As La Vista Turns

by Kris Ripper

  “Granted. Anything else?”

  I sighed. Heavily. “Is it really that wrong that I want Dred to be able to come to this thing, if I pull it off?”

  “Hello! No, it’s not wrong. Because you have the hots for her and you want to spend time with her and you want to touch her and kiss her and—”

  This time Merin got Keith in the back of the head. Keith laughed.

  Merin shuddered. “Ew. Stop. You’re gross.”

  “Thanks, Merin,” I said.

  He grunted. I took it as I didn’t hit Keith for you, dummy.

  “It’s not that I have the hots for her. It’s . . . I like spending time with her. I don’t think they’re the same thing.”

  Both of them looked up. Keith’s expression was sort of bland, but Merin’s was pitying. “Seriously, it’s embarrassing that you can’t even ask a woman out because you like her too much.”

  “Amen, brother,” Keith added.

  Merin elbowed him. He grinned unrepentantly.

  Jerks. I tried to get them back on track. “For that matter, if we have it at Club Fred’s, Merin can’t go. So there.”

  Merin shook his head. “Like I’d go to your little funeral anyway.”

  “Okay, okay.” Keith brushed his hands off. “You want coffee?”

  “Ugh. What kind?”

  “It came out of a Sobrantes bag.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “It wasn’t Sobrantes when it went into the bag, but I find the psychological benefit of seeing a high-quality coffee bag is high.”

  “Hell. Yeah, I’ll take coffee.”

  The QYP kitchen was gorgeous. Straight out of an Ikea showroom, all clean lines and smooth surfaces in grays and blues. Wear was beginning to show up after the five or six months they’d been open—the floors were scuffed and the sink had a dent in the side—but it was still about a hundred times better than the kitchen at my last crummy apartment before I bought my condo.

  “Your target demographic for this wake is Club Fred’s.” Keith handed me a cup of coffee and pushed a basket of coffee additions across the counter. “Merin wouldn’t go because Merin wouldn’t care. You’re trying to get to the folks who actually felt something, you know? Because they were afraid, or they knew one of the people who died, or because they danced with Joey once.”

  I glanced up from stirring my coffee. “First-name basis, huh?”

  “When a guy pistol-whips you while talking about how he’s going to torture your boyfriend until he prays for death, you get close.” This smile was a little ill. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I don’t think anyone has a clue what actually happened, except that it ended with him in jail and you guys at the hospital.” And I’d heard some pretty strange rumors about that too. Apparently Josh and Keith were into some kinky shenanigans the police misunderstood as domestic violence. That must have been fucking awkward. I dropped my eyes back to my coffee so I wasn’t thinking about Josh. And Keith. And kinky shenanigans.

  “It was awful. Which I guess you probably assumed. My point is that I wouldn’t mind a wake. In some ways, Club Fred’s is the scene of the crime for a lot of people. And I wasn’t super afraid before, but I am now. A lot. Of everything. I don’t think it’s as bad for Josh, and I can’t speak for Cam, but I wouldn’t mind a symbolic putting-to-rest, Zane.”

  “I’m really sorry.” I couldn’t help saying it. “I know that’s totally meaningless and basically making it about you comforting me because I feel bad you got caught up in the whole thing, but I’m really, really sorry, Keith.”

  “It’s okay. I mean, it’s terrible and not okay, but I’ll live. Let me know if you need help planning, or if you want to make flyers or something. I’m pretty good at that. And we can get the word out, though Merin’s right; anything advertising free food isn’t going to bring in exactly the crowd you’re looking for.”

  The door at the back of the room opened, and both of us looked over. Josh had a ready smile for Keith, a wave for me, and even though Merin didn’t look up, Josh checked his presence in the room with a glance.

  “I am done battling the demons of our budgeting software.”

  “It’s not budgeting software. It’s money management software.”

  Josh kissed Keith’s forehead. “Sorry. It all looks the same to me, babe.”

  “Except that budgeting is when you tell your money what to do, and the thing you’re looking at is telling us where our money already went. Fundamentally different.”

  “Can I say I balanced our checkbooks? Because that’s really how it feels.”

