by Ian Bull
“If we can figure out how to get out of this, I’ll take you to a place where that olive skin of yours can turn nice and brown,” Sam says, pulling her close. The smell of salty wet wool drifts up into his nostrils.
“How much does Paul know about us?” Kath asks.
“Cliff and Dozer haven’t spotted us. We’ve done a decent job of hiding in the right motels,” Sam says.
“That by itself is a tip-off. He knows that we have something to hide," Kath says, and looks up at the hill with the steep trees as if half-expecting to see thick-necked Dozer and broad-chested Cliff in their red and white 49er jerseys, spying on them.
“We’ll know a lot by what kind of job he presents to us tomorrow. He didn’t think we’d ever get this far,” Sam says.
“Can’t we just leave town? We have enough money,” Kath says.
“We could,” Sam says, and then says nothing.
She says nothing back, which is proof to Sam that she has her own reasons to stay. They walk in silence, each with their thoughts.
Sam would leave town in a second, except he needs Rose. And leaving town means talking to Hal Weinstein, who is the only honest man who has ever seen through his layers of lies to the possibilities underneath. And if he jumps town too early and Rose returns, Paul could get to her, and bad things could happen.
Kath would leave town in a second, too. She must worry about Bella, however; that mean old woman is the only family Kath has, and the only person who has given Kath unconditional love. And if Kath leaves without explanation, she knows Paul would seek out Bella for answers.
“I’m not scared of Paul. One more job and we’re done with him,” Sam says.
“You really believe that?” Kath asks.
“We can always leave. Let’s see how this plays out.”
Kath pulls out from under his arm and steps in front of him. She walks backward as he walks, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
“You still don’t trust me? Even now?”
Kath stops, which forces him to stop. She lowers her chin and raises her eyes at him, doing her best Lauren Bacall glance. “You didn’t answer my question.”
A gust from the ocean whips at their hair. “I could just tell you something. But how would you know I wasn’t lying?” Sam says.
“I’ll trade you. An honest answer for an honest answer.”
“How many honest answers will I get from you?” Sam asks, but inside he’s more concerned with the number of honest answers he must give to her.
“Three each, and you can ask first,” she says, then loops her hand through his arm and tugs him so they’re walking on the path again. It’s easier to talk when you’re not face-to-face.
“How did you end up in San Francisco?” Sam asks.
“I came looking for my father’s relatives, who I’d never met. I couldn’t find any of them. I ended up on the streets, where I hit rock bottom. I was homeless for seven years, huffing airplane glue on street corners to get high and forget. That’s when Paul found me. I was twenty-three. He took me in, helped clean me up,” Kath says. “And he taught me how to be a thief.”
“And you were his girlfriend too?” Sam asks.
“Only because I was young and stupid and thought I had no other choice. It lasted a year, and then I ended it,” Kath says, remembering her teased hair with the frosted tips, and hanging out in gay discos.
“So why do you still steal for him now, this many years later?” Sam asks.
“I borrowed a lot of money from him. I got clean, got clothes, got an apartment. I also needed it for a someone close to me who had medical bills.”
“Last question –”
“Nope. That was three questions.”
“This one is easy," Sam says, kicking at the rocks on the trail. They reach a bluff where the trees end, and Sam and Kath can see the Cliff House and the ruins of Sutro Baths, peeking through a thick blanket of fog. A foghorn on the Golden Gate Bridge behind them blasts two notes, low and long. "What is this love/hate thing you have with cars?"
“My mom was a loser who ended up with a string of losers. We were always on the road, either escaping someplace bad or hoping to find someplace better. From age six to sixteen, cars were home. Some bring back good memories, most bad.”
“That sounds rough,” Sam says and leads her off the bluff and up the wide path toward the noise and traffic of the Richmond District.
“It wasn’t bad when I was young. I just thought we were always on a trip. But as I got older we’d pass schools and playgrounds, or some perfect house in the country and there’d be kids like me in the front yard. And I would miss something that I never had.”
