custer at Little Big Horn, there was something in Art that felt important about being part of a news story. He was treating Rob with a kind of proprietary respect, as if he had caught a Bigfoot and tamed it; as if he had in his very own living room a kind of legendary monster which at the moment was eating out of his hand and might roll over on command; or might rip him to shreds instead.
Bigfoot went into the bedroom. “If the cops come,” I told Art, “you don’t have to talk to them.”
The big eyes took on plate proportions. “I don’t?”
“Absolutely not. But call me if they give you any trouble.” I gave him one of my cards. It was an odd thing to do—in a way it had an ambulance-chasing feel to it—but I knew Art didn’t know enough about lawyer ethics to take it any other way than the way I meant it. I liked this kid; if you want to know the whole sordid truth, I was having almost uncontrollable maternal feelings for him. I didn’t want Martinez and Curry taking advantage of him; I wanted Art to know he had a friend.
6
Is Rob Burns there?” Cheeky question to ask in an 8 A.M. phone call. It was about a nine o’clock press conference at the Hall of Justice. Martinez was working on Saturday, which meant Rob was, too—but not all day, in his case. We could definitely still go to Calistoga. He wouldn’t have to write a story about the press conference because there was no Sunday Chronicle. There was only a hybrid Chronicle-Examiner to which each daily contributed certain sections; the main news section belonged to the Examiner. So Rob could read all about it there; he needn’t go to the press conference at all. But he was going because he couldn’t help himself.
“Come with me,” he said. “We’ll leave from there for Calistoga.”
I wanted to go like I wanted turnips for breakfast, but it made sense—if enduring Martinez at any hour of any day could be said to make sense. He spoke to the media—Rob, an Examiner woman, and four sleepy-looking broadcast types—in the second-floor pressroom. An informal setting, to say the least, cluttered and paper-littered.
“A toxic substance,” he said, “apparently caused the illnesses of eleven persons who were rushed to San Francisco General last night from Pier 39. The substance…”
“What was the toxic substance?”
“The substance was apparently ingested by these persons at the Full Fathom Five restaurant as a result of…”
“Oh, come on, Inspector—how could eleven people…”
“… as a result of eating contaminated food.”
“What was in the food, Inspector?”
“That is not known at this time.”
“But what does it do to you?”
“I do not have those details at this time.”
“Hey, how is everybody, anyhow?”
“This morning six of the victims from Full Fathom Five are in satisfactory condition; four are still in serious condition and…”
“Wait a minute, that’s only ten.”
“…and one man has died.”
The dead man was Brewster Baskett, seventy-seven, of Winnemucca, Nevada. He and his wife, Hallie, had been visiting a son and daughter-in-law in the City. Brewster had caught the flu on their first weekend in town, had gone to bed for a few days, and had just gotten up the day before. The jaunt to Full Fathom Five was his first outing after his illness. Hallie hadn’t been at all sure he was well enough to go, but he’d insisted. A doctor at San Francisco General thought the poison probably wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t already been weak from his recent illness.
“Inspector, how could such a serious accident have happened?”
“We are currently investigating the circumstances of the incident.”
“Do the police think the poisonings were deliberate?”
“That matter is still under investigation.”
I was glad I’d come. If ever I thought Rob pushy or impatient in his reporter mode, I was once again reminded that he was the soul of gentility compared with his fellows—particularly those of the electronic media. We’d met for the first time at a press conference—one I happened to be giving—and he was the only reporter there who didn’t seem part of a swarm of ants at a picnic. Now he was quiet as his brothers and sisters wore out their vocal cords. Quiet as a mousetrap.
When everyone else had left, including Martinez, he sauntered out to the hallway, taking me along, and stood waiting for the elevator with the nice inspector. When the three of us were aboard, Rob said, “Caught up with Lou Zimbardo yet?”
Martinez was shocked into blurting, “What do you know about Zimbardo?”
“Think he’s the Trapper?”
