Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  She let her arm drop and stared at him. 'You don't mean . . . '

  'Yep. Indeed I do. I checked while you were having lunch. The gerbil tube was finished early this afternoon.'

  'And you didn't tell me!' Dorothy-Anne cried accusingly.

  'If I had, you'd have wanted to see it right away.'

  'And what's wrong with that, may I ask?'

  'Nothing. Except that every great showman knows you have to save the best for last.'

  'Gerbil tube?' Hunt asked. 'Will somebody,' he implored, 'please fill me in on what you're talking about?'

  'You'll see. Come on!' Dorothy-Anne flung over her shoulder as she took flight, her destination the closer of what looked like two hexagonal bandstands with shell-encrusted roofs, which jutted out over the lagoon.

  Hunt reached the open-air pavilion and looked around, but Dorothy- Anne was nowhere in sight.

  Where in the name of God could she have disappeared to?

  Perplexed, he stepped up into the pavilion. Then he noticed the ramp, surrounded on two sides by protective railing, which spiraled gently down from one side and curved out of sight somewhere in the darkness below.

  So that's where she went, he thought, and headed down the ramp.

  As the daylight receded behind him, he became aware of a faint, wavering green light emanating from somewhere ahead of him. It was the same iridescent green as the hands of an alarm clock. Radioactive green, he would have called it.

  The ramp made a second spiral, and with every step he took, the green now gained incandescence. He was certain of one thing: the source of that light was natural; no degree of electrically generated light could create such subtle patterns of rhythmically shifting luminescence.

  He went around another curve. And there it was.

  The gerbil tube.

  'Holy Moses!'

  Hunt's gasp rang out in the hushed, unearthly silence and hung there like a shout.

  The ramp ended in a tunnel—but not just any tunnel. This was an arched tunnel of clear glass that had been welded together in big sections. It was completely underwater, and stretched for several hundred feet along the floor of the lagoon.

  At first he was gripped by such awe and wonder that he was too stunned to move.

  So this was the source of that light, this green-tinted, watery universe where, instead of sky, the surface of the lagoon glimmered brightly far overhead, refracting the sun and dappling the coral reef with squirming reflections.

  'Unbelievable!' he whispered.

  He drew forward, reaching out and touching the curvaceous glass. He tapped it ever so lightly with the tips of his fingers. It was cool and smooth to the touch. Specially molded and tempered; thick and strong to withstand the pressure of the water.

  His eyes darted everywhere at once.

  No matter in which direction he looked—in front of him, in back, and overhead—marauding sharks cruised like silent torpedoes and elongated barracudas shot past, arrow-thin soloists streaking this way and that. Schools of large, disc-shaped fish swam first in one direction, then abruptly turned tail and swam gracefully in another: dancers in a perfectly choreographed show. A piscine corps de ballet.

  'So. What's your verdict?' Dorothy-Anne asked softly.

  Hunt gave a start. He hadn't been aware of her proximity. Like him, she was a dark silhouette against the soft green world outside the tunnel.

  He shook his head. 'I'm floored,' he began. 'I'm . . . ' Then he cried, 'Look! There!'

  He pointed at an ungainly, giant sea turtle as it paddled awkwardly past, like some bloated, dinosaurian bat.

  'This really beats all!' he marveled.

  'You think so?'

  He could feel her eyes on his face. Outside, a pale eel, like a wavy ribbon, slithered gracefully by, just inches from the glass.

  He tore his eyes away from the aquatic circus and looked at her.

  'I don't think so,' he said quietly. 'I know so. You're going to make a killing.'

  45

  "Yap-yap-yap! I don't know what's gotten into ya lately, but ya sure as hell are startin' to nag like a goddamn wife!' Thus spake Christos to a pale, teary-eyed Amber.

  He waved a hand in front of her pinched face and waggled his fingers. 'Ya see a ring on this finger? I sure as hell don't!'

  Flinching, she drew back and gnawed on her lower lip.

  'And ya aren't gonna see one there, neither!' Christos steamed.

  With that, he grabbed his Levi's jacket, stalked out, and slammed the door behind him.

  For a moment he stood out on the landing, chest heaving as he struggled to get his breathing back to normal.