“We’ll find you a nice place in the country,” Sam says.
“Right, and you can raise turnips,” Kath says. “Now it’s my turn to ask questions.”
“Let’s get something to eat. The Seal Rock Inn has a nice diner,” Sam says, and darts across Geary Street. Kath runs to keep up. He holds the diner door open for Kath.
“Don’t think you can get out of answering,” Kath says, stepping inside.
“Bring it on,” Sam replies.
Five minutes later, Sam and Kath sit across from each other in a small booth, each of them warming their hands around a warm mug of black coffee.
“Do you have half a million dollars hidden somewhere?”
“No,” Sam answers.
“Do you love me?” Kath asks.
“It was love at first sight when I saw you shoplifting at Macy's."
“Will you betray me?” Kath asks.
“Only if you betray me first,” Sam says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kath asks, outraged.
Sam glances at his watch and swears. "Shit! My parole meeting starts in twenty minutes, and it's all the way downtown!" Sam says. He throws down a five-dollar bill and darts outside, looking for a nonexistent taxi. There are plenty of cars, however, and he knows most of their drivers would happily take him downtown to Bryant Street for less than ten dollars, if he just had a way he could communicate his need, and then have someone fill it.
Kath bangs out of the diner behind him. “You asked me four questions, I still get one more,” she says, slugging his arm hard.
A Lincoln Town Car pulls up. The tinted passenger window lowers, and Cliff sticks his head out. “Sam! Kath! Glad we finally found you,” Cliff says. “Get in, we’ll drive you to your meeting with your parole officer. We have to make sure you stay on the straight and narrow.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
S am exits the elevators on the third floor of the Hall of Justice, and dashes into the Parole Department, waves at the receptionist on the phone before she can stop him, and weaves through the maze of metal desks toward the office in the back.
Hal Weinstein sits behind his desk, working his way through a tall stack of manila folders while listening to the Giants game on a transistor radio. Hal is still embracing the brown and white color scheme, and he pats his dome yet again to make sure his hair and yarmulke are still in place as he sips coffee from his white Styrofoam cup. Sam bursts in, but this time Hal pushes away from the desk fast enough that he only spills the coffee on his white shirt.
“You still can’t knock?” Hal asks. “Or be on time? Or wait outside until I call you?”
“Sorry, Hal, I knew I was late,” Sam says, sitting on the metal chair with the green industrial padding. “I work at night, so my body clock is way off.”
Hal hands him a plastic cup with a snap-on lid. “I want a urine sample.”
“You know I don’t do drugs,” Sam says.
“Just covering my bases.”
“Can I at least use the bathroom?” Sam asks.
“Nope. You can pee right here in front of me,” Hal says, and points at the wall. You haven’t been staying at your residence hotel the last two weeks. Been working that hard?”
“You could say that,” Sam says.
S
am stands, drops his pants, lowers his underwear and turns to the corner so Hal isn’t staring at his unit. Sam concentrates. It’s always been hard to pee in front of other people. It was especially hard at San Quentin, where he often had to pee on command. The urine starts to flow.
Sam finishes, caps the cup and zips up. Hal rips open a moist towelette packet and hands it to Sam so he can clean his hands. The smell of rubbing alcohol fills the room.
“You don’t work twenty-four hours a day. What are you doing?”
“Okay, I’ll come clean. I met a girl.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Hal says, as he picks up the cup. “And if there is a trace of anything in your piss besides alcohol and bad cheeseburgers, I’m sending you back to prison.”
“It’s the truth. I met a girl.”
Hal hands Sam a pen and a piece of paper. “Write down her name, address and phone number, as close as you can recollect. Do it now and do it fast. No talking, because talking is how you make up a story and you can’t write a lie as easy as you can say one. Go!” Hal shouts, and Sam starts writing.
“Why? She’s not the one on parole,” Sam argues, holding the pen aloft.
“No, but you are. And that may be ending soon,” Hal warns.