“I don’t even know if the Trapper’s for real.”
“Yeah, but he might be. And if he is, you know about him because I told you. So how about giving me a break?”
“Okay, okay. When the first cops got there, he was gone. Out the back door, probably—who knows? Nobody saw him leave; just all of a sudden no Zimbardo. Anything else?”
“Um—humm. Anything new on Miranda Warning?”
“Who?” And Martinez stepped off the elevator.
Rob didn’t follow. He was silent on the way back down to the first floor and the walk back to the car. When I’d fastened my seat belt and settled back contentedly, just beginning to contemplate the pleasure of the drive north, he said, “I think I’d better not go.”
“To Calistoga? Why not? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“It’s not that. I just need some time to myself.”
“Time to yourself!”
“What’s wrong with that? You’re always saying it.”
“But I say it in advance—when declining an invitation; not when we’re already on our way somewhere.”
He shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t know in advance I was going to feel this way.”
He was driving me home. We were turning onto Green Street now, which meant he’d most certainly made up his mind. I was so hurt I couldn’t think of anything to say.
He touched my leg in a placating way. “Are you very upset?”
“I guess I am. I’m kind of numb, actually.”
“Rebecca, you’re not taking this personally, are you? Because it has nothing to do with you.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Of course not. I just can’t make it this weekend, that’s all. How about next week?” He stopped the car in front of my house.
I nodded and got out, not even kissing him good-bye. Upstairs, I sank into one of my white sofas, turned toward my aquarium, and watched, as if it were a movie. I had some truly spectacular fish at the moment—some fairy basslets that I hoped were going to make it. I watched them weaving in and out among plants and other fish, more graceful than any dancer in the Bolshoi. The hermit crabs scuttled comically, for once failing to amuse me. The anemones—my favorites—reached, as always, for something just outside their grasp, reminding me rather too vividly of the human condition. I was watching to stay numb, to get my mind off the way Rob had snubbed me; but it wasn’t going to work. He’d said it had nothing to do with me—his sudden need for solitude—but the fact remained that I was the person he’d just said he didn’t want to be with.
Of course it was true that we all had needs for solitude, but the perfunctory, sudden way he’d brushed me off, as if he’d just come to a decision, made me think this went a lot deeper. I figured he’d only mentioned next weekend to put off telling me the inevitable—that he was dumping me. I wondered what I’d done wrong. But that was no fun; feeling sorry for myself was more satisfying. While I was doing it, really wallowing quite luxuriously in it, I remembered something that made the wound
even nastier—Rob and I had a date that night. We were going out with Chris and Bob and a friend of theirs from Los Angeles.
Rob must have forgotten it in his sudden need for his own company; but had he? Was he intending to go or not? Who cared? It was an excuse to call him. There was a new message on his machine: “This is Rob Burns. I’m away for the weekend, but I’ll be back Sunday night if you’d like to leave a message when you hear the tone.” I slammed down the receiver long before I heard the tone. Snatching up my gray suede jacket, I went out and got my old gray Volvo and drove to Loehmann’s.
Shopping wouldn’t mend a broken heart, but it could certainly take your mind off it. After a bittersweet forty-five minutes, I found a nice linen dress for summer, a steal at $125, marked down from $200. A very nice linen dress; gray, like my jacket, my car, and my mood.
Very well then; if shopping wouldn’t work, maybe girl talk would. Actually not girl talk. Girl talk is for bawdy lunches with too many glasses of wine; I make a distinction between entertaining adolescent chitchat and having enough sense to seek support in moments of romantic stress from understanding females. Unfortunately, there was an irksome male between me and my understanding sister. Alan was on their tiny porch, having a cup of tea in the sun.
“Hiya, boss. Come to congratulate the groom?”
“You talked her into it?”
“She could never resist me.”
“You’re not kidding? She’s really going to marry you?” I could feel the blood leaving my face.
