12 Bliss Street

by Martha Conway

  Well, at the time it had seemed like it might be fun. At first Nicola imagined life with a visionary, someone surprising and entertaining, but as it turned out all his ideas were about the same thing: money. Once he got someone to pay him in cash, five hundred dollars in tens and fives, and he threw all the bills into their empty bathtub and brought her in: look at that! This was motivation.

  “What’s the dog’s cage?” she asked.

  “The Saturday night crowd, the house number crowd,” Scooter explained. “It’s hard at first for rookies because there are no pool totals posted on the tote board. You have to choose your race and wait.”

  He adjusted the angle of the chair back then swiveled back and forth and back and forth.

  “So one night I was talking to one of the announcers just to, you know, sound him out a little because in something like this you want to find an insider. And this announcer let me in on a secret: the dogs run faster when they’re in their favorite box.”

  “How do you know which is their favorite?” Nicola asked.

  “That’s where the skill lies.”

  He smiled and swiveled. Nicola looked at the Daves, who were sitting on the floor like kindergartners looking up at him. Rapt.

  She put down her water bottle. “What’s the bottom line here,” she said. “How much did you lose.”

  “Wait, let me just finish, it’s pretty exciting. In fact, I would definitely advise you to try this sometime. I found this one dog that was really fast and I watched him for a couple of races. Primogeniture. The races where Primo did well he was in an inside box. So in his last race I went with him in four to seven all and keyed him in with five other dogs for sixty bucks and then I did seven six-dollar keys with Primo on top plus one hundred bucks to show plus the quinella.”

  Nicola had never been to a racetrack. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “What it means is, when Primo won I got fifteen hundred dollars. Fifteen hundred dollars in thirty point oh two seconds!”

  “NFW,” Dave said.

  “FW,” Scooter told him.

  Nicola looked over at Dave, annoyed. Had he already forgotten that Scooter had tricked him into perpetrating a felony? Her wrists were still burning and she thought there might be something in the corner of her eye, a piece of silk or something from the blindfold, which she couldn’t blink out. Dave was sitting on a strip of carpet looking very rugged with his army haircut and his untied boots and his legs stretched out before him. Part of her wanted to humiliate him, which surprised her—she had no idea she was so retaliatory. On the other hand, she was also willing for him to wait around until it was time to do her tedious chores.

  She looked at her watch. “You should pick up that pizza now,” she told Dave.

  “But I want to hear the end!”

  “The end is, he lost it.”

  “Not lost, not lost, because what I’m doing here is developing a system,” Scooter said. “I just need to plug up a couple of holes.”

  He hadn’t changed, she could see that. She asked him how much he lost. The whole fifteen hundred?

  “Actually,” Scooter said, “and this I admit was another mistake, I borrowed some money too because that’s how sure I was about Primo, I was thinking this could be it for the year, no more door-to-door lobsters.”

  “How much?” Nicola asked again.

  “You know, not much, I don’t know, about twice that again, or what’s that come to, maybe four times. But the people I borrowed from, they’re pretty cool. It’s a small business, family-owned. Right now they just need the interest, you know how that works,” Scooter told her. “I have to show my good faith. So I thought, cool, I’ll get like six hundred dollars and that will tide them over a while. I thought of you right away. Only I knew that with you the bank was closed. I knew that. So I thought I’d just…”

  “‘Borrow’ a little something?”

  Scooter stopped swiveling and smiled at her. “Exactly! But I couldn’t actually, you know, do the kidnapping myself. For one, you’d know my voice. Plus I’m too nice.”

  “Hey, we’re nice,” Dave protested.

  “Technically,” said Nicola, “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “I thought we did a pretty good job.”

  Nicola stared at him. “Dave, you failed.”

  “We learned something, though,” he said.

  Scooter caught Nicola’s eye and smiled, and Nicola smiled back, thinking one of the things she always liked about him was how he had absolutely no sense of irony. He was misguided but upfront. He was not cynical, not usually. Once just before she left him Nicola found one of his lists:

  New house with new appliances (alarm systems etc.)

  Flat-screen TV

  More olives, mangoes, avocados, organic fruit (organic OJ)

  Exercise room (hardwood floor)

  Pool? Outdoor/indoor?

  Child’s name: Griffin

  It was a list of things he wanted. Why did she think he was idealistic? He was practical and literal, and in many ways she was the same, although it was his perceived difference that had originally attracted her.

  Nicola sent the Daves out for the pizza, then she went around the room opening the heating vents. The room grew noticeably warmer. Meanwhile Scooter swiveled around in the desk chair and played the backrest back and forth. No doubt cooking up some new plan, Nicola thought.

  Already, it seemed, he was over not getting her money. Well, he had always been good at bouncing past a setback. He was the idea man, the man with a plan. A fast talker, her mother had told her. She was right. The whole time they were married Scooter talked and talked, first about this and then about that, always changing the subject after a few days. He talked and talked and talked and talked. Once when Nicola was in her car stopped at a light she watched Scooter cross the street muttering to himself in the crosswalk and she thought, Look at him, he’s still talking.

  Nicola went to the window. If she stood in the right spot she could see the orange lights from downtown. All she wanted was to eat and then go home and sleep for three days.

