by Matt Richtel
He tells me that the nurse said Lane had at first refused to come to the recreation room with her friends. When the nurse pressed Grandma, she’d said something about being afraid to go to the park. Then she’d mumbled something about a bluebird.
“Bluebird? In the park, she referred to a man in blue.”
“Odd. Also, someone named Adrianna,” he says. “Something about ‘Adrianna not breathing.’ Is that a family member?”
I don’t respond. I’m processing two questions: Have I heard of an Adrianna? And, again, why is Vince taking such a keen interest? Does he often do that, with 250 elderly people to look after?
“I’ll be in shortly,” I finally say. “Keep her safe.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Vince, sixty percent of people with dementia have a tendency to wander off.” I’m trying to mask the depth of my paranoia.
“I’ve never lost one, Mr. Idle.”
We hang up.
I dial Pauline. No answer. I text her: “Call me re package.”
From my creased brown wallet, I retrieve the card for Officer Everly, the pockmarked cop who attended us yesterday in the park. I consider the warning from the mystery stick: No police. I dial Officer Everly. At least I can ask him if they have more information about the shooting. I get his voice mail. I ask him to call me back.
I call my parents. They don’t answer. I leave a message: “Hey there. Give me a call. I’m around all day.”
I glance at the mystery letter on my computer. I call up a map of the intersection of Hayes and Buchanan. The intersection marks one of the few low-income projects left in ever-gentrifying San Francisco. Could this be related to some story I’ve worked on? If so, what could that possibly have to do with Grandma?
I look around my apartment, still decorated with post-college décor, and consider Vince’s insinuations about my caregiving and maturity. If I had a nicer recliner, would I know what to do? Or is it the other way around: if I knew how to handle adult situations, would I already have a better recliner?
I want to get to Grandma but I think she’s safe with Vince on the case. Besides, Magnolia Manor, as a full-service retirement community, steps up security as residents get less able to care for themselves. I swallow a mouthful of coffee and then sludgy oatmeal, then spend a few harried minutes blogging tidbits essential to the proper functioning of democracy. I write a Medblog post about a company that has announced plans to clone the Governor’s dog as a way to promote science in the state. I joke that someone has already cloned the Governor’s budget, given that our state debt recently doubled.
I scour the Net to see if there is anything else I can rip off or riff on. The day’s big story is that hackers have breached the Pentagon’s computer security system. The papers haven’t yet reported what information was taken. But unless they stole secret documents revealing that the Joint Chiefs of Staff all got Botox, it’s not paying my bills.
And still no indictments in the Porta Potti case. I’ve managed three Medblog posts about the deleterious impact of fecal particles in the air and water and can’t see how I can eke out another without an actual news peg.
I slap shut the laptop, scoot to my bedroom, and grab a clean T-shirt. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and brush my teeth. Back in the front room, I grab a sweatshirt and computer, stuff both into backpack, sling the albatross over my shoulder, and hit the street.
Last night, I’d parked my ailing and aged Toyota 4Runner right out in front of my flat. It felt like great parking karma, but I now see the error of my ways. Pinned under a wiper is a $45 ticket. I can see it is limp and damp, having absorbed condensation from the windshield. Maybe I can eke out another feces-related blog post after all.
Then I hear the voice.
“You people prefer potted plants on balconies. But you don’t have a balcony.”
I turn around to see a man standing at the entrance to the alley that runs between my flat and the one next to it.
“Good morning, Nat.”
It is G.I. Chuck, Pauline’s creepy venture capitalist. He wears a knee-length brown leather overcoat, hands stuffed in his pockets. It’s not that cold out so he looks somewhere in the middle of the continuum of overly fashionable to absurd. At least today he’s wearing real shoes.
“Potted plant?”
“Didn’t Deep Throat contact Woodward and Bernstein with a plant?”
I don’t bother to correct the error in his plot summary of All the President’s Men.
“How did you find my house? And, for that matter, why?”
“Your address is on the business card you gave me.”
“So is my phone number,” I say.
He clears his throat. “That’s what I’m here about—about your phone number.” He frowns. “You mentioned someone anonymous has been calling you. You asked me to check into it.”
“I did. Why?”
He answers my question with a question. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
Chapter 8
Chuck stands at the edge of the alley. He’s waiting for me to walk to him, which is the natural order of things in Silicon Valley. Everyone walks to the venture capitalists, hoping for the validation, insight, or a check that will change their lives.
I walk over.
“I’d have put out an azalea on my balcony as a signal but the few plants I’ve ever owned have died of benign neglect,” I say. No smile. He’s totally missed my All the President’s Men reference.
“So, Nat, you have some enemies. I’m not against having enemies. In fact, I find it very centering.”
“Are we enemies?”
“No. Allies. Absolutely. Colleagues.”
“But you’ve got some enemies?”
“Yes, but evidently you do too,” he says.
He makes a show of pulling his hand from his right pocket and withdrawing a yellow Post-it. On it is scrawled a phone number. He holds it out and asks me if I recognize it.
It’s in the 415 area code, local. But the rest of the number doesn’t look familiar. I shake my head.
