Flood Warning

by Will Rayner

  Before he rang off, T.J. made sure Mrs. Brice wrote down Flood and Flood’s phone number. Call collect, he said, if Wallace turns up or gets in touch with her.

  Gone to ground, he told himself, making some notes. And I wonder what those important papers are that he stashed in Turlock. There was a soft rap on the door and Agnes stuck her head in. “Was it the right Mrs. Brice?” she asked.

  “Sure was. Didn’t know where her brother was, although he was there several days ago, apparently, then came back to the city. So I guess we’re back at square one.”

  T.J. was writing as he spoke. “I’ll type that up for you as soon as you’re finished,” Agnes said.

  “No,” T.J. said. “Go on home.” He paused to listen to the sound of sirens from outside, pretty far off. He realized they had been wailing for some time. Something’s going on somewhere, he thought. “It’s late,” he continued. “You can type it up on Thursday...and no ‘buts’ from you, young lady. Have a nice Fourth of July.” Something’s still bothering him, Agnes thought as T.J. shooed her out of his office.

  *

  Carefully, Amy spread the blanket on the ground and smoothed out the wrinkles. Sam unfolded the camp stool and took a firm grip on Margaret’s arm as she gingerly lowered herself onto it. The Flood entourage was having a picnic in Golden Gate Park. Sam had made the decision early in the morning, when he realized Margaret was having one of her better days. Her arthritis had even subsided enough that the wheelchair wasn’t required.

  While Amy had made sandwiches and put a pitcher of lemonade in the ice box to cool, Sam went downtown and got the car out of the garage, stopping on the way back to pick up some cold chicken and a container of potato salad from a deli. Now, Margaret looked around her with interest as she adjusted her shawl.

  “Well, isn’t this nice,” she said. “I love the park. It’s so green. Are we very far from the lake?” She paused and frowned slightly. “Doesn’t seem to be too many people out. It’s such a nice day, too.”

  Sam had to agree about the lack of people. For an Independence Day, the park was not crowded at all. Maybe it’s the economy, he thought. People don’t really feel much like picnicking in hard times like these. Or maybe they’re all downtown, waiting to see whether there’s going to be another waterfront riot, although things were quiet and the traffic was light when he went down to the garage on Jones Street.

  Presently, Amy spread out the food and they ate. Margaret had some sandwiches and a little bit of the salad, and even a piece of fried chicken. “At least she has an appetite today,” Amy murmured in a quiet aside to Sam. After the fixings had been cleared away and stowed in the trunk of the Essex, Amy and Margaret played snakes and ladders and talked about their favorite radio shows while Sam read the copy of The Chronicle he had picked up that morning.

  That must have been quite a sight yesterday, he thought, as he read the paper’s breathless coverage of the running battle between the police and the strikers. Shots fired. Bricks flying in all directions. People injured, people arrested. Nightsticks and tear gas deployed. Mounted police riding down protestors. Sam noted that one of Humbert Twait’s dray trucks had been overturned by the mob, spilling out a cargo of rice. Apparently, the trouble had started when the Industrial Association started moving freight from the docks that had been blockaded for several weeks. Rincon Hill seemed to be the worst spot, although the violence ranged all the way from the Embarcadero to Fourth and Townsend. Doesn’t look like our Red-hunting exercise had changed any union minds. Sam told himself.

  “Let’s go to the lake,” Margaret said abruptly. “I want to look at the lake. I used to go to the lake all the time.” Sam realized Margaret was talking about Lake Michigan, not Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. She’s back in Chicago again. Time to get her home. As he helped her into the car, Margaret Flood looked vacantly at her husband with no trace of recognition.

  *

  Not only did Agnes show up at the office bright and early on Thursday, but so did T.J. “Got some stuff to work out,” he said, and disappeared into his office. Staring out at the thin sunshine, T.J. tried to examine all his options. Go back to the fourth floor again and really toss it this time. Concentrate on Fenton’s office as well as taking a peek inside those crates, just to make sure. Or he could go back to Fenton’s neighborhood. Maybe ask around at the Ferry Building — if there wasn’t a riot going on. Maybe someone noticed somebody talking to Benny on his route that day. Something’s gotta work eventually, he told himself. You keep asking around, asking the neighbors, asking friends, even enemies, hoping for an answer that’ll lead you in the right direction. Then you ask more questions, get more answers, maybe they’ll lead to someone else or somewhere else. There are people out there who know things about Benny the Bundle and The Greek and Mr. Wallace Fenton. We just haven’t found them yet.