  She said, “So how did you find those two anyway?”

  “Who, the Daves? I put a sign up at their school.”

  “Jesus, Scooter! You put up a sign in a high school?”

  “They were really looking for computer work,” he said. “Davette’s pretty good—she got behind Bank of America’s main firewall twice. I’m still trying to work that angle somewhere.”

  Nicola looked outside again. The minivan was just pulling up. “You are headed for serious trouble,” she told him.

  But he had given her an idea.

  Later, while they were eating the pizza, she asked him about his loan shark. Was he in Los Angeles?

  “Yeah,” Scooter said, looping a piece of cheese over his slice. “But I’m meeting his son or his nephew or someone here tomorrow. After that I’m going to check out a race at Golden Gate Fields. Did you know that genetically wolves and dogs are the same species? Every dog is a wolf.”

  “I had a dog once who was an epileptic,” Dave told him. He picked off an anchovy and ate it. “Turns out it was the plastic bowl. Plastic really absorbs the chlorine in water, which is highly toxic to dogs.”

  “I thought it was chocolate that was so bad for dogs,” Davette said.

  “We got a metal bowl and his fits just stopped.”

  Dave pulled up his legs to his chest and Davette stretched, then took off her tundra boots. Nicola took another bite of pizza. She watched them for a moment. Davette had a sharp look to her; she was someone who paid attention but not always to the right things. Dave’s strengths were less apparent. He knew how to start a job then keep it moving, you could say that for him.

  “Listen, I might have some work for you two,” Nicola told them. “If you’re interested.”

  “I’m not doing the kidnapping thing again,” Davette said.

  “No, this should be legal.”

  “Should be,” Dave
repeated. “What’s it pay?”

  “Same as he paid.”

  “Don’t you think we should get a raise?”

  This she could not believe.

  “You’re lucky I’m not going to the police,” she said.

  “But you wouldn’t,” Dave said, “because of him.” A gesture toward Scooter.

  “As if I haven’t set the police on him before,” Nicola lied. She turned back to Scooter. “Tell me more about the guy you’re meeting tomorrow.”

  “His name is Lou,” Scooter said. “I’m meeting him for breakfast downtown.”

  “You’re having breakfast with your loan shark?”

  “Like I said, he’s the nephew or something, I don’t know. He’s from New Jersey. He told me he’ll be carrying around a big notebook, like a sketch pad, or I can’t remember exactly what he said. Maybe he’s a painter or something.”

  “Christ, a loan shark with a hobby,” said Nicola.

  “Or he sketches, I don’t know. Does something with charcoal. He said I would know him,” Scooter said.

  “How would you know him?”

  “Maybe he’ll look very New Jersey.”

  “Lou from New Jersey,” Nicola said. She stretched and rolled her neck. It was time to go home.

  “Listen, where are your car keys?” she asked Scooter.

  “Why?”

  “You’re driving me home. I’m going to sleep for, let’s see,” she looked at her watch, “about three hours. Then I’m taking your meeting with Lou.”

  Scooter stared at her, his mouth slightly open. A thin cheese strand was dangling from his chin, and his eyes were wild from sleeplessness. “You’re taking my meeting?”

  Nicola almost smiled—he looked like a five-year-old who’d been playing outside too long. “Alone,” she told him.

  * * *

  The meeting with New Jersey Lou was way across town near the bay. After she slept Nicola showered, then put on a dark red chemise and a short black skirt and black pumps and a half-buttoned black blouse, the chemise clearly visible underneath.

  She wanted to look good. Serious, but good. Traffic was light at this hour and it was only when she turned up Jones Street and began to look for parking that she realized where the meeting was: the San Francisco School of Art. Was Scooter’s loan shark or bookie or whoever he was—Lou—was he a student, someone who considered himself knowledgeable in art? She could already imagine the lectures about chiaroscuro or whatnot. How many times had she listened to a man explain away his opinion as fact with the air of bestowing a gift? It was best to be defended beforehand, and she tried out various distracting remarks:

  “Excuse me but do you think there are tampons in the bathroom?”

  “I’m using this very drying lice medication.”

  “That always makes me think about sex.”

  Nicola parked, then walked through a large arch leading into a courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard stood a round tiled fish pool with a rim wide enough to be used as a bench.

  She walked toward the pool, where a man was sitting with a notebook open in front of him. He wore a white and blue sticky label on his shirt that said HI! MY NAME IS: LOU.

  Was this a joke? He was much younger than she had imagined.

  “Are you waiting for Scott Whitmore?”

  The man looked up from his notebook. He was about her age and had dark hair and dark eyes. He wore a white button-down shirt and his face had been recently shaved.

  “I’m taking Scott’s meeting for him,” Nicola told him.

  Lou looked her over.

  “You’re not a lawyer,” he said.

  “No,” she agreed.

  “Is Scott all right?”

  “He’s either asleep on a floor or asleep on a bus.”

  At that Lou smiled. He was not what she had expected. His skin was very clear and this combined with his white shirt and clean shave made him look like a boy in a Catholic high school. His face was serious but not threatening, the face of a student. He didn’t look like the kind of guy someone owed money to, but except for bad skin she didn’t really know what that kind of guy would look like.

