Three-Martini Lunch (25 page)

R
usty had, for better or worse, pushed me forward on my mission. It's strange to think, but the journey is so linked in my mind to my healing bruises, I cannot imagine it otherwise.

It was already late morning when I finally rose the next day but I didn't know it at first; the hour was masked by the gray fog out my window. I was soon to discover what a curious place San Francisco was. The fog collected on tree leaves in the park, dribbled from eaves in the neighborhoods, and made sentimental tears on the stone façades downtown. I gazed in wonder at the white wedding cake of buildings that made up its skyline and the gingerbread shapes of its funny, colorfully painted houses. Cable cars clattered up hills and thundered down them, the brakeman straining at his lever. Honeymooners wandered hand-in-hand along Fisherman's Wharf, where a saxophonist dueled with an organ-grinder for attention. Hipsters with unwashed hair read poetry on the lawn in Washington Square while leathery-faced Italians played loud, intense card
games on folding tables beside the church where Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe famously posed for wedding photographs.

The city struck a stark contrast to everything I'd known growing up in New York. Manhattan is concrete and ambition, steam rising from a manhole in winter, a hot blast from a subway grate in summer. Its inner workings grind away at all hours, purring in the name of commerce. New York streets are distinctly sultry—especially in Harlem. The defining sights and smells are those that humans make. The eye-catching colors of shop signs, of awnings, of advertisements. The scent of meat being grilled, of ladies' powdery perfumes, of sour body odor—all this mixing with the cabbagey smell of garbage hovering on the street curbs.

I found that in San Francisco the vibrancy of life was not so much evinced by the enormity of man-made ambitions as it was embedded in the nature that surrounded the city; its brilliance was cached in the cypress trees that leaned romantically against the hills, the glitter of the bay, the startling patches of blue sky that occasionally broke through the fog.
This
was what inspired and enlivened the young people and artists in the city, what called to starry-eyed couples and nostalgic bohemians. I took a walk in Golden Gate Park. It had a peculiar tang about it that took some getting used to at first—some sort of herbaceous pungency that at times smelled incredibly fresh and clean, and at other times sharp and feral, not unlike cat piss. It seemed to emanate from the wet bark of the eucalyptus trees, intensified by the cool, crisp breeze of the Pacific.

Just before I'd left for Port Authority, Cob had armed me with a handful of tiny glass jars. Now I sat down on a large tree stump at the top of a hill in the middle of Stow Lake and made a haphazard attempt to collect a few insects that might interest him. I caught a beetle with an iridescent blackish-green shell that struck me as exotic. I dropped it in the jar and admired it in the light, a rainbow of colors hidden in the green.

The truth was: I was stalling.

I'd come all the way across the country but couldn't face the next step, and there was safety in failure. I had never truly believed my father had been a hero in the First World War, and I certainly didn't believe he'd been a hero in the Second. If I never found my father's locker, I could never be disappointed by anything he'd written in his journal. Moreover, I could never be disappointed if the locker turned out to be empty altogether. I was preventing one tragedy by ensuring another.

But then I pictured coming home, having spent my savings, having spent my
mother's
one hundred dollars. My mother, who worked so hard. There would be questions about my trip when I got home, a demand that I tell the tale of my efforts. Lying was out of the question. It was in my personality to omit—I was adept in the art of omission—but I could not tell outright lies. Not to my mother. An hour passed as I sat nursing that paralyzed feeling in the park, until finally the thought of reporting back to my mother empty-handed sickened me more than the thought of making an attempt to locate my father's locker. When the balance finally tipped, I stood up, pocketed Cob's jars, and brushed the dust from my slacks.

Where to begin? I hadn't imagined actually
arriving
in San Francisco; for months it had remained so safely, so thoroughly far away. I was at a loss at what to do next. I decided the most sensible tactic would be to retrace my father's footsteps. My father's regiment had deployed from the wharves down at Fort Mason; I decided that was where I would begin.

It was sunny by the time I walked down to the gatehouse near the marina. I could see several enormous dull-gray ships at the docks and the navy bay glittering in the distance beyond. A couple of military trucks were lined up at the checkpoint while men in uniforms flashed their identification to a man who stood by a doorway and made note of their comings and goings. I hesitated. The official nature of the scene was intimidating. I hadn't quite thought this part through. Here I was, three thousand miles from home, and I hadn't planned for one more step. I approached the gatehouse cautiously.

“Where's your uniform, soldier?” the man asked, frowning at me and clutching a clipboard.

“I . . .” I stammered. “I'm a civilian.”

He frowned at my bruises. “What's your business here?”

