by Becky Clark
Bernice took the bags. “Well, bless your heart. Thanks!” She walked away with a smile that came close to splitting her face, calling to her cohorts behind the desk, “Hey, ya’ll. That lady just bought us dinner.”
I waved at them and hurried away in the opposite direction to avoid any further discussion of my generosity. Alleged generosity.
Not sure where exactly I was headed, I stopped when I saw the revolving lobby door to my right. I wasn’t satisfied with my conversation, if you could call it that, with Michael Watanabe. Why wasn’t he more concerned about Hanna? Why had he been arguing with saRAH outside? Was he still using or dealing drugs? What didn’t he want me to know?
Maybe our conversation had spooked him and he might show his hand in some way. I wished now that I’d thought to follow him right away. But if I went to Watanabe’s now and he was there, it would show he hadn’t gotten spooked at all and was just back at work. And if he was back at work, I could justify being there to pay him for the food he delivered.
I turned back toward Bernice at the desk. “Hey, Bernice, where is Watanabe’s exactly?”
“It’s on the corner of … I want to say it’s at Multnomah and Grand, but it might be at Seventh.” Jack had returned to his desk from the luggage room, so she called out to him across the lobby, “Jack? Is Watanabe’s on Grand or Seventh? This lady is asking for directions.”
Jack looked at me and cocked his head. “Grand.”
Bernice nodded. “Multnomah and Grand. Not too far from here. If you’re walking over, you can borrow an umbrella.” She gestured toward a stylish bucket filled with half a dozen different colored umbrellas.
“Yes, that would be—”
“But didn’t you just get a delivery from Watanabe’s?” She glanced toward the door where the food had been spirited away by the staff.
I flashed her what I hoped was a winning and charming and not at all suspicious smile. “Like a dummy, I forgot to pay him.”
“He didn’t hand you a bill? Watanabe’s is so old school. They should ask for credit card info when people order.” Bernice leaned forward on the front desk. “Especially since everyone knows how … flaky their delivery boy can be.”
I leaned on the counter too. “Flaky how?”
“Oh, you know.” She waved a hand around her head. “Forgetful. Marches to his own drummer.”
“How do you know him?”
“Michael? Everyone knows Michael.” The phone rang, so she excused herself to answer it.
Puzzled, I walked toward the umbrella bucket and drew out a pretty one. Why would everyone know Michael Watanabe? I considered possibilities, all simply conjecture, as I crossed the lobby to the revolving door. I passed one of the front desk clerks on his phone and he almost swerved into me. “Excuse me, Ma’am” he said as he sidestepped.
Ma’am. Ouch.
Outside, I opened up my pretty green and blue umbrella, dismayed that it was festooned with the Seattle Seahawks logo. I hoped this wouldn’t revoke my Denver Broncos fan card.
I turned left down Multnomah just as the rain picked up. How do people live here, I wondered, missing the dry Colorado weather. I splashed the direction I thought I was supposed to go, not seeing anything but my feet except for the times I raised my umbrella at intersections to read the street signs. It was twilight and the streetlights were on, casting weird reflections in the puddles and bouncing off all the lights, from the street, from cars, from shops. People were bustling all around me, very few carrying umbrellas. Just me and the old people. That guy’s earlier “Ma’am” stung me again.
I plodded along through the rain, raising my umbrella every so often to search for Grand or a sign for Watanabe’s. I was still amazed by how different Portland rain is from Denver rain. Most of our rain comes on summer afternoons, quick and harsh thunderstorms sailing toward us from the mountains in the west. Those storms are often violent and destructive, bringing hail, lightning, torrents of rain and wind. If they aren’t violent, though, they are always noisy. Hard rain falling fast, blitzing in and then out of the state just as quickly, over the mountains from the west out to the plains on the east, bada bing, bada boom. Kansas’s problem now.
But here, in Portland, the rain was softer. More insidious. Like it wanted to get to know you, stick around for a while. A long-term loving relationship versus a raucous one-night stand. I smiled at my analogy and listened to the few sounds around me, mostly just cars whooshing and splashing past. No voices. Everyone seemed to be on a mission to get somewhere. All I heard around me were my footsteps and the occasional trickle of rain down the nylon fabric.
