The Very Thought of You (3 page)

“Of course not. Although you kind of hurt her feelings when you closed down her booth. She did you another favor.”

“What?” Apprehension colored Molly's tone. “I haven't asked for any favors.” She took a quick glance, then slapped her cards down onto the speckled green tin tabletop. Her aunt was into everything retro, including the chairs they occupied — stainless steel tubing with red vinyl seats. Ferns sprung from every corner of the kitchen and provided a tropical effect for the macramé birds that swooped across one wall. Before it became chic, she'd shopped at vintage clothing stores, which accounted for the floral bell-bottoms she wore that night — bell-bottoms almost identical to the ones she'd bought Molly for her last birthday. Those were secreted in a dark corner of Molly's closet and worn only when she was coerced into accompanying her aunt to the annual Love Parade.

“I know you didn't, dear. I did.”

“Aunt Vi … ” What had started as apprehension swooshed into alarm. “What are you up to?”

Vi flipped one of her brown gray-flecked braids over her shoulder. “When we spoke earlier, you said you wished you knew something more about Mr. Mancini, other than the plan to evict his tenants.”

“He hasn't evicted them, at least not yet. Anyway, how does that concern Trudie?” Molly cast a suspicious glance across the table. “Oh, my God.” Her aunt hadn't christened her friend the mole for nothing. Buried deep inside the Hall of Records, Trudie had access to all sorts of personal information.

“Your Mr. Mancini is thirty-six years old and was born right here in San Francisco at St. Luke's Hospital. His birthday is April twenty-ninth. He's a Taurus.”

“That's the kind of useless information I don't need.” Molly gathered her cards. “It would help to know what he's like inside.” She'd already decided the outside could stand up to anyone voted the Sexiest Man Alive.

“Taurus is a bull, sweetie.” Vi propped her elbows on the table and leaned toward Molly. “Either ride him until he's spent or chance getting gored by his horns.”

Molly frowned. What kind of advice was that?

“Did Trudie find out if he's married?” Dominique asked.

“What difference does it make if he's married?” Molly picked up her cards.

“Have you checked out the lack of availability of thirty-something eligible men in San Francisco lately?”

“No. Also, Aunt Vi, looking up that kind of information is an invasion of privacy, if not against the law. Tell Trudie to quit.”

“No problem. Anyway, if he were married or divorced, there's no record of it, at least in this county. Nor is there a deed for a private residence. We assume he's a renter, or worse, lives in the 'burbs. That's all Trudie could ferret out about him. Unless you want her to call a friend who works at the IRS.”

“Absolutely not. Trudie is liable to get you both arrested over information that's of no possible use.” Except, maybe, for his tax return. A peek at that would be as good as striking gold, but Molly kept that thought to herself.

“Molly is right, Mom. What's more important is finding affordable housing for Mr. Mancini's tenants. Once that's accomplished, who knows? She might take a second look at him then — if he's single.”

“Forget it.”

“Well, he sounds like a better deal than your last few dates. Remember the airline pilot?”

Molly had excised that particular loser from her brain. Not only had he taken her to a cheap restaurant, he'd made it very clear what he expected for dessert. She left him sitting at the table with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Just don't limit your options,” Dominique added. Molly groaned and switched her attention to the local newspaper she'd brought along. In between poker hands, she perused the unfurnished apartment ads in the
San Francisco Chronicle
. She had highlighted a few of interest with a felt tip pen.

“Listen to this.” She tapped the folded newspaper at her elbow. “Here's a one bedroom in the Tenderloin advertised for eight and a quarter. A find, if you weren't mugged almost every time you left the apartment.”

Dominique, who worked as a law librarian at a prestigious San Francisco firm, and who had promised to research the city's eviction laws, ran her fingers through her short-cropped dark hair. “On Sunday, drag Mr. Mancini to all the way-out-of-their-reach places first. Then head for the Tenderloin. The shock might force him to up the ante.”

“Did you broach the subject of the rumor he might have designs on your end of the street?” Vi asked.

