by Bill Cameron
Accusation stares back.
“If she’s with him, it’s because she wants to be with him.” In the bathroom, as I wash my hands, I glimpse my reflection again, this time warped by the scratched, stainless steel mirror over the sink. “If she didn’t tell you, it’s because she didn’t want you to know.” The Lions Club volunteer in the traveler’s aid booth offers me an Oreo with my coffee. All I hear is my own voice inside my head. “Go home, Skin.” Back in my car, I continue south. Every exit offers an opportunity to come to my senses, turn off, turn around, turn back. I ignore them all.
My tenuous logic rests on a foundation of rationalization. She’s there, she’s not there. If she’s not there, Peter will be, and Peter can tell me how to find Jimmie. And then, hell, at that point, I might just as well drive the remaining, short distance to Jimmie’s house, apartment, condo. Jimmie is wealthy. I picture him with a place on Russian Hill or Pacific Heights, an anchor building on a well-trod corner, three or four stories with a chi-chi café or bar on the ground floor. He’s got the top two floors filled with art and antiques purchased as investments, leases out the rest of the building. In my mind, he’s a shitty landlord. But, really, I know nothing about him except he’s Ruby Jane’s greatest source of irritation, a man to whom she paid quarterly dividends, to whom she owed some percentage of her dream.
As the flat Sacramento Valley opens up before me, six hours out, I’ve worked through my rationalizations so many times I no longer know what I believe. She’s there, she’s not there. Peter knows something, Peter knows nothing. I’ve imagined scenarios so absurd and impossible that when I stop for gas in Red Bluff I’m half ready to believe I’ll find Ruby Jane, Pete, and Jimmie in the truck stop restaurant. Playing euchre, drinking Old Fashioneds, plotting the overthrow of Cuba. It all makes equal sense. In a moment of lucidity, standing over yet another anonymous urinal, I call Peter again, get no answer, and find it within myself to leave him a reasoned message explaining why I’d called in the first place. I imagine him stepping away from the euchre game with a knowing nod to his partners. “Jimmie, I’m going to call Skin back and give him your home address. Okay?” Ruby Jane tells him to hurry up, it’s his deal, and besides, he’s responsible for coordinating the air cover for the marine landing.
I feel like I’m coasting downhill when I reach the I-680 cut-off from I-80. I haven’t been in California in years, and never in Walnut Creek. At one time, that would have meant forethought and planning with a Thomas Guide and a highlighter. But now I’ve got the rental company’s GPS telling me where to go, my very own digital enabler with a soothing, synthetic voice. If it had my best interests in mind, it would tell me to go home, or to go to hell. Instead it directs me to Peter’s nondescript apartment complex east of the interstate near what I presume is Walnut Creek’s commercial core. Or maybe the whole town is commercial core. Ever since I left behind the broad, agricultural flats of the Central Valley I’ve felt like I was driving through an endless combination industrial park/strip mall characterized by the Lego School of architecture. I follow Miss Tom-Tom’s directions from the exit, right at the fork, ahead two-tenths of a mile, right again, watch for road construction. I know I’ve reached my destination only because she tells me so. The complex, called Vista View, is a Spanish Mission/Cape Cod mash-up which looks out at two other complexes and a church parking lot, catty-corner from the back of a Target.
I park, traipse through hyper-manicured landscaping until I find the entryway leading to Peter’s apartment. Second floor, in the back.
My plan, such as it is, is to ask him how he’s doing, when he last heard from Ruby Jane. The tide is out. Ruby Jane, I’m now sure, is in some unknown, unguessed location. But when I knock, he opens the door on the second rap, as if he was standing there waiting for me. The suddenness of his appearance is like a wave crashing in.
“Where is she?”
He blinks at me, his mouth working as if he can’t decide how to respond. Then his eyebrows lower. “How the hell should I know?”
I try to see past him into the apartment. The door opens onto a short, dark hallway, the cool glow of a compact fluorescent light bulb in the room beyond. I can hear the television. “She’s in there.”
