“What a waste.” Perry drank an amount and adjusted his sling. “That Bettinger’s pretty grumpy.”
“Intellectuals are usually grumpy.”
“Why?”
“Dumb guys always asking them, ‘Why?’”
“Minute ago you said I was smart.”
“Things change.”
Perry drank another lump of stout. “You think we’ll find Sebastian?”
“We’ll find him.” Huan sucked on his cigarette. “Though right now, something far more important is going on…”
“What?”
“Who.”
“Who?”
The pockmarked Asian exhaled smoke, and the redhead watched it float toward the bar, where a robust woman with platinum hair had put herself on display. A purple sweater and black slacks affectionately clung to her equipment.
“That’s a specimen,” remarked Perry. “She’s thrown a look?”
“Twice.”
“That’s four eyeballs.”
“Plus mascara.”
Perry scrutinized the drink that traveled to the woman’s painted lips. “That’s an olive in there?”
“Probably not a miniature avocado.”
“She looks kinda lonely … forlorn, maybe.” The redhead gave some beer a tour of his mouth and sent it to the basement. “Might need some cheering up.”
“People say you’re laughable.”
“I try.”
The woman pulled a lock of platinum hair behind her left ear and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Her movements were sensual and very self-conscious.
“I didn’t even say ‘Action.’”
“I’m gonna play cards.” Huan turned his cigarette into a miniature hearth and rose from the table. “Have fun.”
“When you get home, give Heather my warmest and most invasive regards.”
Everybody who met the pockmarked Asian’s adorable Thai wife had a crush on her.
“Probably not.”
“Don’t make me steal her away from you,” warned Perry.
“You’re not exactly her type.”
“What kind does she go for?”
“Deloused.”
“This from a guy who recycles.”
“That’s just for pretend.”
“Like church?”
“Just like.” Huan pulled on his coat. “See you tomorrow.”
“Be safe.”
The pockmarked Asian shrugged.
“Don’t be flip. It’s dangerous out there, and you’d better be careful.”
“I’ll be careful. Good luck with that olive.”
“You’re talking to a pimento.” Perry ruffled his red hair.
Curvature appeared on Huan’s chin, which was a very rare occurrence. Departing, he patted his partner’s back.
Perry tilted his mug until it became a transparent vessel, set it down, and rose from the booth. Something with dripping church organs and a singer who had the pipes for gospel replaced the soul song about ice cream.
Stretching, the redheaded detective surveyed the bar. The seat to the right of the woman who had platinum hair was occupied by a guy that did not have a chance, and the one to her left was wide open.
“I noticed a vacancy,” said Perry, landing upon the latter stool.
The platinum specimen set down her drink, adjusted her tight purple sweater, and pulled a wisp from her face, which was a sharp and striking one that seemed to be of German origin. Although the dim blue lighting made it hard to tell if she employed a significant amount of makeup, the detective was not overly concerned—all of the lamps in his apartment had dimmers.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” remarked Perry.
“I usually have better ideas.” The woman’s voice was smooth, and her breasts were things of great interest.
“My name’s Perry.”
Preoccupied by troublesome thoughts, the platinum specimen watched her olive.
“You can use a pseudonym if you’d like,” suggested the detective. “Or I can give you a name that’s commonly used in limericks.”
The woman continued her ruminations.
“Look,” Perry said, “you were sitting here, giving me looks—as noticeable as neon—so I came over. But I’m polite. If you want to be alone, I’ll go away.”
“You don’t need to go.”
The drink levitated to the platinum specimen’s mouth, and the olive disappeared. Chewing, she set down her martini glass.
Perry observed the machinations of her Teutonic jaw. “I bet your teeth are real soft.”
A tiny smile crept underneath the woman’s nose. “Soft and sharp.”
“Perry.”
The chewed olive was sent to the dungeon. “I’m Kristie.”
With a raised finger, the detective garnered the attention of the bartender, who was a tacit, dumpy, and dour iteration of his species. “A thing with an olive for the lady, and a stout for me.”
“Mm.” The creature in the apron faced his bottles and extended appendages.
Perry returned his attention to Kristie. “That’s your real name?”
“I respond to it.”
“I like responsiveness. You live in this area?”
The platinum specimen frowned. “Do I look like I live in this area?”
The detective knew then that he was talking to a person who had some baggage. “You look like you could live anywhere you wanted.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“I’m hoping.”
“Seems like an insinuation.”
The baggage was turning into freightage.
“Cute girls have options,” Perry defended, “and beautiful women have them to the tenth power.”
“So that’s what women are? Things to look at?”
“No, no, no—of course not. I’m in it for the smell.”
“I thought you said you were polite.”
“Within reason.”
“So you like to objectify women?”
The detective knew then that Kristie liked to go to marches and rallies. “Any person you don’t know is an object. Having an interaction like this—talking—gives you some idea what’s inside that object.”
“But it’s mostly about looks for you.”
“No. It starts with looks, ’cause that’s how attraction works in the part of the brain we can’t control.” An idea occurred to Perry. “Show me a picture of the last guy you dated.”
