The Man on the Washing Machine (6 page)

This was Nicole's strength in recent weeks—fifteen seconds of indignation, irritation, wheedling smiles, and pathos.

“You've been saying someone owes you money for two weeks,” I began.

“Big money, sweetie. Honest.”

“You sold a painting?” Nicole's work had developed a good, local reputation.

“Not exactly.” She smiled a secretive little smile, which did nothing to ease my mind.

“We should talk—”

She flushed and waved away whatever else I might be planning to say with an impatient gesture. “By this time next week I'll be straightened out and we can sort out how much I owe the store. I'd have it now except for
goddamn
Tim Callahan. My bloodsucking landlord wants his money now, this instant, and I'm short fifty. I ran into him in the street and he's waiting, if you can believe it!”

“What does Tim Callahan have to do with—”

“Dammit, Theo! I need the money now!”

I thought of how this rapidly developing drama would play with the customer outside and calculated whether I could get through the morning with fifty dollars less in the till.

“For God's sake, Nicole, this can't go on. Where have you been? You're never here; you're not home—Haruto said he had to open up yesterday.”

“I came by last night to deliver the Gibney Brothers stuff,” she said sulkily. And to rifle the cash drawer, I thought but didn't say. She patted my cheek and fingered her lips nervously.

I glanced through the two-way mirror into the shop as I heard the old-style spring bell jangle. A woman came in. Two people was at least one too many to leave in the shop alone.

I went back outside and with a small inner struggle, took two twenties and a ten out of the cash drawer.

“I'll write an I.O.U.” she said, picking up the inspector's notebook and glancing at the doodles.

“No need,” I said.

She dropped the notebook as if it were red hot and unexpectedly clasped me in a fierce hug. “It'll all work out,” she whispered.

“I'm worried about you,” I said, returning the hug. She had been my first friend in the city and the past few weeks hadn't changed my affection for her. Even if she was driving me crazy.

“I know, sweetie. I know. I'll pay back the store in a few days. I've been feeling like shit for the mess in your apartment; I'll take care of that, too. Pretty soon everything will be back to normal, okay? So stop worrying!” She laughed and patted my cheek.

As she passed the counter, she picked up the two bars of newly priced soap knowing I wouldn't say anything. At nine dollars each, retail, it was probably a halfpenny worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack, but it still grated. Don't you love how Shakespeare has a phrase for everything?

“The new labels look great,” she said. “Anyone bought any of this damn gardenia soap?”

“I've only had time to label those two,” I said with a reluctant grin.

“Put out some of the rose; we're low and it sells.” She hesitated a moment and made for the door.

“Take care of yourself,” I said, meaning it, and trying not to sound as worried as I felt.

She glanced back at me with a mocking smile. “I said ‘don't worry,' sweetie. Bye.” She waggled the soaps at me. “White gardenia, eh?” She winked and scrunched up her nose, then waggled them at me again as she left.

I saw her shove the bills at a stolid-looking man on the sidewalk and take off down the street. Sure enough, I recognized her landlord, who carefully counted out the money. At least she hadn't lied about that, although I detected a certain number of uneasy ad-libs in the story of money coming in.

My new customer was carefully inspecting lavender sachets. She was sniffing every little lace bag as if she was going to find one that smelled different from the rest. As she looked about to make up her mind, the last of the red-hot lovers decided on the white kimono with the splashy red hibiscus print.

“Red's her color,” he explained as he handed me his credit card. “She loves San Francisco's red fire trucks. Most places use that safety yellow or green. Hershey, Pennsylvania, uses red now but she says they used to use brown. Chocolate brown. See?” He smiled happily.

I sheathed the ninety-seven-dollar Egyptian cotton kimono tenderly in tissue. The kimonos had been Nicole's idea and they were moving nicely. She was a clever merchandiser. Her only recent failure had been novelty soaps shaped like pistols. I told her I refused to sell them; she dug in her heels and refused to return them. Before now we had always been able to settle disagreements amicably, but the gun-shaped soaps were gathering dust in a box under the cash register, solid evidence of our recent lack of accord.