I explained to him about my father, the key, the locker. He seemed less than enthralled by my story, wearing a distracted expression as he nodded several men in uniform through the gate while I talked.

“No footlockers on the premises here, buddy,” he said once I'd finished explaining. “But even if there were, I couldn't let you come on base and rummage around. This ain't a public amusement park, you know; it's a military base, property of the United States Army.”

I realized I was being turned away, and sudden panic clamped down on my throat. I coughed. “Maybe you could just tell me—”

“Like I said, this ain't a tourist office. Move it along; we got a job to do here,” the man said with an air of finality. Scornful, he waved me off, but I remained frozen, blinking at him with dismay. “Look, buddy, we got a bunch of boys coming back from Korea who never expected to stay there half so long, so if you don't mind, we're a little busy around here.” His wave transformed into a shooing gesture and his attention turned to a truck waiting to be cleared for entry.

If there had been a way to slam a literal door in my face and continue to man his post, I'm sure he would have. Either way, the effect was the same. Bewildered, I walked away from the marina, following Van Ness as it sloped uphill in the general direction of my hotel. I wanted to lie down, think, regroup. I was staggered by the foolishness of the cowardice I'd been struggling with earlier that day in the park, putting off trying for fear of succeeding; now it dawned on me there was a very real chance success may not even be possible. For the first time, it struck me what a naïve undertaking this was: My mother had handed me a key and sent me on a quest, and here I was following this singular clue, like an idiotic character in a fairy tale. What had I expected? The world suddenly felt very vast,
and I felt very small. I was colored, in a strange city, and worst of all for my purposes: a civilian searching for a footlocker on a military base.

Back at my hotel I rested on the rickety springs of my bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of what to do. I would keep trying, I supposed. There was nothing else I
could
do, and there were other Army installations to try. I would make a list, take the logical steps. One at a time; one foot after the other. I would try until I ran out of money. No one could blame me if I tried until I ran out of money.

T
he next day, I tried the Presidio. The day after that, I took the ferry across the bay to try Fort Baker, in Sausalito. I even took a bus out to Treasure Island, on the off chance my father had passed through the naval base, and that I might be admitted there. Each time, I met the same result. Thwarted and frustrated, I found myself beginning to while away my remaining afternoons at the main branch of the library. It was located near the plaza that contained the opera house, ballet, and courthouses, in that oddly Parisian yet somewhat derelict civic heart of the city. I walked among the aisles of heavily pruned plane trees, listening to the sharp flap of bird wings, eyeing the dust of pigeon feathers. I found my way into the library, and always returned to the same sections: the periodicals, the microfiche room. I was searching, I realized, for evidence to support—or disprove—Clarence's claim. I scanned every headline that contained any mention of the 369th Regiment. I started by focusing on 1943 to 1945 but soon after expanded my search. The only thing I discovered was how little news coverage the 369th Regiment had received during the Second World
War. It was possible, too, I realized, that a murder overseas might not be reported by the Army, as military investigations were not required to abide by civilian rules.

In the evenings I took walks, often winding up in a bar or coffee shop. One evening, my wanderings led me into the heart of North Beach. As I strolled up Columbus Avenue, the thin wails of live jazz floated out from the buildings here and there and drifted across my path on the sidewalk until I found myself finally lured into a club. I pushed through an upholstered leather door to a dark, humid cave filled with people bobbing their heads and tapping their feet to some very lively bebop. Everyone's face shone with sweat and smiles, from the single girl at the corner of the bar all the way to the elevated space where the band played. The musicians onstage possessed solid talent; I could tell they were immigrants to the West, bringing with them the voice and attitude of the opposite coast, and here was a vestige of Harlem that warmed me as I heard it. I perched on a stool at the bar and soon enough the bartender came over to take my order.

After two beers, when I had thoroughly soaked in the mood of the room and was feeling good, I thought it best to go back to my hotel before it got too late and the spell wore off.

•   •   •

O
utside on the street the famous San Francisco fog had rolled back in. I walked leisurely in the direction of my hotel, listening to the foghorns blow somewhere out on the water I knew lay some distance behind me as the gentle slope of North Beach gave way to Fisherman's Wharf. There were three of them and it seemed to me they blew in syncopation with one another, but perhaps my impression of this was influenced by all the jazz I'd just heard. It was funny . . . every once in a while I'd hear, see, or smell some little thing and it would hit me how far I'd traveled from
home. I would hear a sea lion barking in the distance and it would dawn on me that I had come all the way across a continent and was now in California. I felt this way now as I strolled along the city streets listening to the foghorns.

