Fault Line (24 page)

And what was she doing now? Had he made her, or had she made herself, in any way an accessory? She'd taken criminal law her second year of law school and had purged her mind of all of it about five minutes after graduating and taking the bar exam. She didn't know how bad this might be for her legally. And legally might be the least of it.

She knew he didn't trust her. And the way he looked at her, the way he'd casually walked over to see what was on her laptop screen was he afraid she would freak out, go to the police? And what would he do if she did?

There were two ways she could deal with it. She could keep her mouth shut and hope it would somehow be all right. Or she could confront the problem directly.

She left the hotel and headed north on Stockton. The night was cold and clear and a crescent moon hung low in the sky. Chinatown was quiet, most of the stores closed now, hidden behind corrugated metal gates. Some of the gates had doorways, a few of which were open, and through them she caught glimpses of families eating dinner and friends playing cards, caught the smells of cooking rice and sweet pastries and the sound of laughter and conversations in a musical language she wished she could understand. Some of the doorways revealed steep, narrow staircases that ascended beyond the angle of her vision, and she wondered what rooms they led to, who traversed them every morning and night, what lives were lived in the secret spaces at their top.

She passed a street mural celebrating the Chinese railroad workers. Paper lanterns set at its base flickered, shivering in the breeze. She turned right on Pacific, looking up at the old wooden buildings, their balconies painted green and red, the eaves turned up in the Asian fashion. An old man was closing up his store at the front of one of them, an herb shop whose windows displayed glass jars filled with ghastly specimens that might have come from the earth or the sea or somewhere else entirely. He waved and smiled toothlessly at her as she passed, and she nodded and smiled in return.

She emerged onto Columbus, and the quiet of the somnolent Chinatown evening ended abruptly with the traffic and neon of North Beach. There it was, Jazz at Pearl's, a first-floor club with windows on the street and a doorway under a red awning. She crossed the street and went inside, explaining to the doorman that she had no reservation but she was supposed to meet a friend here could she just take a quick look around?

It was a small place, maybe thirty people, soft carpet and red-hued lighting and small round tables covered in white linen. A voluptuous black woman was singing Need My Sugar with piano and bass accompaniment, and the audience was toe-tapping heartily along with it. Ben wasn't there. Maybe he was in the bathroom? She waited five minutes and then gave up, surprised at how disappointed she was. If she didn't confront him, if she didn't get past this, she didn't know how the hell she was going to sleep tonight.

She had just turned left onto Columbus, thinking maybe she'd grab a bite at CafE Prague before finding a Walgreens or something else open at night where she could pick up a change of underwear and a few other items, when someone called her name. She looked around, seeing no one. A bus went by. Had she imagined it? And then she heard it again. She looked up and saw Ben, in the second-story window of Vesuvio. Come on over, he called.

She felt an odd burst of pleasure that she couldn't quite place- excitement? relief?-and crossed the street.

She went inside and immediately liked it. She supposed it was weird that she lived in San Francisco and had never been inside Vesuvio, but she'd never been to Alcatraz, either. It was one of those places, well known to tourists, you figured would always be there and you'd get to it eventually. Not that she'd been in too much of a hurry. In her imagination, the place was more of a Beat museum than a real bar someone might want to go to for a drink, but the atmosphere struck her immediately as authentic and she was glad she'd been wrong.

She went up to the second floor and walked alongside the balcony overlooking the bar below. The ceiling was close overhead, maybe seven feet, and painted dark brown or black. There was some light from the street but other than that it was so dim she found herself squinting. A few indistinct groups were talking and laughing around tables in booths. She made out Ben's shape against a window, silhouetted by the neon sign of the Tosca CafE across the street. He was sitting away from his table, his feet planted on the floor. There was something about him that always seemed ready. For what, she wasn't sure.

What are you doing here? he asked as she approached.

She stopped in front of the table but didn't sit down. I wanted to talk to you.

He nodded and looked out at the street, then back at her. Do you have a problem with my putting my hands on you? he asked quietly.

She shook her head, thinking she had misunderstood. What?

I'm not going to be comfortable sitting here with you if I don't pat you down. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.

She didn't know what to make of it. Was he serious?

As she stood there, trying to take it all in, he got up and stepped close to her. He leaned in close, and she realized this was for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, to obscure what he was really doing. She caught a whiff of the hotel's soap, and something else underneath it, something masculine she couldn't otherwise place. She felt his left hand move inside her coat and slide up her right side, the palm of his hand firm against her kidney, her ribs, the edge of her breast. Then his right hand was doing the same on the other side. He pulled her against him and ran his hands lightly across the small of her back and over her hips. She felt her heart beating fast and told herself it was because she was angry.

He took a step back and glanced around the bar, then knelt in front of her and quickly ran his hands up each of her legs, ankle to groin. She heard her breath moving forcefully in and out of her nose.

He stood and looked at her. She glared back. Satisfied? she asked.

He nodded and sat, with no indication she should do the same.

The insolence of it, and her failure to do anything effective in response other than a single lame word of sarcasm, made her so angry she imagined herself picking up a chair and swinging it at him like a baseball bat. Stand up, she said.

What?

Stand up, she said again.

He did.

She stepped in close and looked into his eyes. We better both be careful, no?

