“Sure.” She bent over and carefully extracted the pastry with wax paper. “Three dollars,” she said cheerfully, passing it to me.
I handed her three crumpled bills.
“Get some sun, Albert, and forget about cancer. Take some risks. You’ll have a better life. You worry too much.”
“I know.” I bit into my Danish. “Thanks.” I went outside and sat next to Chatterley and watched the neighborhood happen. As I ate, I wondered which was worse, pastries or worry. I guess you had to choose your poison.
Three weeks later the digging stopped. Since that night with Keri, I’d become more attuned to it. The wheelbarrow remained tipped against the white stucco wall next to the buckets on the sidewalk.
When I asked, Ricard had invited me down to see the progress. It wasn’t much: thirty square feet of dank, dark space propped with timbers and stinking of mold and wet clay.
When he lit the second lantern I saw an opening covered in ocher muslin. The corner of a rusted flour container stuck out. Ricard stepped in front of it and fiddled with the lantern, which fizzled out. He cursed.
“A cellar restaurant, perhaps. Some day. Like the old country.” Avoiding my eyes. “That’s it. Let’s go.”
I continued to do my thing, which was washing dishes and catching some local music. There was no more action in the girl department, and I was curiously waiting for construction on the basement to begin. Ricard had tapped local talent in Josh Bullford, who lived across the street and ran a small construction company. He’d built most of his own house, and worked fast and cheap. But it never happened.
Some salesman found Ricard laying at the bottom of the foundation with his head split open. The death was ruled accidental. Wanda collapsed into a nervous breakdown. A friend of Wanda’s tried to keep the place open, but the Open Heart closed down a few weeks later. Life went on, as it always does, even after the direst tragedies. As my uncle used to say, the bigger the rock, the more ripples, but the surface always smooths out eventually.
It was no surprise that when I ran into Keri again, at a pub in Pioneer Square, she was wearing better clothes, Issey Miyake to be precise. She was sexily wedged between two young dudes dripping with wealth. A leach. I wanted her to squirm, so I walked up, torn jeans and dirty Sonics T-shirt, and sat down.
“Ricard’s dead,” I said, stopping the conversation and the superficial laughter.
“Who?”
“You know who.” I pulled out a chair, flipped it, and sat down.
Keri picked up a fancy-looking purple drink and stirred it with a tiny red straw. I had to admit she looked terrific, but then so did cobras.
“How much do you remember from that night anyway?” she asked. I noticed the two men pulling back into their drinks.
“I remember enough.”
“I had nothing to do with that old man’s death, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I leaned forward. “You mean you just went home and forgot all about those piles and piles of jewels you were telling me about?”
“I didn’t forget about them. But what could I do? I checked into it with a lawyer and they legally belong to whoever owns the property. Besides, I read about his death in the paper. It was ruled an accident. What can you expect from an old man who’s dumping dirt all night?”
“What indeed? Sounds like you’ve got all the ends neatly tied up then.”
She sipped her purple drink.
“You are cold.”
“There’s a breeze in here.”
I’d given her what I wanted and she hadn’t flinched.
Three beers later, I watched her get into a black BMW with one of the two jerks, and with a puff of blue smoke from the exhaust pipe, Keri drove out of my life.
A few nights later, feet up on the heater, I gazed out in near awe at that gorgeous view. A full moon was cresting the Cascades and its light flooded the lake surface. I missed Chatter-ley already, but Cindy who lived next door was a sweetheart who would give her love and food. My landlord, John, had already advertised the apartment, and he’d taken my advice. Best view in town, the ad read. I took a sip of beer.
Ricard had been keeping the jewelry in containers of flour-over eighty pieces, dating back to the Ming and Han dynasties. Jade, gold chains, ornamental necklaces. I’d sold the lot north of the border in Richmond, BC for over $400,000, and I knew I’d gotten ripped off, but I didn’t have time to shop them around. It would have been a shame to sell it all, though, so I kept a few necklaces. Maybe I’d meet a woman in Rio.
The taxi honked outside. I headed out the door, descended the eighty-seven winding stairs through the cotoneaster, streetlights illuminating the intersection in front of the Open Heart. The Closed sign on the door gave the evening a sense of finality.
I handed the bag to the cabbie, who tossed it into the trunk. I started to get into the backseat and noticed her ice-blond hair, unlit cigarette, and cool smile. She was tucked against the far door like a shadow.
I was struck catatonic.
“I can’t imagine why you chose Rio,” Keri said, “Nice is much more charming. But there’s plenty of time to change our plans.” She patted the seat next to her. “Come, sit.”
THE WRONG END OF A GUNBY R. BARRI FLOWERS
South Lake Union
South Lake Union was the Seattle neighborhood I called home. Located just below its namesake, Lake Union, it was bounded by Interstate 5 on the east and Aurora Avenue on the west, and was in the midst of an economic redevelopment. So what else was new? There were still places in the neighborhood that allowed you to escape the gentrification.
I spent every night at such a place on Aloha Street called Rusty’s Bar and Grill. Dark and dreary, it was one of those retro dive bars that refused to apologize for turning its back on the present (and offered cheap cocktails).
The décor was fashionably outdated, with garage-sale tables and stools and framed photographs of city landmarks. A jukebox in the corner was playing B.B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone.” There was a worn-out pool table where on the night in question two men were playing to impress a chick who couldn’t decide which one she wanted to take home.
I sat by my lonesome, caught up in what might have been. Fresh off a bitter divorce and not looking for any company, I was content to finish off my mug of beer and call it a night.
That was before she walked in.
A cross between Halle Berry and Beyoncé, her complexion was like maple syrup over buttered waffles. Shiny raven Senegalese twists framed a heart-shaped face that featured full ruby lips. With plenty of curves in a tight red dress and three-inch heels, she really caught my attention.
She wore dark shades, but seemed to be scanning the place as though searching for a reason to stay.
When she sat at the table next to mine, I wondered if this was my lucky day.
I didn’t wait to find out.
“Buy the lady a drink?” I asked.
“Sure, why not?”
I smiled and slid over to her table. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Gin and tonic.”
I flagged down a barmaid and ordered two cocktails. “You’re new here,” I said to the gorgeous girl beside me.
“I’ve been around,” she said coyly.
“I think I’d remember if you had.”
“That’s sweet.”
I’ve never been known for my sweetness but wasn’t about to argue. “By the way, I’m Conrad.”
“Hi, Conrad.” She stuck out a small hand with long, polished nails. “Gabriella.”
I shook her hand and didn’t want to stop there.
“Anyone ever tell you that you look like Will Smith?” she asked.
“Not in this lifetime.” I saw myself as more like Denzel Washington. But who was I to bicker with this Halle/Beyoncé red-hot chick?