by Brian Lawson
“Ah screw it, let’s grab a cab.”
“Well, you may not get it all right but you do have class, I’ll give you that young mister Boyle. A cab it is. You pay.”
* * *
After the cab dropped them off at the library on Larkin, Danny had walked across Civic Center plaza and headed for the Superior Court building on McAllister.
The genial Asian woman behind the Room 103 counter was very pleasant and very firm in what could, and could not, be done in searching the records. Even after using a modified book-writing dodge and claiming to be doing a comparison of court activity in cities around the country during Prohibition, she insisted his request to sit down and go through the records without a specific case reference was impossible.
“You can look at microfiche, but that’s no good for you,” she said. At first Danny thought she was perhaps in a wheel chair, her chin only inches above the counter top. Then he realized she was short, rolly polly Asian woman not much more than four six and nearly as big around. “Microfiche only have register. Give you who involved, complainants, people who file and maybe attorneys. Maybe have disposition of case, maybe not. Maybe have attorney, maybe not. You need to get case number and we pull the files for all facts.”
And how long would that take, he asked, feeling the weight of the morning and the long afternoon thumbing through dusty records piling up on him and his days.
“Three days, maybe four, and cost you four dollars for each case. But you need case number from register, then we pull file from warehouse,” she said, small black eyes twinkling behind the heavy black plastic framed glasses.
And could he simply sit down and review the register?
“Oh sure, but I won’t guess how many cases, maybe six, seven thousand a year. You want to go through records for what, seven years? Nobody does it like that,” she said, but the smile was gone. His cheerfully eccentric request had apparently lost her interest. “No, you can do it but you be here for weeks. Go away and get a case number, or even date, and we look. Otherwise, nothing here for you.”
How about searching for specific attorney filings, he asked, smiling his best bureaucratic smile. But she shook her head, no, that wouldn’t work either.
“No database for this stuff, no way to cross reference attorney names. Everything by case number. That’s the only way,” she said, nodding at her sage advice and peering at him with hard button eyes over the tops of her glasses. “You understand how it works?”
He nodded, sure, of course. But wouldn’t the complaints be filed by the District Attorney’s office?
“Oh, now, you in wrong place. These are only civil records. Criminal is at the Hall of Justice, 850 Bryant. You go there, see them, they help you,” she chattered on, already looking past him to the line that was forming, then waving him away from here counter. And he left.
Out in the bright concrete afternoon he sprinted through McAllister traffic, heading back across Civic Center Plaza to the Library. Obviously, he had to cross-town and go through the same drill at the Hall of Justice. He was only a few steps into Civic Center Plaza and heading back to the Main Library when he stopped. “What the hell, let’s see if John gets anything, first.”
He turned and walked to Larkin and turned north for the few block walk back to his motel. He’d just crossed Turk Street when his cell phone gave an annoying bleat. He pulled it out and heard John’s tinny voice. Nodding, he continued to walk slowly, trying to follow the conversation and keep from running into the few other pedestrians.
“That’s good, great” he said, nodding. “Well, I got nothing...no, this place only has civil cases so I’ve got to go over to the Hall of Justice, on Bryant...no way...no, it’ll work better if you can dig up any other dates...no, not really...all right, what?”
He waited for John to wind down, then added, “no, we’re going to have to go through them systematically, we’ll work it out...yeah, back to the motel, we’ll have to start digging into this later...what? well, what year are you on? Twenty-eight? Okay, finish that up then tomorrow we’ll split it up and go after it before trying the court records...Skelley may have kept a pretty low profile, just like he said, but he’s got to be in there somewhere. I just know it.”
The signal began breaking up. “Listen John, this damn thing’s crapping out on me. Head back to the motel and I’ll meet you there. I’m going to get on the Internet. Maybe we have enough to piece together something and get it posted, I’ll look around....yeah, right...no, maybe I wasn’t bluffing, maybe I should post this, try and get it on the Drudge Report or some of the boards....yeah, if I can’t get him to do some digging maybe somebody else will, shame him into it...good, all right, you keep at it...see you back there and bring your notes...yeah, later.”
