The Man on the Washing Machine

by Susan Cox

  “Theo?” Haruto’s soft inquiry from the doorway made me jump. His eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline.

  I tossed my pearl-and-antennae haircomb, the lipstick, and the sunglasses into the plastic bag and pulled out my apron. My ballet slippers were ruined, so I kept the beige plastic sandals on my feet. I threw the bag and its contents into the trash basket and stood up to wrap my apron around me. Haruto filled the electric kettle. Wisps of steam were drifting from the spout by the time I’d run a comb through my hair and returned it to its everyday smoothness.

  “Tea?” he said blandly.

  “Please.”

  I was staring into space when he put the mug of tea in front of me. I jumped again.

  “Not the unflappable boss lady today,” he said thoughtfully. “Let’s see. You disappear and come home disguised as a mall moll. Davie departs the scene the instant I appear with a garbled excuse about a bald washing machine or a bold washing machine. Some kind of washing machine. A large cop appears and asks me what the trouble is. I stand in the middle of the store shrugging and he stomps off in disgust. And that adds up to what exactly?” He wrinkled his brow. “Darned if I know.” He hesitated, as if waiting for me to explain.

  I replayed a mental image of an enraged Charlie O’Brien throwing me off my own roof. It wasn’t a reassuring image. “What do you mean?” I said faintly. “Isn’t Davie here?”

  “Nope. Gone with the wind.”

  “Where?”

  “No idea. He ran out—near mowed me down on his way out.”

  The bell jangled out front. Haruto patted my hand. “I’ll get it,” he said. “Drink your drink. Cool shoes,” he added with another grin on his way out the door.

  But it wasn’t a customer; it was Davie. I heard Haruto’s half-scolding, half-teasing tones. “Where have you been, little brother? Mama’s back and she wants to know what you’ve been doing.”

  But Davie was uncharacteristically stubborn about saying where he’d been and started to get upset at Haruto’s insistence. I decided I didn’t care and told them to cut it out and keep quiet. While they served customers and kept my business afloat I shut myself in the office and sipped my tea and worried about Charlie O’Brien coming to—well, to do what? He knew where I lived. He knew where I worked. What was I going to do? I retrieved the list from my pocket and anxiously read through the references he’d given me. I didn’t recognize any until I got to the end.

  The last name and address was Aromas. Crap!

  I snatched up the telephone as if jabbed by a cattle prod and called the police. I asked for Inspector Lichlyter, but she was “unavailable.” The officer I spoke to was suspicious. There’s no other word for it. If I knew this man, why didn’t I report the incident last night? Since I had alerted him, he might have run away, he said, managing to suggest that I had been both negligent and meddlesome at the same time. I hung up the phone, damp with apprehension.

  Charlie O’Brien had asked for Nicole by name. Maybe I should start there. But she didn’t pick up when I called and when I stopped off at her apartment after closing that evening, she either wasn’t there, or didn’t answer her door. I called again later, but had to content myself with leaving a message. I got a little heated toward the end, snarling: “Call me, damn it!”

  I felt as if my nerves and my emotions were being amplified through a vaguely malevolent magnifying glass. It felt like motion sickness. I wanted someone to talk to, but all I reached was a variety of “leave a message” messages. I paced up and down through my empty apartment, with an uneasy Lucy at my heels. Her little nails clicked on the bare wood floors, and every now and again she looked up at me anxiously.

  As seven o’clock came and went, I heard the cicada-like chattering of the sprinklers, as Professor D’Allessio turned them on to make sure everything looked perfect for the next day’s Open Garden. The sprays of water set the white Christmas lights ducking and bobbing in the trees. Silence fell an hour later as the sprinklers were turned off. I opened my bedroom window and the smell of moist earth rose up toward me. I saw the professor’s shadow slip past a hydrangea, hoe at parade rest, at the ready for wayward snails.

  In spite of my argument with Nicole about the gun-shaped soaps, I own a .32 caliber revolver. Chrome-plated and almost pretty, it was my grandfather’s idea of an appropriate Christmas gift for me when he moved here last year. It had never been out of its little felt bag. He gave me a box of bullets for it, too. By eight-thirty I’d persuaded myself it would be a good idea to find it.

