Stray Cat Blues

by Robert Bucchianeri

  All else being equal, I tended to believe him about the artwork. It had never made any sense in terms of street value. Maybe Johnnie just told Frankie that it was the art that supported them, so she didn’t have to tell her about the drugs. She probably just had a soft spot for art and indulged it when she could afford to. I couldn’t tell about her taste—not that mine is refined or even roughly educated—because most of it had been destroyed by the intruder.

  Whatever the whole truth, talking to Vince had only complicated matters. Now there was a supplier, a doctor if Vince was right. And other men, perhaps victims too, entangled with Johnnie.

  Again, a scarecrow and a rooster loomed like a bad moon rising in my near future.

  Nineteen

  Maggie seemed a bit more clear-eyed, but also a touch sadder, not that she had seemed remotely happy before.

  We were in Frankie’s apartment, which, other than one lamp that had been placed back right side up, no one had bothered to clean up. Perhaps it was intentional, a signal to the little girl that if she showed up, there was nobody who cared a lick. Of course, no one had called the police. I had a feeling that even an on-premises murder wouldn’t get Leonard or Maggie to call 911 if that meant a cop would step foot in the house.

  Leonard wasn’t home, and Maggie didn’t know when he would be.

  I didn’t wait for Maggie to evidence signs of hospitality. I asked her if she had any coffee.

  “Coffee? No.” She frowned. “I mean. Yeah. Instant, I think.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Ah. Okay.” She stood rooted in place, reflecting on my response, or wondering about why I was there, or considering the fact that it was well past the dawn of the new century and their household was perhaps the last in San Francisco still drinking instant coffee.

  “I’d really appreciate it, Maggie. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” That wasn’t really true, but little white lies are morally defensible.

  “Uh huh.” She waited a moment more and then slowly turned and scaled the stairs as if they were Mount Everest in a blizzard.

  A few moments later, I found the key right where Frankie told me it would be, tucked in the top right-hand corner of the bookcase.

  When things work out like that, all nice and neat and tidy, I start to worry because I’m always suspicious of easy solutions. I went to Johnnie’s desk and, reaching under it, my spirits sank. The drawer was crooked, warped, the lock broken, the compartment empty.

  I shook my head and cussed. Despite the fact that it confirmed my easy-peasy theory, it was frustrating, just like every other aspect of this case.

  I was getting tired of it.

  I looked around the room but saw no other hiding place that a computer might have taken up.

  I stood there thinking until I heard Maggie’s heavy footfalls on the stairs.

  She handed me a blue mug full of black coffee. She hadn’t asked my preferences regarding whiteners and sweeteners. I do prefer a dash of cream, and when I took a sip of the toxic instant brew, I winced.

  Maggie stood back a few steps away from me and examined the floor.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “About what?”

  “Haven’t had a chance to clean up down here.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the underworld.

  “Leonard called me.”

  That got her attention. She raised her eyes with a bewildered expression on her face.

  “He said he doesn’t want Frankie to come back here to her home. Wants to throw the little girl out on the street.”

  “Oh,” Maggie sputtered. “That’s not...he didn’t mean—”

  “He was pretty clear.”

  She closed her eyes and winced as if she had a headache. She wasn’t beautiful or even pretty, but she had nice eyes, when they weren’t lost in space, and a pleasant face that might be appealing if she could shake herself free of the robotic stupor.

  When she opened her eyes, a transformation had occurred. A glint of determination. “Leonard cares too much about people. He doesn’t want to hurt Frankie. I’m sure he’s just concerned about us... about me,” she said, with a slight blush. “What if whoever did this comes back? It’s not safe for Frankie either. She should find another place where she could start over and forget the bad memories here.”

  “You talking about the break-in, or Johnnie’s disappearance, or something else, Maggie?”

  She looked like a deer caught in headlights for a moment, then blinked and said, “All that. It’s so terrible about Johnnie, and it just doesn’t look like she’s going to...show up.”

  “Why don’t you think so?”

  “Because it’s obvious she isn’t, that’s all,” she hissed.

  I was taken aback. This was the first time she’d evidenced the slightest anger, and it seemed totally inappropriate. “Why is that obvious? Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  The brief anger that had crossed her face morphed into something akin to mortification. “I don’t know what...I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated, and I feel for Frankie. It’s not fair what Johnnie did. The poor little girl has gone through so much.” Maggie clasped her hands around her arms and hugged herself.

  “I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything, and I think it would be a good idea if you leveled with me now because—”

  Upstairs the front door opened. “Maggie?” Leonard called out.

  She gave me a lingering, pathetic look that implored me to be a good boy.

  “We’re down here, honey,” she said, in that submissive tone that turned my stomach.

  When Leonard joined us, pleasantries were not exchanged. As soon as he spotted me, he started right in. “Why are you back here? We have nothing to tell you. I thought I made myself clear.”

  He was wearing his usual attire—a Pendleton and dirty jeans. He’d added a black beret, angled to the right, trying to get the whole Continental thing going.

  It wasn’t working.

