Three-Martini Lunch (26 page)

“Ain't she a beaut?” Bill said as we approached a very shiny four-door, two-tone red-and-white Ford Fairlane parked at the curb.

I composed a few excuses and tested them out silently in my head, but I cringed when I pictured delivering any of them to Joey, flashing back to the expression of betrayed disappointment I'd glimpsed on the young man's face at the Hamilton Lodge Ball. I had only just met Joey, but for reasons I didn't quite understand, I couldn't stand the thought of seeing that same expression appear on his face. I would go along, I decided—for now.

I climbed into Bill's shiny Ford, Joey on my heels and the whiskey and
jazz from the club swirling in my head. The engine growled to life and we rolled down the windows to breathe in the cool, fog-laden night air.

We drove all over the city that night. It was a kind of alcohol-fueled informal tour, and the reason when I think of San Francisco now, I feel instantly light-headed and see a ghostly blur of neon from the all lights on Broadway and Geary. Someone—I can't remember which of those boys now—cooked up the crazy idea that we should take the car down Lombard Street. It was one o'clock in the morning and the tourists who usually swarmed all over Lombard were absent, the unusual stretch of street looking like an abandoned playground. I can recall us hooting and hollering with terror as we crested the hill and dropped down into the stretch of redbrick switchbacks that are known to make up “the Crookedest Street in America.”

“Let's do it again,” Joey cheered, once we had reached the bottom of the street. “Loop around, and let's take turns. We'll each try to go as fast as we can, and we can see who drives it best.” Had anyone else suggested it, I am certain Bill would've frowned and denied the request. But as I watched him turn to face Joey, proud of the excitement he had instilled in the beautiful boy that Joey was, it was plain that Bill was hungry to do anything that would produce more of that effect, and soon enough we were at the top of the hill again. Someone called out, “Chinese fire drill!” and we all jumped out, ran around the car clockwise, and jumped back in, this time with Joey behind the wheel.

Joey piloted us down the hill without incident, save for one little bump of the right front tire to the curb as he turned down the second switchback. He hadn't driven it any faster than Bill had, but we all cheered him at the bottom; very likely our motivations were more invested in seeing his radiant face illuminate again than to congratulate him on his mediocre driving skills. After Joey, Eddie was given a turn, and then Donald. Donald took his watch off and the four of them passed it around in order to time one another, each of them trying to top one another's speed. Eddie turned
out to be an expert driver; Donald was not. I'm fairly certain there was a potted plant in some kind of Grecian-looking urn in front of one of those elaborate Victorian homes that didn't wholly survive our misadventure that night. At one point a police car came trolling around, the officers peering into our automobile with disapproving eyes, debating whether to pull us over for cruising. It was clear they had their suspicions about a car full of men. We drove away for a little while, until Joey insisted we go back.

Bill's interest in the activity dwindled along with his enthusiasm for each successive driver, and by the time Donald had completed his descent and returned us to the top of the hill, Bill was done with the business of letting other men put minor dings and dents on the great shiny body of his treasured Fairlane.

“Awright,” he said. “Enough's enough. Let's go see about a li'l house-party I heard about over in the Mission.”

“Wait a minute,” Joey said. “Miles hasn't had his turn.”

“
Miles
doesn't need a turn, do you,
Miles
?” Bill said, not turning around to look at me where I sat in the backseat.

“Suppose not,” I said. In truth, I hadn't wanted one.

“See? Miles forfeits his turn. Now let's get to that party.”

“He can't forfeit,” Joey insisted. He was sitting next to me and reached over to squeeze my hand. I felt a strange jolt of electricity. “I want to see him drive it. Let's just go down one more time.”

Bill sighed, and this time he
did
turn around. He gave me a good once-over, glaring at me from the front seat. His eyes found the place where Joey's hand remained on my own, and then rested there. He pursed his lips in bitterness. I tried my best to signal my innocence, that he was mistaken about me, but he took little notice.

“Does he even know how to drive a car?” Bill asked aloud, as if I weren't present.

“Only one way to find out,” Joey said, turning to me and winking.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bill said. “Fine. Let's get this over with. I can't believe I'm putting up with this cockamamie idea.”

“Why don't you want to let him drive?” Joey pursued.

“I think you know why.”

