Chocolate Quake

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “You’re a P.I.? That’s so cool.”

  “No.” I sighed. “I’m Vera Blue’s daughter-in-law, and Kebra Zenawi mentioned that you were there that night and talking to a man named Charles Desmond, who is evidently Myra Fox’s . . . ah—”

  “Right. They’re shacked up. So which one of us do you think murdered Denise? It wasn’t me. I headed on home as soon as Charlie took off.”

  “In what direction did Mr. Desmond—”

  “I don’t know, but he didn’t kill her. He’s a high-end techie type. They don’t kill people. They play with their computers and found companies that go bust. Not that he has a job just now. Wow, the dot.com blowout left half the people I know unemployed. There’s lofts here in town fixed up for dot.coms that never even got rented.”

  “You think well of Mr. Desmond, then?”

  “He’s not so bad. Except he comes on to anyone in a skirt, and after all, he’s got Myra. She’s supporting him. He ought to keep his big, smarmy smile where it belongs. Still, he was there for Myra’s sake, so I guess he’s OK.”

  “Perhaps he went to Denise’s office after he left you?”

  She thought a minute. “I don’t think so. He came in from the stairs. I think he was headed for the backdoor.”

  “That’s open at night?” Good heavens, I’d never find everyone who’d been in the center last Thursday if anyone could get in anywhere.

  “Hey you,” Miss Takashima yelled at one of the departing workmen. “You changed the line of that dress.” She sprinted toward the window with me behind, hoping for an answer to my question. While she rearranged the flamenco gown on the black chaise, I noticed the area rug on the floor. It was delightful, and I needed one, although of a bigger size, for my dining room.

  “Does—ah—Hedwig sell these rugs?” I asked the window decorator.

  “No, I brought it along. Why, you like it?”

  “Very much, and I’m in the market for a rug that would go with a dark blue and silver color scheme.”

  “California Carpet. You want me to go with you? I love to pick out rugs.”

  “Do they ship?”

  “Sure. Come on. We’ll hop in my truck and head down there.”

  I glanced at my watch. Forty-five minutes before Sam returned. I accepted Bebe’s offer and soon found myself zipping through the streets in a blush-pink pickup truck. Bebe confided, as we ran yellow lights and even reds, that security at the center was a joke. There were open doors and windows everywhere, including the upper floors where you could climb a fire escape and wiggle in through a window. “Alexi’s always in the john, and his son, Vassily, who fills in for him and is a cute kid and very smart—he’s more interested in talking to the unwed mothers, as long as they’re pretty, than manning the security desk.”

  Bebe hadn’t seen anyone suspicious that night, including Charlie Desmond, and she picked out a wonderful rug for me. After flipping through about three hundred, she said, “How about this one?” in reference to a cream-colored design with purple-blue outlined leaves and blocks of color. It was very subdued, and I loved it. She even waited while I arranged to have it shipped home, chatting about how much she loved shopping and various great shops in which to do it.

  Her favorite was evidently a place called Recycled Chic that sold “adorable clothes” and was very near the center. “I got a pair of leather pants there for a song, and they are so cute. Everything’s secondhand but in very good condition. That’s what the name means. Recycled Chic. They don’t take anything frumpy.”

  I put my rug receipts in my purse, and Bebe generously drove me back to Union Street, where I went straight to Working Women and told them about Jesusita and Vera’s idea for a Jail-to-Work department. Then I climbed from floor to floor checking for unlocked windows by fire escapes. Bebe had been right. Any would-be murderer who wanted to get in and stab someone would have had an easy job of it. Should I mention the security problem to the director? Would she get snippy and demand that I leave if I told her?

  25

  Police Station Gossip

  Sam

  The last I saw of Carolyn was a glimpse of a lady trying to refurbish a hairdo flattened by a motorcycle helmet. Men have it easier than women, which is probably why we’re easier to get along with. Although I wouldn’t give Marcus Croker any prizes for geniality, which is why I wanted to ditch Carolyn before I went to see him. She ought to be safe enough interviewing a Japanese girl who decorated shop windows. Come to think of it, I’d have to tell Paul about that chest. He’d like it.

