FOUR-FIFTEEN P.M.
It is only after you have left your Burberry and your shoes to dry in the shower stall, cleaned up the mess AndrE has made, poured yourself a glass of chardonnay, and retrieved the messages from your machine that you collapse on the bed and ask yourself, silently but emphatically, Whats next?!
Three of the four messages were from Belford, naturally. He has been racing around the Napa Valley, vineyard to vineyard, but the French consul general and his party are managing to stay one wine-tasting ahead of him. Since you have not been home nor left any word at his San Francisco hotel, he can only assume that you are fully, and, so far, futilely occupied with the dragnet for AndrE. He appreciates your dedication and, again, is sorry that he was callous to the psychological rigors of your monthly infirmity. Or ex-loggers words to that effect. Good grief! What kind of lover cant remember that his alleged girlfriend had her period just a week ago? The fourth message began, Hey, Squeak! Las night at Woman Ray! Mas cool, man. How come you … At which point you cut it off.
Okay. Have a sip of wine. Unzip your dress (for it is constricting your rump). Clear your mind (without the aid, one hopes, of George Washingtons choppers). And consider the possibilities.
First, you suppose you ought to get yourself over to Belfords to see if AndrE is there. Yet, had the little rascal found what he was looking for at his masters house, it is highly doubtful that he would have come pillaging in your place or Q-Jos. The truth is, AndrE does not especially care for you, probably because you see through his born-again act. No, theres no telling where he might be at the moment, where he might strike next. Now that the rain has given itself a haircut, hes likely roaming far and wide. At the very least, you should send word to Belford that his beloved beast is alive and well and looting. Of course, were he to receive such word, your prospective husband would be on the next flight to Seattle-and that is a homecoming you might prefer, rightly or wrongly, to delay.
Regarding Q-Jos continued absence, the correct course of action has become increasingly problematic. Suppose that Larry Diamond is responsible for her disappearance, after all. That would mean that he is a far more sinister, far more dangerous psychopath than you had originally imagined. Conversely, if Diamond is as innocent as you, in the past hour, have slowly, begrudgingly come to think, he, being the last person known to have seen her before she, all three-hundred-plus pounds of her, went poof, he could offer valuable assistance in your efforts to find her, not to mention the boost he might give your efforts to preserve your career, a prospect you cannot afford to ignore. The question: Is Diamond useful or deadly-or both?
Between the horns of that dilemma you swing so fast and long you get sick to your stomach. It is at the bathroom sink, gagging down two tablespoonsful of Pepto-Bismol (stockbrokers champagne), that you finally decide which card to play.
FIVE THIRTY-EIGHT P.M.
Like pigeon racing, telephone tag is a sport with no spectators, and although you have participated numerous times in the past, on this day, under these circumstances, you simply refuse. When Diamonds recorded voice comes over the line (you smile now at the rumblings and crashes, break out in goose bumps at his wickedly dry intonations) to say, If youre calling about the Presidents speech, my advice is, go out in the backyard and plant some potatoes. Better plant some in the front yard, too. While youre at it, dig yourself a frog pond. And dont forget to feed your head. Ahhh-ha-ha-ha-ha; you respond, after the customary beep, Goddamnit, Larry, this is Gwen Mati. I need to talk to you, and Im not hanging up until we have a conversation.
You had expected a lengthy, perhaps indefinite, wait, but hardly forty seconds pass before he pipes up, Gwendolyn, what took you so long?
Naturally, his presumptuousness annoys you. You were expecting me to call?
Well, Q-Jos not back at the ranch. Is she?
How did you know?
Just a hunch.
Yeah? Maybe it is his keen intuition, or maybe it is because he knows where she really is. Maybe he has spent the two hours since he kissed you good-bye feeding her body parts to a sausage grinder. A gorge of Pepto-Bismol rises like flamingo diarrhea in your throat.
Im sorry, he says, that Ive not been answering the phone, but I cant waste my time commiserating with frazzled bookies. Even your man Posner called me earlier. Can you picture Posner digging up his lawn? Ahhh-ha-ha-ha.
