by Alan Cook
Chapter 8
The one-story Emerge building wasn't large, but it was conspicuous
because of its orange color. Parking is at a premium in Santa Monica,
but one of the metered spots in front was open so I pulled in there.
I put a quarter in the slot, even though I only expected to be five
minutes, because the risk of getting a ticket costing a hundred times
that much wasn't worth it. Not that I hadn't taken the risk in the past.
I had been cured because I had received a $25 ticket at a meter near
the Trader Joe's Market in Redondo Beach after years of saying "It won't
happen to me."
I went inside and said hi to the young man at the desk, a former client.
He was now well dressed, well groomed and articulate. Several of the
current clients were using the telephones provided to aid them in job
searches. There were both men and women; on any day they represented
a cross-section of the many ethnic groups that have found their way to
Southern California.
The dress of the clients ranged from hip to homeless, with most nearer
the lower end of the scale, and I had once helped a client who carried
a duffle bag and a strong aroma with him. The bag probably contained
all his possessions, in spite of the fact that clients were supposed to
have at least a shelter to stay at and not be on the streets.
I walked on to the computer area, which was my specialty. I'm sure I
inherited my computer aptitude from my father, although I would never
tell him that. I recognized one of the clients who was working on a
resume because I had helped him the previous week, a man by the name
of Pat Wong.
I went over to him and said, "Hi, Pat, is the computer behaving itself
today?"
"Hi, Karl, everything is fine. Take a look at what I've done."
He picked up a copy of his resume from the laser printer, which was
shared by several computers, and handed it to me. I glanced over
it. It was well laid out, using Microsoft Word. Pat had prepared a
functional resume, not showing dates of employment, because, like
many of the clients, he had a big gap in his employment record. His
gap was five years; he had been in prison, convicted of dealing drugs.
"Looks good," I said, handing it back. "That ought to get you in the door."
"It already has, thanks to your help, and Ted who helped me write it.
I have an interview tomorrow."
"Congratulations! And good luck."
"Thanks."
Pat wanted to be an airport shuttle driver. I wondered whether a
company would take a chance on him since the job involved
handling money and required dependability. I hoped so.
I went on back to the area where Esther hung out. I said hello
to her three female staff members as I walked through, and
poked my head into her office. She was on the phone, as usual,
but she smiled and waved me in. I sat down on an extra chair and
looked at the pictures of her four-year-old son, Emilio. She
shared custody of him with her former husband. There were also
several drawings by him on her corkboard. The rest of the office
showed the clutter of a creative mind.
Esther hung up the phone and stood up. I also stood and we
hugged briefly.
She said, "I'm glad you came. It gives me an excuse to get away
from the office for a while and I'm famished."
She gave some instructions to her staff and then we walked back
through the building and out the front door.
When she saw the Mercedes she said, "You know, Karl, for
someone with no visible means of support, you sure drive
fancy cars. If I didn't know better I'd suspect you were a car
thief."
"I didn't want to tell you before," I said, opening the door for
her. "I was afraid it would prejudice you against me."
# # # #
The small cafe near Wilshire Boulevard served tasty sandwiches,
some with natural ingredients, whatever that means. They must
be good because they were expensive.
I paid for our lunches. Esther was always willing to pay her
share, and even mine, but I felt guilty taking her money
because she was providing half the support for a son and I
had no dependents and few expenses.
We sat outside at a small metal table, protected from the
Los Angeles weather by transparent glass shields. The breeze
was usually cool near the beach but the Santa Ana winds had
warmed up the air to the point where we would have been
comfortable out in the open, even with our thin California blood.
Esther wore a long skirt, with a slit up the side that revealed
flashes of her shapely legs as she moved. When she was
concentrating on something she had a habit of playing with
her skirt, sometimes pulling it up above her knees, which was
more enticing than if she'd been wearing a mini.
Her long hair was auburn, not uncommon for someone of Hispanic
origin, as I'd discovered, and she even had some freckles. Her
smile would melt asbestos.
I sipped iced tea and watched her expressive face while we
waited for our sandwiches.
She caught me looking at her and said, "Why so quiet today,
Karl? Your job is to amuse me and keep my mind off work."
"Sorry," I said. "But allow me one question. Is everything
falling into place for the big event Saturday?"
The annual fundraiser was expected to bring in several hundred
thousand dollars. The planning for it fell on the shoulders of
Esther and her staff.
"It's a circus. If I'm not good company it's because I was up
until six this morning writing descriptions for the silent auction.
The computer was giving me fits."
"Did you get any sleep at all?"
"I went home and caught a couple of hours before I came back in."
It seemed that everybody had gotten less sleep than I had. I
said, "And I thought I had problems. You should have called me
to help with the computer." Of course I had been in
San Francisco.
"Next time I will. Tell me about your problems."
"I won't bore you with them. All I want is unconditional love right
now."
"I'll give you an unconditional hickey if you don't tell me. You know
everything about me and I know nothing about you."
