by Toni Andrews
“No, it was Grant. I told you about him.”
“The dude who’s been helping you with the tests and shit?”
“Yeah, him. We’re meeting him for dinner. Mercy, you wanna come?”
My instinct was to say no, but I knew there wasn’t any food in my house, and I was too tired to go to the grocery store. “Where are you going?”
“Mutt’s. It’s pizza night.”
Pizza and manipulation. What better way to spend an evening?
10
Mutt Lynch’s occupied a corner spot along the boardwalk near the Newport Pier, which was even more massive than the Balboa Pier two miles to the south. Mutt’s was a popular hangout with the young residents who rented the rows of two-story beach houses in “Sin City,” a section of the Newport Beach shoreline a few blocks to the north.
Those houses had been built in the fifties on land leased from the Southern Pacific Railroad, which ran a Red Car line down the peninsula in the early 1900s. Because the terms of the lease prevented the nearly identical duplexes from being torn down and replaced, the neighborhood had mostly escaped the influx of multimillion-dollar homes that had changed the character of the area farther south, at least until now. I’d read somewhere that the leases had finally expired, although it was unclear how everything had all been resolved.
After years of uncertainty, most of the houses were a little dilapidated, and many were rented by the week during the summer. Renters could get an off-season lease from Labor Day to Memorial Day for about the same amount per month as the summer weekly rate. Since this corresponded conveniently with the school year, students from the University of California campus in nearby Irvine flocked to Sin City in droves, with six or eight of them pooling funds to live within feet of the sand.
Mutt’s was probably the only restaurant on the peninsula that was busy on a Monday night, relatively speaking. It had the biggest windows in town, so it was possible to see the boardwalk and the beach from virtually any seat in the split-level interior. On summer weekends college boys sat in counter seats along the front window and held up paper plates with numbers written on the back, rating bikini-clad pedestrians from one to ten. More than once woman had stomped inside to confront them or complain to the owner, and the police had even gotten involved a time or two. After each such incident, the practice would temporarily disappear. But old traditions die hard, and I had little doubt the ratings system would be resurrected the next time daytime temperatures reached the high seventies.
Gus was looking at the menu, puzzled. “What kind of pizza place is this, man? I never heard of this shit.”
“You can get a regular cheese pizza if you’re afraid to try something new,” said Grant. “But why not broaden your horizons?” He scanned the menu. “I like goat cheese with caramelized onions and roasted red peppers. How does that sound?”
“Goat cheese?” Gus grimaced. “I ain’t eating no goat cheese.”
“No?” Grant’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “How about barbecued shrimp with Thai spices? Or steak, gorgonzola and wild mushroom? I like the sound of that one.”
“Ain’t they got no pepperoni?”
“Yeah, they got pepperoni,” said Tino, pointing to a section of the menu. “They got all the normal stuff. But more sophisticated customers like different things. You should try some, it ain’t bad. I’m getting the—” he read carefully “—white pizza with artichoke hearts and pancetta.”
I held my menu high, hiding my expression. I hadn’t been at Mutt’s for Tino’s first visit, but Sukey had, and she’d told me all about it. His initial reaction had been almost identical to Gus’s. I was sure he’d never used the word sophisticated, tasted an artichoke or known how to pronounce pancetta until pretty recently.
Other than the gourmet pizza, which Mutt’s had served well before a couple of popular chains “invented” the idea, the place was beachfront casual. A waitress in cutoff shorts took our order, and Grant requested a pitcher of beer. Gus scowled when the waitress brought only three mugs. He consoled himself with a Coke as we waited for the food.
Grant turned to survey the sunset. “Another clear night. I’ve been meaning to take a sail over Catalina way, before it gets too cold to sleep aboard.”
“You got a boat?” asked Gus.
“He’s got a yacht,” corrected Tino.
Gus perked up. “What’s the difference?”
“A yacht,” replied Grant, “is generally defined as any vessel being described to any person who is unlikely to ever see it.”
