Oscar's Secret

            by Anna McDowell

 

            Oscar’s Hotdogs & Burgers serves the best burger in Berkeley and a chocolate milkshake that is damn good too. It’s box-like shape and windows wrapping around three-quarters of its existing wall space are never properly washed and black soot and grime inhabit nearly every ignored nook and cranny; especially in the restaurant’s orange and white front sign. But, the hamburgers are truly fantastic and the prices can’t be beat. And if you’ve boycotted McDonald’s, which is just one block down, just like the rest of the town of Berkeley, then Oscar’s is the joint for you.

            Golden sunlight cuts through the fog and forms spotlights illuminating the trillions of tiny dust particles that swarm and float through the restaurant’s air. Miguel’s mopping cleaner-fluid fills Oscar’s with the scent of manufactured lime and mold. His hands are torn and blistered from the bleach and suds in the sink and from the hours of dishwashing he’s done during his first week on the job. His curly dark hair is pushed down by an old A’s hat, I’m not even sure he likes baseball, forming pompom clumps on either side. The mop in his hands is taller than him, some four foot nine.

            “Miguel! Miguel! Mas...agua…par aqui,” Tony points at an extraordinarily dirty spot on the salt and pepper linoleum floor, his Californian accent muddling the few words of Spanish he can remember. The doorbell signals an electronic ding dong and in walks Mr. Robert the cop, ready for his eleven-thirty burger and fries, extra lettuce, no onions, and a slice of slimy cheese.

            “Shit man…it’s the police! Run, hide!” Tony yells at Miguel, who only looks confused and a bit afraid. Tony smiles, believing his joke to be clever, and gives Robert a customary high-five. Robert does not know of Tony’s addiction to pot, nor of his talent in rolling the tightest, cleanest spliff of anyone in Berkeley. He is also unaware that at this very moment, Tony’s left jean pocket carries an ounce of Humboldt’s finest and that the blood running through his veins is chock-full of THC. He intends to sell this after work. So of course, Robert has his suspicions, what with Tony’s eyes always blood-shot and beady like he’s been crying, but it doesn’t matter so much to him. He is a man of the law when he’s on the job, but what he isn’t sure of doesn’t bother him much.

            His burger comes out steaming and neatly layered, his fries drenched in golden grease. Ah, the smell of a good day. Each hand gripping his burger he takes a huge bite, nearly devouring it altogether. Robert’s bulging, muscular upper-body has softened in the past five or so years. His tummy hangs just an inch over his gun belt like the edges of an over risen cake and the skin around his wedding band has swelled and inflamed. But he is well kept and tidy, cleanly shaven and smelling of after-shave. Kim sneaks up behind him, snags a kiss and takes a seat. She smells like shampoo and make-up, her straight streaky blond hair, the kinds that is definitely unnatural, is lazily compiled to form a wet clump on her head, her eyelashes droop with the layers of mascara she applied this morning.

            “Are you sure you don’t want a burger, babe?” Robert asks. “I can buy you one right now if you want it…it’s not too late, I’ve only had a bite.”

            “Naw…I told you already, I have to watch my weight. And that grease is just awful for my skin.” She touches her unblemished baby soft face. Robert glances at Kim’s thin, almost skeletal body and shrugs. 

            “Ok. But you look alright to me.” A big, juicy burger might do her emaciated body some good, he thinks.

She giggles, a cheesy forced laugh, the kind that makes me cringe, and kisses Robert again, this time on the mouth, sliding her tongue between his lips. They make out for a few seconds before Robert steals a second to breath and to finish inhaling the remains of his burger.

            Mrs. Painter sits alone, five tables from Robert’s and a few feet from the front door. Her hair is well coiffed, she wore curlers last night, in the formulaic up-do of the elderly woman – curled to the chin, graying, and frosted in hairspray. She wears a pink and yellow housedress, probably fifty years old, and a beige sweater to protect her aging body and wilting immune system from the chilly morning fog. Little beige shoes hug her tiny feet crossed one over the other under the table. Her thin lips are painted Gumdrop Pink and her wrinkled skin is powdered soft. She quickly makes a list on her magenta notepad, muttering a little as she writes.  On her table is a small cup of weak coffee, the kind any Berkeley raised teenager would spit out and call piss. Three torn sacs of artificial sweetener lay next to this Styrofoam cup of urine; Mrs. Painter is a diabetic, but she loves her sweets.

