‘Good to know you,
Mr Miller,’ said Paulette. ‘How’s your insurance problem?’
‘Oh, I guess we’ll get the money
eventually,’ said Phil. ‘The insurance company’s been arguing that a brown-out
doesn’t constitute a black-out, and so none of our freezer-food was covered;
but our lawyer seems pretty hopeful about it.’
He suddenly stopped himself, and
frowned at her. ‘How do you know about
that?’ he asked her.
She smiled at him, half knowingly,
half provocatively. ‘ Word gets around,’ she said, winking.
‘Word gets around about three
hundred dollars’ worth of spoiled pizzas?’
Paulette wouldn’t say any more, but
gave Gil’s hand a squeeze and told him, ‘I’ll see you later. Don’t be late.
Bully’s North, at seven.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Gil promised.
All three of them watched her walk
out of the store, and the way that she moved in her tight white shorts. Bradley
whispered, in a reverential voice, ‘No panties, did you see that? Not a
pantie-crease in sight.’ He stared wide eyed at Gil, and clenched his fists,
and said, ‘God! I could hit myself in the face with a brick.’
‘It might do you some good,’ said
Phil.
Gil just stood behind the
cash-register staring at the open door of the Mini-Market as if he couldn’t
believe that Paulette had actually been real.
Phil said, ‘You’re seeing her
tonight?’
Gil nodded. ‘She’s buying me
dinner.’
Phil laid his arm around his son’s
shoulders. ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘There do seem to be times when you
can fall on your feet.’ He glanced behind him, but Gil’s mother was still in
the stockroom. ‘Just make sure, you know, that you take all the necessary
precautions. She might be a lovely young lady, but I don’t know her well enough
yet to entrust her with my first grandchild.’
Bradley wrenched his golfing-hat down
over his head. ‘Precautions! What are you doing to me? I could hit myself in
the face with two bricks.’
Phil laughed, and gave Bradley a
playful punch in the stomach. Bradley coughed and spluttered and pretended to
expire.
‘Listen,’ said Phil, ‘I’ll do you a
favour. You can have that Hustler at
fifty per cent discount.’
‘While he goes out with Miss Super
Bosom, 1986? Are you kidding?’
Gil served behind the deli counter
until lunchtime. Then he made himself a salt beef and onion submarine, and took
off for San Pasqual Valley, out by the San Diego Wild Animal Park, where his
friend Santos Ramona lived. Santos had briefly attended the same business
college as Gil, but after two semesters his father had been hospitalised with
emphysema, and he had been obliged to give up his education and work in the San
Pasqual vineyards to support his family. Bradley was fun; but Santos was the
man to see if you felt serious or reflective. Santos had sampled peyote and
yage, the mind-expanding drugs taken by the Jivaro Indians.
Santos claimed that he could see the
future.
Gil ate the salt beef submarine as
he drove one-handed along the winding road that led up from Solana Beach to
Rancho Santa Fe. Beyond the quiet retirement community of Rancho Santa Fe, with
its whitewashed houses and its neat streets, the road ribboned out into more
mountainous country, around the edge of Lake Hodges, and out into the San
Pasqual Valley. Hot and sheltered, with slopes of dry, tawny soil, the San
Pasqual Valley was ideal for growing grapes. The vines stood hand-in-hand on
the hillsides, their green leaves fluttering in the afternoon breeze like
tattered shirts.
Santos Ramona’s house was set close
by the road, in a steep sloping hollow, so low down that its clay-tiled roof
was almost on the same level as the pavement. Gil steered the Mustang down the
dusty gradient into Santos’s front yard, and five or six chickens scattered
around his wheels. Santos himself was out back, with a spanner in one hand and
a can of Mexican beer in the other, staring without much optimism at a battered
John Deere
Mr Miller,’ said Paulette. ‘How’s your insurance problem?’
‘Oh, I guess we’ll get the money
eventually,’ said Phil. ‘The insurance company’s been arguing that a brown-out
doesn’t constitute a black-out, and so none of our freezer-food was covered;
but our lawyer seems pretty hopeful about it.’
He suddenly stopped himself, and
frowned at her. ‘How do you know about
that?’ he asked her.
She smiled at him, half knowingly,
half provocatively. ‘ Word gets around,’ she said, winking.
‘Word gets around about three
hundred dollars’ worth of spoiled pizzas?’
Paulette wouldn’t say any more, but
gave Gil’s hand a squeeze and told him, ‘I’ll see you later. Don’t be late.
Bully’s North, at seven.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Gil promised.
All three of them watched her walk
out of the store, and the way that she moved in her tight white shorts. Bradley
whispered, in a reverential voice, ‘No panties, did you see that? Not a
pantie-crease in sight.’ He stared wide eyed at Gil, and clenched his fists,
and said, ‘God! I could hit myself in the face with a brick.’
‘It might do you some good,’ said
Phil.
Gil just stood behind the
cash-register staring at the open door of the Mini-Market as if he couldn’t
believe that Paulette had actually been real.
Phil said, ‘You’re seeing her
tonight?’
Gil nodded. ‘She’s buying me
dinner.’
Phil laid his arm around his son’s
shoulders. ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘There do seem to be times when you
can fall on your feet.’ He glanced behind him, but Gil’s mother was still in
the stockroom. ‘Just make sure, you know, that you take all the necessary
precautions. She might be a lovely young lady, but I don’t know her well enough
yet to entrust her with my first grandchild.’
Bradley wrenched his golfing-hat down
over his head. ‘Precautions! What are you doing to me? I could hit myself in
the face with two bricks.’
Phil laughed, and gave Bradley a
playful punch in the stomach. Bradley coughed and spluttered and pretended to
expire.
‘Listen,’ said Phil, ‘I’ll do you a
favour. You can have that Hustler at
fifty per cent discount.’
‘While he goes out with Miss Super
Bosom, 1986? Are you kidding?’
Gil served behind the deli counter
until lunchtime. Then he made himself a salt beef and onion submarine, and took
off for San Pasqual Valley, out by the San Diego Wild Animal Park, where his
friend Santos Ramona lived. Santos had briefly attended the same business
college as Gil, but after two semesters his father had been hospitalised with
emphysema, and he had been obliged to give up his education and work in the San
Pasqual vineyards to support his family. Bradley was fun; but Santos was the
man to see if you felt serious or reflective. Santos had sampled peyote and
yage, the mind-expanding drugs taken by the Jivaro Indians.
Santos claimed that he could see the
future.
Gil ate the salt beef submarine as
he drove one-handed along the winding road that led up from Solana Beach to
Rancho Santa Fe. Beyond the quiet retirement community of Rancho Santa Fe, with
its whitewashed houses and its neat streets, the road ribboned out into more
mountainous country, around the edge of Lake Hodges, and out into the San
Pasqual Valley. Hot and sheltered, with slopes of dry, tawny soil, the San
Pasqual Valley was ideal for growing grapes. The vines stood hand-in-hand on
the hillsides, their green leaves fluttering in the afternoon breeze like
tattered shirts.
Santos Ramona’s house was set close
by the road, in a steep sloping hollow, so low down that its clay-tiled roof
was almost on the same level as the pavement. Gil steered the Mustang down the
dusty gradient into Santos’s front yard, and five or six chickens scattered
around his wheels. Santos himself was out back, with a spanner in one hand and
a can of Mexican beer in the other, staring without much optimism at a battered
John Deere
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