Tino laughed, and I smiled at the well-worn joke. “Yeah, but I’ve seen Grant’s boat,” said Tino. “And his really is a yacht.”
“Technically, the Second Wind’s a sloop,” Grant said. “She’s thirty-eight feet long.”
“How many bedrooms are there?” asked Gus.
“Cabins. There’s a captain’s cabin, and the salon—the main living area—has two benches that convert to bunks. There’s also a place just forward of the galley—the kitchen—where a smaller person can slide in.”
“Is there a bathroom?”
“We call it a head, and yes, there is one, with a shower. Small, but quite adequate.”
“Cool.”
“I’ve always thought so,” Grant agreed. “I’ve got a few days with no pressing business, so I’m thinking of heading out tomorrow. Tino, Mercy, either of you have any interest in coming along?”
I shook my head. “You know I love to sail, but I have a couple of busy days at the office. Maybe next time.”
“Yeah, I got some business, too,” said Tino, and Gus deflated.
“Too bad,” said Grant. “I can handle her by myself, but it’s a lot easier with a second pair of hands.”
“Maybe,” said Tino, “Gus could go with you. He ain’t busy.”
“Me?” Gus almost squeaked.
“Not a bad idea,” said Grant. “Have you ever been on a sailboat?”
“I been on a boat, but it didn’t have no sails.”
“When were you ever on a boat?” Tino asked, but Gus gave him a look that plainly said, “Please don’t say anything that will make him change his mind.”
“Experience isn’t a requirement, it just saves me a little time, explaining what everything’s called. But as long as you can take orders—”
“I can take orders.”
“—then I’m sure you’ll work out fine. What do you say, Tino, can he go? I only plan to stay out the one night—we’d be back in the harbor by late morning.”
“Fine by me. What time you want me to bring him by?”
“Nine or ten. The wind doesn’t get up much before that.”
“Can we bring Cupcake?” Gus nodded toward where the dog was tied to a parking meter near Mutt’s front door.
I laughed. “Cupcake loves short sails, but I don’t know how he’d be overnight.”
“He’s one of the best trained dogs I’ve ever been around. If Sukey says it’s okay, I have no objection. But you,” Grant said, pointing to Gus, “will have to be on pooper scooper patrol. Cupcake learned to pee over the side about five minutes into his first visit, but I’m afraid to have him try to balance with his rear hanging off the stern.”
“No problem,” said Gus. He looked almost happy.
“I need a tune-up,” said Hilda. She was in my therapy room, relaxing in the easy chair. “I want you to hypnotize me again.”
“You haven’t gained back any of the weight,” I protested. Hilda had been, ostensibly, my first weight-loss client, although her problem sticking to her diet was more about alcohol than food. Not that she was an alcoholic—she had just been bored, lonely and pining for her lost youth. When she got bored, she drank, and once she was a little buzzed, she completely forgot about her eating plan.
It hadn’t been my original intention to turn her into a teetotaler, but, to my knowledge, she hadn’t had so much as a sip of champagne since our first session. I’d been feeling a little guilty about that, but it was hardly wort
h a full session to suggest she might indulge in the occasional Bloody Mary.
In any case, I needed to find out what was really troubling her before I did any “tuning up.” Besides, she had insisted on paying for the session, so she should get all the considerations of any other client.
“No, I’m still a size four.” She patted her flat belly, which probably owed as much to cosmetic surgery as to diet and exercise. “I’ve just been kind of stressed lately, and not sleeping all that well.”
“Perfectly understandable, with your lover’s hoodlum baby brother occupying your house.”
She shuddered. “You’re right about that. But Gus is just the latest thing. This has been going on for weeks.”
“With insomnia, there might be a medical reason. Have you talked to your doctor?”
“I have, and he prescribed pills. They knock me out, but then I’m groggy in the morning. Last time we had a session, I felt so good afterward, like nothing could ever bother me again. And I slept like a baby. Now…”
She trailed off, and I nodded. “Okay, let’s get started.”
