Another Noir snippet

Spange – now that’s language of the street. Spare-changing, for the uninitiated. If you haven’t heard of it, you haven’t lived in Berkeley, or perhaps in most of the urban Bay Area. It’s just a fact of life here, more so than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

“I did.”

“I figured you’d just pass me right up.”

“I was going to.”

“So what happened?”

How can I tell him that what I saw in his eyes scared the hell out of me? Chilled me down to whatever core I still have?

“I guess,” I say, “I just decided to be kind to the unfortunate.”

Somehow we both laugh.

We’re sitting in the back garden. It’s what Jupiter is known for, the reason that people come here, though the Cassiopeia pizza, with its thin-sliced potatoes and bacon bits, isn’t far behind.
Berkeley does its backyard gardens right. This one – fire pit, multiple levels, stage in back – is a bit legendary. God knows how many hookups, doctoral dissertations, and hangovers first took shape here.

“No,” I say. “That’s not it.”

Then I feel my phone vibrate in my purse. Jeremy. It’s got to be. I don’t get a lot of texts. His was the one I’ve been waiting for. I want to look at it. I do … but I don’t. Something whispers in my face, showering me with its hot breath, telling me that it’s nothing I need to read.