I had made it about five blocks up Columbus Avenue when I reached into my coat pocket and felt the unfamiliar shape of something square and metallic. I pulled it out and found myself staring at a brass Zippo lighter. As my coat caught the light of a nearby streetlamp, I inspected its fabric a little more closely and a sudden realization seized me. I felt in the other pocket and was greeted with a small stack of greenbacks folded in half and held together by a silver money clip engraved with the initials
J.A.B.
A small shiver of dread passed over me, and I turned and instantly took off in a near run back in the direction of the jazz club. As I hurried along, I prayed I would be able to switch the coats without having to explain my mistake to anyone. I hoped I was not wearing a white man's coat, as that could complicate the transaction.

Both of my prayers went unanswered. Immediately when I pushed my way back through the red upholstered door of the club's entrance I glimpsed a man hovering in the front alcove, scratching his head and holding the coat I now recognized was mine. He was white; a young man, close in age to myself. As I drew closer I observed he was of medium height and build, with a vaguely olive complexion and genteel Roman features. A lock of hair fell over his furrowed brow and he frowned as he leaned his face down nearer to the coat, turning the garment over and over.

“Aha!” he said as soon as he caught sight of me and—moreover—the coat I was wearing. “And just in time! I couldn't puzzle it out. Here I was, about to question whether I'd had too much drink.”

He smiled at me. His young face glowed in an open, easy manner. There was a curious sense of familiar warmth in it, and for a brief moment I lost my words.

“I'm terribly sorry,” I said, recovering. I shrugged out of his coat as quickly and delicately as possible, annoyed at myself for not thinking to remove it before I'd walked through the club door.

“You ought to be,” he said, still grinning. I noticed a faint trace of a Southern accent. “It'd probably be healthy for my liver if I
did
do some questioning on that subject.”

“I mean, for the mix-up,” I said. “It was an honest mistake.” I handed over his coat. He accepted it but made no immediate move to return my coat. Instead, he held both of them up to the meager lightbulb overhead.

“Would you look at that,” he said, squinting. “They're remarkably similar. Except for the tiniest difference in the nap, eh?” I concurred, relieved as he finally released my coat to me. “What alerted you to the switcheroo?”

“I put my hands in the pockets,” I admitted.

“Oh yeah!” The young man snapped his fingers and abruptly plunged his hand into one of the pockets. As he produced the money clip, I felt a sudden sense of chagrin.

“Hey,” I said, unable to keep a harsh, defensive note from creeping into my voice. “It's all there. You can count it.”

He chuckled. “No, no, no,” he said. “Take it easy! No one's accusing you. I told the fellas I've been drinking with—see those guys over there?—that I'd pay for the next round. That's why I came looking for my coat in the first place.”

“Oh.” I smiled, sheepish and relieved.

He looked at me, an expression of amusement lingering on his lips. He had the eyes of a brooding puppy; his irises were a deep, lush brown, while his eyelashes were very black and very long. I glanced away on gut instinct, as though I had looked at the sun.

“Say, I suppose I owe you a reward,” he said.

“Beg pardon?”

“A reward—you know, for bringing the coat back. When you lose
something and someone takes the trouble to bring it back to you, it's customary to give a reward.” His smile widened devilishly into a grin. “Will you accept payment in the form of a drink?”

“You don't have to do that.”

“Sure I do.”

I hesitated. I glanced over to where his friends were sitting. Three men sat hunched over in a booth. The sight of them made me uneasy, and an image of Rusty flashed through my mind.

“That wouldn't make sense,” I said. “I'm the reason for the mix-up in the first place.” I gestured to the coat in the crook of my arm. “And besides, if I've returned your coat to
you
, it's fair to say you've also returned my coat to
me
.”

“You make an excellent point,” he said. He took his coat, hung it back up on a coat-peg, and threw his arm around me. “In that case we both owe each other a reward; we'll have to make it two drinks apiece.” He winked. “C'mon, you can help carry.” He propelled me in the direction of the bar. “I'm Joey,” he added.

Behind me I could hear the sounds of another jazz ensemble taking the stage and tuning up.

“Miles,” I answered.

“Where're you from, Miles?”

“New York.”

We ordered a round of whiskey neat and carried the drinks over to the booth. His friends peered curiously in my direction. They were arranged—completely by accident, I suppose—in a sort of chromatic-gradation scale according to their respective coloring: on the far right sat a freckly towhead, the man in the middle was sandy-haired, and on the left was a brunet wearing glasses.

“Fellas, I'd like you to meet Miles, joining us all the way from New York. Fate, by way of wool coat, has brought him to us tonight.”