“Skin, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re saying she’s not here?”
He looks at me with a mixture of contempt and sadness. “You drove all this way because you think I’m hiding Ruby Jane?”
“Pete, damn it.”
“She’s not here.” He steps out of my way. “Come in, check everywhere. She’s not here.”
“Jesus.” I run my hand over my face. My skin is hot to the touch. “Pete …”
“What on earth were you thinking?”
“You hung up on me.”
“Maybe I didn’t feel like talking to you.” He turns and heads back into the apartment. I follow, sheepish. “You drove six hundred miles because I hung up on you.”
“I’m worried. No one knows where she is. When I talked to
you …” I sigh, collapse onto a dinette chair. “It had been a long night.”
“And an even longer day.”
“I drove fast.”
“I haven’t talked to her in months, Skin.”
“How many months?”
“You feeling jealous? You?”
“Christ. I’m an idiot.”
“Join the club.”
I wait for him to offer me something. I’m not hungry, too busy digesting my own organs all day, but my mouth is dry and my head pounding. He joins me at the table, eyes on his folded hands. The room is classic Pete, one wall nothing but fastidiously maintained plants, but everything else in vague disarray. Newspapers piled up on the floor next to the couch, empty glasses on the coffee table. The television is tuned to what looks like an infomercial. Whatever Pete had for dinner, it featured garlic.
“In your message, you asked about James. You think he knows something?”
“I don’t know. I tried to get hold of him, but I got stiffed at his company. Directory assistance was a brick wall.”
“So you figured I owe you a favor?”
“Pete, come on, it wasn’t me got between you and Ruby Jane.”
“No, I got between me and Ruby Jane all on my own.”
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. “All I want is to make sure she’s all right.”
He drums his fingers on the table, then reaches up and pulls at his lower lip. I’ve seen that look before. Peter trying to make a decision. He stands up suddenly. “Stay here.” He disappears into the hallway, returns before I can object. He offers me a folded piece of paper. “Here.”
I open a printout from a computer address book: James Whitacre, with a San Francisco address and phone number.
“You had this printed out already. Were you expecting me?”
“When I got your message, I looked it up. I printed it out and stuck it in my coat pocket in case you called me again. Never expected to be handing it to you.”
In other words, I’m the crazy one sitting at this table. I turn back to the paper, ungum my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
“Whit-acre. How the fuck was I supposed to find that?”
“RJ told me he changed it when he got into venture capital. He thinks it makes him sound like landed gentry rather than some backwoods hick.”
“He is a backwoods hick.”
“Aren’t we all?”
I’m urban trash, but it’s a minor distinction.
“He lives in Sunset.”
“Where’s that?”
“See if you can guess.”
“Pete, last time I checked the sun sets on the whole damn state, the Governator’s ad campaign notwithstanding.”
He’s back at his lip, working it like a piece of dough. From the television, I learn I can get two Slankets for the price of one if I order in the next ten minutes. “You’ll have to use your own phone. It’s long distance from here.”
&nb
sp; “Pete, Jesus. We used to be friends.”
A few years earlier, I let Pete walk away from a house with a dead body in it, him and his sister both. It was the day after Ruby Jane got shot, and he was anxious to go to the hospital to see her. He’d done nothing except find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and no one needed to know he’d been there. Now, two-and-a-half years later, I wonder if the favor buys me the privilege of making a play for his ex-girlfriend.
His answer, based on the stiffness in his back and the shadow over his eyes, is no.
I let out a long, slow breath and pull out my phone. I’ve got plenty of minutes. Then I have an idea and put it away, get Ruby Jane’s phone instead. It had rang a couple of times during the day, but the 923 exchange told me the call was from the Justice Center—Susan. I’d let those calls go to voice mail.
Now, I punch in the digits from Pete’s print out. Jimmie won’t recognize my number in Caller ID, but he may know RJ’s—assuming it isn’t saved in his Contacts list. I’m not sure if that means he’ll be more likely to answer, or less.