“It’s a central switchboard for the San Francisco Police Department,” he says.
“Okay.”
“The call to your phone yesterday at six twelve p.m. came from there.”
“From the cops?”
“Bingo.”
I shake off a moment of wonder to stay focused. The park shooter was a cop?
“You can see why I decided to show up in person to tell you.”
“Respectfully, not really. I don’t.”
“Because if you’ve ticked off the cops, then they’re monitoring your phones.”
“Tell me again how you found out about this?”
Chuck’s eyes briefly divert from mine. “A reporter never reveals his sources. Why should I?”
I sigh.
“You’re skeptical,” he says. “A journalist should be. I’m highly connected through military channels. You’ll have to trust that.”
“I appreciate your work on my behalf, and I guess I’m surprised by it.”
“Oh, c’mon Idle!”
“What?”
“You’re working on a great story, right? Something involving the cops? This could be a big coup for Medblog.”
I nearly laugh. I’ve sold Chuck a steroid version of journalism, or at least stoked his own sensational view of the trade, and now he’s running with it. I feel my skepticism about him meld into something else; he’s displaying an endearing enthusiasm—is this the zeal of a soldier turned entrepreneur up for a challenge and a fight? And why not? He doesn’t know that Grandma Lane and I almost got shot; he thinks we’re playing a harmless game of cops and journalists.
Or maybe I’m being played by him. But why?
I think about the rash of Porta Potti fires. Has the absurd evolved into the serious? My stories have not just embarrassed the cops but also, obviously, could cost a few pranksters their jobs and the department critical funding. The
State Attorney General, a Democrat planning to run for governor next year who wants to prove her law-and-order mettle to the conservative voting base, has launched a full-throated investigation. Hoping to make points with voters looking for creative ways to cut government spending, she says cops who set fires under the color of uniform should cost their departments discretionary state funds. The chief’s job is in play.
“I can’t imagine anyone in the police department would want me dead over a Porta Potti.”
“Dead?” Chuck responds with mild alarm. “What’s going on?”
“I’m wondering the same thing.”
He looks at the Post-it. “Let me do a little more investigating and make sure I got this right,” he says. He puts the yellow paper in his jacket pocket. He pulls out a clamshell phone. He hands it to me. “Take this.”
It’s a basic low-end phone, two years old at least, with a white scratch along the front casing. “I’ve got a phone.”
“This one is pre-paid. It can’t be traced, and our conversations will be private. The number is on the back. If you need to reach me, call on this line.”
“You’re kidding me,” I say.
“It’s my backup. I’ve got a regular phone.”
He extracts a second phone, a fancier device with a touch screen. As he does so, it buzzes with an incoming call. He looks at the caller ID and sends the call to voice mail.
“Keep your phone,” I say, handing the old clamshell back to him. He puts his hands up, not accepting it. We look like two mimes having a contest.
He responds emphatically. “Cops are like drones working for a big corporation. They lack real capitalist financial incentive. So when they get bored with their jobs or feel undervalued, they check out, or wield power in counter-productive ways. I hate cops, and I love journalism that speaks truth to the uniform.”
“Aren’t soldiers just cops with bigger guns and air cover?”
He smiles. “Touché. But soldiers get sent into messy situations, try to fix them, then get sent home. Our incentive is survival. Being a soldier is like working for a start-up, having real motivation,” he says, pauses, then continues. “Let’s break open a great story.”
“Let me think about it, Chuck,” I say. “But I should go.”
As I turn to leave, he grabs my arm. “You’re always in a hurry.”
I look at his hand, and he quickly retracts it.
“Sorry. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help you.”
“Not grab my arm.”
He clears his throat. “Fair enough. I’m prideful too.”
I’m irritated but want to sound deferential.
“Can I call you later, or put a pot out on my balcony to arrange another meeting?”
Before he can answer, I hear the roar of a car. I look up. Coming down the ordinarily serene street from our left is a Humvee with tinted windows, sun glancing off its black hood.
“Global warming explained,” I say.
I look back at Chuck, and see his eyes go wide and pupils constrict to a point. Extreme and sudden fear.
Chapter 9
A flash of light and a staccato burst. Spat, spat, spat, spat, spat. A blur of motion as Chuck dives toward me and tackles me to the ground. My backpack goes flying.
“Son of a bitch!” he screams. His full weight blankets me. Limp.
“Chuck!” For a moment, he doesn’t respond and I’m sure he’s dead or mortally wounded.
“Foot,” he groans, and suddenly stands.
I crane my neck and see the Humvee speeding away. Dull pain pulses in my elbow where it slammed against the pavement. I rise more slowly than G.I. Chuck.
He grabs his ankle. There is a glaze of red on his hand. “Stay down, Chuck.”
“It’s a scratch.”
He’s getting one of nature’s most powerful drugs, a heavy outpouring of neuro-chemicals that outweigh the pain and enable him to flee danger. But the danger’s screeched off and Chuck needs to not aggravate the wound. We both look at the blood on his hand and I’m relieved to find it is just a spattering, confirming his impulse that he’s been lightly wounded.
“I graduated med school.” I take a few deep breaths to slow my heart rate down. “Let me look.”