I took her through the opening sequence I’d developed, based on my hypnotherapy curriculum at the West Coast Institute for Healing Arts and Sciences. While what I did was not strictly hypnosis, it was what my customers expected and, I’d found, a sound way to start a session.
“Close your eyes. Let yourself relax completely.” I supplemented the familiar words with a light press. “It feels good to let all of the tension leave your muscles, doesn’t it?”
“It feels wonderful.” Like all my repeat clients, Hilda embraced the press-induced reverie like an old friend. I was especially careful with repeat customers, because they were, if anything, even more susceptible to my commands.
“Tell me what you want to change about your life.”
“I want to be young again.”
I sighed. This was exactly how Hilda had started her last session, and I’d never really addressed this issue. I’d given it some thought in the interim, but not so much that I felt prepared to simply tell her to accept her true age—whatever that was—and move on. Refusing to age gracefully was such a core part of her personality that I was reluctant to mess with it. Instead, I focused on the stated issue.
“Tell me what happens when you try to sleep.”
“Thoughts keep me awake.”
“Tell me about the thoughts.”
“I worry about Tino. All the time.”
This surprised me. At least on the surface, Hilda showed an amazing lack of concern about Tino’s more nefarious activities.
“Are you worried that he will…get hurt?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“Is that the main worry?”
“No. I’m worried that he’ll leave me because I’m old.”
This made more sense. I understood—sort of—how the whole Hilda/Tino thing had gotten started. He was young, hot and, once you got to know him, basically a good guy. Hilda was his passport into a world of money and privilege. And she was undeniably beautiful, even if she had fattened her cosmetic surgeon’s bank account to stay that way.
But, I had to admit, I’d thought the bloom would be off the rose by now, on both sides. Tino had a plan to make his own fortune and was constantly being approached by younger women. And Hilda needed…what? I guessed that was what I should be trying to find out.
“Tell me how you feel about your relationship with Tino, and where you see it going.”
“I’m crazy about him,” she said. “He’s fun, and he’s gorgeous. I enjoy taking him places and showing him new things. He makes me laugh. And he’s fabulous in bed.”
Too much information was a common hazard of my work.
“I want him to stay with me,” she went on. “I think he will—for a while. But, eventually, I’m not going to be able to keep it up anymore.”
“Keep what up?”
“Hiding my age. And pretending that he’s—that he’s not…”
She trailed off, frowning. Under the press, she would be incapable of evasion or dishonesty. Therefore, her pause meant she hadn’t thought this out for herself yet. I waited.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to admit that he’s never really going to be sophisticated enough for me,” she finally said. “I’ll get bored with him.”
“Tell me,” I asked, pressing cautiously—I didn’t want to suggest anything, just get clarification. “Are you bored with him now?”
“No,” she said without hesitation. “I’m having a great time. I’m just afraid it won’t last.”
I sighed. It hadn’t been my intention to pry into the details of their relationship; I just wanted to know what was keeping Hilda up at night. If she’d been a stranger, my knowing that her love affair had a limited shelf life wouldn’t matter to either of us. As it was, this had the potential to be uncomfortable. Unless I direct them otherwise, my clients remember everything that goes on in a session. Maybe it would be kinder if I induced some memory loss—then only one of us would feel awkward. But, no, that didn’t seem honest. I’d only blocked out a client’s memory of part of a session on one occasion, for a self-serving reason, and I still felt guilty every time I thought about it.
“Okay, Hilda, from now on, when you are ready to go to sleep at night, you will feel very relaxed. If you start to have worries about Tino and your relationship, you will find it easy to release them. Will you be able to relax when it’s time to sleep, Hilda?”
“Yes,” she replied, and I could already hear the relief in her voice.
I debated with myself over the next bit, but ultimately decided I owed it to Hilda to continue. “You no longer feel an aversion to alcohol. If you want to have a drink, you will feel comfortable doing so.” She started to nod, and I hastily added, “You will drink alcohol only when it is appropriate, and in moderation. Do you understand?”