  I dug it out of a carton in the bedroom closet and loaded it, reading from the instruction booklet and wishing I’d taken advantage of his other gift—a marksmanship course at his private club here in town. The club is a Beaux Arts mansion on Nob Hill with a no-women-members policy, which is galling. All the same, I wished I’d taken the course.

  Once I got the thing loaded I sat with it gripped in both hands for half an hour, listening with every pore for Charlie O’Brien’s step on the stairs or the sound of breaking glass somewhere. I hated holding that gun, but the brass-knuckle keys weren’t going to be adequate defense against anything.

  When I heard a step on the back landing, my blood pressure nearly shot out through the top of my head. But whoever it was knocked lightly when they tried the doorknob and found the door locked.

  “Who is it?” I said, clearing my throat and trying to sound threatening.

  “Your door’s locked!” Nat’s indignation would have been funny another time.

  I unlocked the door. Nat’s lovely face was drawn and tired, with purple shadows under his eyes like bruises. And no wonder, I thought guiltily. He was up all night comforting hysterical friends. He saw the gun and his eyes widened.

  “Hi, Theo. How stands the union?” he said cautiously.

  I laid the gun carefully on top of a towel on my washing machine. “Am I glad to see you! Come in.” I clutched him in a fierce hug.

  There was a pause. “Are you okay?” he said, and added urgently: “Has anythin’ else happened?”

  “I saw the fellow who broke into my place last night.”

  “He broke in again? Holy—”

  “No. No,” I interrupted him. “I saw him. He came into the shop.”

  He looked aghast. “Did you have him arrested?”

  “I tried, but the cops acted as if I was doing him an injustice. I guess if they get around to it sometime tomorrow…”

  He rubbed his long, flexible fingers over his crinkly hair in a thoughtful gesture. “Is that why you’re huddled in here? You’re waitin’ for him to come back?”

  “Not too bright, I know.”

  “Typical anyway. Come spend the night with me and Derek.”

  He knew I’d refuse, but I appreciated the offer. “The hell with him; he’s not frightening me out of here.”

  “Come on, Theo. No use toughin’ this out alone.” He looked definitely uneasy and for some reason the more alarmed he got, the more confident I began to feel.

  “I’ll be fine. I have Lucy, and I have my gun, which, granted, would be more useful if I knew how to use it. Anyway, Charlie O’Brien would be an idiot to come back. The cops will get him.”

  “I can teach you how to use the gun.”

  “You know how to shoot? Why didn’t I know that?”

  He snorted. “I’m from Texas. We shoot at each other to say good mornin’. I was given my first handgun for my twelfth birthday.”

  I gaped at him. “Your first—”

  He looked mildly exasperated. “It never came up before. I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable with it, English.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you and Derek going to the Open Garden?”

  “You don’t fool me with your changes of subject, girl,” he said. Then he raised both hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Derek’s workin’. He’s tryin’ to get a commission finished. But I’ll be there for a few minutes, to show I care.” He did a slow double take. “Wait—who’s Charlie O’Brien?
”

  “I thought this was Derek’s evening for kendo. That’s the burglar’s name.”

  “Not this week. How did you find out his name?”

  “It’s a long story. Believe it or not, the guy’s an accountant.”

  He came back into the kitchen from the guest bathroom, where he’d wandered to admire himself in the mirror. “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes you did; you just couldn’t believe it. He works at a place about twenty minutes’ walk down the wrong side of Polk Street.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  I told him the story of my lunchtime pursuit. When I’d finished, he was staring at me. “I’ll be damned.”

  “I know—what’s an accountant doing breaking into—”

  “That isn’t what I meant.” He paused. “He recognized you?”

  “I’m fairly sure he did.”

  “Okay, so the cops arrest him and that’s it; he’s done.”

  “My word against his?”

  He looked meaningfully at the sooty streaks near the kitchen door that I hadn’t had time to wipe away. “Fingerprints?”

  “Fingerprints! Hell, I’ve got whole handprints and footprints, too,” I said. “Nat, you’re a genius.”

