Fridays at Enrico's (35 page)

“What's in it for me?” Charlie asked the air. He had to laugh. The notion of making money, a great deal of money, appealed just fine. At least it would be a change. As a bartender he wasn't pulling in all that much, in fact, he couldn't have afforded to live where he lived on his income. Thank God for Jaime and goddamn books. Not that he hated her books. He didn't. He loved them. They kept him in Mill Valley. But they also seemed to keep Jaime out of Mill Valley. She'd come home for a week, two weeks, even a month, and then she'd be off again, either traveling or over in North Beach at the apartment, writing. She wrote there even though Charlie had often told her she could have his damned office at home. All Charlie used it for was to read or sleep on his couch. But if Jaime stayed home she stopped writing. Her absence might seem to offer him a wonderful freedom, but freedom to do what?

Charlie lit a joint, the first of the day. Good thing Bill hadn't called after he turned on, he would have talked his ear off and probably flown down to Hollywood that morning. Pot really made Charlie feel good, but it also made him talkative and easy to manipulate. Which is how he liked to be.

After looking in vain for the manuscript, he walked out through the French doors to the lawn. The haze was clearing and the sky was going
to be pure blue. Charlie took his third hit and pinched out the roach, sticking it into his watch pocket. He'd take another couple of hits when he parked, so his stroll down Bridgeway to work would be enlightened by the dope. At work throughout the afternoon people would come in with a variety of things to give away, and being in the spotlight as the bartender meant he got a lot of free stuff from admirers—coke, hash, weed, acid, codeine, Percodan, bennies, amps, meth, barbs, seconal, a whole pharmacopoeia of friendly little helpers, which Charlie knew had to be taken in moderation or avoided entirely, since he didn't want to turn into an addict. He'd sample one one day, another another day, and the stuff that was passed to him routinely he'd pocket and then give away to friends. Neil Davis didn't know about it, or if he did he kept his mouth shut. For Charlie it was part of the new spirit of anti-government. The only hopeful sign anywhere.

Charlie walked around the house to the garage, where their battered old Porsche waited for him. Jaime didn't drive to the city anymore. She'd take the bus or let Charlie drive her, but they'd given up the garage as too expensive, and parking on the street was impossible. Charlie sold his old Volkswagen, practically the only valuable thing he owned, and they were a one-car family. The dusty black Porsche showed a rusty crease down the right side, where Jaime had drunkenly scraped something one night. Poor old thing needed a wash. Not Jaime, the car. He wanted to call her at the apartment, but this was her peak working time, and anyway Charlie had been smoking and she could tell it. Jaime was fierce about drugs around Kira. If they were caught with drugs in their house they could both be arrested and hauled off to jail, and then Kira would be stuck in a foster home, and how would he like that? He wouldn't. But it wouldn't happen. He didn't let Kira see him smoking dope because he didn't want to encourage her to use it. Charlie got into the car and started it up with a nice throaty roar. Driving stoned was fun. Every trip down the hill a ride on the marijuana rollercoaster. Halfway down the hill he remembered his call from Hollywood, and began to daydream about writing a movie, a big movie, a big war movie.

64.

After school or in the summer, Kira sometimes took the bus to Sausalito to spend the afternoon on Bridgeway. Charlie didn't mind, so long as she got her schoolwork done. Though he was never quite sure with Kira, who could be an extraordinarily adept liar. Bridgeway was a circus, the shops and sidewalks crowded with tourists, especially now in summer, so you couldn't drive through town in under an hour. Colorful hippies, leisure-suited Midwesterners, Japanese in their blue suits and white shirts, waterfront people, street people, anything you wanted. Kira and a lot of other kids hung out on the steps or bummed change from the tourists, which Charlie tried to forbid. Kira looked at him with her big dark eyes and said she wouldn't, but she was always spending money Charlie hadn't given her. She was tall for her age, and had been having her periods since she was ten, so Charlie also had to worry about Sausalito street philosophy, which suggested that if you were old enough to bleed, you were old enough to butcher. At twelve Kira was tall, skinny, and incredibly beautiful, at least from her father's point of view, and could pass for fourteen. Plenty of runaway hippies that age came through Sausalito, and might tempt his daughter into a life of empty leisure.