  Croker and his partner work out of the North Station. If they weren’t in, I’d still find out something because cops love to gossip. The partner was there doing paperwork, probably because Croker stuck him with it. Arbus is a big black guy. Played ball in high school, but he wasn’t fast enough to get an athletic scholarship. Did a couple of years in junior college and went into the cops. He seems happy enough, and we get on OK. Share a beer now and then and talk sports.

  He’s always asking me when the “next fuckin’ quake is comin’,” like I know any more than anyone else about it. I majored in geology at Stanford because it sounded pretty interesting, but it’s not like I figured on anything but going into the pros after college. You’re dumb at that age. Don’t think about not getting picked in the draft, or if you do, getting hurt, getting old. Happens to all of us. “Hey, Arbus, man, how ya doin’?”

  “Sammie.” Arbus emerged from the squad room and shook my hand. “Say, the police athletic league’s lookin’ for a coach—football—for a middle school team. You interested? Them little suckers, they’d shit bricks they thought they was gettin’ a big-time pro for a coach.”

  “Arbus, I remember what junior high school kids are like, an’ I’m not gettin’ near a whole team of ’em. Hey, is Marcus around?” Arbus said Croker wasn’t. “Well, maybe you can help me. Marcus say anything to you about the murder at the Union Street Center? He was there that night.”

  “Nah, man, I heard about that, but Marcus an’ me was on patrol, an’ we didn’t take that call. Homicide got there before the uniforms.”

  “So Marcus was with you the whole time? Four to midnight?”

  Arbus Penn scratched his head, which was shaven as close as you could get and still have hair. Then he scratched his nose. Arbus is a slow thinker, but he gets there. “Well, he took an hour of personal time. Otherwise, he was with me. We took down a couple of dealers that night an’ hauled in some street girls who was tryin’ to hustle tourists. I ’member cause one a them girls was sweet choc’late. I wasn’t a married man, I wouldn’t mind bein’ hustled by that one. Know what I mean?”

  “Who me? I’m gay.”

  “Always hard for me to believe that, Sammie. I seen you crackin’ skulls for the 49ers in your day. You sure don’t look like none a them gay fellas down in the Castro all dressed up in girls’ clothes or wearin’ them chains an’ boots on parade day.”

  “You gonna march with us this year, Arbus?”

  “They tell me to march, I march. Always a good show down there. You want me to have Croker call you?”

  “Not if you can tell me what his personal time was for.”

  Arbus looked uneasy and shrugged. “Personal time is personal, man. Ask him, you wanna know, but he didn’t kill no one at that center. He teaches a class there. He gets real pissed off ’bout them domestic calls. Me, I jus’ get nervous. Croker gets mad. Mad at the guys hittin’ their women. Mad at the women not bringin’ charges. Callin’ us out an’ then sayin’, ‘Oh he didn’t mean nothin’. Don’ take him away, Officer. How we gonna eat, he be in jail?’ ”

  Arbus did a good imitation of the women. I’d have laughed if it weren’t so pathetic. “Come on, man. Whatever he’s doin’, it can’t be that bad. If I ask him myself, he’s gonna get all mean, maybe call me names. An’ then I’ll have to beat the crap out of him, an’ then he’ll be twice as mad ’cause he won’t want to admit he got beat up by a gay, and our whole relationship will ju
st go all to hell.”

  Arbus sighed. “OK, but you ever tell him I told you ’bout this, you an’ me will git into it, an’ don’t be sure you can take me.” I agreed that it might be a close call between the two of us.

  Then Arbus told me the tale Croker had been telling him every Thursday night for a year or more, which was that he liked to sneak off duty and get it on with his wife for an hour because it added spice to their love life. “Don’t that beat all?” said Arbus. “He wanna risk him an’ me gittin’ in trouble, so he can go home an’ ball his own wife. Every Thursday night I gotta let him off at the corner at eight an’ pick him up an hour later. I go call in a dinner break an’ git me some ribs, an’ Croker, he has sex with his ole lady.”

  Like I believed that. I had to wonder whether Arbus did. We promised to get together for a beer when there was a good game on TV, and I headed back to Union to pick up Carolyn at the shop. She wasn’t there. I went on to the center and asked the Russian whether he’d seen her. He hadn’t, and she wasn’t on the sign-in list.

