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Authors: Charles Mathes

BOOK: The Girl Who Remembered the Snow
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Suddenly everything that Emma had been trying to forget from the past week crashed down on her: her grandfather's cold gray face at the morgue; the endless questions from the police; those horrible first few nights in the house alone, listening for Pépé's footsteps, knowing they would never come again.
It was too much. Emma sat down cross-legged on the floor beneath the pay phone, trying not to cry.
It was ironic, she thought. This was precisely one of those times she would have called him. When everything was going wrong on a job, her grandfather was the only one who could make everything seem better.
“Is not this the beautiful college graduate who makes men to disappear with her smile?” Pépé would have said when he got her anxious call. “But how could there be anything so grand as to bother her? What problem would not tremble in his shoes at such a pretty sight?”
Somehow it had always been all that Emma had needed, just to hear the pride in her grandfather's voice, to imagine the twinkle in his eye. She'd go back and fix the sound system or the lights or the equipment. She'd pretend she wasn't worried about the endless
little details that made up this exhausting, thankless business.
But there was no one to call now.
What was she doing here? Emma asked herself, burying her head in her hands. What was the point? It was always like this. If it wasn't missing crates and no-show dogs, it was clients whose checks bounced and drunken hecklers. And for what? So she could go out onstage for an hour with her stomach in knots, bracing herself against the ten thousand things that could go wrong? What kind of life was that for a person? Where was the fun? Where was the magic?
“Why the long face, little lady?”
Emma lifted her eyes off the floor and found herself staring at a tooled-leather cowboy boot emblazoned with the name ED in gold letters. She thought that maybe if she kept very still it would walk away by itself. It didn't.
“You lost, honey? Is there something that Big Ed can do for you?”
Big Ed had squatted down now, and Emma found herself staring at a man in his indeterminate forties wearing a cowboy hat. She could instantly see why he was called Big Ed. He was built like a refrigerator, had several more chins than anyone could possibly use, and was flashing a smile as wide as all outdoors.
“Got a dog, Ed?” Emma asked weakly.
“Shucks, that all you need?”
“That's all. Just a dog. A big, smart dog.”
“Hell, I got me the biggest, smartest dog in Phoenix. This dog is the biggest thing since Pepsi Cola. This dog is so smart, I can't let him fetch me my newspaper in the morning anymore.”
Emma knew she shouldn't ask, but after ten seconds of silence she couldn't stand it.
“All right, I'll bite. Why can't you let him fetch your paper anymore?”
“'Cause when he reads it, he leaves it all dog-eared.”
“That's very funny.”
“Well, it does kind of give you pause. P-A-W-S? Get it?”
“I got it,” said Emma, trying to smile.
“Then you got a real sense of humor, you know that, little lady?” said Big Ed, sitting down beside her. “I like that in a representative of the fairer sex. You don't mind if I sit down here for a spell, and join you, do you? Now don't worry. I promise I won't sell you a Chevrolet.”
“This is something I should be worried about?”
“Hell, girl, you're looking at none other than Big Ed Garalachek, the top Chevy salesman in all of Phoenix. Big Ed's the Chevy King. But, like I say, I'm just sitting down here 'cause I'm weary, though I must admit you get a pretty nice view from this angle. Would you look at the legs on that little filly over yonder, yee-haw.”
“Yee-haw,” agreed Emma.
“And who might I be having the pleasure of addressing, if I can be so bold as to inquire?”
“Emma Passant,” said Emma after a moment, too proud to give him a phony name, as all her instincts screamed for her to.
“Please to meet you, Emma Passant,” said Big Ed, tipping his big hat. “Gorgeous name for a gorgeous gal. They call me Big Ed.”
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Ed, but …”
“Now I'm gonna tell you the truth, little lady, 'cause I want us to be friends. Don't be fooled by this getup. I'm not really a cowboy—I actually got a year of dental school under my belt. It didn't work out, though. My hands was too big to fit properly into people's mouths. See, I want us to start out on a honest basis. Honest Big Ed Garalachek, the Chevy King, that's what they call me. What about you? You come here often?”
“This is my first time, actually, and now I really have to get back to—”
“How ‘bout you letting me show you around then? I know this hotel like I know the trunk dimensions of a Caprice. It's a great
place to meet people, to see and be seen. C'mon. I'll show you all the sights. You seen the pool yet?”
“No, and it's really very kind of you to offer, Big Ed, but I think I'll have to pass.”
Ed didn't answer right away. For the first time since he had sat down, his big smile disappeared.