I listened, a bit hypnotized, until I became aware of another set of footsteps, matching mine in perfect rhythm. I glanced quickly over my shoulder but only saw a red umbrella bobbing behind me. My paranoia was on high alert. I slowed down. They slowed down. I sped up. They sped up. I raised my umbrella to see I was mid-block, between intersections. I ran across the street, dashing dangerously between cars, splashing loudly in puddles. When I got to the sidewalk I raised my umbrella to look at the other side of the street.
No red umbrella. Had my imagination taken me into dangerous traffic or was someone actually following me? Did they open a door to their destination or were they watching me from some hidden vantage point?
Either way, I was anxious to get to Watanabe’s. I hurried to the next intersection and saw it was Seventh. If Bernice couldn’t remember if the restaurant was at Seventh or Grand, I must be close. When I got to Sixth, I saw a tall sign that said Japanese Food. I decided that even if it wasn’t Watanabe’s, that’s where I was going. I could get a cab from there.
I crossed the street again and ran the last block, flinging the restaurant door open, relieved to see Welcome to Watanabe’s on it. As I burst in, startled diners stared at me. I tried shaking my umbrella outside the door, but only succeeded in flinging water all over the vestibule.
The elderly hostess hurried toward me, gently taking the umbrella from me and dropping it into their stand. “Table for one?” she asked.
“Um … actually, I’m looking for Michael.”
She gave me a serious once-over, then went to the saloon doors into the kitchen and called to him. He came out wiping his hands on an apron he wore. When he saw me, he turned on his heel and returned to the kitchen.
The hostess watched this, then stomped over to me, grabbed my elbow, and hustled me to the furthest seat at the sushi bar. She was tiny but strong and pushed me into a stool. “What you want with my grandson?”
“I … I … wanted to pay him for some food he delivered earlier.”
“He bring you food? You no pay for?”
“I didn’t mean to. I just forgot. We both forgot.”
She stared at me for a long time before finally nodding. “Yes. He do that.” She bustled off to the kitchen.
My eyes traveled around the interior of the restaurant. Even though the aromas were deliciously Asian, the decor was decidedly not. Throughout the entire restaurant were photographs and newspaper clippings of a wrestler, almost always holding a trophy. I slid off my stool to take a closer look. They were all of, or about, Michael.
Michael Watanabe, Japanese food delivery boy and drug dealer, had been a high school and college wrestling champion several years in a row. No wonder Bernice said everyone knew him.
As I was bent over reading one of the articles, I heard him say, “Here’s your bill. You can pay my grandma at the register.” He turned and walked away.
I wanted to talk to him some more, to continue our conversation from before, but I couldn’t come up with any questions I hadn’t already asked. And it was obvious his feelings for me hadn’t grown any more hospitable.
Since he was wearing an apron and had been involved in the kitchen when I arrived, it didn’t seem that he’d stopped anywhere on his way back from delivering food to the hotel. Clearly he hadn’t been spooked by our encounter. Or if he had been, he didn’t detour anywhere that would have shown m
e his hand. I paid, tacked on a sizable tip, and waited at the sushi bar for a cab back to the hotel.
Michael Watanabe was still no less of a puzzle to me. But now I could add “Was I being followed?” to my list of concerns.
Jack knew I was going to Watanabe’s, because Bernice had told him when she verified the location. Had he followed me? And if so, why?
When I got back to the hotel, I immediately looked for Jack. I wanted to see if his shoes and hair were wet like mine. He wasn’t at his desk. As I slid my Seahawks umbrella into the bucket, I asked, “Bernice, do you know where Jack is?”
“He went home for the day. Is there anything I can help you with? I’d be happy as a clam to do so.”
“No. Nothing. Thanks though. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
I was striking out all over the place. And I was hungry. Since I’d given the desk staff the dinner I’d ordered from Watanabe’s earlier, and I hadn’t thought to order anything while at the restaurant, I grabbed one of the bowls of trail mix sitting out in the lobby and scooped a hefty dose into my mouth. As I turned, chomping, I almost tripped over Scout, her huge German shepherd frame enthusiastically leaping over some of the inverted pillow obstacles. I caused her to knock them over, and as I attempted to right them, she modified her performance with some random enthusiastic leaping, now combined with a new trick—competitive face-licking.