He hops backwards. “What are you involved with?!”
“I’ll call the cops.” I pull out my cell phone.
Then he hops forward, with surprising alacrity, adrenaline screaming through him. His hand swoops forward and grabs my phone hand.
“Are you crazy?” he says. “Let’s go after him.”
“We need to call an ambulance. You’re in shock.”
“Call while you’re driving,” he says, releasing my hand and hobbling toward my car.
I again see all the zeal and risk tolerance that has made this guy a part of both the military and the venture-capital community.
I start to dial 911 on my phone but get only as far as “9” when my own competitive zeal bristles. I retrieve my backpack and storm past Chuck to my car, popping the door locks up with my key ring on the way.
I climb in my side. Chuck does the same, moving well for a shot guy.
I toss my backpack in back. I usually dump it in the passenger seat.
I put the key into the ignition. I turn the key. The engine won’t turn over. I try again. I make sure the car is in park, not neutral or drive. I try the key again. No luck. The engine is dead.
“Motherfucker!” Chuck shouts, and pounds his hand on the sun-cracked dashboard.
He climbs out of the car. As I watch wordlessly, he hobbles across the street. He pulls keys from the pocket of his long coat, clicks open a blue convertible BMW, and climbs in.
“Chuck!”
“I’m going after him.” He climbs into the car. “Get the bullet casings.”
“You’re in shock.” I shout my earlier admonition as I get out of the car.
He starts his engine. He pulls a tight U-turn, and heads off in pursuit of a gunman in a gas guzzler. One day I’m nearly shot by a hybrid driver, then by a driver of a Humvee. On my side, I think, G.I. Chuck in his sports car. I’m in the middle of a battle involving the entire automobile food chain.
I walk to the front of my car. Popping the hood, I immediately see the problem. Someone has disconnected my battery cable.
I reconnect it, and climb back into my Toyota.
I grab a handful of In-and-Out-Burger napkins out of the glove compartment and get most of the battery grease off my hands. I pull out my cell and dial 911, but again I don’t hit “send.” I’m thinking about Chuck’s plea that I don’t call the police, echoing the warning in the mystery note. It’s ludicrous. But something else nags at me. Maybe before I call the cops again, I should get myself to Magnolia Manor. I’ve got to keep Grandma safe. And I’ve got to find out what she knows—and what or who is hunting the one or both of us.
I turn on the ignition, then turn it off again. I step out of the car, walk over to where Chuck may have saved my life, and look on the ground for shell casings. I find two bullet remains, slightly charred, already cooling. More must have smashed into the concrete walls or sprayed into the alley, but a cursory look doesn’t turn them up. Against the wall of the alley, a neighbor has haphazardly left out for recycling a dozen or so folded cardboard beer and food boxes. They’re damp to the point of being limp from last night’s fog and I have the patience to scan the surfaces for holes for only a few seconds before conceding.
A few neighbors have wandered outside, and I figure the cops can’t be far behind. I need to jet.
I hustle back to my car and speed to the nursing home to mine the emptying remains of Lane’s hippocampus.
And I suddenly find myself thinking about snakes.
Five months earlier, I’d started interviewing Grandma for the magazine story I wanted to write about her.
We sat on a freshly painted bench outside the home, sunshine on our faces, a game of Boggle on the bench between us. I clipped a tiny microphone
to Lane’s blouse so I could record our interview.
“The computer records me too,” she said.
The Human Memory Crusade.
“Yes, but I smile, come bearing high-calorie snacks, and can take you to the movies later.”
Lane smiled. “You don’t want to hear me drone on. Now let’s stop before I bore you to death.”
“It’s for me and your legions of fans. Besides, I’m getting two dollars a word to write about you.”
This time she laughed out loud.
“Really, Grandma. It would mean a lot to me to hear your stories.”
After a pause, she said, “Do you remember when I used to take you to the park to hear your stories?”
When I visited as a kid, it became tradition. She’d take me to Stow Lake. She knew a man who worked at the boathouse. He had strong hands and he rowed us into the middle and she asked me about my life, friends, school, parents. She made me feel so interesting.
“Where should we start, Grandma? The shed incident in Warsaw, how you and Grandpa met and eloped and borrowed coal to heat the apartment, Uncle Stevie, the Great Wanderer?
“Why don’t you like that doctor?”
“Doctor?”
“The man with the wavy hair. The memory doctor. Isn’t that perfect? I forgot the name of his specialty.”
Earlier that day, I’d taken her to her first neurology appointment after noticing a slip in her command of language.
“Stop stalling, Lane.”
“Was it about a woman? Did you two have a fight about a woman? Or money? That’s why men fight.”
I told her: in medical school, I dated Kristina Babcock, a beauty in the class below me. It didn’t work out. I ran into her a few years ago. She’d married a guy in her class who became a neurologist—now Grandma’s doctor.
“I knew it. You shouldn’t be jealous of him.”
“The guy just went a different way than I did.” The way of the wife, the three kids, and the mansion.
We fell silent.
“Snakes,” Grandma finally said.
I shook my head. Confused.
“That’s the story I want to tell.”