by Julie Smith
“So somebody at this studio got the idea to do Catcher in the Rye—not bad, huh? It spoke to the last generation, why not this one? Everybody thought it’d be a welcome relief from vampire demolition derby flicks—sort of a thinking kid’s movie. My client was very timid and insisted I go with him for a meeting. This studio exec says, ‘It’s hot, like, it’s the E.T. of the eighties, only the alien’s a kid, see? But we gotta make it eighties, not sixties, you know?’ I pointed out that we were really talking fifties, and the guy looks at me like I’m crazy. ‘Fifties?’ he says, like this is a new concept. The guy’s head of the studio and only twenty-seven years old. So I let it go, and he says, ‘Let’s do it like Miami Vice, or better yet, Repo Man. It’s gotta look like MTV, you know what I mean?’ So we say we’ll think about it and we leave, our heads kind of reeling.
“We don’t know what to think, maybe the guy’s burnt out on coke or something, but he says he’ll set up another meeting. However, he doesn’t and finally I call him. And guess what? The studio’s already sitting on a proposal for Catcher in the Rye. Somebody else got the idea five years ago, only they never made the movie for certain reasons that I’ll reveal in a minute. By now this baby mogul’s completely turned around—convinced the five-year-old idea is the way to go. Here’s what it is: an animated version in which all the characters are dogs.”
Bob said: “Give me a break!”
Jeff held up a hand. “This is the verbatim truth. I am not making up one word.”
“I suppose,” said Chris, “they’re going to call it Fido.”
“Dufus. Can you guess what the hang-up is?”
“The S.P.C.A.,” said Bob.
“The J. D. Salinger Anti-Defamation League,” said Chris.
I said, “Salinger.”
“Almost right. No one in the entire studio, located in fabulous Hollywood, the chutzpah capital of the world, has been able to work up the nerve to approach him.”
He had me pretty well charmed. I could easily have listened all night, but eventually he started, as politeness demanded, to draw me out. I talked about what was on my mind—the Trapper’s note.
It couldn’t yet be published, but there was nothing wrong with four pals chewing it over along with the thresher shark. Jeff thought it was hokum—the work of an attention-seeking nut. He also thought the wine a little fruity, the fish a trifle overdone. On the last two points, he was right, perhaps—and yet both were delicious. If it had been left to me, I simply would have enjoyed my dinner rather than dwelt on it. He was a man with a very analytical mind.
“But something did happen at Pier 39,” I insisted. “How do you explain that?”
“Simple. This Zimbardo character read about your Sanchez—the man on the cross—and cashed in on it.”
“But why? What did he have to gain by writing the note: He had everything to lose, it seems to me—he put the cops on guard; they might have stopped him.”
“I expect he just wanted a little attention. I can identify with that—can’t you?” He looked straight at me with those light brown eyes, and I won’t pretend I was entirely unmoved. I think perhaps I blushed, because suddenly he got very flustered, tripping all over himself with excuse me’s and I-didn’t-mean-it-that-ways. Which naturally caused both Chris and Bob practically to roll on the floor. Unnerved as much by their merriment as by Jeff’s blatant flirting, I stayed a polite fifteen minutes after the coffee arrived, and beat a cowardly retreat. I wasn’t used to being out on my own; it felt so good it made me nervous.
But if I thought I was getting away that easily, I was quite mistaken—Jeff insisted on walking me to my car, keeping up a running commentary on what a pleasure it was to meet another lawyer, and how very difficult it was to meet Jewish girls (why, I couldn’t imagine—I could have introduced him to fifteen or twenty), and how very nice it would be to see me again. I stuck my hand out when we got to the Volvo, just in case; obediently he took it, kissing me gently even as he shook it, leaving me thinking Rob wasn’t the only shrimp in the bay. And hating myself for thinking it. But dammit, Rob had deserted me.
