Cocaine and Blue Eyes

by Fred Zackel

  I drove out California Street to the Sunset District. I knew the neighborhood well. Before Pearl Harbor, this area had been sand dunes and sand fleas. But the war brought people west, some to carry guns, others to make them. Many stayed on after peace to build homes and raise families.

  Three decades later, their city days were almost over and retirement had come. Over the years, their homes had skyrocketed in value, and it was a seller's market for these castles in the sand.

  The new buyers were happy paying hard cash. They were solitary people who had sweated and slaved and saved for their share of the American Dream. Their skin was tallow and their eyes were sloped. Like any immigrants, the Chinese wanted to move up. Like any ghetto people, they wanted to move out. Now the realtors were calling this neighborhood Chinatown West.

  The address I had for Davey Huie was a dentist's office just off Clement Street. No doctor has office hours on a holiday, but I knocked on the front door anyway.

  A middle-aged Chinese housewife in pink slacks and pink curlers came from her garage next door. She carried her plastic garbage bags out to the treelawn. When she dumped them, they clattered like pent-up whiskey bottles. She saw me and came over the lawn towards me.

  "He's not there on holidays," she said.

  I stepped from the porch. "I'm looking for Davey Huie. They said I could find him here."

  "Davey? He lives around back. A studio apartment. You have to walk around back to find it." She gave me a nervous look, the kind neighbors reserve for strangers. "What do you want with him?"

  "He ripped off my stereo."

  "Davey?" She was startled. "He really ripped you off?"

  "Naw, I was just bullshitting."

  She flushed, but I was already gone, hiking around the stucco building, dodging shrubs and small trees.

  There was an enclosed porch behind the dentist's office. I found a rickety pair of steps and stepped up to the warped wood door. I knocked twice and no one came. I knocked again, and again there was no answer. I tried the door and went inside.

  Davey's studio was something you'd give an overnight guest with many apologies. Or you put a washer and dryer up front and use the rest for storage. You don't rent it out. Not unless you're one helluva greedy landlord.

  The room was barely fifteen by ten. Nothing more than an add-on room. The dentist, or his landlord, had enclosed a back porch with fiberfill and plasterboard, dabbed on a couple of coats of paint, and rented it to the first sucker. The room was dinky enough for warm thoughts about my own landlady.

  Davey was home, but unavailable for comment. He was stretched out across a single mattress on the floor. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing slowly, regularly. He wore a terrycloth robe and his stereo earphones. Bare feet pointed in different directions. There were powdery rings around each nostril. His bandaged hands lay by his sides, and a small hand mirror lay beside the mattress. Several lines of whitish crystal sparkled on it. A razor blade and a thin-rolled dollar bill were alongside.

  My shoes had an echo in the room. Even the empty streets outside were noisier. A faint whirring sound from the tape deck was the only threat to silence. I've found this same silence in other hip dwellings over the years. Davey was just another cokehead catching tunes on his stereo.

  There was just the single mattress on the floor. It had no box springs or bed frame. No sheets, either, just a sleeping bag. There were no windows, either, though the room needed some desperately. A partition cut off several feet of space, and two doors were cut into the plywood. If one was the closet, the other was a bathroom. There was little else in the room. A hotplate on a ledge. A set of drums in one corner. A chair piled with last night's cowboy clothes. Turntable and tape deck and amplifier and speakers.

  I punched the on button for the external speakers. A few riffs from the rhythm guitar came through the speakers. Down-home country and western music. The female vocalist was throaty, but average. Whenever she hit a flat note, the harmonica man crooned mournfully and almost covered her goofs.

  I pushed the power button off. The tape deck slowed, then stopped. The music died.

  Davey's eyes fluttered, but did not open. A few creases almost came to his forehead. His lips parted like a thirsty man, but nothing came forth.

