"Baltimore Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lippman Laura)

Chapter 2

Tess did not have blueberry pancakes after all. She wanted them, but as soon as she walked into Jimmy's in Fells Point, the cook threw two bagels to toast on the griddle and poured fresh orange juice into a red plastic tumbler. Her usual: two plain bagels, toasted, one with cream cheese, one without. She had been eating the same breakfast at Jimmy's for two years, at least five days a week.

She had always wanted to walk into a place and have someone ask, "The usual?" Of course, in her original fantasy the place had a long mahogany bar, men wore suits and women wore hats, and she would order a martini, straight up. No olive.

Rock, after a quick look at the place mat menu, ordered the carbohydrate special, a meal of his own creation: toast, pancakes, orange juice, fruit cup, and cereal with skim milk.

"No syrup or butter," he told the waitress. "Just lots of extra jelly."

"That all?"

"Do you have any rice? Or some pinto beans?"

The waitress stalked off, unamused. Rock was an ardent believer in the idea that diet could boost athletic performance, although the parameters of that diet kept changing. Currently he shunned fat and most meat. Given his workout regime, however, he had to eat enormous amounts and drink protein supplements to maintain his weight. He never ate for pleasure and he never drank alcohol. His one vice was caffeine, which he claimed enhanced his performance. The kitchen in his little apartment in Charles Village was a shrine to coffee. Rock didn't own a VCR, a CD player, or a microwave, but he had a French press, a cappuccino and espresso maker, and a freezer filled with nothing but ice trays and bags of coffee beans, all labeled and dated. His chronic insomnia surprised only him.

Breakfast arrived within minutes, and both ate intently, swiftly, as if racing again. For Tess, meals were the high point of her day, which only made her more ravenous. Rock simply wanted to stoke the vast machinery of his body and get it over with. Tess was still working on her second bagel when he wiped the last bit of jelly from his plate with his last pancake.

"Now," he began, rummaging in his wallet. He slid an envelope across the table to Tess, who took it happily. A check, she thought. A retainer. But inside she found only a small photograph of Ava and two sheets of paper with phone numbers and addresses. Rock also had included a basic outline of Ava's day-when she went to work, when she got home-and the places she frequented. That was his word, written on the list. She frequented a gym in Federal Hill, a bar near her office, and an Italian restaurant known primarily for its breathtaking views and inedible food.

"Funny," Tess said, examining the envelope's contents.

"What?"

"You had this with you, all ready. Did you assume I'd say yes?"

Rock blushed. "I know you can always use some extra cash."

"Well, it's not as if I would do anything for money, you know. I have turned down PR jobs." Being broke had become something of a shtick for Tess.

He didn't smile.

They said good-bye on the cobblestone street in front of Jimmy's, suddenly awkward with each other. Tess had worked for a lot of relatives, but never a friend. Rock seemed equally uncomfortable with the new relationship. He kept punching her on the shoulder, light taps for him, which left tiny black-and-blue marks. Finally he took his ten-speed out of Tess's trunk and headed up Broadway, the long gradual hill to Johns Hopkins Hospital and his life as Darryl Paxton.

Tess crossed the wide plaza on Broadway, cutting over to pretty little Shakespeare Street, where she sneaked glances into unshuttered windows. It was only 8 A.M. and other people, normal people as Tess thought of them, were still gathered at breakfast tables, or venturing out in bathrobes to grab the Beacon-Light. It was the kind of existence she had once imagined for herself, to the extent she had imagined such mundane details at all. A husband, a baby, a dining room table. Sometimes her aunt and her aunt's latest boyfriend set a place for Tess at their breakfast table, but their attempt at homeyness only exacerbated Tess's feeling of strangeness. It was odd, sitting down to Cheerios and blueberries with her aunt and her aunt's man of the month, both usually in bathrobes and flushed.

Shakespeare ended at Bond, the street on which Tess lived. She stopped and looked at the building she called home, a hulking warehouse of garnet brick with white trim, all buffed up with her aunt's love. The windows gleamed in the early morning light and the books inside-mellow shades of red, green, and amber-glowed like jewels in a box. Above the door the scarlet letters were so bright and bold they seemed three-dimensional: WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST. And, in smaller letters, for the occasional oaf who thought it was a lifeboat store: A SPECIALTY BOOKS EMPORIUM.

Not everyone would have seen the potential in a store that sold only women's and children's books. Tess's aunt, Katherine "Kitty" Monaghan, was not like everyone. She was not like anyone. A librarian with the city schools for almost twenty years, she had taken early retirement after a parent complained fairy tales were godless, encouraging belief in Satan and the occult.

