Karla left the balcony and wandered around the perimeter of the studio toward Jeremiah. “Can’t you give me something? You artist guys always have the skinny on each other.”
“Not Andrew. He’s never hung out with any of the cats that I run with. He’s a loner with a capital ‘L’, as you’re well aware. The few times I ever crossed paths with him was at a couple of local watering holes. Folks on gallery row may be able to tell you more than I can.”
“But, people talk. Haven’t you come across anything about him? Friends, models—”
“Have you?” Jeremiah peered at Karla from beneath his unkempt brows. He placed his brush in a can and his paints on a stool and beckoned Karla to join him. “Let’s get ourselves a drink. My alcohol tank is running on empty.”
He moseyed over to a spiral staircase and descended a floor. Karla followed.
His apartment was a page—or rather a volume—from the sixties, a veritable bohemian lair. A collection of serapes lay tossed over aging sofas, and a myriad of candles in all shapes and sizes, along with a wide variety of crystals, crowded the tables and multicolored shelves. Orange crates, stacked against the wall, housed a makeshift bar and a handful of books.
Two posters, one of Bob Dylan and another of Joan Baez, were respectfully framed and hung in a place of honor above the stereo. Jeremiah crossed to the bar and took out a bottle of Tequila and, from a small refrigerator, a bottle of Sangrita.
Karla shook her head, plopped down on the sofa, and sighed. “I always get a kick out of this place.”
“Hey baby, there’s hope for you yet.”
Jeremiah joined Karla with the bottles tucked under his arms, and two shot glasses in each hand. He set the bottles and glasses down on a small table by the sofa. He poured Tequila into two of the glasses and Sangrita into the other two.
“Tequila and Sangrita—otherwise called Widow’s Blood. Discovered this chaser in Mexico.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot to ask you. How did it go?”
“Sold out. In less than a week.”
“All the pieces? How many?”
“Twenty. Came back with a request for twenty more.”
Karla reached out to hug him. “Congrats!”
He pushed her gently away. “You’re going to get paint all over your nice dress. I’ll have to sign it and put it in a frame.”
“Yeah, you’re a mess.”
“Thanks, badge of honor.” He winked. “Anyway, this is how you do it. First, Tequila…I like silver to avoid the seepage of the casks in the gold, gives a purer taste.” Jeremiah sipped the Tequila. “Then, the Sangrita.” He sipped the other glass.
With a grimace of reluctance, Karla followed suit. A moment later, she licked her lips. “Hey, that’s not bad. What’s this widow’s blood made of? It’s both sweet and savory.”
“This one’s my concoction. In Mexico it’s much better, but I haven’t been able to find it here. I make it with tomato juice, orange juice, Tabasco, some secret stuff, and lots of love.” He took another sip and dropped onto the pillows on the sofa.
“This, and a shoulder to cry on—from a distance, to avoid the paint—are about all I can offer, I’m afraid. Could give you a sermon on the dangers of getting romantically involved with your subject, but coming from me, it would be a bad joke.”
Karla set her glass on the table and leaned on Jeremiah’s chest. “Forget the paint. I can use the shoulder.”
He put an arm around her. “So be it, my beauty.”
“He couldn’t have simply vanished. There’s got to be an explanation. He’s been gone for over a week.”
“Weren’t you after his life’s story? Now you’ve contributed to it.”
Visibly upset, Karla sat up, tousled her hair, and stared at the floor.
“I’m sorry, Karla. Didn’t mean to sound so prickly.”
“No, you’re right. I spent several rather intense weeks with him and I learned virtually nothing personal about him.”
“Who was the woman in the paper?”
“No idea. An heiress, apparently. It’s unclear if she has anything to do with his disappearance. I’ve looked her up, but came up empty-handed. I can’t make the connection.”
“Have you asked around the galleries?”
Karla shook her head. “Not yet. Jer, I think something’s happened to him.”
“Is that what you told the police?”
“Hah! They wouldn’t even listen. Lover’s quarrel, they said.”
Jeremiah poured another round, took a couple of swigs, and collapsed onto the pillows. “Tell unca Jerry the truth. Are you in love with this guy?”
Karla glanced at Jeremiah and hesitated. “I’m not sure. I’ve never done anything quite like this before. I was in the sack with him the first day I met him. I don’t usually—”
“Oh, I’m sadly aware you don’t.”
Karla kissed him softly on the cheek. “Maybe I should’ve taken you up on it. At least you’re reliable.”
“And boring. Not old, mind you, just boring.”
Karla snickered. “I’m attracted to—”
“Weirdos.”
“He’s not weird. He’s passionate, and formidable, and…scary.”
“My point exactly.” He pulled her to him and tickled her.
She laughed. “Stop it! I’m trying to be serious.”
“But I’m not. You’re so ticklish, I love it.”
She giggled, giving into his game.
Jeremiah stopped tickling her, and sighed as he leaned back on the cushions. “You do love this dude.”
Karla caught her breath. “I’m not sure. Really. There’s something about him that’s irresistible, and a bit terrifying. Plus I’ve never been in love—true love, so I have no point of reference.” She cocked her head. “Sad. But that’s the truth. That’s why I’m not sure I’m in love with him. It’s not in my nature.”
