Impersonal Attractions (27 page)

Snuggled next to Tom, Quynh and Hudson both looked owlishly at Annie. You wouldn’t catch either one of them sticking their heads out of a car.

“God, would you look?” Sam gestured toward the Bay below them. It was dotted with hundreds of sails, white
against the deep turquoise water mirroring the clouds in the lapis sky above. Near the St. Francis Yacht Club the yellow, red, and purple of spinnakers billowed as a regatta chased toward Alcatraz.

“An absolute pisser of a day!” Annie exclaimed.

Quynh frowned her disapproval at Annie’s choice of words, but broke into giggles when Annie goosed her.

“Come on, sourpuss, lighten up. We’re playing hooky, remember? No school today.”

No school. No work. Today they were all children on holiday. Their yellow brick road wound past Sausalito, Mill Valley, the foot of Mt. Tam, heading north on up through Marin County.

“What’s in the bag, Miss Anne?” Sam asked.

“Maps. Zinfandel, Brie. A little pâté. And the cow guide.”

“I understand the food,” said Tom. “In case we have a flat and might starve to death. But what’s a cow guide?”

“Hudson doesn’t eat beef,” Quynh said.

“This isn’t a cookbook, silly. Look, it’s drawings of the cows you see along the road. So you can tell them apart. Herefords, Holsteins, Guernseys, Angus. Wouldn’t you rather say, ‘Look at the Ayrshires’ instead of ‘Look at the cows’?”

“I’d rather say ‘Look at that beautiful New York steak,’” Tom offered.

“Yuk!” said Quynh.

“Meat and potatoes. That’s what I’ve got on my hands here,” said Annie.

“Have you never traveled with this one before?” Sam turned to ask Tom. “We spent an hour on the phone planning our itinerary. I’m talking about redwoods, little towns, the ocean. Annie’s talking about lunch.”

“That’s okay, guys. There’s always room for both. Here.” She passed bread and cheese and the bottle of wine into the front seat. Quynh sipped on apple juice while Hudson nuzzled her, slobbering a little, ever hopeful of an egg.

“Hey,” Sean protested. “You want to get me arrested for an open container?”

“Oh, hush,” said Sam. “You know you’ll just flash your badge at them and they’ll go away, bowing and scraping, ‘Yes sir, boss.’”

“Does that go for speeding tickets too?” asked Tom, who had had a fair share in his time.

Sean began to explain the intricacies of professional courtesy in law enforcement. Annie and Sam smiled at one another and leaned back, listening to the men getting to know one another.

They had often talked about bringing their various beaux together. But it never seemed to work. A radiologist and a baker. A rarely employed actor and a gallery owner. These two, however, were getting along just fine.

“Puerto Vallarta,” Sam murmured.

“Venice,” was Annie’s vote.

They had traveled together, had had good times, but also had talked about how much fun trips would be as a foursome.

As they drove past Mt. Tam, the men’s conversation turned to the Mt. Diablo case.

“Here’s your expert,” Sean demurred to Sam.

“Oh, let’s don’t talk about it today. I want to forget about all that and just enjoy the scenery. It’s such a great day to be alive.”

A shadow fell across Annie’s face. She thought how much Lola would have enjoyed being here.

She said so and added, “We can’t forget her. And all those other women. We can’t just walk away.”

Sean turned and gave her a sharp look. “Nobody’s walking away from this, Annie.”

She was embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I know you’re doing all you can.”

“Yes,” he agreed, mollified. Then added, “But it’s never enough until we stop him. He could be at it right now.”

“What?” Quynh asked.

“Nothing, baby,” Annie answered.

Quynh shot her a disbelieving look. You couldn’t hide horror from a child who had been weaned on it.

Tom had a question too.

“Who are you talking about? The Mt. Diablo killer? Or that strangler?”

“The Strangler,” said Annie. “The one in the city. We keep running into dead ends.”

“We!”
Tom exclaimed. “What do you mean we? What do you have to do with this?”

“You’re in for it now, Sherlock,” Sam said, then looked out the window, trying to pretend she wasn’t there.

And in for it Annie was. Tom wouldn’t be put off with excuses and demurrals. He wanted the whole story—and he wanted it right then.

Driving toward the little town of Sonoma, Annie and Sam told it all.

Tom was even less pleased than Sean had been with their snooping.

“Goddammit! I can’t believe this. Skulking around. Following people. You’re poking your noses into some very serious stuff here, ladies. This man is a murderer. This isn’t the amateur hour. If I’d known, I’d have locked you in your apartment and thrown away the key.”

That’s exactly what I thought he would do, Annie reminded herself. I was right not to tell him. And, thank God, here they were in Sonoma. A reprieve.

Situated at the foot of the wine-rich Valley of the Moon, little Sonoma was rich with history. They poked around for a bit, Sam searching for the ghost of the nineteenth-century fief lord, General Vallejo, whom she fantasized she was related to in a previous life.

Annie led them to a French bakery, a sausage factory, two cheese makers, and a hot dog shop that understood about chilidogs with mustard and onions. Quynh had two and saved a bite for Hudson, slavering in the car. They ended with a stop at an old-fashioned drugstore soda fountain that served up real chocolate malts.

Not bad for a town of six thousand, Annie thought. Might be a pleasant place to retire to. But not today. “On to Nick’s Cove!” she announced.

Sam groaned. Nick’s meant barbecued oysters and beer.

They took it easy, meandering through the back roads toward the coast. They all ganged up on Annie when she tried for one more detour to the Rouge et Noir cheese factory.

Her cries of “I need to do a story on this place” fell on deaf ears.

It was a lovely drive. The winter rains had kissed the rolling hills. Sheep, goats, and cows munched on grass green as shamrocks. In summer and fall the hills were golden but dry, and fire was a constant worry. But not today.

