by Kim Fielding
Birdie’s laugh had been delightfully ridiculous, and he liked to make fun of Thomas’s posh accent. Sometimes they planned for a future neither of them expected to have, wherein they’d return to England and share a London flat. Birdie would work as a plumber and Thomas would be a policeman, and if anyone asked, they’d simply be mates splitting expenses.
“I might have loved you too,” Thomas whispered at the water. Let the Pacific make of that what it may.
Saturday mornings were quiet in Thomas’s neighborhood, most of the people sleeping off the night before. He didn’t like the quiet, which echoed with the phantom sounds of shelling. Today he ended up at the waterfront, watching the fishing boats come and go. He ate breakfast at a standup joint near the cannery. Even at this time of year, he thought he caught the faint scent of peaches mixed in with fish and brine and damp.
He could have afforded a taxi, but he took streetcars to Post Street instead, arriving shortly after Gump’s unlocked its doors. He’d been in the upscale department store before, mainly out of curiosity; the wares were much too expensive for his budget. On display were items imported from Asia and Europe to grace San Francisco’s finest homes: bright silks, gleaming crystal and jade, shining porcelains, polished bronzes.
While pretending to browse the whimsical Limoges boxes, Thomas scoped out the jewelry counters. There was no sign of the man he’d seen with Gage two nights before. The sales clerk—a thin man with a mustache perched above a permanently sneered lip—eyed Thomas distrustfully for several minutes before marching stiffly over. “May I help you?” Judging by his expression, he’d prefer to help Thomas to the door.
Thomas stepped closer, towering over the clerk. “I need to speak with Leo Zook.”
“Mr. Zook is not here. However, I’d be happy to help you make a selection.”
Like hell he would. Thomas produced a business card and held it out. “I need his home address then.”
The clerk’s face scrunched up even more tightly as he took the card between two fingers and read it. “I shall have to get my manager.”
“Go ahead.”
Holding the card as if it were something scraped out of the gutter, the clerk strutted away. Thomas inspected the closest jewelry case while he waited. Pretty things, nice and sparkly, but he could never fathom why people spent so much money on such baubles. His mother used to wear large, gaudy pieces on her ears and around her neck, and she’d worry aloud that the servants might steal them, although none of them ever had. Townsend seemed to like big diamonds too.
The unhappy clerk returned, accompanied by an older man with a rounded body and a soft face that resembled over-risen dough. “I’m Mr. Yarbury,” he said in a squeaky little voice. Thomas’s handshake met Yarbury’s clammy palm. “How may I help you, Mr. Donne?”
“Where’s Zook?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. He didn’t show up for work yesterday or today, and that’s not at all like him. He’s usually so reliable.”
Thomas swore under his breath. “Where does he live?”
“Has he been kidnapped, do you think? Or robbed?” Yarbury’s jowls wobbled with agitation. “Sometimes he conveys new acquisitions to the store—we’re always getting exotic new finds from the ships, you see—but he wasn’t doing that this week. A robber might not know that, though.”
The clerk, who’d remained several feet away, pretended to polish a glass case that was already perfectly clean. His mustache wriggled like a tiny snake.
“I don’t know what happened to Zook,” Thomas said as evenly as he could. “If you give me his address, I might find out.”
“Of course, of course.” But Yarbury didn’t walk away. He frowned instead. “Now, three weeks ago, that would have been a better time for a robbery. A gentleman arrived from China with the most exquisite piece! It was a tiny gold box inset with sapphires and carved jade. Simply breathtaking! Our buyer negotiated the sale, but Mr. Zook was the one who—”
“His address.”
Yarbury sniffed and nodded before waddling off and disappearing behind a door. He returned a few minutes later, clutching a piece of paper. “Here you are, Mr. Donne. I sincerely hope that—”
Thomas snatched the paper. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Yarbury.” He shot a sneer at the clerk before leaving.