His voice is sharp when he picks up. “It’s a goddamn miracle. You remembered my fucking phone number.”
“Is that any way to talk to your sister?”
I hear a sharp intake of breath. “Who is this?”
“Skin Kadash, Ruby Jane’s friend.”
“Figure that.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “The cop.”
“Ex-cop. This is Jimmie, right?”
“James.”
“Right. James.”
“What are you doing with Ruby’s phone?”
“She’s out of town and left it behind. I haven’t been able to reach her. I was hoping you might be able to help me out.”
“What makes you think I know anything?”
“You’re her brother?”
“Sorry. I got no idea.” He hangs up.
Peter regards me from across the table. “He blew you off.”
“He thought I was Ruby Jane. First thing he did was go off on her.”
“He’s always been a dick.”
I could try calling him back, but I’m well aware of the definition of insanity. The light from the TV reflects off Peter’s eyes, white impenetrable rectangles. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. His fingers pull at his lip. From way back, I remember Peter as being someone who spoke first, thought afterwards. But not now. The moment stretches.
“What’s on your mind, Pete?”
“Wondering what you’re gonna do.”
If recent history is any indication, I’m going to do something irrational based on insufficient evidence with little chance of success. My hands are shaking. It’s hard for me to believe it’s been twenty-four hours since I learned Ruby Jane is gone. I’ve cleaned up after a corpse and transfused myself with coffee. Lost my cash, lost my car, and apparently lost my mind.
“I’m gonna find her. And I’m gonna make Jimmie help me whether he likes it or not.”
He nods. “Okay. Come on then. I’ll drive.”
- 8 -
G-and-T
“Why are you driving anyway?”
At least we’re in my rental car and not his manure-dusted pickup, which means I can ditch him if necessary. He can make his way home on BART or by cab or however they do it around here. Assuming I can get the car keys away from him. He took them from me in the parking lot of his cartoonish apartment complex like he was taking the keys from a drunk.
“I’m used to driving in San Francisco.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“It can get a little crazy.”
“Pete, I’ve driven in Saigon. I’ve driven in Bangkok. I’ve driven in Boston, for chrissakes.”
“I know where we’re going.”
So he says, but he’s paying a lot of attention to Miss Tom-Tom. Maybe he likes having a woman talk to him again after so long on his own.
We’re on the interstate heading toward the bay. Nothing to be gained from bitching now, except I’m in the mood to bitch. I lean my head against the glass, stare down at the shoulder zipping past. Traffic is no heavier than what I see on an average Portland evening, Sunset Highway over Sylvan or through the Terwilliger Curves on I-5, but I don’t say anything. We’re in that preternatural period between sundown and full darkness when the light plays tricks on you. Cars heading away look like they’re veering toward you, shadows leap and dance at the roadside. The concrete barrier beyond the shoulder throws the traffic noise back like a wall of falling gravel. Beyond, I see the spiky heads of unfamiliar trees.
“You put in a different address than the one on the printout.” I didn’t intend to speak, and my voice sounds like I’m drunk. Exhausted, I guess.
“There’s a joint where he hangs out, a sports bar.”
“And you know this how, exactly?”
Through the floor of the car, the tires sound like a fingernail dragged along a comb. He pulls at his lip with one hand and steers with the other.
“You thought he could help you with Ruby Jane.”
Half-shrug.
“She hates him.”
“She doesn’t hate him. They … differ on certain matters.”
“Yeah, he’s a rich puke and he lives to fuck with her.”
“It’s not that simple.”
I close my eyes, listen to the tires for a minute, two minutes. Miss Tom-Tom tells us we’re approaching the Bay Bridge.
“I hope he paid for your drinks after you drove this far.”
“He’s not doing as well as everyone thinks.”
We slow and Peter mutters something about a toll, but I don’t open my eyes. “So did he help?”
“Who?”
“Christ, Pete. Jimmie. Did he help?”
