Something for Nothing (21 page)

He'd posed these questions to potential buyers plenty of times before, and usually they were eager to respond, eager to look out the window and imagine a time when the bay and the surrounding hillsides were utterly pristine. But not this time. The couple nodded, but he could tell they weren't paying attention.

“That's where we go fishing on the weekends,” he shouted to them a while later. “My kids love it. Especially my son. We even went out with Sal Bando last month. You know, from the A's? The team captain?”

His absurd lie had leapt forth from his mouth completely unbidden. It was like when someone startled you and you shouted involuntarily. That was it—it had been involuntary. He noted with some surprise that he'd been lying fairly regularly lately. There was the one he'd told Hano about selling a plane to Reggie Jackson; but he'd also told a guy at the track last month that in high school he'd been all-city in football, at linebacker, though in fact he'd never played a down of organized football; and he'd told yet another guy at the club that he'd gotten a business degree at Berkeley. It was a little unsettling.

But up above the San Francisco Bay and swinging back toward Hayward, he thought that if a few white lies helped make a sale, what difference did it make? Maybe they'd strike up a conversation about the A's, and that would be the clincher.

Of course that didn't happen, though. He tried yakking at the guy about the plane some more, the downward-tipped conical wingtips and a few other things, but something had happened. Every few minutes the guy tossed him a couple of questions about the plane (he did know what he was talking about, Martin had to admit that). But when Martin answered with real energy, the guy just nodded. He really wasn't paying attention. It was like when you asked your wife or kids about their day. Sometimes you stopped listening even before they started talking. Martin was pretty sure that was what was happening here.

Twenty minutes later they were back on the ground, and Martin was shaking hands with the guy.

“How'd it go?” Ludwig asked, smiling and looking right at the girlfriend. But she just looked at her boyfriend and gave him a “let's get out of here” nudge.

And that's what they did. No sooner had Martin let go of the guy's hand than they jumped into their Datsun, waving absently and speeding away. Watching the car turn out of the lot area, Martin knew he'd
never see them again—that they had vanished into the busy mix of the Bay Area like figures gliding silently into the fog that would push its way across the water and onto the coastline within the next twenty-four hours.

“Huh,” Martin said to Ludwig. “I thought when he came back that we had a chance. A good chance, actually.”

“Yeah,” Ludwig said. “Me, too. But you never know, do you?”

“No,” Martin said. “I guess not.”

They stood there for a few seconds at the bottom of the office steps. It was getting chilly.

“So do you think she'll call me?” Ludwig asked. “I mean, I gave her my card and everything. You know, just in case.”

Martin looked over at him. “No,” he said. “I really don't think she's going to call.”

Ludwig was quiet for another second. “I think you're right,” he said. “She's not going to call.”

M
ARTIN HAD WANTED TO
drive to Spenger's, but Ludwig insisted. Once they were under way, though, he was pleased to be speeding around in Ludwig's gray 1969 bmw 2002, the bay popping in and out of view as they zipped north along the freeway. The clouds hadn't cleared and you could feel the fog closing in, but it was still a nice day. It was almost two; they were both hungry, and Martin was desperate for a drink.

Spenger's was a regular routine for Martin, especially on Fridays. It was semi-regular for Ludwig. Sometimes they'd meet Jenny. But usually it was just Martin, Ludwig, and maybe one or two other guys. Linda never came. They drank too much, she said (Jenny included), and when they drank too much they were cruder and more obnoxious than usual (and here she included Jenny again). “And someone's gotta be there when the kids get home, you know,” she'd said more than once, usually with a little edge to her voice.

Not long ago Martin could have counted on Beaton as well, but, of
course, those days were over. Martin missed Beaton, but he was also plagued with guilt about firing him, and so it was a relief to think he probably wouldn't see him around. Beaton didn't seem to go to Spenger's anymore, at least not for lunch. Martin loved it there. He loved that it had been in business since the nineteenth century, when guys like Jack London were prowling around Berkeley and Oakland, writing books about sled dogs and wolves and Alaska. He loved the old-time nautical atmosphere: the brass instruments, the big stuffed marlin and tuna, the fishing nets. But even more he loved the hustle and bustle of the place. There was always a wait for one of the forty or fifty wooden dining tables, so there was sure to be a big crowd at the bar. Standing there waiting to eat, downing drinks, you had to yell to be heard. Martin felt that the noise made things more intimate: you had to lean close to someone's ear to really make a point, grabbing his arm or putting a hand on his back—or hers.