“I deleted him.”
The detective pulled out his cell phone, which had Internet capabilities. “Tell me his name.”
“No.”
“I’ll bet he’s handsome,” said Perry, pocketing his device. “I’ll bet one thousand bucks that you did not rise above the crude impulses of physical attraction and date a bald, zitty midget just because he had a great-ass personality.”
“You’re not that handsome,” said the platinum specimen, grinning.
The detective relaxed, pleased that he had successfully navigated the first minefield. “I’ve been told I’m pretty damn okay.”
A mug of beer bumped Perry’s elbow, and as the empty martini glass changed into one that was full, he withdrew a twenty and put it on the bar. Claiming the bill, the creature in the apron returned to its lair.
Kristie nodded appreciatively. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Perry guided his cylinder of stout toward the woman’s glass. “To pretty objects.”
“And those less fortunate.”
Two distinct pitches rang.
A bathroom door opened, and white light spilled into the bar, brightly illuminating the pair as if they were the stars of an impromptu musical. Perry got a very good look at Kristie, whose face evinced some wear, but was still very pretty overall. If he had to guess, he would have said that she was a youthful and healthy forty-two-year-old woman.
“I’m forty-two,” said Kristie, setting down her martini.
“Never would’ve guessed.”
The bathr
oom door closed, and the spotlight was gone. Troubling thoughts returned to the platinum specimen.
“What is it?” asked the detective.
Kristie sighed. Perry hated this sound, which had been his ex-wife’s primary manner of communication during the last miserable year of their marriage, but today in the bar, he let it sail.
“I was supposed to meet somebody here tonight,” said the woman.
“You’re in luck.”
“A guy.”
“Still lucky.”
“We went out last week—had a really good time—and were supposed to meet up here.” Kristie glanced at her watch. “More than an hour ago.”
“And then things changed for the better.”
The expression on the platinum specimen’s face did not affirm the detective’s statement, and he knew instantly that his efforts had been wasted. Sipping from his stout, he searched the establishment for new prospects.
Kristie set down her drink. “I think I should call a cab.”
A lone star twinkled in the black vacuum of space.
“You don’t have a car?” asked Perry.
“My friend dropped me off. Jordan—that’s the guy I was supposed to meet—has a car, and … well…”
“Again, you’re in luck.”
“No, thank you.” The woman shook her head. “Sorry, but I’ll just call a cab.”
“I’m a cop.”
Doubt wrinkled the platinum specimen’s brow.
The detective set down his beer and displayed his badge.
“You really are one,” said Kristie, relieved. “If it’s okay … I’d like to go now.”
“Sure. Where are you?”
“On Fourth, off Summer.”
Perry ingested the remaining stout. “That’ll give you plenty of time to make up a phone number.”
Kristie drank the triangle of fluid from her martini glass and set it down. “I won’t make one up.”
The detective helped the woman into her coat and escorted her into the parking lot, where his dark blue luxury car sat beside a neon four-leaf clover that looked like it had been twice picked. Exhaling steam, he opened the passenger door for his guest.
“Thank you,” said Kristie, climbing inside. Her words sat in the air—a visible puff lighted green by buzzing neon.
Perry closed the door and circumvented the vehicle, thinking about his children out West (who were always older in reality than they were in his mind) and also of Huan’s advice, and soon, he made a decision. After he dropped off the platinum specimen, he would call his boys and see if they wanted to go hiking—maybe in the Cascades or a Carolina. It was eight o’clock in San Francisco, and both of them should be home and awake.
The detective entered his car, shut the door, and turned the key. A basso purr came from the hood, and the driver glanced at his passenger.
The woman was shivering.
“Only takes a second to get warm.”
Kristie nodded. Again, she seemed preoccupied by her problems.
“Everything okay?” Perry dialed the heater to its highest setting.
“Just cold.”
The detective let the comment sail. Toggling the gear with his bad hand, he backed out of the parking space, found an empty street, and drove.
Warmth and silence filled the plush interior.
“What do you like to do besides hit on Irish cops?”
“I like to read.”
“Books? Periodicals? That blog about dogs that can sort of say the F-word?”
“Books.”
“Thrillers? Romance novels?”
“Romance novels?” A light chuckle emerged from the woman. “Not since I was fourteen.”
“You didn’t read Our Eternal Summer?”
Kristie looked surprised. “You read that?”
“I did. I thought it was pretty good.” The detective refrained from revealing that he had cried at the end.
“I’ll take your word for it.” This was said ironically, but not unpleasantly.
Dialing the wheel counterclockwise, Perry turned onto Summer Drive. No pedestrians were visible anywhere, and in the distance, a pair of triangular taillights veered onto a side street.
“So what kind of stuff do you read?” asked the detective.
“History, mostly. Some spy stuff.”
“You’ll have to give me some recommendations.”
“Sure.”
A yawn that seemed less than genuine emerged from Kristie, and Perry interpreted it as a cue. The air grew warm, and for several miles, the two of them shared silence and bumps in the road. It was a surprisingly comfortable experience.