Zook’s apartment was on Mason and California, only a half-dozen blocks away. Thomas hurried up Stockton, taking the stairs at the tunnel two at a time, and didn’t even slow for the steep slope between Bush and Pine. His destination was kitty-corner from the Fairmont, a pink building with wrought-iron balconies. The entrance on California had beautiful columns and an elaborate awning, and of course the lobby was posh too: crystal chandeliers, marble floors and walls, tasteful statues and frescoes. Thomas hadn’t been aware that Gump’s paid its employees so handsomely.
“Yes?” asked the antique gentleman at the reception desk.
Weary of dealing with barriers, Thomas simply handed him a business card. “Here to see Mr. Zook.”
Apparently unsurprised, the man gestured toward the lift.
The flat was only one floor up—evidently Gump’s wasn’t flush enough to pay for a penthouse—with the door at the end of a rose-scented hallway. Nobody answered when Thomas knocked, or when he knocked again. When he tried the knob, it turned easily.
Zook—what was left of him, at any rate—was slumped on his parlor floor. There were no knife wounds this time, but his tongue protruded amid a swollen face. Thomas didn’t bother looking to see whether the ligature remained around Zook’s neck. Instead he sighed, walked to the telephone, and called Munroe.
“It’s very convenient of you, Mr. Donne, to keep bringing the bodies to my attention. Saves me half my job.” Munroe grinned at him over Zook’s corpse.
“Maybe you should give me half your salary then.”
“Oh, I suspect you’re being well compensated already.”
Thanks to the cool weather, the reek of decomposition hadn’t yet set in, but Thomas thought he could sense the beginning of sickly sweetness. He walked to the window for a few breaths of clean air and had to pull hard to open it. When he turned back, Munroe was kneeling beside the body.
“Zook was a big fellow,” Munroe said.
Thomas grunted.
“Woulda taken a strong man to strangle him.”
“Yes.”
“You look pretty strong.”
“If I’d killed him, do you think I’d ring you and invite you over? Besides, he’s been dead at least a day, and I just got here.”
Munroe stood, dusted off his knees, and lit a cigarette. “Maybe you killed him yesterday, had an attack of conscience, and came back.”
“I don’t have a conscience.”
That made Munroe bark with laughter. “All right then. Why don’t you tell me how you ended up in this Joe’s company?”
“I’m looking into Gage’s death. Zook went to the Ambassador with him the night Gage was murdered. Took me until now to track Zook down.”
“Okay.” Munroe rubbed the back of his neck. He had dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept well, and he hadn’t shaved today either. Carefully avoiding Zook, he moved around the room, eyeing the pretty little knickknacks on the shelves but not touching anything. It took several minutes for him to complete the circuit, and then he left to look around the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom. “Nice place,” he said when he returned.
“Yeah.”
“So what do you figure? Same hatchet man for both? And if so, which one did he knock off first?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” Munroe was a restless man, or perhaps he needed to move to stay awake and alert. He paced the room a few times before pausing near Thomas. “Surely you must know something, Mr. Donne.”
“I know Gage and Zook are dead.”
“Very astute. I can see why Mr. Townsend would want to pay you the big bucks.”
Thomas straightened his hat. “I’m going
.”
“What if I collar you?”
“If you’re going to arrest me, go ahead and do it instead of threatening. I’m in no mood to play games.”
Munroe looked almost disappointed, but he took a step back. “Nah. You’re too heavy to drag down to the station, and I already got him to deal with.” He hooked a thumb in Zook’s direction. “But how about if we share information? It’ll make both of our jobs easier. If you’re worried about getting paid, you can take the credit when we catch the bastard.”
“I work alone.”
“Suit yourself. Now scram. I gotta come up with a story about how I discovered our pal Zook.”
It was a relief to be back out on the street, looking down Nob Hill toward the Embarcadero. He could walk to his office from here, but what would be the point? He wouldn’t find any answers there. He spun to the west instead, toward the only real lead he had. With a feeling of heavy inevitability—and an unwanted thrill of excitement—he trudged across to the Fairmont, where a taxi had just dropped off a woman in furs.
