Part 20: Coffee

“Liar,” Karen laughs. Tim’s expression doesn’t change. “Just water?”, she asks. “No kidding?”

“And milk,” Tim says. They’re sitting in Tim’s kitchen. Karen has been home two days from SF General. She already abandoned the bandage around her left shoulder.

“Coffee?”, Karen asks. Tim shakes his head. “Juice? Kool-Aid? Dr. Pepper?”

“Who’s he?”, Tim asks.

“Did you just make a joke?”, Karen asks. Tim’s expression doesn’t change. “I thought not,” Karen says. “You say you’ve never had a beer?”

“I’ve never had alcohol,” Tim clarifies.

“You went to college?”, Karen asks. Tim nods. “What kind of college graduates people without making sure they got ‘em drunk at least once?”

“I never saw the point,” Tim says. “Intoxication is poisoning, despite the euphoric side effects. The inherent--”

“Stop,” Karen interrupts. “It’s fun. I’ve seen you having fun.”

“No bars,” Tim replies. Karen looks confused. “You want to go to a bar,” Tim says. “With me. No bars. They’re full of sick people.” Karen starts to speak, then hesitates. “Alcoholics,” Tim says.

“How do you feel about coffee drinkers?”, Karen asks. “Are they sick too?”

Tim shakes his head. “Stimulated,” he says. “Sedentary. Social. Somnambulant. Soft-tissued. Asoporific. Silicated. Supinnine. Subterfugean.” Tim hesitates. “They usually come in threes.”

Karen waits for Tim to explain. She’s surprised, amused, puzzled. Several long seconds pass before Tim continues: “Words collide. Inside. Have to come out. No doubt.” Tim is almost whispering. “Three, two, one. It’s done.” He looks up apologetically. “Sometimes, they rhyme.”

Karen smiles slightly. “Where are you from?”, she asks. Tim doesn’t reply. “I mean,” she adds, “you’re not like other San Franciscans.” Tim stares at the top of the kitchen table. “None I ever met, anyway. That’s a good thing.”

“How many?”, Tim asks. Karen shrugs. “San Franciscans,” he continues. Karen waits. “Have you met?”, he adds two seconds later.

“About half, I’d say,” Karen replies. “I used to tend bar. Some were pretty hot spots. You meet a lot of people. You’re right about the alcoholics.” She sits down. “Most people like to be around other people. Bars are built-in company. Makes you feel less lonesome maybe, for a while.”

Karen pauses before continuing: “That’s most of the people, anyway. Then there’s the plain-old drunks, and most of them are harmless, when they’re not driving.” She leans toward Tim. “But yeah, they’re sick, I guess. Lots of people got something wrong that won’t ever be fixed. Just trying to make a life. Doing the best they can.”

Tim nods, still looking down. “Let ‘em have a few laughs,” Karen adds and smiles.

“Okay,” Tim says. “I will go with you for coffee.”

Karen stands. “Let’s start with decaf,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to stimulate you unnecessarily.”

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Fifteen minutes later, Karen and Tim are standing in line at a coffee shop on Fillmore. Karen is surprised at how smoothly Tim blends in. Five minutes after that, Karen and Tim are seated at a table, waiting for their coffees to cool. Karen starts to say something, stops suddenly.

Over Tim’s shoulder Karen spots Detective Blisflix walking toward them. Just behind Blisflix is Detective Smith. Both are smiling broadly. Blisflix walks toward Karen and Tim. Smith sits at a table across the cafe, facing them. “Ms. Mieke, how are you feeling?”, Blisflix asks.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”, Karen replies.

“Just a courtesy call,” Blisflix says. “We were in the neighborhood.” He ignores Smith.

Blisflix also ignores Tim, who is staring at the tabletop. Karen looks over at Smith, who looks back blankly. “Thanks,” Karen says finally. “I feel safer already.” She looks toward the cafe’s front door. “You look more like the donut-shop type,” she says.

“Normally, I’m a chocolate-glazed guy,” Blisflix tells Karen, “but I’m running a half-marathon after lunch, so...” He pats his ample belly and looks at Tim. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”, he asks her.

She sips her coffee. “Good day,” she says.

Blisflix looks from Karen to Tim and back to Karen. They both ignore him. After a long silence, Blisflix casually joins Smith at her table. Tim and Karen sit in silence, feeling the detectives’ eyes on them. “You haven’t tried your coffee,” Karen says finally. Tim dutifully takes a sip. “How do you like it?”, Karen asks.

“Compared to what?”, Tim replies.

“To something you like,” Karen says.

Tim considers this, then shrugs. “I like water, I think,” he says.

“You think?”, Karen smirks.

“I’m thirsty, I drink water, I’m not thirsty,” Tim replies. “Is that ‘like’? I like not being thirsty.”

“The taste,” Karen says. “Does it please you?”

Tim answers flatly, “Why does pleasing me matter?”

“You like walking,” Karen counters. “It pleases you. It makes you feel good.”

“It makes me think good,” Tim says. “Is that the same thing?”

“It might be,” Karen replies. “Do you like being with me?” Tim just stares. “You seem to,” she adds.

“I do,” Tim says. “But not in here.”

“We’ve given the cops enough of a show,” Karen says, keeping her eyes on Tim. "Maybe next time we’ll try tea.”

Tim looks at the shop’s door. He springs up the moment Karen moves her chair back. Tim waits for her to lead the way out of the coffee shop. The detectives follow them.

As they walk south on Fillmore, Tim tells Karen, “Thank you for the coffee. It was nice of you to ask me.”

Karen laughs, “Is this a date?”

“It’s coffee,” Tim replies seriously. Karen laughs. “You like coffee,” Tim says. “I like working. I like walking.” Alone, mostly, he thinks.

“You like being by yourself,” Karen adds as they turn right on Sacramento.

“Being with you,” Tim says.

“Being with me what?”, Karen asks.

“Almost,” Tim says.

“You’re almost being with me?”, Karen asks.

“Almost as much,” he says.

Karen stops. “You’re trying to say something,” she says. “I can tell.” Tim stops a step ahead of her. “Something about being and me and almost as much.”

“Liking things,” Tim says. “Working, walking, nighttime, you,” he recites in cadence with his steps. “Lurking, squawking, high sign, crew.”

Karen joins in: “Turkey, faulty, flight line, true.”

Tim stops. “True?”, he asks. Karen shrugs. “Not true,” he says.

“False?”, Karen laughs.

“Farouk, Dubuque,” Tim says, continuing up Sacramento. “Refute, Tobruk, mistook, derilooct, testitute, dimple-boot, Rue Detoot, sooty flute.”

Karen watches Tim march up the sidewalk, reciting from some lost volume of his imagination. Outside the world, inside himself. Nerveless.

-------------------------------------

“Evidence,” Blisflix says as he and Smith watch Karen Mieke and Timothy Rist walk up Sacramento. “We don’t have any.” Smith just stares.

“I know,” Smith says finally. She thinks, even if Cece stumbled onto something, we couldn’t take it to the DA. But I can’t just let him off. “A guy can’t kill four people like it’s nothing,” Smith says to herself, “even four dirtbags.”

“What’s that?”, Blisflix asks.

Smith laughs. “Back to work,” she says. She thinks but doesn’t say, Back to chasing after dirtbags instead of chasing after the guy putting bullets in their noggins.

Part 21: Sloth