by James Calder
The waitress came with my bisque and a basket of popovers. “Would you like to try some?” I asked.
“Oh, I have,” she said. “Keep going. I want to hear more before I say anything.”
I mentioned that Rod liked Alissa, but didn’t mention his suspicions about her. I described Wendy’s stunt at the dinner. Finally I told Erika how I found Rod in his house that night. She stopped sipping her champagne. “That’s horrible,” she whispered.
I let the silence stretch. One by one the bubbles broke from the side of her glass and rose to the surface. “I come here once a month,” Erika said at last. “I do my shopping. SG gives us a generous allowance. I buy a few things for myself. The rest are for the persona, that crunchy girl you dated last night. Alissa had lunch with me here once. She liked the food, but it’s not her kind of place. She’s no droop, she does have her own style, but . . . I don’t think she fits in very well at SG.”
“How does she not fit in?”
Erika shook her hair, then fluffed it with her fingers. Her strawberry lips, her small nose, her pencil-lined eyes were defined perfectly on her face. “I don’t think she fully realized what the work was about . . . dates. She talked about how she wanted to move to the business side, but she’d just started. She had a long way to go to earn out her contract.”
“It’s a four-year contract, right? And she has three left?”
“At least. She hasn’t even been working for a year yet. It takes that long to learn the ropes and groom your identity. Rupert’s a genius. He can look at you and draw out a character you didn’t even know you had inside. It’s not you, but it’s like your cousin or something, it totally makes sense that you could have been that person. He shows you what to wear, how to move your hands, how to lift your head, how to walk. He gives you certain words to use.”
Erika’s hands were inscribing arabesques. The direct, economical motions of last night were gone. I imagined each gesture, item of clothing, posture, and word selection as an element in a cipher. Each SG persona came with a grammar and syntax of its own.
“It allows you to keep your personal life personal. It’s like being an actress,” I said.
“Kind of, only better paying. It’s a sort of disguise, but at the same time it comes so natural that it doesn’t feel like work after a while. When you come home you can take it off and put it away in your closet.”
“I do something similar in my job. Take an ordinary scene and put the right lenses, lighting, angles, filters in front of it and you’ve got magic.”
“I like the magic.” She smiled.
I smiled back. “Anyway, you said Alissa was unhappy at SG. The dating part bugged her.”
“She could do it, she just didn’t like it. She kept going on about moving over to the business side. I finally told her to shut up and enjoy the perks. I mean, my life is so much more comfortable than it was before. They give you an apartment, a car, good pay, special bonuses.”
“But the bonuses don’t involve sex?” I was double-checking.
Her nose wrinkled. “No. Most of the guys are old.”
“So how do you feel about Rupert and Trisha? Are you treated well?”
“Mostly. They’re totally super when you play by their rules. Rupert’s very sweet. He’s the manager. Trisha started the business. She’s in charge.”
“Do you know what her connection is to Sylvain Partners? Or Plush Biologics?”
“Well, I know about Plush,” Erika said. “Some of us have tried Eternaderm. We get it for free.”
“Nice deal. Does it work?”
She drew a finger down her cheek. The skin was smooth as butter. “It was fun to try. I think I might save it for when I’m older, though.”
“Are Trisha and Connie Plush buddies?”
“I don’t know about that. Some associates do modeling for Plush and work at trade shows. I think Alissa did something like that.”
“She did. How do you get along with Trisha?”
Erika looked down. “She’s fine—you just don’t want to get on her bad side.”
“What gets you on her bad side?”
“Whining. Not doing your job. Not earning your bonuses.”
“And what do you have to do for the bonuses?”
A look of alarm crossed her face and then I realized it was just the waitress behind us. Erika didn’t want to be overheard by anyone. The waitress placed Erika’s club on the table and asked me if I’d be having anything else. I said I’d have the luau pork sandwich.