  'Shit!' he muttered to himself, scratching his impressive abs through his T-shirt. He didn't know what Amber was on the rag about, but one thing was for sure. He wanted to wash that girl right outta his hair.

  The dumb bitch. She never knew when to leave well enough alone. In fact, he had a good mind to dump her.

  Yes, sirree. Dump her, blow this joint, and never return. He wouldn't exactly be homeless. He could always stay at the house on Russian Hill.

  Talk about upward mobility!

  It was tempting. Except . . .

  Except you never knew what might happen. What if fate gave him the finger and something went wrong? Getting rid of Gloria's husband was light-years from the petty scams he was used to running. Should worse come to worst, Amber might come in very useful as an alibi.

  Yeah. He'd better not tell her to take a hike quite yet. The last thing he needed was to be at the mercy of a woman scorned. And the female of the species, as Christos had learned the hard way—in more ways than one—was a highly fickle, unpredictable lot.

  Maybe it's time to turn up the old charm, he thought. Bring Amber some flowers. Take her out to eat.

  It couldn't hurt. Hell, in a worst-case scenario, it might even save his skin.

  That decided, he shrugged himself into his jacket and popped a stick of Doublemint in his mouth. Then, Westerns pounding, he hurried down three flights of narrow, listing stairs.

  At the bottom landing, he stood aside, making room for a voluptuous lady on her way up. Checked her out appreciatively as she passed, experienced eyes sweeping every knockout curve.

  She smiled coyly and fluttered false eyelashes. Christos started to return the compliment, then noticed the telltale hint of blue shadow under heavily rouged cheeks.

  Shit! Just his kinda luck—a freakin' drag queen!

  He beat it, leaping down the last half flight in two single bounds.

  'What's the matter, huh-ney?' The reverberating falsetto echoed in the narrow lobby, spilled out into the bright sunshine after him. 'Am I too much girl for you?'

  He slammed the front door. Jesus H. Christ! He certainly wouldn't rue the day he moved outta this dump!

  Hitting the sidewalk, he slowed his pace. Pulled up his collar. Became Mr. Cool. Not that he had to work at it. Christos had the stud walk down pat, moving along with that rolling, lazy, hip-swaying thrust with unselfconscious ease.

  It did have one drawback, though. In this town, it tended to attract more gays than chicks.

  He wondered briefly how, of all the urban areas of the country, he'd ended up in San Francisco, the one city where women—at least biological women—were at a premium.

  Tony Bennett can keep this place, he thought moodily. I sure as hell ain't leavin' my heart here!

  A perusal of the oncoming traffic revealed a cruising cab. Talk about a minor miracle. He put two fingers to his lips and hailed it with an ear- splitting whistle.

  The cab coasted over to the curb and stopped—another miracle. Hopping in, Christos gave the driver directions.

  First stop: Russian Hill.

  Christos had the cabbie wait on the near-vertical street while he dashed between the apartment blocks to the picturesque little house in back. Once inside, he headed straight for the kitchen and the dishwasher—an inspired if impromptu hidey-hole for his stash.

  Grabbing a bund
le of cash—about five grand, he judged—he divided it like a deck of cards, rolled up one half tightly, and stuffed it deep inside his right boot. The rest, an assortment of twenties, fifties, and hundreds, he distributed in the various pockets of his jeans, shirt, and jacket.

  Without further ado, he dashed back out to the waiting cab.

  Next stop: the Tenderloin.

  Christos paid off the cabbie, added a generous tip, and pushed his way through the swinging doors of a dive that catered to the liquid breakfast crowd. The stench of stale beer and acrid smoke hit him right way, but it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  A mahogany-skinned man with a polished skull and something Indian in his cheekbones caught Christos's reflection in the fly-specked mirror behind the bar. He spun around on his barstool and grinned, a gold tooth glinting in the front of his mouth.

  The man called out, 'Yo, bro. 'Bout time you show.'

  Christos feigned surprise, saying, 'Heyyyyy, Slick,' as if he hadn't come expressly to see him, and then going over and slapping palms.

  'Ain't seen you walk, ain't heard you talk.' Slick squinched his eyes. 'You bin layin' low. Any reason I should know?'

  'Naw. I've been around.' Christos slid onto the empty barstool beside Slick. 'Long time no see. How you doin', buddy?'