That was the official version. The longer version included the Super Fresh, a cabbage, and a rutabaga. Kitty was fired after she decked a mother who stopped her in the produce section and complained about Jack and the Beanstalk. It encouraged antisocial behavior, the mother complained. It glorified robbery. Kitty blackened her eye. The administration dismissed her: Apparently there was a policy against assaulting parents. She sued for wrongful dismissal. Kitty pointed out that the woman had accosted her in the Super Fresh, where she was clearly going about her business as a private citizen, and hurled a cabbage at her head when Kitty disagreed with her. That was the part Kitty found galling-not the cabbage at her head, but someone daring to talk to her about school while she was at the grocery store, a place she found quite trying under the best of circumstances. She threw a rutabaga back. Her aim was better.

"It was self-defense, pure and simple," she liked to say. Luckily the union arbitrator agreed. The Baltimore school system settled for a substantial sum, and Aunt Kitty bought this old drugstore from Tess's mother's family, the Weinsteins, after they declared bankruptcy.

She converted the three-story building into a store and a home, adding an apartment on the top floor for a little extra income. More out of laziness than any sense of design, she left the old soda fountain, which divided the primary business, children's books, from the secondary one-feminist tracts, erotica, anything written by women and, in some cases, anything about women. It was possible, for example, to buy books by Philip Roth and John Updike at Women and Children First.

WACF was a cozy place, with armchairs, two working fireplaces, well worn rugs, and the original tin-pressed ceilings. People came to buy, stayed to browse, ended up buying more. The profit margin was slim, yet far more than Kitty had ever dreamed. Entranced by capitalism, she talked constantly of expanding. Perhaps she would serve espresso from the old soda fountain, or afternoon tea. Buy the building next door and open a bed-and-breakfast. Perhaps a bookstore just for men? Like a novice at the track, she was dangerously intoxicated with beginner's luck. Tess wouldn't be surprised if she lost all her money as quickly as she had made it.

"Dead White Males, how's that for a name, Tesser?" Kitty asked as Tess came through the front door. Kitty was sitting on the old soda fountain, wearing a silky kimono covered with cherry blossoms and sipping a cup of coffee. "We could sell-well, I guess we could sell everything, all the classics. That would be the gimmick. It would be just an ordinary bookstore, but people would think it was special. And between the two stores I'd have most of the territory covered. Eventually everyone dies. Even Norman Mailer."

"I like it," Tess said. "Then again, knowing the local immunity to irony, I see a men's group and the NAACP picketing out front, claiming you're glamorizing gendercide and discriminating against people of color. And those Mothers Objecting to Violence and Everything Related-you know, the MOVERS-would interpret it as a pro-violence thing."

"MOVERS! There's no such group, not even in Baltimore."

"Don't you read the paper? They've set up a permanent picket outside the multiplex in Towson. It's convenient to shopping. They march up and down for an hour, take a break, and go shop at Nordstrom."

Kitty laughed, a startlingly loud and wonderful sound. Most of the Monaghans were a little dour, even Tess. Kitty, however, was a changeling. She was the happiest person Tess knew, with an endless capacity for delight. She asked only that life be tangible, full of things to touch and hold, smell and devour. Soft fabrics, new books, full-bodied wines, well-made dresses, defined calves. Twelve years older than Tess and nine inches shorter, she had flame red curls and the only green eyes in three generations. Her latest beau was one of the city's new bicycle cops, lured into the shop after Kitty saw his legs flashing by. Thaddeus Freudenberg. He was twenty-four, as big and cuddly as a Labrador, and only a few IQ points dumber. Tess figured he was on the bike patrol because he couldn't pass the test for a driver's license.

Thaddeus was not in evidence this morning. Tess leaned against the fountain. "I've had an interesting offer," she began, filling Kitty in on Rock's proposal. She thought her aunt would be impressed, especially given the fact Tess often had trouble coming up with the rent.

But Kitty was dubious. "It sounds like meddling for a fee. Don't the ethics bother you?"

"I can't afford ethics. Summer was slow, and I need some cash on hand."

"I suppose." She stared Tess down, a feat she could manage only because she was seated on the old fountain and Tess was slumped over it. "But you don't really like this woman. So how can you be objective? If you see something ambiguous you might draw false conclusions because you want to catch her. You might not even realize what you're doing."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you might see her kissing someone on the street, for example, and assume it's her lover. But it could be her brother, or a friend."

"I think I'd know the difference between a lover and a brother."

"I don't know, Tesser. It's been awhile since I've heard any feet but yours climbing up to the third floor." Kitty smiled and tugged the slippery silk kimono back over her left shoulder.

"Don't be smug just because you have Officer Friendly to tuck you in at night. Some people do sleep alone, you know."

"Maybe Jonathan will turn up again soon. It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"I gave up Jonathan for Lent."