Thomas slid into the back seat. “Twelfth Avenue, between Clement and California.”
10
Roy Gage was haunting Abe. Not literally—Abe didn’t hear his spirit and certainly hadn’t seen his ghost. As far as Abe was aware, poor Roy was far on the other side of the veil, safely away from the tedious affairs of the living.
But the thought of Roy had been lingering in Abe’s head since he woke up, and nothing would shake it. Abe had tried reading but couldn’t concentrate on the printed words. Then he’d attempted to practice card tricks, but his usually adept hands felt awkward and stupid. Twice he even dropped some cards, a failure he hadn’t experienced since his earliest training. He went to the grocers and had a conversation there with Mrs. Osinova about whether talkies were a fad or were here to stay, and if it would be worth taking a trip to Yosemite Park to stay at the Ahwahnee Hotel, and whether pelmeni were better made with lamb or beef. As usual, this meant his simple little shopping trip took nearly an hour, but today he found his mind wandering, so that he mostly just nodded as Mrs. Osinova talked.
It was only that Roy was so young. Yes, he’d experienced a lot of life in his few years, and he’d made choices that put him in danger. More than once he’d refused Abe’s offers to help him lead a safer life. Not that Abe’s existence was necessarily all that appealing, but at least nobody came after him. And when Abe faced death with bullet-catching, he did so willingly. Roy, he was certain, had not wanted to die.
After putting away the groceries, Abe wandered the neighborhood until he found himself in Golden Gate Park. Because it was a Saturday with fairly pleasant weather, quite a few people were enjoying the grounds. He strolled past the de Young Museum, the Conservatory of Flowers, and the Children’s Playground, where boys and girls rode donkeys under the trees.
But Roy Gage came with him, dogging every step.
In a desperate effort to rid himself of morbid thoughts, Abe considered Thomas Donne instead. A handsome man, a hard man, and a puzzling one indeed. A dangerous man. But he’d been loved very much by Birdie Dixon, who’d first noticed Tommy when they, along with many other soldiers, were bathing naked in a river in France. Tommy had been magnificent even then—tall, blond, and muscular—and when Birdie caught Tommy’s gaze lingering on Birdie’s bare arse, he’d determined to make Tommy his.
Was it the war in general that had toughened Donne, or was it specifically Birdie’s gasping death? And why did it matter to Abe?
He walked to the Japanese Garden and sat under the wooden roof of the tea house, where a pretty woman in a kimono brought him a steaming pot and poured fragrant liquid into his cup. He would have preferred liquor, but he’d have to leave the park for that, and for now he wanted to stay. The tea was hot enough to burn his tongue.
It would have been easy to blame yesterday’s actions on Birdie’s influence. After all, the spirit had squatted inside Abe’s body, sharing its memories and emotions. But it had been only Abraham Ferencz on his knees, feeling Donne’s pulse against his tongue, tasting the musky saltiness of his skin. Swallowing Donne’s essence. And late last night when Abe had finally gone to bed, he was the one—all by himself—thinking about Donne while stroking himself to completion.
Maybe it was the gun that did it. The knowledge that when he reached for Donne, the man could shoot him. Might shoot him. And when Donne didn’t, there was the thrilling rush of knowing he’d caught the bullet once again.
Maybe.
Abe wandered the park for a long time after finishing his tea, so it was nearly dark and he was footsore by the time he returned home. He’d bought the makings for dinner from Mrs. Osinova, and now he started heating the borscht, the cabbage rolls, and the sauce. He’d purchased a loaf of brown bread as well and was about to slice off a piece when the doorbell rang. He set down the knife and walked to the front door.
“Mr. Donne.” Abe pretended his heart wasn’t pounding.
“I need to talk to you.”
“More questions for me, yet you refuse to answer mine? That’s hardly fair.”
Donne pushed past him into the house and Abe locked the door.
“You might as well join me for dinner,” Abe said when Donne hesitated in the hallway. “I suppose I have enough for two.”