Erika picked a bit of lobster from her plate. Then she looked up at me with the kind of look that happens when you’re about to sleep with someone for the first time and you suddenly wonder if it’s a good idea. “Who are you, Bill?”
I wanted to hear about these bonuses, so I gave her the biography. I grew up in Davis, in the Sacramento Valley. My parents were anthropologists. They split up when I was thirteen. I had a camera in my hands from a young age. My siblings went along with the elaborate science-fiction scenarios I created and recorded on home movies. Film was my real love, but somehow I’d gotten drawn into the dot-com madness. Now, spit out the other end, I was regaining my bearings, remembering what it was I really wanted to do with my life. I shot industrials to make money. I played in a pickup basketball game every Thursday night, surfed at Linda Mar when I got the chance, and went to movies. I’d never been married. I had a small flat in Potrero Hill and still drove the old four-wheel-drive Scout my family had bought when I was a kid. That made Erika smile.
She fingered the locket around her neck. “This is one of the few things I have from my family. A picture of my grandmother is inside. She lived in L.A., she was very glamorous.”
Erika showed me a tiny photograph of a woman wrapped in a fur coat. “She was beautiful.” I waited another moment, then said, “So do you want to tell me about the bonuses?”
Erika exhaled. “We don’t have to do that much, really. On any date, you want to draw the guy out, let him talk about himself, right? Most of them don’t take much prodding. Others, the shy ones, are hard to get started, but once they do, you can’t stop them. Anyway, we get them to talk about their work and then report whatever is interesting to Rupert.”
“So what does Rupert do with these tips? Invest?”
Her right shoulder twitched in a delicate shrug. “All I know is that if it turns out to be good, a bonus appears in our checks. The whole thing is a pain, but it’s worth the extra money. Alissa felt weird about it, especially with Rod. She said she couldn’t do it anymore. I said, You can’t quit. I mean, I don’t know that it’s so wrong. It’s what everyone does in the Valley. It’s the kind of stuff you’d hear at a cocktail party. Why shouldn’t SG be invited to those cocktail parties, too?”
I nodded. Erika had just helped me clarify why Rupert and Trisha would be dining with the men from Sylvain. “That’s helpful information. I won’t tell anyone it came from you.” I smiled at her, and paused while the waitress put my food in front of me. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure what to expect at our lunch today.”
“You mean which one’s the real me?”
“Well, I thought someone from SG might come with you.”
Her lips pursed in a smile she was trying to hold back. “So you believe me now?”
I could see only shining honesty in her eyes. I wondered why she wanted to play this game all of a sudden. Maybe it was a test. “Yes,” I said. “But I’ve been fooled before.”
She laughed. “You should meet Rupert. He always knows when I’m lying.”
“I’ve met him. Maybe he’s not as accurate with men.”
“He wouldn’t have let on. Every word you said to him, he knew which one was true and which wasn’t.”
“Doesn’t that scare you, then, that he might find us out?”
The playfulness dropped from her face. “Oh my God, that would be a disaster.”
“What would they actually do? Fire you?”
“I’ve never heard of th
em hurting an associate, but . . .” She thought for a moment. “Well, there was someone who committed suicide a couple of years ago. And sometimes people just disappear—we’re told that they were dismissed, but who knows?”
“Then I’m even more grateful to you for taking the risk. You must care about Alissa.”
Her eyes went liquid. “I do. She’s so sweet and she’s trying so hard. She brings out something in me, like I want to take care of her—like she’s my little sister, even though she’s older than me.”
“Do you know what was going on between her and Rod?” I asked. “Was she in love with him?”
Erika pushed her empty plate away. “Good question. At first she talked about how geeky he was but also how she looked forward to seeing him. He was her most reliable client. I think he scheduled dates just to give her business, or maybe to keep her away from other clients. Then as it went along, Alissa got more careful about how much she told me. It kind of hurt that she didn’t confide in me anymore. I don’t know—I think she felt she could trust me, but maybe she didn’t want to put me in an awkward position.” Erika looked down and pulled at a finger. Her hurt was real. “How did Rod feel about Alissa?”