The deserter phoned the next morning, about the time I’d finished reading my Sunday Exonicle (combined Examiner and Chronicle), learning that it was now official: The police were seeking kitchen worker Lou Zimbardo in connection with the Pier 39 poisonings. Rob’s voice was the croak of a beaten man, but I managed to control my sympathy for a moment or two: “Oh, Rob, how are you? Did you have a nice time alone?”
“Not too good, to tell you the truth. Things didn’t work out quite like I hoped.”
“Oh?”
“I got mugged.”
End of control: “Mugged! Are you hurt? Is anything broken? Oh, pussycat! Please say you’re okay!”
“I’m okay.” But he sounded so pathetic I had to fight back tears.
“You sound awful.”
“My jaw’s swollen. They hit me a little.”
“Oh, Rob! I’ll bring you some soup.”
“Soup!” He whooped. “You sound like your mom.”
“I didn’t mean chicken soup,” I said, very dignified. “I had in mind some thick and nourishing split pea. In the event of a concussion or broken leg, of course, I’d have offered to grill you a steak. But I thought with a bruised jaw you might not feel like chewing.”
“I don’t. But I don’t feel like sipping either, thanks. I’m sorry I teased you.”
“It’s okay. Or will be if you tell me what happened.”
“I guess I’d better. I sort of lied yesterday.”
“Oh.” Ouch.
“It wasn’t that I had to be alone, exactly. I had some work to do.”
“Is that all? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t approve. See, I think Miranda Warning is the key to this whole Trapper thing; so I went to find her.”
“How did you know where to look?”
“I didn’t. I just went to the Tenderloin and asked around—remember, we thought she must live there?”
“Did you get anywhere?”
“Mugged.”
“Poor baby.”
“Stupid baby.”
“No sign of Miranda?”
“Not a trace.”
“You’re sure I can’t bring you something?”
“Positive. I’m about to break the world’s indoor snoring record. How about lunch tomorrow?”
I didn’t like it at all—I wanted to see him desperately, to make sure he wasn’t maimed or disfigured, or if he was, to tell him I didn’t care, I’d love him anyway. But I realized that this time he probably very much wanted to be alone; I could certainly sympathize. “Okay,” I said. “Lunch by all means.”
But it wasn’t to be. I’d hardly gotten to the office on Monday when he phoned. “I got another note.”
“From the Trapper?”
“Yes. He’s real, Rebecca—I’m sure of it. Shall I read it to you?”
“Sure.”
“‘Dear Mr. Burns: Ever since 1 came here I’ve had nothing but trouble and now the whole city is going to pay. What would this crummy joint be without tourists? Too bad a few of them have to suffer for the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah! But the more people who stay away, the better off they’ll be in the long run. The ones that don’t come here will thank me. Watch me close this hellhole down!’ It’s signed ‘The Trapper.’”
“Ecch. Pretty awful—but he didn’t actually say he did the poisonings.”
“Listen to the P.S.: ‘By the way, I hope the tourists liked the local mussels. I put the good ones in the cabinet in the men’s room.’”
“Mussels! They’re quarantined!”
“Right. The cops were being cagey about the poison to see if the Trapper would ’fess up. They got the hospital and the victims’ families to keep quiet, too. So now there’s absolutely no doubt.”
“The cops found good mussels in the men’s room?”
“Uh-huh. When the local mussels are quarantined, all the restaura
nts use Eastern ones. All the Trapper had to do was substitute a plastic bag of local ones for a bag of the Eastern ones—which he put in the men’s room. That’s why all the poisonings came at once. The restaurant opened the new bag and everyone who ate the first batch out of it got sick.”
“My God!”
“Feel a cold wind blowing down your neck, babe? That’s the start of a climate of fear. Listen, I’ve got to cancel lunch. Martinez and Curry are coming and someone from the mayor’s office. We’ve got to hash things out.”
“What things?”
“The cops don’t want us to run the note. They’re afraid it’ll cause a panic.”
“It will. I’m panicked and I’m not even a tourist.”
“True; it will. But wouldn’t you prefer to know there’s a homicidal maniac on the loose so you could stay off the streets if you felt like it?”
