He dumped it down the disposal and set the container in the kitchen sink to soak.
"Your Aunt Ruth and Scott are both working a double."
"I’ll come down. Then I can see her and you won’t get into hot water with Artie." Tim realized he was getting hungry and he’d either have to go out to eat, go to the store for groceries or dial up something to be delivered. Nick was going to call, but Tim would just have to get used to carrying his cell phone with him.
"You’d better show up by seven or I’ll send out the dogs."
"I’ll be there by five and I’ll eat at the bar so I can visit with my Aunt Ruth. Seeya later then."
Tim closed the refrigerator door and stopped.
Something caught his eye. It was the picture of himself and his
"date," at Yosemite – the black/Italian guy whose name Tim thought was Mario or Martino. Tim had never seen him again after that trip. He’d moved somewhere back east on a job transfer a week or so later and sent Tim the photograph tucked inside a card the following Christmas. Tim had long ago thrown away the envelope, but he knew the return address was from a cold wintry city where Tim would never want to live year-round. The guy had signed the picture, but the ink was smeared by now and his handwriting was so small and round that Tim had to take the picture down and hold it directly under the light. It read: "Tim – thanks for a great trip. All best wishes, Bruce."
"Bruce?" Tim said out loud. "Not Mario or Martino or Marcello… Bruce!" Jake had been right all along. Tim was lousy with names, but he never forgot the cock.
It seemed like Ruth had only been home long enough to wash her face and put her feet up for a minute when it was time to go back to Arts and work the dinner shift. "I’m much too old to work doubles, Bart!" she told her cat. "From now on I’ve simply got to learn when to put my foot down and say no!" She sat down and rubbed her foot instead. The left one. There must have been a pebble in that shoe. "Darn it, it’s already time to go."
Ruth had almost crossed Castro Street when she heard a familiar, "Yowl" from behind her. She took three more steps to the curb and turned around to see her cat trundle up and plant himself between her legs with an upturned gaze and another long wail.
"Bartholomew! How did you get out of the apartment?
Did you follow me all the way here? To think you crossed Castro Street by yourself… you could have been squished. At least you used the crosswalk, but you don’t belong out here in the first place."
Ruth set her purse on the empty newspaper rack and bent down to pick up the cat with both hands. Once he was safely cradled in her left arm she picked up her purse again and glanced at her watch. "Look at the time. I’m gonna be late to work if I carry you back home right now. You bad, bad boy! I don’t have time for your nonsense. You’re just going to have to come with me to Arts and stay in the kitchen. And you’d better behave yourself. If you get into any trouble in the restaurant Arturo will lock you up in the walk-in pantry until I get a chance to take you home."
Tim was the first customer of the evening. He sat at the bar, ordered the fresh grilled salmon, nursed a weak vodka tonic that his Aunt Ruth made for him and then ordered a glass of the house white wine when his dinner came. He looked around the place, listened to people laughing, glasses clinking, knives and forks clattering and realized that he almost missed working here.
It was almost time to come back. Almost.
The first forkful of salmon flaked off the filet on his plate and melted in his mouth. Tim missed Arturo’s cooking, that was for sure. He was tired of take-out food and Stouffer’s dinners and whatever Nick had left behind in unmarked Tupperware containers in the freezer. That was another chore he should tackle this week, defrosting the freezer. What he really wanted to do was buy a new frost-free refrigerator. His was the same one Nick’s grandparents had when they lived there, but it still worked.
"How’s the salmon?" Ruth asked, but Tim had just taken a second mouthful and she could tell by the look on his face.
"I’ve got to ask Arturo sometime how he does it. I’d love to learn to make salmon for Sam the same way."
"It’s incredible," Tim said. "Arturo could give classes…
or open a cooking school right here on Castro Street."
Tim came back to Arts for dinner the following night and the next night, too. He told himself it was only to keep people from worrying about him, but at this rate he would soon put on the weight he’d lost and he was almost ready to get back to the gym soon too. Ruth stayed in town that week while Artie’s back recuperated, so Tim got to visit with his aunt every night and watch the daily progress on the bathroom remodeling at the restaurant. Both the men’s and women’s rooms got wider doors with handicapped railings and brand new tile. "We were long overdue to bring them up to code anyway," Arturo said.
Tim was even more interested in the police
investigation, which hadn’t come as far. One evening Teresa came in while Tim was eating dinner at the bar. "Hey Tim, how’s it going? Mind if I join you? Just a cup of coffee for me, okay?
I’m on the wagon."
"What’s up with you, Teresa?" Tim was surprised to see his old neighbor not drinking.
"How was your date with Officer Parker the other night?" Ruth asked while she poured a mug of hot coffee and set a basket of sugar packets and a container of half and half on the bar. "Did he walk you home safely?"
"I’ll say! I’m surprised you didn’t hear us carrying on all the way downstairs at your place. What a night!"
