by Fred Zackel
He was courteous. "You honor my house." He didn't look like he wanted to see me twice a year, let alone twice the first day.
"Sure do." I walked past him. "Gung hay fat chow."
He was patient with round-eyes. "Chinese New Year's is in February ..." He caught on. "Lim Song again."
"He tried to ambush my apartment tonight."
His eyes flickered awake. "Bloodshed?"
"Maybe next time. If there is one."
He was firm. "You should not take the law into your own hands. Report him to the police. Let them deal with him."
"You'd love that, wouldn't you?"
"There is nothing else I can suggest." He was grim, a lawyer who had tripped on his own sidewalk. He didn't like it, but he couldn't deny it.
"I want to know why you set those maniacs loose to kill me. So what if you are a lawyer. You can tell me the truth. Just don't bullshit me. That's all I'm asking."
He was stung. "I have no desire to have you killed. I told you that this morning. I am opposed to violence."
"Now I feel all safe and warm."
His face was lawyer-blank. "I did not know he was following me."
"Cut the clowning," I snapped. "You wanted me to follow him, remember? You didn't even care if I took the job. You knew Lim Song would find out about me. You knew he'd come looking for me. If I didn't end up dead in some Chinatown alley, I'd be screaming for police protection."
"What do I profit from that?" he wanted to know.
"Having the cops swoop down on your enemies is a dandy way to get rid of your competition. Or maybe you just wanted to buy some time. This would keep both me and the red maniac occupied."
"I did not plan this."
I ignored him. "I can understand why you wanted Lim Song out of the way. He's poison. But why me? Why did you set me up? Or was I just somebody to run interference?"
"I did not set you up. I was asked by a client to investigate you. He wanted to know who hired you. This is a critical time in his company's finances. I told you that this morning."
"Riki Anatole was the client, right?"
"He has been a client for many years."
"He works for you, Mr. President."
"I own one-third," he conceded.
I understood. "It's your company's finances."
He sighed like a failing balloon. "You must understand my predicament. When his wife died, Orestes Anatole sold me a third of his company. It is not often a yellow man can invest in a white man's company. I stepped very carefully into it. Then he had a heart attack. He asked me to reorganize his company, transform it from a small family-owned business into one that could withstand modern competition. For two years I have tried. Then his grandson calls and tells me a private investigator has been asking about management and creditors. What am I to think? I am a businessman. I must protect my investment. That is why I tried to discover your clients and their motives."
"It is a critical time, isn't it?"
"You knew that." He was exasperated with me. He took control of himself. "However, it is a serious charge to say I had anything to do with mismanaging the company." He looked like he wanted to sue.
"Is that what I'm saying?"
"What else would you be doing here?"
"Hey, this is none of my doing."
He turned away and started talking. "This is how I am repaid for a lifetime of service to the Anatoles." He was talking to no one in particular. "This would not happen if I were not Chinese. Oh, I was warned." He sounded like a man yielding to his own better judgment.
A young man came up in the elevator. He was Chinese and wore his long hair in a ponytail. It was the bookkeeper from the fish company. He wore clean jeans, a leather car coat, dress shirt and shiny loafers. He had bought them at the big-n-tall shops on Mission. He was a slick young man about town. He was a brisk walker. People stepped out of his way.
He stopped when he saw me. "What's he doing here?"
Tan Ng flushed. "I thought you left."
"I forgot my credit cards."
"This is my nephew," Tan Ng told me. "Louis, this is Mr. Brennen. He is that private investigator."
"We met at the fish company."
The old man caught on. "I arranged for him to work there." There was genuine affection in his voice. He was very proud of his nephew. "He is very ambitious."
Louis cocked his head at me. "What's he here for?"
His uncle spoke in Cantonese. Louis answered in English. "Slow it down."
Tan Ng was pissed, but he repeated himself slower.
