Philanthropist

by Larry Hill

  Three times in the afternoon, he saw a man fitting his image of his new nemesis, all approaching on the street rather than exiting from the tower. His pulse accelerated, only to quickly decelerate when he saw the men up close. He hoped that Spencer would be one of the rush of workers exiting between five and six. Hopes were dashed. He’d stay until eight; he wasn’t scheduled to wait tables that evening. The odds of a meeting on the sidewalk after eight were slim. He wasn’t going to stay all night. Unsuccessful, he rode the two buses, packed with a Babel’s Tower of riders, back to the Excelsior, took a hot shower to spray some of the aches out of his legs and feet, and fell into the disarray of his unmade bed where he could not fall asleep. How long would he keep this up? Was there any other way to find Spencer? There were dozens of Spencers in the phone book. He wasn’t going to call all of them and he guessed that his prey wasn’t one of them, anyway. No one that rich was going to have a listed number. Ernesto didn’t have a computer at home so he couldn’t do a search. He knew there was such a thing as Google for finding people, but had no idea how that was done. Maybe he could have somebody at work help him when he went the next night. He decided to give his stakeout another try in the morning and with the aid of something he bought in the drug store, he drifted into an agitated slumber.

  He wanted to make sure that he would get to the Pyramid before Spencer arrived, so he mapped out a trip involving not two slow buses but one bus and BART, lessening the chance of being delayed by traffic. He boarded Muni Bus 14 and hadn’t gone a block from his stop when an altercation broke out between a disheveled forty-something Caucasian man dressed in a beat-up bomber jacket, holey jeans, and worn out tennis shoes through which both great toes saw the light of day, and a young Central American woman with her cell phone pressed tightly to her ear. She was arguing, in Spanish with someone, almost surely someone with whom she was sleeping or had been sleeping, in a voice that could be easily heard by all riders on the double-length bus. The female protagonist, clearly on her way to work at a workplace where tidy, upscale clothing was required, ran through all of the Spanish expletives that Ernesto knew and one or two that he didn’t. City bus riders tend to keep their mouths shut and that was true for most of the polyglot load of passengers that morning. The male protagonist, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to strike up conversations with several of those in nearby seats, decided to attempt to restore order and get her off the phone. “Shut the fuck up!” he screeched, easily surpassing her voice level. The young woman showed no evidence of having heard his command and continued to lambast the poor person, probably male, on the other end of the line. Two late-middle aged Filipinos, obviously married to each other, sitting one seat in front of the loud lady, turned around to add their approval to the idea of silence. A black man in a three piece suit and three Latinos, two men, one woman, all in smart-casual, spoke up. One of the Latino men gently placed his hand on the shoulder of the so-far oblivious conversationalist, trying to act as peacemaker. The angry woman reacted badly. She spun about and belted the self-appointed mediator in the side of the face with the hand that held the cell phone like a mugger with brass knuckles. A laceration immediately opened on the cheek of the handsome victim. Blood flowed onto his white, button-down collar. The melee intensified with the injured party’s male colleague subduing the belligerent with a bear hug, the female yelling for the driver to stop the bus and the original male of shut-the-fuck-up fame going from rider to rider to sign them up as witnesses.

  Ernesto’s concern was not the blood and not the embarrassment he felt as a result of the behavior of a fellow Mexican-American, but the fact that the brawl was going to cause him to get to Montgomery and Clay after Spencer. The double carriage bus was so long that it required a relay of calls before the driver, a good natured gray-bearded black man, knew that there was trouble in the back. He found a spot to stop the vehicle, kept the doors closed, and made his way to the rear. Many of his customers yelled of their immediate need to get off. They were ignored in spite of the hail of fucks and shits and goddamns, assorted non-English epithets and threats of lawsuits. Two or three passengers had already called 911 and it was less than three minutes before a squad car pulled up and two officers boarded the bus. An ambulance arrived a minute later; one 911-caller thought that the laceration required emergency care. Ernesto’s sole concern was to get out and find another means of conveyance. The police, having plenty of willing witnesses thanks to the work of the man with holes in his shoes, allowed the rest of the people to get off. Ernesto, not close to his BART transfer spot and knowing that hailing a cab in the Excelsior would be fruitless, waited five minutes for the next bus destined for the financial district. During the short interlude, he watched the ambulance load up the lacerated Latino and the cops cuff the disgruntled cell-phone user and force her into the black and white. The follow-up bus, while more crowded than its predecessor, was a slowly moving electrified island of peace. Ernesto arrived at the Transamerica tower 45 minute later than he had planned. Feeling famished, he stopped in at the Starbucks, waiting longer than was comfortable in the queue, swiping his debit card in payment for his Americano and his apple fritter to go, crossed the street and began the pacing ritual once again. His great fear was that, because of the battle of the bus, Spencer had beaten him to the corner. But it was still ten minutes shy of seven thirty, the time he predicted for Spencer’s arrival.