            Oscar’s is pretty peaceful, pretty god damn chill. The droning noise of the restaurant fan could drive any guy a little crazy, but a sip of sweet malty or a bite into a crispy, salted fry would turn any burning desire to kill into a mere afterthought, quickly forgotten and certainly never achieved.

Tony smokes a cigarette outside, blowing air out like it hurts a little; his eyes are pinched, his lips are puckered, and his forehead is furrowed. Miguel massages cheap lotion into the cracks and blisters in his hands while singing a song he wrote when he used to play the keyboards at home in Mexico. No time for that now. Robert’s hand is on Kim’s thigh, he is embarrassed to touch her like this anywhere but in privacy but she insists he work to get over such a silly discomfort. Love should not be hidden. Kim pinches Robert’s soft earlobe, an agitated pull. Mrs. Painter chews on the pink eraser of her neatly sharpened Ticonderoga. She is staring at Robert and Kim, evaluating, deriving, judging. She has that elderly woman stare that says tisk tisk, the young these days.

***

Outside it is dark and the neon OPEN sign blares like a headache. The fog has rolled back out, leaving the night air chilled but clear and refreshing. Only two minutes until closing, Tony’s counting.

            “Have you seen an older woman about yay high?” Cindy holds out her hand about four and a half feet from the ground. Miguel shakes his head and turns to finish washing dishes. She wonders whether or not he even understood the question. Tony appears from the back, smelling of nicotine and body odor, although Cindy can’t smell it, the counter in between them is an excellent barrier.

“Hey pretty lady. What can I do you for? We’re almost closed so you have to choose fast. What’ll it be?”

Cindy’s pale blue eyes squint a little. She tucks back a lock of dark, curly hair and bites her lip, holding back any hint of anger she might express. She seems frustrated. Not only by Tony’s flirtatious behavior.

            “Any cops eat here today?” she asks.

            “Yea…”

            “Fuck.”

            “You in trouble miss? Shit, I know what it’s like to be in trouble with the cops. But don’t worry, this one’s a real nice guy. Rob the cop, he’s not out to get you, I promise.”

Cindy’s face begins to wilt, her tightened frustration has fallen. She looks distressed.

            “Seriously lady. You don’t have to worry, this one ain’t out to get you. He’s one of my friends and he knows I smoke dope everyday,  as soon as I clock out. But, he ain’t never given me any troubles.”

***

            Across the street from Oscar’s, and up a few blocks is Spruce St. If you follow Spruce St. for about a mile uphill you will reach a place where no giant eucalyptus or oak trees block the view of the smelly, but sparkling, San Francisco Bay. A few houses cling to the side of the hill, and an occasional passing car squeezes by on the tiny, winding road. Tonight, like most nights, it is very quiet. Unlike Shattuck Ave. no bright lights can illuminate the faces of passerby. Unlike Shattuck Ave. most people are in bed before midnight.

            Mrs. Painter’s little old body, wrinkled and lifeless, lays under a red rose bush in her front garden on Spruce St. She never whimpered, didn’t really have the time to. Her body is for the most part untouched, except for a line of crimson that trickles down her forehead, through her eyebrows to the bridge of her cold nose. Her eyes are still opened, staring straight up at the red roses that match the color of the blood that has seeped out of her head.

            Cindy paces back and forth on the hardwood floor of her living room. A tear runs down her cheek, but she smears it away.  The phone rings.

            “I can’t say I knew it would happen, but I sure as hell had my suspicions,” she says through clenched teeth, holding back any tears that might grab hold of her like a noose, and choke her up.

            “You just don’t understand. I had to do it. I needed to know.”

***

            Miguel turns off the blaring OPEN sign and pulls off his apron.  He slaps Tony a high five, real smooth, like Tony showed him. Ding Dong, and the door is opened.

            “Hi man. Real sorry, we’re closed,” Tony says, his back turned to the door.

            “Real sorry, but you ain’t closed yet boys.”

Tony turns around; two cops stand at the door, arms folded over their chests, real tough.          

            “You seen a little old lady come in here? We’re tracking through her day, tryin’ to see where’s she’s been, what she does with her time…”

            “Yea. I did, little old lady about yay high,” Tony holds his hand about four and a half feet from the ground.