  Keith sighed. “Yes. Fine. You balanced our checkbooks. Even though I’ve never had a checkbook in my life.”

  I laughed. “Damn. Youth today. Checkbooks are going the way of the dinosaur. Hey, Josh, what do you think of having a wake?”

  “Did someone die?”

  Before I could reply, Keith said, “Six people died.”

  “Oh. A wake for Togg and Honey and that kid Cam met for a minute?” He put his arm around Keith’s shoulders. “I think that’s an interesting idea. You mean for the sake of closure or something?”

  “I guess so.” Closure was as good as any other reason. “Or for the sake of making Club Fred’s less depressing.”

  He nodded. “Fredi’s okay with this?”

  I made a face. “God. I guess I have to talk to her, which is annoying. But let’s say she agrees.” I couldn’t think of why she wouldn’t, but then again, Fredi moved in mysterious ways. “Is that the kind of thing you’d go to?”

  He looked at Keith. “Yeah, I think so.”

  Keith tugged on his hand, pulling himself closer in the half embrace. “The question is, can we get Cam to go? Because I think that’d be good.”

  “His process isn’t necessarily our process.”

  “As long as he has one, which I’m not convinced of.”

  I sipped my coffee to avoid feeling like an intruder, but I could hardly miss their concern. What was up with Cam?

  “Anyway.” Josh turned back to me. “Keep us posted. I’m intrigued.”

  “Will do. I should get back to work.”

  I surrendered my mug and told Merin good-bye as I was leaving. He grunted.

  Keith was right, of course. The thing had to be at Club Fred’s. Which meant I’d have to talk to Fredi.

  No matter how I badgered Carlos and Jaq, I couldn’t get either one of them to be my backup to talk to Fredi on Friday night. In fact, they conveniently went and found a table so they weren’t even at the bar when I tried to talk to her.

  With friends like these. Jeez.

  I led with an apology. People love apologies, right?

  “Hey, Fredi. I, uh, wanted to say sorry for sneaking in here that time.”

  She looked at me, squinting a little, leather vest tight around her chest, some kind of braided choker thing around her neck. Eyes dark and ruthless.

  I swallowed.

  “What the hell are you talking about, sneaking in here?”

  “Uh. You know. That time you kicked Jaq and me out. When we were kids.”

  “You tried to sneak in here when you were underage?” Her eyes got even smaller. “You think I remember kicking you out of here fifteen years ago? I don’t even remember the punk kids I kicked out last week.”

  “Uh— Oh. But—” I tried to regroup. “But then why are you always on me like I did something wrong?”

  “Jaffe, I give you a hard time because you’re a damn nuisance. But that’s not your fault, it’s your nature. Like mine is giving people a hard time. Now what the fuck did you want?”

  I was suddenly glad my friends weren’t there to hear that I’d been harboring a totally baseless persecution complex ever since I was legal to enter Club Fred’s. “I have an idea. For an event. That I’d like to have here, if you’re okay with it.”

  “You want to pay to rent the place out, I’ll get the paperwork.”

  “No— It wouldn’t be that, exactly
. Though I’m not saying I wouldn’t pay.” It hadn’t even occurred to me that there was a way to rent out Club Fred’s. Not that I wanted to.

  Fredi made an impatient motion with her hand. “Spit it out.”

  “I want to hold a wake. For all of us, actually. But also for Honey, and Philpott, and Felipe, and the rest of the people who died. Who came here and died after. To celebrate their lives. And I guess also to celebrate that we don’t have to be afraid all the time the way we were for a while.”

  “Huh.”

  I had no idea how to interpret that.

  “Tom!”

  Tom smiled at me as he walked up. It was weird. A guy you’d known for years offered you sperm and all of a sudden you were looking at him differently, like he was made up of component parts. Eyes, and shoulders, and hands. Pieces of his DNA. Pieces he might pass down to a kid, if his DNA ended up in one.

  “Jaffe wants to hold a wake at the bar. What do you have to say about that?”

  He blinked. “Who died?”

