An Equal Opportunity Death Read Free Page A

him ponder our whole conversation so much that he would find it impossible to resist discussing it.
    I watched Chris pull out of the parking lot, but I didn’t start my own engine. Instead I looked at the river rush over fallen branches, creating the beginnings of whirlpools. I could drive, but I knew I’d had enough to drink to make that legally questionable. All I needed now was to be stopped for drunk driving at 12:30, when I was supposed to be home sick. I had planned to take the day off, stay home, and luxuriate. My only stricture was to stay out of sight. I was certainly failing at that. So far my morning had been like “The Three Stooges Take a Sick Day.”
    My speculations were interrupted by the sound of an engine stopping. In the side parking lot, where Chris had been, I now saw the Chinese Laundry van, here to pick up Frank’s napkins and tablecloths from the dinner trade. Frank’s was mainly a bar, but he did have a few tables, and he served one entree per night—whatever Rosa Fortimiglio, Chris’s mother, delivered. Customers never knew in advance whether they would be served ravioli, fettucini, or Salmon Rosa. But, whichever, it was always good, cheap, and filling.
    The laundryman wouldn’t know me, but I didn’t want to be seen by another person, regardless. I eased my pickup around the far corner of the building and was pulling out onto the road before he had time to leave his truck.
    It was still the noon hour. Traffic on the main bridge would be heavy. Pedestrians would be rushing to and from lunch. In the rain, the traffic lights might go out at any time. It wouldn’t be wise for me to navigate through that. I didn’t want to be arrested, and I certainly didn’t want to hit anyone. So I turned west and drove away from town, to the bridge a few miles down river. The road was empty. Eucalyptus, fir trees, and redwoods crowded beside it, their wet branches hanging low, occasionally scraping the roof of the cab. The headlights seemed to bounce off the rain; it was like driving in a car wash.
    I crossed the bridge and drove back along North Bank Road. The river was maybe forty yards to the right now. Between it and the road were a few small shingle buildings. I had noticed them during the summer. They were ill-painted, casually kept; places that could be flooded with no great loss. One was an abandoned café. It had been a soda and coffee shop some years ago, but it had failed, or the city person with dreams of running a country business had moved on to other projects. It was in the same condition as the little houses.
    North Bank Road started to become crowded as I came into town. I turned left, bypassed the main area of town and cut down the block before my house, relieved to see no one out, and gratefully pulled into the garage.
    Back in the safety of my own house, I took a long hot shower, then, prodded by guilt over my wasted free day, I donned my slicker, grabbed two empty half-gallon wine bottles, and trudged along the muddy path that skirted the next two houses, to the spring that provided the only palatable drinking water. The stuff from the tap wouldn’t kill you, but it tasted too much like metal pipe. I carried the full bottles to the house. Ten more waited. I was beginning to get a headache. Picking up two more, I trudged back.
    And, when the entire dozen were full, and I could be free from this joy of the country for another two weeks, I stoked the fire, took out a book on the architecture of Eureka that I had been planning to read for months, and promptly fell asleep.
    It was four-thirty when I awoke, my mouth dry and cottony, my head aching, and the memory of my scene with Frank reminding me what an ass I had made of myself. So much for my luxuriant day.
    But at least I felt sober. And I could make a decision. Frank might not have left for San Francisco yet. If he were still there, I could explain—apologize, sort of—though I didn’t think I was entirely wrong. It just wasn’t