“Did you remove the price?” the firefighter's lover asked anxiously. I held up the price tag to assure him that I had, but he still didn't believe me, so I unwrapped it to show him, wrapped it again, and put it in one of our striped shopping bags.

“I hope your friend is okay,” he said. Which was nice of him. I'm in favor of people looking out for each other.

“Thanks. I'm sure she'll be fine.”

A motorcycle roared to a stop outside as he was leaving and a familiar leather-clad figure came in, lifting off her helmet as she came through the door. Sabina shook her head and her fiery red curls sprang sideways like springs. She had a bruise under one eye, but otherwise she was as effortlessly gorgeous as usual.

“Hey, Theo,” she said. She removed the huge leather gloves that came nearly to her elbows and flopped them over one shoulder. She began casually looking around the store, waiting while I rang up the sachet lady's choice, picking up hand mirrors and pretending to inspect the display of massage oils.

“Get a cappuccino and stay for a bit?” I said. “What happened to your face?”

She shrugged. “I fell on a skateboard some kid left on my steps. I was in a hurry, trying to get my helmet on, stepped on the damn skateboard, fell face-first into the handrail, the helmet went flying and landed in some dog shit.” She scowled. “I don't know who the board belongs to, but if I find him—does Davie have one?” I shook my head. “Helga says there's one missing from one of those hideous collage things in the coffee shop, which is stupid because who would do that? Anyway, I'm off coffee. It's keeping me up nights.” She made a comic grimace.

“I've got a couple of Perriers in the office,” I said in the same tone I might offer one of Helga's cupcakes or a dish of double chocolate fudge sauce. She giggled, put down a mirror, and squeezed past me to get to the office. The sachet lady closed the door as she left.

“D'you want one?” Sabina said, her voice muffled, and then she came to the office door and leaned against the counter.

“I'll get tea later.”

“Busy morning?” She was looking around the store.

“Not too bad,” I said. “One of Nicole's kimonos sold. Um, is everything okay?” I said tentatively as she rolled her eyes and took a big swallow from the bottle.

“Nicole being Nicole.” They didn't get along and there was usually some minor thing going on between them. “She's been bitching about my music again.” Sabina lived in the apartment above Nicole's ground-floor studio. Their last argument was about the smell of Nicole's turpentine seeping through the air vents into Sabina's apartment. Nicole's complaints about Sabina's music were probably payback. Although classic heavy metal can't really be played softly and I was inclined (silently) to sympathize with Nicole on this one.

She played with the label on her bottle and started to tear it into tiny pieces. “Kurt and I have been dating,” she said abruptly.

“Wow,” I said, making an effort, “that's big news.” The last I heard, she was still dating someone who occasionally sent a limo for her late at night, sending the local gossips into a swoon. She'd told me he was married.

“Kurt wore me down. He said you wouldn't like it and not to say anything. I thought he meant you had PTSD from your breakup or something and I didn't want to trigger anything for you.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I think he mesmerized me; I knew you were way over him, but—”

“It's okay with me, honey. Truly,” I added for emphasis. Now I knew why so many of my friends thought I was still pining for Kurt. The jackass. Sabina is way too good for him. Not the kind of thing to say at this particular moment. But true, all the same. “I'm fine with it. Er … you know you're too good for him, right?”

She grinned. “You say that about everyone I date.”

“Yeah, well in this case, it's especially true. Sure you don't want to keep seeing the married mystery man instead?”

She snorted and then grinned. “Only you, Theo…” She squared her shoulders, tugged the zipper in her leather jacket, massaged on the gauntlets, and left, looking jauntier than when she arrived. At least one of us felt better.

I sighed as I watched her bump into my grandfather on his way into the shop. He was wearing his weekday uniform—gray flannel trousers with a knife-edge crease and an elderly but immaculate navy blue cashmere jacket. The Aquascutum raincoat folded over his arm was more a matter of lifelong habit than any expectation of rain during our summer dry season. Although, fair enough, the summer fogs are often drippy enough to require not only a raincoat but an umbrella, too.

