"And the gun?"
"Fuckin' impossible. You should know better than to ask."
"Okay, we'll put that aside for now. We'll start with Buckoboy and Chipper."
I give him his marching orders. Tomorrow he's to dress in a dark business suit, then drive into the city alone and unarmed with just the beeper I know he carries as director of security for the G.G.C. He'll be watched, I warn him, along the way. He's to park close as he can get to Cliff House, then, no later than three P.M., descend to the beach. He's to stand there awaiting my beeper message, which will be a string of sevens. When he gets it he's to go to the nearest pay phone on the Cliff House terrace and wait for it to ring. If I decide he's been a good boy, I'll call and tell him what to do next. If I decide he's jerking me around, I'll pursue another course of action.
"That's it?" he asks when I've finished.
"Too complicated for you, Vince?"
"I can handle it."
"Give me your beeper number."
He gives it to me. "You're one tough lady, aren't you?" he asks.
"Not really," I tell him. "A secret admirer—that's all I am."
Two-thirty P.M.: Having paid a buck for admittance, I'm standing inside the Point Lobos Camera Obscura. Built in the 1940s, it's one of the more quirky San Francisco sights, a holdover from a now defunct amusement park called Playland at the Beach. The owners bill it as "the biggest camera in the world." In fact, that's about what it is, a walk-in twenty-five-foot-square light-tight box with a tiny aperture in its turret. The turret rotates slowly, scanning the immediate area. Light enters through the aperture, strikes a mirror, which projects the image down through several lenses onto a six-foot-diameter horizontal parabolic plate. The effect is marvelous, a sharply focused live picture of activity outside. It's like watching a movie with the action taking place in real time.
I feel safe standing here. New Age-type music plays softly, enhancing the mysterious effect of the incoming light. As usual the place is empty. If people come in, it won't matter; they rarely stay very long. The darkness nurtures me, and since the room is nearly black, my night vision is engaged. Moreover, since the aperture-turret turns, I have a perfect continually changing view of the beach and surrounding area, including the terraces above, enabling me to observe my surroundings through 360 degrees without being seen.
At 2:50 I spot Vince Carroll walking down to the beach dressed in black. I observe him a while, enjoy the spectacle of him standing sweltering among sunbathers and volleyball players in his dark suit. Every once in a while he checks his watch, betraying his impatience.
Each revolution of the turret takes approximately three minutes, causing me to lose sight of him from time to time. But the turning enables me to make sure no obvious confederates are lingering nearby. Though I don't think Vince brought backup, I take this part of my surveillance very seriously. Yes, there're plenty of people around and I feel safe inside the camera, but I don't want trouble when I leave.
At 3:05, with Vince in full view, I dial his beeper, punch in a string of sevens, then hang up. I watch as he rips the beeper off his belt, studies it, then strides toward the terrace, all the while tracked by the rotating turret of the Camera, which, perhaps on account of its shabby exterior, he seems not even to notice.
His body language on the terrace tells me he's upset. A young woman in a sports bra is using the pay phone. He's wondering if I'll wait or give up. I don't think it occurs to him I can see everything going on.
The young woman completes her call, departs. Immediately Vince moves to the phone. I let him wait awhile, then dial. He snatches up the receiver on the first ring.
"Hot out there?" I ask him.
He looks around. "Where are you?" he demands.
"Not so fast, Vince. First you're going to give me the names."
"That wasn't the deal."
"It is the deal," I tell him sternly. "Names and addresses, then we meet."
He gives me the names: Chipper's is Dale M. Drew; Buckoboy's is Morton F. Lawry. Both reside at the same address, 121 Kemppe Street in Fort Bragg.
"So it's the Dale and Mort show?"
"Uh-huh."
"Lovers?"
"Cousins."
"Okay, I'm going to relay this to a friend, then I'll call you back and tell you what to do."
I immediately call Joel's number, leave the names and address on his voicemail. If something happens to me, at least he'll have the information.
