The Octopus on My Head

by Jim Nisbet

  Nobody answered that one.

  “Jake is sharp,” Garcia agreed. “He doesn’t seem to be a lush or a hophead or crazy, either. He’s just homeless.”

  “Probably used to be a CEO,” Lavinia suggested.

  “He likes the freedom. Lucky for you. From his perch Jake could see the clock on the old Folger’s tower at Brannan and Spear. It was twenty-five minutes to ten P.M.,” he added politely.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “More luck,” Garcia smiled. “Jake will make a good witness. Any defense lawyer would play him like a violin.”

  “Oh shit, oh dear,” Lavinia said, “defense lawyers are expensive.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said.

  Garcia shrugged. “The ballistics test on Miss Hahn’s pistol will about tear it for me,” he said, “if it comes up the way I think it will. We haven’t nailed it yet, but Stepnowski’s forensics should peg his death as approximately coincident with Curly’s visit to the Oakland jail, yesterday afternoon, six to eight hours before we can place either of you on De Haro Street. So I guess,” he clasped his hands in front of him, “you two can go ahead and get married.”

  That got a laugh from me.

  “Don’t make me puke,” Lavinia barked. “What kind of self-respecting girl lets herself get married to a guy with an octopus tattooed on his head?”

  “Youthful indiscretion covers both categories.” I rubbed the flat of my hand over my pate. “Darling.”

  “And a musician!” she noted spitefully. “Where’s the white picket fence?”

  “On the album cover.”

  “Marriages have started on shakier feet,” Garcia said sententiously.

  “But not on eight slimy ones,” Lavinia said.

  “Arms,” I said. “They’re arms.”

  “With suction cups!”

  “And a beak.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “The better to have and to hold.”

  “Eew!”

  Garcia said, “I’d like to disregard the various felonies and misdemeanors littering the landscape, in order to get to the nut of this case.”

  “Some people have a hard time keeping their eye on the ball,” I said appreciatively.

  “Some people,” Lavinia archly observed, “have a ball to keep an eye on.”

  I nearly retorted that calling heroin retail a ball to keep an eye on was going a bit far, but I confined my reaction to a scowl. If Lavinia was determined to sass her way into a hat full of felonies by way of distracting the world from her complicity in a shootout in a liquor store, she was welcome to them.

  “Ever heard of Narcotics Anonymous?” Garcia asked suddenly.

  With the effrontery that comes only from someone convinced she’s pulled the wool over the eyes of the entire world, but especially over her own, Lavinia drew herself up to her full height and declared, “Narcotics Anonymous is for people with drug problems.”

  “Is it not,” Garcia said.

  “Next question.” Lavinia set herself to brushing an invisible particle of lint off her sleeve.

  Garcia, who in any case was obviously interested in something else altogether, shrugged. “Okay. I was about to say that I’m fairly satisfied with your version of the story, so far as it goes.”

  “Are you the guy who needs to be satisfied?” I asked.

  “There will be the DA, when the time comes. The disposition of witnesses and evidence will be his call. But he takes suggestions from me. Plus,” Garcia inclined his head toward Lavinia, “he’s soft on victimless crime.”

  Lavinia declined to rise to this bait. “And that time will come when?” I asked.

  Garcia shook his head. “When we nail a suspect.”

  “Do you have one?”

  Garcia said nothing.

  “Nobody?” Lavinia abruptly asked. “Stepnowski was a has-been musician trying to rip off a music store. How low can you go? He couldn’t have had many friends left.”

  Garcia looked blandly at her. “Being friendless and ripping off King Kramer are not killing offenses—wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Uh, right,” Lavinia admitted. “Not at all.”

  “Did you talk with his wife?” I asked. “Did he have a band together?”

  “We found his address book at the warehouse. It was full of musicians and club owners, producers, sound engineers and not a few drug dealers, but a lot of the numbers are out of date. So far only one person, a bass player, admits to associating with Stepnowski, but it’s been two years since they played together. Nobody seems to think Stepnowski had a band organized at all.”

  “That’s really sad,” Lavinia said, almost to herself.

