Impersonal Attractions (9 page)

“More and more,” he said. “What’s your sign?”

She stared at him, taken aback. Then as the smile crinkled into his dimples, she got it. He was teasing her about her stereotypical California question.

“Burma Shave,” she said, “with an ascendant in Pepperoni. And yours?”

“Staten Island Ferry. Very compatible.”

“School?” she queried.

“P.S. One-o-six. And you?”

“Reform.”

“Funny, I could have sworn you looked Orthodox. Hobbies?”

“Horse.”

“You mean heroin?”

“No, my heroine is Superwoman.”

“Hero?”

“Sandwich.”

“Dagwood.”

“Blondie.”

“The singer.”

“As in sewing machine?”

“As in jukebox.” Then they both lost it, dissolving into laughter just as the beaming waiter arrived with their oysters.

“Gosh, we have so much in common,” Sean teased. He picked up a wedge of lemon and an oyster shell. “Help yourself,” he invited.

Sam looked at the beautiful, frosty platter before them, the shells snuggled into a bed of ice. Could anyone ever eat an oyster in the presence of the opposite sex without thinking of that incredible, edible, slurpy, sexy scene in the movie
Tom Jones
?

She lifted her fork and raised her eyes to see Sean, across the table, grinning at her as one of the salty, coppery morsels slid down his throat. She knew that he knew what she was thinking. Well, her mind certainly wasn’t going to be seduced
that
easily. All business, she lifted an oyster, hooked it out smartly, plopped it in her mouth, and chewed.

“Excellent,” she said.

His mouth still held a grin. She hadn’t fooled him for a second.

“So the mysterious Ms. Storey approves?”

“Indeed. But what’s so mysterious?”

“You are. I’ve asked hundreds of questions about you and no one seems to know very much.”

Sam didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.

“What do you mean hundreds of questions?”

“I’ve asked around. ‘Who is this beautiful woman? Where did she come from? Does she have a boyfriend? Where did she learn to be such a pro? Does she like cops?’”

“Her name is Samantha NMI ex-Mathews Storey. From Los Angeles. No. In law school and on the job. Not unequivocally; each one has to stand on his or her own merits. I’m surprised you didn’t run me through the computer,” she continued.

“I did,” he said. “It didn’t tell me what I wanted to know. Now, what would you like for dinner?”

Sam didn’t know what struck her. This man was titillating in ways she wasn’t used to. And he made her feel feisty.

“More oysters, please.”

He raised an eyebrow. His eyes read and registered her challenge.

“Then more oysters it will be.”

He signaled to the waiter, ordered two dozen more, which they polished off without much conversation but with a large number of sideways glances. Then another two dozen before Sam cried uncle.

“I give,” she said, putting down her fork. “You’re a better man than I.”

“I should certainly hope so. Because I wouldn’t want to ask you to go for a bit of dancing otherwise.”

“Oh, I…”

“Couldn’t? Why?”

Why indeed? Why should she deny herself this pleasure? She loved to dance. And it was so seldom she got the chance. Was she hesitating because she thought she was supposed to?

Sean watched her face carefully, as if he could see the conversation in her mind printed across her forehead.

“Good,” he said, dropping cash on the table and taking her hand and leading her out of the restaurant. “We can walk from here. It’s just up the street.”

For someone who hadn’t been in town long, he knew its secret places well. Unerringly, he led her to the small, grubby Italian bar with a few tables and a hardwood floor where the late-night cognoscenti went for a nightcap and a little tripping of the light fantastic.

He ordered a Martell cognac for himself and a Perrier with lime for Sam without even asking her. It was early.

Only the barman and two other couples were in the place. Sean got quarters from the bar and loaded up the jukebox.

He chose lots of Stones, some hot Ray Charles, Aretha, old stuff, all with a steady beat. He draped their jackets, bags, cases across a chair and bowed formally to her as “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” boomed through the room.

“May I have this dance?”

And then he swung her out and exploded into the most loose-hipped, long-legged, get-down dancing she’d ever seen. Whirl, twirl, twist, kick, clap, turn, bump. Again and again and again, in never ending variations of rhythm and motion that kept her twirling on her toes, shaking her behind, laughing with delight. Was this New York style, Staten Island, Irish cop? No, it couldn’t be; what it looked like, felt like, was…

“Ghetto,” Sean said to her as they stood side by side, bumping hips to the music, clapping hands, slide, slide, slide, as she followed him as if she’d done it all her life. “I grew up with a bunch of black friends who taught me how to dance. And you’re not bad yourself.”

“I love it,” she said, almost out of breath with exhilaration.

“Good.”

The last quarter dropped and Ray Charles crooned “Am I Blue?” Sean pulled her close and they danced slowly in small circles around the room. She felt hot and sweaty and wonderful. She could feel his heart beating against her shoulder.

Then it was over. He picked up their coats, waved good night to the barman, and led her out the door and into the night. She could hear the foghorns down by the Bay.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“In a lot near the Square.”

“I’ll walk you there.”

She took his arm. It seemed silly not to after all that dancing. This was the same thing without the music. Or was it? There was certainly something singing in her head. She couldn’t quite make out the tune.

“We haven’t talked shop all evening,” she said to him.

“No, we haven’t. It’s nice to get away from it.”

“I know. Especially with Diablo.”

“And a new murder in the Mission.”

“What?”

And before they knew it, they were into it. Sean was telling her things that a man and woman shouldn’t be talking about at the end of such a lovely evening, about murder and gore, strangulation and a long, shiny knife.

Then they were at her car and she wished she’d never brought it up. Their magical bubble had been burst with the ugly reality of their particular workaday worlds.