“Hey, sister-in-law, what’s wrong? You don’t seem as happy as I thought you’d be.”
“Sister-in-law! Oh, help.” I leaned against the wall for support.
“Mickey! Mickey! Come out here—your sister’s sick.”
Oh, help indeed. Two seconds to compose myself and pretend to be happy. One day I was going to murder Kruzick.
“Rebecca!” Mickey came tearing out the door. “Rebecca, what is it?”
I stood up, leaving the safety of the wall, summoning what I hoped would look more like a delighted smile than a horrified grimace. “I was just surprised, that’s all. But, sweetheart, I think it’s wonderful. I couldn’t be more delighted, really—” She looked absolutely baffled. “Delighted about what?”
“I thought … I mean Alan said…”
“I’ve got to get some milk.” Alan ran down the stairs and off around the corner.
“What did Alan say?” asked Mickey.
“He kind of implied that you two had gotten married.”
“Oh. Well, we haven’t—want to come in?”
I came in and had a seat on her wicker sofa so that Lulu the cat wouldn’t claw it to shreds. Mickey made us some tea and sat at the other end. She was looking well, I thought. Always the leaner and slimmer of the Schwartz sisters—let’s face it, the prettier—she was particularly rosy-cheeked and healthy. Pregnancy must be agreeing with her.
“I’m running three miles a day,” she explained. “An unmarried mother has to be ready for anything.”
“You’re really not going to marry him?”
“I don’t see why I should, do you? Our relationship is fine the way it is—why spoil it?”
“Because he might want some legal rights to his own child, for one thing. Also because Mom will open her veins if you don’t.”
“But what about me, Rebecca? What if I plain don’t want to get married?”
“Mickey, frankly I don’t get this. You’re living with the guy. For reasons that I admit have always eluded me, you’re in love with him—correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to have his baby. So why not marry him?”
“What’s with you? You’re the last person I’d expect to try to talk me into it—you nearly fainted when he teased you about it. I saw your face—you were as white as Lulu.”
At that second, white and beautiful Lulu jumped into my lap. “I’m not trying to talk you into it. I’m trying to figure all this out.”
“Okay. I guess I’m not entirely sure of him.”
“Not sure you love him?”
“Oh, come on—no one could possibly live with him if she didn’t love him. It’s not that exactly.”
Suddenly I got it. “You’re not sure you love him enough.”
“That’s it. That’s exactly it. I love him, but…”
Alan spoke, coming in the door: “But will you still love me when I’m sixty-four? Sure you will, babe. Look at this face—who wouldn’t love it? Rebecca, don’t answer.” He walked past us, put the milk in the fridge, and walked out again. “I’m going to play basketball.”
“He does have a certain boyish charm,” I said, scratching Lulu’s ears. “If you like six-year-olds.”
Mickey nodded. “It might wear thin after twenty or thirty years.”
“Make that twenty or thirty minutes. I figure if you can get past an hour, you might as well marry him.”
Mickey smiled. “How are you and Rob doing?”
“Ouch. When you change the subject, you don’t mess around.”
“Uh-oh. You two are fighting?”
“I think he’s dumped me, actually.”
“Whoa. Tell all, starting at the beginning.”
I did and it took a surprisingly long time—I had to explain about the Trapper and the poisonings and the press conference before I could even get to the good-bye scene. “Not good-bye,” said Mickey. “No way.”
Her theory was simple—Rob, though basically a prince of a fellow, simply turned into a sort of hairless werewolf when he was on a hot story, forgetting friends, loved ones, social conventions, obligations, and dates in his avid pursuit of the people’s right to know. No doubt he hadn’t dumped me at all, he’d be back soon, and wouldn’t even notice he’d been missing. In short, she thought I was upset about nothing.
I felt better. “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I should be glad he’s not Alan.”
“Oh, lay off Alan. He still might end up being your brother- in-law.”
“You’re still sure about the baby?”
“Absolutely.”
“Funny world, isn’t it? No wonder Mom has trouble adapting.”
