“Like tonight?”
“Like tonight.”
“Why?”
“Ask me a different one.”
“Okay. Anything else to confess?”
I had to laugh. “I think that’s enough for one night.”
“So you’re working on your … issues. In therapy.”
“I guess. When you put it that way.”
He sipped his coffee. “What kind of person carries that—that weapon around with them? That stick you pulled.”
I sighed. This was where questions led. “My job.”
“I thought you owned a bookstore.”
“I do. But I do some other work, too. On the side. Kind of after hours.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “I’m starting to see what you mean about the not-telling-me-everything-at-once thing. What do you do?”
“Sometimes I help people find things they’re looking for. Or learn things they’re trying to figure out. And sometimes … I help women. Women who need my help.”
“Help them how?”
“I help them get out of situations that aren’t good for them. I help them get away from people who are bad for them.”
“How do you do that?”
“I talk to those people in a language they understand.”
He took this in. “Do you carry a gun?”
“Ethan,” I said. “All in due time. But now I have a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Can you handle it?”
“Handle it?”
“Me. If you can’t, I understand. Bryan—my ex—he couldn’t. But I want to know. Because if you can’t, then there’s no point in talking any more about it.”
He toyed with donut crumbs, pushing them around the table. “Honestly, Nikki, I’m a little freaked out. An hour ago we were on a double date to a jazz concert. Now I’m sitting with a girl who I just watched take out three guys with knives. And I kind of feel like I’m dating Dirty Harry. So can I think about all of this for a bit?”
“Of course you can. And for the record, it was one guy with one knife. And my legs are way nicer than Dirty Harry’s. If you don’t agree with that, we have bigger problems.”
He smiled for the first time since we had sat down. “I’ll give you that.”
There didn’t seem to be much else to talk about. I got up. “I guess I’ll go. Get in touch if you want.”
I walked out of the shop. Feeling lousy. Thinking again of celibacy. Solitude. This time for real. This time for good. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be the relationship type no matter what I wanted. Maybe it would never work with anyone normal. Someone like Ethan.
Choices. Maybe we couldn’t choose everything. No matter what we wanted.
I felt my mood overtaking me. I knew that after I walked back to Lake Merritt for my motorcycle I wouldn’t go home. Didn’t matter how late it was. Knew I’d head north, toward the ocean. To the little blue house above the beach.
WEEK THREE
19
“How have you been, Nikki?”
“This guy I met. Ethan. I think I blew it.”
“What do you mean, blew it?”
“I showed him too much of myself.”
“Was someone hurt? What happened?”
“We were on a double date. Some guys tried to mug us. So much for my suburban Scrabble fantasies.”
“You’re all okay?”
“One of them got hurt a little. But that’s what he gets.”
“You did something to him?”
“Look. I’ve lost plenty of sleep over plenty of things. But this guy? Nope. He pulled a knife. I told him I didn’t like knives. What does he do? He goes and waves it in my face. That was deeply irresponsible. That’s on him.”
“And Ethan—it upset him when that happened?”
“Yeah. His friends, too. Actually, everyone seemed upset. Except me. But what was I supposed to do? Let him rob us? Be a normal girl and cry for two hours afterwards while her boyfriend strokes her hair and calms her down? Is that more honest?”
“Do you consider yourself self-destructive, Nikki?”
“Of course not.”
“But you find yourself in these situations where you seem to … raise the stakes.”
“I don’t. That’s the thing. Why does no one understand that? I match the stakes. That’s what I’ve always believed in.”
“Harassed by a group of men, you refuse to walk away, respond with violence. Held up by muggers, you refuse to hand over your possessions, respond with violence.”
“I’m not self-destructive. I like life. I’ve worked hard for what I have.”
“But your responses. That bar fight, costing you a relationship, legal fees, time. This mugging, perhaps costing you another relationship. Are those positive outcomes?”
“I was protecting them.”
“This notion of protecting people. Your previous boyfriend, now Ethan—did they want the kind of protection you offer?”
“There’s not really time to have them fill out a questionnaire.”
“Why are you so swift to act violently to protect these people?”
“Because I care about them.”
“Was someone’s life in danger?”
“Bad things happen in this world. They needed me.”
“Who needed you?”
“Never mind.”
“Tell me more about your family. Why are you holding back?”
“Because I don’t talk about them.”
“Why won’t you let me see these parts of your life? You have a brother. During our first meeting you said you take care of him. Do you protect your brother?”
“I told you I don’t want to talk about him.”
“This urge to protect. Where did it start?”
“Don’t ask me that.”
“I’m worried about you, Nikki. Your refusal to face your past—whatever’s there.”
“I face it every day. You have no idea.”
“I’ve studied many types of impulsive behavior. Over time, it tends to worsen. Alcoholics drink more, addicts use more. People who engage in risky behavior don’t fix themselves. And I’m worried, Nikki, that at some point you’ll react to a situation in a way that has permanent consequences. That you’ll do something you can’t take back.”
“Maybe sometimes there should be permanent consequences.”
“Even if they destroy your life?”
“I’m not self-destructive. I’m not some psycho. There are people in this world who need help.”