She slipped her hands inside his blazer and ran them slowly up his sides. She could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, the muscles underneath. She never took her eyes from him. He wanted to play it mocking and insolent? She could play it that way, too.

She knelt in front of him and touched him with the same clinical ease, the same sense of entitlement, that he had used on her. Then she stood and put a hand on his stomach. It was hard and flat and she could feel it expanding and contracting slightly with his breathing.

I guess you're unarmed, she said, still looking into his eyes.

He put his hand over hers and started pushing it lower. She couldn't believe it what was he doing, one-upping her? But she wasn't going to blink first.

Lower. Her heart was pounding but she wouldn't look away.

Her hand stopped at a hard protuberance just above his groin. She realized what it was-a gun, in some kind of special concealed holster.

Maybe I can trust you after all, he said.

She glared at him. Why?

Because nobody, with even the most rudimentary training, could have done such a lame pat-down. Maybe you are just a lawyer.

And maybe you're just an asshole.

Oh, I'm a lot more than that.

His hand was still covering hers. She pulled it away and sat down. After a moment he joined her.

Well? What did you want to talk about? he asked, his tone and expression casual enough to suggest that he didn't really care.

She looked at him for a long second, anger seething inside her. Forget it, she said, and stood to go.

He was out of his seat with such liquid speed it amazed her. He caught her arm. Why? he said. You mad because I patted you down? Because I didn't get turned on when you did the same to me?

Getting turned on is a human quality. I don't see it in you.

Listen. I don't know you, so I don't trust you. It's not personal.

The hell it's not. You trusted me fine right up until you heard my name. So don't tell me it's not personal.

Why don't you sit down and I'll buy you a drink.

I'll buy my own drink.

Ben glanced over her shoulder. All right, buy one for me, too.

She looked, and saw the waitress standing behind her.

Bombay Sapphire martini, Ben said. No olive, no vermouth.

The hell with it. She nodded to the waitress. Make it two.

They sat. Ben said, You going to tell me why you're here?

She felt her heart beating and it made her angry again. She hated that he could be so cool with her, and that at the same time he made her nervous. And she was scared about what she was going to say next.

She cleared her throat. It's about the Four Seasons. I'm thinking about what you're thinking, putting myself in the other person's shoes, the way you said to do. And if I were in your shoes, I'd be afraid that I might go to the police or something. I'm afraid of what you might do to prevent that.

He looked at her for a long moment, and she thought she saw something play across his eyes in the diffused light from the street. Sympathy? Regret?

Then he glanced away. When we're done with this, you'll look back and it'll seem like it never happened.

She didn't follow him. Was he telling her not to worry? He wouldn't hurt her?

How do you know that? she said.

I just know. This is all weird to you. Like something that's happening to someone else. When it's over and you're back to your life, it'll be like waking up from a dream.

She looked at him, trying to read his expression. You're right, she said. It does feel like that. But how do you know?

He shook his head and looked away, and she thought, Because you never woke up.

The waitress brought their drinks and Sarah paid for them. They sipped in silence for a few minutes.

Why do you speak such good Farsi? Sarah asked, switching languages.

You already know why, Ben said, also in Farsi.

I don't like what you do, Sarah said, switching back to English.

Ben laughed. That's okay. I like it fine.

You like violence?

He shrugged. It's a tool for a job.

The craftsman doesn't enjoy his tools?

Why did you become a lawyer? Because you enjoy lawyering?

She looked at him, surprised at the way the question went to the heart of her own doubts. I don't really know why. Maybe just because I was good at it. Why did you get into your line of work?

For a moment his expression was oddly blank, and then he looked away. It's a long story.

They were quiet again. Sarah said, Tell me something about yourself.

Like what?

Actually, she didn't know. The words had just come out. She hadn't planned them, and didn't know what she was asking exactly.

I don't know. Just something you can tell me. Not something about work. Something personal. So I'll feel like I at least know you a little.

He shrugged. I like to pull the wings off flies. It's just a hobby, but I'm thinking about going pro.

She shook her head, realizing it was a waste of time, feeling foolish for even having tried. Are you married? she asked. Do you have a family?

There was a pause, and she thought he wouldn't answer. But then he said, Not anymore.

What happened?

Nothing happened. She was Filipina. I met her in Manila. When we got back to the States, I found out she wasn't who I thought she was.

Maybe she found out the same thing about you.

I'm sure she did.

Kids?

A long moment went by. He said, A daughter. They live in Manila.

She couldn't help being intrigued at his obvious reluctance, and more by his ultimate willingness to answer. You don't see them?

He shrugged. It's a long way away.

But that's not why you don't see them.

He took a long swallow of gin. What about you? Boyfriend?

She shook her head. There was someone in law school. But not now.

Why not? They must go crazy for you at your law firm.

Why do you say that?

He looked at her. Are you fishing for a compliment, or are you really that blind?

She felt herself blushing, half in anger, half in embarrassment. I just haven't met anyone.

No, that's not it.

What do you mean, that's not it? How would you know? You don't know anything about me.

I know a lot about you. It's my job to know things about people.

Yeah? What do you know?

I know that when a woman as beautiful as you is unattached, it's not because she hasn't met anyone. It's because she doesn't want to.