Trick of Light

by Bayer-William

  "How's the iguana?" I ask.

  "Joe? Right now he's under my desk munching a head of celery."

  When David comes on, I remind him about the letters from Bee he found in Maddy's papers.

  "Right. Two letters from way back when."

  "Can I see them?"

  "Gee, I don't know, Kay. I mean, I guess . . . if you really think . . ."

  "You don't sound very enthusiastic."

  "May I ask what this is about?"

  "I'd rather not say just now."

  "Gee, that doesn't seem fair, considering the circumstances."

  "What circumstances, David?"

  "Oh, you know . . ."

  "I'm afraid I don't."

  When he starts to stammer, I let him twist. One thing I learned from our previous encounter: David Yamada reveals as little as he can.

  "Considering she was my stepmom, I think I'm entitled."

  "All right. I've developed some information about a woman named Bee—B-e-e, not B-e-a. I want to find out if it's the same person."

  "How would a couple of old letters help with that?"

  I'm getting fed up with him. "When can I see them, David?"

  "I'll try to stop by tonight."

  "'Try' or come?"

  "I'll come at seven."

  "Good! I'll be waiting for you downstairs."

  After we hang up, I ask myself why he's acting this way. Then something occurs to me. I call the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, ask to speak to Sam Levine, associate curator of photographs. When Sam comes on he tells me how sorry he was we didn't get a chance to talk at Maddy's funeral, which gives me just the opening I need to ask about Maddy's archive.

  "David Yamada tells me he turned it over to you guys."

  "Yeah, all her negatives, tons of prints, plus twenty or so boxes of papers."

  "Anyone been through them?"

  "We've looked through most. A treasure trove. We've already had inquiries from a couple of would-be biographers. Trouble is once they hear stuff's embargoed, they cool off."

  "'Embargoed'? What does that mean?"

  "Sorry, Kay, I thought you knew. David Yamada's condition, part of the deed of gift. There're two sealed boxes, not to be opened till the year 2030. Even we can't look at them."

  "What's in them, Sam?"

  "I've no idea. But the only gap in the material concerns Maddy's life before 1957, the year she took up photography."

  "Hey, a miracle! Found a parking space on Russian Hill!"

  The affectionate peck David applies to my cheek seems a bid to reestablish himself as the older-brother-I-never-had.

  He looks forlorn when I tell him we're not going up to my apartment, rather to a coffeehouse down the street.

  "What's up?" he asks as we walk down Hyde. A cable car sails by, giddy tourists hanging off the sides.

  "What's in those embargoed boxes over at the museum?"

  "Just stuff Maddy didn't want people to see. At least not till all concerned have passed away."

  "It was her decision?"

  David nods.

  I look at him. He lowers his eyes. I'm pretty sure he's lying.

  At the corner of Union we pass Swensen's Ice Cream. An aroma of vanilla issues from the door.

  "You told me you kept some stuff back."

  "Yeah, just some papers concerning my dad, their love letters, stuff like that."

  "So how come you kept the letters from Bee?"

  "Hey! Here we go again—you the interrogator, me on the hot seat."

  "Make you uncomfortable?"

  "Seems weird, that's all."

  "You brought the letters?"

  He nods, pats the breast pocket of his jacket. "Since there's nothing in them, certainly nothing to do with Maddy's work, I didn't see any reason to send them over to the museum."

  We're standing just outside the cafe door.

  "What do you think's in the sealed boxes?"

  David shrugs, then looks away.

  Not true, David. You know.

  We enter, order espressos. While we wait, David places the Bee letters on the table.

  I nod but make no move to pick them up. Instead I peer at him, knowing my gaze makes him uneasy. One of Maddy's best lessons concerned dealing with a difficult subject. "Don't pounce," she'd say, "don't provoke, simply gaze until the person discloses himself or the scene jells and comes together."

  Finally he speaks. "I think they contain stuff she didn't want people to know about."

  "I can't imagine she was ashamed of anything."

  "I didn't say she was ashamed, Kay. But she wanted to protect people who're still alive."

  "Until 2030? Except for you, me and her students, she didn't know anyone likely to live that long."