Every time I bent over to balance the pillows, she’d knock them over trying to kiss me and steal some trail mix from my bowl. The more I laughed, the more exuberant she became. Finally, Scott walked over with Brad Pitt beside him.
“Scout. Sit.”
She stopped mid-lick and mid-bounce, sitting as still as Lot’s wife at Scott’s side.
Her handler turned to me. “I’m sorry about that. She gets a little excited. But I think she likes you.”
I rubbed Scout on the side of her face. “I like her too.” One inch of her tail flicked back and forth.
“I should be that lucky,” Brad said.
“My secret’s out. I love getting my face slobbered on.” I rubbed Scout some more, bending closer. “Sorry, baby. You’re not slobbering and I didn’t mean to imply such a thing.”
Flick, flick, flick.
I offered Brad and Scott some trail mix. When they both declined with grimaces, I said, “More for me” and nibbled another handful.
We watched a couple of dogs run through the makeshift agility course. Then Scott said, “Okay, Scout. Want one last turn?”
Without waiting for a command, she raced around the course. Scott didn’t even tell her what to do, but she completed it exactly as the two previous dogs had. But faster, much faster, despite almost catching her girth inside the tunnel of chairs. She wiggled free and galloped toward us, skidding to a stop at Scott’s feet.
“She’s amazing,” Brad said to Scott.
I bent to nuzzle her. “Yes, you are. Who’s amazing? Who’s an amazing girl? Is it you? Yes, it is. It’s you!” Scout and I had a moment until I realized how silly I must sound. I straightened and felt my face flush.
“You love her.” Brad chuckled.
Scott nodded. “Scout has that effect on people.”
“Can she teach me?” Brad waggled his eyebrows.
“Scout or Charlee?” Scott teased.
“There’s an idea.” Brad turned toward me. “Wanna slobber on my face?”
“Tempting, but no.”
“Aw, c’mon. Have a drink with me. I’m not ready to go up and deal with my roommate yet. Being awfully cranky.” He batted his eyes melodramatically. “You’re not cranky at all.”
“We’ll leave you two to it. Come on, Scout. Bedtime.”
I said, “Bedtime for me too,” but wished I hadn’t when Brad waggled his eyebrows again. “Geez, you’re relentless. Go find someone else to flirt with. Maybe you’ll wear them down.” I fluttered my fingers goodbye to him and met up with Scott and Scout waiting at the elevator.
“No nightcap?” Scott asked.
“Nah. I’ve got a boyfriend I’m on my way to call right now.”
“Does he know you have a boyfriend?” Scott ticked his head toward Brad, who was walking into the bar area.
“Yeah. Brad’s a big flirt,” I said. “Probably wouldn’t know what to do if his lines worked on anyone.”
“You’re right. Come to think of it, seems whenever I see him, he’s hanging out with guys. Just a big talker.”
We both glanced over at Brad, now sitting at the bar talking animatedly with the bartender.
The elevator came and as the doors were closing, Brad gave us a happy little wave. Scott waved back, but both Scout and I reached for the button for the eighth floor. Me with an index finger, her with a snout.
“You’re on eight? We are too, aren’t we, Scout?” Scout replied with a thump of her tail.
“You taught her to push the button?”
“No, she already knew that. I just showed her which one was eight.”
I let Scout push the button.
We got off on eight and walked together. I realized Scott might be escorting me to my door and I waved him off. “I’m okay. You don’t need to walk me home.”
“No, I’m down this way. 811.”
I blushed. Of course. I stopped at 809. “Good night, you two.” I fished my key card from my back pocket and unlocked my door.
“G’night, Charlee. Say good night, Scout.”
Scout gave one solid bark. Then another. Then a third.
“What a good girl you are,” I said. “Bark back atcha.”
A woman with an angry face poked it out of a door down the hall. When she saw the full impact of Scout staring at her she pulled back inside and closed the door without a word. I felt a vindictive delight that Scout’s bark annoyed her as much as her always-needing-filled ice bucket annoyed me.