  Slick said, 'Ain't got no beef.'

  'Good. That's real good, man.'

  Behind the bar, a Godzilla of a woman with makeup like putty tore herself way from the National Enquirer. She wore a wine red muumuu studded with rhinestones, and had a cigarette glued to her lower lip. She walked with a mincing, almost dainty limp, as if every step was painful.

  'You gonna order something?' she rasped, squinting against the smoke. 'This ain't no freebie social club.'

  Christos grinned. 'Yeah, I missed you too, Shirl. Gimme a Coors. Draft.'

  Still looking at Christos, she muttered, 'The last of the big spenders,' but went and drew a glass from the tap. When she banged it down in front of him, foam slid down the sides. 'That's a dollar fifty,' she said, cigarette still dangling. 'Cash.'

  'You know what, Shirl?' Christos said. 'You're a laugh a minute.'

  She looked hard at him and started to take the glass back.

  'Not so fast! Jesus, Shirl. Where's your sense of humor?'

  He half stood and slid a twenty out of his right front pocket. He dropped it on the bar and she took it over to the cash register and rang it up, returning to slap eighteen bucks and two quarters down in front of him.

  He shoved a buck and both quarters toward her.

  'What you do?' she chortled, scooping up his tip. 'Mug a tourist?'

  Her massive breasts heaved in silent laughter, and the rhinestone sparkles on the velvet muumuu winked as she tippy-toed her inquiring mind back down to the other end of the bar.

  'Think it's weight,' Slick asked, 'or hem'rrhoids?'

  Christos was drinking a third of the beer in a single long swallow, his throat muscles working overtime. He banged the glass down and exhaled appreciatively, rubbed his foam mustache off with his sleeve.

  'What are you talkin' about?' He looked at Slick blankly.

  Slick said, 'Shirl,' keeping his voice down. 'That way she walk.'

  'What about it?'

  'I'm thinkin', maybe it's hem'rrhoids is makin' her take them funny li'l baby steps. You know? Like she needs to take a dump, but keeps holdin' it in?'

  Christos, wanting to cut to the chase but without seeming too eager, moved his shoulders. 'Personally, I never notice.'

  'Wish I didn't. Thing is, amount of time I spend in here? I can't help but noticin'.'

  'Maybe ya ought to switch bars. Find yourself another hangout.'

  'Shit. Most o' them places? They find out your bidness? Every single time, someone drop a dime.'

  'Yeah. It's tough out there.' Christos decided he'd wasted enough time. Glancing up and down the bar, then back over both shoulders, he leaned toward Slick and said, 'Speakin' of business,' sounding real cool and quiet. 'Ya got any blow?'

  Slick gave him a look. 'You know me. It depends who can see.'

  Slick playing it cool, not committing himself.

  'Ain't anybody in here would give a rat's ass,' Christos pointed out.

  ' 'Cept Shirl.' Slick's eyes darted about. 'How much you in the market for?'

  Christos didn't answer right away. What he had the urge to say was, How about five grand worth? Think you can handle that kinda deal? Wanting to see Slick's eyes pop, but deciding against it. Right now, the lower his profile, the better off he'd be. What he said was, 'A gram?'

  Slick giving him another look: 'You got the cash, I got the stash.'

  Christos nodded. He and Slick reached surreptitiously into pockets. Money and a tiny glassine bag changed hands.

  The transaction complete, they sat there, making a show of looking innocent. Slick finished what he was drinking.

  Christos watched him in the dirty mirror over the bar. He decided to wait a few minutes, then mosey on to the john, where he'd treat himself to a well-deserved toot.

  But first, there were two more items of business on his agenda. He'd come here to score coke, yeah, but he'd specifically sought out Slick because of his prodigious memory and underworld connections. Of all the dealers Christos had become acquainted with, Slick was a veritable directory of lowlifes—extortionists, pimps, mobsters, gangs, you name it. To hear him tell it, he was plugged right into the steamy underbelly of this town.

  Or, as Slick liked to put it: 'Slick is the name and information's my game.'

  Now Christos was about to put it to the test. 'Whatcha drinkin'?' he asked, just to keep the conversation going.