  Fredi did the hand thing. “Everyone, no one, all of us, blah, blah, blah, new-age bullshit. The point is moving on, if I’m catching her bleeding-heart drift.”

  “You mean, since that guy was arrested? The actual guy.”

  Not to be confused with that one time when Tom—not the actual guy—had spent the weekend in jail.

  I nodded. “Yeah. Well, and it feels kind of—” My hand motion was sort of floppy and ill-defined. “It feels unresolved in a way. Here. You know?”

  He nodded and looked at Fredi. “I think Zane has a point. As long as we’re not giving away food or booze, I’m down with it.”

  “Bite your tongue, boy. Get back to work.”

  Tom flashed me another smile before walking back down to the far end of the bar. I’d never really thought about the management structure of Club Fred’s, but Tom had just given his opinion as if he was part of it. Huh. I surveyed Fredi a little differently. Not that she was doddering on the brink of senility or anything, but she probably didn’t want to be standing at the bar until she keeled over, either.

  Which made Tom the heir apparent.

  “All right, Jaffe. Here’s what we’re doing. You’re writing up one page of exactly what you plan to do, how many people you think it’ll bring in, and when you want to do it. I’ll read that and quote you a price for using my bar during business hours, which I assume is what you’re asking.”

  I nodded.

  “Fine. Get it to me soon. If you wait, the usefulness of this ‘wake’ as a hippie exercise will be wasted.”

  “So in other words, do my homework?”

  She grinned. Not in a friendly way. In a Don’t mind my wolf’s teeth, Little Red Riding Hood kind of way. “Yeah. Do your homework. I look forward to seeing it. Now scram.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” I fled to the safety of my friends, who were already laughing at me when I sat down.

  “You survived an encounter with the wicked witch!” Jaq cried.

  “In my head she was the wolf in ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’” I stole Carlos’s beer and drank, since I’d left mine on the bar. “Oh my god, I’m nervous-sweating into my clothes right now. She is so scary.”

  “Wuss.” He took back his beer.

  “Hey, is Tom gonna take over Fred’s when she retires?”

  Carlos shrugged. “I’ll be shocked to shit if she ever manages to retire, but she’s talked to him about it.”

  “Damn.” Jaq looked around with slightly wide eyes. “Seriously, that would be really weird. Anyway, what’d she say?”

  I took a long drag off her soda. “She gave me homework. I’m supposed to come up with a page telling her what I plan.”

  “Plan to clean.” She ran a finger along the chair rail behind the table. “Can you do that? Because this place is fucking disgusting.”

  “Oh, yeah. I bet that’ll really endear me to Fredi. ‘First: clean the bar, because it’s fucking disgusting.’” I cleared my throat. “By the way, she doesn’t remember that time we tried to sneak in.”

  Both of them erupted into laughter.

  “You guys are such jerks,” I muttered.

  “This moment is the culmination of years of anticipation!” Jaq wiped tears out of her eyes. “I knew she couldn’t remember us from that long ago!”

  “Jerk.”

  They stopped laughing at me. Eventually.

  Saturday morning breakfast at the farmhouse was one of those things I’d sort of . . . stumbled into, not knowing it was an actual thing until I’d showed up a few weeks in a row. The farmhouse was smack-dab on the line where the decent part of the La Vista suburbs became the dangerous part of the La Vista suburbs. It was still in the decent area, but you could tell there was encroachment. Fewer houses were selling, more were bank owned, sitting there for months while lawns died and fences crumbled and paint chipped.

  Sometimes I wish I were a developer. Those neighborhoods used to be kind of grand when I was growing up. Jaq’s dad said when he was a kid, this was the fancy side of town. That was only, what, sixty years ago? And now look at it: dead grass, sagging roofs, a general air of having once been pretty. It was so sad.

  Also, it reminded me why I switched to commercial. I couldn’t take residential, man. Too many feelings.

  The farmhouse where Dred and James (and Obie and Emerson) lived wasn’t really a farmhouse. It was a three-bedroom craftsman-style house with a big kitchen, a screened-in back porch partially converted into a pantry and laundry room, and a huge, incredible garden in the backyard.