“Only when appropriate, and in moderation,” she repeated, smiling. She was probably already planning her first martini.
“If you drink alcohol, you will not drive until after the effects have completely worn off,” I added.
I finished the session with my usual mild presses to feel relaxed and renewed. When we were done, she got up, then turned to me, puzzled.
“What was that last bit all about?” she asked. “I didn’t mention drinking, did I?”
“No,” I admitted. “But in our last session, I gave you a—a post-hypnotic suggestion to avoid alcohol. I only did it to help you stay on your diet. I didn’t think it was necessary anymore. The suggestion would eventually wear off on its own, but as long as you were hypnotized, I decided to go ahead and release it.”
“I see,” she said. She opened the door to the outer office, and I heard the sound of Sukey’s laughter and caught a glimpse of Tino leaning against the wall opposite her desk.
“Tino was just telling me about Gus and Grant,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Tell Mercy about the shorts.”
“I just dropped Gus off at the marina,” he said. “And he was wearing his leather jacket and his jeans—like he normally wears, you know?”
Hilda and I nodded.
“And Grant says the leather jacket is going to be too heavy, so he argues some, but he takes it off and gives it to me. Then Grant says—” Tino bent over and beetled his brows in a remarkably good imitation of Grant “‘—sailors don’t wear jeans because, if you fall in, they’re too heavy. And you’re going to slide all over the deck in those basketball shoes.’” He resumed his normal posture and went on. “So he goes down below and comes up with this pair of shorts—can’t have been his, because they’re way too small, and these old deck shoes, and tells Gus ‘Here, put these on.’ And Gus is like, ‘No way, man. Hombres Locos don’t wear no fucking shorts.’” His impression of Gus was even better than that of Grant.
“So I tell him, ‘Ain’t no Hombres gonna see you out in the middle of the ocean, man, so change your damn pants, niño.’ He’s so mad, I swear he almost changed his mind abo
ut going. But he goes down into the cabin, and when he comes back up, he’s got the shorts on. His legs are white as paper, and his face is all dark red ’cause he’s embarrassed. He looks so funny, I get out my cell phone—” he lifted his phone, demonstrating “—and I take his picture. He was like, ‘Aw, man, what you wanna do that for?’ and I said, ‘Tomorrow, when you get back, I’m gonna ask Grant how you acted, and if he says you messed up, I’m gonna send this picture to all the Hombres, starting with Joaquin.’ I’m pretty sure he’s gonna behave himself.”
“Let me see the picture,” said Hilda, and Tino punched a couple of buttons and then handed it over. She looked at the display, and laughed. “Oh, my, look at his face. He’s furious.”
“He’ll be fine. He was already getting interested in the stuff on the boat by the time I left. But I’m gonna keep this picture just in case I need a little—what’s it called? Oh, yeah, leverage later.”
“Did you come by to give me a ride home?” asked Hilda, returning the phone to Tino. “Because I’ve got the Mercedes.” She glanced toward me, and I could tell she was thinking about what she’d just admitted in the therapy room.
“Yeah, I saw it,” he said. “I want to talk to Mercy for a minute.” He turned to me. “You got time?”
“There’s a half hour before my next appointment,” I told him. “Let’s go to Alta Coffee.”
“I’m going to stay here. I have studying to do,” said Sukey. “Quiz tonight.”
Tino looked relieved. Whatever he wanted to say, he didn’t want to do it in front of her.
“I’ll see you later, then?” asked Hilda.
“Yeah, I’m going back to the house after this.” He kissed her lightly, and we all headed out the door, Hilda toward the parking lot, and Tino and I diagonally across the street to talk.
11
It was cool on Alta’s shady patio, but more private than indoors, and Tino headed there as soon as we both had our cups.
“I been thinking about the meeting tonight,” he said. “I want you to come.”