            “Hey officer. You know, you ain’t the only one who’s come in here looking for her today. Some woman, dark hair, blue eyes, seemed angry… I told her she wasn’t here no more.”

The fatter one of the two cops takes his hat off and strokes the back of his balding, pumpkin head.

            “A lady killer, huh?”

Ding dong! In walks Robert.

            “Sorry I’m late boys, miss anything big?” Sweat drips down Robert’s cheeks and his forehead glistens.

            “Yea. We just got a call from a neighbor up on Spruce. She found her neighbor’s body in the front yard. Seems she’d been clubbed over the head. Very bizarre, no witnesses.”

Robert sucked hard on the mint lifesaver in his mouth and swallowed. 

            “You got any leads?”

            “Well we didn’t really. Until this boy here tells us is could be some crazy lady.”

            “That’s crazy. I’m clocking out by midnight, but good luck on this one boys.”

            Tony, Miguel, and the two cops stand outside of the yellow CAUTION tape, investigating the scene from afar. Neighbors in pink bathrobes and slippers stand on doorsteps, hands over their mouths, shocked. Mrs. Painter was such a nice lady. Who could do such a thing? Coroners, detectives, forensic scientists all surround her body, which has not yet been removed from under the red roses. A black BMW whips around the bend and parks across the street from Mrs. Painter’s house. Cindy runs across the street, seemingly unaware of the vast number of people that surround Mrs. Painter’s front yard. She walks up Mrs. Painter’s front steps, knocks on the door and waits.

            “What the fuck does she think she’s doing?” Tony says to the two cops. “That’s the lady who came in today asking to see Mrs. Painter like they had a meeting planned or something.”

Mrs. Painter stands at the door and slowly turns around as she notices the three ambulances parked outside, the yellow CAUTION tape, and Mrs. Painter’s cold, dead body. She lets out a yell and collapses on the top of the stairs.

            The body has been cleared, the cops cars and ambulances have left. Spruce St. feels a little bit more peaceful. Cindy sits in her living room at home, her eyes red and puffy, clear snot trickling out of her nose. Her bare feet nervously tap the floor. The door slowly creaks open, it’s half past twelve. Robert quietly shuts it behind him and tiptoes towards the kitchen, placing his briefcase on the hallway floor.

            “Home late tonight, babe?” Cindy asks. Robert abruptly stops, blood rushes to his face, his pulse races. He turns to face the wife he did not expect to be awake.

            “Hey, ya…I got a little held up at work tonight. I should have called.”

            “Yah, you should have. But don’t worry about it.”

            “I’m beat. I’m gonna go on up to bed,” Robert turns to go upstairs.

            “Ya, you must be tired,” Cindy says. Robert turns back around and walks towards the living room.

            “You alright honey? You been crying?” He asks.

            “Ya, ya. No, I’m fine.” Cindy wipes her face with the back of her hand. “Did you hear about that horrible murder up in the hills?”

            “Oh yah. Awful, huh?”

            “Ya. I wonder what kind of cold blooded asshole could something like that…”

Robert nods, sweat beginning to shine the top of his head.

            “You look nervous babe. Why are you so god damn nervous?”

            “I’m not nervous. Just tired, that’s all.”

            “Robbie, most people don’t sweat profusely when they’re tired. I know why you are tired. I know why you are home late. And god damn it Robert, I know why you are nervous!” Cindy yells, nearly spitting in Robert’s face.

            “What the hell are you talking about?!”

            “I hired Mrs. Painter.”

            “Who the hell is she?”

            “I think you would know, you were at her house tonight. I have to say, I’m pretty unimpressed. It took you this long to figure out I had hired a private detective. And you are cop! You are supposed to be good at being sneaky, you sleazy bastard!” Robert grabs Cindy’s shoulder, grasping it tightly, ready to hit her one strong slap across the face.

            “Go ahead Robert! Hit me! Kill me like you killed Mrs. Painter! Do it! Then run off to Kim, isn’t that her name? Run off to Kim for a good time!”

Robert lets go of Cindy’s shoulder. He can’t look at Cindy’s face. He can hear his heart beating in his chest. When he was young he suffered occasional panic attacks and now, for the first time in twenty years, he can feel one coming.

            “I’m the only one that knows Robert. I want this house, I want the car and I want you to leave.”

Robert goes to the hallway, grabs his suitcase, and walks out the door.