As the turret swings again from beach to terrace, I check to see how Vince is doing. He looks worried now, probably thinks I've abandoned him. I dial the pay phone. Again he snatches it up.
"Come down to the Camera Obscura on the lower level," I tell him. "Give a dollar to the man in the booth and enter. You'll be contacted." I hang up, then watch as he looks around, finds the shack, nods and strides toward it.
I lose sight of him while the turret once again scans the beach. A few seconds later I hear him outside purchasing his ticket. I position myself on the far side of the parabolic plate, then wait for him to enter.
My eyes, of course, are well adjusted to the darkness while he's been out in blinding sunlight. He'll see the moving image on the plate, will likely be mesmerized by it, but to him I'll be just a form in the dark, my features lost in shadow.
"Move to your right," I instruct as he enters. "Stay on the other side of the plate." As he edges to his right, I edge to mine, positioning myself near the exit.
"This is wild!" He gestures at the moving image on the plate. "I'd no idea. You could watch me the entire time."
"Never mind that. We've got business. I didn't like the way you left me in the woods. No water—"
"I left you a filled canteen."
"I couldn't drink from it. It could've been drugged."
He shakes his head. "Sorry. I didn't think of that."
"You were also wrong about my not remembering anything. I remember plenty."
"What are you going to do to those guys? Turn them in? Won't do you any good. Nothing'll happen to them. But they'll know who you are, then you'll really have something to worry about."
"I'll take care of them my own way."
"Good. You'll be doing me a favor."
"I want the gun, Vince."
"I told you, that's impossible. What do you want it for anyway?"
"To destroy it."
"You're dreaming!"
"Why? Chipper and Buckoboy got hold of it. They were going to rape me with it. I'm sure they would have if you hadn't come along. I owe you for that. That's why I'm talking to you now."
"Sorry. You'll never get it. It's the club ritual gun."
"I've heard about those rituals."
"Then you know why you can't have it."
Though I've no clear idea what he's talking about, I nod as if I do.
"I know what happened to Chap Fontaine," I tell him. "You lied to the cops. That's obstruction of justice."
He stares at me, trying to read my face.
"I think you're better than the rest of them," I continue. "I think you'd be happy to see the whole house of cards collapse. And it's going to. When Carson killed Fontaine he went too far. There were witnesses. Witnesses can be turned. Better to be one who turns than one who's turned upon."
"You're crazy!"
"I know about Capp Street. I've got pictures taken through the windows. I know about the hunting parties, the 'safaris.' How many people have been killed?"
He casts down his eyes, doesn't answer.
"It's not me who's crazy, Vince. It's the guys you work for. You know it too."
He's badly shaken, no longer fascinated by the moving picture on the plate; rather he's struck by the implications of what I've said.
A man and a boy enter the Camera. They stare at the moving image on the plate, the man explains how the apparatus works, then, after a minute, they depart.
"Who are you?" Vince demands.
"Who are you?" I ask. "Good cop or bad?"
&nbs
p; He starts to sputter something, then his voice peters out.
"A snotty shooting club for rich guys is one thing," I tell him. "A secret orgy and manhunt club where they ream people with a gun is something else. The club's going down, Carson and his friends with it. Help me get that gun and I'll try and keep you out of it. Stay loyal to Carson and take your chances."
"I can't help you," he whispers. "Don't you understand? If anything happens to that gun they'll know I'm involved." He pauses. When he speaks again it's in a tone so low I can barely hear him. "They'd kill me for that."
Difficult to argue with a man who tells you he'll be killed. Clearly he's more afraid of Carson than of me. With good reason, since he's seen what Carson's capable of. But I'm not interested in his reasons. I want the G.G.C. destroyed.
I tell him to remain inside the Camera another five minutes; then I put on my heavy shades and slip out the exit door. A minute later, I'm on the terrace of Cliff House beside the same phone where he got my call. I wave toward the Camera turret, then enter the restaurant, cross through the dining room and bar, exit by the front door and grab a cab.