“This isn’t a social call.”
“Would you rather just sit and watch me eat? Because I’m not going to let my meal get cold.”
Although Donne glowered, he hung his coat and hat on hooks in the hall and followed Abe into the kitchen. He sniffed the air. “What’s that?”
“Russian. Now sit.”
To Abe’s considerable surprise, Donne obeyed, taking the same chair he’d occupied the previous day. He rolled a cigarette while Abe finished preparing dinner. Neither of them said anything, but it was pleasant to have company while doing these small, familiar tasks, just as it was pleasing to set the table for two instead of one.
“I’m out of slivovitz,” Abe said as he placed a bottle on the table. “I hope this will do instead.”
Donne eyed the label. “Egri Bikavér? What’s that?”
“Bull’s blood.” Seeing Donne’s reaction, Abe laughed. “It’s only a name. It’s red wine. According to legend, the Ottomans had laid siege to Eger Castle. When they saw the soldiers in the castle drinking this, the Ottomans thought they were drinking bull’s blood, and that the blood would make them too strong to conquer. So the Ottomans fled.”
“Can’t blame them.” Donne uncorked the bottle and poured them each a generous glass. But he didn’t touch his until Abe had brought over the food and sat down opposite him.
Abe lifted his glass. “Egészségedre!”
“I can’t say that.”
“Cheers, then.”
Donne snorted softly, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Cheers.”
There was no interrogation over dinner. Not much talk at all, in fact, but the dual clink of cutlery and slurping of soup was conversation enough. Donne silently accepted seconds when Abe offered them.
“I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages,” Donne said thoughtfully as he gazed at the ruby liquid in his glass.
“It’s not exactly home-cooked. It’s all from the grocer’s. I just heated it.”
“Do you know how to cook?”
“I do.” Although it wasn’t usually worth the bother for only himself.
“I never learned. Unless you count camp cooking, but nobody wants to eat that swill. I don’t have a kitchen anyway.” It was a very personal admission, although Donne didn’t seem to realize that. He simply twirled the glass stem between his broad finger and thumb.
“Why did you decide to move to the States?”
“Home didn’t feel like home. Never had, really, but it got worse. If I was going to be a stranger anyway, might as well do it… somewhere strange.”
Abe nodded thoughtfully. New York hadn’t fit him well either, even though he’d arrived when young. Sinc
e the meal had evidently put Donne into a mellow mood, Abe pushed further. “Why San Francisco?”
“I fancy the weather.”
Now that Abe’s hands were idle, he was tempted to reach across the table and touch Donne. He stood instead, gathered their dishes, and carried them to the sink. Since the wine was gone, he returned with fresh glasses and a bottle of Cutty Sark.
“You’d keep a team of revenuers busy,” Donne observed, breaking the seal.
“Are you going to turn me in, detective?”
“I’ll let it pass.” He poured two heathy doses and slid one across the table. Abe caught it neatly, which made Donne chuckle. “You have good hands.”
“A necessity of my employment. I enjoy practicing my dexterity.” Abe threw in a leer for good measure, but Donne chose to ignore it. All right. Apparently they were going to pretend that, just the previous evening and in this very room, Donne’s cock hadn’t been in Abe’s mouth.
Donne took a long look around the kitchen. “Do you do all your drinking in here?”
“I do a lot in speakeasies and restaurants.”
“No, I mean when you’re home. You don’t take guests into your parlor?”
Abe had no idea where this conversation was going, but he was willing to play along. “We can go into the parlor if you like, but you’ve been in there already. It’s not any more comfortable than the kitchen.”
“Dining room?”
“I use it as an office and to store my props. That leaves a WC down here and two bedrooms and another WC upstairs, in case you’re wondering. We can drink here or in bed.”
Again, Donne ignored the invitation. “It’s unusual not to have a place to entertain visitors. The non-paying sort.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass—possibly because he was fidgety, or maybe to hide the tremor in his hand.