  David shrugs again. "Beats me."

  I give him a glance to show I don't think it beats him at all. Then I pick up the letters.

  David's right, they're innocuous, written in the kind of informal chatty tone one might expect from an old friend. I wonder why Maddy kept them along with her love letters from Harry Yamada.

  Finding nothing in the texts, I study the extraordinary handwriting, a beautiful loopy flowing cursive script, the writing of a calligrapher or artist/engraver, a conclusion validated by the beautifully engraved crosshatched letters BEE in the upper left corner of the paper. Then I check the signatures. In both cases, beneath the B there's a tiny drawing of a bee.

  David, I notice, is watching me closely.

  I put the letters down. "You're right, not much here."

  "What're you looking for?" he asks.

  "Some hint as to who this woman is."

  "Did you find it?"

  I nod, point to the bees. "I've seen this signature before."

  He's attentive now, leaning forward, staring into my eyes.

  "Where?"

  Noting a light screen of perspiration on his forehead, I lower my voice. "On a gun," I tell him softly.

  The moment he hears the word, he slumps back.

  "What's wrong, David?"

  He shakes his head.

  An idea comes to me. "You're covering up something about Maddy that has to do with guns."

  He stares at me, stands, tosses down some money, then rushes out the door, leaving Bee's letters behind.

  She was my teacher, my mentor, my coach, my friend, also my surrogate mother. There was something incredibly lustrous about her—the luster of wisdom, the same luster that drew one to her eyes. She was the most honest person I ever knew and her art was clear, radiant, uncompromising. Yet now I know there is a secret in her past, hidden in those sealed boxes embargoed at the museum—the same thing that caused her, despite illness and old age, to set up the little spy nest on Cypress Alley.

  THE GUN / FIND THE GUN / WHERE'S THE GUN?

  Maddy's quest has now become my own. And there's only one way, I think, to get to the bottom of it.

  BEE / FIND BEE / WHERE'S BEE?

  First thing in the morning I phone Dad. Having just finished baking hours, he's happy to talk. I tell him I need another favor from Rusty, copies of Maddy Yamada's phone bills the last three months of her life.

  "Don't know, darlin'. That's a heavy request. Rusty could get in trouble someone found out."

  "Will you ask him, Dad?"

  "Better if you ask him. He's always asking after you. Why don't you call him, butter him up? You know, wax him a bit. I think he'll do anything you want if you ask him nice enough. He could never resist sweet talk from a pretty lady."

  I love Dad's mixed metaphors: "sweet talk, butter up, wax." I call Rusty, set up a meeting with him after work.

  He lives in a small, one-story house out in the avenues off Santiago, the vast flat Sunset district south of Golden Gate Park between Mount Sutro and the Pacific. It's a neatly kept little masonry house on a neatly kept block, built, like its neighbors, in typical California bungalow style.

  Arriving at twilight, I notice an Asian man washing his car next door, a trio of Asi
an girls skipping rope on the sidewalk. The neighborhood, once a favorite of cops, has become heavily Asian the last few years. Houses here that used to be cheap have lately become very expensive.

  Rusty opens the door, beams, hugs me tight, then stands back to take me in. His petite wife, Soo-Lin, stands giggling just behind.

  Soon we're seated side by side on a couch in the living room done up in busy faux pan-Asian decor—lacquered Korean chest, ceramic Cambodian elephants, reproduction Ming-style chairs arranged beneath framed ornate Japanese kimonos on the wall. Soo-Lin serves us tea, then sweetly withdraws, fulfilling what must be Rusty's fantasy of a submissive Asian wife.

  "Jack keeps me up to date on all your doings, Kay. Lately seems like the only times he calls are to get you information."

  I thank him for the background information on Vince Carroll. I give him Maddy's phone number, ask him for final-months records of her calls.

  Rusty nods. "No problem. Always glad to help you out." He folds the slip of paper bearing Maddy's number, takes a sip of tea, then glances at me and smiles.

  "Up to your neck in it, aren't you, dear? The waterfront thing your pal Glickman's been writing about."

  "Don't know if I'm quite up to my neck in it, Rusty. Up to my kneecaps maybe."