Posner phoned you, eh? Tell me, has Posner ever been to Thunder House? It is a loaded question, but you successfully filter suspicion from your voice.
Hardly, he says. Posner knows me mainly by reputation. Why? Has he been dropping my name?
You partially sigh with partial relief. No, no. Ive never heard him mention you-although his wife believes youve come back from Africa heavy with wisdom.
Well, shes wrong about that. People do not get heavy with wisdom. They get light. The wiser you become, the lighter you become. This is an unsolicited testimonial for lightheartedness, Gwendolyn. I suggest you pay attention.
Sure. Okay. But what about Q-Jo? Im not feeling overly bubbly about that situation. Nor any one of a dozen others, you might have added.
Why dont you come over to Thunder House, then, and we canNo! you snap, a bit too quickly and a bit too strongly. You have sworn on your mothers book of verse that you will never permit the spider to coax you into that noisy web. What, are you supposed to feel safe because some character named Twisted is roaming the premises? That zonked-out Indian isnt exactly the chaperon most guardians of health and decency have in mind. No. You say it softer this time. How about this? I need to go downtown. That is a lie, but meeting Diamond in a familiar, and public, place is essential to the compromise at which you have arrived. Could we meet at, oh, lets say the Bull and Bear? In half an hour?
Sorry.
Oh.
No Bull and Bear. I dont think I can take… . Aw, all right. We wont be allowed a lot of privacy, but this economic catastrophe is so endlessly entertaining, itll be worth the interruptions just to hear what lemmings say to one another as they go over the cliff. But I cant make it in thirty minutes. My scooters torn apart… .
Your scooter?
You know. My bike. Unlike some things I could name, it doesnt perform well when wet. You wince. Is he talking about amphibians or about … ? Been working on it off and on all day. Ill have it together in an hour, but I could still be held up. Im expecting a call. Lets say we meet at seven-fifteen. But dont blow your little gasket if Im late.
The call cant wait? For some reason, you are positive it is to be from that hotsy pants at the espresso bar. Animals! Havent these people heard of AIDS?
Afraid not. Getting Motofusa Yamaguchi on the line is no piece of cake.
SEVEN-FIFTEEN P.M.
By six-fifteen, the sky has gone as bald as a bottle of hair tonic. Not a strand of rain dangles from its smooth gray pate. By seven-fifteen, the streets downtown are once again teeming with the dispossessed, almost catatonically passive in some cases, menacingly aggressive in others. You pass hurriedly among them, careful not to make eye contact.
The sigh of relief you expect to release upon reaching the safety of the Bull&Bear dies, stillborn, in your sternum. The Bull&Bear is closed!
Your initial reaction is that the restaurant has gone in the bucket along with the market. Then you come to your senses. This is Saturday. Of course the Bull&Bear is closed! The Bull&Bear is never open on weekends. Youve known that for years.
Come on, dont berate yourself. You are not a helium head. You have had a lot on your mind lately, more than the usual ration of stress; and this workweek, due to Good Friday, ended early. It is understandable that you might lose track of time. But what about Larry Diamond? Did he, too, forget what day it was? Or did he let you proceed to the Bull&Bear knowing full well that you would find it shut? Diamond might be capable of that. Even if he is not physically dangerous, he strikes you as the sort of man who likes to test people, likes to play with their minds. He probably would find it humorous, in his dry, sardonic
way, to see you cringing in the restaurant doorway, constricting to make yourself invisible to the riffraff in the street-some of whom might remember you, pants down, from the previous night.
You must decide whether to tarry here awhile-it is still light out, thank goodness-or whether to retreat to your car. You suppose you could just drive around the block until Diamond arrives. While you are debating your next move, a bum lunges up. So closely does he resemble a teller who used to wait on you at SeaFirst Bank that you are hesitant to shoo him away. I know my body language is bad, says the man slurringly but politely, but I need five dollars.
You just stare at him. He looks so familiar! He begins again. I realize my breath is possibly objectionable …
Didnt you …
… but I require five dollars.
… used to work at …
In small, unmarked bills.