"I was working, remember?" Ruth said.
"Not all night," Teresa said with a smile. "He didn’t leave until Monday morning and that was only to go home and change and pick me up again for lunch. We went to that cute little restaurant on Pier 23. Do you know the place? It was a gorgeous day to be down at the waterfront, but man, what a hangover! I wore my darkest sunglasses and I still felt like I might bleed to death every time I opened my eyes. That’s when I decided to lay off the booze for a while."
"Are you going to see him again?" Tim asked.
"Peter’s working now until Sunday night, but yes, I should think so." Teresa opened her purse to toss her wallet back inside. She threw a dollar tip on the bar when Ruth pushed back the five she had put down for coffee.
"Peter Parker? That’s Spiderman’s name!"
"Well, that’s his name, too and he’s as good as any superhero in my book."
"And you met him while he was on the job? In his uniform? Hot."
"Well, technically, he’d only stopped back in to pick up his pen, so it’s not as if I was interfering or anything. Then he helped me home. Isn’t that a policeman’s duty to help drunks and old ladies across the street?
"And right into bed!" Tim laughed. "And you were no doubt drunk, but you’re far from an old lady… and I think you’re confusing cops with boy scouts."
"But did you find out any more about the investigation?"
Ruth quickly tired of listening to their banter when there might be something important to learn.
"Well, they’re just about finished…" Teresa began and then stopped short. "I shouldn’t tell you a thing, Ruth. I almost forgot I was mad at you!"
"Why would you be mad at me? What did I do?"
"I came down here Sunday night to find out all the gossip and you kept the whole business a secret from me."
"I did not," Ruth said. "I was busy Sunday night with a full bar and besides, I had my daughter here."
"You could have told me something, but no! I had to trade my body and use all of my feminine wiles to coerce the life and death secrets about it from the long arm of the law."
"And you loved every minute of it," Tim said.
"Well yes, but that’s beside the point," Teresa said and turned back to Ruth. "How is your darling daughter, anyway?"
"She’s a royal pain in the neck, if you must know," Ruth said. "But you didn’t hear it from me. I’ve tried to entertain her as well as I know how, but she is so fussy! I don’t k
now where she gets it. She wasn’t brought up that way. Nothing is good enough for her. Everywhere we go she complains about something, she argues with the waiter or waitress. It’s so embarrassing! Last night she went to a late movie by herself at the Castro Theatre while I was working. She came here afterward to meet me and she was hungry, but the kitchen was already closed so I took her to Orphan Andy’s for a burger and fries."
"Orphan Andy’s?" Tim asked.
"I thought she might appreciate some local color. Well, what I really thought was that it might be good to expose her to something outside her usual realm and quite frankly, I was too tired to think of anyplace else nearby that was open late. She sent back her French fries!"
"No," Teresa howled. "At Orphan Andy’s?"
"She said they were overcooked. Can you imagine? She acted like she was dining out at the Ritz Carlton or something.
Then the whole time we were trying to eat she complained about the movie because people were smoking in it."
"Smoking in the Castro Theatre?" Teresa asked. "What were they smoking? Pot?"
"It was a Bette Davis picture. What in the world did she expect?"
"I should take her to the Nob Hill Theatre," Tim said.
"That would give her something to talk about when she gets back to Texas. I don’t think they let women in there, though…
too bad."
"And then there’s another thing…" Ruth said. "I still don’t know why she’s really here or how long she plans to stay.
She always seems to have something on the tip of her tongue that she’s about to tell me, but she won’t come out with it. She must be miserable sleeping on my couch, considering what she’s used to, but strangely enough that’s the only thing she hasn’t complained about. She sure does like to sleep, though. That’s about all she does. Oh, enough about Dianne! Teresa, what else did you get out of Officer Parker?"
"Well, he did this wonderful thing with his tongue between my toes…"
"That’s not what I mean and you know it!" Ruth interrupted. "Your body parts can remain your own business!
What about the body parts from out back?"
"It’s still too early to know very much," Teresa said. "He wanted to question Artie the other night, naturally. He wanted to talk to you too, Tim. Hasn’t he called you yet?"
"Me?" Tim asked. "Why me? I haven’t been around."
"He said they wanted to get all the information they can from everyone who has worked here. Peter’s probably talked to Artie by now, but Artie wasn’t answering his door on Sunday night. I didn’t give Peter much of a chance to keep knocking, though."
"Haven’t you learned anything yet?" Tim asked.
"Peter called me this morning and all they knew was that the fingerprints on the severed hands didn’t match any that were on file. The eyeball came from someone who presumably had two of them once and they were green, but no other body parts have turned up so far. There’s no match on any missing persons either. They want to question the businesses on either side of Arts and all the present and former employees, so I’m sure he’ll be calling you, Tim. He mentioned Patrick, that blonde waiter who used to work here until he went off to rehab. There might be something there."