  Some people rub you the wrong way. They may be perfectly nice, wonderful human beings. But something about their look or voice or syntax or overall presentation is just plain irritating.

  Leonard had hit the trifecta with me. Although I’m sure he had his fine qualities, that I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to discover, he was not a nice person. And he was one of the most annoying humans I’d ever met. He made me want to pull my hair out. Or, more precisely, his.

  “You sure did, Len. Now, where’s Johnnie’s computer?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I pointed at the desk. “This desk drawer was fine after the break-in. But somebody’s jammed it open since then. This is where Johnnie kept her laptop locked away. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  Despite it all, I remained calm. “Do you like this look, Len?” I indicated our surroundings with a sweeping wave of my hand.

  “What the hell?”

  “Would you like your whole house re-decorated in this avant-garde style?”

  His brow furrowed, his nose scrunched, the flesh of his cheeks tightened against his bones. Then, after a long moment, his eyes widened. “Now hold on here—”

  “Where’s the computer?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Okay. I’ll start with your room.”

  I moved past him, and he made the mistake of attempting to stop me by grabbing my arm. Maggie cried out, and a moment later, from my position standing above his body on the floor, I said, “Do not ever touch me again.”

  He caught up with me when I’d found their bedroom, past two other small chambers, at the end of a long dingy hallway lit by a large glass bulb filled with dead insects and dust. He stood at the doorway, and Maggie, making bird-like tweets, rocked back and forth behind him as I began searching the room.

  I’m not a fastidious man, but I threw caution to the wind and took no care at all with their belongings. I scoured the one wall length closet, tossing clothes and
shoes over my shoulder. I picked up vintage Playboys and other nudie magazines on the floor of the closet and flung those into the bedroom.

  “Goddammit,” Leonard muttered over and over again.

  I picked up a clock radio on the bedside table, yanked the cord out of the wall, dropped the musical timepiece on the floor. I searched under the mattress, peeked under the bed.

  “I’m going to go and call the cops.” He turned and stepped away, leaving Maggie hugging herself and impersonating a whippoorwill.

  “Please,” she said. “Please, don’t...”

  It was so pitiful I almost stopped. But then I thought about Frankie.

  I ripped the cover and sheets off the bed, overturned the mattress, catching a table lamp, which crashed to the floor and broke into pieces.

  “Oh God,” Maggie cried.

  When I finished with the bedroom, it wasn’t a pretty sight. But I have to admit, it wasn’t in nearly as bad a condition as Frankie’s apartment. Maggie stepped out of my way as I left the room. “What next?” I queried, to no one in particular.

  When I got to the kitchen, Leonard was waiting for me. He was standing with his arms folded beside a cigarette-burned wood breakfast table that held a humongous candle half-melted down into a shape resembling Jabba the Hutt. Next to that was a dirty yellow vase containing a single plastic tulip. A cracked delft teapot sat on top of a stack of lined papers next to a tarnished silver laptop.

  Leonard’s eyes tracked mine to the computer.

  “Are the cops on their way?”

  He grimaced. “I forgot I even had the damn thing,” he dared to mumble.

  I lifted the computer lid and powered it on. It was a Mac Air, not too old, not too new, and there was not a damn thing on it. Not one file. From the looks of it, even the operating system did not exist.

  I looked at Len. He smirked.

  “You erased everything.”

  “I didn’t do a damn thing to it. I found it that way.”

  “Why’d you take it at all?”

  “I was trying to help—”

  I laughed, or chuckled really. Couldn’t help myself.

  Len ignored me. “I figured there might be something on it that could maybe get us some information about where she was going that day or what she’d been doing...” He scratched his chin reflectively, trying to convince with dramatic concern.

  “So you broke into her desk. You knew the computer was there.”

  “Yeah. I knew where she kept it. I don’t remember how I found out, but I did. I figured it was worth breaking the lock to help Frankie find her sister.”

  Maggie appeared at the edge of the kitchen, her face a mask of fear and shame. She kept glancing up at Leonard and then quickly averted her gaze.

  “I’m sorry, Len. I misjudged you. I guess you’re just a good Samaritan, after all.”

  Leonard took the compliment in the spirit it was given. “Fuck you, Plank.”

  I folded the computer closed, picked it up, and headed for the exit.

  “What are you doing? Jeez, you’re a bastard. That isn’t yours,” Leonard called out after me.

  Out on the porch, I drew a deep breath, trying to shake free of the sour stench of the house and the couple inside.

  Maggie opened the front door, stepped onto the porch, and closed the door behind her. She reached up with both hands and grabbed the sides of her neck, rocking her head back and forth and side to side, a pained expression on her face.

  “Mr. Plank, Max, I just...I wish. I forgot something. I should have told you before. It was just that...”

  I waited. She dropped her hands limply to her sides, her head drooping down on her sloping shoulders. “Someone came by asking about Johnnie after she disappeared.”

  I wanted to be angry with her. I wanted to yell at her. I wanted to shake her. Instead, I just waited.