“I’m sorry I asked,” she said.

“And I’m sorry I answered. Here,” he said and reached inside her BMW, switched on the radio, and flipped through the stations until he found some rock ’n’ roll.

“Sean,” she laughed, as he took her hand. “We can’t dance here,” she said, gesturing at the parking lot and the attendant, who grinned at them and shrugged his shoulders.

“Why?” Sean asked. “You think we’re breaking a law? Leave that to me.” And he twirled her out across the concrete floor. Flung her out. Pulled her back. Turned her round and round until all the ugliness had twirled right out of her head again and they had recaptured the evening.

Three songs later, he tucked her into the car, shut the door firmly, and watched while she locked it. He leaned in her window.

“Thanks. You’re everything I’d hoped you’d be. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

Sam sat there with her motor running, watching him lope off into the night.

THIRTEEN

The sunset out behind the Golden Gate was, as usual, magnificent this evening, a symphony of vermilion, gold, and pink that even the most jaded San Franciscan couldn’t ignore. In fact, it was the reason many of them had stayed on in the city so long or had never left.

At the Chestnut Bar & Grill, which named its sandwiches after its favorite hundred or so regulars, Annie waved as Sam walked in. How pretty she was, Annie thought, in her bottle-green silk blouse, perfect with her dark coloring.

They exchanged a quick hug.

“The usual?” asked Fred, the bartender. Sam nodded, and he handed her bottled water with lots of lime.

Annie couldn’t wait. She reached into her big, purple leather tote and pulled out a large packet of letters tied with a ribbon. “Guess what I’ve got here?”

Sam’s eyes widened. “The
Guardian
personal?”

Heads turned and a couple of people laughed.

“Shhhhh!” Annie was embarrassed. “Let’s don’t invite
everyone
to the party.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam giggled. She turned on her bar stool so they had as much privacy as possible, though Fred never took his eyes off them.

“I saved them for you. I only opened a few.”

“God!” Sam waved her hands in excitement, then rubbed them together. “It’s like Christmas! What if one of these is from someone standing right here?”

“Well, he won’t know if you keep it down.”

“I will too,” said Fred, leaning over from behind the bar. “Mine’s the one with all the dirty words.”

“Scoot, Fred,” Annie said, waving him away. “I’m sure there’s much more creative filth here than you ever thought of.”

“How do you want to do this?” Sam asked.

“Just take half of them and then we’ll switch.”

They were barely through the first letters when a man at Annie’s elbow interrupted. He was wearing a stockbroker suit, a stockbroker belt, stockbroker shoes, and a stockbroker haircut. But at his neck was a blue-and-red polka-dot bow tie and on his head was a cowboy hat.

“Lemme buy you two pretty ladies a drink. I want to get to know you,” he slurred, listing to the left. “I been here and there since eleven today, when I read the board, decided the day was fucked, and I might as well be too.”

“You said it, not me.” Sam laughed and they grabbed the letters and their drinks, and signaled to the hostess, who led them to a quiet table in the back. They both ordered Toots Burgers with jalapenos, cheese, and onions, and got serious about their reading.

“This man’s married,” Sam announced.

“Well, of course, some of them are going to be. It’s a game, silly. You see what you can get away with.”

They resumed sipping and reading.

“Two more married, Sam. Maybe they’re all going to be. This certainly isn’t what I was looking for.”

“Who was just saying this was a game? Keep going.” Annie opened another one and laughed. “Listen to this. ‘If you turn out to be my ex-wife, please never tell me about this.’ Not bad-looking either.”

Sam appraised his photograph as carefully as if she were buying mushrooms at $9.95 a pound.

“Okay,” she ventured. “But I bet we’ll do better.”

“Who’s this
we
?”

“Why, Annie, my dearest, my bosom, my heart, if you get more than any one woman can handle, don’t tell me you’re not going to share?”

“We’ll see.”

“Hmmmm.” Sam was distracted. “What about this? Says he looks like Gene Wilder. And see, he does. But who’s that woman with the boobs and the scarf? That’s tacky, sending a photo of yourself with another woman. But he’s tall enough. And forty-two.”

“You know, I think we’re forgetting something very important here. These men are not really
for me.
Remember? The point was to find more people for the book.”

“Yes, but are you going to throw him away if you find a gem? Come on, Annie, don’t spoil my fun.”

“Okay… Listen to this. Is this Rich Right? One, two, three, no, four pages, single-spaced. Two of them are poetry. He’s done lots of drugs, has a
heavy
interest in sex—does that mean he likes fat women—and says he’s very good at it. Has a master’s in counseling and works as a…”

“Therapist,” Sam filled in the blank.

“You got it. He’s also included a little list here of the things he craves: water, food, warmth, food, love, affection, food, recognition, more food, more love, warm love, warm food, desserts, bagels, and a pinch to grow an inch. And I quote. What do you think?”

“I think the man is hungry. And nuts.”

There was a long silence from the other side of the table.

Finally Sam looked up. Annie was staring at a letter and shaking her head in disbelief.

“Let me guess,” said Sam. “Jeff Bridges. Beau Bridges. That young Australian, whatsisname, Gibson, Mel Gibson.”

“This letter’s from Lloyd Andrews, the novelist.”

“I’m giving you Jeff Bridges and you’re giving me back a novelist?”

“Shut up. Remember, we were talking about him a couple of weeks ago, because I’d just finished his last book and you said you thought he lived in Bolinas. He lives here. On Telegraph Hill. And he answered my ad!” Annie gulped her Campari. “It’s fate. I’ve read every word he ever wrote. I wonder if he makes love as well as he writes it?”