“Wait a second, I just remembered!" Sam yells and then reaches into the inside breast pocket of his pea coat and pulls out a handful of papers. "These are Xerox copies of the checks I got for working for the remediation company. He was paying me in cash, but I told him you wanted to see proof, so he started paying me with company checks. I get my first real paycheck this Thursday. I've been on the job less than a month, and he wanted to make sure I could do the job right before putting me on the payroll. See? I'm doing everything right!"
Sam hands them to Hal, who takes the copies of the checks and examines them, then stares over the top of his reading glasses at Sam. Hal Weinstein reduces Sam to quaking jelly with one long laser gaze. “How did you copy the checks?” Hal asks.
“At that new fancy copy store. What’s it called? Kinko’s. And then I put them in the bank at Wells Fargo. I have a checking account there.”
Hal staples the photocopies of the checks into Sam’s folder. “Or maybe you paid someone to write these checks and make copies, and then he tore the checks up, and you never cashed them. Maybe you’re making money some other way, but you won’t tell me. So, you put this elaborate con job together, trying to trick the only man who cares about you,” he says.
Sam leans back against the thin green padding on his metal chair. “Come on, Hal. That’s an elaborate con job, don’t you think?” Sam asks.
Hal closes Sam’s folder. “I want you to stay clean. I want you to have a real job. A real job puts you on a real payroll, where they take out taxes and contribute to unemployment insurance. That’s a real job. I want you to find one of those,” Hal says.
“Got it,” Sam says, and gets up to go.
“Hang on, you still owe me her info,” Hal says, tapping the piece of paper.
“She doesn’t know I’m an ex-con. Let me tell her first. I’ll bring her in myself for the next meeting. Please, Hal. I don’t want to mess this up.”
Hal snaps off the transistor radio and sighs. “You are incredible. I care more about you than anyone you deal with out on the street, even more than your new ‘girlfriend,’” Hal says, making air quotes with his fingers. “Yet you throw up more obstacles to me helping you than my teenage daughter. Write down her name, now.”
Sam writes down a name and hands it to Hal, who reads it aloud. “Katerina Trulli, 29th Street, San Francisco,” Hal says.
“I don’t know the number. It’s a pink house.”
“I need the number.”
“I’ll get it for you and call you tonight. She’s meeting me outside right now,” Sam says.
“Bring her up then, I want to meet her.”
“Like I said, she doesn’t know I’m an ex-con. She thinks I’m in here paying off traffic tickets. Let me break it to her first, please,” Sam says.
“I want to meet her,” Hal says, not giving in. “I’ve broken better liars than you, Sam Webb. And you will thank me for it someday.”
“How about we wave at you from the bus stop?” Sam says, standing up again and looking out the window. I’m supposed to meet her there right now.”
Hal looks out the window down at Bryant Street below. He shakes his head and sighs, which is his “tell” to Sam that he’s giving in. “I’m standing at this window until I see you both. And bring her in next week with ID. And you must bring in a real pay stub,” Hal says.
“You got it,” Sam says.
Hal holds up the plastic cup with the blue lid full of Sam’s urine. “And if your piss is any less than pure golden urea, I’m sending a squad car to pick you up. Now go find your girlfriend and start waving at this window.”
Sam grins and heads for the door. “Thanks, Hal. See you next week.”
Hal smiles as Sam rushes out. He turns the transistor radio back on and tunes in the Giants game. Vida Blue is trying to keep his fast ball low, but gusts are blowing the ball out of the strike zone. The Giants deserve a downtown stadium where the sun shines and there’s no wind, Sam thinks.
Five pitches later he spots Sam at the corner bus stop, standing with an attractive brunette wearing her own blue pea coat and a red scarf. She and Sam lift their hands and wave, and then Sam plants a long kiss on her lips and flashes the thumbs up, proving she exists. Hal wonders what lies Sam is telling her, and he prays to God that she will stay with him once she learns the truth about him.
