Bad People (9 page)

She closed her phone on the way to the door and then looked though the peephole. No. Impossible. Luke was out there. Fifteen minutes early. Oh lord, he really was too young!

He offered to take her in his car so that she wouldn’t have to move hers, but he seemed relieved when she declined and told him she’d follow in her own. Maybe he was preserving a way out for himself too. Letting him come to her place when she could have simply met him at the restaurant, what was she thinking? Definitely out of practice.

He had picked the restaurant. Bretaigne’s, which was dark and a little bit sexy. No mixed signals there. Before they even sat down, she wondered about his budget, and how awkward that might be for him. Though with the pace at Bretaigne’s the check could be two hours off yet, if things proceeded cordially. And if things turned strained, or embarrassing, or ugly, there would be no getting away in under ninety minutes, short of pulling a fire alarm or wriggling out a restroom window.

Luke wore a blue suit, and a blue shirt. A shirt meant to be worn with a tie, but he pulled it off well enough without one. Connie wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at some point all the men in the world had gotten together and decided electric blue was the new official dress shirt color. But the color was good, and it was as good a collective decision as she’d ever seen taken.

“I thought of here so that we could talk,” said Luke.

Violin music was piped in from somewhere. The low lights, the soft-spoken vested waiters (they were all waiters, Connie observed—no women) the hidden kitchen, the maroon tones to everything.

“Talking, I don’t know…whispering maybe,” she told him, leaning forward conspiratorially and casting a glance at a couple seated in a far corner. “And whispering is hard on the voice they say.”

“Oh,” he said. “You’re not uncomfortable here.”

Oops, here she was trying to be…what? Hip, flirty, coy? And he was ready to bail. What am I doing here, she thought? “No. I didn’t mean that. I’m not uncomfortable. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Of course you aren’t.”

“Because you asked if I…. Oh my god, this is going badly.”

“We’ve just met,” he said. “Of course it is awkward.” He glanced at his menu then put it aside. He touched his fingertips together, no quite making a steeple. “Let’s do this. Let’s let it be awkward. Let’s see how long and awkward it can be. I agree to that, if you’ll agree.”

“I like that. I think I can live with it for the evening.”

The wine steward was approaching.
Just in time
, she thought, and almost said, but Luke spoke first.

“I mean, people shouldn’t have to get soused to break down those inhibitions. More people should take the risk to be themselves, sober, rather than lean on alcohol, drugs, or some other crutch.”

“Right,” Connie said. “No. Absolutely.”

“Can I make a recommendation?” asked the steward, “or will you start with cocktails first?”

“Ice tea,” said Luke.

“Two,” said Connie.

The steward forced a smile, trying not to show that he was already calculating the loss the total sum of the bill, and the ensuing reduction of tip. He collected the wine menu from Luke with a they-look-like-strict-fifteen-percenters gesture, and went in search of more hospitable territory.

“I do drink,” said Luke, sensing something perhaps. “Have one if you like.”

“You wouldn’t think less of me?” she joked.

“Not at all.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay then. Maybe an aperitif later.”

“Maybe.”

“I want to be alert tonight,” said Luke.

“Keep your wits about you?”

“ I want to drink in everything you say.”

“Oh come on. There you go again.”

“I’m serious. You think I’m making fun of you. I’m being sincere. I like to learn everything I can about everything. Take it in, process it, and it becomes mine.”

“Impressive.”

“You make it sound like I’m still a kid. I’ll admit, that in a lot of ways I am.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t.”

She paused. “But we should probably talk about that. Age.” Should she have said that? They’d established nothing, yet. In fact, the conversation was going more in the direction of mentoring than dating. But then what did she expect he’d want? She must seem like an old woman to him.

He smiled slightly. “Tell me how old I look.”

“Oh don’t make me guess!”

“One guess.”

“Twenty-six. Twenty-seven?” I don’t know. You’re a hard one to pin down.

“Twenty-one,” he said. He studied her reaction.

They got into a staring contest, but she broke up first. “Ahh. Come on. I’ll make you show me your driver’s license.”

“All right, you got me. You’re right. I just turned twenty-eight. So I’m older than I look! Maybe I’m just an innocent, I’m naïve and that gives me that fresh look. Or maybe I’m just open to life and that’s taken for youth and naiveté.”

“You say some curious things.”

“Not usually. It’s our deal, remember. It’s okay to embarrass ourselves. Put ourselves out there. Take a risk. If you end up hating me by the end of the evening, at least you will end up hating the real me. That’s how I want it.”

“Your definitely not twenty-one. Or you’re the most impressive twenty-one year old I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve got me.”

“Okay,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Let’s get it over with. Guess how old I am.” She felt herself tense like anticipating cold water to drench her.

“Thirty-two.”

“If you’re going to lie, lie better than that! I told you on the phone I have a seventeen-year-old, remember!” Or didn’t he remember? Had he not paid attention?

“Seventeen minus thirty-two…” Luke started to figure, “That wouldn’t work out. Although I have a friend whose mother was only
thirteen
when he was born.”

“That must have been rough.”

“It’s what you make of it.” His smiled faded almost imperceptibly. But just as quick he recovered himself again. “I imagine.”

“True.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to say…thirty-seven.”

“Is that your final answer?” She cringed after letting the words leak out, a corny, dated
Millionaire
reference, but—thank god—he didn’t notice. “Luke, I’m forty-two.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s not far off from thirty-seven.”