“What you really mean is you don't think you'd care to have anything to do with a fat old Chevy salesman like me,” he finally said, shaking his head.
“No, that's not it.”
“Oh, don't worry, Emma honey, it ain't your fault. That's the way it always goes for Big Ed. Lucky at cars, unlucky at love, like the saying goes. It's okay, though. Takes a lot to break a big ol' heart like mine. Guess I'll be seeing you around.”
Big Ed started to struggle to his feet. Emma stopped him with a hand on his sleeve.
“You really have a dog, Ed?” she said. She knew that this crazy idea really was a crazy idea. But what choice did she have?
“Sure do,” said Ed, sitting back down, his smile returning, bigger than ever.
“And he's really smart?”
“Sure is.”
“And he's really big?”
“Little lady, to me, Lionel is the single biggest thing in this whole sweet mystery of life.”
“Would you consider renting him?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Would you consider renting Lionel to a very nice and highly responsible woman magician? I need a big smart dog for a show I'm doing here tomorrow night.”
Ed sat back and regarded Emma with a mixture of skepticism and awe.
“You funnin' me,” he finally exclaimed. “You really a magician?”
“You really a Chevy salesman?”
“If that ain't the darnedest thing,” cackled the Chevy King, actually slapping his knee. “I knew there was something special going on here when I sat down, I just knew it. And now I know what it is. It's magic! That's what it is. Pure unadulterated magic!”
“So what do you say, Ed?” said Emma, leaning forward. “Would you rent me Lionel?”
“Well, that all depends,” said Big Ed, massaging his chins.
“Depends on what?”
“On what you're offering for Lionel's services.”
“Well, the usual fee is a hundred dollars,” said Emma. “How does that sound?”
“Hell, I don't want your money,” said Ed, rearing back with indignation. “I got all the money I need. Besides, I don't like to take money from a lady. Unless she's buying a Chevrolet, of course.”
“I'm not going to buy a Chevrolet, Ed.”
Ed smiled sheepishly.
“How 'bout your having a little drink with me, then?”
“I'll tell you what,” said Emma. “If Lionel works out okay, I'll have two drinks with you. After the show tomorrow night. And I'll buy. What do you say?”
“I say you got yourself a deal, little lady,” exclaimed Big Ed, grabbing her hand and pumping it.
“How soon can you have Lionel here?” asked Emma, relieved. Maybe there really was some magic in the world. Maybe things were going to work out after all.
“No time at all,” said Big Ed with a big grin, reaching into the pocket of his coat. When he took out his hand, it was filled with a little brown Chihuahua. Before Emma could scream, cry or faint dead away, Lionel blinked sleepily and licked the end of her long, pointed nose.
 
 
T
he show that night was a smash.
Every trick worked perfectly. Emma got all her laughs and not a single proposition from a drunken guest. Sergio missed only two of his cues (a new record). Even Milt Stallings, the developer whose wife had thrown him the party and whom every speaker extolled as being the “toughest son of a bitch in the Southwest,” had a good time. Apparently he didn't attach much significance to his wife's celebrating his birthday by hiring a woman who made men disappear.
True to her bargain, Emma met Big Ed Garalachek for a drink after the show in the cocktail lounge. Emma had fixed it so he could watch the show from the light booth.
“Didn't I tell you Lionel had talent?” Big Ed exclaimed, taking the little Chihuahua into his big hands and exchanging sloppy wet kisses with him. “You gonna be a star, you know that, boy? We gonna sell the Chevy franchise and take you to Hollywood!”
“Maybe you should give that some more thought, Ed,” said Emma.
“What's to think about? You heard them cheering back there, didn't you?”
Emma had to admit that the Chihuahua had a lot of personality. The audience had screamed with laughter when Emma had pulled the drape from the trick cage to reveal Lionel where Sergio had been. The tiny dog had yapped happily, then jumped right through the bars of the cage into Emma's arms. The crowd had gone wild. A dozen people had appeared after the show asking for Lionel's paw print in their pieces of cake as a souvenir. Even the two comatose stagehands, whom the union required Emma to hire, had made a fuss over him.
Only Sergio had seemed unhappy, his dignity ruffled by having to be transformed into a pint-sized Chihuahua instead of the usual manly Saint Bernard. He had quickly found a peroxide of blonds to console himself with, however, at the party.
“You don't want that kind of life for Lionel, believe me,” said Emma as the waitress brought their margaritas.
“He's gonna be a star!”