“Also a good question. I think he did love her. But he didn’t want to admit it. He had a hard time believing she felt the same way. He told me most engineers have had the experience, in college or grad school, of having a love interest blink her eyes and say, ‘Can you do a little code for me?’ For free, of course. After the guy’s been burned, he’s suspicious of women until he knows what they’re after. Rod’s fear was that Alissa was taking him for a ride.”
Erika shook her head. “I doubt it. She explained what turned her on about him to me once. She said it was his gaze. He’s really intensely involved in his work. When he fixes that intense concentration on you, it’s incredibly sexy. Her feelings were real, I think—unless she was a way better actress than I give her credit for.” Erika finished her drink, then added, “I would like to know where the fuck she went.”
The anger surprised me. “Aren’t you afraid something happened to her?”
“Yeah. But I’d rather believe she left on her own. There have been people in her apartment. I don’t know what they were doing. I live in the same building, but I’m scared to go by and check anymore.”
I feigned innocence. “Do you have any idea who it was? I imagine Rupert could get in.”
“I’m sure he could. He probably did, to try to find out where she went.”
“What about her boyfriend?”
Erika’s eyes narrowed. “What boyfriend?”
“I thought she had one. A younger guy. Maybe I’m wrong. What about Wendy, Alissa’s mother?”
“I met her once. She’s a wild thing.” A grin snuck across her face. “She and Alissa and I got drunk one night, did some blow, talked about guys. . . . I was amazed, my mother would cut her wrists before she’d do something like that. Alissa did complain that Wendy always wanted more and more from her. I doubt she had a key to the apartment, though. SG only gives out one, and it’s not supposed to be copied.”
“Do you have any idea how to contact Wendy?”
“None at all. Sorry.”
“How about getting inside Alissa’s apartment?”
She cocked her head and looked away. Maybe I’d pushed my luck too far.
“Let me think about it,” she replied. “Like I said, Alissa has the only key.”
Our plates were taken away and the waitress asked if we wanted dessert. Erika said no. I asked for some coffee and the check. Erika excused herself to use the bathroom.
My coffee came, but no check. When she returned, her face was fresh with makeup. “It’s time to shop,” she said. “Nice having brunch with you.”
“How about if I join you for a few more minutes?”
She glanced around, then smiled. “I guess it would be okay. I haven’t noticed any fishy eyeballs on me. It’s fun talking to you.”
That made me smile back. “Great. I’m just waiting for the check.”
She waved a receipt at me. “That’s sweet of you. But it’s on me.” Then she whirled and led the way to the escalator.
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All I saw of the black leather jacket was the zipper. The jacket must have been open. The zipper was peeking from behind a column as we left the Rotunda Restaurant. I didn’t think much of it, or the fact that the wearer of the jacket had stepped behind the column, until I noticed the jacket again in the lingerie department.
I had to wonder why Erika chose that particular department. Either she was flirting with me or she wanted to have a little fun at my expense. We’d wandered through the store for a few minutes and she’d tossed off comments about the various designer labels: which one was meant to display good breeding and which one meant you were trying too hard, why this label was worn by the new rich but not that one. As we’d passed a corner showing some heavy denim, she’d said, “Now we’re in your territory. Except you’re, like, the original. You don’t even know you’ve got the look.”
“What look is that?”
“The scruffy artist-craftsman look. You were just itching to get out of your suit last night. You look nice today, but you need some new pants. And new shoes.”
“Wait a minute, these are not only the most comfortable boots I’ve ever owned, they can handle having a C-stand dropped on them. I do need some pants, though.”
“You can’t afford them here. We’ll go down the street and find you a good pair of black pants. No pleats.”
