by Susan Dunlap
Jay buying the lace turtleneck to cover her dress—that was what was wrong. It wasn’t her Bentec had been threatening with his stare, it was Jay. If Bentec had exposed her past it wouldn’t have been to harass her but as leverage against Jay. She felt as if she was sinking in mud. Her life was being ripped away as if it were a painting on brown wrapping paper—nothing more. She’d thought Jay was so sweet to understand her distress instantly, buy her the turtleneck, pay for her tattoo removal. What he’d understood was his own danger, what he’d paid for was his own security.
Tears clouded her eyes. She blinked them back. This was not the time to mourn. She had to think about Frank Bentec and why he wanted to have something on Jay.
In the distance the murky tunnel was giving way to a black spot that grew wider, taller, nearer. She cleared the tunnel and stepped on the gas.
She didn’t see the police checkpoint till she was almost on top of it.
Ellen had pulled her hair back and clasped it at the nape of her neck, leaving so short a tail it could have been on Liza’s pig. In Kansas City she would have looked silly, but this was San Francisco and she felt avant garde. Or at least she did when Larry voiced his appreciation. She had been a dumpy girl so long that the thrill of seeing herself sleek, and high-cheekboned hadn’t worn off. As she stepped through the baronial door’s of the elegant Victorian mansion she felt like a star, like this was all too good to be happening to her. She felt like Liza.
“Larry, come in. And who’s this?” The man at the door took her hand. “I’m Ernst.”
“Ellen,” Larry said, “and hands off, my friend.”
“What a great house,” Ellen said and immediately felt her own banality.
But Ernst appeared delighted. “When we bought it five years ago it was chopped into four apartments, one drabber than the next. For what we spent restoring it we could have bought an emerging nation. So, I live for compliments.”
“You must live well then.” She took a step toward the living room, a mix of English study and Thai temple, but Larry caught her arm.
“First the buffet. Ernst worries that his friends just come for the food. And—” he shot a grin at his host—“he could be right.”
“The food? Not the house, or Ernst himself?”
“Come and see. You haven’t eaten dinner, have you? Lucky you.” With a nod to Ernst he guided her to a dining room the size of her apartment.
She laughed. “I was expecting a buffet table that ran the length of the room. Nothing so gauche here, huh?”
“Don’t let Ernst hear that. He never serves more than three entrees. More would only be frustrating. The problem is stopping yourself from gorging on these three. Ah, Jeff,” he called to a guy she would have spotted instantly as an artist. “Come meet someone from your home town.”
As she extended her hand she wondered if this night would rate tops in the year or the decade. It won the “worry least called for” category so decisively the contest was closed in perpetuity.
So this was how it felt to be Liza.
It was too late to turn off. Liza was in line behind five other vehicles. The highway patrol had pulled one over. Could Bentec’s grasp reach this far? They were letting the next car go. She squinted into the distance trying to make out the sex of the driver. If they were letting men through she was sunk. The driver’s hair was long. A woman…probably. Probably this whole thing was a manhunt. That’d be okay, then, as soon as they saw she was alone.
The car three ahead was moving to the right, too. Oh shit, it was no manhunt, it was a sobriety stop. They were stopping every third car. They’d ask for the registration and the rental agreement, and the name on that was Ellen’s. Frantically she checked the other lane, but it was useless. She’d been to traffic school and she knew that any move now would only draw attention to her. She could only pray.
And what so far today would make her think the gods cared? She wasn’t surprised when the patrolman motioned her to the right.
“Evening, ma’am. This is a sobriety check. We’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“Certainly.” The smile she gave him was watery. She focused on him so it was not a police stop but just him and her. Her tone was light as she said, “What can I do for you?”
“Hand me your driver’s license and registration, ma’am.”
Her first urge was to hit the gas. The second was to explain about the rental car and how come it wasn’t in her name. She squelched both, nodded pleasantly, opened the glove compartment and handed him the registration. She pulled her purse onto her lap. Heavy. The gun; she’d forgotten about Jay’s gun. She held her hand over the opening, fished out her wallet and extricated the license. All she needed was to be found in a stolen car with a gun.
The wind was cold out here, colder than on the bridge. The patrolman stared at her license so intently she could almost see him recognizing her name from a “Wanted” list. When he asked for the rental agreement, she handed it over. She didn’t plan her story; inspiration would come; it always had. That was one of the things that Jay loved about her. At parties, he’d introduce her by name alone, take in the other man’s envy and then see what story she’d give him.
“Ms. Silvestri, is that you?”
“Yes?”
“The rental agreement is with an Ellen Baines—”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Right. And I didn’t sign on as a driver.” Her hand batted back through her hair automatically. “The rental company is going to have a fit. But, you know, by the time they want to charge you for insurance and drop off fees and then add on more just so you can share the driving, well, Ellen and I just didn’t do it.” Jay would have sneered at her lack of imagination. His rule was: no element of truth. But tonight, the world had gone inside out. She wasn’t looking at the patrolman but she could feel his reaction. He wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t just wave on someone who might be stealing a car.
