Trick of Light

by Bayer-William

  It's a perfect setup for photography, well lit, with the wattage so strong the players are unlikely to look up lest the harsh light hurt their eyes. I snap an 80mm lens onto my Contax, which is loaded with high-speed film, press it to my spy hole and peer in through the finder.

  Yes, they're splitting open crates, then removing wrapped objects from straw packing. I start taking pictures, then feel Joel's hand on my arm. I turn to him. He points. Using my viewfinder, I follow his lead, noting two men, dressed differently than the others in slacks and Hawaiian-style hang-loose shirts, moving about like supervisors.

  I focus in on them. One, clearly Chinese, wears a shoulder holster containing a huge pistol, probably a .45. When he turns I recognize him.

  "No question—it's Jimmy," I whisper. "How'd you know he'd be here?"

  "Checked to see if he had a boat. He has four, all berthed here in Sausalito. One has numbers that matched the numbers on the boat you saw at Drawbridge. Next I checked around the waterfront, found out he rented this warehouse. I called you tonight after I followed him here." Joel grins. "They call it, you know—investigative reporting." He pauses. "What about the other guy? Recognize him?"

  Heart pounding, hoping against hope, I look carefully at the other man through the viewfinder. Immediately I'm relieved. There's something strange about his face, as if his features are frozen or he's wearing some sort of mask.

  I nudge Joel, whisper: "Is he the one you saw in the elevator the night you got conked?"

  "Could be," Joel whispers back.

  I peer at the man again. Due to the foreshortening effect caused by having to look down, I can't be sure, but there is something familiar about his build.

  "Hey!" Joel nudges me again. "They're unwrapping down there."

  I move my camera a little to the left. The two supervisors have joined the workers surrounding a man unwrapping an object extracted from the crate. As I watch I'm suddenly aware how close my position is to Maddy's in the Wongs' attic: unseen observer poised with camera behind panes of dirty glass watching a strange situation unfold.

  As the object is unwrapped, the men cluster closer, momentarily blocking my view. Then, amidst cheers, the man in the center holds the object up for all to see. It's a weapon with a thick, mean-looking barrel.

  Guns again!

  I hear Joel take in his breath. "Shit! That's a grenade launcher! Keep taking pictures, Kay—long as you can. I'm calling in the Feds."

  He retires to a corner of the roof. A few seconds later I hear his voice as he whispers into his cell phone. Meantime more weapons are unwrapped. I recognize an AK-47 from one of Dakota's slide lectures at the ranch.

  I'm scared shitless. Smuggling guns is serious business. Meantime we're trapped here on the roof. I go over to Joel, still speaking into his phone.

  "Let's get out of here right now!"

  I secure my camera, climb over the parapet. I have my feet on the top rung of the ladder when Joel grasps my hand.

  "You don't want to stay for the fireworks?"

  I shake my head. "Not up here."

  "Then you better scurry down quick, kiddo. Feds're already on their way."

  "Come down with me," I plead.

  He releases my hand. "Sorry, can't climb down fast enough." The look in his eyes tells me he means it.

  I catch the sound of sirens in the distance. I nod to Joel and start down. Ten feet from the ground, I hear the sirens again, closer and louder. I leap the last few feet, make a quick dash for the next building, turn the corner, quickly reload my camera, then crouch down, ready to cover the bust.

  Suddenly it's dead quiet again. There's also an aroma of burning eucalyptus in the fog, probably wafting from one of the controlled burn-offs taking place on Angel Island.

  What happened to the sirens?

  Maybe, I think, the Feds are sneaking up. It's then I realize I'm in a dangerous situation. When the Feds arrive I can get caught in a crossfire, or worse, mistaken for a member of the gunrunning gang.

  Just then I hear sharp sputtering like firecrackers coming from inside the warehouse. Seconds later I catch sight of Joel on the edge of the roof wildly waving his arms. When he sees me he cups his hands around his mouth.

  "Hide!" he yells down to me. "It's some sort of double-cross. Fuckers're shooting it out."

  Then, before I can react, the warehouse door bursts open and the two men wearing Hawaiian shirts rush out. The bigger one with the frozen features disappears into the night. Jimmy Sing, gun drawn, pivots, then fires back through the warehouse door.