“I think I would. I wish we could have warned people away from Pier 39.”
“That’s the way I feel. As it happened, though, he timed it so we couldn’t. He substituted the mussels the same day we got the letter, so at least no one got hurt because we made the wrong decision.”
My stomach contracted into a hard little knot. “I keep thinking about the poor old man who died. And his family. Rob, please don’t…”
I stopped myself in midsentence.
“Don’t what?”
“Nothing. Don’t be a stranger. I’m sorry you can’t make lunch. I’ll miss you.”
I hung up, thanking my stars I’d caught myself. I’d been about to tell Rob, don’t get involved, don’t expose yourself, stay out of this horrible thing; exactly—precisely—the way my mother had spoken to me on more than one occasion. Was it just habit—the habit of hearing it over and over—that made me want to say that? Fear was my mother’s M.O.—was I catching it? I hoped not. I hoped this was an exception to the way I looked at life and not the start of a fear habit of my own, because I hated the way it felt. I was frightened for Rob and frightened for myself and frightened for all the poor souls from Cincinnati who wanted a look at the Golden Gate Bridge in spring, and frightened for anyone who might be mistaken for a tourist or who might be near a tourist attraction next time the Trapper struck. After all, plenty of our landmarks were part of our everyday life.
No doubt I could have worked myself up to a terrifying neurotic frenzy, but a distraction presented itself. Jeff Simon phoned and asked me to dinner. Of course I declined, but it did no good.
“Look, I just enjoy your company. That’s all. I know you’re seeing someone—I even know his name and what he does, since you talked endlessly about him last night.”
“I don’t think I—”
“But I’m up here for a week on business. Taking a deposition—you’re one of the few women I know who even understand the word—and I’m lonely, all right? I want to be with somebody intelligent and have a nice dinner. That’s absolutely all, I promise.”
“Rob might—” Rob might call. But then he might not. I had a right to do what I wanted with my evenings, without feeling I had to wait by the phone like some Valley Girl with styling mousse for brains. Things with Rob were definitely shaky; and I liked Jeff Simon. Maybe I owed it to myself to get to know him. “Okay,” I said. “Eight o’clock.”
“I’ll pick you up at your place.”
I looked at my watch. I had a deposition of my own to take in half an hour.
8
I didn’t get home till seven, but that was still plenty of time to feed the fish, shower, and change clothes. With a little time left over to talk on the phone if anyone happened to call. But Rob didn’t.
Very well then. I applied some unaccustomed violet eye shadow. But to what end I didn’t know—in the hope, I guess, of getting a little male admiration from whatever quarter I could.
My attire for the evening was nouveau court jester—black pants that fit like tights, topped with a giant silver-gray sweater. In my case, the sweater had to be Godzilla-sized to cover telltale top-of-thigh bulge. In truth, being five feet five and a hundred twenty-five pounds, I was a bit on the short, rounded side for the medieval look, but I’d bought the outfit after seeing Chris in one like it. Being six feet tall and three-quarters leg, she pulled it off spectacularly. Oh, well. I’d gotten the entire costume, mohair sweater and all, at a January sale for eighty dollars. How could I go wrong?
Jeff didn’t seem to think I had. He was quite mannerly about it, sweeping his eyes face to foot most discreetly, but nonetheless sweeping them. He turned from my person to my pad. “Ah, a reader. Hardly anyone is anymore.”
“All my friends read.”
He shook his head. “I can’t find anyone who does. I moved out from New York two years ago and I’m still suffering culture shock.”
“Can’t find anyone to read the Sunday Times with?”
“You understand!”
“I ought to—I’ve been out with enough New Yorkers.”
“Oh. You seem like one of us. I mean—intelligent.”
“I was born and raised in Marin County, California, hot-tub capital of the world.”
“You must have gone East to school.”
“Nope. Cal and then Boalt for law school. All I had to do was cross the bridge.”
“But your apartment—” He made a sweeping gesture. “It’s so spare—so Bauhaus.”
