I smiled. “Besides, fly-fishing would have required a wardrobe change. Definite no-no for a first date.”
“It’s not our first date, exactly,” Luz hedged. “I’ve tried a couple of times. Just hoping this might go better tonight.”
I stopped and looked at her. “Wait—have you and Victor been out on a date before? If so, then why are you so wound up?”
“We tried. I had to cancel. Not my fault.”
“You sure about that?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. The important thing is, we’re here tonight.”
We continued walking to the bookstore, Luz staring at her cell phone.
“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “did you write up an actual agenda for the evening, maybe store it on your phone?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Luz said, slipping her phone into her shoulder bag.
I laughed and nudged her with my elbow. “This is great, Luz. Thank you for suggesting it and for making the plans. Did you know that Tosca has been around since Prohibition? They say the cappuccino machine used to hide booze back in the day.”
“I don’t know how you know these things, my friend,” Luz said, smiling and looping her arm through mine. “But I like it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Much later the four of us—me, Luz, Victor, and Landon—sat in a booth at Tosca, chatting over luscious bowls of olives, halibut crudo, Caesar salads, meatballs, bucatini and lumaconi pastas, and grilled salmon and polenta. We started out with separate orders but quickly devolved into “family style,” sharing and tasting the various dishes. The ever-polite waiters didn’t seem to mind.
Tosca was thronged with people and very loud, what with the open kitchen on one side and the hopping bar on the other. Nonetheless, I managed to give Victor a brief rundown on what had happened to Isadora, and to update everyone on my visit to Eamon Castle and the nice Alan Peterson, who gave me the creeps.
I thought I’d hold back on telling Hildy’s story until I was able to piece it all together. I had a hunch Hildy and I might be housemates for a while, and I didn’t want to weird anyone out about visiting a home where the ghost of a “murderous starlet” dwelled.
“I keep thinking there must be something valuable at the Crockett,” I said.
“Something worth killing over,” said Landon with a thoughtful nod.
“I think we all know it doesn’t take much,” said Luz as she sipped her Chianti. “Most murders are pretty stupid—somebody gets drunk in a bar and starts a brawl, that sort of thing.”
“True,” I said. “But this was no bar brawl. I think there was a reason for it, however despicable or selfish.”
“I read about some coins from the time of Imperial Rome that were found under a theater in Italy,” said Victor. “There were hundreds of them in a soapstone jar, apparently very valuable. Would that sort of thing provide enough of a motive?”
“This isn’t that kind of theater,” said Luz.
I had never told Victor about my ability to see spirits. It was something I just didn’t feel comfortable talking about, but since the television broadcast yesterday had effectively outed me, I figured I might as well come clean.
“In our acupuncture treatments for my vertigo and fear of heights,” I said, “I may have left out the part where I see ghosts. Not all the time. But sometimes.”
I was curious to see how Victor would respond, and saw Luz and Landon watching him closely as well. Dr. Victor Weng was a considerate, contemplative man, a third-generation American who had been raised in San Francisco’s Chinatown. But he had traveled a great deal, gone to school back East as well as in China, spent time in Britain and South Africa, and returned to San Francisco to take over his uncle’s acupuncture practice. He was very successful and had amazing hands.
Victor took a sip of his wine, sat back, nodded. “Fascinating.”
“Is it, though? I find it less interesting than . . .” I left off with a shrug. “Dunno. Seems more traumatic than fascinating.”
Victor grinned. “That might be a cultural thing.”
“Ghosts are a cultural thing?” Luz asked.
He shook his head. “No, the trauma associated with seeing ghosts. I grant you that it can be unsettling, but in traditional Chinese culture, for instance, it is assumed that we live side by side with all kinds of spirits and apparitions. We have whole categories of ghosts.”
“Categories of ghosts?” I asked, reaching for the plate of briny, earthy olives. I was stuffed with pasta, polenta, and fish, but one could always fit in another olive or two. “For instance?”