“What's the big deal, Bill?” Donald asked. “Negros have been driving us around in cars for ages. One more night isn't going to hurt any.”

Bill was pleased by the demeaning comment, for he guffawed loudly. “Hah. All right, fine; I give. Everybody out!”

We got out and switched places. But by then the atmosphere had changed. There was no giddy dashing about the car and joyous slamming of doors. We simply got out and marched in a somber circle. I climbed into the driver's seat, aware of Bill sliding into the backseat directly behind me. The car doors clicked shut and Bill leaned over my shoulder, his hot breath spilling over my neck.

“You'd better damn well know how to drive, boy,” he growled.

“Look, fellas, I really don't have to do this,” I said. I tried to make my voice as relaxed and friendly as I could manage.

“Yes, you do,” said Joey. “I've got my money riding on you being the best driver here.”

“Oh yeah? Is that so?” Bill turned to where Joey sat next to me in the front passenger seat. “You want to put something on it in earnest?”

“Sure,” Joey said. “Why not?” His grin masked what I took to be a belligerent note in his voice.

“What d'ya say to a hunnerd bucks?”

“I say swell. Got yourself a bet,” Joey replied. I had watched Joey count the dollars in his money clip only a couple of hours ago, and then watched him spend most of that amount. It was clear everyone in the car was also privy to this fact, and it occurred to me that Bill was somehow depending upon it. I shuddered to imagine how Bill might try to collect a substitute payment. But Joey only winked at me. I widened my eyes back in return. What did he think I could do, and why?

I wrapped my hands around the cold lacquered plastic of the steering wheel. We'd had the whole zig-zag stretch of Lombard to ourselves for the better part of the evening, but now a family of tourists had turned up to have a go at it. I decided it was best to wait until they had cleared the steep switchbacks entirely before embarking.

“Day-trippers,” Donald declared disdainfully. He squinted to get a better look at the dilapidated car. “Oh, Lord help us. Probably from the Central Valley. It's almost two a.m., and they're too cheap to stay overnight in the city, so they're cramming all the sights into one day.” The car reached the bottom of the hill and hesitated, finally turning off onto Leavenworth.

I took a breath. The truth was, this was only my seventh time behind the wheel of a car in the course of my entire life. My family had neither the money nor the need for a car. The subway took us everywhere we could hope to go. In fact, it was only by virtue of an uncle who fulfilled his promise to my dying father by once a year making the long road-trip into the city from Detroit to check on our family in New York that I'd been taught how to drive at all. I closed my eyes and said a prayer. I'd decided the best I could hope for was that I would not cause any major damage to an automobile I could not afford to repair. I had a sudden flash of Marcus, the brother I'd never met, whose photograph I'd nearly bored holes into with my eyes growing up.

All at once, as though it were not connected to me, my foot abruptly lifted from the brake pedal and slammed on the gas. A terrified silence fell over the car as we flew forward and plunged downward, first this way, then that. At some point I was dimly aware of my feet riding both the gas and brake at the same time. Joey's hand gripped my upper arm; this time it was less a gesture of support and more the brute vise grip of fear. The car moved like a skier slaloming down a slope without incident, and although the endeavor was filled with enough anxiety to last a year, in truth the whole thing took mere seconds. When I reached the bottom I felt my
foot slam down the brake only, and I reached behind the steering wheel to wrench the car into park. The car rocked roughly on its tires and came to a standstill.

It was silent, save for the sound of the men gasping as they caught their breath.

“Ho-leee shit!” Eddie exclaimed. He reached over the seat, gave a quick clap upon my back, then squeezed Joey's shoulder. “Holy shit, man! I think you just won yourself a hundred bucks!”

“I'd say so,” Donald said. I caught a glance of Bill in the rearview mirror. His mouth had rolled into a firm line, and he seemed less than pleased with the result of my efforts. At that moment I understood I had been a fool not to realize that putting a dent in his Fairlane was not the worst thing I could've done.

“We never shook on it, and you know that means it ain't really a deal, but I'll give you your money anyway,” he said.

Still exhilarated, Joey took no notice of Bill's sneer. “Did I
tell
you or did I tell you?” he grinned, talking to everyone and no one in particular. He turned to me, awkwardly squeezing my shoulder in happiness. “Say, I ought to split my winnings with you.”