“He's going to be stranded in the middle of Kansas because somebody cancels a booking at the last minute and refuses to pay. He's going to spend Christmas watching television in a Holiday Inn in Fort Worth.”
For the next half hour Emma recounted horror story after horror story of just how unglamorous a life in show business could be until Big Ed finally got the message.
“Well, I guess I don't want him fritterin' away his best years if it ain't no fun like you say,” said the Chevy King, gently scratching Lionel's ear. It was clear that he adored the little dog, who was presently taking a nap in the big man's pocket.
“It's a life I wouldn't wish on a dog,” said Emma. “As you can tell.”
“Then why'd you do it?”
“Very good question.”
After another drink Emma found herself talking about having
wanted to be a dancer and what it had been like for her growing up in San Francisco with only her grandfather. After the fourth margarita she promised to consider a Chevy from Big Ed for her next car. After the fifth, he declared he was going to name his first child after her, provided he ever found the little lady of his dreams.
On Sunday morning Emma awoke with a headache the size of one of those great Chevy trucks Big Ed had told her all about. Somehow she managed to make her way downstairs to one of the restaurants. The coffee wasn't as hot or as strong as she liked it, but Emma figured that this wasn't the time to try to cut down. Judging from the condition of her head, she would probably die soon anyway.
“Hi, Emma,” whispered a thunderous voice. “How you do?”
Emma struggled to pry her gaze off the piece of toast she had just buttered and which seemed to be throbbing. It was Sergio with one of the blondes from last night on his arm—a leggy girl of about twenty with a chest that rivaled his own and real-looking diamonds in her pierced ears. She was still wearing her dress from the night before—a seriously wrinkled designer original.
“I'm just great,” Emma croaked. “How are you?”
“Sergio going to be married,” he declared. The blonde smiled guiltily and looked at the floor.
“Don't lead the poor girl on, Sergio,” said Emma, rolling her eyes. They seemed to make a clanking noise. Or was that the butter melting?
“No, is true.”
Sergio's voice was strangely subdued and he wasn't wearing his usual morning-after smirk. In fact, he looked almost frightened. Emma suddenly realized that he might be telling the truth.
“That's great, Sergio,” she whispered, not knowing what else to say. “Congratulations.”
“This is Kiki,” said Sergio proudly. “She can do hundred onearm push-ups.”
Kiki stepped forward and shook Emma's hand. She had a grip like a nutcracker.
“I work out a lot,” said Kiki happily.
“Kiki think Sergio sensitive guy,” said Sergio.
“I know it's kind of sudden,” the girl went on, “but Sergie's what I've always dreamed about. And he really knows what he wants, don't you, Sergie?”
“Her father own big chain of supermarkets,” said Sergio, his normal cocky expression returning. “Drives Jaguar. You okay, Emma? You look bad.”
“No, I'm fine. I just had too much to drink last night and I'm not used to it. I'm very happy for you both. Really.”
“Don't worry, I get you other big lug to replace Sergio. Make calls. Not leave you up shitcreek.”
“That's okay, Sergio,” said Emma, turning her attention back to her throbbing piece of toast. “Maybe it's time for me to retire, anyway.”
“You not be magician?”
“It wouldn't be the same without you.”
“Ha, you kid Sergio,” said the giant, laughing. “You always be magician. You like when everything go wrong and you go crazy. But you please to come visit us between shows sometimes. Kiki's father have big ranch. Sergio learn to ride horse, yippy kai yay. Time to pack up crates now?”
“I think I'm going to need a few more minutes and about eight more cups of coffee.”
“You stay. Sergio no need help.”
“That's very nice of you, Sergio,” said Emma. The salt and pepper shakers were beginning to throb now, too.
“Sergio nice guy,” said Sergio. “Has great body and good looks. Soon will be rich, too.”
“Nice meeting you,” said Kiki as Sergio moved away, gesturing for her to follow. “And I really liked your show last night. You shouldn't retire just because of Sergie and me. You've really got
talent. You could do this the rest of your life.”
“That's what I'm afraid of,” whispered Emma as the girl ran to catch up with her dreams.
 
When Emma finally pulled into the driveway of Jacques Passant's Potrero Hill house on Sunday afternoon, the sky was the color of plums, and bright fingers of lightning laced through the heavy rain every few minutes.
She had felt strangely sad as she had given Sergio a final kiss on the cheek at the hotel before getting into a cab for the airport. It was hard to believe that she would probably never see the big ape again, never have to ad-lib a joke while he picked himself off the floor in the middle of a performance, never hear his headboard pounding endlessly against the wall in the next room after a show.