Exactly the life he led himself, if you stopped and considered it. Working behind the bar at the no name wasn't exactly leisure, unless you compared it to the life he should have been leading. Working as a bartender, Charlie didn't have to exert himself, didn't have to think, didn't have to face any hard conclusions. He stood on the plank and grinned and gave people what they wanted. He arbitrated disputes, gave advice to the lovelorn, guided destinies, and never had to take responsibility for the results. He was a bartender, what did you expect?

He often saw Kira afternoons. He hoped to today. To see her was to experience five minutes of relief, to know she was okay at least for the moment. Then she'd vanish. Jaime didn't worry about Kira nearly as much as Charlie,
but then when Jaime was home Kira didn't come down to Bridgeway. She stayed home with her mother. They'd whisper together or go off in the car, and when Jaime was in residence there'd be kids over at the house, bunches of squealing girls, from whose activities Charlie was naturally excluded. His daughter was getting as normal a life as they could provide, given the circumstances. Kira did miss her mother, they both missed Jaime, but the advantage went to Kira, who spoke with Jaime on the telephone every day. And Jaime sometimes took Kira for a weekend in the city, and Charlie would be left alone. Not that he minded. Working afternoons took it out of him, and sometimes he'd just come home, wolf dinner, and go straight to bed. Of course usually by that time he'd be full of drugs, his head buzzing, his body in a pleasant state of nonexistence, or apparent nonexistence.

Kira's face appeared in the open window at the front of the bar. She rested her arms on the windowsill and her chin on her hands. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hold on,” Charlie said. The bar wasn't busy, so he wiped his hands and went outside, blinking into the brightness. Kira leaned against the building, her arms crossed. She wore jeans and her red blouse, and looked about eight to Charlie. “You okay?” he asked her.

“I'm fine. Can I have five dollars?”

“No.”

“Okay,” she said, which worried him.

“What do you want the money for?”

“It doesn't matter.”

He reached into his pocket and gave her two dollars. “Make that do,” he said.

She smiled, took the money, and turned and ran down Bridgeway, slipping in amongst the people. Charlie's heart nearly broke. So delicate, so beautiful, in a life that was so dangerous. He'd wanted to tell her about his call from Ratto, but she hadn't allowed him the opening. Both his daughter and his wife were smarter than he was, at least about practical matters. Well, fine, maybe Kira would take care of him in his old age.
Don't plan for the future
, his heart warned him.
Children die
. He returned to the bar.

When he got home that night Kira was there, sitting in the living room
watching television. Mrs. Hawkins was in the kitchen making dinner, which smelled like pork chops. Mrs. Hawkins was only a few years older than Charlie, perhaps forty-five, and came over every day to clean and cook, going home to Marin if she wasn't needed after dinner, or staying on as babysitter until either Charlie or Jaime came home. She was from Lacoumbe, Louisiana. She had mahogany skin and a cheerful singsong voice. Kira loved her, and Charlie almost did. Mrs. Hawkins was their anchor. Charlie yelled hello and went into the bathroom. When he came out he sat on the couch behind Kira, who was on the rug.

“Have you talked to your mother?”

Kira turned and lay on the rug looking up. “Yes,” she said.

“She still working?”

“I don't think so,” Kira said. “She was pretty drunk.” She rolled back over to watch the news.

Charlie laughed and said, “I'll give her a call.” But there was no answer when he did. He wondered if she was down at Enrico's drinking. Or maybe at the corner store, talking to Old Rose, the Chinese woman who ran the place. Or she could be at the Caffe Sport, wining it up with the junior Mafia. Or just asleep, unable to answer the phone. Or in bed with somebody. He wished Kira didn't know Jaime was drunk so much of the time, but what hypocrisy to keep it hidden. Even if they could keep it hidden.

“I think I'll go into town,” he said aloud, and Kira turned and faced him again. “I wanna go with you.”

“I'm sorry, I won't be home until late.”