The thought of my collecting fifty of the begrudged one hundred dollars proved too much for Bill. I noticed his eye beginning to twitch with angry irritation. His temples bulged as his jaw worked.

“All right, everybody back out! Time to gimme back my rightful seat,” he said. He opened the car door and the rest of us automatically followed suit. “Quick, quick!” he commanded, and everyone stepped faster, double-timing it around the Fairlane for one last ridiculous Chinese fire drill. During all the previous intervals when we had scurried around the car like a tiny colony of confused ants, I had been the last to climb back into the vehicle, not wanting to take a seat until I could be sure I wasn't getting in anybody's way. This time was no exception. One by one, car doors slammed shut as I belabored my steps slightly more than the others and looked
for the single remaining seat. I saw my place was now in the backseat and I reached for the door handle. But before I was able to depress the button, Bill stuck his head out the driver's-side window.

“Too bad you can't run as fast as you drive, darkie!” he yelled. Suddenly I heard the engine of the Fairlane give a tremendous roar. The tires squealed, and as the car peeled out I tried to release and pull my hand away but I was not quick enough. I felt it nearly rip at the wrist.

I cried out involuntarily from the pain, reactively tucking my injured hand in my opposite armpit and squeezing it tightly there in some sort of gesture meant to stave off the excruciating discomfort as it radiated up and down my nerves. I watched the taillights of Bill's Fairlane recede. They moved off like a pair of glowing red eyes floating into the dark, foggy night as the automobile sped away. The air immediately around me was thick with the sickening scent of burned rubber, and I glanced down to observe two distinct black streaks on the pavement that had been left behind by Bill's tires. I stood there blinking, partly from surprise and partly from the involuntary tears that had sprung to my eyes as a result of my injured hand.

So
,
I thought. They had left me. My heart still thudding hot in my chest, I inhaled a deep lungful of cool, wet air. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and somewhere else a mourning dove hooted its haunting, owl-like cry. I hurried homeward, hoping not to cross paths with the police cruiser again before I made it back to my hotel.

A
bout a week or so passed. I put the automobile incident behind me and refocused my energies on hunting down my father's locker. Try as I might, I was still hard-pressed to get on base. The guards were unfriendly, consistently meeting my inquiries with a brusque, firm indifference. The money I'd saved was dwindling; I began to brace myself with the thought of returning to New York empty-handed after all.

Then one morning I rose, shaved, dressed myself, and ambled down the hotel stairs, passing by the man who tended the front desk. He was a burly man with a heavy mustache and I felt vaguely sorry for him whenever I saw him, for he was obliged to sit in a bizarre little windowed enclosure, the kind that resembled a movie theater ticket booth. It had been painted burgundy and framed up with gilded woodwork, as though to distract from the fact it had obviously been put in place by a wary manager worried about robbery. I usually gave the morning clerk an impersonal, apologetic nod and continued on my way, but that morning as I made my
way to the front door he startled me as he rapped on the glass with his knuckles.

“Mr. Tillman,” he called in a gruff voice through the circular speaking hole in the window. I turned and doubled back upon hearing my name.

“Yes?”

“Message for ya,” he grunted. He slid a slip of paper under the window, then took a deep sip from a dirty-looking mug and reached up to wipe a few beads of coffee from his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. I picked up the paper and read it.

Aha! Found you.

Meet me at the coffee shop around the corner when you're ready.

—Joey

I blinked and reread the message.

“When did my friend leave this?” I asked.

“'Bout an hour ago.” The clerk shrugged.

“Thanks.” I hurried out the door and half-stumbled around the corner. There was Joey, sitting in the window of the coffee shop. I slowed down as I drew near, hesitated, then knocked on the glass. He looked up, surprised. All at once, his face broke out in a wide, familiar grin and another jolt of electricity went through me. He waved at me to come inside, and I walked to the coffee shop's entrance, crossed the room, and slid into the seat opposite him.

“You weren't an easy man to find,” he said once I'd settled into the booth. “I only had a first name to go on. And your description, of course. Thankfully, your—
ahem
—hotel doesn't seem too concerned about the privacy of its guests.”

“You looked for me?”