  But my favorite part of the house was a mix of the entryway and the kitchen. You stepped into this foyer with wood floors, and straight ahead was a big staircase heading up and to the left, and if you went through the archway slightly back from the stairs on the right, you got the kitchen.

  If you enjoy any aspect of food, you’ll love the farmhouse’s kitchen. That side of the house is cut with the front quarter sectioned into a little sitting room (which Emerson and Obie attempted to turn into a sewing room for Dred as a Christmas gift, mainly by adding a pair of those crummy accordion wood slat doors), and the entire rest of that side of the house is the kitchen. Small breakfast nook in the far corner, with built-in bench seats and windows overlooking the garden. Long counter, deep sink, plenty of cabinets.

  I could sell the farmhouse and make a ridiculous amount of money. But I didn’t do residential and the farmhouse wasn’t for sale.

  Up the broad front steps, courtesy knock on the door before trying the handle, inner conflict about how nice it was not to have to disturb someone to come unlock it but how dumb it was for them to leave it unlocked, pushing it open when—

  Dred, all flowing skirt and brightly colored headband—accentuating as opposed to containing her natural hair—raised her eyebrows at me from the kitchen doorway. “You coming inside or just trying to heat the neighborhood?”

  Oh my god, I wanted to kiss her.

  “Hey,” I said.

  One eyebrow arched a little bit higher. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Good morning,” I tried again.

  “Hi, Zane!” Obie called.

  “Hi, Obie!”

  Dred gave me another look.

  “What?” I patted down my blouse. “Do I have food on me or something?”

  “Nope.” She turned and walked into the kitchen.

  What does that MEAN? I valiantly tried not to wail out loud and followed her.

  Emerson stood at the stove, as he did every Saturday morning. In this crowd, dour Emerson was the only one who could put a meal together. “Hey, Zane.”

  “Hey, boy. How’s it going?”

  “Two of my eggs were cracked, the bacon was green when I pulled it out, and I have three people taking the GED right now.” He glanced at his watch. “For the next six hours. Sorry, you weren’t really asking. Everything’s fine, Zane. How’s it going with you?”

  “I’m not pregnant, and Tom and Carlos offered me sperm. Also, I’m thinking about holding
a wake at Club Fred’s. You know, the usual.”

  He blinked. “Whoa. Sperm. That is not ‘the usual.’”

  I laughed and snagged a bit of red pepper on my way to the table.

  I really liked Emerson. He was one of the last people I helped find a place to live before I took over the commercial side of the business from my boss. He was prickly and hard to get to know, but if you could dig below the surface, he had a good sense of humor and was the kind of guy who’d help you out and never make you feel lousy for it.

  He didn’t have his cane handy, so it was probably an okay day on the multiple sclerosis front.

  I kissed Obie’s cheek and sat down beside the high chair where James was holding court. “What’s up, man?”

  He chattered at me and offered a slice of his avocado, mushed between his fingers.

  “Oh, no thanks, I think I’ll have whatever Emerson’s making.”

  Emerson snorted. James protested. Dred and Obie resumed what they were doing at the counter.

  “So, guys,” I said. “Should I have Tom’s baby, or what?”

  “That’s still a little weird to me.” Dred waved an exceedingly sharp knife around. “I mean, Tom’s always been a good guy, but still—did you ask them?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. Though . . . I was so drunk. So, so drunk.” I replayed what I’d said and felt compelled to add, “I mean, obviously I wouldn’t be having Tom’s baby.”

  “Obviously,” Emerson muttered. “Where the hell is my cheese?”

  “Here.” Obie kissed him. “These smell kind of spectacular.”

  “‘Kind of spectacular’ is what I’m going for.”

  He could make his tone as dry as he wanted, but I saw him smile. Aw. Cute.

  Emerson delivered my eggs with a flourish.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I picked up my fork, debating where to dig in.

  James started, uh, talking again. I guess that was probably what it was called when a kid was making a bunch of noises.

  “Ha.” Obie grinned, tugging James’s shirt. “I think he’s pissed at you for taking Emerson’s food, but not his.”

  “Um. Sorry, James. I sort of prefer . . . nonmashed foods. At the moment.”