Good grief! You never should have made eye contact. How can you get rid of him without shelling out the five bucks you saved by avoiding the amphibian fair? He wont believe you if you tell him youre broke. You are all decked out in a darling, snugly cut wool suit in bold tribal print by Ellen Tracy; not to impress Diamond, perish the thought, but in the event some broker of note happened to be investing in Johnnie Walker in the Bull&Bear lounge. Big mistake. Oh, and now a second bum, a short, ragged claw of a fellow in a derby hat, is joining you in the doorway.
If you was to eat dog shit, says the newcomer, and then shit it out, would you ave dog shit or human shit?
You are ripe with revulsion, faint with disgust. In your tummy, the cry rings out for more Pepto-Bismol. The teller bum, though, is studying the query. After a moment, during which he vigorously scratches his rib cage, he says, We used to have a hound that would eat its own… . You jam your fingers in your ears. When you remove them, the second derelict is saying, Righto, and that is precisely why the hound dog was no friend of Mr. Presleys. But it begs my question, bloke.
Use five dollars? the ex-teller asks him, jerking a thumb in your direction. It almost pokes you in the eye.
In my native England, says the other with some dignity, I was, by special appointment, wino to Her Majesty the Queen.
Use five pounds, then?
The Queens wino.
Dollars weak against most major currencies, but at Garys Mini-Mart, its good as gold.
Good grief! You feel a wave of nostalgia for the days when bums rarely spoke a word beyond, Spare change? Fumbling with the latch on your purse, you are about to slip them each a buck just to buy your way out of torment-when across Sixth Avenue, in front of a fancy florist shop, whom should you spot setting up his telescope but astronomys Jack the Ripper, the sex-offender stargazer who showed the world your moon.
SEVEN-TWENTY P.M.
You shove the vagrants aside with such force that the one loses his derby, the other his balance. Forcing a Mercedes-Benz luxury sedan and a smoke-spewing old Japanese minicar to slow for you, you dash across the avenue.
Im not open, lady. Waiting for a break in the overcast.
Ill break your damn overcast.
Oh, its you.
Yes, its me, scumbag. And in a minute itll be the police. Did you really expect you could get away with that?
I didnt do it, missy.
There is such sincerity, such feeling in his voice that you are momentarily hushed. Under your gaze, he commences to clear his throat, prompting you to step back a few paces in case he launches one of his mucoid projectiles. What do you mean you didnt do it? You were standing right next to me!
It was the rich boys. I didnt see em till it was too late. If I hadnt grabbed my scope and run, theyd a popped me, too.
Are you lying to me? You have heard of the rich boys, actually. Young men from wealthy Eastside families who ride around and terrorize street people, much as some street people have been terrorizing the well-to-do.
No. Im telling you. It was a carful of em. In a new BMW. Stoned on something or other. They just jumped out and let you have it. Having fun, you know. They were gonna take your clothes and leave you naked, its a joke they play on homeless women, but somebody was screaming for the cops and they got spooked and drove off.
But … but, Im not homeless.
The astronomer hacks. Before he spits, he smiles. Not yet, anyway.
SEVEN TWENTY-FOUR P.M.
One of the bums has followed you across the street. I remember you, he says accusingly, in his slow, slurry voice. Youre the one tried to get me fired at the bank.
You shortchanged me.
She blames other people because she cant count money, he says to the astronomer. And she shoves people.
Therell be an excellent view of Sirius tonight, if we get some clearing.
You bitch, you shoved me.
The Bozo tribe in Mali describes Sirius as sitting down.
What did you say?
You think youre hot stuff.
Not you! Get lost! You address the astronomer. About the Bozo?
Seated, they say it is. How could a star be perceived as sitting down on something? Unless …
The bum is shoving you, now, shoving you away from the astronomer, whose words you are straining to hear.
… it was sitting … Snort.
You think youre better than other people, but you cant fool me. He pushes you against the marble facade of an upscale travel agency.
… like a frog, maybe … Hack.
Your account was always overdrawn!
… on top of a big ol … Splat.
Now, its my turn, mama. I wanna withdraw five smackers.