  He tried to look modest. “I know. That’ll give the cops somethin’ to work on. And I bet O’Brien remembers the fingerprints, too; he won’t come back—he’s probably in Tijuana by now.” Except, I thought and didn’t say, he went into work today as if it was a normal day and wasn’t worried he’d left incriminating fingerprints everywhere.

  “Anybody home?” Haruto called from the back door, which I’d left open of course, and I waved him inside. He looked sideways at the gun on the washing machine, but he didn’t say anything. “Thought I’d take a look at where this crazy guy broke in last night,” he said. “You doing okay, Theo?”

  “The gun’s in case he comes back. But I think he’s halfway to Mexico by now.”

  I hope.

  “Wish I’d been home; I might have heard something.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but he wasn’t violent; it was, well, weird.”

  We followed the trail of sooty smears through the kitchen and dining room into the living room.

  “What did the cops say?”

  “Oh, the usual thing,” I lied. I heard someone else on my back stairs and went into the kitchen where I found Sabina, her red mane pulled back into a wild and glamorous knot.

  She smiled at me but her face fell as we heard Nat giving Haruto a tour of the sooty trail and explaining my “burglar” all over again. “You have company.”

  “They came by to look at my burglar’s sooty footprints. Would you like tea or coffee or something?”

  She looked puzzled. “You’ve had a burglar?”

  “I meant last night’s prowler.”

  She still looked puzzled, and then her brow cleared. “Oh, right.”

  “Still on for brunch next Sunday?”

  “Brunch?” she said blankly. “Oh! I don’t know. I’ll let you know.”

  Right. I cast around for some other topic while she stood in silence and looked around the kitchen. “Er … how’s Kurt?” I said finally.

  “Damn Nicole anyway!” she burst out.

  “Nicole?” I repeated stupidly.

  “She’s a—” Fortunately, words failed her.

  “Nicole and, er, Kurt?”

  “Not the way you’re thinking, but I swear there’s something. And he’s being sort of a jerk about it. And of course Helga, who’s like a kicked puppy every time she sets eyes on him, which he does absolutely nothing to discourage,” she said irritably.

  “I’m sorry,” I said diffidently. I somehow felt responsible for the lousy behavior of my partner and my ex-lover. What the hell was wrong with me, anyway?

  She looked around the kitchen and made a visible effort. “This turned out beautifully. You have a good eye for design.”

  “Thanks,” I said awkwardly. It didn’t seem the right time to praise Nicole’s contributions. “You need some decent dishes though,” she said, tipping her head to one side and looking at the contents of one of my open kitchen cabinets.

  “What’s wrong with my dishes? Nat’s making me buy some French enamel pans—”

  “Le Creuset? They’re great.”

  “—does everyone know about these pans except me? And you know how he is, he’s got more kitchen utensils than Emeril whatshisname and I have no sales resistance. He’ll talk me into getting two of everything. Do you know he and Derek have a set of brochette skewers with little steel cows on the ends? I didn’t even know what a brochette skewer was!”

  Sabina’s lip twitched. “Time you learned, chickie. You and I need a date to go to Macy’s and see what we can get you in the way of dishes.”

  “Can they be white at least,” I said in mock despair.

  “Any color you like. We’ll ask Nat to go with us.”

  “No, please, not that. He’s already choosing the color of my pots and pans.”

  She laughed, which kicked Kurt out of the room. After heavy steps on the back stairs announced another arrival, Helga made her way through the utility room and brought Kurt right back in. Sabina scowled. Helga was wearing her pink Crocs and had added a matching neck scarf tied in a jaunty knot. She’d also exchanged her usual baggy cotton whites for a pair of snug white jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. She made zaftig look good.

  “I see you’ve already got more company than you can handle,” Helga said with a snort. “I brought you some fruit tarts. I’ve been hearing about your prowler all day.”

  I smiled. That was Helga all over. She produced brownies or croissants whenever anyone had the slightest mishap. She wasn’t socially adept and food seemed to be her way of expressing concern. She moved into the kitchen, grabbed a plate off a shelf, and shook the tarts onto it, then leaned back to place the baking tray on the washing machine. “Um—” she said as she caught sight of the gun.