“And you think you need to help them.”
“I think somebody does.”
“We’re out of time. I’ll see you next week, okay?”
“Like I have a choice.”
20
I met Charles Miller on the fishing pier in the Berkeley Marina. It was windy and the water of the Bay was choppy. The long pier extended toward San Francisco like an outstretched arm. He was sitting on a bench watching a woman tossing handfuls of corn kernels to a group of pigeons and gulls. Smaller brown sparrows hopped efficiently between the larger birds. Charles was an unusually short man, maybe five foot two or three, in his late fifties. Clean-shaven, with sparse hair and wire glasses. He wore blue jeans and a plain white athletic sweatshirt.
“Morning, Charles.”
“Morning, Nikki.”
We walked out onto the pier. Men fished. Some alone, some in clusters of twos and threes, coolers on the ground to hold the catch. I wondered what they caught. What was out there in the cold water. Across the Bay I could see the San Francisco skyline. A vast bank of fog loomed over pale buildings. I could barely make out the Golden Gate Bridge, shrouded by mist. A sailboat cut through the water, leaning steeply to one side as it tacked. I nodded at it. “What happens if they tip?”
He followed my gaze. “Then they’re in the water.”
He lit a brown, foul-smelling cigarillo. Charles loved the things. He puffed and the end glowed to life. Gray smoke trickled away. �
��Everything he told you checks out. Gunn is classic Valley. Dropped out of Stanford—technically got kicked out for bad grades, but who’s counting—did a hitch in finance in New York, came back to California, founded three start-ups that all went bust. Still managed to raise enough to start Care4. Just one funny thing. They’re not waiting on any investments. All of that went through years ago.”
“Maybe I misunderstood.”
“Guess so. Here, I even got this.” With evident pride, he handed me two photocopied sheets of paper bearing the distinctive tree seal of Stanford. In the upper corner of the top page was a blurry black-and-white photo of a much younger Gunn, a confident grin spread across his face. Next to the photograph was housing information: a dorm (Wilbur Hall), a room number, and two other names who must have been roommates, Martin Gilman and George Levinson. The second paper was a transcript. Bs and Cs first semester became Cs and two Fs second semester. Gunn had evidently not been the studious type by the time he reached college. Seeing the unimpressive transcript, I wondered how he had even gotten in.
My face must have showed my thoughts. “A tennis recruit,” Charles added pointedly.
I folded the paper into a pocket as we walked on. “How about Karen Li?”
“I couldn’t find much beyond the basics. Born in Beijing but came over to the States in 1990, when she was ten, to live with relatives. Standard B.S. in computer science, standard LinkedIn profile, nothing unusual. I got in touch with a former boss who said she was a great employee, easy to work with, friendly, and a brilliant programmer. Certainly doesn’t seem the type to make waves. She’s been at Care4 for about five years. That’s about it.”
We’d reached the end of the pier. There was a gap of water, and then maybe twenty yards out was a chunk of a different pier that I’d never figured out. An island. No one would ever walk on it. It led nowhere and nothing led to it. It was just there. San Francisco didn’t seem any closer, but looking back I could see how far we were from shore. The sailboat was gone. Nearby, a man reeled in something small and wriggling.
“Thanks, Charles,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
He gave me a look. “I can’t help wondering what they need you for.”
* * *
After leaving the Berkeley Marina I headed straight to the bookstore. The first thing I did was to call Ethan. Not knowing if the urge was right or completely wrong. He didn’t pick up. Half-relieved, I left a message. “Hey, it’s Nikki. I just wanted to say—” I stopped, phone pressed against my cheek. There was a lot I wanted to say. “I hope you’re having a good day.” I hung up. Feeling the familiar empty feeling curling around me, a voice assuring a lifetime of solitude. A feeling that whispered to me I had ruined whatever good thing I’d had. Just like I always had, and always would.
A woman in her mid-forties was browsing the Staff Picks table that we had set up at the front. She had a solitary air that connected to my own mood. She didn’t seem to be looking for assistance but I went over anyway. “Can I help you find something?”
She looked up, surprised. “I’m not sure.” She was dressed formally for Berkeley, a slate-colored dress with a high neckline, face carefully made-up. Her hair had been done recently and pearl earrings were fastened in her ears.
“What kind of books do you like?”
“I haven’t read much lately,” she admitted. “Blink and a decade or two goes by, and all I have to show for it are a handful of summer beach reads.” She didn’t smile when she talked but her manner was not unfriendly.
“I’m sure you have a lot more to show than that.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked abruptly. “I have some with me.”
“It’s eleven A.M.,” I pointed out. I regretted the words as soon as I spoke them. I lived a life of odder hours and fewer rules than most. It wasn’t my place to question when this woman wanted a drink.
She was unfazed by the question anyway. “Then I’m just in time for lunch.” She drew a bottle from her handbag. The label said SAINTSBURY. I searched my mind, wondering why it was familiar. “Any relation to George Saintsbury, the writer?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. A wine shop down the street recommended it.”
