“He’s covered in them,” I said as if it were a huge upside to Tito’s existence.
He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Does he ride in a motorcycle club?”
If I had to paint a picture of an imperfect man—in my father’s eyes—it would be Tito or someone like Tito.
I had no idea if he rode in a motorcycle club. If he did, he’d be my father’s nemesis. Detective Ted Gottschalk spent a considerable amount of time investigating motorcycle gangs and their criminal activities, then rained on their club’s parades at the most inopportune times.
“Ride in an MC?” I acted satisfied by the mention of it. “I sure hope so.”
“Damn it, Reggie.” He stood. A side-eyed glare followed. “You know damned good and well—”
I shot from my seat and glared right back. “He’s. A. Nice. Guy.”
“Fine,” he huffed. “Bring him by.”
“If we go out again, I will.”
He looked me up and down. “Fair enough.”
“Fair enough,” I mimicked.
With an eyeroll in progress, he shook his head. He opened his arms. “My love for you should never be in question.”
It wasn’t. If there was one man that I knew loved me more than he loved himself, it was my father.
I hugged him. “It’s not.”
“I may seem like an overbearing prick,” he said. “But it’s all for your safety. I can’t have you seeing someone who manages car washes by day and robs banks by night.”
“If said someone even exists,” I said with a laugh.
“Believe me,” he said. “He’s out there, somewhere.”
14
Tito
A few minutes before closing time, I stood just inside the entrance to The Buckle while Reggie helped a young woman select a pair of cut-off shorts from the display. Stealing nervous glances at me as each opportunity presented itself, she smiled and joked while holding various pairs of the skimpy denim garments for the woman to inspect.
“Hey, Taddeo,” Raymond said from behind me.
Focused completely on Reggie, his voice startled me. I turned to face him. He looked especially gaunt and overly happy to see me. I wondered how much of his sunken-cheek look was obtained by the makeup he wore.
“What’s going on?”
He lifted a button-down shirt and looked it over. “Oh, nothing much. Just trying to clothe the words heterosexual men with shirts like this awful specimen without laughing hysterically when they try them on. How’s the car wash business?”
I laughed. “She told you what I do for a living?”
“She tells me everything.”
I grinned. “Good to know.”
He glanced at Reggie, and then at me. “Did she tell you everything?”
“Tell me everything about what?”
“About her ex?”
“She said they just broke up.”
He clasped his hands together. “Did she tell you why?”
“I didn’t ask.”
He glanced over each shoulder before looking right at me. “He had sex with a stripper,” he whispered. “In the parking lot of the strip club.”
“Oh. Wow,” I coughed. “That ought to do it.”
He leaned close enough to kiss me. “He knew her.”
“Knew who?”
“The nasty stripper,” he whispered. “He said they were, like, best friends.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a one-time thing,” I said. “If they were friends.”
He leaned away and looked me over. “I know, right? That’s exactly what I was thinking. I never liked him. Not even a little bit. They had a barbeque a few years ago in their back yard, which, by the way, is huge. Reggie used it to burn everything that stripper-fucker Jared left in the house. The cops came. To the fire, no the barbeque. Anyway, back to the barbeque, he—Jared—cooked sausages, ribs, hamburgers, and I don’t know, some other stuff. Whatever it is that people barbeque. He had everything. When I went to get my food, he said, ‘watch Raymond, he’ll get a wiener, he loves them.’ Everyone laughed. I didn’t tell Reggie, but now I regret it. I thought it was rude. I mean, I’m not a closet gay by any means, but really?” He rolled his eyes. “He didn’t need to say that.”
“You’re right,” I said. “He didn’t.”
“Does it bother you?”
“That he said what he said?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “But, yeah.”
“I think it was uncalled for, and rude,” I responded.
“It doesn’t bother you that I’m gay?”
“Does it bother you that I’m not?”
He smirked. “Actually, maybe a little bit.”
I laughed. Whether he tried to be or not, he was very entertaining to watch, and to listen to. When he talked, he spoke with his hands, waving them wildly and touching whoever it was he spoke to.
In response to his statement, I struck my best manly pose—hand-on-chin, gazing at nothing, with my bicep flexed.
“I was joking,” he said with a wave of his hand. He gave me a quick once-over. “Kind of.”
Completely comfortable with my sexuality, I was a million miles from being homophobic. Gay men were attracted to gay men no differently that heterosexual men were attracted to heterosexual women. That was my belief, anyway.
I lowered my hand. “I’m flattered.”
“You should be,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m not easily pleased.”
I glanced around. Short of the woman Reggie was helping, the store was empty. I looked at Raymond. “I’ve got a few questions.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Are gay men attracted to heterosexual men?”
“I can’t speak for the community,” he responded, tidying a stack of shirts while he spoke. “But I can tell you this. I don’t want to be in a relationship with a straight man. Not someone who’s experimenting with his sexuality. That’s a recipe for disaster. If you met a woman who was lesbian her entire life, and then decided to experiment with a man, would you want to pour your heart and soul into a relationship with her?”