Then, with an innocent glance, she led me into lingerie. She asked me what I thought of a particularly vivid hue of green panties. “I need a new pair of lucky underwear,” she said, dimples folding her cheeks.
I told her the truth, which was I thought she’d look great in them. She laughed at how my hands were stuffed into my pockets.
You don’t see many men in lingerie. A black leather jacket stands out. I caught sight of it again and the frame of the young man wearing it. It resembled the silhouette of the James Dean type who’d come to Rod’s door nine days ago. He stepped back among the hooks and straps, but they didn’t provide much cover. I started toward him. He disappeared in a hurry.
“Ready to go?” I said to Erika.
“Oh, I’ve just begun to shop.”
“But if we’re going to get me some pants, we should go now.”
She laughed again, and I let her think my discomfort came from hanging out in the underwear. She made her purchase and we left the vaulted halls of Neiman Marcus. I had to admit it had taken longer for me to get a headache there than in most department stores. We went down the street to the kind of store that would have the kind of pants for the kind of person I was. Erika took me to the second floor. She knew just the pair for me. They were a fine weave, midnight black, soft but with some structure. I scanned the store before going inside the dressing room to try them on. There was no sign of the leather jacket man.
“Well, come on,” Erika called into the dressing room. “Let’s see them. You could be hot if you tried.”
Once again her honesty gave me pause. Not that I thought I was so hot, just that people didn’t usually say to your face that you fell short.
She was right about the pants. The cut was perfect. I was zipping them when I heard her say, “Stop it, Brendon. I don’t know where she is.” Her voice became frantic. “Stop it!”
I charged out the door and saw the guy in the leather jacket twisting Erika’s arm. They were on the other side of a clothes rack. When he saw me coming, he used his free hand to push the rack at me. I had to do a quick shuffle to keep it from landing on my stocking feet. Erika bent and squirmed out of his grip, but he caught her by the hair. I climbed over the rack and hit him with a tackle to the hip. We tumbled to the floor. Erika screamed in pain as he pulled her hair before letting go. She got to her feet and yelled for help. Brendon aimed blows at my head as he tried to extricate himself from my tackle. I had to loosen my
grip on him to fend them off. He scrambled to his feet. I scrambled to mine and took off after him.
A young guy, not very big, hurried down the aisle in our direction, speaking urgently into a headset. He tried to block Brendon’s way. “Sir! Please—” was all he got out before Brendon shoved him to the floor.
“Call security!” I said as I went by.
“I’m trying,” he said from his prone position.
I was losing ground. The unsewn legs of my pants flapped under my feet. The tags rattled on the waistband. More people with headsets converged on us. None of them carried much heft. Brendon pushed clothing racks into their paths.
Brendon burst through a door marked STAFF ONLY. I thought this was a mistake on his part: They’d subdue him in there. I was wrong. There weren’t a lot of people among the wheeled racks, sorting benches, and sewing machines. The few who were cowered from him. Brendon grabbed a pair of shears.
“How do I get out!” he demanded of a seamstress.
She pointed to an indistinct place behind some stacked wardrobe boxes. He raced in that direction. I grabbed a couple of shirts on my way after him and wound them around my forearm. When I got to the wardrobe boxes, I threw myself into them, toppling the stack, hoping they’d bring him down.
As I picked my way through the fallen boxes, I saw a metal door with an alarmed exit handle. There was movement near the door. Brendon’s head emerged from under a pile of dresses that had dumped from a box. He had a stubborn jutting jaw and wide, piercing eyes. His blond hair had fallen across his forehead.
“Stay out of this!” he yelled, brandishing the shears.
He was struggling to get to his feet. I kept coming at him. He whipped his arms free and flung the shears at me like a knife. I raised my forearm. The shears rotated once and struck, point first, into the material wrapped around my arm.
I jumped for him as he got up and brought him back down among the dresses. His black boots kicked at me. I got hold of one, then the other, and raised them high in the air.