There was no resemblance and fifty years difference between them. Louis dwarfed his uncle. The boy was solid beef. He looked more like a bodyguard than a nephew.
Their conversation went on and on. I got bored and started counting ferns. There were seven framing my armchair. Louis' eyes kept coming back at me. I glared at him and he turned away.
Tan Ng found English. "He recalled the fleet."
"They didn't sail?" Louis thought that was stupid. "Why would he do that? We need the fish."
"He believes something is wrong."
"What could be wrong?"
Tan Ng didn't know. "The plant is shut down, the fleet will not go out until he finds the evidence he needs."
The young man didn't understand. "Because the deliveries are late?" He thought that was ludicrous. "Why would he do that?"
They both looked at me.
"I had nothing to do with this."
The old man knew. "You turned in your report."
"I reported nothing to nobody," I insisted.
"Please, Mr. Brennen," Tan Ng told me. "We know you are only doing your job. Orestes hired you to investigate me. You have investigated me. It is not your responsibility when a business must close its doors after many generations of family management. I do not blame you personally for that." He acted like he was letting me live.
I was stunned. "Is that what you think?"
"Why else would you be here?"
"You sound like Riki," I groused. "Except he's drunk."
"Forgive me." He gave me a point. "Old men should not have a young man's vanity. Why should I be the only one? Of course you would investigate him, too."
"Why put yourself on a cross if you got nothing to fear?"
The barb got through. "Yes. Nothing to fear. The allegations are very serious, though. The trucks do not make delivery on time. Expenses keep mounting. The creditors are clamoring. All of which means lost business, lost prestige, lost profits. It is obvious Orestes does not like the way I have managed his company. He mistrusts me. How else do I take the news?" My barb had quite an aftertaste. "You can tell Orestes his wishes are agreeable to me. We will have the books ready for him on Monday."
"I'm not his lackey. You tell him."
He still tasted shit. He wanted to sue.
Louis started to leave. "If you'll excuse me..."
Tan Ng stopped him. "You go out again?"
"It's Saturday night." He was polite, but brisk.
"It is late."
"It's Saturday night," his nephew reminded. A young man has little time for old men on a Saturday night.
His uncle wasn't reconciled, but he was a realist. "You will be careful?"
Louis opened his car coat. A .38 caliber Colt revolver was visible in a belt holster. "I'm okay."
Tan Ng frowned. "Please be careful"
Louis was impatient. "I have to go now." He went out to search for love or money. He was a young man on a Saturday night. He left at a brisk pace.
"He lives here with you?"
"Not every night." The old man was easily impressed. "He is a young man in permissive times. They spend the night together on the day they meet."
"How well do you know Dani Anatole? What about her?"
"I am her lawyer." He wrinkled his face. "Why do you ask? Is she somehow involved in all this?" He looked like he was blaming himself for the bad news he was about to hear.
"It's confidential. You understand.
"
"She has her own houseboat," he knew.
"She's not there any more. She broke up with her boyfriend and took off running. That was a month ago, and she hasn't slowed down since."
He held his breath. "Is she in trouble?"
"Where would she go if she thought she was?"
"A man, I expect." He became very professional. "Women trust men more than they do other women." He might have been prepping for a jury selection.
"When was the last time you saw her?"
He thought back. "The first week of December. She had some difficulties with her banking. I gave her a letter to facilitate the transfer of some funds."
"She needed money? How much?"
He didn't know or wouldn't say. "She had made a large purchase, I believe. I did not ask her. A lawyer does not pry into his client's private affairs."
I understood. He had asked and she had refused. Vanity has hind legs and Tan Ng was back up on them. I wondered what her large purchase was. "How desperate was she?"
"Dani is always desperate, always having trouble. She does not like reality. The grass will be greener somewhere else." He shook his head over such foolishness.
"Why didn't she go to her grandfather?"
"Oh, she would never ask him for money."
"Did you tell him about her money problems?"