  I said, “The De Haro warehouse seemed ideal rehearsal space. Why else would he have it? Was there a bunch of gear there? How about the PA system he bought from Kramer?”

  “Nothing. In the room behind the one in which you found Stepnowski, we found an odd selection of parts—a small guitar amp, some cables, a couple of mike stands—but no mikes—a ruined double-neck guitar, a broken reel-to-reel tape machine, a ukulele, two or three folding chairs…. Nothing like what you’d expect in a working studio. No grand piano, no amp stack, no gobos, no mixing console, no patch bays or electronics racks—nothing like that.”

  Lavinia frowned. “What are gobos?”

  “Portable sound baffles,” Garcia patiently explained. “There are many kinds, but you position them around a player and his gear to isolate or shape his sound. Especially a drummer.”

  “You know what gobos are?” I asked. “How come?”

  “Well,” Garcia said, a little color rising to his cheeks, “I used to play a little bit. We had a band at the Police Academy. We called ourselves The Rookies. On La Bamba, we rocked.”

  “On La Bamba,” Lavinia repeated, “they rocked.”

  “You don’t play anymore?” I asked kindly, ignoring her.

  “Not since I graduated, got married, had a couple of kids, made Lieutenant.”

  “Not since you got a life, in other words.” Evidently, Lavinia felt compelled to make this point.

  “Was there a kit?” I wondered.

  “Not a drum to be seen.”

  “How about clothes—or shoes?” Lavinia threw me a glance. “Shoes and clothes and stuff.”

  “No clothes,” Garcia said, looking curiously at her. “His shoes were missing when we found him.”

  “Same here,” Lavinia confirmed.

  “Curious,” I mused. “His landlord told me he had moved there.”

  “Ah, the landlord,” Garcia said.

  Lavinia and I said together, “What about—” We exchanged a glance. “Him,” I finished. “Yeah,” Lavinia added.

  “We think Stepnowski was set to blow town. The bass player told us that Stepnowski had called him out of the blue, quite recently, not to set up a gig or rehearsal but to flog a bunch of gear to him. The bass player claims he wasn’t interested. A drum kit was mentioned. So were a synthesizer and a Peavey sound system—board, speakers, amps, EQ, cables, and enough microphones to cover a four-piece band, with multiple mikes for drums, a four-track cassette recorder…. A truckload of stuff. Which reminds me. Stepnowski owned a cab-over Econoline van. It’s painted flat black. We haven’t found it yet. Have you seen it?”

  Lavinia and I both shook our heads.

  “That must be the system Sal sold to him,” I guessed.

  “Very likely.”

  “So what’s the hustle?”

  “It’s a standard one,” Lavinia put in. “Ivy tells me it’s Sal’s biggest headache, to which shoplifting’s a distant second.”

  Garcia pricked up his ears. “The inimitable Ivy Pruitt.”

  “Let’s leave him out of this,” I suggested.

  Garcia looked tentative. “That might be possible.”

  Lavinia explained. “Guy starts buying stuff from Sal, little stuff at first. Drumsticks, mike stands, a set of speakers, all his trivial supplies. He gets a line of credit going. He b
uys more stuff—a drum machine, maybe a whole kit. One day he turns up with a bunch of stuff to trade and a little cash for sweetener. He’s got a story, too, like his band has landed an extended club gig or a recording contract or a short tour. At any rate, he’s got to make some moves equipment-wise. He trades in everything Sal will take off his hands, throws in some cash, gets the rest on credit, and walks out of the store with a top-of-the-line synthesizer, a computerized lighting board, a 24-track mixing console—whatever.”

  “And until he manages to resell the gear for cash,” I realized, “he makes his payments right on time.”

  “If he’s really desperate—strung out, a wanted man, whatever—he’ll drive to Reno and pawn the gear immediately to one of the big pawnshops there. That’s extreme, however, because a pawnshop won’t give top dollar. A private sale is much harder to trace and the money’s always better. But either way it’s pffft,” she pushed air with her tongue between her front teeth, “the guy and the gear are gone, and Sal is stuck for the balance.”

  “Which is when Kramer calls in Ivy Pruitt,” Garcia said.

  “Yeah, but first Kramer has to figure it out,” Lavinia nodded.