  He laughs, much too heartily, I think, as if I've made a truly witty remark. Then, too suddenly, he turns dead serious.

  "Bad business, Kay. Tong wars. People get hurt in those kinda deals. Innocents most of 'em. Journalists too, when they stick their heads into it. Stick your head in too far someone might chop it off."

  I gulp. "Do you know something, Rusty?"

  "Just what I read . . . and hear around."

  "What d'you hear?"

  "No one's got anything against you, Kay. Everyone likes you fine. It's Glickman they don't like. The way he pries. There're people around who'd like to see him get it good."

  Jesus! "What're you telling me, Rusty?"

  "I know Chinatown . . . even better than your dad. There's stuff going on in the cellars there he's got no idea about. Get out of it, Kay. Get out now while you can. Glickman needs a shutterbug, there're plenty of others he can use."

  "Joel's my friend."

  "Then do him a favor, tell him to lay off. Take a vacation. Hawaii maybe, or better still, South America."

  I stare at him. "That sounds like a threat, Rusty. Is this why you asked to see me?"

  He grins. "Did I ask, Kay? Way I remember, it was you called me."

  "Dad's suggestion."

  Rusty shrugs, takes another sip of tea, then beams at me the way he did at the door.

  "Not a threat, Kay. Just a warning from someone doesn't want to see you hurt. You know how a cop feels about his partner. It's the same thing with your partner's kids. You care for them like they're your own." He glances at his watch, stands. "Time to call you a cab. Don't worry—I'll get right on those phone bills for you. So great to see you, Kay. Real glad we had this chance to talk."

  In the cab I start to shake. What was Rusty telling me? Surely more than just a general warning about "tong wars."

  I look out the window. We're on the Great Highway heading north. Fog's closing in, the kind of heavy damp San Francisco sea fog that can make your teeth chatter even in midsummer. As we swing around Sutro Heights Park, I have the driver pull over, then get out, walk a few paces into the park, pull out my cell phone and call Joel.

  He picks up immediately. "Where are you?" I ask.

  "Just cruising around. How 'bout you?"

  When I tell him where I am, he offers to come pick me up. "Walk down to Cliff House," he says. "I'll meet you in front."

  I agree, start back toward the street, then stop. A large statue, partially hidden in a grove of pines, seems to emerge out of the fog like an apparition. I walk over to it, look up, examine the carving on the pedestal: DIANA.

  Of course! It's the famous statue of Diana, Goddess of the Hunt, patroness of the G.G.C.—a slim, beautifully sculpted female figure holding a bow and arrow, standing beside a slain stag. At the solstices and equinoxes, pagans and goddess worshippers assemble here to leave garlands around her neck and nosegays at her feet, while on these same occasions, up in Mendocino County, Carson and his friends misappropriate the marvelous creature's legend.

  The fog surrounds me as I stand on the promenade behind the Cliff House restaurant, looking out at the water. I can see nothing, can only smell the ocean, its salty molluscous essence. The night is windless. I can hear bells in the buoys, foghorns from ships plying the coast and the barks of sea lions cavorting on Seal Rock.

  I like this spot, so popular with tourists, preferring to visit it at night when there's barely anyone around. Dad, knowing how much I liked to go out when the sky turned dark, used to bring me here at dusk. Then my photophobia would recede and my keen night vision would engage. Many evenings we'd stand by this very balustrade gazing at the water rimmed by moonlight or, as tonight, bound by fog.

  At other times, daylight times, I remember him taking me into the Camera Obscura situated on the terrace below, where, inside the strange dark chamber, constructed after a design of Leonardo da Vinci, I would gaze at the projected image of the ocean without being snow-blinded by the brilliant light outside. Seeing the Camera Obscura now, basically a camera-shaped shack with a turret poking up out of its roof, I decide it's the perfect place for my meeting with Vince Carroll.

  Joel pulls up in his VW. He looks vulnerable tonight, not the prize-winning investigative reporter I know and admire, rather a worried, narrow-shouldered, bespectacled, bearded guy wandering the city in a shabby car.

