I laughed out loud. “You mean the nice girl that I was on a blind date with tonight? The one I was canoodling on the couch when this asshole barged in and ruined my evening before ruining my hardwoods? We’re talking about the same girl, right? The one in the next room telling you nothing?”
They eyed me but didn’t say anything.
“I told you, Johanssen threatened me, and somebody shot him. I don’t know any more than that. You go do your homework and you’ll find that he was shot from the street—surely one of you has heard the word trajectory before. You’ll also find out that he was shot with—I don’t know, something other than a .38 Derringer or a .45 automatic. Those are the only guns I own, and they’re both registered. So I didn’t shoot him. And you obviously don’t like me for the Dalton deaths, so I don’t know why you keep bringing them up. I’m a witness, nothing more, so let me know when someone gets arrested or indicted and I’ll be happy to do my civic duty. You kids can’t hold me and you know it. If I find something that I think you’ll like—like what ballerina school this lost little girl went to when she was six—I’ll give you a call. And if you find out who killed that sweet Susan Dalton, tell me, coz I’d like to kick him in the balls. Otherwise, how does it go? If you want to see me, pinch me or subpoena me or something and I’ll see you at the inquest—maybe. Now, if you’ll excuse me, The Maltese Falcon is on again tonight and I’d like to go home and microwave some popcorn.”
I got up and made for the door.
“You know,” Berrera said, “you can’t hold out on us forever, Itchy.”
I left and nobody stopped me.
* * *
When I hit the street, Karyn was on the curb smoking a cigarette and pacing. She saw me coming, barked, “You son of a bitch!” and slapped me in the face. I probably deserved it.
“Karyn, I’m sorry for the hassle.”
“You got Conrad killed! He was gonna marry me!”
“Conrad got himself killed. I only wanted you for leverage—”
She hit me again. “Asshole!” I probably deserved that too, but I wasn’t certain I deserved much more.
“I’m sorry for all of this. What else can I say?”
“You owe me four hundred dollars.”
I paid her. “Get out of town, Karyn.”
She stormed off, her step more mercenary than grieving.
Cops will take you downtown, but they never offer you a ride home. It was almost midnight, so I called a cab, trying not to think on the way. I stepped over the yellow tape and the bloodstains, poured myself a whiskey, shot it, turned off all the lights, and crawled into bed. Maybe they didn’t see Conrad get shot. Maybe they didn’t see Conrad at all. But they saw a hysterical stripper and probably heard her scream. Anyone at the deer blind knew that something hinky had gone down in my house tonight.
I got out of bed, fluffed the blankets, and slipped downstairs. I had to see Al.
23
Al had been taken to Kaiser on El Camino, and when I arrived he was under observation. He looked to be in good spirits, propped up against a mass of pillows, idly flipping the channels on the TV suspended on the far side of the room.
“They giving you any good drugs?”
Al gave me a courageous grin. “Not bad. How’re you?”
“Staying out of the pokey so far. Can’t complain.”
“Hey, I really appreciate what you did for me back there. I don’t need any more trouble with the cops.”
“Thanks for warning me about Conrad. What the hell happened?”
“Dunno. Somebody must’ve followed us there, or something, coz I didn’t see anyone pull up after I got back in my car. Then I see this guy standing in front of your house, and he raises a gun—”
“What kind of gun?”
“Dunno. A pistol, something. So I ducked down, heard the pops, then I peeked and saw him running down the street and into a car. I jumped out to try to read the plate but he put his headlights right on me and hit the gas. Clipped me on the way by.”
“You all right?”
“Ah, it’s nothin’,” he said, waving me off. “Bounced my head off the pavement. Mild concussion, couple of stitches. No big deal.” He was tough, you had to give it to him. “Mr. Crane?”
“Call me David.”
“David . . . is he dead?”
“Conrad? Yeah. He was dead in seconds.”