  At least he seems a little more relaxed today, Agnes thought after T.J. closed the door behind him. The holiday must have done him good. Now to get that report typed up for Mister Sam. However, the telephone rang just as she was settling herself before the typewriter. The call was for T.J., and it changed his plans for the day. Trying to remain businesslike and calm, she rang T.J. and gave him the caller’s name: Wallace Fenton.

  T.J. reached for his notepad and a sharp pencil. “Good morning, Mr. Fenton. You’re a hard man to find.”

  “I’m...I’m sorry, Mr. Flood. I...I had something I had to do.”

  “What is it you want to tell us, Mr. Fenton? You said when we talked earlier that you maybe know something you shouldn’t and you had to tell someone. We’re here to help, believe me.”

  “It’s...I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. We must meet somewhere....somewhere safe.”

  “That’s what you said the last time, Mr. Fenton. Meet me at the Bulletin building, you said. Why don’t you come up to our office right now. We’re on Bush Street. It’s safe here.”

  “No, I can’t do that. I want to show you something...”

  “Does it have anything to do with the two murders the, ah, police are investigating?” T.J. interrupted.

  “It has to do with that office on the fourth floor on California Street. What happened there. I’ve got it written down, but it’s in a safe place...in two safe places. I don’t want to come to your office. I know what happened at your office. I’ll meet you and I’ll take you.”

  If this lug knows about Benny the Bundle, then he has to be connected some way, T.J. told himself. “All right, Mr. Fenton, let’s meet,” he said. “But remember to show up this time. Where do you want to meet, and when?”

  “On the Embarcadero, outside the Ferry Building. I’ll recognize you if you don’t recognize me. At one o’clock.”

  “Yeah, right, Ferry Building, one o’clock. But it would be a lot easier if you just came up here...”

  “I can’t. I have to take you somewhere. One o’clock.”

  The phone went dead. Well, I guess I’ve got a date with the elusive Wallace Fenton, T.J. told himself as he gently hung the earpiece back on its hook.

  T.J. could hear more sirens wailing through the downtown core as he waited for his father to come in. More violence, he guessed. From the sound of them the trouble appeared to be on the other side of Market. He was teasing Agnes by critiquing the report she was typing when the elder Flood arrived. “Big news,” T.J. said, sliding into one of Sam’s client chairs. “The elusive Mr. Wallace Fenton called. He’s back in town. I’m meeting him down at the Ferry Building, one o’clock.”

  Sam paused momentarily before sinking into the chair behind his desk. “That may not be wise,” he said. “There’s fighting all around the docks again. Just like the other day. Plumtree, on the sixth floor, told me coming up in the elevator. He said there’s shots been fired again on Rincon Hill, tear gas too. Had a heck of a time, he said, trying to do business over that way this morning.”

  “Well, we can’t let this slide. I’ve been chasing Fenton all over hell’s half acre and now we�
��ve got a time and a place. I’ve gotta go, even if he turns tail again.”

  “Just understand that there may be some risk involved, Thomas. It appears that these longshoremen are serious. I suggest you take your Detective Special with you, just in case.”

  T.J. automatically formed a rejection in his mind, then realized his father’s caution had merit. Even if there was no trouble along the Embarcadero, Fenton was certainly scared of somebody or something. Some .38-caliber insurance wouldn’t hurt. “Good idea,” T.J. nodded. He pulled out his watch. “I’ll grab an early lunch, get down there well ahead of time.”

  Back in his own office, he strapped on his holster, took the revolver out of its special drawer and checked that all six rounds were present. Carefully, he tucked his insurance away, smoothed down his vest and buttoned his jacket. A slight, thrilling melody of excitement hummed through T.J.’s thoughts as he casually waved goodbye to his father standing at his office door. “See ya, babe,” he said to Agnes.