  “He was nervous. He wanted to know where she was. How he could find her.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “No. He just said she didn’t show up for a meeting and he was concerned about her. I told him that she hadn’t been back to the house for almost a week and that I had no idea where she’d gone.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He pressed me a little. Asked if I was sure. But, after a while, when he could see I didn’t know anymore, he left.” Once again, Maggie kept her eyes on the world beneath our feet.

  “Could you describe him?”

  “Maybe in his thirties. Black hair. He wore glasses. He was good-looking. Boyish. Well dressed. A suit and tie.” She looked up at me for a brief moment to assess if she’d pleased me.

  “Did you see a car? His car.”

  Her skin flushed while she looked straight into my eyes. “Yes. A Mercedes. Don’t see many of those parked on this street. It was new. Black. When he left, I went to the front window and watched him drive away.” She flashed a sly smile.

  “You got the license plate.” I was gobsmacked.

  She reached into her pants pocket and handed me a piece of paper with four digits and three letters in the proper California license plate sequence. I stared down at the script for a few seconds.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I didn’t remember and...well, Leonard thought we shouldn’t get involved. That it was too much of a risk. This man might be dangerous and he could come back. Please, Mr. Plank, if you find him, don’t tell him how. Please.”

  The ripe smell of all the flowers on the porch was strong, along with that same underlying skunky marijuana scent. I couldn’t imagine they were growing pot out here right at their front door, but maybe they had a medical license to do so. Either way, it was just one of the many mysteries at the heart of this couple and this house.

  Of course, every couple, and every home has its mysteries.

  I thought, for the umpteenth time since meeting him, of going back inside to administer a beating to Leonard but decided it wasn’t worth bruising my knuckles and it wouldn’t change anything anyway.

  I asked Maggie if there was anything else she’d neglected to tell me and she promised that there wasn’t. I didn’t believe her, but I let it go. Against my better judgment and knowledge that it wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good, I did give her my best advice.

  “Maggie, you should leave Leonard. Get away now. As far as possible. Leave while you can.”

  She didn’t answer, just stood there shaking her head from side to side, either saying no or I don’t know. Maybe, she was saying, as so many desperate women before have said:

  Are you kidding? Despite what you see, he’s the love of my life. You don’t know him like I know him.

  I tucked the laptop under my right arm, the note with the license plate into my left pocket, and headed back down the stairs, hoping that this was my last trip here, but knowing deep down in my bones that it wouldn’t be.

  Twenty

  “You want me to do what?”

  Bo looked at me as if I had two heads.

  “Good time to ask for a rent decrease.”

  Three heads now and a brain turned to marmalade.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I need a meeting. After my last visit to the casino, I don’t want to tempt fate. And it’ll take days to set something up if I do it his way. As his lessee, I know that you can reach him more quickly. Tell him it’s important. Tell him to come on over tomorrow night for dinner. Tonight would be even better.”

  “Jeez, buddy, there’s no telling what he’ll think. He was just here. I have a number to a lawyer that handles his real estate stuff, I guess, but I’ve only called it once before.”

  Bo was looking sharp, in a black open-necked shirt and khaki pants, topping off brand new moccasins. He was looking thinner in just the past week. He told me he’d become a fruitarian a couple of weeks ago. He was mainly eating pineapple, mango, and flaxseed. I couldn’t believe it would last, but it was definitely having an impact on his figure.

  �
��Try. For me. Pretty please.” I batted my eyelashes at him.

  He sighed. “All right. But I don’t have to have dinner with him and his posse again, right?”

  “Nope. Just set up a time, and I’ll take things from there.”

  “And you’re not going to irritate him? I don’t want him in my restaurant in a bad mood. That would not be good for business.”

  “Moi?” I said. “Since when have I irritated anyone?”

  He gave me a look. I get that kind of look a lot from people who call themselves my friends. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  We were sitting at a table made of shiny metal in Rusty Root’s large kitchen. The restaurant was still an hour from opening, but there was already all sorts of cutting and chopping and boiling and baking going on around us. Rope Rivers, his ever-present bandana around his forehead, was whistling Queen’s, “We Are the Champions” while whisking a custard concoction that smelled of vanilla and licorice.

  “Okay. I’ll let you know if I get a response.”

  “Danke. How are the wedding plans coming along, Dad?”

  “I don’t know. Leaving that to the wife and daughter. I guess I should check in some time to make sure that I don’t have to open another restaurant to pay for it.”

  I laughed, patted him on the back, and went out back to retrieve my Ducati. I had an appointment in Piedmont with a urologist. It seems that I suddenly suffered from an untimely bout of erectile dysfunction, and something about Dr. Stephen Wainright’s license plate number, which I’d found through an online service that costs me under thirty bucks a month, told me that he was the man to help.

  Dr. Wainright’s offices were located in the gloriously exclusive upper crust hills of Piedmont, the toniest suburb this side of the Bay. It was surrounded by the messier, multi-ethnic diversity of Oakland, California, but nobody who lived there would readily admit that fact.

  I pulled onto the tree-lined Grand Avenue near Piedmont’s western border with Oakland and parked my bike across from a coffee and chocolate shop called Sweet Grounds, kitty corner to the doctor’s place.