  Feeling like one of those performers down at Fisherman’s Wharf who juggle live chain saws and bowling balls, I said: “Thanks, Helga. I’m fine. The gun is in case anyone else breaks in. Those tarts look great. Nice outfit, by the way. I was about to make some coffee,” I lied. “Would you like some?”

  I could hear Nat’s high, clear voice telling Haruto a rambling and funny story in the living room. It was the one about Nicole’s assault on the Adelphi Club with a busload of Birkenstock-wearing protestors and the subsequent relaxation of the color bar. Was there no escaping Nicole?

  Helga blushed and glanced down at herself. “I won’t stay,” she said. Her eyes shifted toward Sabina and she made a faint grimace at me and wrinkled her nose. So I guessed she and Sabina wouldn’t be starting a mutual admiration society anytime soon. Kurt didn’t deserve all the fervor. “I’m up early to start the ovens. We can’t all travel to Europe on someone else’s dime,” Helga added.

  Sabina ignored her. She unzipped a couple of zippers and reached inside her jacket and pulled a frightening knife from a hand-tooled leather sheaf. “I brought the new knife to show you. I bought it down on Haight. What do you think?”

  I took the knife gingerly from her hand. It was exquisite and looked lethal. The handle was inlaid with gold-flecked lapis. The blade was eight inches of gleaming steel with a malevolent-looking curve at the end. When I looked up, Helga had left, and I didn’t blame her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Sabina okay?” Nat said when we were alone again.

  “She and Kurt—”

  “Kurt?” He looked startled. “I thought she was seein’ that guy with the limo.”

  I shook my head. “Old news. Kurt’s the man of the moment. Haven’t you ever noticed the way he stares at her when she isn’t looking? He’s besotted. He just doesn’t know it. Come on,” I said. “I’ll walk down with you. Lucy needs to go downstairs and I have to get out of here before anyone else shows up.” I locked the back door emphatically. He eyed my
spread-keys brass knuckles with respect and followed me down the back stairs. “Hard to believe that tomorrow’s the Open Garden.” I felt as if I’d lived a month’s worth of emotion since the association meeting the night before.

  “Great,” he grunted. “You can have hoojigger O’Brien arrested in between Haruto’s compost turnin’ and the bonsai demo.”

  I started to chuckle, and then something in his tone of voice made me ask: “Are you and Derek okay again? You seem—I don’t know—worried?”

  “I do?” He squeezed my shoulder gently as we picked our way down the dark stairs. “Guess I’m tired. Can’t imagine why, huh? You look as if you slept a full eight hours and breakfasted on dewdrops; I don’t know how the hell you do it.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Derek and I had another argument, this time about nothin’. He’s so pig-headed!” he added in frustration. “It sunk as low as do-you-think-cashmere-sweaters-grow-on-trees. I feel ridiculous tellin’ him I’d sleep in the park as long as we were together.”

  “Where does he think the sweaters came from before you met him?” I said dryly. “You weren’t exactly—”

  “On Queer Street?”

  I snickered appreciatively. “—sleeping in the park. You were selling high-ticket jewelry to the matrons at Neiman Marcus.”

  “Hush. He likes to be the provider. He wants—well,” he gave me a crooked smile. “He wants everythin’. With a capital E. For both of us. The Jag is about to get a twin brother, so we can each drive the twelve blocks to work, I guess.” He shook his head, but indulgently.

  We were at the back door of the studio and after a second’s hesitation I knocked. Turlough was putting on his leather jacket as he answered the door. Lucy, huddled in my arms, gave him a ritual growl.

  “Hello, Ms. Bogart,” he said with what looked like a genuine smile. It was a really nice smile. Nat nudged me. His eyes sparkled. He was vivacious. I sighed and began introductions.

  “Bramwell Turlough—”

  “Call me Ben,” he said, and offered Nat his hand.

  “Delighted, Ben,” Nat said, and held on to his hand a little too long. “I’m Nat for a real good reason, too. Nathaniel. Aren’t parents a kick?” Bramwell—Ben—gave a short laugh in apparent agreement.