  Jimmy empties his weapon, changes magazines, but before he can raise his pistol again, he takes a burst of fire and falls. He rolls out of sight of the doorway, lies still. I wait for someone else to rush out, but after the echo of the shooting fades, the night turns so silent I can hear only my own short hard gasps.

  Again I look up at Joel. He's gesticulating. Not understanding, I shrug. Again he cups his hands about his mouth. "Other guy—he went toward the Bay Model building," he yells.

  Just then another burst of automatic fire from the warehouse, followed by the sound of shattering, then a huge crash inside.

  Joel ducks. When he reappears he's frantic "They heard me. They shot out the skylight. Shit!"

  I make a decision. An instant is all it takes. Joel's stuck on the roof, bad guys with guns know he's there, there's a loaded pistol lying thirty feet away from where I'm crouched and the summoned law enforcers have yet to show up.

  I move on instinct, the way Dakota taught us at the ranch, run to Jimmy, check to be sure he's dead, grab his gun, race back to my position, where I assume an isosceles stance, gun extended and gripped in both hands, covering the warehouse door, ready to perform "Mozambiques."

  If anyone comes out that door, I'm going to fire at him, not to kill or injure but to stop him from going after my friend standing helpless on the roof. This is what I trained for in Dakota's Fun House . . . though I never thought I'd put her training to use.

  I'm relieved when two vans pull up and government SWAT team members pile out. I immediately lower Jimmy's pistol, then fade into the shadows to watch.

  The men, dressed in black with the letters A.T.F. stenciled on their backs, get a quick shouted briefing from Joel. Four of them scurry up to join him on the roof, while the rest assume positions around the warehouse door.

  Now that Joel's safe, there's nothing for me to do here except pick up my camera again and document the arrests. But I have business far more pressing. I make my way along the edge of the adjoining warehouse, circle it, then run into the shadows of the huge Bay Model building where, according to Joel, the second man in the Hawaiian shirt may have fled.

  The Bay Model, operated by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, is an enormous working model, hundreds of feet across, of San Francisco Bay and the Sacramento-San Joaquin river delta. Dad used to bring me here when I was a kid; I always liked it because the lighting was dim. The huge structure that houses it was built during World War II for construction of Liberty ships. The Bay Model was created in the 1950s to study the effects of dams, floods and dredging on the ecology of the Bay.

  The vaultlike main doors are tightly shut. Since this is U.S. Army property, it's hard to imagine anyone trying to break in. But then, walking along the north side of the structure, I notice something glittering on the ground.

  I stoop, pick the object up. It's a face mask with Chinese features, the cheap plastic kind sold in novelty shops, vulgarly called a "Chinaman mask."

  Detecting an aroma, I bring the mask to my nostrils. A familiar scent of cologne, cloyingly sweet, comes off the plastic. I've smelled it before, faintly in the warehouse the night we went into Tan-Hing Enterprises, the same night Joel got conked after thinking he saw a man descending in the elevator wearing a Chinese mask. I also smelled it more recently and a lot more strongly on Rusty when he hugged me at Dad's bakery and again the night I went to see him at his house.

  Rusty. I've suspected as much ever since L
ucky's revelation. I just haven't wanted to believe it. Now, finding confirmation, I feel bad, for I know that when Dad finds out it's going to break his heart.

  Near where I'm standing there's a service door flush to the side of the building. I go to it, turn the handle and pull. To my surprise it opens. Running my fingers along the inside edge, I discover the clasp's been taped.

  I slip inside, shut the door quietly and, still holding Jimmy's pistol in both hands, make my way cautiously down a short corridor, then through the center slit of a plastic humidity barrier. There's a pair of swinging doors on the other side. The moment I ease through them, I'm hit by a blast of warm dank air.

  I stand amazed by the sight ahead. The Bay Model is spread before me, a vast arrangement of sculpted concrete slabs covering two acres of interior space. A few low-wattage lamps cast dim light, endowing the model with a surrealistic glow. I make out roads, bridges, marshes, mudflats, cities, towns and parks. Most exquisitely, I can also survey the three connected bays, South, Central and San Pablo, as well as the Golden Gate and a small hunk of the Pacific on its other side. The model is molded to show the contours of the Bay bottom, also islands, protruding rocks and shoals. There's water flowing through it. I hear the clicking and beeping of computer-controlled meters and monitors, as if some kind of experiment is under way.

