form of fear, you know,” Chorizo told her. He looked at his thumbnail, then began filing the nail of his index finger. “A fear of death. We play with our hair, we jiggle our knees, all in the vain attempt to prove we are still alive. We think that if we just keep moving we won’t die on the spot.”
The woman did not appear to be listening. “I’m putting all the receipts with no dates in this envelope,” she told him.
Chorizo selected a small rosewood stick from his manicure set and began to push back his cuticles.
“And yet fear is good,” he went on. “It’s the primary attribute of a warrior. Without fear, we cannot experience fearlessness. One feels afraid, one moves beyond it. I’m speaking of the spiritual warrior.”
He paused again, then took out a small blue bottle of cuticle complex and squeezed some onto his fingers. The woman looked from book to computer to book again, and in the silence noises from the outside could be heard—a shout, the screech of bus brakes. Chorizo rubbed lotion into his skin, then stopped as if to listen.
“I’m looking for nineteen ninety-eight,” the woman said.
Chorizo looked at his hands again. “The spiritual warrior is an optimist. He does not give up on anyone or anything.”
The woman swiveled in her chair and began looking through another pile.
“Even lost records,” he said.
His silver bracelet clinked on the desktop and he turned it around, pulling a few dark hairs away from the chain links, then looked at his cuticles again.
“Did you know men’s nails grow faster than women’s? But the increased surface area makes them more vulnerable to bumps and bangs, which can cause splitting. Some say you should never cut your nails on a boat; this brings bad luck. But if you cut your nails on a Sunday, you will bring someone else bad luck. I like that one. My mother told me that one.”
There was a knock on the door and Chorizo swung back in his desk chair and rolled over to the door to open it. A tall, heavyset man with dark hair and dark eyes walked in and went immediately over to the woman at the desk, who glanced up at him.
“What do you think?” Chorizo said.
The man looked at Chorizo’s outstretched hands. “About what?”
“My nails! I’m thinking of buffing, though the effect of that has not been proven. The trouble is there, do you see the bulges in the middle of my thumbnails? It’s a certain sign of an early death. However, on the other hand, you see these white spots? They bring good luck. Never go to a palm reader; hand reading is so uncertain.”
“Are you all right?” the man asked his sister. “Have you eaten anything?”
“Never mind her,” Chorizo said. “Let her work. Listen, I want you to do something for me.”
The man looked at Chorizo. “What?”
“I want you to find someone for me, a woman named Nicola something. I don’t know her last name, but she works somewhere on West Portal. She’s a dental hygienist,” he said.
Ten
It was hard to believe that after that whole weekend, after the kidnapping and the night tied to a chair and the breakfast meeting with a bookie, for Christ’s sake, which she never dreamed would be a scheduled item in her day, after all that today was still just a Monday— Monday —and the feeling of Monday doesn’t change no matter what comes before it. Nicola mentally divided the morning into its major segments: power walk, muni, coffee. The minor segments, like work, fit in without much thought and it was better that way.
On Mondays, Nicola found, it’s best not to think too much. It’s best to just get on with the schedule, just start it all up again. This she did well.
At the office she hung up her jacket and turned on work mode. The meeting with Fred was scheduled for eleven. At ten-thirty Nicola could hear Guy sneezing down the hall and she knew that any minute he would pop his head in and complain about dust, which was usually his prelude before unleashing his anxiety du
The woman did not appear to be listening. “I’m putting all the receipts with no dates in this envelope,” she told him.
Chorizo selected a small rosewood stick from his manicure set and began to push back his cuticles.
“And yet fear is good,” he went on. “It’s the primary attribute of a warrior. Without fear, we cannot experience fearlessness. One feels afraid, one moves beyond it. I’m speaking of the spiritual warrior.”
He paused again, then took out a small blue bottle of cuticle complex and squeezed some onto his fingers. The woman looked from book to computer to book again, and in the silence noises from the outside could be heard—a shout, the screech of bus brakes. Chorizo rubbed lotion into his skin, then stopped as if to listen.
“I’m looking for nineteen ninety-eight,” the woman said.
Chorizo looked at his hands again. “The spiritual warrior is an optimist. He does not give up on anyone or anything.”
The woman swiveled in her chair and began looking through another pile.
“Even lost records,” he said.
His silver bracelet clinked on the desktop and he turned it around, pulling a few dark hairs away from the chain links, then looked at his cuticles again.
“Did you know men’s nails grow faster than women’s? But the increased surface area makes them more vulnerable to bumps and bangs, which can cause splitting. Some say you should never cut your nails on a boat; this brings bad luck. But if you cut your nails on a Sunday, you will bring someone else bad luck. I like that one. My mother told me that one.”
There was a knock on the door and Chorizo swung back in his desk chair and rolled over to the door to open it. A tall, heavyset man with dark hair and dark eyes walked in and went immediately over to the woman at the desk, who glanced up at him.
“What do you think?” Chorizo said.
The man looked at Chorizo’s outstretched hands. “About what?”
“My nails! I’m thinking of buffing, though the effect of that has not been proven. The trouble is there, do you see the bulges in the middle of my thumbnails? It’s a certain sign of an early death. However, on the other hand, you see these white spots? They bring good luck. Never go to a palm reader; hand reading is so uncertain.”
“Are you all right?” the man asked his sister. “Have you eaten anything?”
“Never mind her,” Chorizo said. “Let her work. Listen, I want you to do something for me.”
The man looked at Chorizo. “What?”
“I want you to find someone for me, a woman named Nicola something. I don’t know her last name, but she works somewhere on West Portal. She’s a dental hygienist,” he said.
Ten
It was hard to believe that after that whole weekend, after the kidnapping and the night tied to a chair and the breakfast meeting with a bookie, for Christ’s sake, which she never dreamed would be a scheduled item in her day, after all that today was still just a Monday— Monday —and the feeling of Monday doesn’t change no matter what comes before it. Nicola mentally divided the morning into its major segments: power walk, muni, coffee. The minor segments, like work, fit in without much thought and it was better that way.
On Mondays, Nicola found, it’s best not to think too much. It’s best to just get on with the schedule, just start it all up again. This she did well.
At the office she hung up her jacket and turned on work mode. The meeting with Fred was scheduled for eleven. At ten-thirty Nicola could hear Guy sneezing down the hall and she knew that any minute he would pop his head in and complain about dust, which was usually his prelude before unleashing his anxiety du
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