"Dani is not a minor." He was very curious. "What do you want with her?"
"I have a message for her."
"Tell it to me. She will receive it."
"You'll guarantee she'll get it?"
"Of course." He had a horrible smile. All teeth, like a decaying skull.
I couldn't smile back. "Where is she?"
"Oh, I do not know."
"Then how can you tell her ?"
"I cannot say." He looked like he would not say.
"Where is she?" I asked.
"I am her lawyer. I have my ethics."
I laughed in his face. "I know all about your ethics. They rate one stink lower than a dying rat. Back off from them, old man, and tell me where she is, or I'll drop a letter to the California Bar about how you conspired to import curios without custom stamps, and how you tried to bribe me into stopping an investigation."
"You are a fool," he insisted. "I could have you killed for this."
"Aren't you having it done already?"
He stood up, his old bones creaking like a houseboat. "I will not answer any more of your questions." He swayed like an old erector set in the wind. "It is time for you to leave. Do not come back."
The elevator took me from the garden of delights.
Chapter 27
The streets of Baytown are wide and well-lit, but there were no pedestrians and no cars either. Nobody walks since everyone has a car. I didn't understand, though, why there were no cars on the street, especially on a Saturday night during a three-day weekend. I'd hate to think it's because everyone had a television set.
I flicked my cigarette out the window. It sailed halfway across the street. Then the wind caught it, sent it even further, to the other curb. The best thing I'd done for an hour.
Even though I had a map, I was lost. My map was color-coded to each development, with the same pastel colors of the townhouses. Too bad the houses weren't well-lit like the streets. Too bad all pastels are grey in moonlight.
It wasn't hopeless, though. Somewhere along the way I had latched onto an ebony Datsun. The driver drove like any other suburbanite with time on his hands, but he seemed to know the streets and to have a destination in mind. I hoped he was headed for a gas station or the freeway.
Then the ebony Datsun slowed. Its taillights dipped and swung into a driveway alongside a two-storied townhouse, parking just outside a carport. Headlights revealed a beige Coupe de Ville inside the carport. It had enough dents to be a wreck, enough dents to embarrass the neighbors. The man left his car and went inside the townhouse. He moved slowly, heavily, like a dancing bear who had danced too many shows.
I drove past and around the block. When I returned, I doused my headlights and found an empty curb. This was a rotten time to pay a visit. I'd hate to think I'd driven for nothing, but Riki Anatole might think I'd been following him.
Just then Riki Anatole stormed out of the white townhouse. He hopped back into his wife's Datsun, then raged down the wide empty streets like a madman. Minutes later we both jumped onto the Bayshore freeway north.
I wondered where he was headed. There were only a couple of hours left before the last call. Oh, there were a few after hours clubs. Some hothouses and some stroke joints. A few gay and/or black dancehalls. But only the young and drugged went booze-less after the last call.
He howled through the downtown maze, grabbed the Embarcadero freeway to the Broadway exit. Off the freeway, he slowed like a Rolls-Royce on chuckholes and idled past the lady wrestlers and the female impersonators.
He found a parking lot next to a dirty movie house. I grabbed a space alongside a jazz club. A moment later he came from the lot and started up Broadway. I locked my doors and followed him. He stopped outside Brother Baxter's Nude Encounter Parlor, looked around for any familiar faces, found none, then went inside.
Riki was a bundle of surprises. If a trip to a singles' bar is a dreamer's trip, and a hooker is reality, he had settled for even less. Only the lonely found satisfaction in a nude encounter parlor.
It was the dirtiest game in town. The neon signs said Private Room With Naked Girls, but the advertising was deceptive. Once inside a mostly nude male could talk indiscreetly with a mostly naked lady, but prostitution was illegal, and the ladies took pride in selling only promises. They were professional prick-teasers who could con a bishop into self-abuse.