The hickey sounded good, but I could tell from the sound of her
voice and the fire in her eyes that I had better start talking. I
hadn't told her who my father was because I wanted to distance
myself from him. Emerge was my project. My father had his
foundation and if he liked an organization he might donate
thousands of dollars to it. Then he would be made a member of its
Golden Circle and be invited to sit at a front table for fundraisers,
etc. etc. If he found out about Emerge he could with a stroke of
his pen, completely overshadow my poor efforts.
I said, "Okay, I'll tell you my story if you'll promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"You won't contact my father or put him on your mailing list.
You have everybody in the entertainment industry on your
mailing list as it is; you don't need my father."
"I take it from what you just said that you don't exactly come
from a poverty-stricken background. It may shock and distress
you, but I'd already figured that out."
Once I got started I couldn't stop. I told her about my father
and how I lived in the guest house, rent free, but I helped to
take care of the cars, house and grounds, including hiring pool
cleaners, gardeners, painters, plumbers, etc. Jacie handled Luz,
the housekeeper, but I was careful to maintain her friendship. I
told Esther about some of my dealings with Jacie; that made
her laugh.
"But my father doesn't give me an allowance, if that's what
you're thinking," I said after I'd finished the other stuff.
"I wasn't thinking anything," Esther said, taking my hand.
"Don't be so paranoid."
"My baseball card business is getting better all the time."
"I'm sure it is. Now tell me what you've been doing for the last
24 hours."
I had alluded to my trip to San Francisco. I might as well tell her.
For it to make sense I had to tell her everything so I gave her a
detailed account. When I got to the part about Ned's death, she
gasped and two tears ran down her cheeks. I said, "I'm sorry,
Esther. This isn't making you laugh like I'm supposed to be doing.
It's not good lunch-time talk."
"No, no," she said, taking my hand again. "This is your life. I want
to hear it."
I continued my story, and finally concluded by telling about
the meeting with my father and Arrow. When I had finished
with the details of the meeting I said, without planning it,
"And then my father thanked me and arranged to pay me for
my time, just as if I were one of his employees. And then
he...dismissed me and went back to work." I lapsed into silence.
Esther squeezed my hand and said, "It hurts, doesn't it."
"Well, now that I've got your sympathy, could you lend me a
million dollars?" I said, trying to break the lugubrious spell. I
looked at my watch. "My God! It's almost 3:15. I've got to
get you back."
Esther looked at her own watch and said, "You know what?
I really don't feel like going back to Emerge. I think I've done
enough for one day."
"What? The workaholic takes time off?"
"I will under one condition," she said, punching the number of
her office into her cell phone. "Come with me to my apartment.
My ex is taking care of Emilio. I want to take a hot bath. And I
need somebody to wash my back-and my front."
# # # #
I awoke with a very pleasant aroma assailing my nostrils. It took
me a few seconds to figure out that the aroma came from Esther
and that we were tangled together in the form of a knot tied by
an amateur. I lifted my head. The sunlight coming in through the
south-facing window slanted sharply from the west. It must be
late afternoon.
I looked down again. My eyes were inches from her left nipple,
which was surrounded by a perfect aureole. I knew that from past
experience because my farsighted eyes couldn't focus on it.
However, I couldn't resist taking a taste. She stirred, but didn't
awaken. One taste is never enough, but I had to use the
bathroom and something was nagging at the back of my mind.
I carefully untangled myself from Esther. She smiled but slept on.
I searched for my watch, walking around the small bedroom a
couple of times, and finally found it in one of my shoes. The
time was five minutes to six. Six! I was supposed to pick my
father up at six.
I grabbed the cordless phone beside the bed and took it into the
hall so as not to bother Esther. I punched my father's work number.
After two rings he answered with one word: "Patterson."
"Dad!" I said. "I'm supposed to pick you up at six."
"That's what I'm expecting. Where are you?"
"Um...in west LA, near UCLA."
There was a pause during which I wished I could assure him
that I'd be there in five minutes instead of a rush hour 45.
"I'll call Jacie and have her come," he finally said.
It would have been easier to take if he had yelled at me. I
hung up, feeling the chill. I walked back into the bedroom
with my head down. Esther was awake and looking at me.
"Trouble?" she asked.
"Of my own making."
She held out her arms. "I'll make it all better."
She was totally uncovered. What could I do?
# # # #
At eight o'clock we ordered a pizza to be delivered. By nine
o'clock we were dressed and I was functioning almost like
a human being. It occurred to me that I hadn't checked my
telephone messages at home for well over 24 hours.
I checked them using Esther's phone. There were three. Two
were of minor consequence. The third was from Detective
Washington, San Francisco Police Department. She said, "Mr.
Patterson, I need to talk to you as soon as possible. Please
call me." She gave a number but said she was working the day
shift the next few days. She probably wouldn't be there now.
When I hung up, Esther, who was making a career out of reading
my face, said, "More trouble?"
I told her about the call.
She said, "It's probably nothing. She wants to fill you in on what's
happening."
"Detective Washington isn't the type of person who calls people
just to chat. I'd better leave now so I can call her from home
first thing in the morning."
"Must you?"
The way Esther kissed me at the door almost melted my resolve.
I finally had to break away and go--fast.
Aces and Knaves copyright ©2002 Alan L. Cook
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