Bad Boy (13 page)

“Well, it’s either contacts or flying blind, because you can’t wear these,” Tracie said,
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twirling the glasses in her fingers. “You look like a newborn puppy, blinking like that.”

“On ’im, it looks good.”

Embarrassed, Jon felt himself blush, and he took his glasses back. Then Molly noticed the motorcycle helmet on the table. Oh, don’t go there, Molly, he thought.

“Did you get a motorbike, too, luv?” she asked, as breathless as an original Beatles fan at Shea Stadium.

“No. Tracie said I just have to carry the helmet as if I have a bike.”

“It was my one cost concession,” Tracie told Molly, unusually chatty with the waitress for a change. “Plus, he’d probably kill himself on it and ruin all my work.”

“Thank you for that compassionate expression of concern for my welfare.”

“Is ’e tattooed? Or pierced?” Molly inquired.

Tracie took a disappointed breath and sighed. Jon knew that sigh. She’d be trying to talk him into a Suzuki GS 1100 before the end of the week. “He drew the line.” She looked at Jon. “You know, I never noticed how heavy your beard is.”

“Probably because I usually shave twice a day.”

“For real?” Molly asked, raising her brows. “That’s a lot of testosterone, darling.”

Tracie stared at him, thinking. “From now on, you also can’t shave
‌
—except once every three days,” she pronounced.

“Oh. The old George Michael thing,” Molly said, nodding in approval. “It would work.”

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“But I wouldn’t,” Jon told them. “I can’t show up at work like that
‌
—looking hungover.”

“Why not? It would make women wonder about your private life,” Molly said, leering.

“Yeah. And then you might get one,” Tracie added.

Molly crossed her arms then and looked down at both of them. “So, what are you two fashion victims ’aving? I’ve never served you dinner, so I’m curious.”

“I’ll just have a beer,” Tracie told her.

“I’ll have a mochaccino.”

Tracie made a face.

Molly went off to fetch the drinks. Tracie leaned across the table. “You do look really good, Jon. And you were so patient. You didn’t yell once. As a reward”
‌
—she paused for effect
‌
—“I’ll buy you the mochaccino. It may be your last.”

“Promises, promises.” Jon sighed. Now that it was over, it seemed as if the episode had had a certain kind of charm. He imagined Tracie and himself years into the future, talking it over: Remember that time we shopped till you dropped? Back in the days when people didn’t do all their shopping on-line?

Tracie got up from the table. “More lessons as soon as I come back from the ladies’ room . . .” She was off, and Jon sighed in relief.

Molly returned with their drinks. She slipped into the empty seat opposite Jon and looked him over again. “Bloody amazing,” she said. Then she took his hand. “But Jon, don’t you think this might be going a little too far? It might
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be fun to play fancy dress just once, if you got invited to the Oscars or something. But changing your whole persona . . . well, on some level, it must be scary.”

“Especially when I look in the mirror, or at next month’s MasterCard bill,” Jon agreed. “But I’ve seen five or six women look at me tonight. That’s never happened before.”

“I’ve never ’ad cirrhosis of the liver before, but that wouldn’t mean ’aving it now would be a good thing, would it now, luv?” Molly responded. “I mean, so what if a girl looks at you now? It’s not the real you, is it?” She paused. “On some level, this is a betrayal of yourself.” She waited for another moment, silent, letting that sink in. Jon was too tired for this. He just sat there, rubbing one foot with the other under the table. She looked around the restaurant, as if that would explain what she wanted to say. “I don’t want to throw a spanner in the works, but ’ave you been to Freeway Park?” she asked.

Freeway Park was built on the roof of a highway. It was beautiful, with waterfalls and big lawns and terraces. “Sure,” he said. “I watched them build it.”

“Well, I can never rest there,” Molly said. “No matter ’ow lovely and serene the fountains and the grass look, underneath it, there’s insane traffic going in both directions. What I’m trying to say is, it doesn’t matter if you pave over yourself with good sod.” She plucked at his arm. “You’re still you underneath these clothes. Think about what you Americans call your ‘inner child.’ Isn’t ’e weeping?”

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“I don’t have an inner child, Molly. I have an inner dweeb, and he’s doing the mambo because he thinks he just learned the magic words: ‘Open sesame.’ ”

Molly shook her head. “I predict that at some point your inner dweeb is going to start fighting with this outer wild one,” Molly warned. “Mark my words.”