Today was hill and dale from Petaluma, the chicken capital of the world, to Marshall, a couple of stores and cafés holding on by their toenails to the rocky cliff above the cold blue Pacific. A couple of miles north of Marshall was Nick’s, where they would while away the afternoon on a sunny oceanside deck with barbecued oysters, French fries, and beer.

Neither Sean nor Tom had been to Nick’s before. It didn’t take long for its magic to capture them. Quynh considered the oysters gravely. Hudson, secured by a leash, sat on the railing overlooking the water and dared sea gulls to come his way.

Sam and Annie had been here together and with other men, other times.

Annie was reaching for the catsup when a voice from one of those other times sneaked up behind her.

She turned, and there in the blaze of white that was his smile stood Harry. She hadn’t seen him since before he had stood her up for Sam’s party. But there he was, smiling as if he had just taken her for a soda yesterday. His arm was thrown casually over the shoulder of a milk-skinned redhead, as casual and studied as the blue cashmere sweater about his neck.

“Hey, author,” he boomed.

How long had it been since she’d heard him call her that? Him, whom she’d obsessed over for weeks, months?

He enveloped her in his huge hug and assessed Tom over her shoulder. He murmured into her ear, “Looks like your ship came in.”

“Not tied up, but at the dock,” she answered.

He released her and there was a flurry of introductions and handshakes. Then, as quickly as the squall of activity had begun, it blew over. Harry and his redhead were on their way, then gone.

Annie was flustered. She couldn’t look Tom in the eye. As she leaned toward the catsup, he stopped her hand and raised it to his mouth.

He knew. He remembered about Harry.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” he said.

He was right. It was okay. Harry was then and Tom was now. She answered him with a kiss.

Quynh rolled her eyes and Hudson yowled at a rude bird.

*

Much later, on the drive back home, with the sunroof snugly shut against the cold evening air, Annie began to sing.

This is number one, and the fun has just begun,

Pull me down, roll me over, and do it again.

“Where did you learn that,” asked Tom, “in Girl Scout camp?”

“Exactly. My counselor, who was about seventeen, brought it from Pat O’Brien’s. She’d been sent to New Orleans to ‘get away from a young man,’ if you know what I mean. I was about twelve, a little older than Quynh.” She smiled down at the sleeping little girl, her cat blissed-out belly up atop her.

By the time the toll taker had reached out his hand at the San Francisco end of the Golden Gate, it was dark, the moon high, and they had learned twenty-seven verses with twenty-seven choruses of “Roll me Over in the Clover.”

So had Quynh, who had been faking slumber all along.

*

Before they fell asleep that night, Tom turned to Annie and asked her once again, “Promise?”

“Promise,” she said. “I’m leaving it to the cops. I’m out of it, completely.”

*

Eddie Simms began that same Saturday morning by rolling over and frowning at his alarm. He didn’t work on weekends. Why was he awake so early?

Then he remembered. This was the day to begin.

He lay in bed for a few minutes thinking about her face, her ass, idly scratching himself.

How would
Miss
Tannenbaum look as his cock slipped into her? Would she moan? Would she smile? Gasp with pleasure? Pain? She was his new favorite fantasy. He tightened his grasp on his penis.

And then he remembered last night. And the nigger on the bus.

“Motherfucker!” he cursed in the empty apartment. Rage made his head buzz. He could smell the hot vomit again and he retched.

He stumbled out of bed toward the sink, but there was nothing left in his stomach.

Then he rested, naked, on a kitchen chair for a few minutes before he got up to fill the coffeepot with cold water.

The night before replayed in his mind.

After he got off the bus the bastard had disappeared. Eddie had hailed a taxi and tipped the cabbie to put up with his stink. Once home, he had stripped outside his door and dumped his clothes in the garbage. He’d showered in water as hot as he could stand and then smoked a joint. Slowly—after a little target practice into the bull’s-eye he nailed against one wall—he’d calmed down and was able to sleep.

If it hadn’t been for her. It was all the bitch’s fault.

That was okay. Her time was coming. He’d get her back for this one. He reached for his knife and a honing stone.

FORTY-ONE

T
here was no better way to spend a Sunday. After the big pot of coffee Tom had made while she was still asleep they devoured bagels, lox, and cream cheese in bed. Then they turned to one another, and it was noon before Tom pulled on his pants to walk over to Fillmore for
The New York Times
and four in the afternoon before they got around to the
Examiner-Chronicle.

Tom was deep in the sports section, plotting strategy against his father in the basketball betting wars. Annie was reading a competitor’s food column with a very critical eye. Tom rubbed absently on her thigh. Then a little higher.

“Come here,” he said as he leaned down and started blowing softly on her toes.

“I swear.” She laughed as a sudden flush of blood turned her fair skin to rosy red.

*

The phone rang and rang and rang. Annie and Tom couldn’t hear it because the night before, looking forward to a long, lazy, uninterrupted Sunday in bed, she had unplugged it.

To Eddie Simms, on the other end of the line, it rang as if the apartment were empty.

He was just checking. But it didn’t really matter where she was this weekend. Her last weekend.

He smiled.

It was weekdays she had to watch out for. That was when he did his best work.

FORTY-TWO

A t
ruck is going to run over me. My teeth are going to fall out. I am going to die, Annie thought. God didn’t let you get away clean with this much happiness.

Millie, her agent in New York, had called shortly after she had kissed Tom good-bye and wished him a happy Monday morning. He looked as if he might even have one, a big smirk hovering on his face.

And her Monday? She couldn’t believe it. Millie loved the first three chapters and outline of her book, and so did two editors. There might even be the tiniest of bidding wars. But the book was a go!