  I bent over him. His face was damp with sweat, but there was no fever. His pulse had weakened, and his breathing was getting shallow. Both seemed to be slowing. I lifted an eyelid. The pupil rolled like a marble on glass. It was receding fast. There were bruises below each sideburn.

  I called the cops. They said they'd hurry.

  I covered him with his sleeping bag and placed a cold wash rag on his forehead. There was yesterday's coffee on the hotplate. I forced some down his throat. He gagged and tried to retch. I gave him more. I shook him and shouted at him and smacked his face.

  I was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when the medics came. They tried cardiovascular drugs and electroshock.

  After a while, they gave up and carried the cooling meat outside on a stretcher. Doors opened and closed on an orange-trimmed ambulance, and it took off down Clement Street. The meat wagon didn't bother with its siren. The streets were deserted, and the flashing lights woke no one.

  Chapter 18

  I looked down at my fingers. My cigarette was still unlit. Somebody up there was telling me something. I sighed and slipped it back into its pack. I asked if I were under arrest.

  "We'd just like to hear it again."

  "You're Curtain, right?"

  "I'm Howard."

  I couldn't tell them apart. They were both detectives with SFPD, and they could have been twins. They both had styled hair and brown beards. They both wore imitation leather jackets and earth shoes. Their shirts were open at the throat and their shirt collars hung over their jackets.

  "What do you know about this guy?"

  "He was a nice guy," I said. "I liked him."

  "How long have you known him?"

  "I never saw him before last night."

  "You two hit it off fast."

  "I make friends easily. I guess he did, too."

  "Where'd you meet him?"

  "A bar down in the flats. Jardin's Saloon."

  "Why did you go there?"

  "I wanted a drink. New Year's Eve and all."

  "What made you pick that firetrap?"

  "If it's a firetrap, why isn't it closed down?"

  "Why did you go there?"

  "I like the people. They never ask questions."

  "What did you do when you got there?"

  "I bought a couple drinks."

  "Did you know he'd be there?"

  "I never saw him before last night."

  "So why did you strike up a conversation?"

  "He started it. I was at the next barstool."

  "What did he say to you?"

  "He said he had seen me before."

  "And what did you say?"

  "I said I'd never seen him before."

  "And then what did he say?"

  "Nothing. He mooched a drink."

  "What else did you talk about?"

  "Just bar talk. Same as everybody else. Then he left."

  "Where did he go?"

  "I dunno. He didn't even say good-bye. Of course, it was his turn to buy a round..."

  "What did you do when he left?"

  "I had another drink and then I left. I went looking for a woman. New Year's Eve and all that. Am I under arrest?"

  "We're almost finished," one said.

  "Why'd you come over here today?" the other said.

  "I thought he might be home."

  "Did he say he'd be here today?"

  "I never asked him. You see, it's a national holiday. A good day to visit people. You know where everybody is. Everybody stays at home on New Year's Day."

  "What did you want to see him about?"

  "He owed me a couple drinks. I thought I'd collect."

  "What did you talk to him about?"

  "He was
in a coma when I got here."

  "The woman next door said you had to ask where he lived."

  "Like I said, I've never been here before."

  "She also said the Chinaman ripped off your stereo."

  "I told her I was bullshitting."

  "Why did you lie to her?"

  "I didn't lie. I was bullshitting."

  A snort. "Big difference."

  "Yeah, there is," I said. "You boys should know. You're both cops."

  "Why did you say that to her?"

  "It was none of her business."

  "How about telling us why you came here?"

  "I told you. He owed me a couple drinks and ..."

  "There were bruises on his face."

  "They weren't there yesterday."

  "Maybe somebody pistol-whipped him."

  "He was an easy guy to pistol-whip," I said.

  Anger. "Where do you come off saying that?"

  "He wanted to be everybody's buddy. He was open and friendly and easy to please. People like that are easy targets."

  "Do you know who did it to him?"

  "I have no idea who did it to him."

  "Maybe you pistol-whipped him."