“What a world! A girl goes to the bathroom for two minutes and her so-called waitress becomes a psychiatric aide,” Tracie cried. She stepped up to the booth and used her hip to evacuate Molly. “Traitor! I thought you were being too nice! Jon doesn’t need any bad pop psychology advice from you.”

“You’re right, ’e’s getting more than necessary from you.”

Tracie ignored Molly. “You know, I was thinking. You need a new name. Jon is weak and Jonathan is lame.”

“Oh. Perfect! Now it’s not just ’is wardrobe and personality. Even ’is name needs changing,” Molly said.

Tracie continued to ignore her. “Have you ever had a nickname?”

“My dad used to call me Jason sometimes, but I think that was because he forgot what my name really was,” Jon admitted. “And my second stepmom called me ‘the pest.’ ”

“It doesn’t quite convey the sense of danger and sexual urgency I had in mind,” Tracie told him. “How about Eric? I always thought that was a sexy name.”

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“Look, get real. I can’t just have a totally new name,” Jon protested.

Molly began to laugh. “ ’ow about Big Swinging Dick?”

“I like it,” Jon chimed in with excitement. “Or Big Swinging Richard, if I go formal.”

“As long as it’s not Little Richard, luv.” Molly added. “Although I always ’eard ’e was
very
well equipped.” Whether it was from fatigue or nerves or humor, Jon joined in Molly’s laughter.

Tracie ignored the two of them. “There’s got to be something . . .”

“Tracie, I’m not changing my name,” Jon insisted.

“How about Jonny?” she asked. “Guys named Jonny are cool. Johnny Depp, Johnny Dangerously, Johnny Cash. They wear black and they’re intense. They’re heartbreakers.”

“Yeah, like Johnny Carson,” Molly agreed. “Or Johnny ’oliday, the French wanker.”

He calmed down. “Well, I always wanted to be called ‘Bud.’ ”

“Bud?” Molly asked. “Like on a tree? You can’t be serious.”

“No, like on a TV show.
Father Knows Best.
An old sixties thing,” Tracie told Molly. “I wanted to be ‘Princess.’ ”

“Now, that’s perfect for you,” Molly said sarcastically.

“Enough of that,” Tracie said to Molly. “So, it’s Jonny. And now that you’re cutened up enough, I want you to go out on your own and start trolling for skank.”

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A warren of a thousand tiny shops stacked on a Seattle hillside, the main fresh-food market of Seattle was a hive of produce sellers and their customers. But the market had become a lot more than that. Well-dressed Yuppies walked through, selecting endive or frisée for their dinner salads as they sipped their lattes from paper cups marked Counter Intelligence. It was incredible how espresso had become the craze of Seattle. Espresso drinkers had a language all their own
‌
—Milky Way, grande, skinny, extra foamy, half-caf. Jon always asked for a McD’s spill, which meant the temperature should be as close to boiling as possible. Though he had been born and raised in Seattle, he still didn’t know the names of most of the special coffee drinks.

Like most natives of any city, Jon didn’t take advantage of what Seattle had to offer. He had never taken the Bremerton ferry, just across from Pike Place, still hadn’t gotten to the EMP, never hung out in Gas Works Park, and he’d avoided the market, partly because when he was younger it was tougher and navy guys often hung there
‌
—a draw for hookers. What with work and the few dates he had, he hadn’t been to Pike Place in years. When he wasn’t working, Jon hung out at the Metro
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politan Grill, which was the favored place for all Micro/Con employees. Here, though, there were Asian women dressed in Gucci, naval officers, a few hippie chicks wearing clothes they might have gotten from their mother’s closets, an African-American who was wearing a turban and had a parrot walking across his shoulders, as well as the usual tourists. Jon’s head was spinning.

But he was here to “troll for skank,” as per Tracie’s order. He stood in front of a baked-goods stand. Well, no time like the present. A blond woman, short and thin and dressed all in gray, stood outside. She looked like a nice person, so he tried to catch her eye. She avoided his glances, though, so he gave up. Blondes were cold, anyway, Jon decided.