Al’s face pinched up and I almost thought he would cry. “Too bad. He wasn’t a bad guy, y’know? A little crazy, but . . . I made some good money with him.” Al’s clicking stopped on a Mexican telenovela and we both looked on for a moment.
“So, Al, I gotta ask.”
“Yeah?”
“What’d the guy look like?”
“Dunno. Too dark. Wearin’ a suit, medium height. Maybe dark.”
Sharkskin. No news there. “Anything else you can tell me about tonight?”
“Not much. Conrad found me at the pool hall, said he needed me. I didn’t want to do any more work for him. I’m used to just standing there looking tough while somebody else says, Give me the money you owe me.” He sighed, almost aware of how stupid it all sounded. “Conrad’s meaner than me. And I been asking around the last couple days. Nobody knows nothin’ about him. In the Tenderloin, at Hollywood . . . nobody knows nothin’. Some think he’s this high roller, some say he’s just a poser. Nobody knows who he works for, and nobody knows how he gets his money—but he’s always hiring people.”
I mulled it over. “Including you.”
“Right. I tried to say no, but he wouldn’t let me off the hook, and he paid me up front—it was a lot of money, David.”
“Fair enough.”
He shrugged. “I thought I could warn you in time, and—well, you said you wanted to find him.” Al flicked the channels again, settled on a cartoon. “But he showed up two seconds after I talked to you. He came up to my place to use the phone, and then we left. I couldn’t stall ’im.”
“You did great, Al. Who did he call?”
Al shook his head. “Dunno. But he asked whoever it was where you were. It was weird. They knew you were home.”
Or they thought I was. “Anything else?”
“He said he wasn’t going to do anything. He was real sketchy—he was only on the phone for a second, and when he got off he seemed kind of . . .”
“Scared?”
“Rattled, more like. I don’t think that guy gets scared.”
“Got scared.”
He looked away. “Yeah.”
“What else, Al?”
“Just a lot of muttering. Something about a killing, someone you’re supposed to kill.” He turned the TV off and looked at me. “You kill people?”
“Al, I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Well . . . whatever happens with all of this, I want in.”
“What?”
“I wanna work for you, Mr. Crane. I’d rather be on your side than Conrad’s, and—”
“Conrad’s dead, my friend.”
“And whoever killed him tried to kill me. I feel like I been set up.”
“Just rest up.”
“But will you keep me in on it?”
I turned this over in my mind for a moment. “Maybe.”
“I don’t care about the dough, man, I just wanna get these guys.”
“Call me if you think of anything else. And Al, do not go home. We have to assume they know where you live. Our mystery man knows he hit you, maybe he thinks you’re dead. If he finds out otherwise . . . besides, the cops are going to want to ask you about your gun.”
“I can stay at my aunt’s in Vallejo.”
“Call my cell phone when you get somewhere so I know where to find you.”
“They said they’d release me in the morning. I’ll call you.”
“And Al, give me your keys. I might drop by your place.”
“They’re on the nightstand.”
I got up to go and Al flicked the TV back on. “Oh, hey, there was so
mething else,” he said. “On the drive over, Conrad kept saying, That bitch Ashley, that fucking bitch. Like that. Who’s Ashley?”
“I wish I knew.”
* * *
Back on the stoop of Al’s building I was glancing over my shoulder with chilling apprehension. I half-expected the place to be trashed already, and considering the time of night I didn’t want to draw any attention. The front door looked intact, so I let myself in quietly and went upstairs, listening for a few minutes at the door to Al’s apartment. I opened it up and was relieved to find it looking the same as it had the last time I’d been there. They either thought he was dead or hadn’t tracked him down yet. I’d only be a minute.
I found Al’s telephone and checked the caller ID. I wanted the number Conrad called, thinking it must have been the deer blind. I expected it to be a 650, for San Mateo, but the last call dialed was to an area code I didn’t recognize. I took down the number and got the hell out of there.