The car purred, and outside, the city was dark and empty. Passing by a record store that had been closed since the eighties, Perry turned on his radio and selected an oldies station. A gang of vociferous women were singing about a boy named Billy Jim, whom they had just decided was no darn good.
“I like this one,” said Kristie. “Reminds me of being little.”
“Grew up in Victory?”
“Unfortunately.”
Perry circumvented a dead pigeon and resumed the conversation. “What else do you do for fun?”
“Rent movies.”
“What kind? I won’t think less of you if they’re fetishistic.”
“Foreign films. I really like to see other places, other cultures.”
Perry brightened at her response. “Did you see The Crushing Depths?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s Japanese, black and white—takes place in a submarine.”
“I’m not into war movies.”
“This will be the exception, since it’s the single best movie ever made.”
“What’s it about?”
Although the detective suspected that the platinum specimen just wanted to kill time until they arrived at her home, he decided to oblige her request. “I don’t want to tell you too much,” he said, “but I’ll set it up…”
Perry cleared his throat as if he were about to give an acceptance speech.
“Japan’s about to lose the biggest sequel ever made—World War II.
“The main guy in the movie’s a guy named Taisho. He’s a captain in the Japanese navy. Taisho’s got a girl he’s engaged to named Yuki, and she’s a pretty little doll who works in a factory, on an assembly line making torpedoes for submarines. Times are bad, and the factory’s behind schedule—even though everybody’s working eighteen-hour shifts, seven days a week. Yuki’s lost three fingers in the machines and has a terrible cough.
“Taisho loves her anyways.
“So he gets his mission direct from the Japanese Imperial Commander. His orders are to take one midget submarine to a critical point in the Pacific and sink all of the enemy ships that’re there—including a fully loaded aircraft carrier.
“There isn’t a chance this is gonna work—not one—but Taisho is a soldier, a warrior, and this is what he does. It’s his mission, and it’s an honorable death.
“If there’s one thing the Japanese like more than raw fish and robots, it’s honor.
“Taisho spends one last night with Yuki, having dinner, talking, making love—it’s an old movie, so the sex is implied with silhouettes and flowers and stuff. Real classy and romantic. He doesn’t tell her about the kind of mission he’s going on. He just tells her to be happy—no matter what happens.”
Perry felt his eyes tingle.
“At dawn, Taisho puts all of his money under Yuki’s pillow and writes a note telling her to leave the factory and move someplace with clean air.
“Then he goes and gets his crew together.
“There’s Taisho’s best friend Goro, who’s a big beefy guy, simple and fun-loving, the kind of guy everybody likes, and there’s an old drunk guy with gray hair who’s missing an arm, and there’s a skinny kid with pimples and glasses—lots of scrubs were being used at this point in the war.
“The four of them go to the midget submarine, and it’s banged up
like a car you’d see in Shitopia. It’s made for two people at most, but all of them need to get in there.
“They load it up with torpedoes, and Taisho has them throw out the bed so that they can fit even more. The ship’s called C Seventy-three.”
“They didn’t name it?” asked Kristie.
“Not the Japanese.
“So C Seventy-three leaves the harbor. The special effects look pretty good for the time, but it’s an old movie and you can’t be too picky about that sort of stuff.”
The headlights shone upon the bent sign for Tenth Street, and Perry glanced at his passenger. “You said Fourth, right?”
“Right.”
“On their way to the enemy fleet, Goro and the kid with glasses play cards and talk about having kids, and the old guy with one arm goes on and on about his granddaughter, and how he’s gonna take her to the hot springs in Kyoto when the war’s over.
“Taisho listens to this talk—even joins in a couple of times, playing along, talking about what he’s gonna do after the war. He doesn’t tell them they’re on a suicide mission so that they can enjoy their last day.”
Perry turned onto Fourth Street. “Let me know where.”
“Okay. What happens to them?”
“You should see it. Maybe we could watch it one day?”
“Maybe.” Kristie pointed at a gray building. “Right here.”
The detective braked and dialed the wheel clockwise. “Can I use your bathroom? I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”
The platinum specimen appraised the driver as he parked along the curb, behind a navy blue sports utility vehicle that had tinted windows.
“I’m not gonna make a move or anything,” defended Perry, aware that his request had seemed premeditated. “But if you’re uncomfortable, don’t worry about it—I’ll just make some ice in an alley.”
Kristie raised an index finger. “Just the bathroom.”
“Just the bathroom.”
“Will you tell me what happens to C Seventy-three?”
“I don’t want to ruin it,” said Perry, shifting into park and killing the engine. The tense sequence where the crewmates discovered that they were on a suicide mission was one of the detective’s favorites, as was the mutiny, during which Goro died defending Taisho’s life. “You really need to watch it.”
“Okay.” There was something sad in Kristie’s voice.
Perry climbed out of the car. Steam wreathed his head, and he shut the door.
Mean Business on North Ganson Street Page 19
