“One taste and it’d be gone.”
Greer smiled, sat back in her chair; teeth very white, skin very smooth, eye makeup a little smeared. “I’d like to own a place like this someday.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s my dream, anyway. One of my dreams.”
“How much would it cost?” Wyatt said. “The rent, equipment, all that?”
“Who knows?” Greer said. “Too much.”
“There’d probably be insurance, too.”
Her face darkened. “I’ve had enough of goddamn insurance.”
“What do you mean?”
Greer was silent for a few moments. Clouds must have shifted, because a sudden golden shaft shone through a skylight, illuminating their table and everything on it-Coke slowly fizzing, steam rising from the little espresso cup, Greer’s right hand, a strong, finely shaped hand, the nails all chewed down to the quick. “It’s a long story,” she said.
“There’s time,” said Wyatt. “Unless you have to get back to work.”
She took a sip of espresso. Her lips weren’t very full but were, like her hands, finely shaped. “That’s the point,” she said. “I don’t. We’re in receivership, so who gives a shit?”
Receivership: a word Wyatt was all too familiar with, from the unfolding of the Baker Brothers bankruptcy.
“You own the bowling alley?” he said.
“The bank owns it now,” Greer said. “Some bank in San Francisco. But before that my father owned it. Plus a whole big amusement center across town.”
“That’s in receivership, too?”
Greer shook her head. “Turned to ashes instead.”
“I don’t understand.”
She finished what was left of the espresso, put the cup down, rattling the saucer. “Last year, when things started to go bad-the economy, all that-the amusement center burned to the ground. My dad was found guilty of arson in a court of law-so it must be true, right?” Her eyes welled up, very briefly, but she didn’t cry. “My father, who built the amusement center from scratch, I’m talking about he even did the framing, the Sheetrock, the painting-guilty of burning it all down for the insurance money.” Her voice had risen; one or two people glanced over.
Wyatt, his voice very low, said, “You don’t think he did it?”
“Who cares what I think? The fact is he’s stuck in Sweetwater for five years, minimum.”
“Sweetwater?”
“The prison across the river,” Greer said. “Number one employer in the county. Haven’t you seen it?”
8
Wyatt wasn’t prepared for things happening fast, but somehow when Saturday rolled around he had a date with Greer. The plan was to pick her up at her place, go to lunch, and then drive around while she showed him the sights of Silver City. Aunt Hildy always did her shopping on Saturday morning, and Dub had practice. Wyatt slept in, woke to a quiet house. He found himself looking forward to the day ahead for the first time in a long time; and he wasn’t thinking about baseball at all.
Greer lived in an old apartment building a few blocks north of the main street, meaning away from the river. He sat in the car, waiting outside. It was a four-story building, kind of grimy outside but with fancy little details under the grime, like two Greek temple-type columns framing the front door, and the stone head of some aggressive-looking creature sticking out of the wall above it, fangs bared.
The door opened and Greer came out. She wore the short leather jacket and jeans, wasn’t carrying a purse, not even a little one. In his experience, girls always carried a purse when they went out. But no time to think about that. She opened the passenger door and slid inside.
“Hey, cowboy,” she said.
“Hi,” said Wyatt. Her smell reached him, a really nice smell, flowers and something else. He glanced over, caught the gleam of her eyebrow ring and a quick smile.
“Cut yourself shaving?” she said, touching the tip of her chin.
Wyatt touched his chin, checked his fingertip. Yes, a little red smear; he wiped it off on his jeans.
“If I was a vampire you’d be in trouble,” Greer said.
“I’m not worried,” Wyatt said. “I had garlic for breakfast.”
Greer laughed. “Vroom vroom,” she said. “Let’s see what this baby can do.”
For some reason, Wyatt had a mature thought at that moment: She’s already seen what this baby can do, on that icy patch in the Torrance Bowl parking lot. He stepped lightly on the gas and drove sedately down the street. Greer’s eyes were on him: he could feel them.
“Is that your own place?” Wyatt said, nodding back toward the apartment building.
“Yeah. I’ve got a one-bedroom.”
“Cool,” Wyatt said. Having your own place: what would that be like? “So you don’t, uh, live with your mother, or anything?”
“Correctamundo,” Greer said. “Hang a right at the top of the hill.”
Wyatt hung a right, followed a tree-lined street overlooking the river. The houses, big, old, nice-looking, but a little run-down, were spaced far apart.
“Pretty much the oldest surviving part of town,” Greer said. “Dates from back when there was still silver in the mine. The mining directors lived here, plus doctors, lawyers, that kind of thing.” She pointed. “My mother grew up in that one.”
Wyatt pulled over. The house was tall, with balconies, a screened-in porch, and a conical tower at one end.
“I think it was white back then,” Greer said.
Now it was yellow with brown trim, the paint peeling here and there; and a blue tarp covered one section of the roof. “Who lives in it now?” Wyatt said.
“No idea.”
Curtains parted on an upper floor and someone looked out. Wyatt eased off the brake, let the car roll forward. “So, uh, where’s your mom living now?”
“An even sweller place,” Greer said. “Sweller than this was in its heyday.”
“Yeah? Are we going to see it?”
“Depends on whether you’re planning a trip to Seattle.”
“Your mom lives in Seattle?”
“Check.”
“Your parents are divorced?”
“You do a dynamite Q and A, you know that?”
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” She patted his knee, sending a small electric charge up his leg. “What would happen to human conversation if we didn’t have Q and A? Long silences, baby, end of story.”
Way over his head. Wyatt realized that he was out of his league. Greer was smarter and older, and had more of something else he couldn’t even label. But the next moment, right after all that was hitting home, some part of him, possibly the competitive part, rose up, refusing to simply fold. Driving down this fading street where local silver barons had once lived, he forced his mind to wrestle with what Greer had just said, to really understand.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t know what?” said Greer. “Hang another right.”
“Well,” said Wyatt, turning onto a long street that slanted down, away from the river, “there’s communication in silences, too.”