I wondered how many heartbreaks a man could withstand before he isolated himself from women altogether. “No,” I said. “I would not.”
“You’d have this fear that one day she’d go back to her roots, right?”
“Right.”
“But.” He scanned me from the tips of my boots to my shoulders, then looked me in the eyes. “I often daydream about men I find attractive. It’s hard not to.”
“I think that’s healthy,” I said.
“Thank you.” He smiled. “What are the other questions? You said you had several.”
“What about the fire?” I asked. “You said Reggie used the big back yard to burn—”
His eyes went wide. “She didn’t tell you?”
“No. She didn’t.”
“Oh. My God.” He took a glance in Reggie’s direction and quickly returned his attention to me. “She and that crazy friend of hers, Mel? They took all of Jared’s belongings to the back yard and piled them up. Then, they doused everything in gasoline and set it on fire.” His brows raised dramatically. “Yes. On fire. Like, a blazing inferno that could be seen from El Cajon—maybe even as far as Chula Vista.” His eyes shot to Reggie, who was still talking to the girl. He waved, flashed a smile, and then looked at me. “When the police showed up, they were both standing there with a bottle of wine in one hand and a knife in the other. The police pulled their guns and screamed at them to either drop the knives or get shot. Complete insanity, if you ask me.”
He was right, burning a person’s belongings in the back yard sounded like insanity, for sure. “The fire? Yeah, that’s crazy.”
“Not the fire,” he said. “The police. I mean, really? They were in Reggie’s backyard burning Jared’s things. They weren’t hurting anyone, that’s for sure. Police scare me. They’re always too quick to pull the trigger. Luckily, Reggie blurted out that her father’ a detective, and the
y lowered their weapons.”
“Why were they holding knives?”
“They used them to carve up the couch before they lit it on fire. Reggie said it was all slippery and sticky, and she was afraid that it wouldn’t catch fire unless they exposed all the poofy stuff in the cushions.”
“The green couch?” I asked.
He tapped my shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “You’ve been there. I forgot. Yes. The green one. Sadly, it’s no more. Personally, I liked it. She, on the other hand, hated it. I think it was a personal matter with Jared loving it. You know, a subconscious thing.”
“I didn’t think it was too bad.” I shrugged. “Kind of a weird color.”
“Apple green? It wasn’t for everyone, but I loved it. I’ve got socks that match it perfectly.”
Reggie stepped behind the counter and was ringing the girl’s purchases up on the register. I looked at her and then at Raymond. “Tell me something about her that you think I should know, but that she’d never tell me herself.”
“About Reggie?”
I nodded.
“She hated Jared long before she made him leave. He was far too timid and compliant. She never complained to him, but she did to me. All the time. If you want to win her heart. Be assertive.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Not an asshole,” he said. “Assertive. There’s a huge difference. Be nice to her.”
I laughed. “I will.”
His face went stern. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He straightened a folded shirt and met my gaze. “Thank you.”
Reggie handed the girl her bag of belongings and offered a smile. The girl smiled in return and waved on her way out. As the girl left the store, Reggie came to where Raymond and I were standing.
Her hair was up and tied with a leopard print bow. A black sleeveless top showcased her athletic arms. Jeans and leopard print flats topped off the simple—yet remarkably attractive—ensemble.
“You two looked like you were having fun,” she said with a smile. “What were you talking about?”
Raymond looked like he’d been caught stealing a pack of gum from the &-Eleven.
“We were discussing your hair,” I said. “How good it looks today. Raymond was telling me about all the different styles you wear. We agreed we like it when it’s up.”
Relief washed over Raymond. He thanked me with his eyes and then took a step away from Reggie. He gave her a slow-motion once-over.
Reggie reached for her bow, touching it lightly as if to make sure it was still in place. She looked at me, and then at Raymond. “Really?”
“It looks fabulous,” Raymond said. “I tell you that all the time.”
“Thank you.” Reggie shifted her eyes to me. “And, thank you.”
I grinned and gave a reassuring nod.
“Sorry,” she said. “But I don’t know anything about your hat yet. I haven’t heard back from corporate.”
“I’m not worried about the hat.” I locked eyes with her. “Does Friday or Saturday work better for you?”
She seemed embarrassed. “Whaaa—”
“Friday or Saturday,” I said. “Which is best?”
A confused look came over her. “For what?”
“We’re going on another date,” I said. “Which day works best? Friday? Or Saturday?”
“I uhhm. Well,” She stammered. “I—”
“I’ll pick you up at six on Saturday,” I said. “At six.”
The corners of her mouth curled up a little. “At my house?”
“Correct.”
“Okay,” she said, checking her watch. “I’m sorry. It’s way past closing time. We need to get started on our inventory.” She glanced at Raymond. “If we don’t get started, we’re never going to get out of here.”
“I hate Wednesdays,” Raymond replied.
“Sorry I was tied up with that girl for so long, but I need to lock up,” Reggie said with an apologetic smile. “I guess I’ll see you Saturday.”
I smiled and turned away. “I’ll see you then.”
As I stepped out of the store, Raymond pulled the security grille down behind me.