It was harder still to believe that she could really retire from performing and find another way to make a living. Emma was certainly ready to try. Just the thought of stepping out on another stage with a phony smile on her face and a brassiere full of colored handkerchiefs made her sick.
Only what else could she do? She'd wither in an office, and she hated people telling her what to do. Charlemagne Moussy, Jacques Passant's lawyer and oldest friend, had told Emma last week that there was some money in her grandfather's estate. Maybe she could buy a little flower shop or something. But what did she know about running a shop? What did she know about flowers, for that matter, other than how to make them pop out of her sleeve?
The flight up from Phoenix in the thunderstorm had been frightening. Emma was glad to be home.
Potrero Hill was a quiet neighborhood in San Francisco's southern half, where working-class people still made their homes despite soaring real estate prices and creeping gentrification. Emma's grandfather had bought the house years ago, when things were cheap. The two-story shingled structure featured three bedrooms,
a sliver of yard, and an attached one-car garage, where Jacques Passant had parked the Plymouth he would never use again.
Emma parked her own car in the drive as usual. Then she ran to the house through the pouring rain but was drenched before she managed to unlock the front door. The telephone maliciously stopped ringing the moment she got inside.
With the lights off and the storm roiling, the empty house felt lonely and menacing. Emma dropped her suitcase on the floor and went into the kitchen to check the answering machine. Nothing but hang-ups. A blast of thunder pealed outside in the storm. She reset the machine and went up to her room.
Occupying the back corner of the second floor and with windows on both sides, Emma's bedroom was normally the sunniest room in the house. Now rain beat on the windows and the dark fury of the storm made everything—the wicker dresser, the Eastlake chair, even the embroidered white duvet on her brass bed—look gray and lifeless.
The room was a mess, as usual. Emma automatically started to pick up a few of the paperback books that littered the floor by her bedside, then stopped. Jacques Passant wouldn't be poking his head in today, telling her to straighten up.
From every wall the eyes of children stared at her in the dim light. She had found the framed, hand-colored etchings in antique stores and thrift shops, though why she collected them she didn't really know. Both Emma's mother and grandmother had died in childbirth, so she wasn't particularly keen on the idea of motherhood.
Emma snapped on the light. The shadows disappeared, and the room suddenly became friendlier. She stripped off her wet clothes, wrapped herself in a white terry-cloth robe, and was drying her thick black hair with a towel when the phone rang again.
“I'm glad I finally caught up with you, Miz Passant,” drawled a man when she answered. “I've been trying to reach you.”
The raspy mellow voice belonged to Detective Benno Poteet of the San Francisco Police Department, who didn't sound nearly as short, fat, and bald over the telephone.
“I've been out of town,” Emma said, bracing herself. “Why didn't you leave a message? I would have called you back.”
“I hate them things. It's like you're having this stupid little conversation with yourself. You always rattle on like a idiot, and you know someone is going to hear the whole damnable thing. Hell, I don't even like the phone. I like to talk to folks face-toface.”
Detective Poteet had been the man who had broken the news to Emma about her grandfather, coming over to the house so he could tell her in person. He had been more than decent during all the trauma that followed—making runs to a diner so she wouldn't have to drink the police station's coffee, telling her all about his childhood in New Orleans—but Emma hadn't really wanted to hear his voice again. Had they found her grandfather's killer? Would there be a trial now, a filthy affair that would go on forever? Couldn't all the painful memories just be put to rest, as she had put Jacques Passant's ashes to rest in San Francisco Bay?
“So what can I do for you, Detective?” Emma asked in a very quiet, very tired voice.
“How long have you known Henri-Pierre Caraignac?” said Detective Poteet.
It was not a question Emma had expected, and it took her a moment to figure out who the policeman was talking about. The Frenchman. The man who had helped her on the ferry.
“I met him a few days ago,” she finally stammered as thunder clattered in the skies above and lightning lit up her windows. “Why?”
“Mind telling me the circumstances of your meeting?”
“We struck up a conversation on the Sausalito Ferry.”
“When exactly was this?”
“This past Friday morning.”
“Did he seek you out, approach you first?”
“No, I went up to him.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothing really,” said Emma, getting a little nervous. She certainly wasn't going to mention dropping her grandfather's ashes in the bay to Poteet and get busted. Had there been a witness? Was the handsome and elegant Henri-Pierre Caraignac a fink? What the hell was going on?
“You must have talked about something,” drawled Poteet. “Did he ask you about your grandfather?”
“No.”
“Your grandfather never came up in the conversation at all?”

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