  "Sure I did. Then I made him snort cocaine until he went into a coma. Then I waited before I called the ambulance."

  "Maybe you did."

  "I was here less than a minute. Then I called you. You can check with the woman next door. She knows what happened."

  "You got bruises, too."

  "Yeah. They hurt when I talk too much."

  "Where'd you get them?"

  "I had an auto accident this morning." I watched the cop playing with the childproof top. "That's where those pills come from. And you can check with the VA hospital on Geary. I was there about three hours ago."

  "Did you file a police report?"

  "Not yet I haven't."

  "Why haven't you?"

  "My car was the only vehicle involved, there was little property damage, and I figured it could wait until Monday."

  "Where were you before you came here?"

  "Breakfast at Mama's of North Beach."

  "Did anybody see you there?"

  "Yep. Doug Lacjak, a lawyer for the city and county."

  The detective looked over the tiny studio. "What do you think caused the Chinaman's death?"

  "A toxicologist could tell you that."

  "What do you think happened?"

  "Heart failure from an overdose of cocaine."

  "Did you know he was an addict?"

  "I don't know that now," I said.

  They exchanged knowing looks.

  "I don't know how anybody can get addicted to cocaine," I went on. "It's a stimulant, not a narcotic. There's no physical dependence, no withdrawal symptoms ..."

  "You're saying he wasn't an addict?"

  "I've never met one yet. Oh, I meet people who use it a lot. But they can take it or leave it. If they can afford it, they save up and buy some. If they can't, they don't. People who use cocaine think of it like fine wine. Something they save for special occasions."

  "What makes you such an expert?"

  "I used to work for Pacific-Continental Investigations. We studied drugs. You never know when your investigation crosses paths with drug users."

  "This guy died from cocaine."

  I agreed. "And it's the first I ever heard about."

  "Others have died from coke," he insisted.

  "Yeah. Those clowns who swallow coke-filled rubbers just before they go through customs. Their stomach juices eat away the latex, and they poison themselves. This is the first time I've ever heard of a regular OD."

  "Do you know where he got it?"

  "I don't know where he got it."

  "Did he mention cocaine to you?"

  "Last night was the first time I ever met him."

  "Did he mention it last night?"

  "He said he used to do it, but he didn't any more."

  "Did he say why?"

  "He said coke makes people mean."

  "So why was he doing it today?"

  "That puzzles me, too," I said.

  "Why do you think he told you that?"

  "Maybe he was paranoid. Most dopers are. They don't mind saying they've used it, but they won't admit they're still doing it. They're afraid of getting busted. Which reminds me. May I ask a question now?"

  "Okay. Go ahead."

  "Why am I being detained?"

  "We need a statement from you."

  "I gave you my statement before. I got here too late to do anything. By the time I got here, he was already in a coma. Am I under arrest?"

  "What do you want, Brennen?"

  "A little distance from you."

  "We can get your license pulled."

  "Don't bother. It expires in May."

  "How about a little cooperation then?"

  "I'm cooperating as best as I can."

  "Then maybe you should try showing a little respect."

  "You mean, caution, don't you? First you imply I know where he got the shit, then I gave it to him, then maybe I pistol-whipped him. I tried to save a guy's life, and you're grilling me for an alibi."

  "You're making our work more difficult."

  "You make it sound like I'm holding back, like I'm keeping you from making an arrest, but you don't even know if a crime has been committed. You're trying to convict me. Am I under arrest?"

  "How come you keep asking us that?"

  "If I'm not under arrest, then I'm free to go. That's the way the law reads, doesn't it? Am I under arrest?"

  "No. You're not under arrest."

  I stood up. "Since I'm not under arrest, then I guess I'll leave." Even the lab boys heard me and looked up.

  The cop frowned. "Okay, Brennen. Move on."

  "Don't you boys know anything besides 'move on'?"

  "Get going, Brennen."

  I stopped at the door. "One last thing."

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "Happy New Year."