I tell the driver to take me to Japantown, then watch through the back window as we drive away. No cars follow. As we speed down Geary, I say I've changed my mind, ask to be dropped at the corner of Arguello. Here, to make absolutely certain I'm not being followed, I take a slow walk around the block. Satisfied I'm in the clear, I stride over to City Stone Ground, Dad's bakery on Clement. I can smell the aroma of the bread even before I reach the door. I peer through the window, spot Dad in his baker's whites talking to one of his Russian refugee staff. He must sense me looking in, for he turns and waves.
"Hey, darlin'!"
Reading his lips, I imagine I can hear his voice even through the thick plate glass.
Tonight I phone Hank Evans in Fort Bragg. Gale answers.
"Hey, how you doin', Kay?"
"Great! I got the names of the guys worked me over at the G.G.C."
"Whoa! Let me call Hank."
When Hank comes on I give him the names, the Kemppe Street address and the information that Chipper and Buckoboy are cousins.
"I'll take care of them," Hank assures me.
"Please, nothing violent, Hank. Scare them, make them crawl, but don't seriously hurt them, okay?"
"Don't worry yourself about it. Job's as good as done."
"They're gun guys so be careful."
He laughs. "I'm the ultimate gun guy. Anything else you want besides an apology?"
I ponder that for a moment. "No," I tell him, "I think an apology will do just fine."
Tonight I ask myself: What am I getting into? How far am I prepared to go?
Maybe, I think, it's time to pull back, put aside my anger. To understand should be sufficient, to exact vengeance is perhaps too much. But it's hard to feel any pity for Chipper and Buckoboy, parodying the arcane pleasures of their bosses. They were gross, they violated me. I want them violated back.
Rusty faxes me printouts of Maddy's last three phone bills, listing not only her toll calls (which were few) but also all her incoming and outgoing local calls. Finding my own number several times, I try to recall our conversations. The calls were brief. We were probably firming up appointments. Still, the memories make me sad.
I start with numbers Maddy called that bear Mission district prefixes. I find several, assemble a list. Jim Lovell, the self-taught street photographer Maddy took on as a student, lives in the Mission, so I eliminate his number, then start calling the rest.
One turns out to be an antiquarian bookseller on Valencia, the second a bookstore at the corner of Mission and Twenty-fourth, the place where, several times, David Yamada dropped Maddy off. There's a call to a photo lab on Guerrero, and four calls to what turns out to be a doctor's office on Seventeenth Street.
Next I check my list against the printout of incoming calls with Mission prefixes. Very quickly I discover seven calls to Maddy's number from the same doctor's office.
I call the number again, this time ask to speak to the medical records clerk. After considerable clicking, a woman with a Creole accent picks up. I tell her I'm trying to gather the records of a woman recently deceased. I give her Maddy's name. Several minutes pass, then she comes back on.
"We never had that patient here," she says. Before I can respond, she disconnects.
Curious, I think. Why would Maddy call and receive calls from the office of a Mission district doctor?
Joel phones. He tells me he's been going through all his old articles and notes on police corruption, puffing out names, assembling a list. Over the last three days he's been on the phone checking up on every cop he ever wrote about—which ones are still with S.F.P.D., which ones are dead, retired or in jail. He's also cross-checked for Chinatown and waterfront connections. So far he's come up with what he calls "one very interesting possibility."
"Can't tell you more now," he says. "Just wanted you to know I'm not sitting on my butt."
Thursday, five P.M.: I'm at the foot of the exterior stairs of a decrepit wooden Victorian on Seventeenth Street between Shotwell and Folsom. A battered moving van is parked in front. Sweaty men are carrying out furniture—chairs, desks, a giant TV. A couch and several disassembled beds are piled by the rear of the truck, waiting to be stowed.
I squeeze by the movers, enter the foyer. A woman in a soiled nurse's uniform, looking harassed, intermittently issues orders in Spanish to the movers while speaking in heavily accented French into a cordless phone.
When I appear she stares through me. Finally noticing me, she motions me toward a large room to her right.