  He noticed that the early-morning camaraderie between walkers was less intense than that of the afternoon; people were too hurried for hugs, handshakes or high-fives. Lots of nodding. An occasional toothy smile. A few one-word greetings – “Hey,” “Yo,” “Howzitgoing?” and even “Hi,” and “Hello.” Minutes after he took up his mobile post, he spotted Spencer. This time there was no doubt as to identity. Mark Spencer was walking at a thoroughbred pace, decked out in designer jeans, running shoes, an orange and black Giants jacket zipped to the neck to ward off the San Francisco morning chill, and a matching cap. Ernesto had to nearly sprint to place himself between Spencer and the front door of the Pyramid. “Mr. Spencer, I have to talk with you.”

  Spencer always listened to music or podcasts on his way to work, the volume high enough to drown out the disruption of the talk of his fellow bus riders and the cacophony of street sound of early morning city life. He did not hear Contreras through his noise-canceling earphones.

  Ernesto saw that he wasn’t being heard so he stepped immediately in front of the man who he had been seeking for hours. Paying no specific attention to whoever had just intruded into his space, Spencer tried to step around, but Contreras parried, moving right to counter Spencer’s shift to the left. Spencer stopped dead in his tracks. “Excuse me,” he said calmly but brusquely, without taking off his earphones or looking the other man in the face.

  Ernesto raised his voice to overcome the MP3 player, “Mr. Spencer, we have to talk.”

  Spencer focused, recognized Ernesto and removed the phones. “How can I help you, Mr. Contreras?”

  “We need to have a discussion, Sir.”

  “I’m sorry. I am very busy right now. There’s a client waiting for me upstairs. Why don’t you call my secretary and set up an appointment? Next week should be fairly open.”

  “No. Next week is not soon enough. I’ve been calling your secretary for days and he won’t do anything for me. We’ve got to talk, now.”

  “Sorry, no can do.” He again tried to go around his ex-employee but Contreras deftly blocked his way. Spencer, much the larger of the two, put both hands on Contreras’s right shoulder attempting to push him aside. Contreras held his ground like an offensive tackle.

  “Mr. Contreras, you are blocking my way. Please let me through, now.”

  “Not until you tell me what really happened.”

  Neither potential combatant had been involved in fisticuffs since childhood, but both clenched fists as an involuntary response. Spencer saw someone from his floor entering the building. He did not know the woman’s name. “Hey, wou
ld you get the guard out here…right away?” She nodded and walked quickly to the security desk. Spencer, who was facing in toward the entrance, saw the guard, firearm in its holster at his side, come toward the site of the altercation. Contreras, faced the other way, did not.

  “Mr. Spencer, how can I help you?” Contreras turned toward the man, recognizing him as the uniformed Latino who had rejected his requests the previous day.

  “Thanks, Pedro. Tell this man to leave me alone. I am trying to get to my office and he’s making it difficult.”

  “Certainly, Sir.” He altered his gaze toward Ernesto. “Aren’t you the man that gave me so much trouble yesterday?”

  “I gave you no trouble. I only asked you if I could go up to Mr. Spencer’s office to talk to him.”

  “I don’t really care what happened yesterday. Let Mr. Spencer get by. If not, I’ll have to call the SFPD.”