I never really imagined Conrad living in Noe Valley. When I found his place, on Clipper between Sanchez and Noe, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I expected a lowlife to live like a lowlife. The house was a gorgeous, sand-colored Edwardian with big front windows, peach accents, and subtly detailed moldings; a simple staircase led to the main house, above the garage. I’d kill for a house like that.
I walked back and forth on the sidewalk a few times, poking around, looking for a possible way to break in—when I realized I didn’t have to. The front door was slightly ajar. Moving closer, I could see it had been forced open and didn’t close correctly. I pushed in and made my way carefully up to the second floor, finding the stairwell door open. I wished I had a gun.
I pushed the door open as slowly and as silently as I could. Whoever had beaten me there was long gone. The place was trashed. Every cabinet was emptied onto the floor, every piece of furniture overturned and ripped open. I picked my way gingerly through the debris, shaking my head. I wasn’t going to find anything here.
As concerned as I was about being discovered in such an obvious crime scene, it had been a long day—and a long night—and I really needed a drink. I poked around the detritus of the kitchen and uncovered an unbroken fifth of Ancient Age. Not bad, Conrad, I thought. In another life you and I could have gotten along famously. I found a plastic cup and poured myself a couple of fingers.
And then, standing in dead Conrad’s demolished kitchen, drinking his whiskey out of a Mardi Gras cup from 1992, I spotted it. Hidden in plain view, right out in the open, completely overlooked. Wedged between the refrigerator and the wall was a cylindrical mailing tube, the kind that one uses to send posters, photographs—or paintings.
It was addressed, in lazy, sloppy handwriting, to El Viejo—the Old Man—Hotel del Norte, Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. It was sealed and ready to go—it just needed postage.
I opened it up and pulled out a rolled-up canvas. It was the post office painting—the one Conrad had taken from the Dalton Gallery in the face of Susan’s protests. I spread it out on the kitchen counter and took a close look; the flash drive was still embedded. Why was Conrad sitting on this? Why hadn’t he mailed it off?
And a better question: Guatemala? All of Sobczyk’s conspiracy talk came flooding back to me in a wave of nausea.
I picked up Conrad’s phone, called Pac Bell, and asked a bored-sounding operator about the strange area code that Conrad had dialed from Al’s place. “I’m not sure, sir, it could be a cell phone–only code that isn’t in our system.”
“Cell phone only?”
She exhaled heavily, and responded the way one answers a petulant child: “In some markets, there are so many cell phones that cities are creating new area codes. It could be LA, or New York—like I said, sir, it might not be in our system yet.”
“So how do I find out where I’m calling?”
“Sir, why don’t you dial the number and ask them?”
I realized it wasn’t such a bad idea, and dialed. On the third ring, someone picked up but didn’t say anything. After a pregnant pause I ventured, “Hello?”
A muffled voice said, “Yes?”
“I saw this number on a bathroom wall and I wondered about the area code. Who am I calling?”
“Who is this?” The voice was a man’s, stilted and overenunciated.
“A friend.”
“I think you chave the wrong numburr.”
I knew who was on the other end of the line. “I’m a friend of Conrad’s. You might notice I’m calling from his house. Did you know he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe you want what he had.”
There was a long pause. “What.”
“Late twentieth century, oil on canvas, very exclusive artist. One of a kind.”
“You don’t chave anything.”
“If it’s not for you I have another interested party. Do you want to know more or don’t you?”
“I need proof.”
“You’ll get it. Is this a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Be at the corner of Grant and Washington at noon. Wait in front of the Kowloon Restaurant. I’ll call you.” I hung up, grabbed the painting and the bottle, and bolted out the door. I had to get some sleep.
24
By the time I got home, cleaned up the worst of Conrad’s bloodstains in my foyer, hopped in the shower, and dragged myself to bed, I was too keyed up and exhausted to sleep. I sat up and put away half a pack of cigarettes and god knows how much whiskey, and slept only a few fitful hours.