Mickey shook a finger at me. “She’d be a lot happier if you’d just dump that blue-eyed half-breed.”
I left, laughing as I drove home. Poor Mom. She certainly did have trouble adapting. While it was true that Rob was only half Jewish and that was only half good enough for her, she’d admit it in the same breath she endorsed the Ku Klux Klan. Even to herself. Mom was a compassionate, caring, politically correct liberal, with heart perennially bleeding—and eight or ten nasty prejudices she didn’t even know she had. She was perfectly aware, though, that she didn’t much like her older daughter going out with Rob; and remembering that made me feel protective toward him, brought him back into my good graces.
Until I got home, that is, and found the swine hadn’t called. Calling him, I got the same old message: He was gone for the weekend. I supposed I’d better believe it, and better resign myself to going to dinner alone.
7
I met Chris and Bob at the Hayes Street Grill, one of the very few of the myriad newish eateries specializing in “California Cuisine” that, to me, managed to pull off the old San Francisco style—friendly, unpretentious decor (dark wood, white tablecloths) and a nice piece of fish. At the old-style restaurants—joints with names like Jack’s, Sam’s, John’s—your fish was simply grilled, and came, as likely as not, with thick, tempting fries. At the new joints, it had to be mesquite-grilled or, better yet, grilled over Nubian plumwood and garnished with an understated sprig of vitamin-packed cilantro. The fries were thinner, very crisp, very now, very today. Rarely were the customers grilled, but that night was an exception.
The others were bellied up to the bar, waiting for a table. When I came in alone, Chris raised her eyebrows. “Where’s Rob, darlin’? Parking?”
“I’m afraid he couldn’t make it.”
“He�
��s not ill, is he?”
“You had a fight!”
“No, it’s not that. He just wanted—I mean, he had to do something else.”
“You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Everything’s fine. Really.”
Bob cleared his throat: “Chris. Give her a break, okay?”
Bob’s outspoken style had turned Chris off at first, but she’d learned to respect it—especially after he’d joined a men’s consciousness group and done some serious work on his innate male chauvinism. He was now a budding feminist, but with a commanding way about him; Chris liked that a lot.
At the moment, I was grateful for it. I was still wearing the black velvet trench coat my mother had given me, and was beginning to perspire in it. I was aware, too, that my cheeks were flushed with the extreme discomfiture of having had to reveal a very shaky love life in front of a most attractive young man—Bob’s friend from Los Angeles, who was tall, well dressed, and single, judging from his naked ring finger.
“Jeff Simon,” said Bob.
Jewish. (If you cared about such things.)
“He’s with Backus and Weir.”
Another lawyer.
Cute—very cute. Both the situation and Jeff. He had brown crinkly hair, light brown eyes, and regular, not-quite-handsome features. He wore a dark gray suit that didn’t hide the fact that he was a man who took regular exercise seriously. He was smiling—whether at me or my predicament I couldn’t tell.
“Tosi,” said the maitre d’, and showed us to our table.
Jeff was an entertainment lawyer, a job that entitles its holder to dine out anywhere in the country—but particularly in San Francisco—on riveting tales of the follies and foibles of the famous. I say particularly San Francisco because we San Franciscans do, in accordance with Angeleno myth, have a bit of a small-town complex. We care not a fig for emulating Eastern sophistication, but desperately want to feel ourselves a part of what we Californians really think makes the world go around—The Industry, as they call it down south. We don’t like to admit it, but we love nothing more than movie gossip. We thrive on rumors of who’s gay and who’s bisexual, who’s stopped beating his wife, who’s pinching whose bottom, who’s burnt out on what drug. But with the snobbery bred of envy, we love best the stories that make Hollywood look silly and gauche and garish. Jeff had a million of them, and being a transplanted New Yorker, with his own geographic bigotry, told them with the same wicked delight that a native Californian might have. I was quiet for a while as he regaled us.