Because you are occupied with blushing-how dare anyone discuss your bank balance in public!-and with slapping the disaffiliated tellers hands away from your purse, you cannot be sure you hear the disaffiliated astronomer correctly, but unless your ears and your imagination are ganging up on you, he uses the word, pad. He says, like a frog sitting on top of a big ol pad.
SEVEN TWENTY-SEVEN P.M.
The bums face is in yours, and his breath is, indeed, objectionable. Apparently, he is no longer self-conscious about his body language. Well, enough is enough. You kick him forcefully in the shin with the pointy toe of your new Kenneth Cole sling-backs. While he is howling, like an alarm at the bank, you break away. As you dart past the astronomer, you sing out, Ill be back!
Forget it, lady. Youll never pin anything on the rich boys. Darting back across Sixth Avenue, you hear him add, Sirius gave you your two bucks worth.
Your head is spinning, your heart is playing a tape of one of your fathers bongo parties. Adrenaline is propelling you toward your car, although what you will do, where you will go once you get there, is not something youve thought about yet. A grape-colored Vespa pulls alongside you-driving on the sidewalk, for Gods sake-and you instinctively reach in your purse for the can of Mace that you nearly used on the mad bank clerk. Whats your hurry? asks a voice that sounds as if it were strained through a bowl of cheap dog food. Making a sudden career move?
Although it is most certainly a passing, situational, emotion, you are relieved-happy, even-to see Larry Diamond. As decorously as you are able-it is incumbent upon you, you think, to maintain some semblance of propriety at this particularly barbaric moment of our cultural history-you endeavor to swing one leg over the comically putt-putting Vespa. (Somehow, you had envisioned him roaring around on a big black Harley.) You manage to climb aboard-but for a very short ride. Instead of whisking you off into the night and the wind, a prospect that adds three sets of bongos to your heartbeat, Diamond circles and brings the motor scooter to a stop a few yards away, directly in front of the Bull&Bear.
Theyre closed, you remind him, clinging ever so lightly to the back of his leather jacket.
Only to amateurs, he says, and he dismounts and limps toward the entrance.
SEVEN FORTY-FIVE P.M.
You are so humiliated you could crawl into the peanut dish and cover yourself with salted goobers. The Bull&Bear, it seems, operates as a private club on Sa
turday nights. Its doors are locked to the public, its blinds are drawn, but members gain access by punching in a code on a key pad. And who are the members? Why, everybody who is anybody in Seattles brokerage community. Larry Diamond is a member, and he hasnt been in the business for years. Ann Louise, a newcomer, is apparently a member; you recognize her well-traveled rump at the bar. You, however, werent even aware of the clubs existence. In some respects, that is a more lacerating blow to you than the stock-market crash.
Something wrong? Diamond asks.
Your eyelids are pushing back tears like security guards holding back fans at a rock concert. Oh, Jesus, you say, biting your lip. I swear, this has been the worst weekend of my life.
Its not over yet.
Yeah. Thats what scares me. You drain a third of your wine spritzer and dab your lips and your eyes with a cocktail napkin. Every single thing in my life has gone totally haywire.
Thats a good sign. Disasters always best when its on a grand scale. As Yamaguchi puts it, A big back has a big front.
Uh-huh. Well, its all back and no front from where I sit. Wheres the flip side, Mr. Diamond? And while were at it, wheres all this damn fun you claim is just beginning?
Its all around us, Gwendolyn. We only have to have the eyes to see it.
You are under the impression that Diamonds idea of fun encompasses events and activities that a normal human being might regard as catastrophes. But you say, Your eyes are obviously better than mine. If they can see fun which is to the rest of us invisible, just think how clearly theyd see something the size of Q-Jo Huffington. You pause and take a sip of your drink. Where the hell is she?
Lighting in the Bull&Bear is fuzzier than usual, the music softer, the patrons, of which there are less than a dozen, more subdued. The ambiance borders on the romantic, although you perceive the absence of commotion as a reflection of economic trauma. Still, you are grateful for a quiet, safe place in which to pick this warped brain. You are safe from rich boys and poor boys in the street, and as for the perils of Diamond himself, well, Ann Louise has been shooting curious glances at your table: should he wax amorous, you can always foist him off on her.