only twenty-seven. A gorgeous and very accomplished twenty-seven. Irene was something of a computer prodigy and had parlayed that genius into a degree from MIT at the age of fourteen and then into millions of dollars when she'd sold her own start-up on the day she'd turned twenty-one. Of course like any good computer prodigy, she also had a checkered past, which included hacking into a government mainframe at the ripe old age of twelve, but as she'd pointed out, kids would be kids. And now "kids" were coming to her looking for venture capital to fund their own start-ups.
I'd first met Irene a few years ago when she'd come to give a lecture about social media's impact in political and economic culture. I'd peppered her with questions afterward, and between my enthusiasm for hilarious political Twitter fails and her enthusiasm for pastries, we'd bonded right away and been fast friends ever since.
"Know what would go with this cruller?" Irene asked, shifting her designer handbag higher on her shoulder. "A decaf mocha latte."
Pam and her ultra-clean teeth came back while I was blending the latte. "Has he come up here yet?"
I looked up. "Who?"
"Mr. Right," Pam said. "You know, the guy downstairs? The blond?"
"You're not talking about a muscle-y guy in a Stanford Cardinal T-shirt, are you?" Irene asked her.
Pam's eyes got wide. "You saw him too?" Her face fell, and I could practically read her mind. If Irene had seen him, and he'd seen Irene, it was all over for Pam. Irene had green eyes and auburn hair, and I was pretty sure the Mattel people had modeled Barbie's body after hers.
Irene nodded. "He left with a redhead. I think they're a couple. Your Mr. Right was even carrying her backpack."
Pam fell against the counter, her shoulders slumping. "Just my luck."
"There'll be another Mr. Right," I assured her. It wasn't an empty promise. There'd been about eighty Mr. Rights since Pam had started working there. And that was the first week.
"I hope so," Pam said. "I'm not getting any younger."
I snorted. "You're twenty."
Pam nodded. "That's what I said." She went off to take a refill to a customer.
Irene grinned at me. "Is that how we sounded at twenty?"
"I sincerely hope not," I said. I handed over the decaf mocha latte. "But it wouldn't surprise me one bit."
* * *
The rest of the afternoon managed to slip past with no more Mr. Rights for Pam and no more head injuries for me. At eight o'clock, I left the bookstore, reclaimed my bike from the rack, and headed home. Which wasn't exactly the high point of my day, since home at the moment was not much more than a rathole of an apartment with antique plumbing and a few antique neighbors who seemed to sit with one cataract pressed to their peepholes to catalog my comings and goings. The space was small, and the rent was high. Welcome to California. But that wasn't completely problematic since I hadn't paid it in a couple of months anyway. What could I say? Tips had been sparse lately. I blamed the cost of education rising almost as fast as tax rates. But consequently, rent payments had become a line item on my long-term to-do list, like dusting the ceiling fan. Sooner or later, the dust would build up and fall off the fan blades under its own weight. That was my working hypothesis anyway.
I hopped off the bike and wheeled it up the front walk into the tiny, gloomy lobby with its chipped vinyl tile floor, dirty white walls, and inadequate forty-watt lighting. A quick check of my mailbox revealed nothing but some sales circulars and a credit card bill. I tucked both into my bag and kept moving up the stairs to my second-floor apartment. The smell of cabbage, faint in the lobby, grew stronger and more noxious with each step. Wrinkling my nose, I stabbed my key at the lock, when I felt the presence of someone behind me.
I spun around to find 2B leering at me from his doorway. 2B's real name was Ed Something-or-Other. His last name was 20 letters long with no vowels. I'd never been able to pronounce it, and he'd lived across the hall for nearly a year. In that whole time, I'd never seen him wear anything but torn jeans and T-shirts featuring wash-worn photos of different classic rock bands or album covers, from back when there were classic rock bands and album covers. His face