In a way, I suppose he was right. It was all black and white, with here and there a little red, much like my wardrobe. I abominate brown, yellow, orange, and all warm colors. I had two deep white sofas, facing each other, with a chrome and glass coffee table in between, a chrome lamp, and a dark piano on a Flokati rug. Rather wintry and sparse indeed.
But I also had a seven-foot palm, two rife, lush asparagus ferns the size of medicine balls, and my hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium, teeming with marine life in every color on the planet. Was Jeff blind?
“How about the wildlife?” I asked.
“Nobody’s perfect.”
Sometimes I think there’s something distinctly anhedonic in the ex-New Yorker. Still, Jeff had another side—he could tell a great story.
“So far,” he said, “I’ve found the food in San Francisco fairly overrated. Do you know Khan Toke?”
“You didn’t like the Hayes Street Grill?”
“It was okay.” He looked crestfallen. “I just wanted to try something new. Don’t you like Thai food?”
“Sure. Let’s go there.” I admit I was intimidated. Since he’d said he didn’t like San Francisco restaurants I was afraid to suggest any place else—it mightn’t pass muster with his Eastern tastes. But I definitely had my doubts about Khan Toke, doubts that had a great deal more to do with the atmosphere than the very excellent food.
A waiter took our shoes and led us barefoot to our table, where we were invited to sit on the floor next to each other, not even across the table, but quite close, with shoes informally off and legs curled under us, as if we were longtime friends lounging together. It was a dark, elegant, sensual restaurant.
“Very romantic,” said Jeff.
My hands started to sweat, but I said nothing. I was at odds with myself; it was romantic and on the one hand, I liked that quite well; on the other, I felt guilty and loyal to Rob and a bit bullied—after all, Jeff had made a particular point of not wanting romance. I ordered a glass of wine, knowing I would have to switch to beer when the fiery food came, but for the moment very much needing something smooth and grapy and likely to encourage the two disputatious Rebeccas to come to terms.
Jeff told his stories which, along with the wine, beer, fish balls, curries, and spicy, minty dainties, worked wonders to put me at ease. This time I learned that a certain sex bomb female singer liked to prowl lesbian bars in disguise, that three male heartthrobs were said to be suffering from AIDS, that two seemingly thriving studios were on the verge of bankruptcy, and that a cable TV station was doing a musical version of Pride and Prejudice set in the year 2100.
Once he was done
entertaining me royally, Jeff apologized for hogging the floor and asked me once again about myself, whereupon I unleashed all my worries about Rob and the Trapper, and all my unhappiness with Rob in what Mickey had called his werewolf-reporter role. Jeff clucked sympathetically until the bill came and then, suddenly horrified at what I’d done, I clammed up, too embarrassed to speak. “I’ve been awful company,” I said finally. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“What?” Jeff spoke absently. “You’ve been great.” We got up to leave. “You don’t think we could catch something from this rug, do you?”
“Jeff, for heaven’s sake—through your socks?”
His smile was a trifle rueful. “You never know. What did you think of the restaurant?”
“Delicious. Really terrific. Thanks for bringing me.”
“You didn’t think the duck was a little overdone?”
“It seemed fine to me.”
“I thought the fish balls were a bit on the greasy side. Is this neighborhood safe to walk in?”
“Sure. One of the safest in the city.” We headed toward his rented car.
“It doesn’t look all that savory.”
“You’ve got a nerve. Just about anywhere in New York makes me quail and quake.”
“But New York’s got so much character.”
I was still feeling guilty about pouring out my troubles, and wanted to ask if I could buy Jeff dessert, but I was afraid he wouldn’t like any place I suggested, so I let it go. I did scrape up the courage to ask him in for coffee and almost instantly regretted it. “It’s Italian roast,” I said.
“That’s okay. I’ll just have tea.”
“Oh. Sorry, I haven’t got any.” I did, but it was only Lipton’s, and I was damned if I was going to admit that.
