The Devil in Silver

She smiled without opening her mouth; a tight grin. “You better think of something else,” she said.

Pepper didn’t see why she had to be hardheaded about it, but also didn’t want to get booted out. He liked the lounge at this hour. No Loochie, no Dorry, and far from his empty room. But without anything to read, he wanted conversation. He said, “You want to hear about Vincent Van Gogh?”

She frowned, surprised. “The painter?”

“The Dutch painter,” Pepper said, proud he could be more specific.

This seemed to please her. That he didn’t back down or apologize. She smiled again, a little wider this time, but still showing no teeth.

Behind him, Pepper heard the Redhead Kingpin clear her throat. The Chinese woman looked over his shoulder and rolled her eyes.

“Tell me something interesting about his birth,” she said, speaking loud enough that it seemed defiant.

“He was born on March 30,” Pepper said, “in 1853.”

“Everyone is born sometime.”

Pepper considered this. “His father was a pastor.”

She peeked at another magazine on the table. Pepper was losing her. Behind him, another bout of throat clearing. Which only made him speak a bit more loudly, too.

“But he wasn’t a very good one,” Pepper said. “People adored Van Gogh’s dad, as a person, but as a pastor he was second-rate.”

This made the Chinese woman look up again with some interest. “It’s not a good scandal or anything. But I do like to hear about people who aren’t very good at their jobs. Not terrible, not great, just okay. I like people who are just okay.”

Pepper said, “So what’s your name?”

She crossed her arms. “What does everyone around here call me?”

Pepper shrugged cartoonishly, raised his eyebrows. “How would I know?”

She twisted her lips and sighed. “My name is Xiu,” she said. “But you won’t be able to pronounce it.”

“Xiu,” Pepper repeated, but it came out sounding like “zoo.” He knew that wasn’t quite right because he’d just heard her say it. He tried to hold his mouth closed the way she had. It seemed like she clenched her jaw, pursed her lips, and (somehow) simultaneously parted her teeth to make the sound come out.

“Xiu,” he tried. “Xiu.” But it only sounded worse. It made his neck hurt.

Finally she tapped the tabletop with an open hand. “Just call me Sue.”

Pepper said, “I’m going to keep practicing.”

She nodded. “But until then …”

“Sue.”

She looked to be about his age. In her early forties. She had a wide round face, and her smile never grew bigger than that grin. In all the lines she’d spoken just now he had yet to actually see her teeth. It didn’t seem like they were missing, but like she consciously kept them covered with her lips. Such a self-conscious way of speaking. She had a broad, flat nose that seemed to float off her broad face. Thinning black eyebrows. Deeply black hair that fell limply on either side of her face and hid her ears. Her eyes were also black and, somehow, remote. They were like closed shutters. But he could see, even through those slats, her lights were on.

“I’m Pepper,” he said.

“I know who you are.”

“You’ve been asking about me?” He sat higher in his seat.

“You tried to escape,” she said.

He slumped. “I don’t know what we tried to do. But it didn’t work.”

She grabbed a copy of Outside magazine from her pile. “No. It really didn’t.”

Sue stopped on a page with a photo of a waterfall spraying down a mountain. She pressed a finger to the water as if her skin would come away wet. “So what will you do now?” she asked.

“I think I’ll go into real estate.”

“Commercial or residential?”

“I’m going to make a bid on the ball court over there.”

“How much will you offer?”

“A dollar forty-nine.”

She bugged her eyes wide. “Don’t you know the bubble burst? A dollar forty-nine sounds like 2006 prices!”

They leaned toward each other, just slightly. They hardly noticed it. She reached into her stack of magazines and slid a different one to him: National Geographic Traveler. Pepper looked at her. Sue creased a picture of a desert oasis. She tore it out carefully.

“For the files,” Pepper said.

She held the picture up. A series of date-palm trees surrounding a small pool of water. “This one isn’t a file. It’s a dream.”

Sue reached below her chair where she had an old plastic Associated Supermarket bag. Inside there were two somewhat worn accordion folders. One manila, one blue. She opened the blue one, and Pepper saw dozens and dozens of clippings from glossy magazines. Each one a fantasy spot worth visiting. Sue slipped the image of the oasis in there. Then she pressed it shut with the Velcro tab. She touched the blue folder. “The dreams.” She touched the manila folder. “The files.”

Pepper watched her quietly. Was this crazy or was it cute? And did Pepper care? At least right now? He was with a woman whose company he already liked. And she seemed to like him. In a coffee shop, at a party, or in a psychiatric unit, some interactions always feel good.

“So will you come see me again tomorrow?” Sue asked.