“Well, let’s see. The E gui are called the ‘hungry ghosts,’ those suffering from the sins of greed and condemned to perpetual hunger after death. On the other hand, a Gui po is usually a kindly ghost who helps with children and housekeeping.”
Luz raised her hand. “I’ll take that one. I like any ghost that helps with housecleaning. Hey, Mel, remember that kitchen-cleaning ghost you banished?”
“Why would you banish a ghost who liked to do the dishes?” Landon asked.
“It also terrorized the people living there,” I explained. “So it was a bit of a wash.”
“I want to hear about more ghost categories,” Luz said.
“One of my favorites,” continued Victor, “is the jiangshi, which is sort of like a cross between a zombie and a vampire. It hops around and eats bugs to absorb their energy.”
“Also not a bad trait in a ghost,” said Luz. “Not a bug fan.”
“I fear I am now fixated on the idea of Dracula hopping like a bunny,” Landon said. “Mel, I may need your assistance in banishing that thought.”
“My favorite part of that story is the way to keep a jiangshi from coming into the house,” said Victor.
“Garlic?” I said.
“Silver?” Landon suggested.
“Place a bag of rice at the door,” Victor explained. “The jiangshi are compelled to sit and count the grains of rice, which gives you plenty of time to make a getaway.”
“The power of rice compels you!” said Luz.
We all laughed. Landon refilled our wineglasses.
“Why would it feel compelled to count the grains of rice?” Luz asked, still chuckling at her own joke.
Victor shrugged and speared another meatball. “It’s just the way it is. Every spirit has a weakness, I suppose. Good thing, too, or we’d all be in trouble.”
I sipped my wine and thought about that. I had no trouble believing every spirit had a weakness; in fact, most of the spirits I encountered were in torment or in need. Many were angry, yes, but that was understandable, given the circumstances.
“Tell us more,” urged Luz.
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m no expert on Chinese ghosts—there are a lot of them. But another that comes to mind is the yuan gui, or the restless spirits who died a wrongful death and are seeking redress.”
Landon and Luz both looked at me.
“Yeah, I suppose those last are my specialty,” I said with a nod. “There’s a lot of that going around, I’m sorry to say. I wouldn’t mind checking out the hopping zombie fellow, though. Keeping a bag of rice by the door sounds easy enough, and it would be pretty entertaining to find him on the doorstep counting grains of rice. Funny how you never see a zombie movie about that.”
“Indeed,” said Landon. “I can’t think of a single zombie movie involving rice at all, much less the counting of grains.”
“But enough about my ghosts,” Victor said. “Mel, Luz mentioned you’ve become interested in early film history.”
“I have,” I said. “We’re going tomorrow to Niles Canyon to check out the film museum there. I’m hoping the curators might be able to point me in the right direction.”
“Which direction is that?” asked Landon.
“To someth
ing of value in the theater. Victor, would you like to join us?” Surviving a Turner family outing was a litmus test every potential partner had to pass. Landon had passed with flying colors, and I was willing to bet Victor would, too.
“I wish I could, but I have plans with my grandmother tomorrow. Promised to take her to church. Another time, I hope?”
“That can be arranged,” I said.
“I have a question about the Crockett,” announced Luz. “A very important question.”
“And what might that be, madam?” I asked.
“Why does the Crockett Theatre spell the end of ‘theater’ ‘r-e’ instead of ‘e-r,’ like a normal person?”
“We’re discussing ghosts and squatters and a murderer and hopping zombie vampires, and that is what you fixate on?”
“I’m just saying, it’s a theater, right? And we’re in America, right? Why spell it like the Brits?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “But more importantly, I don’t care.”
Victor laughed.
“I blame you.” Luz gestured toward Landon with her wineglass. “As a Brit, I mean.”
“I’m not sure you can blame Landon for the quirks of the English language,” said Victor.