  Nicola watched him flip close his notebook. She hoped he wasn’t going to show her his sketches now or any time in the future, and she practiced the line about tampons in her head.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Have you had breakfast? There’s a café right here.”

  Nicola knew it—a divey student-run kind of place with great food and a fantastic view of the bay. A bank of windows took up one wall and Alcatraz lay directly outside, for once displayed in its natural context: a tiny rock dwarfed by the huge green state park, Angel Island, which lay behind it.

  “Let me suggest one of their muffins,” said Lou as they went into the building. “This place specializes in homey baked goods, still warm from the oven.”

  Homey baked goods? Nicola glanced at him, but he had an absolutely deadpan expression. Who was this guy? He was still wearing his nametag. The café was self-serve with a counter facing the short-order cook, and since it was early they were the only ones there. A chalkboard on the counter claimed there were banana muffins and cranberry-orange; Lou asked for banana but when Nicola wanted that too he changed to the cranberry.

  “These are the best lattes in town,” he said. “Whole milk, organic, no hormones, no milk machines.” Lou turned back to the cook. “Are the coffee beans from shade plants or sun?” he asked.

  Clearly this was a man who breakfasted seriously. Nicola, who had planned to ask for a latte, ordered a large coffee instead.

  “Guatemalan or Aged Sumatra?” the clerk asked.

  “Whatever’s closest.”

  Lou seemed not to have heard but she thought he was listening. He can’t help himself, Nicola thought, he’s going to tell me which is better. But he just settled his latte on his tray and looked at the fry range. He was moderately built and handled objects attentively, not like Scooter, who moved fast and was always on the verge of spilling something or dropping something else. Lou, on the other hand, seemed—Nicola searched for the word—comfortable. He seemed comfortable.

  “That bacon smells excellent,” Lou said to the cook, a young man wearing a tie-dyed scarf around his head.

  “Smoked and peppered,” the cook said, and handed him a piece. “Taste.”

  As they walked to a table Lou said, “Extremely friendly student staff.”

  Nicola glanced at him. “You sound like a restaurant critic,” she said.

  He looked at her sharply. “Really? In what way?”

  “The baked goods comment, the comment about the staff.”

  They put their trays down on a long trestle table overlooking the bay. Below them, ferries carried people to Oakland or Sausalito, while huge dirty sailboats tacked up and down the bay for pleasure. Lou was watching Nicola with his serious dark eyes.

  “I’ve gone out to eat with a lot of clients,” he said. “No one has ever said that before.”

  “Oh, well.” Nicola was dismissive. She began pouring some half-and-half into her coffee.

  “I mean,” Lou continued. “I’m just very surprised you picked up on that. Because you’re right.”

  “You’re a restaurant critic?”

  “Or more generally food.”

  “Really? A food critic?” She couldn’t tell if she was being put on or not. “I thought you loaned money, then charged exorbitant rates of interest.”

  “Not exorbitant, never exorbitant,” Lou protested. “And, anyway, that’s just my profession; food is my hobby.”

  “How many reviews have you done?” Nicola asked.

  “This would be my first,” Lou said. He smelled the muffin. “But I’ve been practicing for years.”

  Nicola laughed. This is one weird guy, she thought. She liked him and supposed this was part of his game. A few students came into the café and looked at the food display as if they were waiting at a bus stop and had just spotted a bus.

  “So
what’s wrong with the loan business?” Nicola asked.

  “It’s my uncle’s business. It’s a fine business; it’s just not mine.”

  She watched him get ready to taste the muffin. He broke it open and looked inside at the yellow marbly texture, then touched it with his fingertip.

  “A strong orange flavor,” he pronounced after he bit into it. “But not too strong. Actually, the degree of tartness is perfect. How’s yours?”

  “I don’t know. It’s good.”

  “Can you say anything more?”

  “I like its crunchy top,” Nicola said.

  “Let me taste.”

  She gave him her muffin and he broke a piece off.

  “Mmm. This is very good. A strong taste of banana, but it does not overwhelm.” He took another bite. “Neither does the sweetness. I think this one is better. You know, banana muffins are among the more difficult ones to bake. Bake well, that is.”

  “So you cook, too?” Nicola asked.

  “Only dishes someone has taught me. My mom and my uncle are both great cooks. I like to know what I’m doing.”

  “But you know, they have these things now called recipes,” Nicola told him. “They’re like directions.”

  Lou smiled. “Well, yeah, recipes. I’m waiting for the recipe that says, Skin the meat from the bone and dice into small pieces; this could take upwards of five hours.”

  The café’s cement walls and ceiling made Nicola feel as if she was in a soundproof box. They sat at the long table, too big for two people, and while Nicola finished her muffin Lou explained how it was important, when reviewing food, to go with other people so you could sample as many dishes as possible. At the same time discretion is necessary—you want the typical fare, not something prepared especially well this one time to please a reviewer.

  Lou opened his notebook and wrote something down.

  “This sort of place,” he said, “is perfect for a beginner like me. An undiscovered studenty place with some unknown cook.”