He courteously stepped aside and held the door open for Sabina. His manner would have been exactly the same if she had been a linen-clad debutante, although he seldom leaves me in any doubt how he feels about things. In this case, as Sabina extinguished her red curls under the green helmet, hopped aboard the Kawasaki, and roared off down the street, the waves of disapproval nearly knocked me down.

“An interesting mode of travel for a young woman,” he said.

“She's really very nice,” I said, answering the thought.

“Indeed, Theophania?” he said neutrally. “You mentioned that you have a badger-hair shaving brush. May I see it?”

I showed him the brush that I'd special-ordered for him. We don't have many customers interested in $150 shaving brushes.

Several new customers came in, asked me questions about bath oil and natural sponges, paid for their purchases, and left. I served them automatically and watched my grandfather inspecting the shaving brush minutely in the light from the front window, his long face showing only polite interest. He moved to the city a year ago at the age of seventy because, he says, he needed a change. He never accepts my invitations to visit me in my flat. (“I don't wish to intrude, Theophania.” “It's no intrusion, Grandfather.” Maybe he knows I'm lying.) I visit him at his Telegraph Hill house once every two weeks and we sit mostly in silence while his housekeeper serves us a tea worthy of the Ritz. Sometimes he plays Mozart on the Bechstein grand he purchased when he arrived here. He has a long nose, gun-metal gray hair and eyebrows, and an erect bearing left over from his military career. Whenever I see him I itch to have a camera in my hands. I suspect he was a spy of some sort. I don't know where my blond hair came from—both my parents were brunettes—but my blue eyes stare at me from my grandfather's face. I sometimes wonder what he'd say if I suggested he could make a comfortable living as a fashion model. Probably that he was already quite comfortable, thank you, Theophania. Which is true.

He cleared his throat, and I snapped, mentally speaking, to attention. “I read a small item in the newspaper about a man falling to his death.” The reproach was a silken whisper in his otherwise neutral tone.

“I didn't want you to worry,” I said.

“That was kind of you, Theophania.” He looked around the shop. “I hope business is good?” He'd never said anything else about Aromas. I was sure he wondered what I could possibly be doing behind a counter in a shop. He hadn't approved of my career as a member of the paparazzi tribe, but at least it was a larger life than the one I was living now. He was generally in favor of living on a wide stage. He'd accepted my use of a phony name with hardly a raised eyebrow. It probably reminded him of his days at Checkpoint Charlie.

“Very good, Grandfather. Thank you.” Nothing is lamer than my schoolgirl manners when I'm with him. We used to be able to talk when I was younger, but now I can't find the words to break through, and I worry that he doesn't want me to. Grandfather used to breed racehorses, so he's a believer in bloodlines, and my mother—his daughter—was murdered by my father. I assumed he maintained the connection with me from a sense of duty; being near me had to be hard to tolerate.

He paid cash for the shaving brush, refusing, as always, to consider a gift or even a discount. He allowed me to kiss his cheek in farewell and I watched him leave with a tightness in my chest.

I was exhausted and it was barely lunchtime.

 

CHAPTER SIX

“Oh, hell,” I said aloud, and rested my head in my hands.

“Hey, English. Good day so far, huh?” I looked up and saw Nat, half in and half out of the front door, grinning at me.

I waved him inside with a smile and a slight lifting of the heart. He was beautiful. If the one-worlders get it right, one day we'll all have Nat's almond-shaped eyes and skin the color of milky cocoa. If we're also as thoughtful and funny, the world will be a much better place. This morning he was wearing one of his apparently endless collection of cashmere sweaters and looked, as always, perfect. He was my closest friend, and lying to him was getting harder and harder.

“Hi, gorgeous,” I said. “No better or worse than usual, I guess. Did Derek get back from Hong Kong?”

“Last night. He picked up some new herbal medicine to make his hair grow. The man is obsessed.” This was an old story, but I snickered anyway. “Don't dare say a word when you see him; he'll cripple me if he knows I told you.”