  I'm standing, I realize, approximately on the edge of the San Pablo Straits in San Rafael. I stand very still, scanning and listening. If, as I suspect, Rusty's here, there are hundreds of places for him to hide.

  Then I spot him on the model overlook rotunda, the first stop for visitors entering through the main door. He stands in clear sight, still as a statue, facing me beside an exhibit. He must have seen me the moment I came in.

  "Hi there, Kay!"

  His words resound in the huge space, bounding off the columns and girders that support the ceiling. There's gravity in his tone, great sorrow too. I wish I were closer so I could read his face.

  "Jimmy's dead," I call back, my words echoing too. "A.T.F. guys've got the warehouse surrounded. It's over, Rusty. Time to turn yourself in."

  "That what you think, Kay?"

  "What else can you do?"

  He doesn't answer, instead moves down to the Corps of Engineers exhibit, then over to Oakland Harbor, stopping when we're but sixty feet apart.

  "I see you got a gun. Know how to use it?"

  I nod.

  "I got one too," he says, raising his hand, showing me a police revolver. I can make out his face better now. I've never seen so much intensity in it. The man across the water isn't the jovial Rusty Quinn I remember from my girlhood. Tonight he looks like a man caught in a trap, desperately seeking escape.

  "You want to shoot it out, Rusty—that's what you're saying?"

  He laughs, lowers his gun, sticks it in his belt. "No, uh-uh, I don't want to shoot it out. Least of all with you, dear."

  I lower my pistol. "Shall we disarm then, throw our weapons into the water?"

  "Good idea."

  "You first, okay?"

  He chuckles. "Spoken like a true cop's daughter," he says merrily. "You're still Jack's darlin'—yeah!"

  "There's no way out, Rusty."

  "I think there is," he says. "This is a big place. Lots of ways outa here."

  "Better go then. I won't try and stop you."

  "Sure do appreciate that, Kay."

  He steps over the barrier, into the foot-deep water, then starts clomping toward me, at each step shedding water from his shoes. When he reaches Alcatraz, he steps upon it, balancing himself precariously on the island model.

  "Best you go now, Kay. Turn around and leave."

  I shake my head. There's something dangerous in his face. I decide to try and stall him. "Let me take your picture first, Rusty. Okay?"

  He smiles. "Always the little shutterbug. Sure, take a shot. Make it good too. 'Rusty in the Bay.' Or better, 'Rusty at Bay.' Ha! I kinda like that one, don't you?"

  Dakota taught us never to give up a weapon, but tonight, following my instinct, I take a chance. I stoop, then deliberately place Jimmy's big .45 down on the concrete to show Rusty I'm not his enemy, to mollify and hopefully defuse the craziness I feel coming off him in waves.

  When I rise, I'm holding my Contax in my hands.

  "How do you want me, Kay? Jolly Old Rusty? Or"—he makes a mock-comic twisted face holding up the corners of his eyebrows—"Rusty, Scourge of Chinatown?"

  To my amazement he starts preening for me. I can't tell if he's trying to humor me, or is on the verge of committing a violent act.

  "I like Jolly Old Rusty," I tell him. "In fact, I love that guy."

  "You got it, Kay!"

  He turns ninety degrees, then strikes a bizarre pose, head held high at a weird exaggerated angle, left hand above his eyes as if gazing far ahead the way North American explorer-scouts are depicted in nineteenth-century panoramic paintings of the West. I follow his sight line. He's looking west toward the Pacific, where a vast expanse of ocean would be modeled if the Bay Model were miles wide.

  I frame him in close-up through the 80mm. There's so much madness in his face, suffering and paranoia, it hurts me just to look. There's something else too, a vague, gentle lostness in his eyes, a quality Maddy used to call "dream-murder."

  "Hey, hurry up!" he shouts. "It's tough standing still. Go for it, girl! Shoot, for Christ's sake!"

  I activate my strobe, start to fire.