“No, no, I’ll take that one,” said Landon. “Actually, as I understand it, Noah Webster was responsible for this sort of thing. He wanted to make American English phonetically simpler and more predictable than British English, so when he published his dictionary in the early nineteenth century he began by taking the ‘u’ out of the words ‘colour’ and ‘favour,’ for instance.”
This was one of the things I loved most about Landon: He had a quirky mind that forgot the names of people he had just met, but remembered linguistic history and other useless tidbits of arcane knowledge.
Rather like me, I supposed.
The four of us chatted about linguistic flukes and how difficult English was to spell, Luz described the general consistency of phonetic Spanish, and Victor spoke of the differences between the Mandarin and Cantonese versions of Chinese.
Over my weak protests that I was too full, Luz waved to the server and ordered plates of cannoli and tiramisu with four forks.
I like to think of myself as a team player. I did my best.
Chapter Twenty-Five
After dinner we headed down Columbus toward the Saloon, on the corner of Grant and Fresno. As we crossed Broadway I gazed at the big neon signs advertising the Condor, Big Al’s, and the Roaring 20s, all of which I assumed were seedy strip clubs and/or sex shops, though I’d never actually taken the time to find out. They had adorned this part of Broadway for as long as I could remember and then some, and I felt strangely nostalgic about them. I still missed the old Condor sign that featured the buxom stripper from the 1970s, Carol Doda, complete with light-up neon nipples. I hoped the encroaching gentrification of San Francisco never led to their demise.
Strange to feel nostalgic for strip clubs and sex shops, especially since I’d never even been to one, but there it was.
“We can get an after-dinner drink, and then see the fireworks,” said Luz. “The Saloon is one of San Francisco’s oldest bars, established in 1861. Mel’s not happy unless she’s in the oldest, dive-iest bar possible.”
“Hey, I love the Saloon,” I said in protest to her implied criticism.
“Proves my point,” said Luz.
“I love it, too,” said Victor with a smile, hugging Luz to his side.
“I’ve never been,” said Landon. It was a safe bet that Landon had never been anywhere, since he had arrived from England not all that long ago. He had settled in the East Bay, was quickly absorbed by his work commitments, then became associated with the likes of me, who almost never went anywhere. “But I look forward to discovering its many charms.”
A little farther down Broadway, we passed yet another strip club and a burlesque show. The poster for the burlesque show featured none other than Alyx, the elusive cross-dressing squatter, as the star performer.
“Hey,” I said, checking my phone for the time. “I’ve been looking for this guy! He’s one of the Crockett squatters. Anyone want to check out the burlesque show? Starts in fifteen minutes.”
“A burlesque show? And you were the one who was weirded out by fly-fishing,” said Luz. Victor flashed her a questioning look. “Long story.”
“What about the fireworks?” asked Landon.
“You mean the commemoration of when we colonists kicked your imperial British butt?” asked Luz.
Landon smiled, unperturbed. “As a true hybrid, I play both sides on this one.”
“Usually the fireworks are obscured by the fog anyway,” said Victor. “All you see is are the clouds changing colors, which is pretty, but not a must-see. Luz, what would you prefer?”
“Burlesque, baby,” Luz said, and I was pleased to see that she was back to being her usual self. Victor appeared thoroughly smitten.
“Well, in that case, the burlesque show it shall be,” said Landon.
We paid the substantial ticket price and descended a staircase, making our way through a crowded bar to a group of small tables in front of the stage. The place was jammed with people; all the laughter and chatting made me wonder how the performers would get their attention. Would Alyx have to fight with the bar noise, Vegas-cocktail-bar style?
There were no empty tables, so Landon and I went to the bar to order drinks while Luz and Victor stationed themselves at a small ledge that had been affixed to the wall to hold drinks, and waited for a table to free up. A large, bearded man was busing tables with gusto, clearing them of dirty glasses.
“Do you think I could go backstage to talk with Alyx?” I asked the bartender after we gave our drink orders. “He’s an old friend.”