“Good girl,” I said again and gave her a good-night thump on her side.
I peeled off my clothes and changed into my comfy brushed-cotton pajama bottoms and an oversized T-shirt of Ozzi’s I’d stolen from him. I took a good long sniff of the shirt before pulling it over my head. It still had a trace of his scent, a cross between freshly mowed grass and pancakes. I always thought this odd, because even though he ate pancakes—boy, did he eat pancakes—he never mowed grass. But there it was.
A weird noise caught my attention. I stood still and cocked my ear to determine if it originated in my suite or not. It was a rhythmic thumping and squeaking, and I shuddered to think I was hearing the Ice Lady shaboinking someone. But no, it didn’t quite sound like that. I stepped toward the bedroom wall and listened again. It was coming from Scott and Scout’s room next door. Faintly, I heard Scott laugh and then say, “Okay, that’s enough. I know the rules have been a bit lax lately, but I don’t think it befits a show dog of your caliber to jump from bed to bed. Now get down and eat your dinner.”
I heard two squeaks and one last thump and I pictured Scout’s sweet face staring adoringly at Scott, who, I was sure, forgave her misbehavior immediately.
Thinking of Scout eating dinner made my stomach growl and again I kicked myself for not getting some of that Watanabe food when I’d had the chance. Multiple chances, in fact. The minibar was an option, but not a good one. The armoire door hung open, so I closed it when I passed by to dig out the room service menu from the padded three-ring binder of hotel information. After thoroughly perusing it, I settled on clam chowder and a grilled cheese sandwich. I had a million problems, but lactose intolerance wasn’t one of them.
I was startled to see that my share of the T-shirts and iron-on patches were folded in a neat stack on the loveseat. Clementine must have seen that I’d forgotten them and asked Jack or housekeeping to deliver them to me. My scalp prickled to think that someone had been in my suite for some reason other than to clean it. I grabbed the three-ring binder again and sidled over to the floor-length curtains at the sliding door. I held the binder as far away from me as possible and used it to flip the curt
ains away from the wall. Of course nobody was behind them, but it made me feel the teensiest bit better to check. I did the same thing with the shower curtain in the bathroom and the open door into the bedroom.
Certain I was alone, I searched the suite for an electrical outlet so I could charge my phone while I talked to Ozzi. As I passed the armoire, the door had opened again and I knocked my head against it as I felt around the nearby wall. The armoire was where the TV and mini-fridge lived, ferpetesake. No electricity supply? Did they run solely on fervent wishes?
I hadn’t been able to find an open outlet the day before either, but I’d thought it was just fatigue. Again, I plugged my phone into the only outlet I could find and sat on the closed lid of the toilet to dial Ozzi. I’d decided while following Jack through the dark bowels of the basement that I’d tell Ozzi everything that was going on, despite what Viv wanted. I needed a second opinion, a voice of reason, a sounding board. However, I resolved not to mention that perhaps I’d been followed to Watanabe’s. If I was going to use Ozzi as a sounding board, I needed him to be unemotional. I was emotional enough for the both of us.
I didn’t want to dive right into my problems, so we chit-chatted a bit and he told me about the project he’d completed today. I only understood about two-thirds of what he said about his computer job. It always sounded to me like my boyfriend was a hacker, but he’d assured me he was not (despite that time he’d hacked my laptop) and that everything he did was completely legitimate, virtuous, and wholesome.
Well, maybe not everything was wholesome. As I drifted away from Ozzi’s words and let his voice wash over me, I suddenly wished I was in his bed. And that we were doing something other than talking.
A loud knock jolted me back to the Pacific Portland Hotel. “Room service.”
“Hang on, Oz. My dinner’s here.” I put the phone down next to the sink and opened the door.
The waiter waltzed in with a large tray and, without asking where I wanted it, placed it on the short coffee table in front of the loveseat. He handed me the ticket. I quickly calculated the tip, signed it and handed it back, and then escorted him toward the door. As I neared it, I banged my upper arm against the armoire door—hanging open yet again—and then closed it so he wouldn’t bump into it.