They saw Radkovitch on the sidewalk. He was wearing a navy blue blazer, light blue dress shirt, and charcoal-gray pants. It looked like he was wearing his nice Oxford shoes.

“Jesus,” Ludwig said as he pulled the car into the lot across the street. “There he is. Look at the fucking guy.” He put the car into park and yanked up hard on the emergency break.

Martin knew exactly what Ludwig meant. Radkovitch stood out in a crowd. That's all there was to it. It was the whole package—the looks, the general air of confidence and sophistication. And it was obvious that women ate it up. But he didn't walk around like some sort of alpha dog, rubbing it in your face. In fact, there were times when Martin wasn't sure if Radkovitch even knew he was so handsome or that women were dying for him. Even that was maddening. “I'm kind of amazing, but I don't really seem to know it.” That kind of thing. Martin had been out with him at Spenger's before, talking about the business, and it was like being out with Cary Grant, for Christ's sake. A couple of months ago, a woman had bought him a drink, right out of the blue. Martin had wondered if Radkovitch was going to try to
chat her up, or at least return the favor and buy her a drink. But he just waved to the woman, raised his glass, and mouthed “thank you.” He hadn't even seemed fazed, which to Martin meant he was used to it. Martin remembered the feeling as he sat there: he was the other guy, the one who hadn't had a drink sent over to him. And the reason no one had sent one to him was that no one could see him. He was used to women preferring Ludwig over him, but this was different. With Radkovitch he felt invisible.

They sat in Ludwig's car and watched Radkovitch for another few seconds. Radkovitch hadn't seen them yet. He fidgeted, looking up and down the street, and then at his watch.

“He looks like he's waiting to catch a cab,” Ludwig said. “Maybe he got tired of waiting for us. If we wait a few minutes, he might leave. He probably doesn't like Spenger's, anyway.”

Martin sighed. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I know. Look, he bugs me, too. Although I don't know—he's all right, I guess. He's just kind of uptight.”

“All right,” Ludwig said, looking over at Martin. “But he drives me fucking crazy. He's so smug. And so . . . I don't know. Just kind of pleased with himself. You know?”

Martin nodded. He knew Ludwig resented Radkovitch because Beaton had been fired to clear space for him. But he also knew that Radkovitch made Ludwig feel insecure. It was the Stanford degree, the work at Merrill Lynch and all that, but it was also his family money. Radkovitch's dad was a big Wall Street executive in New York City, one of the guys who really did have his hands on the country's purse strings. Ludwig's dad had been a construction guy of some sort for a big contractor in the Bay Area. Martin couldn't remember which one. But he'd never been more than a foreman, running around job sites with a clipboard. Working his ass off, basically. Not that Ludwig wasn't educated. Unlike Martin, he'd gone to an actual four-year college (San Jose State). But he'd dropped out just before graduating. His father had died, he had two younger brothers and a sister still in high school or maybe even junior high, and so he had to go get a full-time job. No
more school. It was a sore spot for him, and a guy like Radkovitch was salt in the wound.

Martin pulled the handle on his passenger-side door, but paused to look over at Ludwig and make eye contact with him. “Look,” he said. “This is work, all right? Don't get into it with him. It's not worth it, and especially not right now.”

“Okay,” Ludwig said. “But he's not going out with us later, is he? What if we go to the track?”

“I don't know,” Martin said. “No. Maybe.”

“Hey,” Ludwig said as they stood waiting for a couple of cars to pass before crossing the street. “Do you know why Jews like to watch porno films in reverse?”

Martin looked at him as he buttoned up his coat. It was getting cold. Summer in the Bay Area. “What?” he said.

“It's a joke,” Ludwig said, smiling. “Why do Jews like to watch pornos backward—in reverse?”

Martin smiled back at him. He'd never heard this one before.

“I don't know,” he said. “Why?”

