12 Bliss Street by Martha Conway Page A

took off her tundra boots. Nicola took another bite of pizza. She watched them for a moment. Davette had a sharp look to her; she was someone who paid attention but not always to the right things. Dave’s strengths were less apparent. He knew how to start a job then keep it moving, you could say that for him.
    “Listen, I might have some work for you two,” Nicola told them. “If you’re interested.”
    “I’m not doing the kidnapping thing again,” Davette said.
    “No, this should be legal.”
    “Should be,” Dave repeated. “What’s it pay?”
    “Same as he paid.”
    “Don’t you think we should get a raise?”
    This she could not believe.
    “You’re lucky I’m not going to the police,” she said.
    “But you wouldn’t,” Dave said, “because of him. ” A gesture toward Scooter.
    “As if I haven’t set the police on him before,” Nicola lied. She turned back to Scooter. “Tell me more about the guy you’re meeting tomorrow.”
    “His name is Lou,” Scooter said. “I’m meeting him for breakfast downtown.”
    “You’re having breakfast with your loan shark?”
    “Like I said, he’s the nephew or something, I don’t know. He’s from New Jersey. He told me he’ll be carrying around a big notebook, like a sketch pad, or I can’t remember exactly what he said. Maybe he’s a painter or something.”
    “Christ, a loan shark with a hobby,” said Nicola.
    “Or he sketches, I don’t know. Does something with charcoal. He said I would know him,” Scooter said.
    “How would you know him?”
    “Maybe he’ll look very New Jersey.”
    “Lou from New Jersey,” Nicola said. She stretched and rolled her neck. It was time to go home.
    “Listen, where are your car keys?” she asked Scooter.
    “Why?”
    “You’re driving me home. I’m going to sleep for, let’s see,” she looked at her watch, “about three hours. Then I’m taking your meeting with Lou.”
    Scooter stared at her, his mouth slightly open. A thin cheese strand was dangling from his chin, and his eyes were wild from sleeplessness. “You’re taking my meeting?”
    Nicola almost smiled—he looked like a five-year-old who’d been playing outside too long. “Alone,” she told him.
    *   *   *
    The meeting with New Jersey Lou was way across town near the bay. After she slept Nicola showered, then put on a dark red chemise and a short black skirt and black pumps and a half-buttoned black blouse, the chemise clearly visible underneath.
    She wanted to look good. Serious, but good. Traffic was light at this hour and it was only when she turned up Jones Street and began to look for parking that she realized where the meeting was: the San Francisco School of Art. Was Scooter’s loan shark or bookie or whoever he was—Lou—was he a student, someone who considered himself knowledgeable in art? She could already imagine the lectures about chiaroscuro or whatnot. How many times had she listened to a man explain away his opinion as fact with the air of bestowing a gift? It was best to be defended beforehand, and she tried out various distracting remarks:
    “Excuse me but do you think there are tampons in the bathroom?”
    “I’m using this very drying lice medication.”
    “That always makes me think about sex.”
    Nicola parked, then walked through a large arch leading into a courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard stood a round tiled fish pool with a rim wide enough to be used as a bench.
    She walked toward the pool, where a man was sitting with a notebook open in front of him. He wore a white and blue sticky label on his shirt that said HI! MY NAME IS: LOU.
    Was this a joke? He was much younger than she had imagined.
    “Are you waiting for Scott Whitmore?”
    The man looked up from his notebook. He was about her age and had dark hair and dark eyes. He wore a white button-down shirt and his face had been recently shaved.
    “I’m taking Scott’s meeting for him,” Nicola told him.
    Lou looked her