Looking across the way, he spotted a tallish brunette in jeans and a green sweater. She also looked like good company
‌
—until she smiled. Jon wondered, for a moment, how much lipstick the average woman ate in a year. A tubeful? Two? What was in that stuff, anyway? Red dye number two? Did he eat it when he kissed a girl? (Not that he was in any danger of being poisoned lately.) Lipstick on the teeth, he decided, was a definite turnoff, but she did smile at him. He pushed himself forward and approached her. Now what? For a moment, he panicked. Why hadn’t he prepared a line, a hello, a speech. God, he was standing there with his mouth open like a guppy.
Think, Jon, think.
“Do you know what time it is?” he finally managed to ask.

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The brunette’s smile faded. She looked him up and down. “No,” she said, turned around, and walked away.

Embarrassed, Jon cowered next to the candle shop entrance behind him. God, I’m such a loser! Then he wandered over to a third woman, this one a little older and maybe a little less attractive. “Do you have the time?”

“For what?” the woman asked, then winked and waggled her eyebrows in the same bad Groucho Marx imitation that Tracie did. Jon froze for a moment, not expecting the response. Then, when he was idiotically silent, she shrugged and walked away.

On the other side of the marketplace, Tracie, Laura, and Phil wandered into the crowd around the seafood section. “This place is a caterer’s dream!” Laura exclaimed.

“Yeah, but it’s a tired musician’s nightmare. It’s a tourist trap. If you know any schmuck with a straight job, you’ll meet him here on a weekend morning,” Phil said.

“Pay no attention to him,” Tracie told Laura. “Just look at this food. Maybe you’ll set up business in Seattle instead of going back.” She giggled. “Wait till you see the fish.”

“Oh God. Not the fish,” Phil moaned. “Next it’ll be the fountain.”

“What fountain?” Laura asked.

“The one at the Seattle Center. The water is choreographed to music,” Tracie explained.
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Just to punish Phil, she added, “We’ll go there after the Underground Tour but before the Experience Music Project.”

“Oh, goody, goody, Mom,” Laura said. “But what’s so great about the fish? Good selection?”

“It’s all in the delivery,” Tracie told her, taking Laura by the arm and moving her toward the center of the seafood stands.

Laura looked up at a sign that read
WATCH OUT FOR LOW-FLYING FISH.
“They’re kidding, right?” Laura asked. Just then, a screaming vendor whipped a flounder across to the cashier at the center of the stall. It almost whapped Laura in the head. “Oh my God!” she cried out.

“Okay, she’s seen the fish. Can we go home now?” Phil asked. “Let’s go back to bed.” He yawned.

Tracie could see that Laura was embarrassed. Tracie could have kicked Phil.

“Hey, listen,” Laura said. “I don’t want to be in the way. I can just wander around by myself and you two can have the apartment to yourselves for the afternoon.”

“Don’t be silly. I love doing this. If I need privacy, I can go to Phil’s.”

“No you can’t.” Phil yawned again. “Bobby brought a band over. They’ve crashed at my place.”

“That’s not the point,” Tracie said. “The point is, we’re showing you Pike Market and we’re thrilled to have you here.” Tracie emphasized the plural and shot Phil a warning look.

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“Oh, yeah,” Laura said. “A thrill for Phil. Look, I’m going to take a look at that candle shop again. Some dork tried to pick me up there. Maybe I’ll get lucky twice.”

“Fine. We’ll see you in a minute,” Tracie replied as Phil pulled her in the opposite direction.

“That was really rude,” Tracie told him angrily.

“What?” Phil asked. “Yawning?”

“Saying you wanted to go home.” How could she explain that acting romantic in front of Laura was unkind? God, it might make Laura miss Peter.

“Hey, I worked late last night,” he reminded her, as if she didn’t know it.

“Yeah, but she’s my friend. And it’s my apartment.”

He put his arm around her and lowered his voice. “And it’s your bed, but let’s both get into it.” She felt a shiver down her back. Then, as if he felt her weakening, he leaned in and nuzzled her ear.

“Phil, I have to work this afternoon. I really have to come up with a couple of original ideas.”

Phil put his hands on either side of her face. She loved it when he did that. “I have some original ideas.”

“Not ones I can write about for the
Seattle Times
,” she said, and laughed. She couldn’t help it.

Leading her by her shoulders, he maneuvered her into a doorway next to a lobster tank.
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Just then, Tracie looked up and, through the lobsters, spotted a Micro/Con jacket. She peered through the glass. Jon. She’d forgotten that she’d told him to “troll” for a date. He looked lonely and glum. She pulled out of the doorway. Jon saw her and brightened, coming up beside her and Phil. “Hey, guys!”