Danny sat back, stretching. He’d spent nearly an hour putting together a comprehensive summary of the search now all that waited was dialing up AOL, cutting and pasting the message from Word to e-mail and sending it.
He scrolled back to the top and reread the letter about bringing John into the search, meeting with Ed Dugan, retyping the newspaper story laboriously into the computer and wishing for a scanner to load format as well as content, all leading up to the meeting with Skelley and this morning’s meeting with Smith:
That’s about it, Ben. It really looks like Chuck was right and the book has clues to the crime. Again, this “real” crime must have occurred from 1921-27, Hammett’s time with Pinkerton’s in San Francisco. That would put Skelley’s father in the DA’s office during the critical period, but Skelley isn’t going to play along.
In retrospect I shouldn’t have lost my temper with him and talked about the murders. But what’s done is done. I’ve just got to stay the course and try and dig up something. So what we’re going to do is search for Skelley in the newspaper, pull those case files and hope to stumble onto something. And there’s always an outside chance the link between the original crime and what Johnny calls the “geezer murders” will tumble out. I don’t think so, but I don’t know what else to do.
And that, as they say, is that. I had hoped to have this done by now but I can’t imagine getting out of here before early next week, at the soonest. Cash is going to grow short so I’ll just have to hope for the best, cut expenses – although I can’t imagine staying any place much cheaper than this – and try to get it wrapped up as soon as possible. However, I can’t see any point in taking it this far and stopping half way through. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I’ll stay in touch and e-mail any results from tomorrow’s newspaper search... Danny
He copied the story, opened AOL and when he finally got the mail screen, pasted the copy in and sent it off to Ben. He looked at his watch; a little after two. He was trying to decide whether to hang around waiting for Larkin or go ahead and check out Superior Court when the bedside phone buzzed at him. He picked it up; it was Skelley.
“Hello...well, I could have guessed Smith was an old friend, decent of him to call so quickly…that’s kind of a strange attitude...no, I don’t think I’m going to drop it...don’t threaten me...no, you can’t do anything,” and he waited, listening to the cool venomous voice of the man.
“Okay, you’ve had your say now listen to me,” he said, taking a quick deep breath before pushing on, and if there was a time to bluff, this was it. “Well, we have some Superior Court records that make for some interesting correlational stuff...no, it’s not causal but the reader isn’t going to get that...no, it’s a cover up, pure and simple or impure...uh hum, I don’t know yet but I will and when I have that name it’s going to be too late to talk...this is your last chance to talk to me...or? Or next time you talk to a reporter with a story angle and it’s too late.”
No sense holding back not now, and he added, “…no, just listen…we’ve got some things about the current deaths too, stuff that’s going to surprise you…no, you can bluster all you want and, no, I’m not going to tell you what, just wait and read it the paper…yeah, it’s all t
here and I’m going to break the story. If Smith and the rest of the boys here won’t cover it, I’ll take it outside...hey, don’t expect the truth if you won’t tell the truth...right, talk and get your side out or...no, I don’t have to do shit...don’t be so sure, I can post this at a dozen different sites on the Internet and imagine what’ll happen if the Drudge report picks it up or Mother Jones or maybe even one of the wires...what, look it up and you’re not going to like it and Smith isn’t going to like it...yeah, well don’t bet on it, it reads good, famous San Francisco family wealth and position based on crooked district attorney...no, I don’t have to have proof, not on the Internet, just a good story and then it’s too late, there’s nothing you can do...no, you can’t do shit, don’t even think about it...no, see you on the Internet, asshole.”
The click as Skelley slammed down the receiver silenced the conversation. That was it, now let’s just wait and see what happens; he put the receiver back on the phone and smiled at the empty room. Now we’ll get some action.