Jeremiah raised his prodigious eyebrows.
“Okay, okay. Let’s agree that there is something I do feel. What it is, I have no clue. But I couldn’t get enough of him, and maybe that’s love. Or maybe I’m simply fixated on him.”
“Sex. When it chants for you it can be intoxicating. Like the Siren’s song.”
“And, it did chant for me.”
“However you slice it, my dear, you’re hooked.” He leered at her playfully.
“It’s not about sex, Jeremiah. It’s more than that. Plus I can’t walk away from this. Something’s wrong, and it’s eating at me.”
Lovingly, Jeremiah embraced her. “Tell you what. You check out the galleries and I’ll check out the suppliers. Deal?”
Karla leaned her head against his chest. “Thanks, Papa Smurf.”
Sarah placed the open book on her lap, waiting for the story to disappear, but the words remained. She turned the page expecting a poem, but to her surprise the story went on without a title for a new chapter. Intrigued by this, she continued to read.
Art galleries, shops, and an assortment of businesses lined the hectic avenue, vying for the attention of the endless stream of passers-by.
From a narrow alley across the street, an unseen observer watched as Karla entered one of the galleries, wearing a trim two-piece mauve suit with a pink silk blouse, and red high heels with a matching purse. She appeared tired and irritated. After a few minutes, she emerged and marched down the street.
She entered the CK Contemporary Gallery. Through the glass windows the observer watched her speak to a tall, impeccably dressed middle-aged art dealer, who listened attentively. When she was done speaking, the art dealer pondered for a second, and shook his head. She nodded at him and emerged from the gallery.
She headed decisively across the street toward the Martin Lawrence Gallery, where she repeated the exercise. A few moments later she exited listlessly.
>
Two men and a woman called to her from across the street, then maneuvered their way through the traffic and joined her. The concealed observer watched patiently as they chatted for a few minutes, shook their heads, and moments later embraced good-bye. The three made their way back while Karla continued down the street. Half a block later, she entered the Weinstein Gallery and soon after emerged even more crestfallen.
She rolled her head around in a clear effort to relieve some tension as she made her way to the Franklin Bowles Gallery. A tall woman dressed in a brown suit met her at the gallery door. They spoke briefly until Karla shook the woman’s hand and went on her way.
The observer stayed with her, keeping a safe distance.
Karla headed down the street and entered Lefty O’Doul’s bar. The ever-popular eatery and bar had only a dozen or so customers at this time of day. Its walls displayed an array of photographs of the most famous baseball players of the twentieth century, along with other memorabilia.
Karla dragged herself past the plaster statue depicting Marilyn Monroe’s famous Seven Year Itch scene until she reached the end of the bar and climbed tiredly onto a stool. The vast array of beer tap handles always brought a smile to her face.
Joe, a jolly bartender with a handlebar mustache approached her. “Hey, Karla baby. Long time no see. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?
“Oh, around.”
“Usual poison?” She nodded and Joe moved over to prepare her a dry vodka martini. “You shouldn’t work so hard, kid—you look like shit. ”
“You really know how to flatter a girl, Joe.” She reached down and flipped off her shoes. “Unfortunately, that’s exactly how I feel.”
“Working on a new story?”
“Actually, it’s an old one.” Karla reached down and rubbed her feet. “Hey, has Andrew Stuart been in lately?”
Joe handed her the frosty martini and squinted in an effort to explore his memory banks. “No, not since the last time you guys were here. About—what was it, three, four weeks? You didn’t finish his story?”
“No,” she lied. “Been out of town for a while. Got back today. I’d like to talk to him. Any idea where I could find him?”
Joe placed a bowl of peanuts close to Karla. “You might try Hoo Wang’s or Lady’s.”
Karla looked at him inquisitively.
Joe snorted. “Way beneath you, baby, they’re a couple of bars out near China Town. He mentioned them once or twice. Not that he’d go there. Could’ve been looking for models.”
A group of noisy customers sauntered into the bar.
“Give me a second, Karla, be right back.” Joe walked out from behind the bar toward the newly arrived patrons.
Karla sipped her martini and looked around the bar. At the opposite end of the long bar, she noticed a woman in her mid-forties sitting alone. She had long, tinted, bluish-black hair, and was heavily made-up. Her bright pink lipstick matched the color of a sheer scarf that adorned her neck. She wore a striped black and white T-shirt, two or three sizes too small, which made her large breasts very evident. Her brassiere, also too small, made deep indentations in her flabby flesh. She was flirting with a couple of younger men, a few stools away, who were obviously delighted with her coquettish teen-age antics.
Joe returned to Karla. She gestured toward the woman. “A regular?”
Joe glanced toward the corner of the bar. “Molly? Sure, she is. A model. She’s posed for most of the artists around here at one time or another. Used to be a real looker. Time’s a bitch.”
Molly laughed loudly, slid off her stool and exited the bar, followed by the two men.
Karla watched them leave the bar, and finished her drink. “Thanks for the pick-me-up. What do I owe you?”