She didn’t contradict him, however thirty-seven was far far gone from twenty-eight. Just turned twenty-eight. “My son’s eighteenth is in a few weeks.”

“No kidding? What date?”

“September 29th.”

“Mine’s in October.”

“No, you told me you just turned 28. Recently.”

“No, I said I was just
about
to turn 28.”

“Did you? Then I misheard you.”

“I’ll forgive you. Something else is amazing too. My mentor just turned forty-five. He tells me the forties are the best. He tells me that the day he turned forty the whole world opened up for him. Like being reborn. He never felt less beholden to other people’s images of him. For the first time, he was his own man. How about that.”

“Sounds like an smart man. What does he do?”

“He’s an investor. A business owner. Do you know Valhalla Comics on Fire Hill?”

“Is that that little place on Pike? Between the video store and the toy store?” She made air quotes and smiled self-consciously for the word “toy.”

“That’s the place.”

“As a matter of fact I do.”

“Really. Do you like comics?”

“Me? No. Our—my—friend Barry used to go there. But didn’t the owner disappear or something?”

“Disappear? No he didn’t disappear. He left. He moved away but he didn’t disappear. He went away. Jay Porter.”

“Huh. Well I’m sure it is the same place. You consider Jay Porter a mentor?”

“Absolutely. He’s a genius.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve met him. With your friend, Benny.”

She laughed at the thought of Barry being called Benny. “Barry,” she corrected. “No, no. I don’t believe I’ve ever met him. I just remember Barry going to a comic book store on Fire Hill. Or he used to. Hasn’t mentioned it in awhile. I do remember something about it vaguely….”

“You were never into comics as a child.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They don’t really have comics for girls anyway. I really loved the Black Beauty books. Or anything with horses. I suppose there’s a cliché for you.”

“Lots of comics are written for girls and women. The audience for manga is mainly girls.”

“Manga?”

“Japanese comics.”

“Oh yes, my son used to love those. He had dozens of DVDs.”

“Then that’s anime. If it’s film it’s called anime. Print is manga. Closely related, though.

“Well the artwork is beautiful. All the characters look so child-like—except the very old, like evil witches and old men.”

“Yes, that’s the Japanese style, very simple lines.”

“Very beautiful. The stories are so violent.”

“But you let your son watch them.”

“Luke, no matter what anyone pretends, there’s much you do or don’t
let
a seventeen-year-old do.”

“It’s a different world than the one you and I grew up in.”

“Well
me
anyway.”

“We aren’t still on the age. We covered that.”

“We sort of segued out of it. Luke, I have to tell you, I really am enjoying talking to you. Just sitting here and chatting for a change. I’ve hardly noticed that the waiter hasn’t come back with our ice teas yet, or taken our order.”

“I bribed him.”

“You what.”

“I gave him a hundred dollars to drag this evening out as long as possible.”

“No you didn’t. Did you?”

“No. I would have though. If I’d know we’d be having this much fun.”

The ice teas arrive, wordlessly delivered by a tiny busser, and the waiter finally arrived to take their order. Luke ordered something and Connie ordered something without thinking much about it. They could go right back to talking, she hoped, she had felt a wonderful release, talking about comic book stores, ice tea, and regular non-agonizing things. But the waiter’s intervention had messed with the rhythm and she felt awkward again.

“Hm,” she said, in placeholder speak. He seemed oblivious to the silence. In fact he seemed to be taking advantage of it, studying her, not in an invasive way, but genuinely interested.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That’s a big question. I’m thinking several things at once. Tell me about your business.”

Oh. Back to that. “Well it’s a partnership. It took me a long time to even think of it as a business, it’s a group of different revenue streams. Not that special, anyone could do it.”

“No. They can’t,” he said with odd firmness. “You’ve made a tremendous achievement. That needs to be acknowledged. I acknowledge it.”

She smiled. “If you look at it that way. But we never did. Well, let me say…
I
never did. We took a series of steps, a series of steps going back eighteen years. The keys is consistency. Consistency in all things.”

“I would have expected you to say something else.”

“Like what?”

“Any number of things. Education of course.”

“That’s good. You never have enough, but you can always get more. Consistency in pursuing it would get you there.”

“Okay. Boldness. Courage.”

“Overrated. If you’re unsure, go slower for awhile, keep heading in the direction of your goal.”

“Ah. There. A goal. A goal is certainly the key to success.”

“Goals change. They must change, to stay relative to your purpose. You might set a goal: ‘I want to make a million dollars.’ Okay. And then you refine it. A million dollars for what. For security? For fun?”

“Just to see yourself do it.”

“Fine. Okay good, just to see if you can do it. I think that’s a valid goal. And then
how
are you going to do it? Through what means? An invention of some kind? Perhaps. Real Estate? Probably you don’t intend knocking off a bank.”

“No. Of course not.”

“And a time line. What else? A dozen things, then a hundred, all falling into place as you refine your goal. You refine it, and you take the steps. It doesn’t matter, I don’t believe, how little the steps are, how many missteps, how many course corrections as long as you
consistently
—there’s that word again!—move in the direction of your goal. And the more you focus on your goal the more your goal becomes concrete. If you’re goal-oriented, that is. But don’t forget to live your life along the way.”

“It almost sounds unglamorous.”

“It’s not glamorous. It isn’t sexy. You have to find that in other ways. Sometimes making a lot of money is really boring.”