Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

of Usher look like a stately pleasure dome. And that’s what Little Italy was like that night.
    “Ah, spiedini. And every kind of pasta you could want. And risotto, and calamari, and spumoni. What can I tempt you with?”
    Jeff’s voice sounded so much like my father’s had that Christmas nearly twenty years ago that I had to laugh—a desperate, rueful little laugh, I’m afraid. It seemed to hurt Jeff’s feelings.
    “Why do you laugh at everything I say?” He spoke with real pain, as if he’d been trying hard to get through to me and had found it about as rewarding as meaningful colloquy with
la belle dame sans merci
. And so of course I had to tell him the story of the un-Christmas party. He seemed to disapprove of our envying the Walker children. “But what happened the next year?” he asked. “Did your folks take you to Mexico? That’s what we used to do at Christmas—except it was the Bahamas.”
    “Actually, no. We made the un-Christmas party a tradition, complete with an un-Christmas tree and un-Christmas gifts. Mom even used to make a roast beef—she was strict about not having a turkey—and we’d have Uncle Walter and Aunt Ellen for un-Christmas dinner.”
    “I’d want my children to grow up Jewish.”
    Not sure what he meant, I said, “We grew up Jewish. Mom and Dad just found a way to give us an extra holiday, that’s all.”
    “But not a Jewish holiday.”
    “Labor Day isn’t a Jewish holiday and neither is the Fourth of July—do you think Jews shouldn’t celebrate them?”
    “It’s not the same thing.”
    It’s not the same thing.
I heard myself saying that to Rob when we were talking about his Trapper stories. Jeff’s train of thought, his argument, his conclusion seemed completely inane, indeed designed only to irritate and annoy—had mine been? I thought it might indeed have been; perhaps I’d been deliberately finding fault with Rob, blaming the Trapper on him, projecting like Mom loved to do, when what really upset me was the Trapper himself.
    I said, “Jeff. Are you angry with me?”
    “Angry? No. Not at all. Why?”
    “Because you sound like it. You’re arguing with me when there really isn’t anything to argue about.”
    He looked down at his fettucini, as if expecting the noodles to form themselves into letters and words, spelling out the right answer. But he wasn’t a noodle-mancer; he was just gathering his thoughts. And for that I gave him a lot of credit. Jeff seemed a very fair person; he sometimes spoke out in anger or jealousy, but he obviously had the ability to look at himself and what he’d said, reevaluate to determine whether it was what he really meant. It was one of the things I liked best about him.
    “Rebecca, I do beg your pardon. You’re right. All I want, really”—his face was the face of a very earnest small boy—“is to get to know you better—to get closer to you—and I do seem to be pushing you away. Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea why.”
    “I have. It’s oppressive here. The whole city’s oppressive.” I spoke with heat. “In case you haven’t noticed, fear stalks the streets.”
    “I guess it’s even worse for you. You must feel partly responsible.”
    “Responsible? How so?”
    He shrugged. “Because it’s your friend who’s done it.” And there we were. Back to my least favorite question in the world—was it Rob or the Trapper who was causing fear to stalk? I didn’t want to think about it—I just wanted to have a good time with Jeff on his last night in town.
    “Oh, Jeff, can’t we just forget about all that? Let’s have a good time in spite of it.”
    My hand was resting on the table and he took it very gently and diffidently. “I’d like that.”
    “Listen, I know what. Let’s take in the view from Nob Hill.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Drinks at the top of the Fairmont. My treat.”
    “I thought the Top of the Mark was the place to go.”
    “Uh-uh. At least not in my book—at the Fairmont you get to ride the outside elevator.”
    “I’m cheered up already.”
    So was I. We both felt good enough for a little bright chatter over our coffee, and for a while, the ugly pall lifted. Lifted, that is, till we had to go back and walk those lonesome streets again. But then, shortly after that, we were in the lobby of the Fairmont and that was good for both our moods. Like all my favorite hotel lobbies, it’s a great bustling womb of a place that somehow manages to make you feel both at home and