  Ernesto moved enough to let Spencer go toward the entry door.

  “You have to talk to me! You screwed me!” he yelled, catching the attention of a handful of others in the area.

  “I don’t have to do anything, Mr. Contreras. Once you cool down a little, like tomorrow, call my office and if you are prepared to be civil, I’ll have my secretary set up an appointment.”

  “To hell with you! You know goddam well that your secretary is not going to even talk to me.” He shuffled away slowly, as did the small crowd of onlookers who had collected, expecting to see fireworks.

  The next morning, he had simmered down and thought that maybe Spencer had been sincere in his offer of a meeting. After all, he had been sincere at the restaurant and sincere in his office the next day, and sincere during the several meetings they had had before he pulled the rug out from under his feet. “Hello, this is Ernesto Contreras again. Mr. Spencer told me that if I called today he would set up an appointment with me.”

  “He didn’t say anything to me, sir. I’ll check with him after he gets out of a meeting he’s in right now. I’ll call you back as soon as possible.”

  At four o’clock, he had heard nothing. He put on his tuxedo and went to work. He received no calls that night or the following day. A reminder message on the secretary’s voice mail produced no response.

  WE DON’T WANT TO BE MORMONS

  For the first time since the hospitalization, Fred and Jennifer went to the movies. Before, they were huge fans. They preferred avant-garde and foreign films, but would sample mainstream ones if the Chronicle and New Yorker both rated them highly. They usually attended matinees. The crowds were smaller, older, and quieter, plus the tickets were cheaper. Fred would get senior rates and Jen bought discounted tickets for early birds. When his mind was at full strength, they’d debate the acting, the directing, the cinematography, and the screen play. The shared interest in movies was one of the strong attractions bringing the two together. Neither of their previous spouses felt as strongly about the cinema as they did. Barbara Klein never had the time or interest and Mr. Taylor was happy to go with Jennifer to a movie as long as it was showing in one of his two theaters. He refused to enrich his competition by buying their tickets. At Taylor’s multiplexes there were plenty of blockbusters, but very few low budget films that would appeal to anybody older than 30.

  Jennifer did not want to stress her husband’s cognitive skills, so she chose a documentary about an architect for Fred’s first post-operative cinematic foray. They were two of an audience of five at the 3 PM show. The film was interesting enough to keep her attention and it appeared to her that Fred was captivated as well; he didn’t fall asleep. As it concluded, she asked him how he liked it.

  “Good movie. I liked it a lot. How about you?”

  “It was OK,” she answered. Pretty slow, I thought. I didn’t like the narrator’s voice.”

  “Yeah, slow. But don’t you think that the museum he did in Chicago was great?” Jennifer was impressed; her husband had an opinion about something other than himself, his family, and his doctors. The improvement was moving right along.

  Jennifer asked Fred to wait in front of the theater while she walked the four blocks to get the car. When she got in the driver’s seat, she checked her cell for missed calls, having dutifully turned it off in the theater. There were two voice mails - one from the salon reminding her of her appointment the following morning and the other from Ernesto. “Call me when you have a minute.”

  It hit her with an impact somewhere between those of ‘You are pregnant’ and ‘Your biopsy was benign.’ She played it twice more to see if she could learn anything about why he called. She couldn’t. She couldn’t make Fred wait on the sidewalk any longer, not being absolutely certain that he wouldn’t walk away and get lost. He hadn’t gotten lost ever, but the discharge lady at the hospital had warned her about the possibility. She didn’t remember the ride home. Her pulse ran a mile a minute. She started getting dizzy from hyperventilation. She pulled into the garage, relieved that she hadn’t collided with anything or anybody.

  “I’m glad we did that Jen. Let’s go to lots of movies. I’m getting sick of cop shows.”

  “Yes, dear. We’ll do that.”

  “Thanks for the movie, dear. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She couldn’t just go and make a call at home. “Fred, I’m going to go for a walk. Sitting in that theater made me stiff.”

  “No problem. I’ll watch a little TV.”