  I beckon him to get out, stand with me at the balustrade. Never a man to stand when there's an available seat, he reluctantly agrees.

  "Can't see anything," he complains, taking up a position by my side.

  "Well, Joel, isn't that the story of our lives?"

  "Depressing," he mutters. "I'm shivering. Can we please get back in my car?"

  "Sure. Just wanted you to feel the lostness here."

  We take El Camino del Mar through Lincoln Park, swing in silence by the Palace of the Legion of Honor, where the fog breaks the symmetry of the facade. Then we drive through Sea Cliff, past mansions hanging like aeries above the fogbound coast.

  "Some nights I drive around for hours," Joel tells me. "Through residential areas, never downtown. I like the look of houses when it's dark, the windows lit up inside. It gives me a feeling. You know . . . melancholy." He shrugs. "Sorry. I can't explain it."

  I've never known him to talk like this. Normally he's so focused it doesn't occur to me he has moods.

  "You called me for a reason," he says.

  I tell him about Rusty Quinn, how he and Dad were partners on the Chinatown bunco squad, how they stayed close even after Dad quit S.F.P.D., how Rusty became Dad's and, later, my source for information normally accessible only to cops. Then how Dad suggested I go see Rusty, and how this evening, I did.

  Joel listens as I tell him what Rusty had to say, but says nothing, just drives on into the Presidio, then down to the spot where we waited together that night so many weeks ago for what turned out to be the most daring act of human smuggling ever perpetrated in San Francisco Bay.

  He cuts the engine. "You think your dad set it up so Rusty could warn you?"

  "That occurred to me, but I doubt it."

  "Rusty wanted you to know he knows what's behind the tips. Have you thought through the implications of that?"

  I nod.

  "Funny thing, kiddo—I thought of it myself a couple times, but it seemed so damn implausible that it was a cop thing. Just didn't figure."

  "And now?"

  "What Rusty said sure makes it seem possible. I wish he'd told you more."

  "He won't, Joel. All he wants is for me to get out of it. That's his obligation to Dad. What he doesn't know is that warning me off is probably the best way of keeping me in."

  Joel smiles. A foghorn moans. The Golden Gate Bridge
is invisible, totally wrapped in fog. Only the slightest glow breaks through from the highway. In the windless night, we can hear the swish and clatter of cars crossing above.

  "If the tips were from a good cop doing his job," Joel says, "he'd have made those busts himself. He wouldn't have called in the Coast Guard, Immigration, Fish and Wildlife. But if he's a bad cop looking to break a gang so he can move in on its action, what better way than to tip off those guys, then sit back while the whole thing self-destructs?"

  "So why you, Joel?"

  "To send the message. Also, like Rusty told you, maybe the tipster doesn't like me. He could be someone I once wrote about, crucified in an article, called to account. I've done four series on corrupt cops, made more enemies than I care to count. It makes a sinister kind of sense, I think—use me, then pull out the rug."

  "Or ambush you."

  "Yeah." Joel nods. "That too."

  "Rusty has this from his contacts in Chinatown. That's what he meant when he spoke of stuff going on in the cellars. I think he was referring to Chinatown cops. Can you do something with that?"

  "I sure as hell can try."

  He starts up the car, drives on through the Presidio, along the Marina, then up to my building at the crest of Russian Hill.

  "If this is about cops, it could get dangerous," he says. "If you want out, I'll understand."

  "You kidding? I want the pictures. I want to be there for the finale."

  He grins. "Sounds like you, kiddo. Don't worry, we'll be careful now we've got an advantage. We don't yet know what's going on, but we're starting to get a rough idea I think."

  At midnight I call Vince Carroll. Sister Pris answers, annoyed at being woken up.

  "Helluva time to call," she mutters.

  "Sorry. It's club business."

  "Yeah, I know, the usual crisis. Gimme a minute while I kick little bro awake."

  A couple minutes later Vince comes on the line, his voice groggy from sleep.

  "It's your secret admirer," I tell him cheerfully. "Ready to give me those names?"

  "Oh, shit!" He drops the receiver. I wait while he picks it up. "Still there?" he growls.

  "Answer the question, Vince."

  "You'll get them when we meet."