We slid into the left side of the booth, where Joey perpetuated their
color wheel with his olive skin and dark locks, and I completed it in a way I'm sure they had not anticipated. They whistled upon his pronouncement.

“Long way from home, ain't ya?” said the sandy-haired man. It wasn't rude, but it wasn't altogether welcoming, either. He begrudgingly scooted over to make room in the booth and the seat trembled with the force of it. He was not quite fat, but there was an unapologetic stoutness about him that suggested he was once an overweight child and that he had managed to channel his sizable mass into a role as a playground bully.

“I suppose,” I said.

“Over there is my buddy Eddie,” Joey said, pointing to the towhead and working counter-clockwise. “And Eddie and I have just met Bill and Donald here.”

“How do you do,” I said.

They nodded politely. There was a funny atmosphere around the table, as though I had interrupted something already in progress. I took a swallow of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the glow of the flickering candle that sat in the middle of the table. Joey watched the light on my face closely as I drank, smiling at me as though we were old acquaintances and he'd just remembered some of the reasons behind his great fondness for me.

He was, I realized, an extremely handsome young man. I looked around the table at the others. There was more of an age difference between them than was detectable at first glance. I'd guessed Joey to be twenty-five or thereabouts, and only Eddie, the towhead, appeared to be similar in age. As my eyes readjusted to the dim light of the darkened booth, I saw there were bags under Bill's eyes and a certain puffy looseness to his jawline that suggested he was closer to forty. Donald, too, seemed older. The initial impression of youth he gave off was the product of a certain kind of fastidiousness, for he was trim, his dark hair was combed with precision, and his turtleneck and glasses had been selected with great care. His complexion was also smooth and well kept, but there were a number
of minute telltale signs that gave him away: the tiniest crinkling at the outside corners of his eyes, a handful of silver threads woven into the dark brown around his temples.

“So, Miles,” Joey said, turning to me and carrying on our conversation as though we were alone in the booth. “Are you going to tell me why you're carrying around jars of strange-looking bugs in your coat pockets?”

I felt my face flush. It hadn't dawned on me that, while I'd discovered the contents of his pockets, he'd likely discovered the same in return. “My kid brother collects insects,” I said. “They're for him.”

“Sounds like you're a good big brother,” he said, smiling. Then he frowned. “Say, does that mean you kill the bugs, or do you let 'em live?”

“Cob—that's my kid brother—when he finds an insect that's already dead, he pins them to a board, but only if they're already dead. There are tiny holes in the lids of those jars; I was going to try to bring them back to New York alive. He builds terrariums for them.”

The frown disappeared and Joey smiled again, evidently pleased by this answer. It was oddly touching that he should care about the lives of a few insects. There was something about Joey's slouchy confidence and ease of manner that reminded me of Bobby. Yet, at the same time, there was an air of kindness and sensitivity about Joey that Bobby lacked.

Across the booth, the conversation was getting rowdy. We paused to listen for a few moments, and I inferred that Donald had been teaching Eddie to say something in French, a turn of events that had stout, far-from-francophone Bill incensed.

“Don't listen to him!” he hollered at Eddie and pointed to Donald. “He can't talk a lick of French; he only wants you to think he can. It's all gibberish. Who knows what he's saying? Go to Paris and repeat that to any Frenchman on the street and they'll punch you in the nose.” Donald's trim, compact body stiffened.

“Perhaps they might,” Donald said, smiling condescendingly at Bill and giving Eddie a wicked, lascivious wink. “But not because it's gibberish.”

“Anyway, who needs Paris? Travel's a waste of dough, if you ask me,” Bill said. “You come home with nothing to show for it. Unless you count automobiles—I just bought myself a cherry of a Ford,” he said, his mouth twisting into a boastful smirk. It was clear he'd been thinking of how to segue to this very fact for the better part of the evening. “It's parked right out front.”

“Hold on, now; you have a car here?” Joey asked. Joey's renewed interest in their conversation made Bill smile. He puffed out his chest with fresh optimism.

“Sure do,” he said.

“Well, why didn't you say so?” Joey said. “What're we doing, sitting here, when we could be out taking a spin?”

And just like that, with Joey's charming white smile shining like a lighthouse beacon around the booth, it was decided. We finished our drinks and Joey cajoled the group into action. I racked my brain for a way to remain behind, for as much as I had taken a genuine liking to Joey, I didn't care for the rest of them and I didn't want to go along. The idea of getting into Bill's car filled me with dread. I worried about being taken to a part of the city where I wouldn't be able to handle myself. Everyone rose from the table and shuffled out the door. I followed reluctantly, drifting behind until Joey doubled back and threw an arm around me, herding me along.