“Notes on a Cellar-Book—it must be the same person.” I looked at the bottle curiously. A Napa pinot noir. I’d have to make my way over sometime. I felt a strong alliance to businesses referencing nineteenth-century English writers. After all, I had my Brimstone Magpie. “Have a seat, why don’t you?” I gestured to an armchair and found a couple of clean coffee cups and a bottle opener. I twisted the cork off and poured. “Cheers,” I said. “To something or other.”
“To something or other,” she agreed. We drank. She put her mug down and tugged at one of the jeweled rings she wore where a wedding band would normally go.
“What brings you into the neighborhood?”
She looked at her wine in the mug and then up, showing sad, intelligent brown eyes. She spoke in measured, thoughtful sentences, and as she spoke her gaze roved around the store. “Two weeks ago my husband told me he was leaving. I thought he meant for work. He meant for another woman. Arguments, couples therapy … he skipped all of the local stops, you might say. He was on the express train. Stop one, a happy marriage, stop two, no marriage at all. He’s a professor of mathematics and I woke up today to a house precisely fifty percent empty. One of our two dogs, gone; one of our two cars, gone; even half the bath towels. I’m surprised the mattress wasn’t chopped in half. Formulaic. One marriage, divided by two, equals divorce.” She interlaced the fingers of her hands, pulled them apart.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Everyone says you shouldn’t let those things derail your life, even though by definition that’s exactly what they do. So I decided to put on nice clothes, buy a good bottle of wine, take myself out to a nice restaurant for lunch. Only I forgot to make a reservation, and so now I’m on some waitlist, waiting, which is kind of how I feel the rest of my life will be. Waiting to be seated, waiting for something good. When really all you get is a very young, very beautiful hostess telling you with dreadful politeness that you can’t come in.”
She poured more wine for both of us.
“Which restaurant?”
“The Redwood Tavern. Right down the block.”
I got up. “Be right back.” At the counter, I called The Redwood Tavern and asked for Marlene, giving my name. I knew she’d be in. She wasn’t one of those chefs who opened a restaurant and then made themselves as scarce as possible the moment it became popular. After a minute’s hold she picked up. “Nikki?”
“Can I get a friend off the waitlist? She’s had a hard day.”
The answer was immediate. “Send her in. We’ll have a table ready by the time she’s here.”
I paused by a shelf on my way back to the woman, who sat there quietly with her wine. “Go get lunch. Tell them you were over here.”
She was perplexed. “Will that matter?”
“Give it a shot.” I handed the woman a paperback. “Take this, too. I’ve always felt that you’re not dining alone if you have a good book. The Days of Abandonment—you know it?”
She took the book curiously. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“Sort of a sad book, but a good one. You might like the ending especially.”
The phone was ringing again. I excused myself and picked up, thinking Marlene had forgotten to tell me something and was calling back. “Brimstone Magpie.”
“Nikki? Is that you?” It was Gunn, his voice raw with tension. “Karen Li. She disappeared and we have no idea where she is.” His words came hurriedly. “You have to find her, Nikki. This time she’s gone too far. We think she’s stolen something crucial, and we need to find out for sure.” He fell silent, as though trying to organize and control his words. “You need to find her and stop her. Before it’s too late.”
21
Buster’s World Class Bike Smog & Auto Repair was in Vallejo, over the Carquinez
Bridge. Even in the Bay Area, Vallejo was just far enough and plenty ugly enough that no one was jumping to buy homes there. The kind of city that most people would only drive through on their way to somewhere else. Buster’s World Class was buried between a Jack in the Box burger place and a payday lender. I’d never been to either and never planned to. But I went to Buster’s from time to time. I ignored the small parking lot out front and instead rode around to the back, straight into an open garage bay. Roughly half the garage was devoted to cars, the other half motorcycles. Two cars were up on lifts, a few more on the ground. None of them looked anything close to under warranty. The motorcycles were newer. I saw a Ninja and a Ducati, a few Harleys, a massive Honda Gold Wing.
I got off the Aprilia and one of the mechanics came over. He was a skinny teenager with a bad complexion and a buzz cut. “If you’re looking for the waiting area it’s down that way.” His eyes wandered openly around my body before settling on the area of my chest. I didn’t know why. My zipped-up leather jacket wasn’t exactly showing a lot of skin.
“I’m not looking for the waiting area,” I told him. “I’m looking for Buster.”
He stopped looking me over quite so obviously and nodded across the garage. “He’s working. Might not want to bother him. Some friendly advice.”
I found Buster halfway under a blue Acura coupe. He was horizontal on a wheeled creeper seat. Only his legs stuck out. I could tell it was him because he always wore the same beige Timberland work boots with a scuff in the left toe. I kicked his boot without bothering to be gentle. Buster wasn’t a gentle guy and he didn’t demand that quality in others.
A deep voice growled out from somewhere under the car. “Whoever did that better be here to tell me I won the fucking Powerball.”
“You won the fucking Powerball, Buster.”
“I know that voice. It haunts my dreams.” He rolled out from under the chassis and squinted up at me, a lit Camel cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. “Nikki Griffin, in the flesh? What brings you into the fancy part of town? Get lost coming off the freeway?”
Save Me from Dangerous Men--A Novel Page 11