CHAPTER TEN:
A Rough Day in Frisco
After hanging up with Skelley, he decided to go out. He patted his coat pocket, felt the notebook in one and tape recorder in the other, and slipped the cell phone into his jeans pocket, glad for once it was a few ounces of miniaturized plastic that hardly raised a bulge.
It was a beautiful afternoon, warm, with a clear blue sky; the fog seemed to have disappeared, at least for one day. He stayed on the sun side of the street, taking off his jacket and slinging it over his arm. Just as he had crossed onto the 600 block of Larkin and made a wide detour around a homeless couple who were loudly arguing about who should push the overburdened shopping cart, when he heard somebody running up behind him. He was stepping aside, closer to the building, when he was jerked sideways, spun around in a flash of color and noise, dragged backwards and slammed through an open doorway. He hit the floor hard on his shoulder, pain shooting up his arm and up into his neck and back.
He rolled over and was on his knees when something exploded against the back of his head and he went back down into blackness: he was floating, swimming out of darkness but things were wrong, nothing fit and he clawed at the something and clawed and clawed.
The pain in his hands brought him around. He was face down, clawing at the dirty linoleum, scraping his fingers raw. He coughed and his lungs seized up with the dirt and pain and he rolled over on his back, gasping for air. The ceiling was liquid, swirling over him; then it froze into place and began falling in, no, just sagging, brown-water stained tiles drooping with age, gap toothed black spaces in the dim light. His head throbbed like a wet wound against the ground. He tried to sit up but the pain stabbed up through his neck into the back of his head and he rolled over and got up on his hands and knees.
Somebody pushed him over and he dropped onto his side, curling up in ball, gasping at the pain. A man was standing on top of huge toed black boots inches away from his face, rising like a huge, thick tree over Danny, watching him with little pig eyes over a black walrus mustache.
“Hurts, huh?” the man growled at him. “This is your worst fuckin’ nightmare, dude. Try this.”
He saw the blur but he couldn’t move. The pain exploded in his right side, rolling him over and over in the dirt, doubling him up. Then again it came, and again; each time the boot hit in the ribs he tumbled over, rolling now in the dirt and his own vomit that came like burning acid ripping up through him and gushing onto his arms and chest. He felt warmth spreading from his groin. Choking on the vomit he gasped in some air and tried to scream and scream but nothing came out but a croak that ripped at his throat; he finally stopped and vomited again. Then blackness.
The man was standing beside him, all black boots and legs only a few feet from his face. He kicked the small pile of Danny’s stuff beside his jacket on the floor: the recorder, wallet, key ring, small notebook scattered over the floor. He walked over to the tape recorder and picked it up, pushed the eject button and popped out the micro cassette. He put that in his pocket and then dropped the recorder on the floor and looked up when Danny groaned and trying to sit up.
“This everything, dude?” the man said, smiling down at him.
Danny nodded as best he could and croaked, “Who, why?”
“I’d kind of sit there and get my shit together and not worry about anything you don’t need to know, you know? And man, do you stink.”
It hurt everywhere to move; pain shot through him as he managed to roll over and sit up, hugging his screaming ribs. He did stink. Vomit and piss and fear. He took a deep breath, then another. It hurt but not as bad, not now that he was sitting up.
“Just take it, all of it.” His voice was harsh, raw sounding and his throat burned. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. “Please, please, don’t kick me any more.”
The man hunkered down a few feet from Danny, thick forearms hanging loosely over his knees. He was somewhere in his thirties, maybe older, close cropped hair and clean-. Aside from the incongruous thick-soled Doc Martins ankle high boots laced tightly, he looked straight arrow: blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and pale Dockers.
Danny turned his head, slowly, the pain moving with him. He was in an empty store front, street window a dim glow through a thick coat of light paint, interior gutted to the walls and bare floor, floor covered with refuse and tattered newspapers, dirt and empty wine bottles; the front door was closed now and they were in gray half shadows. Nowhere to go, nowhere. He looked back at the man.
“That’s right, dude. You’re here for the duration. Until I tell you to go.”