Kira got up and sat beside him. Her warmth made him almost tearful. She was so fragile. She gave him her most innocent look and said, “Are you going to rescue Mother?”

He laughed and put his arm around her, pulling her warmth to him, as if he could keep her alive with his own life. Why was he worried about her mortality? He tried to remember what drugs he'd taken that day. None, unless you counted marijuana. “Kira,” he said, reaching for his deepest, most confident voice. “Your mother is just fine.”

“Then why are you so sad?”

No point trying to fool her. He gave her a big hug and kissed her on top of her head. The three ate at the dining room table, Mrs. Hawkins keeping her eyes to her plate as always. After dinner Charlie very deliberately showered and shaved, dressed in fresh jeans and a fresh blue work shirt. Mill Valley was warm tonight, but San Francisco might be foggy. He put on the old black leather jacket Jaime had given him. He looked at himself in their full length mirror. A big man, tall and thick, with a bushy dark red beard streaked with white. He looked into his own big brown eyes. Was anybody in there? He didn't know.

65.

Charlie walked through the evening crowds on Columbus, his hands in his jacket pockets, wondering which way to go. Jaime wasn't likely to be at City Lights or Vesuvio, it was too early for Tosca, and besides, they didn't like any of these places quite as much as in the past. More likely either Enrico's, sitting at the bar, or up at Gino and Carlo's. Or at any one of a hundred other bars. Or a party in Pacific Heights. A literary party.

He walked down to Enrico's. The outside tables were full but there were only a couple of people at the little bar. Charlie sat and waited for Ward the bartender to come over. Ward was a huge man, probably twenty pounds heavier than Charlie, but all muscle.

“Have you seen Jaime?” Charlie asked when Ward came over, just to get it out of the way.

“Who wants to know?” Ward growled. Then he smiled. “She's in the toilet.” He went to the other end of the bar, picked up a half-finished glass of something and a napkin and brought them over. “I guess she'll be sitting with you,” he said reluctantly. Because they were both so big, Charlie and Ward pretended to be antagonists.

“Yeah, well, I'll have what she's having,” Charlie said, to cover his feelings of relief. When Jaime slipped onto the barstool next to him he was drinking his drink, gin and tonic, ugh.

“Hi, honey,” she said, and leaned her cheek against his arm. She didn't seem too drunk. He put his arm around her and kissed her hair.

“Hi, sweetie,” he said.

“You got here just in time,” she said. She straightened up and drank some gin and tonic. “I was about to leave. Now we can have a drink together, and you can take me home.” She put her hands in her jacket pockets. “I talked to Kira,” she said. “I knew you were coming.”

“How are you?” Charlie asked. “You okay enough to listen to something, or should I wait until morning?”

She smiled, looking into her drink. “How serious is it? If it's serious, let's wait.”

“It's not serious.” He told her about Bill Ratto's call. Her face hardened, and she held up a finger for Ward, who came over. She ordered two more drinks and then started going through her pockets again. She was in her green velour jacket with the puffy shoulders.

“Are you searching for a cigarette?” Charlie asked. “We quit, remember?”

“Just a habit,” she said. They'd both quit smoking a couple of years ago, and had almost divorced over it. Now she smiled. “I've been waiting for Hollywood to call, and they call
you
,” she said. “What's that shit about?”

Jaime's second book had been optioned for a television series, but nothing had happened except that she made a lot of option money over the years, and they finally let it lapse. Of course her first book had been bought outright by the late Joseph E. Levine and then let die. Jaime always claimed that she hated Hollywood but loved their money.

“I think it's a chance at some gold,” he said.

“Gee, you aren't going to do it, are you?” she asked, and laughed.

“What the fuck else am I doing? Neil can take me off shift for a few weeks, I'll fly to Hollywood, gather a few pesos and fly right back home. Wanna come?”

She pretended incredulity. “Me?” Then her face changed. She was drunker
than she looked. “I'm sorry,” she said. “You're serious. And he did call. Of course, we'll go down there and beard the lion. We could also duck the fog for a while, no? Get a suite in a nice hotel and play movie star.”