The Midnight Tour (31 page)

“I will,” Owen said. “Thank you.” Then he handed her a folded five-dollar bill and added, “I really enjoyed your part of the tour.”

“Well, thank you very much. Have a good evening, now, both of you.”

Monica, behind him, said nothing.

After the bus pulled away, Monica said, “What did you give her?”

“A little tip.”

“How generous.”

“She was really good. You know, her talk on the way out.”

“That’s what she gets paid for. You didn’t have to
tip
her. My God, you’d think you were
made
of money.”

It’s my money.

He thought it, but knew better than to say it.

To change the subject, he asked, “Should we go up to the room for a while, or...?”

“And waste
more
time? We haven’t done
anything
yet. Let’s go look in some stores.”

For the next two hours, they roamed through shops along Fisherman’s Wharf, in the Cannery and Ghiradelli Square.

Finally, Owen asked, “Are you getting hungry yet?”

“Oh, I could eat any time.”

“Maybe we should start looking for a nice restaurant.”

She nodded. “Anyplace would be fine with me.”

“Well...” He shrugged.

“How about Alioto’s?” Monica asked.

“Okay, sure.”

They walked to the restaurant. After a brief wait, they were seated at a window table where they had a fine view of San Francisco Bay. Monica seemed delighted by it. Owen didn’t care, but he agreed that it was beautiful.

He started with a Mai Tai. He munched on sour dough bread. Then he drank a second Mai Tai with his meal of crab legs. Monica sipped white wine and ate rare prime rib.

She chatted happily, apparently enjoying herself.

Good for her, Owen thought.

And he wondered what it might be like to have dinner at a place like this with someone like Dana. Or even Patty. Or even...damn near anyone but Monica.

What the hell am I doing with her?

“What would you like to do now?” he asked when they were done with dinner.

“What do
you
want to do?” Monica asked.

Go back to Malcasa Point, he thought.

But he said, “Well, there’s a
Ripley
’
s Believe It or Not
place we walked by last night. How about paying it a visit?”

“Oh, it’s probably full of gross stuff. I’ve had enough of that for one day, thank you very much. Let’s go back to Pier 39.”

“Okay.”

“We missed a lot of things last night,” Monica pointed out.

“Well, we can go back. That’ll be fine.”

So back they went to Pier 39.

There, Owen stayed by Monica’s side while she explored every shop. In each place, she seemed to look at every item. At the Christmas store, she bought a golden ornament depicting the San Francisco skyline. At the magnet store, she bought a Golden Gate Bridge refrigerator magnet. At the shell store, she bought a little seashell man driving a little seashell car. “Isn’t it just adorable?” she asked.

“Very nice,” Owen said.

Later, they stood around and waited ten minutes for a stage show to start. The performer, however, turned out to be Wilma the Wonder Girl—the same juggler/comic they’d watched
last
night. “Oh, God,” Owen said. “I don’t think I can watch her again.”

Monica cast him a pouty look. “Aren’t
we
in a fine mood?”

“Well, she was a smart-ass, abrasive, and not funny. And we’ve already
seen
her act. It’ll probably be exactly the same, except for whatever poor stooge she drags out of the audience to humiliate
this
time.”

“If you don’t want to stay for the show, just say so.”

“I’d rather not. I’m really getting tired. Can’t we just go back to the hotel?”

“We can’t go yet. You don’t want to miss the seals, do you?”

“They’re probably the same seals we saw last night.”

“Aren’t they
darling
? Let’s go watch them. Just for a little while, okay?”

“Sure. Okay.”

“They’re just so cute.”

So Owen walked with Monica to the far end of the pier. There, they turned and followed the noise of barks and roars to the viewing area.

Out in the water a short distance away were hundreds of sea lions. Though they weren’t directly illuminated, plenty of light reached them from the pier. Quite a few people stood at the wooden rail to watch them. Owen and Monica found an empty space at the rail.

“Aren’t they just
wonderful?”
Monica said.

“Yeah, they’re great.”

She squeezed his hand.

They stood there watching.

Owen’s feet hurt, but he didn’t complain. He just stood there and watched the sea lions.

And watched them.

And watched them.

This is what Monica wants to do, so we’ll do it till she
’
s done. I
’
m not going to ruin it for her the way she ruins everything for me.

Not many of the sea lions were swimming around. Most seemed to be piled on the numerous platforms, snuggling against each other—and on top of each other—resting or sleeping. Once in a while, one would slide off into the water. Sometimes, a sea lion would get tired of swimming, climb aboard a platform and nudge its way into the crowd. Every so often, a quarrel would seem to take place—two of the creatures darting their snouts at each other and barking. Mostly, though, nothing much happened.

This is such a thrill, Owen thought.

I can stand here with Monica for an hour and stare at a bunch of boring seals, but she won
’
t even stick it out with me to the end of the Beast House tour. How is that fair?

“I guess I’m about ready to go,” Monica finally said. “How about you?”

“I guess so.”

She squeezed his hand. As they started walking away, she said, “We’ll have to come back and see what they do in the daytime.”

“That’s a good idea,” he said.

“I could watch them for hours, couldn’t you?”

“I think we just did.”

Monica tossed back her head, barked out a laugh, then said, “Oh, you’re such a silly.”

Owen tried not to grimace as he trudged along the Embarcadaro with Monica. He probably wasn’t the only person with sore feet. The walkway was crowded with other couples and families heading back toward the main area of Fisherman’s Wharf—probably going to hotels or parked cars—now that most of Pier 39 had closed for the night.

The crowd walked a gauntlet of beggars/performers: a man who stood motionless on top of a box, apparently doing his impression of a statue; a lone saxophone player; a legless guy with a cardboard sign announcing he was a disabled Vietnam veteran; a trio of bongo players; the traditional blind man with dog; the crippled woman with baby; a fat woman in dirty white leotards who danced like a ballerina and appeared to be quite mad.