Al woke me up. “David?”
“How you feeling, kid?”
“Still sore, but I’m out.”
“Still feel like playing backup for me?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“I’m thinking five o’clock, near the Ferry Building, if everything goes well. Why don’t you get a shower and a nap and call me later to confirm.”
“I’ll go to Vallejo. Hey, is my car still at your place?”
“Still there.”
“Okay. Call you later.”
I was almost grateful to be hungover. I felt sharper, more focused on the task at hand, less prone to distraction by errant thoughts that might run amok.
I got both my guns and all the ammo I had in the house. I found my old Polaroid camera in the back of my garage and snapped a shot of the post office painting. I took Delores, and I took the tracer. Let them know that I’m not at home.
I left the car at a garage in the Mission, caught the BART downtown, and walked up into Chinatown. I was early.
At a quarter to twelve I was at the window of Ashley’s favorite spot, looking out at variegated rooftops and the sparkling bay, enjoying a plum wine as my smiling Chinese benefactress watched over me.
I spotted him right away. He stuck out like a sore thumb, the only sharkskin suit in a sea of hoodies and windbreakers. He lurked in front of the Kowloon Restaurant.
I picked up my cell phone and dialed.
“Yes?”
“On the wall, just near the corner. Do you see the Chinese advertisements stuck to the wall?”
I watched him look around and find them. “Yes, I see them.”
“Yellow paper. One large Chinese character.”
“Yes.”
“Take it down.”
Stuck to the back of the ad was the Polaroid.
“Yes . . .” he whispered, seething through the line.
You bastard, I was thinking. You killed Dalton, you killed Conrad, who was probably working for you, and you tried to kill Alan. And I bet you killed Susan too. I choked it back. “Are you interested?”
“I’m interested.”
“Five o’clock. Near the Embarcadero, across from the Ferry Building. There’s a big fountain, wood sculpture. Just sit down somewhere and read the paper.”
I hung up and checked the time; I needed to go shopping.
* * *
I met Al in front of the Ferry Building, the streets crowded with end-of-da
y commuters and tourists, and told him the plan. I had already dropped the painting off with a street artist at the end of Market, and asked him to hold onto it for my friend—in a sharkskin suit—to pick up in a half hour or so. He was so impressed with it that he was happy to have it sitting on an easel in front of his own work—weak impressionistic San Francisco skylines. I handed Al a backpack with my .45. The last thing I wanted was to have him shoot someone in broad daylight, but I felt bad about turning his Colt over to the cops. I still had my Derringer strapped to my ankle. My brand-new Kevlar vest was itchy.
“Don’t shoot anyone, okay, kid?”
“Hey, I was lucky the last time. I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Just sit across from us and keep a lookout for anything out of the ordinary—he might come with friends. If you see me point at anyone, check them—and hard. And if I put my hand on the back of my head, get out of here. Listen, I don’t want any cowboy shit. All I want is to walk away.”
“Check.”
* * *
At noon I saw Sharkskin stride into the wide, flat part of the fountain block, look around, and hesitantly perch on a bench, pulling a folded newspaper out of his jacket pocket. He practically glittered in the low brightness of dusk. This guy needed a wardrobe expansion.
I walked right up. He looked up over his paper. “David Crane.”
“So you know me,” I said.
“Your reputation is . . . known to me.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised. Actually, we met once.”
“Yes, at the gallery.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I’m not prepared to tell you that.”
“Where’s Ashley?”
“No one knows this. I want to find her more than you do.”
I started to get the creeping feeling that it wasn’t going well. If this evil bastard wouldn’t tell me anything, the silly painting I was holding as collateral would become worthless in a hurry. The fact that Al was keeping an eye on me offered little consolation.
“It is foolish,” he said, “that you bargain for information. You should have asked for money, Mr. Crane. You might have got it.”
The Painted Gun Page 13