"Jake said he’s seen Patrick in the neighborhood lately.
Oh, Jake!" Ruth called to him. "Could you come over here a minute?"
"Hi, Ruth. What’s up? Hey, Tim."
"You know my neighbor, Teresa, don’t you?" Ruth asked.
"Sure… hiya, Teresa."
"We were talking about the police investigation and Patrick’s name came up," Ruth said. "I heard you mention that you’d seen him around. Where have you seen him lately?"
"Yeah, I ran into him just this afternoon on Market Street. He was getting a bunch of flyers copied. He’s all involved with this new E.T. group. You know Patrick. When he gets involved with something, he goes whole hog. Remember when he was in ACT-UP? He was at a different meeting or demonstration every night of the week. He was always coming in late to work or having to leave early. People think I’m the radical, just because I’ve got some ink and I’m pierced in a few places. Patrick is the wild one, even though he looks like a Ken doll. I think it was someone in ACT-Up that turned him onto crystal meth. They’d snort a few lines and they could stay up for days planning their next civil disobedience. Then they started shooting it."
"Wait a minute, Jake," Tim said. "Back up. What did you say about E.T.? That’s a new one on me."
"Do you mean like ‘E.T.,’ the extraterrestrial?" Ruth asked.
"E.T., phone home?" Teresa chimed in.
"They use that as one of their slogans, too," Jake said.
"Wait a minute. I think I’ve got a flyer in my bag. Patrick handed me one, not that I’ll ever need it. I can show it to you, though."
Jake went to the kitchen and came back seconds later.
He set the flyer on the bar between the three of them. "They give these to people coming out of the dance clubs. They have a web site, too, and a 24-hour telephone hot-line."
Tim read aloud, " ’E.T. phone home. Ex-Tweaker Hot Line.
Call us whenever you’re tempted. No judgments. No questions asked.
We’ve all been there. ’ Hmmm…"
"It sounds like a druggie version of that support group they had over at the Most Holy Redeemer Church for heavy drinkers," Teresa said. "Someone tried to get me to go to that once a couple of years ago. That’s a laugh! As if I need it – hah!"
Tim and Ruth gave each other a knowing look. If anyone was a candidate for rehab it was Teresa, even though she wasn’t drinking right now.
"It sure sounds like it," Jake said. "Patrick is in it up to his eyeballs. Sorry… poor choice of words, but it’s like this is his new religion."
"I’m glad he’s determined to stay off drugs, anyway,"
Ruth said.
"It’s the extremes that bug me," Jake said. "Why can’t people just do things in moderation?"
"Like tattoos and trips to the piercing parlor?" Teresa asked.
"Touché, Teresa," Jake smiled. "At least I’m not hurting anybody or doing anything illegal. What does all this have to do with the investigation, anyway?"
"Probably nothing," Teresa said. "The police didn’t like the looks of Phil, the piano player, either. Oh, there he is. I forgot he was here this early in the evening. Don’t say anything, will you? Peter’s going to have his hands full this week with all these interviews. He also said there was something fishy about that guy who just bought the apartment building behind the restaurant, the one that faces onto Hartford Street. He’s the brother of the owner of the card shop. They also want to talk to the garbage collectors on that route to ask them about… oh, I’ve forgotten what it was, now. I think he said something about paint or painting. I had more important things on my mind."
"I’m sure you did, Teresa," Tim said.
"I’ll get more out of him Sunday night, I’m sure," Teresa vowed. "Speak of the devil…"
"Officer Parker?" Ruth asked. She had her back to the door and didn’t want to spin around to stare.
"No. " Tim chuckled. "Teresa meant the real Devil.
Delightful cousin Dianne is here."
"Oh, damn…" Ruth said, before she turned around.
"Hello Dianne. Are you going to have dinner with us this evening?"
"I don’t think I can eat anything, Mother," Dianne whined. "I’m still not recovered from that awful place you took me to last night. Don’t you know any nice restaurants in San Francisco?"
"There aren’t many in the neighborhood that are open after hours, Dianne, but suit yourself," Ruth tried to remain cheerful.
"Bagdad Café is open all night, isn’t it?" Teresa suggested.
"I hear you’ve become a big Bette Davis fan," Tim needled her. "Is that right, Dianne?"
"Betty who?"
"Bette Davis," Tim said. "Your mother says you went to the Castro Theatre last night to see Bette Davis… the actress… in the
movie?"
"Oh, is that who she was?" Dianne scowled. "All I know is the movie was boring. It was so old it was in black and white.
The bathroom smelled so musty I wouldn’t use it and then these two men started necking right in front of me. It was disgusting. I told them they should get a room somewhere and one of them called me a bitch! I had to move to a different seat. I don’t know how much more of this godforsaken city I can stomach!"
"Seeya, Aunt Ruth," Tim said with a laugh. "I’m outta here."
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