  Chapter 19

  Once upon a time, Point Reyes was just another island in the Pacific Ocean. Right around the death of the dinosaurs, the North American continent drifted into it, wrinkling the land into hills and valleys, making it a peninsula separated from the mainland by the San Andreas fault line. Much is still rugged coastline and wilderness, a national seashore an hour's drive north of the city.

  Inverness is the only village on the former island, and it's smaller than most wedding parties. The village doesn't have a traffic light or a stop sign, just a slow-to-20-mph sign. Most homes are hidden away beneath the dense Bishop pines on the Inverness Ridge behind the main highway. A grocery store and a gas station and a post office cater to the handful of rustics, seashore tourists, backpackers and weekenders from the city.

  The grocery store was open, so I parked and went inside. A rack of postcards caught my eye, especially one of spouting grey whales. The legend on the back said the whales could be seen this month from the lighthouse at the national seashore. The whales were going south for the winter. I saluted a great idea.

  The counter girl was a surfer blonde with floppy breasts. As she rang up my purchase, she asked if I were from San Francisco. When I admitted I was, she nodded her head. She had known it all along.

  "I used to live there," she said. "I liked it. But everything moves too quickly down there. That's why I came up here. Nobody lives up here."

  "You live up here."

  "Yeah. My old man, too, sometimes. He don't like this place too much. He drinks too much. He smokes too much. Always staring at the walls. Only time he's happy is when he's off chasing tuna."

  "A tuna fisherman?" I tried remembering the magazine article I'd started at the fish company. "I thought the tuna fleet sails from San Pedro."

  "They do. And they sail as far south as Peru and as far north as Alaska. Wherever the tuna goes." She told me his albacore boat had passed through last week on sea trials. She was glum. "By the time he got this
far north, he was a hundred miles offshore."

  "Where's he now?"

  She didn't know. "Wherever the tuna is." Her eyes were quiet and lifeless. They'd given up on life already.

  I asked if she knew Parnell.

  "Oh yeah. He comes in just about every day." She twisted behind the register and peered out the store windows. "He's outside right now. The guy loading groceries in the pickup truck."

  I paid for my postcard and went outside.

  Parnell was a long-haired blond with a bold moustache. He looked like Yosemite Sam on junk. At one time, he might've been a college footballer with those broad shoulders and his barrel chest, but those days were a dozen years and many missed meals ago. He was a half-foot taller than me, but thirty pounds lighter. There was little meat fleshing his bones, and none hid his ribs. He looked like a linebacker gone to seed.

  I walked to his pickup. "Parnell?"

  "That's what they call me." His voice was low and deep and distant, a foghorn on a rainy night. "You look like you've been kissing thistles."

  "Auto accident." I introduced myself.

  "What do you want with me?"

  "Joey Crawford hired me to find Dani Anatole."

  "Is that what you want me for?" He snorted his contempt. "He's better off without her."

  "Maybe. But I'm not giving up yet."

  He hefted another bag. "And why is that?"

  "Joey's dead, and somebody has to tell her."

  "Aw Jesus." He set down the bag as if it were the weight of the world. "How did it happen?"

  "Auto accident on the Golden Gate Bridge yesterday."

  "That little asshole." He noticed me again. "They never go the way you think they'd go."

  "No, they don't," I agreed.

  His eyes inventoried mine. They were pale eyes, clear and clean, like California wine. "All right. We'll talk about her, if you want." He grappled with another bag and shoved it onto the truck. "Only we'll do it at the ranch. I don't want this food to spoil."

  I followed his pickup south. He drove like a man with his thoughts elsewhere. Just beyond the entrance to the town, he made a right turn onto a dirt road. The road led several miles into the uplands above the national seashore. After a few miles, the road forked, and we came upon a cyclone fence. A gate blocked us.

  Parnell motioned me onto the shoulder. While I locked up, he unlatched the gate and pulled his truck through. After I closed the gate, I joined him in the front seat.