“Today, a smile.”
Karla smiled and patted Joe’s hand. “Deal. Thanks, Joe.”
“Take care of yourself, Karla, and come back more often like you used to do. Okay?”
Karla slipped on her shoes and made her way toward the door. “You got it.”
Lost in the tale, Sarah realized she was staring at the flames in the fireplace, the book resting quietly on her lap. She glanced down. The story had disappeared and the poem patiently waited for Sarah’s attention.
MISSING YOU
There are days like today
When I sit all alone
And the world and I meet
Face to face
But I always lose
When I’m here without you
For the world is just a noise
Faces passing by
A cry
A sigh
A song
And the noise insults my ears
When I can’t hear your voice
The faces come to nothing
If none of them is yours
The cry and the sigh are me
And the song is my soul
Missing you
6
The Tourists
“Okay, ladies, I’ve done a ton of research.” Sonia produced several pages from her purse as they strolled down 2nd Street in Old Town toward the Tourism Center on G Street. “I downloaded an article from the Lumberjack, the newspaper for Humboldt State University.”
“No need for that,” Iris countered. “We’ll learn all about Eureka on our tour.”
“Yeah, but what if they don’t cover all this stuff? Or worse, what if they don’t take us to these places?”
Sarah chuckled. “I, for one, am all ears and ready to learn from your research.”
“C’mon, Sarah. Don’t humor her. First we take the tour, and after that, we go to wherever Sonia chooses.”
Sonia frowned. “Fine. But at least listen to this tidbit. It says here, and I quote: ‘Things seem to be going bump in the night all throughout Old Town.’ Which means we need to go walking about the city at night instead of in the morning.”
“We’re going on the ghost tour tonight.” Iris rolled her eyes. “Can you chill a bit?”
“Speaking of which, it also says here that the guy who gives that tour is a history and social science teacher at the local High School. Right up your alley, Iris.”
“So?”
“Soooo, you can ask him sciencey-type questions, get on his good side, and ask him for special favors.”
“What are you talking about? What special favors?”
“Well, this article says that there was a system of underground tunnels connecting a bunch of saloons and brothels back in the nineteenth century, so that the high-powered patrons could travel anonymously. I doubt he’ll show us the tunnels on the tour, but if you befriend him, he might be persuaded to give us a private tour. Comprende?” She winked.
“You’re impossible.” Iris shook her head. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”
Sarah listened to her friends, but found it impossible to enjoy their repartee. The book and its bewildering story remained a constant presence in the back of her mind.
After their guided tour through the many landmarks of Old Town, they stopped at the Oberon Grill for lunch. The building had once housed a brothel and, according to legend, played host to several spirits who’d perished during the 1932 earthquake.
“The waitress told me,” Iris whispered excitedly, “that one of the cooks saw the ghost of the woman who lived upstairs. She said that sometimes her spirit shows up in the bathroom. I’m going to check it out. C’mon Sarah.” She got up and dashed off in search of the ghost.
Sarah and Sonia remained seated.
“Wow, did you read the letter in the menu?” Sonia asked.
Sarah glanced over at her friend. “Uh, no.”
“The novelist Jack London became involved in a fight with another patron in 1910 right in this very room. This says they argued over politics and started throwing punches.”
Sarah opened the menu and read the letter. “Oh, and the bartender closed the doors to the Oberon so that Jack London and the other fellow could finish the fight.”
“They went at it for one hour! Can you imagine?”
Iris returned and plopped down on her chair. “Nothing,” she said, with obvious disappointment. “Not even a whisper. And why didn’t you come, Sarah? You might have been able to coax her into showing up.”
“I didn’t need to go.”
Sonia burst out laughing.
Iris glared at her friend. “What are you laughing at?”
“Read the letter printed in the menu. Not everything is about you.”
After lunch they perused the various shops around town until it was time to join Eric, the teacher and ghost-tour guide. After a brief introduction about himself, and his approach to the tour, he led them through several historic buildings where he regaled them with stories of the ghosts detected or sensed by the current and past owners of the various establishments in Old Town. They learned about the decapitated man who lost his head on the train tracks on First Street, and all about the famous spirit of Sarah Carson, who sits in a rocking chair staring out of one of the windows of the Carson Mansion.
By the time they returned to their hotel, the chill of the evening had descended, and they were anxious to rest their feet and enjoy some much-needed nourishment. Dinner at their hotel became a whirlwind of chatter about their day, what they’d experienced, what they liked or didn’t like, and what they wished they could visit again.
Sonia’s biggest disappointment was that Eric didn’t take them through the underground tunnels, which she blamed on Iris’s lack of enthusiasm to engage him. Iris felt deflated because Sarah had failed to summon a single spirit.
“Did you at least catch a glance of any ghosts at all today?” Iris pleaded.
“Sorry, I’m afraid not.”
“C’mon, Sarah, can you try a bit harder tomorrow?”
“Sorry, Iris. It doesn’t work that way for me. I can’t summon the spirits. Trust me, I’ve tried. They appear at their leisure and on their own terms.”
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