  “If the artist times it right, Ivy won’t happen until long after the account comes past due—at least thirty days after a missed payment. Hell, a guy could sell the stuff and keep making the payments until he’s safely in Patagonia.”

  “Stepnowski had a lot of money on him when he died,” Garcia said. “He must have moved a lot of stuff. By the way,” he smiled, “it goes down very well with me that you two took only what was owed you and left the rest. Very well indeed.” When even Lavinia had nothing to say to that, Garcia added, “It speaks volumes about your sincerity.”

  I said carefully, “Stepnowski was into Sal for seventy-five hundred. The PA system was worth thousands more. If he sold it for half what it was worth in order to move it quickly, he—”

  I stopped.

  Garcia said, “You were saying?”

  “Shut up,” Lavinia said simply.

  Garcia fingered an audio cassette out of the side pocket of his trench coat and held it up for us to see. “Not to worry. We have the context. We’re still adding to it.”

  I looked at the minicassette, then at Kramer’s desk. Amid the clutter at least two microphones weren’t even hidden. I looked at Garcia, who smiled. “Fast track. With Kramer’s cooperation, of course.” He returned the cassette to his pocket. “Assuming Stepnowski sold the missing synthesizer and his own drums too, eight grand sounds like a plausible minimum.”

  “Eight thousand seven hundred and fifty-four dollars. I counted it myself. There should have been twelve hundred dollar bills, two twenties, one ten, and four singles in Stepnowski’s right hip pocket when you found him. Folded once. With all the presidents looking the same direction.”

  “We subtracted only what was owed to Sal,” Lavinia hastened to be redundant. “No more.”

  “It speaks volumes toward your integrity and your motive,” Garcia reiterated, a little bored.

  Now that she knew she was speaking for the record, however, Lavinia felt compelled to ham it up. “For our good conscience, too.”

  “Yes,” Garcia said, his tone darkening. “Your good conscience.”

  I ventured to suggest that he had it all figured out.

  “That’s possible, Watkins,” Garcia said mildly. “You don’t see any other angles?”

  “What about the anonymous phone call?” I thought a moment. “What about the guy on Anza Street?”

  “That creep,” Lavinia said.

  “He told me his name,” I said. “Torvald.”

  Garcia didn’t consult his notebook. “His first name is Eritrion. Calls himself Ari. We talked to him.”

  “And?”

  Garcia shrugged.

  I said, “After he spilled the new address, he made a special request of me.”

  “Which was?”

  “He wanted me to be sure to say hello to Stepnowski’s wife. He said she and her girlfriends were very pretty, and he missed them.”

  “Ugh,” Lavinia said.

  Garcia smiled. “He didn’t mention that to me. Then again, I had Officer Lavoix running interference.”

  Lavinia frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Garcia appeared to patronize her. “Perhaps you noticed,” he said, “that Officer Lavoix is … attractive?”

  “So what’d the guy do,” Lavinia snapped testily, “drool his way through the interview?”

  “Well,” Garcia said, “we might have stayed all night. Asked him anything. Fine by him.”

  Lavinia looked at me. “Are you just going to sit there and listen to this sexist bullshit?”

  “Hey,” said Garcia, “it’s just a fact.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, although I knew exactly what she was talking about, and what she was about to start yelling about, but when I looked from Lavinia back to Garcia again, Garcia compounded her anger by offering a man-to-man shrug, with no attempt to hide it from Lavinia. “Bitches,” he might just as well have said aloud. “You can’t live with them, you can’t live without them.”

  “Angelica,” I said quickly, to forestall Lavinia blowing her top. “Wasn’t that her name?”

  Again, Garcia didn’t bother to consult his notebook. “Angelica is her name.”

  Lavinia abruptly frowned and turned her attention away from Garcia, back to me. Because she had been hosing dog off her undercarriage while I taxied to the Anza address, she hadn’t overheard my interview with Torvald, and now she had to admit that, while she had no idea what went on during my visit to Anza Street, Mrs. Stepnowski had never come up.

  “So?” I asked. “Where is Angelica Stepnowski?”