“He doesn’t understand her any better than anyone else.”
Before yesterday, I never thought she was such a mystery.
Ruby Jane once told me she felt her relationship with Peter was like driving too fast on a mountain road, up one minute, down the next, twisting and turning at reckless velocity. Hanging on by a thin-skinned traction and the breathless weight of inertia. Who knows what Pete thought? One side of the story is never enough, but when it comes to affairs of the heart, two sides is often too many.
Peter takes us across the bridge and down into the city. The light changes, as does the sound of the tires. I was last in San Francisco shortly after I got out of the army. Twenty-five years and counting. I recognize nothing. Peter finds his way onto a one-way arterial heading west. Cars clump around us. We pass storefronts and apartments jammed shoulder to shoulder with Victorians, single-family conversions to multi-family walk ups. There are more colors than I’m used to. The trees at the street’s edge have been shaped by wind. We skirt Golden Gate Park, and I think back to my last visit when I wandered the halls of the De Young Museum and sat on the grass in the early evening dark. Now, as then, I can’t see the sky, just a formless grey shroud, brighter than night, less revealing than dusk. I blink, try to make out a sound like a voice murmuring at the back of my head. And then, we’re not moving.
“Skin, wake up. We’re here.”
I stir, lift my head off the window. A stab of pain shoots down my neck. Cold spit coats my chin. Out on the sidewalk, a Latino boy is pointing at me and saying something to a woman with him. I can’t make out his words through the glass, but I can guess. “Look at the ugly man, mama.” She smacks his hand and pulls him away. He can’t take his eyes off me, his head corkscrewing around as he gets farther away. In an earlier era, he could have paid a quarter to a carny for a glimpse.
“You coming?”
We’re parked on a broad avenue, wide sidewalks and multiple lanes.
“Where are we?”
“The bar I told you about. James has a place a few blocks away, but this is home.”
I feel like my bones have been replaced with dry twigs. Peter heads up the street. Somewhere nearby Cambodian pop music plays. It feels late, but I see people all around, in car
s and on foot. The street signs don’t tell me much. Thirty-Second and Noriega. The main drag trends to small business: produce market, pharmacy, a Chinese bakery, hole-in-the-wall restaurants and shops. Most of the signs are bi- and tri-lingual: English, Spanish, Chinese. Peter ignores it all, heads toward a door standing open under an arched black awning. I glance at my watch. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I found Chase Fairweather soaking in Ruby Jane’s tub, twenty-eight since I came home to find RJ gone. Feels like much longer.
I follow Pete into a long room with a tall ceiling. There are pool tables at the back, balls clacking, and televisions on the walls, couple of big screens dominating. Most are showing SportsCenter. The place is three-quarters full and noisy, lots of shapeless hubbub with the occasional voice rising clear above the din in response to something on TV. The air smells of beer, fried cheese, spring rolls. My stomach lurches a bit, but my mouth is dry.
“Is he here?”
Peter points with a sharp nod. “At the bar. Always at the bar.”
James Whittaker—Whitacre I suppose—is not what I remember. He’s slumped on his stool, glass in front of him. Whatever he’s drinking is clear, on the rocks, with a twist. When he visited Portland a couple of years back, he was tall and confident, tanned face and russet hair, with dimples to match Ruby Jane’s. I saw his less than hers; he wasn’t generous with his smile.
Now, his skin is sallow, his hair wiry and gone to grey. A fading bruise shades one cheek a sickly green. Only his shoes stand out compared to the rest of him—brown Esquivel wingtips—which I recognize because I knew a cop who bought a pair after a promotion to lieutenant; the asshole wouldn’t shut the fuck up about them. Jimmie has nothing else to brag about. He’s wearing a green and grey glen plaid suit which looks like it came off the rack at Macy’s during the after Christmas clearance. White shirt, collar open, no tie. Can’t say I’ve ever dressed better, but then I’m not a venture capital douchebag who shits gold nuggets and pisses silver filigree.