Owen glanced furtively at these people. He wished they would go away and leave everyone alone.

Hoping to escape from them, he and Monica crossed the road. They ran into a few beggars, anyway. And a stumbling drunk. And someone passed out in the entryway of a closed swimsuit boutique. But there didn’t seem to be so many on this side of the road.

No matter where you go, Owen thought, you can’t get away from them.

At last, he and Monica arrived at their hotel.

And finally they reached their room.

Owen pulled off his shoes and flopped onto the bed.

“Not so fast,” Monica said. “We need ice.”

Ice. For their cream sodas. Monica absolutely
had
to drink a cream soda every night before bedtime.

Yesterday, after checking into the hotel, they’d immediately gone in search of a six-pack. The quest had taken them more than an hour.

She
’
ll spend the whole afternoon hunting for cream soda, but can
’
t hang on fifteen more minutes in Beast House...

And can
’
t go after her own damn ice, even though my feet are killing me and she knows it.

Owen groaned, sat up, struggled into his shoes, and got to his feet. Then he limped over to the dresser and picked up the ice bucket.

“Do you want me to go with?” Monica asked.

“No, that’s all right. You can just stay here and relax.”

“Do you have your key?”

He nodded and left the room. And limped down the hallway toward the distant ice machine.

Nobody else was around.

Owen felt as if somebody had spent hours whacking the bottoms of his feet. The carpet helped, but not much.

It certainly silenced his footsteps.

Voices came softly from behind some of the doors he passed.

He heard laughter, too.

Nice to know someone’s having a good time.

At last, he staggered to a halt in front of the ice machine.

He set the bucket onto the rack underneath the spout, then pressed a button. The machine groaned and rumbled. Gobs of ice started dropping into his bucket.

When the bucket was full, he released the button.

The machine went silent.

He heard the quiet
ding
announcing the arrival of an elevator.

Ice bucket in his hands, he started back toward the room.

And glanced to his left at the bank of elevators.

The doors of the nearest elevator stood wide open.

He saw no one.

He stepped toward the elevator.

Empty.

Why did it even stop here? he wondered.

For me.

Step right in, he thought. And leave. And never come back.

He smiled wistfully.

It
’
d sure fix Monica. She wouldn
’
t know whether to shit or lay eggs.

But where would I go? he wondered. I’ve
gotta
get off my feet. Can’t just go out and wander the streets. I’d need someplace to spend the night.

Check into a different room here?

Might be possible...

As if losing patience with Owen, the elevator shut its doors and descended without him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

HEAT

Can
’
t she even open the door for me?

The job required two hands, so Owen set the ice bucket on the floor in front of his feet. Then he pulled his wallet out of his left rear pocket. He fingered open its bill compartment and plucked out the plastic key card. After glancing at the diagram near the door handle, he turned the card around and ran it through the lock slot. A tiny green light came on. He quickly pushed down on the handle lever and shoved the door open.

Holding it open with a knee, he put away his card and wallet, then crouched and picked up the ice bucket. He shouldered the door wide and entered the room.

“I’m back,” he announced.

Monica didn’t answer.

The bathroom door was shut. From the other side came the muffled hiss of spraying water.

She
’
s taking a shower?

“Great,” Owen muttered.

I can’t have half a minute off my feet without being sent for ice, and the moment I’m gone she heads for the shower. Very nice.

He carried the ice bucket over to the dresser and set it down. Then he sat on the end of the bed and pulled off his shoes.

And sighed.

It felt
so
good to have his shoes off.

He was tempted to massage his feet. That’d
really
feel good, but then his hands would smell like sweaty socks and he wouldn’t be able to wash them until Monica got out of the bathroom. Which might be half an hour.

Or longer.

The longer the better, he thought.

Stay in there forever, for all I care.

Feet dangling off the end of the bed, Owen eased down onto the mattress. The instant his head and back met the bed, his aches and soreness started to melt and flow away. He filled his lungs and sighed.

Don’t get too comfortable, he warned himself. Still have to get up when Monica comes out.

Have a cream soda with her.

Change for bed, wash, brush my teeth...

He fell asleep, but not for long.

The clink of an ice clump dropping into a glass woke him up.

He raised his head off the mattress, then propped himself up on his elbows.

Monica, standing at the dresser, had her back to him as she popped open a can of cream soda. Her hair was wrapped in a tower of pink towel. She wore the black nightgown that she’d bought especially for this trip, that she’d modelled for him last night.

It left most of her back bare. It draped her buttocks and surrounded her legs like a veil of smoke. She wore nothing underneath it.

Owen felt a squirm in his pants.

As cream soda gurgled into Monica’s glass, he pushed himself up to his elbows.

“How was the shower?” he asked.

She swiveled toward him, smiling and giving him a side view of her right breast. Though covered by the nightie, it appeared to be cloaked in nothing but a shadow. “It was grand,” she said. “I feel
so
much better.
You
should try it.”

“I don’t think I can stand up.”

She eyed his groin. “
Something
is.”

He blushed, then sat up so his bulge wouldn’t show.

Smiling, Monica turned away long enough to set her can on the dresser. Glass in hand, she faced Owen. After a glance at his lap, she met his eyes. She raised her eyebrows high. Then she turned her face aside, raised her glass and tilted back her head. As she swallowed cream soda, she shifted her stance, thrusting her hips to the left and standing mostly on her left leg.

Posing.

Keeping her eyes away from Owen.

Keeping her arms out of the way so they wouldn’t obstruct his view.

From where Owen sat near the edge of the mattress, she was almost close enough to touch. Her breasts swelled out at him, looking as if they might burst through the frail material holding them in.