  Jennifer was not in class A physical condition. The last time she had used her gym membership was the week before the hit and run. She’d continue to pay fees, certain that the inactivity was temporary. Walks around the block were about as much as she could comfortably do. Anything more than a block from her Pacific Heights home meant dealing with heights, not insignificant ones, on or adjacent to Pacific Avenue. She wished that they had a dog that would make her walk. They had met as a result of the two dogs, now deceased. They decided against replacement dog or dogs to keep a level of freedom for the traveling that they never really got into. Maybe, now that extensive travel was probably not a logical goal, it was time to dog shop. Fred could use companionship and Jennifer needed a reason to exercise.

  With more than minimal effort, Jen reached a city park three blocks from home. She found an available bench and took out her cell. Ernesto was listed under Con on her contact list. She could invent a Connie should Fred find Con and inquire. Con had no speed dial designation so she called up the number and pushed Send. Two rings, three, four. “I can’t come to the phone right now…”

  “Ernesto, it’s me. God, am I happy that you called. I thought I’d never hear from you or see you again. Please call me in the next few minutes if you get this. I’m out of the house and you know I can’t talk to you at home.”

  It was a typical fall day in the Heights. Sunny and in the mid-60s – a hint of breeze, just enough to offer a barely audible rustle of leaves. San Francisco was not a birdwatchers’ paradise. A few rowdy crows, demanding house sparrows, and sing-songy yellow warblers were all she could see or hear. Strolling around the park were a dozen or more nanny/child teams, the nannies Filipino, Mexican, or Salvadorian and the children Asian or Caucasian. Most of the children were pushed in strollers or prams that would have cost as much as a reasonable used car; some kids were big enough to run around noisily. Committees of nannies chatted with each other, one group in Tagalog, the other in Spanish, while keeping close eyes on their charges. The older kids frolicked. Laughs intermingled with cries of joy and shorter cries of pain. Jennifer, as she had so many times in the past score of years, asked herself why she had made that decision not to be a mother. Or did she make that decision? Mr. Taylor didn’t want children. He wanted to make money and serve Jesus. That was OK with her, wasn’t it? Her mother was a dour, unsmiling, unhappy woman. Her sister, older by seven years, had married young but unsatisfactorily. She became dour, unsmiling, and unhappy. Her two daughters were destined for the same, especially after their father dropped into a life of alcohol and adul
tery. Why would I, Jennifer, do the same to myself and to any kids I might have? But what’s happening in the park really looks like fun. But those aren’t mothers. Those are baby sitters. What are the mothers doing right now? Working, eating, drinking, shopping, fucking? Fucking sounds nice, but with whom?

  Her ring tone interrupted the day dream. The LED lit up, CON.

  “Ernesto. Oh Ernesto. Where have you been all my life?”

  “Hello Jennifer,” he responded with no obvious emotion. “I’m very sorry that I haven’t answered your calls. I just couldn’t.”

  “What do you mean, ‘couldn’t?’ Of course you could have. I left a hundred calls.”

  “Jennifer, I can’t talk on the phone right now. But we need to talk, soon. Do you have any time tomorrow?”

  “In fact, I do. I have a hair appointment tomorrow morning at 10. Fred doesn’t have any idea how long things like that take, so we could get together after. How about getting a room at one of those motels on Lombard?” She was leery about meeting at the Clift. “God, I miss you!”

  “No, no room. But I’ve got to talk to you. Let’s meet in Golden Gate Park.”

  Jennifer’s sails deflated. “Oh, OK. Where?”

  “I’ll meet you in front of the DeYoung Museum, say at noon. We’ll walk through the Botanical Garden and find a bench. OK?”

  “I’d rather find a bed than a bench, but OK.”

  The return to home from the little park was usually physically easier than that from home to park, but this time, it was harder. Her excitement at having seen on “Missed Calls” that he had attempted to reach her was obliterated by the call itself. Something that she could not begin to fathom was up.

  On returning, she found her husband transfixed by a college basketball game. He’d clap and cheer when one team scored and yell expletives when their opponents made a basket. “Who’s playing, dear?”