“I’m going to require proof—”
“Of course.” She particularly restrained herself from saying “officer,” the word that in these situations meant “guilty.” “You can call Ellen. She’s staying at the Orestes, in San Francisco.”
It was a mistake. He was suspicious now. “And where are you headed, ma’am?” The “at this hour, driving away from San Francisco” hung in the air.
Liza let out a big, disgusted sigh. “I’m taking her fucking pig to some people out here for the night because in the Orestes they only think of pigs as pre-bacon.”
Time slowed. The patrolman could have been a cartoon character and instead of flipping the pages to create normal speed, she was turning them one by one, watching his eyes rise up millimeter by millimeter. His thought-balloons lined up like Pacific storms in January. Finally, she got to the last page. His gaze descended, his shoulders relaxed. He peered across her at Felton.
And Felton carried the show with a wriggle of nose and a porker-sized oink. Not a grunt or snort, but a true oink.
The highway patrolman grinned. “Well, I guess you’re demanding professional courtesy, huh—uh—”
“Felton.”
“Well, Felton. We don’t get called pigs much anymore.”
“Felton would feel you should regret that,” she said, resting her hand on the window sill so he could return her papers.
“Drive carefully.”
“I will,” now she added with bravado, “officer.”
“Wilkins,” a man called from behind them.
The patrolman turned toward the voice.
“We just got a notice out of El A Pee Dee…”
She hit the gas, and shot in front of a truck leaving the checkpoint. An exit was five hundred yards away. She stayed in front of the truck till the last moment, then swung right, cutting off a van. The driver didn’t honk, thank God. As she followed the off ramp turn, she caught a glimpse of men running at the checkpoint. It could have nothing to do with her, she told herself. Sure.
She turned right and, after a bit, right again in
to a residential neighborhood, slowed and eyed one house after the next till she found one with five newspapers and no cars in the driveway. She pulled in and doused the lights. It was going to be a long cold night.
Ellen didn’t hear the band till she went downstairs. The drinks were beginning to smooth sharp edges and soften the center of things. She had a place to stay for the night and nothing to do till morning, so why not just enjoy this party, like Larry said? Why not just enjoy having this hunk of a guy introducing her to everyone like she was a star? If it seemed too good to be true—maybe that meant her standards needed to rise. She had the feeling she should be doing something, or not doing something, but she couldn’t summon up the concentration to remember what.
All too soon, they had to leave. Security checkers didn’t get paid for having a good time, Larry said with a sigh. And he did know how tired she was.
Soft waves of music from a symphony of speakers all over his car eased the transition. He made a nest for her between the bucket seats and gently pulled her head against his shoulder. His hair tickled at the side of her eye. She would have flicked it away but the effort to lift her arm and then to find the spot was too much. It was all she could do not to splat into the door when Larry made a hard left. Her right foot was wedged against the door, the other pressed hard into the dash. Her knees were sticking up at angles that she knew would seem less charming if she was sober. She was floating on a carpet and wasn’t about to consider a thought that would leave dirty footprints. She’d had a coat when she came but didn’t remember picking it up on the way out of the party. Had Larry? Didn’t matter. His arm lay loosely on hers, and she was warm. Plenty warm.
She leaned back and looked out at the white lights of San Francisco lazing by, listened to a cello moan the length of her spine.
The lights changed from white on black to bright yellow. The hotel entryway. The music cut off; waves of thick, brusque silence batted her ears. Before she realized it Larry bounced her down onto her seat, and was out of the car and opening the door for her. His hand slipped around her waist so smoothly she almost felt as if she were getting out of the car on her own.
“I’m a little drun—”
“It’s okay, Ellen, we’re almost there.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“You’re not going to be sick, are you?” he asked. There was a surprising edge to his voice and quickly she answered no.
He wrapped his arm more tightly around her.
Clusters of lobby lights sparkled. The rug was spongy under her feet. She heard Larry’s voice but she knew he wasn’t talking to her. She heard: “Yeah, guys, I’ve got her here.”
The freeway sign offered Liza San Francisco, Route 80 North and Route 980 South. She’d spent two hours winding on back roads after she decided she’d rather face the entire Los Angeles Police Department than freeze to death in the San Francisco suburbs. San Francisco? That, she’d done. What about these 80s? If the highway patrol was really after her they were only going to be looking back in the suburbs she’d abandoned.
The turn-offs were popping up fast. With a sigh she kept on toward the Bay Bridge and San Francisco. It was the conservative choice and she hated herself for it, but maybe she should just haul the damn car back to the hotel and park it where she got it. It could spend its weekend in San Francisco waiting for Ellen to finish partying and take it back to the airport. Better yet, why not be a sport and take it to Ellen at her new hotel? Ellen had dropped everything to fly out here for her. And for that she ended up being skewered by her great “friend” Liza. That was for her own safety, Liza reminded herself, but the memory of Ellen’s shocked expression still rebuked her. Taking the car to her new hotel would be the decent thing. A great wad of desperation filled her throat; she swallowed hard against her need of someone to trust—and to give that someone even a small reason to care about her.