Two floors up, Detective Stone sits at his desk, entering data into his new computer console while listening to the Giants game on his own transistor radio, not realizing that in less than twenty years, both machines will merge into one, along with sixteen other machines.
He gets out of his chair and goes to the window so the natural light can fix his vision. He's been staring at a green cursor against a black screen for too long. Down at the bus stop, he sees a man and a woman waving at someone on another floor. The man has dark curly hair, the woman is a brunette, with short hair. The man is stocky but strong, and the woman is thin and attractive –
– and he runs to his desk and rifles through the pile of papers and finds the artist sketches of the criminals from the safe robbery at Marjorie McKale’s art gallery. He grabs them and runs to the window –
–and the man and woman are gone.
But they know someone in this building. Maybe some office has a record of them. Maybe someone in this building knows them.
And his mind starts to spin.
Sam sits next to Kath in the back of a moving Muni bus. They managed to jump on and avoid Cliff and Dozer, but when Sam looks out the window he sees the Lincoln Town Car in the next lane, keeping pace with the bus. Cliff has the passenger window down. He glances up and sees Sam’s face in the window and points at him with a look that says, “got you.”
Sam gets up out of his seat and moves into the aisle.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I’m getting off the bus. We should spend the night apart tonight. Go alone to Paul’s tomorrow. Get there on time. I’ll make sure I’m ten minutes late. It will give you time to talk. He’ll tell you things he won’t say if I’m there. Stay relaxed and remember everything he says, and how he says it. Remember body language. He still doesn’t know everything that we’ve been doing, and Cliff and Dozer only found us today.”
“I feel our luck is running out.”
Sam reaches into his pocket and hands her a piece of paper. It’s a bus transfer.
“Thank you, but I can get a transfer from the driver myself.”
“Add up the numbers. That will tell us whether our luck is running out or not.
Sam pulls the cord for a stop request. Kath grabs his arm and looks up at him, scared. He smiles and grabs the hand bar for balance as the bus lurches to a stop. He steps down, the back door opens, and Sam disappears
into the street.
Kath adds up the numbers. 21.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
C ome on, get the lead out!”
Paul screams at Cliff and Dozer as they struggle to do push-ups in the mirrored workout room. The big boys arch their backs and groan, creating strange yoga poses as sweat stains creep across their football jerseys. Inge and Paul lead the session, both cranking out push-ups like Marines, dressed in sleek white workout clothes without a mark.
Sam walks in and scoffs. He’s wearing his once fancy black leather jacket with the bullet and knife holes, and he’s got yet another all-purpose army surplus bag slung over his shoulder. Sam spent enough time working out in his prison cell that he doesn’t abide indoor exercise. Sam prefers running up and down steep Nob Hill and doing push-ups and pull-ups in the tiny park next to the Union Pacific Club, alongside the kids in the playground.
“Planks!” Paul screams, as he and Inge drop into a plank push-up position. Their backs are straight, their arms bent, and their torsos are low to the ground as if frozen at the lowest point of a push-up. Dozer and Cliff groan and twist, not able to do them.
“They need an alignment," Paul hisses to Inge.
Inge throws herself on Dozer and pulls his arms back into a brutal stretch.
“Please, Inge, No Rolfing!” Dozer screams, as Inge twists his spine, ready to hogtie him.
Cliff darts away, but Paul blocks his exit and points at him to stay put. “Don’t you leave, you need this too,” he says to the huge Samoan cowering in the corner.
Paul then walks over to Sam, still leaning against the mirror. “You look like you could use some realignment yourself, Sam. That’s Inge’s specialty.”
“I got third place in the San Quentin boxing competition. If she comes close to me I’ll realign her.”
Dozer whimpers as he tries to escape from under her, but she keeps pulling him back, like a rabid bear mauling an overweight Yosemite camper. His fear rises until his narcolepsy kicks in…and he passes out.
Inge drops his limp limbs, confused that her plaything suddenly seems dead.