Since I went to Emerge only once a week, I got a stroboscopic look-a snapshot-of the place each week and then nothing in between. Sometimes the players in the snapshots changed from one week to another.
Today's change was a new person at the front desk, a woman instead of a man. She had wind-blown gray hair and a low center of gravity. I stopped to sign in on the volunteers' sheet and she asked me what my name was. When I told her she said, 'I have a message for you. From Pat Wong.'
She looked through some papers and said, 'We don't give the telephone numbers of the staff and volunteers to clients, but I told him I'd take a message for you.'
The way she stated organization policy I would have thought she had been there five years. Then I remembered: She had been there when I started volunteering, a year before, and then disappeared. Now she was back. She produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to me.
The message from Pat was merely a telephone number. Since his call might have something to do with Ned I decided to return it immediately. The client telephone area was right beside the entrance so I located an unused phone and called the number.
After two rings an answering machine picked up and a voice, not Pat's, implored me to leave a message after the beep. Not sure I had called the correct number I hung up and called again. On hearing the same voice I left a message, saying I would be at Emerge the rest of the afternoon.
Six students showed up for the basic computer class I taught, a good number since each one had a computer to practice on. By the end of the class they could navigate using the mouse, get into Microsoft Word and start writing their resumes. In addition, I taught them how to back up their resume files to the diskettes they were issued by Emerge and take them from computer to computer.
After the class I gave individual instruction to anyone who needed it. I had found that most clients were very grateful for any assistance and had a genuine desire to make their futures better than their pasts.
At 3:30 the clients had to leave. I walked back to Esther's bailiwick. Jeri, her volunteer coordinator, was buried in paper.
'What are the financial results from the dinner?' I asked her.
'It looks like we're going to take in over $300,000, altogether,' she said, with a harried smile.
'That's wonderful!'
'Yeah. Now all we have to do is get all the silent auction winners to pay up. That's going to be a royal pain in the butt.'
'You'll do it,' I said with a wave of my hand. That's what administrative types did best. I was glad my paperwork consisted only of what went with my baseball card business. That was enough.
I glanced into Esther's office. She was on the phone and the computer at the same time. Typical. When she saw me she motioned for me to come inside. I loitered in her doorway, not wanting to get in her way.
After a minute she hung up the phone and said, 'Hi.' She jumped up from her chair and gave me a quick hug. 'How are you? Have a seat. I was sorry to read about your father. How is he? Where can I send flowers?'
Esther had left me a message of sympathy on my voice mail the night before. I sat down, thanked her, told her my father was recovering nicely and not to send flowers because he had received many bouquets already. I didn't say it was an unnecessary expense for her, but it was. Then I said, 'Have you recovered from Saturday night?'
'Of course. You were great, Karl. Everybody was great.'
She was the one who had been great. She was wearing a short blue skirt with a white blouse and a multi- colored vest. She looked good enough to eat. 'Are you doing anything tonight?' I asked, hoping to get lucky.
'I've got Emilio today,' she said, slowly. 'I have to pick him up from pre-school.'
I had met Emilio a few times and he seemed like a good kid, although we would have to be careful if he was with us. Children cooled passion. Suddenly I didn't care. I wanted to be near Esther anyway. Was this love? 'Why don't I take you both out to dinner?' I asked.
'Why don't I cook dinner for the three of us? If you don't mind Emilio being there.'
'I don't mind. I'll keep him out of your hair.' I had played with my niece and nephew a few times. It was fun to be with kids, as long as you didn't have to be around them all the time.
'He'd love to show you his frog.'
A voice over the intercom said, 'Karl Patterson, please call the front desk.'
Esther gave me her telephone receiver and pushed a button. The receptionist told me Pat Wong was on the line. She connected us and I said hello.
After a few preliminaries, Pat said, 'My uncle is in town. He wants to meet you.'
'Okay. How about tomorrow?'
'He's leaving tomorrow. It has to be tonight.'
My heart sank. I wanted to kiss him off. But it might be important-for Ned, for Dionysus. After a pause, during which my conscience struggled with my desire to be with Esther, I said, 'Okay. Where and when?'
When I hung up the phone Esther had a look of concern on her face. 'Bad news about your father?'
'No. But I'm going to have to cancel dinner.'
'That's all right.'
She was being nice. But it wasn't all right.
Pat had asked me to pick him up at an apartment east of Lincoln Boulevard. The skuzzy side of Santa Monica. Cracked sidewalks, barred windows and houses that needed painting. Trash in the side yard. Still, if these were the worst slums Santa Monica had to offer they beat the hell out of most cities.
The address Pat had given me was a small house that had evidently been split into two or three apartments. I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. Pat immediately appeared through a doorway.
As he got into the car I could see that he was overdressed for the area, with a nice shirt and tie, pressed slacks and polished black shoes.
After he said hello he added, 'I'm staying here with a friend until I have enough money to get my own place.'
That explained the unrecognizable voice on the answering machine. I asked him where we were going. He said the Beverly Hills Hotel. I laughed and said, 'I'm not sure we can get there from here. Are you serious?'
Pat laughed too, and said, 'My uncle always stays at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He's made a lot of money in real estate. I worked for him for a while-until I got into trouble. Speaking of work, I just got off a little while ago, but since we're going to an up-scale place I kept my uniform on.'
'Uniform?'
'Yes, I got the job as airport shuttle driver. They make us wear a tie.'
'Congratulations.'
'Thanks. And thanks again for your help with the computers. And to everyone at Emerge.'
Actually, getting to the Beverly Hills Hotel wasn't difficult at all. Take Lincoln north to Sunset Boulevard and head east on that winding and dangerous street, the graveyard for many a Chevrolet Corvair in the sixties, or so the story goes. I wished I were driving the Jaguar, with its superior handling ability, but even the Toyota far outperformed the Corvair, which was supposed to be so bad that Ralph Nader wrote a whole book about it and established a name for himself.
I told myself it was better to suffer minor embarrassment from leaving a Toyota with a parking valet than to risk damage to a more expensive car. In any case, the young man who didn't speak much English didn't seem to care what kind of car I drove as he handed me a parking stub.
A number of uniformed employees hovered about and one held the front door of the hotel for us, but Pat knew where he was going. There was no smiling girl to bow us into the elevator like the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo had featured when my father stayed there, but other than that I suspected the service here was first rate.
The room that appeared before us when the door was opened to Pat's knock was more luxurious than I had anticipated, with expensive antique furniture. In fact, it must be a suite because there was no bed in evidence and I