“What will you be driving?” Reggie asked from inside the store.
“The motorcycle,” I replied.
“Seriously?”
I smirked. “Face your fears.”
“Believe me,” she replied. “I am.”
15
Reggie
I gestured toward the crumbs on Tito’s otherwise clean plate. “I’m guessing you liked it?”
“Who wouldn’t?” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “That was the best Reuben I’ve ever eaten.”
“I hoped you’d like this place.”
South Beach Bar and Grille was on Mission Beach’s boardwalk. It had a “secret menu” of several items that only the regulars knew about, leaving the general public to simply go without knowledge of the tasty items.
The Reuben sandwich and oysters Rockefeller were two of my all-time favorites, both of which weren’t on the menu. After Tito let me pick our dining establishment for the evening, I felt obliged to force him to try the restaurant’s beloved secret offerings.
He glanced over his shoulder, toward the ocean. “It’s got a great atmosphere, too.”
“My friend Mel and I used to come here on Sundays for the all-you-can-drink Bloody Mary’s. I think we’re the reason they quit doing it.”
“Why aren’t you drinking tonight?” he asked.
“Seriously?” I found it odd he even felt the need to ask, unless he wanted to rub it in. I glared back at him playfully. “You refused to have sex with me because I was drunk the last time we went out. I’m not going to risk having that happen again.”
“There was more to it than that.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“It wasn’t just because you were drunk. There was more to it than that.”
“Like what?”
“I enjoyed our time together and wanted a second date,” he replied. “That was the biggest reason.”
“You thought if we had sex—”
“I was afraid if we had sex, I’d never see you again.”
“After kissing me like that?” I coughed a laugh. “Seeing you again was inevitable. I had to find out if it was a fluke, or if it was real.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“That was a compliment, wasn’t it?”
“Uhhm. I suppose.” I grinned. “Yeah. I guess so.”
The waiter stepped to Tito’s side. “So, what did you think about that sandwich?”
“It was fabulous,” Tito said.
He reached for Tito’s plate. “We’re afraid if we put it on the menu, it’d be all we sold.”
Tito looked up and nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right.”
“The Reuben may have been invented in New York, but we perfected it here.” The waiter looked at me, and then at Tito. “Can I get you anything else? A drink? Dessert?”
Tito looked at me, and then the waiter. “Give us a few minutes, can you?”
The waiter took my plate and offered a smile. “Sure.”
“It makes me mad every time they say that ‘it was invented in New York, and it was perfected here’ crap,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because,” I said. “The Reuben wasn’t invented in New York.”
“Why didn’t you correct him?”
“I used to correct people all the time,” I admitted. “It makes me seem pretentious. I’m trying to keep my mouth shut.”
He chuckled. “I have the same problem.”
“With what?”
“Correcting people.”
“Oh really?”
He nodded. “Keeping my mouth shut isn’t easy, either.”
“Do you know where the Reuben was invented?” I asked.
“I do.”
I took a drink of water and
studied him. His mouth was twisted into a smirk.
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
“What’s it worth if I give the right answer.” he asked.
“A third date,” I responded.
“Arnold Reuben had a sandwich shop on East 54th Street in New York City.” He rested his forearms on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and locked eyes with me. “He claims to have invented the sandwich in 1941. Coleslaw, ham, turkey, and mustard were his ingredients. Definitely not a Reuben. But, in Omaha, Nebraska, in 1934, the menu at the Blackstone Hotel included a Reuben on the menu. A cook named Bernard allegedly made the first sandwich for a poker player named Reuben. Its ingredients? Pastrami, rye bread, Russian dressing, sauerkraut, and swiss cheese. Therefore, Bernard Schimmel was the inventor of the much-loved sandwich, and he assembled the first one in the coffeeshop of the Blackstone Hotel in Omaha, Nebraska.”
He was right. My jaw hit my lap.
I stared at him in disbelief. What biker knew the truth about the Reuben sandwich? Other than me and the granddaughter of the inventor, what person knew the truth about the Reuben? Until that moment, I thought the only living creature who had a mind stockpiled with a mountain of useless information was me.
Apparently, I was wrong.
“Wow. I’ll uhhm,” I stammered. “I’ll let you pick the restaurant on the third date.”
He leaned away from the table and looked me over. His mouth curled into a grin. “Looking forward to it.”
His smile wasn’t smug. It was almost apologetic. I wondered if for some weird reason he knew about Reuben sandwiches and not much of anything else. The odds of that were staggering but it was a possibility, nonetheless.
“Are you a sandwich aficionado?” I asked.
“Not so much, no.”
I was perplexed. “How did you know that?”
“I don’t know,” he said dismissively. “Probably just read it somewhere.”
I desperately wanted him to be the holy grail. A badass biker on the outside, and a nerd’s nerd on the inside. A man who could fight his way out of a barroom brawl, drive home covered in the blood of others, and then watch Jeopardy! after he took a shower.
I slipped my hand under the table and crossed my fingers. “When was the Sistine Chapel built?”
Tito Page 10