"And you'll forgive him for Yom Kippur. You always managed to get the full mileage out of your dual religions, Tesser, even when you were a little girl."

With that, Kitty swung off the counter and padded to her living quarters behind the store, leaving Tess to think about Jonathan Ross. It hadn't occurred to her to miss him until Kitty mentioned him. Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, was next month. And Jonathan had more to atone for than she did, much more.

Her thoughts scattered when Crow, one of the clerks, rapped on the front door.

"Only two hours early today," Tess said as she let him in, feeling mean. Crow, infatuated with Kitty, often showed up as early as 7 A.M. for his morning shift and stayed late into the night, trying to computerize the inventory system.

"Yeah, well, I thought I could eat my breakfast here." He held up a greasy sack of doughnuts and a bottle of orange juice. A battered guitar case was strung across his back. "I like the light here in the morning. It's very…inspiring."

Tess almost felt sorry for Crow, simply the latest in a string of workers to fall in love with Kitty. Maryland Institute of Art students seemed particularly vulnerable. But her pity was tempered by a vague grumpiness. He never looked at her that way, with his moist brown eyes and pretty mouth.

Crow hoisted himself up on the counter, as if drawn to the spot where Kitty's kimono had slithered just minutes before. Ignoring his breakfast, he took out the guitar and began playing. An original tune, Tess judged, or a particularly bad version of a well-known one.

"I'm writing a song," he told her.

"You won't be the first. Just remember, though-you're going to be limited to pretty, pity, and shitty for rhymes."

"Not necessarily." He strummed a few bars and began to sing. His voice, while thin, was charming and true. "‘The first time I saw Kitty/She made me feel like Walter Mitty/My heart did that tapocketa ditty/And I wanted to rescue her from this grim, dank city/Tapocketa. Tapocketa. Tapocketa/I'm almost a hero now.'"

"Find a rhyme for Monaghan and I'll really be impressed."

"If I did I could write a song for you, too," Crow said, grinning at her. "Tess rhymes with so many things."

"Less," she told him. "Primarily it rhymes with less."

Tess left Crow to his doughnuts and his daydreams, climbing the back stairs to her apartment. It was a steep climb, given the high ceilings on the first two floors, more like a fifth story walk-up. When Kitty renovated the building she had intended to rent the third floor to help carry her mortgage. Tess, its first and only tenant, paid much less than Kitty could have commanded on the open market.

It was small, essentially a large room divided by bookcases. The living area was big enough for only a desk, an easy chair, and a small mission table, which she used for meals. The kitchen was an alcove with a miniature refrigerator and a two-burner stove. One had to pass through it to get to the bedroom, the largest space. This, too, was plain, large enough for only a lumpy double bed, a small table, and a bureau.

But the apartment did have one outstanding feature: a terrace off the bedroom, with a ladder leading to the rooftop. On this morning Tess went straight to the roof, hoping the view would help her mind expand and clear so she could concentrate on her latest odd job.

She preferred the view to the east, the smokestacks and the neon red Domino Sugar sign, turning her back to downtown and the city's celebrated waterfront. Tess had little use for that part of Baltimore, which had been reinvented as a tourist haven. To her way of thinking it wasn't much different from the old strip bars, which let people in for free, then jacked up the prices for everything else. She had nightmares in which she was trapped in a papier-mâché head, forced to greet people. "How you doin', hon? How you doin', hon?"

Tess reviewed the addresses Rock had given her. Ava's life was neatly contained. She lived in a condominium at one end of the harbor. She worked at the other end at the white-shoe firm of O'Neal, O'Connor and O'Neill. She could walk to work in less than fifteen minutes-assuming Ava walked anywhere.

The photograph was crudely cropped into an oval shape, a man's clumsy handiwork. It had probably been in a frame at Rock's bedside, or on his desk. A picture from a spring regatta, with Ava standing next to Rock. He wore a red T-shirt and black Lycra rowing shorts. She had on a crisp, navy striped T-shirt that looked as if it cost more than Tess's best dress. Her right hand could not even span Rock's wrist, yet she seemed to have a firm grasp on him. Her hair was a dark cloud around her face, a face so perfect it was easy to understand why her parents had dared to give her a sex goddess's name. Ava lived up to it.

Tess knew all about beautiful women. She had been surrounded by them all her life-her aunt, her college roommate, Whitney, even her mother. Some were generous, allowing you to bask in their glow. Others shut you out, made you feel fat and clumsy. Ava fell into the latter group.

At twenty-nine Tess had made peace with her face and body. She wasn't beautiful, but her looks served her well. She kept things simple: long brown hair in a single plait down her back, no makeup on her pale face or hazel eyes, clothes designed for comfort and speed. One thing was certain, she had the wardrobe to be a spy-drawers full of old, baggy things in dark colors. She knew how to be invisible.