“All over the city,” he said. “Listen,” he said, suddenly turning serious and glancing at the bandage around my injured hand as he leaned over the
table. “It weighed heavy on me. I want to apologize for the fellas' behavior the other night . . . You know, for driving off. That kind of business wasn't my idea, and I really had it out with Bill after that. I convinced him to go back for you, but by the time we did, you were long gone.”

I ought to have been leery of seeing him again. The night in Bill's Fairlane had reminded me of Cliff's party and of Rusty. The bruises from the latter incident had finally vanished only a few days ago. I knew at that point I should simply thank Joey for the apology and go, but for some reason I felt tethered to the booth.

“I'd like to make it up to you,” Joey said.

“Not necessary.”

“Well, I'd like to buy you breakfast, at least. Would you stay for breakfast?”

I tried to form the words
No, thank you
but they felt thick in my throat. I'd been walking around the city, passing entire days without exchanging more than five words with anybody, and I realized it felt good to talk to someone. My nostrils were already full of the rich smells of a good diner breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes, maple syrup. My mouth watered in spite of me.

“I suppose breakfast wouldn't hurt,” I relented.

A woman with tobacco-tinted skin and a pencil tucked behind one ear eventually wandered over to refill Joey's coffee and we ordered.

“What brings you all the way from New York to San Francisco?” Joey asked once she had gone. “Besides your infamous insect safari, of course.”

I smiled and thought of how to answer. Before I knew it, I was explaining about my father, about his locker and the alleged journal it contained, and about my frustrations getting on base. “I just don't know what to do,” I said, shaking my head.

“But there's something else, too,” he said once I'd finished explaining my mission. “Isn't there?”

“What do you mean?”

“About this business with your father's locker. Holding you back. You seem”—he searched for the right word—“like you're of two minds. Like you're frustrated, sure, but also a tiny bit relieved.”

I stared at him. I had never considered myself half so transparent; he hardly knew me. “Well . . .” I began to answer. Out came the rest of it. I told him about Clarence, and about the doubt Clarence had managed to plant in my mind. Joey sat at the diner table, sopping up eggs over-easy with the crusts of mildly burnt toast, while I talked more in forty minutes than I had in weeks. There was something in the way he posed a question and followed it up with a generous pause, I think, that drew me out. I had never noticed all the pauses that were missing from most people's conversations. Years later, I wondered if Joey's beautiful pauses had something to do with his being from the South and the slower pace of Southern life, but I realize now this was an oversimplification. It was not only that Joey paused but that he paused
for me
, with a kind smile on his lips, sincerely waiting for my answers.

By the time Joey had sopped up the last bit of egg yolk with a final bit of toast, I had relayed every detail I'd ever known about my father, laying it all out in a jumble as though dumping a box of jigsaw puzzle pieces on the table.

“I'll help you,” he said, pulling a dollar bill from his wallet and settling the check. “It's pretty clear this is a moment you'll regret for the rest of your life if you don't try a little harder. What you need is a good, swift kick in the ass.” He looked at me and dropped the comedy routine. Gone was the mischievous flirt from the night at the jazz club one week ago, the impulsive kid who wanted to drive down that tiny, treacherous block of Lombard Street at top speed. “I'd like to help you look,” he repeated, this time in a more serious tone. “If you'll let me.”

I stared at him. “I'm certain you have better things to do,” I said. I smiled, hoping to signal that he was off the hook, that this gesture wasn't necessary.

“Honestly, I haven't,” he said. He grinned. “I just got out of the Army and I'm killing time, waiting around to hear about a job with the State Department.”

I blinked.

“Don't you see? That's the best part: I've got all the time in the world, and to top it off, I can help you get on base, maybe poke around and ask a few questions to see if anyone remembers your old man or has any records. If you're smart, you'll take me up on my offer.” He winked. I thought about it. It was true he was offering an advantage in that he was an ex-soldier: He would be able to get on base, which I, so far, had been unable to do.

I clenched my jaw and swallowed, unsure.

“All right” was all I finally said. We shook hands as though to seal the deal and made our way out of the diner and onto the street, where the sun beat down brilliantly on the bright, chalk-colored sidewalk. It was funny: You always held your breath in the mornings in that city, waiting to find out whether the sun would finally break through the fog, and when.