I enter what looks to be a reception area where two women, standing just feet apart, are shrieking at one another in Creole. They pay no attention to me. One, dressed as a nurse, is weeping copiously. The other, in high heels and stylish suit, appears to be making demands. While I wait, two movers with Ecuadorian Indian features and squat physiques lift a heavy filing cabinet and carry it out.
"Excuse me."
The women turn to me together.
"Who are you?" snaps High Heels. I'm about to explain when she cuts me off. "Who let you in? Can't you see we're busy here?"
"Must have been Marie-Claire," the nurse says.
The other nods. "If you're from City Health you're too late. Dr. Desaulniers has left and he won't be coming back. Last night he flew to Haiti."
"Leaving us to pick up the pieces," adds the nurse, breaking down in sobs.
Having stepped into what's clearly a difficult scene, my first instinct is to withdraw. But not, I decide, until I find out about the calls.
"Look, I'm not from City Health and I'm not looking for Dr. Desaulniers. I'm trying to find a woman named Bee."
"Bee!" High Heels turns to the nurse and laughs. "Hear that? She's looking for Bee!"
"Of all the days," sighs the nurse, working to recover.
"Bee hasn't been here in months," High Heels tells me. "Not since Madame Desaulniers died."
"What did she do here?"
"Hear that?" High Heels cries. "What did she do? Want to tell her, Claude? Or should I?"
Claude resumes sobbing. The two Ecuadorian movers reenter, pick up a rolled rug, while a third removes a framed portrait of Jean-Bertrand Aristide from the wall. The three, exiting together, nearly collide at the door.
"She did absolutely nothing, that's what she did," High Heels says. "Her visits here were worthless."
"Where can I find her?"
High Heels throws up her arms. "I have no idea where she is. I don't want to know where she is. I don't care where she is."
"Ask Marie-Claire," Claude suggests. "She may know."
I step back into the foyer. Movers are hauling a large oak bureau down the stairs. Marie-Claire, now off the phone, warns them to be careful.
"Excuse me, can you tell me how I can find Bee?"
Marie-Claire stares at me, confused. "Bee? The therapist? She hasn't been here in months."
/> I nod. "Do you know where she lives?"
Marie-Claire shakes her head. Then, just as her phone rings, something seems to register. "She's got a place out in Bolinas. Try there," she says, waving me away. Then, into the phone: "Yes, that's right, all appointments have been canceled. Dr. Desaulniers has gone back to Haiti. He's been appointed Deputy Minister of Health."
Saturday morning: Sasha's day off and he's delighted at the chance to depart the city. We drive past pedestrians and joggers thronging the walkways on the Golden Gate Bridge, are entranced by the clusters of sailboats in the Bay lining up to race. As we're coming off the bridge, I spot a close pack of bicyclists climbing the trails of the Marin Headlands. Local weathermen have predicted a ravishing, breezy, fog-free summer weekend.
We wind our way along the coast on precarious Route 1, laughing at our vertigo on the switchbacks. Arriving at Stinson Beach dizzy and nauseous, we resolve to take the longer northern route on our return.
A funny place, Bolinas. There's no sign telling you where to turn off. As often as highway authorities put one up, a posse of xenophobic residents tears it down. But it's not hard to find the town if you have a map, and then when you get there, you wonder what the grand to-do is all about. Like who would want to come to this bedraggled village where burned-out druggies and scrofulous dogs roam the streets, food stores look like they should be closed down by the health department, and aging gray-haired hippie-movement refugees sporting faded tie-dyed T-shirts stagger about in a meditative daze?
We receive disapproving glances when we park on the main street. Evidently Sasha's shiny BMW is not an approved vehicle here. Our first stop is a real estate office where I ask the lone attendant, a freckled girl with multiple piercings in her eyebrows, if she knows a woman named Bee.
She shrugs. "Sounds familiar. What's her last name?"
When I tell her it's Watson, she repeats the name, then chews it. "Sorry," she says. Then, with a smile: "Did you check the phone book?"
A few doors down we come to a natural foods store where varieties of nuts and grains are displayed in open sacks.
Trick of Light Page 27