  “Be careful, T.J.,” Agnes said. She didn’t know what was going on, but she knew it involved Mr. Fenton and that T.J. had that wild look back in his eye. Quietly, Agnes began to worry again.

  Chapter 16

  Eating alone at the lunchroom counter, T.J. listened to the radio blaring out the news about the morning’s rioting. Our neighbor on the sixth floor wasn’t kidding, he thought. Rincon Hill must have been an ugly sight. According to the breathless announcer, the trouble started around 8 a.m. at Pier 31-32, when a Belt Line locomotive shunted two refrigerator cars onto the Matson Line’s docks. Someone set fire to one of the cars. The fire engines arrived and so did the police, with their riot guns and clubs. A tear gas squad chased the strikers up Harrison Street. Then another crowd of men — perhaps five hundred of them — charged across the Harrison Street bridge toward the cops and the battle veered over to Second Street and Rincon Hill. Flying stones and bricks damaged many cop cars. The grass on the hill was set afire. The police clubbed everybody in sight until the men finally dispersed.

  What a mess, T.J. thought. He left fifteen cents on the counter to pay for his turkey sandwich and coffee, then headed toward the Ferry Building. At the corner of Bush and Market, T.J. realized the old man’s words of caution were on the mark. Things looked like they were going to get really complicated. He could see a mass of people congregated at the foot of Market, with more streaming toward the scene. As he got closer, he noted that the pedestrian bridge across the Embarcadero to the Ferry Building was jammed with humanity. It was hard to tell whether they were spectators or protestors. Probably both, but that didn’t make his job of getting across to Fenton any easier.

  However, it appeared li’l Wally Fenton wasn’t so dumb. He had obviously left the Ferry Building and made his way to a vantage spot on Market Street, because T.J. suddenly heard his name being called from the dimness of a doorway. It was the elusive accountant. As Flood made his way toward the doorway, Fenton came out to meet him.

  “As you were, Mr. Fenton,” T.J. said, holding up his hand to forestall him. “This could get ugly.” Fenton was dressed, T.J. automatically noted, like any other pencil-pusher heading for work — white shirt, tie, vest, dark suit. The derby on his head matched his somber clothes. At T.J.’s warning, he looked around, startled, as if he hadn’t noticed how much the mob had grown. Then he looked scared. T.J. pulled Fenton back into the doorway. “Let’s talk,” he said.

  “But these people, they’ll hear us. Someone will hear us. I want to go to my hotel, the Seaboard Hotel...”

  “Nobody’s paying attention to us in our little nook here,” T.J. said. “They’re more interested in what’s happening down the street. And they’d have to stop dead and really listen.” T.J. was right. The murmur of the crowd easily masked their conversation. “We’re not going anywhere until you give me a clue about what’s going on. Give, or I’ll throw you out into the mob.”

  The authority in T.J.’s voice bore fruit. Fenton gulped, but began talking. “They told us not to go back, to the office, I mean. But I did, twice. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did...”

  “Why?” T.J. interrupted.

  “Well, I’d left something behind, some tax forms I use for my clients. And...and I was curious. The first time, they were bringing all those crates in. I walked down and saw the sign on the door, down at the end, this new company. So I thought they were turning the fourth floor into a warehouse, right in the middle of downtown, which I couldn’t understand.”

  “Who brought the crates in? Anybody you know?”

  “They were just guys. Dressed like they worked for a cartage company. You know, kind of rough looking,” Fenton said. Shannon’s boys, T.J. thought, or The Greek’s.

  “The second time I went back was when you came. I had the idea this new company could use an accountant — business is pretty slow, you know — but really, I was ... curious ...”

  T.J. thought he could hear shots being fired somewhere to the south. The little accountant didn’t seem to notice.

  “You weren’t the only one coming that day,” Fenton continued. “Those two big policemen came, too, before you. But I didn’t know that, see? I walked down to the office at the end. I was going to introduce myself, offer my services, but somebody in there was having a big argument. I could hear them. They were arguing about the harbor, picking some place on the harbor to do something. I heard one guy shout, ‘What happened to the, uh, blankety-blank list.’ He didn’t say exactly that, though. He used a curse word, a filthy word. I won’t repeat it.”

  T.J. rolled his eyes. Spare me the sensibilities of the church-going class, he told himself. “So, did they find their list?” he asked.