  Garcia nodded grimly. “That may well turn out to be your basic nine-millimeter question.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  ON THE SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF KRAMER’S WORLD OF SOUND, A gentleman was reading the New York Times. He was perched on the edge of a redwood planter built around a jacaranda tree, his feet propped on the front axle of a shopping cart that carried a TV face down in a stratum of empty bottles, with the newspaper spread over its back. He wore several layers of athletic clothing, a mismatched pair of fingerless bicycling gloves, high-ankled combat boots without laces, and cobalt blue wraparound sunglasses.

  “Hey, Mister.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  He folded his newspaper. “There’s a great deal of discussion in here about pedophilia.” He gravely tapped the paper with his forefinger. “A great deal of discussion.”

  “Is that so?”

  He raised his sunglasses until they revealed his eyes, which is how Californians demonstrate their sincerity to one another. “Do you think that’s what people mean when they refer to America as a youth-oriented nation?”

  Further up the sidewalk, Lavinia had backed the Lexus out of the parking lot onto Folsom Street. She touched the horn.

  “That’s the first laugh I’ve had in two days.” I gripped the man’s hand and pumped it. “Thank you so much.”

  The dark glasses fell back into place.

  “That guy spare-changing you?” Lavinia asked as I got into the car.

  “No. He wanted to share a joke.”

  “Really? What’s a homeless guy find that’s funny?”

  “Us.”

  “You and me?”

  “All of us.”

  “No wonder he’s on the street. To get by in this life, you have to take it seriously.”

  “Like you do?”

  “Damn straight.”

  We caught a red light at the Moscone Center. Lavinia said, “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Think Ivy’s got any dope left for us?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “That makes three of us, but it begs the question.”

  “You want to drive all the way back t
o Oakland on the extremely remote chance that Ivy Pruitt saved us some drugs?”

  “Aside from the fact that I live there, and, not that I’m strung out, but, yes, I’d like to see if Ivy’s got any messages for my monkey. Furthermore, you got a better idea?”

  “Yeah,” I responded belligerently. “I’m going to find myself a job so I can eat next week and maybe restore my self-respect a week or two later.”

  I’d never heard Lavinia laugh so hard.

  “Curly, what are you talking about? You’ve got nine hundred dollars in your pocket.”

  “Son of a bitch.” I felt the left hip pocket of my jeans. The wad was still there. “I completely forgot about it.” I really had forgotten about it; more cash than I’d had in hand in years, and I’d forgotten about it. “I need a business manager.” I whistled and sat back against the seat. “This changes everything.” I pointed. “Look at that Moscone Center. It’s a conventioneer’s dream. Ain’t it beautiful?”

  “Not so beautiful as the Sony Metreon, up there on the corner.”

  “Talk about your product placement. As the sun sets on western culture, that piece of shit throws a shadow over the conscience of an entire city.”

  “You’ve got a nickel in your jeans,” Lavinia said, “so what do you care?” The light turned green. “How about it?”

  “If you’re going to Oakland, drop me at Third and I’ll take a bus. I really do need a job. Not to mention a shower and a shave and about twelve hours’ sleep.” I touched my hip pocket. “I can use this bread to get the Honda going. The transmission problem, an insurance payment, new brakes—and smog, I’ve got to smog it this year. Rent and the Honda will take every cent. The nine hundred is a windfall, I’m grateful, I hope it’s a long time before I see another dead body, and goodbye.”

  “Gee,” Lavinia drummed a fingernail on the rim of the steering wheel, “why don’t you finish college while you’re at it?”

  “If I don’t take advantage of the opportunity, I’ll just pay the rent and piss away the rest and wind up riding the bus to gigs again anyway. Public transportation is a pain in the ass at night. Most people don’t mess with a six-three bald guy dressed in black leather with an octopus tattooed on his head, but once in a while at a dark and lonely bus stop, I’ll glimpse a couple of punks sizing me up, measuring whether they can take me down for the guitar and my wallet. One night I’ll have one too many beers in me, and they’ll pull it off. It won’t be the first time, either, I might add. Then where’ll I be? If I live through it, I mean, with all my fingers intact so I can still play, and my brain suffciently under-concussed so I can remember the music.”