  Whap!whap!whap!

  "Got the goods now, do you, Kay?"

  "Yeah, I got 'em, Rusty," I respond, lowering my camera.

  Then, before I can do anything, so fast I haven't even time to try, he pulls his revolver from his belt with his right hand and sticks it in his mouth. Still holding his left hand over his eyes as if to protect them from the ravenous, raging rays of a blinding, all-consuming imaginary sun, he pulls the trigger.

  The explosion bursts across the huge building like a crack of thunder. Then, as if an earthquake has struck, a miniature tsunami sweeps across the model of the Bay.

  Four A.M.: Back on Russian Hill, I smell a faint trace of sandalwood in the air when I come through my apartment door. It's Sasha. He's let himself in. I find him asleep in my bed. I gaze down at him, so happy to see him. What flash of intuition has brought him here knowing that tonight of all nights I really need him?

  I strip off my clothes, take a long hot shower, then nestle against him in the sandalwood-scented sheets. He moves a little, feels for me, cups my breasts with his hands. Yes, please hold me, Sasha. I want nothing more now than to fall asleep in his strong dark arms.

  Eleven A.M.: I'm standing in front of Dad's bakery, having traveled to the Richmond by bus. Baking time has long passed though the wonderful aroma of bread production is still in the air. Most of this morning's loaves have been delivered to client restaurants, while the remainder are on sale at the front of the store to walk-in customers.

  Dad, I learn from his manager, is at the Russian coffeehouse up the street taking his midmorning break. I saunter up there, catch sight of him through the window sitting at a table wearing glasses and reading today's Chronicle.

  I watch him awhile, note the absentminded way he drinks his coffee, bringing it slowly to his lips, taking a sip, then another, replacing the cup on the table, then turning the page.

  I have no desire to go in there now and wreck his tranquility, but there're things he must be told. I don't believe I pushed Rusty to kill himself. I can't imagine him submitting to arrest and disgrace. I'm pretty sure he would have ended his life if only for the sake of Soo-Lin. That's the trouble—I'm just pretty sure, not sure a hundred percent.

  "Dad."

  He looks up, shows me a big grin, removes his glasses.

  "Hey, darlin', sit down. This is great! What brings you out?"

  Suddenly he looks concerned. He knows I've not come bearing happy news.

  "What's the matter? You look tragic."

  I sit beside him, take his hand in mind
, blurt it out: "Rusty's dead. Shot himself last night. Worse, I saw him do it. I'm sorry, Dad—he was in deep, deep shit. He must have felt it was his only way."

  We walk back to the bakery, get into his car, drive out to Lincoln Boulevard, then down to the parking area near Baker Beach. It's foggy; there's hardly anyone around, just a dozen or so hard-core nudists lying face-up on their towels hopeful the sea fog will lift.

  "God, I hate guns!" he says.

  We're walking on the sand just above tide line. There's seaweed and driftwood strewn by the waves.

  "I'm sick of them too," I tell him. "Lately they seem to have taken over my life. I bought one after I took that shooting course. Cost me a bundle. Never fired it. Now I don't want it anymore."

  He's less surprised than I'd have thought about Rusty going bad, says it was always in him, the temptation, and that it's a fine line that separates criminals from cops.

  "We play the same game, you see, except on opposite teams. The law's on our side, that's the difference. As for right and wrong, who's to say?"

  I know he doesn't believe that, but understand why he must say it. It's hard enough for him to have lost his closest friend. To despise Rusty for turning corrupt isn't possible for him yet. Perhaps it never will be.

  He puts his arm around my shoulder, holds me against his side. "I'm just so sorry you had to see him do it, darlin'. Just so damn sorry, that's all."

  We drive over to Rusty's house in the Sunset. While Dad goes in to visit with Soo-Lin, I wait in the car. There're masses of Chinese people coming and going. Soo-Lin lost both a husband and a brother last night.

  Dad isn't gone long. When he comes back out, I notice a bitter sadness in his face.

  "She couldn't look me in the eye," he says. "She knew what he was doing. She knew all along. For all I know, she pressured him into it."

  He pauses, then smacks his fist into his palm. "But pressure—that's no kind of goddamn excuse."