The Bay Bridge shocked her. The lower level leaving the city was a dark wedge of under road, but this top level, it was beautiful. White lights hung off the suspension wires. Ahead was downtown San Francisco and even after midnight skyscrapers were lit like limousines driving to the stars. Sparkling in the night…the night.
Shaking her head against the sudden exhaustion, she pulled off the freeway at Fifth Street, spotted a cab and waved him down. “I need to get to the Orestes?”
“Yeah? How much is going on it?”
“Puh-lease. You think a hooker’s dressed like this?” She could have said, built like this, but breast talk with strange men always led to problems. She could tell by the little twitch of his beard and the way his eyes sunk momentarily that he was still hopeful. There was a brattiness she knew came through in her stance—shoulders back, breasts forward as if to stretch the fabric of the T-shirt, breasts too small but trying extra hard. Let me prove I’m a big girl, her whole stance said. And it was a rare man who didn’t react.
But the cabbie had a living to make. He merely gave directions.
She thanked him, but she was pissed and for a few minutes her anger kept her awake. By the time she spotted the Orestes, her eyes were closing and she couldn’t bear to think of the hassle looming after she gave up the car.
She almost missed the turn into the hotel, a covered circular drive, so small three parked cars would be a jam. Only one was parked there and she was willing to bet the staff made sure there were never more than two. It was that kind of place. Potted trees, not palms or ficuses, but exotic flowering trees much too fragile for the damp cold. The trees wouldn’t survive there as long as the guests. Through the glass doors she could see the lobby, spare with Japanese antiques and a lone orchid in front of a copper waterfall. She glanced down at her jeans and T-shirt, shrugged and stepped out of the car.
The bellman was coming toward her. If he was anywhere near as worn out as she, he wouldn’t even notice her clothes.
“I’m here for one of your guests, Ellen Baines. I’m returning her car.”
He could have been the cabbie’s twin reaction-wise, but he knew enough to say nothing. He wasn’t the type to endanger his work and his tips. He—Shawn, his tag said—was stocky, with curly red-blond hair poking out under his uniform cap. She could see him going to night school, playing touch football in the park, hoisting a few beers in a hangout that knew his name, getting this bellman job through a friend, and graying with it. He was holding out his hand for the car keys.
Instinctively she snapped them back. “That’s okay, Shawn, I’ll take them to her room,” she said in the dismissive tone she’d learned being Mrs. Silvestri, the clipped syllables that said “you can look, but not familiarly.” When she was with Jay men didn’t presume to visually undress her. There was a clutching in her stomach she hadn’t felt in years.
Shawn stepped back. “She’s not here.”
“She checked out?”
“No, she just went out. You can leave the keys. I’ll see she gets them.”
Something wasn’t right about this guy but she was too muddy-headed to see what or even to rate her options. “I’ll just wait for Ellen in her room then.”
“Larry’s not going to like—” He flushed—he’d given away the game and he knew she knew it.
She didn’t bother with intermediary steps. If she interrupted Ellen and Larry’s romantic interlude, they’d just be more eager to help her on her way.
“Give me the room number. Not the key, just the number. I’ll knock. And if Larry’s there I’ll tell him I got it from Daniel at the Rosewood hotel.”
He hesitated.
“There’s my car. If I steal the towels you can sell it.”
Still, he didn’t move.
“Hey, Shawn, it’s going to be dawn soon. I can wait for the manager and discuss this with him.”
He checked a sheet. “One twenty-seven, and leave the towels.”
She peered through the car window. Felton was curled into as much of a ball as a pig could be. His snout was pressed into the upholstery, but she could hear little snorfle
sounds. Rooting dreams. It was almost obscene. He was a happy, sleeping pig.
Pocketing the car keys, she headed down the hall. 127 was at the far end. She knocked. “Room Service.”
The door opened.
It wasn’t Larry.
It was a dark-haired man the size of the door. “Yeah? Hey, you’re not room service.”
“Maybe she is, Ev. She looks like the second course.”
The room was dim. There was no smoke, but the air was thick. A lamp threw pale shadows onto the floor. Onto the backs of four men. Onto the bed where another man sat next to Ellen. Onto Ellen, who looked scared out of her mind.
Liza felt the weight of Jay’s gun in her purse, but she trusted herself more than it. She stiffened against her fear, became again the drunks’ daughter ready to beard the neighbors, the bill-collectors, the cops. “Ellen,” she said, careful not to raise her voice. “Get up. We’re leaving!”
A bottle on the table looked empty. Another was on the floor. The men were different sizes, but they were all way bigger than she was. “Hey, what the—” one of them started. The others were moving slowly. They were looking to Larry.
He was staring down at her, back to them. They couldn’t see his neck tightening, his hands bracing as if to choke, the glistening sweat on his forehead. It wasn’t just sex he was about to be out, but money. Larry Best was not a horny date, he was a procurer. He spoke in a voice as controlled as hers: “She’s staying as is.”
“Think again, Larry Best. Think hard. How much of your life do you want to give up?”
He was across the room, in her face now. “What, are you going to call the cops? Hey, the cops are already after you.”
