“This is one of those places where people pretend that there is no unhappiness. There can be unhappiness at Fisherman’s Wharf but not at Ghirardelli Square. At Fisherman’s Wharf, though you may bump into Joe DiMaggio, that still does not prevent you from toppling into the sea. But here you will never meet anyone bad or have anything happen to you.”
“There is no unhappiness at Neiman-Marcus,” Marianne replies. “Many cities have little areas of no unhappiness. Even the Russians are beginning to build them.”
“Marianne, I’m lucky to have such a smart girl.”
By the time they get home again, Marianne is filled with a cheerful interest in making something of Bobby’s banana garden, while clouds have once more settled on Bobby’s face. In fact, he’s soon indoors unwrapping his Smith and Wesson from an oily rag on the walnut surface of the dining-room table. He loads every chamber with the gleaming copper-and-lead bullets, snaps the cylinder back, and puts the gun in his pocket.
“Babe, I’m going to the store. Back in an hour.”
Bobby scrutinizes the customers at Enrico’s until he finds the hooker Donna. He speaks affably to her, even though she greets him as “the new kid in town.”
“Hey,” he says. “I guess my girl and me stepped all over everybody’s toes. Which we didn’t mean to do. I just wanted to say I sure was sorry. So, this is me saying sure am sorry.”
“That’s all right. Chino came down pretty hard on you.”
“Yeah, he did. But he was right. I was gonna stop by and tell him he was right.”
“Well, he’s there.”
“Should I just fall by?”
“Let me tell him you’re coming.”
Bobby takes this opportunity to leave enough money at the bar to keep Donna drinking until he sees her again. Donna returns from the pay phone. “I told him how you were feeling. He said stop on by. Chino said he don’t hold no grudges if you don’t. But I should warn you: he’s after your lady.”
Bobby heads up the familiar alley, climbs the fire escape, and on the landing is greeted by a really charming Chino, the former Donald Arthur Jones.
He says, “I understand that you are here to prove that you are a gentleman.”
“I like revisiting the scene of the crime.”
“Crime?” Chino grins. “What crime?”
Bobby gazes around the room. “The crime against taste in this creephole you call home. What do you want with those plaster Buddhas? Are you a Buddhist? And that beanbag chair? You make enough money. Is your crud taste necessary?”
Chino stares serenely at Bobby. After a moment, he asks, “Where is the gun?”
“How come lowlifes have always got hippie books on their bookshelf? What’s this, Watership Down? The Hobbit? What a soft heart you must have. Let’s have something to eat.”
In the kitchen, Bobby takes a plate down from the cabinet and gets some silverware out of a drawer. He sets a place. He goes to the refrigerator and takes out a container.
“Mind if I take some of this organic yogurt?”
“Nope.”
“I think it’s wonderful you should be having all these wonderful things. They’re so good for your karma. What do you do, sit down with the Mother Earth News, eat some yogurt, and then go knife somebody?”
“Not quite.”
“Join me,” Bobby orders. He seems possessed. He’s thinking of killing Chino, but he’s modulated that to possession. Chino sits.
“Where are those pictures you showed me the other day?”
“Under the bookend.”
Bobby wanders absently into the other room. He doesn’t remember the bookend. Chino gets up and quietly begins to follow him. He picks up Bobby’s dinner knife. As he clears the corner, Bobby swings the short heavy revolver into his face. Chino drops the silverware and totters around like an old man, holding his face and cooing. Bobby strolls back with the pictures and gestures for Chino to sit down. He sits.
“This is dinner. This is what you’re gonna eat, Chino.”
“I can’t eat those. I can’t eat Polaroids. They’ve got chemicals on them.”
“You have to eat them. If you don’t, I can’t answer for my actions. You can put any seasoning on them you like.” Bobby throws the ghastly pictures on Chino’s plate, one by one.
“What’s this one?”
“My kid. Name of Jesse.”
“How old is he?”
“Ten.”
“He looks about three in this picture. You shouldn’t have this picture in here. Who’s his mother?”
“Used to be one of my girls,” says Chino gloomily.
“You don’t have to eat those pictures.”
Bobby wanders disconsolately out the door. The curtain is falling.
“See you.”
“ ’Bye.”
Donna’s features have grown vaguer since Bobby left. He sits down next to her. She says, “I’ve been cocktailing since you left. Thanks for the drinks.”
“I feel the best thing would be for you to come back to my place.”
“What’d you say to Chino?”
“Not that much.”
“Did you hit him?”
“Once I had to.”
“You hit him …?”
“Had to.”
“I’ll come with you. Will I be able to work?”
“That’s the whole idea.”
“Here’s the thing. You’ve made it so I have to hide out, and, like, I’ve had to hide before. But you’re not necessarily my next guy.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Four.”
“Names?”
“Jan, Marielle, and La Costa. And Donna.”
“All Caucasian?”
“La Costa is Negro. We never see Marielle. She went to college. She has her own clients. She buys municipal bonds.”
“Is this all you guys do?”
“Jan dances. What about your lady?”
“I’m in love with her. I could marry her. It could happen. She’s Caucasian.”
“All the pimps fall in love with La Costa. If you see Chino again, it will be because of La Costa.”
Before they ever get inside the door, Bobby wants to know how Donna likes the view. She says, “It’s great.” Bobby asks her if she remembers tricking him into going to Chino’s the first time.
“Yes.… ”
Bobby slams her across the face. She takes two staggering steps with her arms hanging. “That was the last mistake you’re allowed.”
Marianne opens the door in time to glimpse the blow. Bobby is a bit breathless from the adrenaline; it was like real exposure in rock climbing. Marianne asks what’s going on.
Bobby says, “I was just explaining to Donna that the fastest way to get a low red-cell count is to have someone cut your throat.” He feels the gravity on his noggin.
But Donna is the first to go into the house, introducing herself to Marianne as she passes. When they follow her in, Marianne says, to improve the situation, “I’m afraid Bobby sees himself as dangerous.”
“I’m afraid of what else he sees,” says Donna.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not today. I sat around Enrico’s, and I guess I drank too much. Bunch of mixed drinks.”
In the kitchen, Marianne begins to reheat some homemade lentil soup for Donna, who is applying cleansing cream under her eyes, reverting to the plain midwestern girl she is. The day is done. Soon she is tucked in, in the spare bedroom. Bobby puts cheese melba toast and a glass of wine next to her bed. He works the tiny concerns to the point of dowdiness.
“You might get an appetite during the night. Tomorrow, we get your clothes.”