Molly turned her attention to her poker hand — a pair of twos and junk. It looked like she'd end her day just as it had begun. She was already in the hole for eighty-five cents. “The mood wasn't conducive to multiple problems.”

“I wouldn't wait too long to find out, not if you'll need to relocate the clinic. Unlike his tenants, you'll be offered zilch.”

“Mom's right. Sometimes it pays to be up front. Maybe the rumor is false.”

Molly shook her head. “I don't think so. Except for his condos, the rest of the block looks ready for a bulldozer.”

Dominique tossed a dime into the pot. “Speaking of down-on-your-luck, is the Swaying Palms, that motel a couple of doors from the clinic, a hot pillow joint? I know I wouldn't lay my head down there.”

Molly kept her pair and added the rest to the discard pile. “No, it's legitimate. It just needs maintenance. The lights have quit in half of the fronds
and
the P. Now it reads Swaying
alms
. It's ripe for demolition.”

Vi dealt Molly three cards, Dominique two, and herself one.

Dominique checked out her cards, then laid them face down on the table. “I'll bet a dime. Anyone want to see what I've got?”

Molly frowned. There was nothing she could do with a pair of deuces. “I'm out.”

Vi folded her hand. “Ditto for me.”

Dominique raked in the pot and dealt the next round. “Let's play seven card stud. Threes and nines are wild and fours give you an extra card.”

Everyone anted up a nickel.

“So you think the rumors are true.” Vi peeked at her two hole cards.

“Eddie, the manager of the Swaying
alms
, caught Mr. Mancini taking pictures from across the street. Not only of the motel but the hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, the clinic, and the costume/novelty shop. He wasn't sure about any of the other properties on the block. Ever since the economy tanked and the mayor put the kibosh on the Halloween hijinks over in the Castro, the costume store has lost business. Eddie wasn't sure if the building that used to house the coffee shop next door to us at the corner had fallen victim to the camera. The units above it have been unoccupied for at least six months.”

Dominique dealt herself a four, which entitled her to an extra card, then dealt her mother a nine and Molly the inevitable deuce.

“The building department had almost a hundred years to find out those units were out of compliance.” Molly bet a nickel since she already had one deuce in the hole. “Now they've caught up to the current owner, you can bet he's anxious to unload the property. Perfect for Mr. Mancini but a nightmare for the clinic.”

Vi added her nickel to the pot. “He'll make a tidy profit when he finishes his condos and sells them. Enough to expand. The rumor is probably true.”

Molly wondered if the mole could do a record search to find out if any deeds had recently changed hands. She'd wait a while and see what else developed. If the clinic seemed in jeopardy, she'd ask her aunt to contact Trudie.

Dominique continued dealing. “His profit wouldn't be so big if he had to fork over a hundred grand per unit to his tenants. You didn't suggest that on purpose, did you, Molly?”

“Suggest what?”

“They turn down his twenty-five thousand and hold out for a hundred.”

Molly shook her head. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“It'll cost him a million dollars if they refuse to move for less. That would take a nice bite out of his profit margin.”

Molly sat back and stared at her cousin. “Oh, you have a wicked mind.” She laughed.

“What? You don't?”

“Not on a million-dollar scale. It never entered my head to try to stop the Mancini bulldozer. His tenants deserve a fair deal. When I offered my opinion, I thought only of them.”

“Maybe you should think of yourself more.”

“He can't buy up another chunk of the block for a million dollars.”

Vi picked up her mug of mulled cider. “It might be enough to float a bank loan for the motel and Chinese restaurant.”

“Or the costume store and clinic,” Dominique offered. “Maybe even the building that housed the defunct coffee shop, too. A triple whammy. He could anchor the block with new condos.”

“Ask him on Sunday,” Vi suggested.

Molly nodded. “First chance. I promise. Although, on Sunday it's important to keep his attention on his tenants.”

Dominique dealt the last face down card. “Did he strike you as a man with a limited attention span?”

“Not in the least.” Molly didn't find him limited in any respect other than his cavalier attitude.

She perused her cards. Even with all the wild threes and nines, she could only muster two pair.