“What do you want? Money, what?”
“I got everything you got. You want to give me something else?” he said, smiling. Quick fear knotted inside him suddenly, tightening his guts. No, not that, no. The man’s laugh was a high, thin cackle. “Don’t worry, you’re safe.”
Danny’s mind was starting to clear and the stabbing pain in his sides and gut had calmed to a dull, cramping ache. Why, all the people on the street, why him. “Why me? Just lucky?”
The man smiled at him, tooth flashing. “You a funny dude, you know that? You walk up and down the same street. Don’t look where you’re going, paying no mind to what’s happening on the street around you. Nigger could figure out where you’re going. It wasn’t luck, dude. No luck no how involved in finding you,” he said, then seemingly in slow motion he leaned forward and backhanded Danny across the face, spinning him around and knocking him flat. He leaned over and helped Danny back up to a sitting position. The man was blurred now and Danny could feel his right eye swelling shut.
Despite the pain, the sudden realization was like cold deep in Danny’s guts that made the cramping ache seem worse suddenly: me, he was after me, somebody wants this done to me. Danny hugged himself more tightly, trying to drive away the cold and hold back the fear that was gnawing like rats at him now.
The man stretched out a hairy hand and pulled the recorder over with his fingertips, sliding it along the floor. He lifted the thick heel of his shoe and slammed it down, then again, then he stood up and brought his heel down hard; the case exploded with a bang almost like a gunshot in the quiet gloom. He ground the pieces of plastic and metal into the linoleum.
“You got a problem. You know what your problem is?” he said, looking down at Danny.
Danny shook his head; it hurt, so he just shrugged and stared up at the man; from the floor he looked seven feet tall.
“Your problem is all those questions,” he said, leaning over, hands on his thighs, holding Danny’s eyes then looking him down to the pile of rubble by his heel. “Things break. Shut the fuck up and go home. Next time I might have to break you.”
“And this time?” he croaked.
The man smiled and nodded, then reached out and slapped Danny again, harder this time, then again. The pain was a red thing in front of him and his head filled with a roaring that slowly drifted down. He felt blood dribbling down his face, ov
er his lips, salty, almost bitter, and thick.
The man was standing over him now. “You got some cajones, dude. Smart mouthing me sitting there in your own puke,” he said. “This ain’t nothing. You’re lucky it’s me. I know when to stop. Next time, somebody else might not. Next time we see how tough you really are.”
He walked slowly, easily to the front door, opened it and stood like a tree, backlit against the oblong daylight. “Don’t be an asshole. Do what you’re told. Later, dude.”
And he was gone. Danny sat on the dusty floor, sunlight now filling the corridor to the doorway, dust like snow dazzling in the air. He hugged himself, holding in the pain while the hot tears burned down his cheeks, blood still dripping slowly out of his nose and onto his shirt.
“You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch. I swear to God I’ll get you, I’ll get you and your whole fucking family,” he croaked, then rolled over and vomited again.
Finally the retching passed. He wiped his mouth and watering eyes with his dirty shirt sleeve and took inventory before trying to stand up: his nose was a large, swollen mass, but didn’t feel broken and had calmed to a dull throbbing ache; his eye felt thick and heavy under his fingertips and there was a crusted rip at the edge of the eyebrow that sent quick stabbing pain down his jaw, but at least the blurring was gone. He poked at each rib in turn with tender fingers, looking for more than a deep bruised feeling. He felt it like a sharp stab that ran up from his right side and seemed to explode in the side of his head and making him gasp for air until it passed.
“That one’s broken,” he gasped, and kept prodding. Nothing else. His back and shoulders hurt where he had taken the brunt of the fall; his stomach hurt from a kick but there didn’t seem to be any deep boring pains when he pushed. Aside from the obviously broken rib and assorted aches, the scraped fingers on his right hand when he had tried to swim through the linoleum on his first trip up from unconsciousness, he seemed to have weathered the storm without any permanent damage.