“He’s the headliner,” said the young mixologist as she smoothly made several cocktails at once for the thirsty throng. “He’s on in a few minutes, but maybe after. Talk to the producer, see if he’ll take you backstage.”
“Where would I find him or her?” I asked.
“Ringo!” she called out.
The man busing tables looked up. “Yeah?”
“Visitors,” the bartender said.
Ringo came over and set his tray full of dirty dishes on the bar. “Help you?”
“You’re Ringo?” I asked. “As in Ringo Sepety?”
“The one and only,” he said with a smile.
I try not to judge people on their looks, because that’s one test I wouldn’t always pass, but Ringo was an aggressively unattractive man. He had a heavy, almost Neanderthal brow ridge, a nose that appeared to have been broken more than once, and teeth the color of tobacco. It was hard to believe he was related to the famous reality show beauties, the Sepety sisters.
Now that I thought about it, Isadora hadn’t been particularly beautiful herself. She had been strong and vital, but did not have the modelish features of her famous sisters. I wondered whether that was part of the reason she wasn’t involved in the show, or whether she just had high standards when it came to her art. Perhaps the reality show really was “dreck.” The one time I had spoken with Isadora, she certainly seemed intent on creating an authentic, creative life. No doubt that was hard to find on a reality show.
“I’m Mel Turner,” I said, “And this is Landon Demetrius. I’m doing the renovation of the Crockett Theatre, and—”
“Wait! I knew you looked familiar—you’re the ghost buster. Am I right?” He seemed as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. “I saw you on TV!”
“I, um, yes . . . that was your family’s press conference, right?” I asked.
“I gotta tell you. I was pretty miffed that they didn’t ask me to join them,” he said, shaking his big head. “I mean, I get that I’m not pretty enough to be on their show, but still . . .”
“Ringo, I’m so very sorry about your
sister.”
“Yeah.” He hung his head for a moment. When he looked up, he appeared to have dealt with his momentary grief. “That was a shock. I mean, Isadora and I have had some arguments over the years, but she was still my sister. We were there for each other, from the gecko.”
I almost corrected his word choice, but held my tongue. “I heard you were trying to put together a reality show starring your sister and the other squatters in the theater?”
He nodded his head. “Could you imagine how epic that would be? That weird architecture and the crappy carpets and everything? Totally awesome, right? Surefire appeal these days. Can’t fail, something like that.”
Luz and Victor, apparently tired of waiting, joined us at the bar.
“What a great idea!” Luz said with false enthusiasm. “You could have contests, see who can jump off the balcony railing without dying, or how long could a person could live on the stale popcorn they find under the seats!”
I glared at Luz.
“Yeah . . . I think that might not work so well, though,” said Ringo, sounding thoughtful. “That popcorn’s, like, fifty years old or something? Dunno if it’s even still, like, legible. But anyway, what are you folks doing here? Oh! Do you know Alyx from the Crockett?”
“I do, as a matter of fact. Any chance you could take us backstage after the show?”
The music ratcheted up, and the crowd quieted down to a murmur.
“Sure thing,” Ringo said in a loud stage whisper. “Catch me after the show.”
The view from the bar was decent, so we remained where we were while the emcee came out, cracked a few jokes, and introduced Alyx.
Alyx emerged in full makeup, with an elaborate headdress and a long feather boa, fishnet stockings, and very high heels. He strutted onto the stage to the classic “You Can Leave Your Hat On”; then the music stopped abruptly and Alyx made a joke. He looked fabulous, and before long the audience was eating out of his hand. He told a few more jokes, told a funny story about the first time he tried on his sister’s clothes, and then sang a seductive, slow version of “Big Spender.” Alyx popped the cork off a bottle of champagne, and poured its contents over himself. He danced and twirled and began peeling off bits of clothing, not stripping completely but enough to reveal a fantastic body that was decidedly male, despite the clothes and makeup. A few in the audience gasped, then applauded, so I guessed it was supposed to be a surprise.
The Last Curtain Call Page 24