Vi laid down a royal flush helped by three wild cards and raked in sixty-five cents.

Molly slumped in her chair. “Why couldn't he have built on some other city block? God knows there are enough in need of a wrecking ball.” She pushed away from the table. “I've gotta go.” She grabbed her newspaper and marker. Just talking about the builder brought on a headache. Spending hours with him on Sunday was going to totally wreck her karma.

As soon as Nick entered his apartment, he pulled off his tie, yanked open the top button on his shirt, and shrugged off his suit jacket. He tossed the tie and jacket onto the sofa, then headed into the kitchen and rescued a cold beer from the refrigerator. At the rehearsal dinner that night, the prelude to his brother's wedding the following evening, champagne had flowed as if from a gusher. He hated champagne. It gave him a headache. Ordering a beer at the dinner, however, was apparently tantamount to committing a mortal sin. Since the affair was semi-formal, his mother had given him the usual orders: suit, tie, and no beer bottles on the table. Shit.

He popped the cap on his brew and sauntered back into the living room where he didn't bother to turn on a light. A street lamp and a perfectly full moon gave off enough illumination. He found his Faith Hill CD and slipped it into the player. While the music drifted low in the background, he sipped his beer and opened the sliding glass door. Now that many parts of the country were preparing for the briskness of fall, the fog that shrouded San Francisco all summer had finally dissipated, ushering in balmy weather. He never minded the fog. It was one of the many features, along with the hills and cable cars, that made the city so unique.

He stepped outside onto his small balcony, leaned against the rail, and gazed out over the bay. Lights blinked in every direction. The Golden Gate Bridge stood out in stark relief and spanned the inky-dark water.

“Hi, Nick. Great night, isn't it?”

His neighbor Serena — or was it Sabrina — greeted him from her balcony less than thirty feet from his.

“Yeah, it's okay.” He could think of several ways it could have been better: bottled beers at dinner, a black hole swallowing Ms. Hewitt, and Serena/Sabrina canning the conversation.

“You're out late tonight.” She flipped her Sheena, Queen of the Jungle jet-black hair over a shoulder. “I missed you earlier. My gym has a promotion — two free months for newbies. Interested?”

He wanted to ask if she kept a running account of his movements — which he suspected she did — but knew any encouragement would only lead to a drink invitation.

“Uh … not at this time.”

“I get a free month if you sign up. It's worth a dinner … on me. Can I change your mind?”

The woman was a piranha. He waved her off.

“Well, the dinner invitation still stands. You're not dating right now, are you?”

He wasn't, but before he let her know that, he'd take a header off the balcony.

“How about — ”

“I have no time right now.” He cut her off without the addition of “maybe in the future.” That courtesy had once landed her within fifteen seconds at his front door.

“Well, think about it.”

He stepped back a couple of paces, which put a three-foot portion of a side wall between them.

His apartment building sat midway up a steep hill in Pacific Heights and afforded one of the best views of the city. He glanced down over the rooftops and wondered if Molly lived somewhere within sight. He'd been unaware of her until last week. When he'd asked around about the clinic, he'd found out it had been open for almost two years and operated on a sliding scale from free to whatever a person could afford. Obviously, a shoestring operation. One story high, the building was squeezed into a narrow slot that fronted a sidewalk littered with soda cans and assorted paper debris. The steel door kept it safe at night. No window faced the street, probably for the same reason.

Somehow, Molly must earn a living from it. When he'd walked into her office that morning, he'd expected a woman somewhere between fifty and retirement age with bad hair and narrow lips and who wore polyester and no-nonsense orthopedic shoes. A bulldog. What he found instead was Molly — with a jumble of rust-colored curls that ended midway down her neck and looked as if they'd stick out all over like heating coils after a night of steamy sex. That is, if nosy do-gooders even engaged in steamy sex, which he doubted. He also figured a couple of decades would pass before she saw fifty and left behind her strappy shoes and knee-length skirt. The pale fabric had hugged a slim waist and nicely shaped hips, the kind he usually didn't mind wrapping his hands around.