It was a big break for me, though. Brother Baxter was the king of the SF nudie parlors, and he had made a fortune in a business even the whores looked down upon. Like the other parlor owners, he lived on a tightrope an inch above the law. He had to watch every inch of that rope himself, or some rookie cop could bust him. He had to catch the prosties before the cops could. One mistake and his doors were closed for good.
He hired Pacific-Continental Investigations to help him out. Each prefab bedroom was bugged with Pac-Con equipment, and Pac-Con ringers went in with house dough to proposition the girls.
I'd been the first Pac-Con operative he had met, and after that he always acted as if I were the top man of the Pac-Con totem pole. In my book, that made him less than clever, though maybe he was just another dreamer easily impressed. He need not have known Pac-Con investigates its clients, too, but he should've known that in every business the newest employee always takes out the trash.
I went after Riki Anatole. I got as far as the front door. A pair of meaty hands pulled me aside.
"Just the man I wanted to see," Andrew Banagan said.
He was the last man I wanted to see. I tried to bluff it out. "How's it going, Captain?" I hoped I had a disarming smile. "Looks like they gave you a night off finally."
"A Saturday night off." Banagan sighed. "It's beautiful." He leaned forward and peered at my stitches. "D'you cut yourself shaving?" His breath was bad. "What happened to your face?"
"I cut myself shaving," I said.
He gave a drunkard's smile. "Who was holding the razor?"
Andrew Banagan was a short lean man in his mid-fifties. He was Captain of Detectives for the SFPD. Over the years his freckles had darkened into liver spots, and his red hair had thinned faster than it grayed. He was the toughest cop in this tourist town. Once he disarmed a would-be mugger by kicking him in the balls. The last man he had hit only spent four days in the hospital. Banagan had chanced upon me, and this was the first time I'd ever seen him drunk.
"D'you meet my boy?" He decided I hadn't. "Lemme introduce you two. Walter? Where is that boy?"
Walter was barely a teenager. He had no shoulders, bad eyes, a lousy haircut and a suit that needed a bigger man than him. He was just a mop of dark hair and marmot eyes. He was a long way from sh
aving, but he was having a fun time checking out the action on the strip. The kid had a real hard-on for the neon.
"This is Walter, my oldest boy. The world's greatest ophthalmologist. Did I say it right, Walter? This here's Michael Brennen."
"Pleased to meet you, Walter."
Walter almost noticed me. He was staring wistfully at the headlights on a surfer blonde in leotards who stood in the doorway of Brother Baxter's Nude Encounter Parlor. She was cajoling a red-faced Englishman with stories not from Sunday school. Her hair was green-gold in the neon.
"He wants to be an eye doctor," Banagan hissed. "An eye doctor." He couldn't believe his son would stoop so low.
"Not everybody wants to be a cop."
"Sure. You wouldn't believe the shit you gotta take." Which reminded him. "I heard you lost your job."
I shrugged. "It wasn't much of a job. A baboon could do it just as well. Better, in fact." I remembered my replacement. "A baboon's doing it now."
"Still, it's a shame. It could've happened to anyone."
I grinned. "Not to a baboon."
He liked that. "Any plans for the future?"
"I'm considering opening my own shop."
"Going private? You'll starve to death. Say, have you ever taken the civil service test? The one to be a cop. You could be a cop, Michael. Maybe even a great one."
"I wouldn't know what to do with all the money."
He snickered. "The paperwork, you mean."
"That's what the job is."
"Except when you make it more."
I'd been afraid he'd remember. "Which means what?"
"Those were my boys out in the Sunset." He was souring fast. Most drunks do when they remember their beef. "I'm Captain of Detectives, remember?" He started poking me with his finger. "I hope you got a reason for that shit, because I'll ream your ass Monday morning..."
I tried another course. "Is the PM in yet on that stiff?"
He stopped in mid poke. "No, the PM's not in yet." His favorite beef. "We got one fucking toxicologist, that's why. The son of a bitch's booked solid."