“Because,” Ludwig said, “they like to watch the part where the hooker gives the money back.”

Martin snorted and shook his head, and they half-jogged, half-walked across the street. Terrible, he thought. Terrible, but kind of funny.

Martin thought Radkovitch looked a little annoyed that they were late, but he didn't call them on it. You could hear the din of the lunch crowd even from the sidewalk.

“I'm sorry it took so long,” Martin said. “I ended up having to take a guy up in a plane. One of the Cessnas, the 177
A
. He came by a while ago, and then stopped in again just as we were leaving. We flew around the bay. Him and his girlfriend.”

“Great,” Radkovitch said. “How'd it go? What do you think?”

Martin nodded. “I think it went pretty well,” he said. He could feel Ludwig looking at him but didn't return his glance. “I think he's on the hook.”

T
HEY HAD DRINKS IN
the bar area while they waited for a table. Ludwig and Radkovitch had bourbon, and Martin had a gin and tonic. It was too loud to do much but look around at the other people. Ludwig saw some friends and wandered away, signaling that he'd be back.

A minute later Martin and Radkovitch were seated at a table, back in the far corner of the big dining room. It was actually best that Ludwig wasn't around. Maybe he'd known that, and that was why he'd drifted away—but probably not.

Martin knew he was supposed to chat with Radkovitch, break the ice a little bit, but he wasn't up for small talk. He was more nervous than he'd realized—if the Wells Fargo guys had said no, he was in a lot of trouble. Sure, Val's money helped, but it wasn't enough. He'd have to set up a daily shuttle to and from Mexico to get out of the hole he was in.

He looked across the table at Radkovitch, but he didn't know where to begin. He felt tired, suddenly—as if he'd reached the end of a long journey. He was returning to his home city, one he'd been told was under siege. It had been surrounded for weeks by an invading army of Huns, and reinforcements and supplies were badly needed. People were dying in the city—not just soldiers, but women and children. His wife and his children. They were looking at total annihilation. The problem was that he knew he might be arriving too late, after the city had been sacked, and after his family and friends had been slaughtered or maybe carried away into slavery and misery.

“Okay, so, Anton,” Martin said. “How'd it go today? You know, with Wells Fargo and everything?”

Radkovitch shrugged and glanced away, off at the crowd at the bar. Martin followed his gaze (no sign of Ludwig), then looked back at Radkovitch.

“Well,” Radkovitch said. He paused, and Martin could tell he was thinking about how to proceed. “Not great. It didn't go so well.”

Radkovitch looked down at the table, then up at Martin. He tried to
give Martin a reassuring look, a kind of half smile, but it looked more like a wince. Martin felt a little bit sick, suddenly.

“Not great?” Martin asked, echoing Radkovitch. “It didn't go so well?” It was quieter at the table than it had been at the bar, but it was still hard to hear perfectly well. “I thought you said that they liked the look of things. What the fuck, Anton? What happened?”

Radkovitch shrugged again. He coughed, took a sip of his drink. He wiped a little bit of sweat off of his forehead. Martin could see that this was making Radkovitch uncomfortable.

“If you'll recall,” Radkovitch said, “what I actually told you was that I wasn't really sure—wasn't one hundred percent sure—what they'd say. That it wasn't a sure thing. I know I told you that.”

Martin rolled his eyes. He knew he was being theatrical, but he couldn't help it. What right did he have to be surprised? His business was in the shit can. He was buried under mountains of debt. Of course they'd said no. But he felt indignant anyway. Outraged, even.

“What the hell am I paying you for?” he asked. Or yelled—it seemed as if the restaurant was getting louder by the minute. He should have chosen a better place to meet, but this was his safe zone. Or so he'd thought.

Radkovitch shook his head. He looked like he was about to respond to Martin when the waitress walked up to their table, and so he stopped himself, leaned back and waited. Martin recognized her, and thought she might recognize him as well, if only vaguely. He was pretty sure she was a student of some sort. Kind of attractive. Blond. A little on the thin side. Maybe an athlete. Martin felt the urge to reach out and hug her, pull her onto his lap—not in a sexual way, but to soak up some of her youth and potential.