  “That’s just it, you see. I have the list, or what looked like a list, or maybe an agenda. Someone shoved it under my door.”

  Jesus Christ Almighty, T.J. thought. A clue. A breakthrough, maybe. “And this is what you have at the Seaboard Hotel,” he prompted.

  “A copy. I made a copy as best I could. In fact, it’s a very fair copy,” Fenton spoke with the pride of a craftsman who knew how to wield a pen. “The original is back ... is in a safe place.”

  “Why all the precautions, and how did you stumble on Flood and Flood, by the way?”

  “Well, I thought this piece of paper may be worth something. It obviously had some value. And it looked like someone wanted to get rid of it, or hide it, so I had in mind to negotiate somehow, offer to pass it on in return for my services. As for your name, I heard those two big policemen mention it in the corridor. Remember when I looked out? I was going to leave and then I saw you. Then I heard them talking to you. ‘Mr. Flood,’ they said, and ‘detective.’”

  “You have good recall,” T.J. said.

  “It pays to remember things exactly, in my business,” Fenton answered primly.

  And to make precise copies, T.J. thought. “Do you contemplate negotiating with us?” he said. He made sure the question came out thin and flat, like a cop asking for identification.

  “No, no, no, not anymore,” Fenton said. “That Benny person being killed, and the vice squad wanting to talk to me. I’m scared of them, those two big guys. At least you’re willing to listen to me.”

  T.J. looked around. The crowd had thickened and was getting unruly. He thought there was a whiff of more tear gas in the air. “Seaboard Hotel it is,” he said. “We’ll go straight down Steuart Street.”

  He stepped out onto Market, holding Fenton firmly by the elbow. Almost immediately, someone took his other arm. “Hello, there, Tommy,” a voice said above the murmur of the mob.

  *

  Sam Flood returned from lunch in an uneasy frame of mind. All the talk at the restaurant was of the violence along the Embarcadero. Besides, he’d been hearing the faint wail of sirens all morning. Agnes’s report on the Turlock development was on his desk, and after quickly reading it, he took it back out to his secretary. “This won’t do, Miss Wilkins,” he said. “There are at least three misspellings. This unchar
acteristic display of incompetence is quite disappointing.”

  “Oh, Mr. Sam, I’m so sorry. I’ll do it again, right away. It’s just that I’m so worried about T.J. The postman told me there was a terrible riot going on. I just hope he won’t get hurt.”

  The elder Flood stifled the sharp retort he would normally make. I’m concerned, too, he admitted to himself. Thomas could be a pain in the neck sometimes, but he was still family. And the situation south of Market appeared to be extremely grave. “He’ll be alright, Miss Wilkins,” he soothed. “Thomas has been in tough spots before. He can take care of himself.” Still, he thought, as he returned to his office with the mail, San Francisco has never experienced this sort of disturbance before. It was almost at the stage of armed insurrection.

  The afternoon post provided nothing of interest and Flood turned his attention to the Shannon file. T.J. was pursuing the Fenton angle — although Sam wasn’t entirely sure it would lead anywhere — but there must be other avenues to explore. He had decided that a solid review of the file, beginning with T.J.’s log on the Benny the Bundle surveillance, might provide fresh insight. He was reading the log when Agnes rang him to say the Turk Street Social Club was on the line.

  “My boys have been sniffing around this .22-caliber angle,” Packy Shannon said without preamble. “There’s nobody in this town who operates like that. That’s a moll’s gun, a sissy’s gun. Has to be some imported heat from L.A. They can get pretty bent down there.”

  “But why go to all the bother?” Sam asked. “It’s almost like it’s a ritual. What were you and, ah, our late friend into that would attract such a response?”

  He didn’t expect a full explanation — especially on the phone — and he wasn’t disappointed. “It was a normal business deal,” Shannon said. “Strictly business. Beats me why someone would decide to muscle in. We weren’t stepping on anybody’s toes that I know of.” There was a brief silence on the line. “By the way,” Shannon continued. “Our late friend was last seen in public back on the sixth of June. My boys dug that up. It was at that address everyone’s so interested in.” After a few more moments of silence, Sam realized Shannon had hung up.