  Slick heard something in Christos's voice, nothing he could put his finger on, just a nuance in the undertone, that told him the guy wanted more than just the dope he'd been sold.

  He turned his way, scrutinized Christos from under hooded, cold eyes. He said, 'What I drink depends on who's pickin' up the tab.'

  'I'm buyin'.'

  Slick called out: 'Yo, Shirl! My girl!'

  'Yeah, yeah.' Her disinterested voice let him know he was interrupting her reading.

  Slick said to Christos, 'You hear that? We got ourselves a definite attitude problem.' And louder: 'Hey, Shirl? You runnin' a bar or a library? We could use some serious drinks down here.'

  'An' I could use one wise ass less,' came the reply.

  Christos leaned forward and looked past Slick down the length of the bar. He saw Shirl place both hands flat on the counter, slide her fat ass off her stool, and push herself to her feet.

  Smirking as she came tippy-toeing their way, Slick said, 'See what I mean? 'Bout the constipated way she walk?' Then changing his expression, giving her a wide, gold-toothed smile.

  Shirl didn't return it. 'Okay,' she said, one hand on a hip. 'You got my attention. You gonna order, or what?'

  Slick said, 'Why you always gotta be a hard-ass?' sounded wounded, his voice rising to a high-pitched whine.

  ' 'Cause of people like you. Now you want something or not?'

  'Yeah. Pour me a Johnny black. Straight.'

  She acted surprised. 'You're kidding, right?'

  'Nope. My man here is buying, so make that a double.' Slick paused and said, 'An' I want the real shit. None of that rotgut you funnel into the bottles on the counter.'

  Shirl nailed him with her eyes. 'You wanna get eighty-sixed, just keep it up.' But she reached under the counter for the bottle she kept there and squirted scotch into a clean glass.

  'An' don't skimp,' Slick warned her. He grinned at Christos. 'Ya gotta watch Shirl, here. She'd screw her own mammy.'

  Shirl said, 'Hey, Slick? Fuck you.' And slammed the glass down in front of him.

  She took a fiver from Christos's bar change and rang it up, bringing back a buck. Christos slid her two singles for a tip, which she took without so much as a thank-you.

  'You know, Slick. Something tells me she doesn't like you.'

&n
bsp; Slick shrugged, picked up the glass, and held it delicately aloft, pinkie extended. He gestured a toast, then tossed down the contents in a single belt. He shut his eyes and belched.

  'Mammy's milk, and smoother than silk.'

  He opened his eyes. For a minute or so he was quiet.

  Finally he said to Christos, 'Now, you didn't buy the Slick a drink 'cause you like his looks. We gonna sit here all day, chase each other by the tail, or what?'

  'I need some information.'

  Slick nodded. 'I got a reputation. Keep one ear to the ground, don't fuck around.'

  'Okay. Here's how it is.'

  Christos scooted his barstool closer to Slick's, leaned sideways toward him, lowered his voice confidentially.

  'Say I got a wax impression of a key.'

  He was taking it slow, not wanting to say too much.

  Slick said, 'Yeah?'

  'What I need to know is, where can I take it? You know, to get it cast, no questions asked?'

  'What kind of key we talking here?'

  Christos shook his head. 'That's my business.'

  Acting like a tough dude.

  Slick pointed in the air around him. 'You see me hang out a shingle says 'Information Booth'?' He picked up his empty glass, held it up. 'You see a sign says 'Questions Answered for a Free Drink?' '

  Christos took the hint and worked a twenty out of his jeans pocket. He laid it on the bar.

  Slick shook his head and pushed it away.

  He said, 'Want my advice, deal two twenties twice.'

  Christos frowned. He scratched his chin, pretending to have to think this over. Not that he had any choice. He didn't know who else to ask. Hell, he was still a newcomer, and to him, this town might as well be someplace in Siberia.

  With a sigh, he pulled three more twenties out of his pocket.

  Slick palmed the four bills expertly.

  'There's this hardware store,' he said. 'On Mission, between Eighteenth and Nineteenth. They do locksmith work.'

  'This is a Spanish place?'

  'Yeah. Guy you want's this pinto bean works there, short dude with black hair? Carlos? You'll know him by his shirt. Wears one of them gray ones, the kind with his name stitched across the pocket?'