  Deciding to give her a few more minutes, I sat down by the Russian guy and made conversation. Did he like his job? Did he know this guy and that guy in the Russian mob? He looked pretty nervous and insisted he didn’t. Well, I’d have to wait for my contact to call back.

  What had he seen the night of the murder? Same old people coming and going, then a lot of shrieking down the hall and people running around and cops and paramedics coming in and carrying out the dead, bloody woman and taking the live, bloody woman away in handcuffs. Obviously, they’d got the right person. Ya-ta-ya-ta-ya-ta.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I asked Carolyn, who was coming down the stairs as if she wasn’t fifteen minutes late and unaccounted for.

  “Please don’t swear at me,” she retorted in that prissy voice.

  “Please tell me where you’ve been, chickie. I was worried about you.”

  “And don’t call me chickie. I talked to Bebe, as you well know, and then we went to California Carpet, and I bought a gorgeous area rug. Bebe has excellent taste. I’d never have picked that one, but once she recommended it, I could see that she was right.”

  “You went shopping when you were supposed to meet me?”

  “You said an hour and a half.”

  “You’d have been here on time if you hadn’t gone shopping.”

  “And then I came here, as we agreed, and delivered a message from my mother-in-law to a woman upstairs.”

  “You went to see your mother-in-law, too?”

  “Visitors are only allowed on weekends. She called me yesterday.”

  “Jesus Christ!” I grabbed her arm and hustled her toward the front door.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To a pool hall to talk to a man about Freddie Piñon.”

  “I’ve never been to a pool hall.” Carolyn looked intrigued.

  “Well, you’ll love this one. The ambiance is memorable.” I had been so irritated that I decided on the spur of the moment to take her to Tres Hermanos to meet Araña Morales, A-number-one pool hustler and fence, occasional hijacker of trucks carrying worthwhile merchandise. He’d love Carolyn. She was blonde. Araña would probably go for a bearded lady if the beard was blonde.

  26

  Pool Halls and Dragon Rolls

  Carolyn

  I was hardto feel remorse for keeping Sam waiting when I had found such a perfect rug and after he had sworn at me. Back on the motorcycle, I wanted to ask why we were going to a pool hall but didn’t push my luck. I had been invited along, and it did sound exciting. Once there, however, I wasn’t so sure. Tres Hermanos was in a very rundown neighborhood with dangerous-looking tattooed youths lounging on street corners and boarded storefronts covered with graffiti.

  The pool hall itself was an even greater shock. It reeked of beer and smoke and wasn’t at all the dark wood and stained glass milieu I had pictured. Happily, there weren’t many people in it, but those who were did not look particularly respectable. One fellow at a pool table looked absolutely sinister, with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and a ragged undershirt that exposed a mass of tattooed spiders on his arms and shoulders. Sam headed in his direction.

  I panicked and murmured that I needed to use a telephone, dismissing my first idea, escape to a bathroom, for fear of what I’d find there. Sam handed me his cell phone and said, “Order two Coronas and bring them over, will you?”

  I sat down rather timidly at the bar and gave the order to a dark-skinned man with a belly that overlapped his trousers. He drew two beers into glasses of dubious cleanliness. And he didn’t provide napkins. Sighing, I made a call to Vera’s sublet. It was the only number I could think of, and she might have left a message on the answering machine.

  Much to my dismay, the message was from my husband. Apologizing for ruining any plans I might have had for the evening, he said that he and his father had managed to set up a meeting for a collaborative research project that promised to open a fascinating new avenue for him and be profitable to Calvin’s company. Did I mind eating at home? He’d be back by 10:00 or so, and there was surely something in the refrigerator. Or failing that, I could order pizza. In fact, wouldn’t a column on San Francisco takeout pizza be a good idea? He actually chuckled. I clicked off without checking for further messages. Here I’d been busy all day trying to save his mother, and he couldn’t even be bothered to take me out to dinner.

  I stuck the phone into my purse and picked up the beer. When I arrived at the pool table, Sam was in conversation with the dreadful spider man, who took one of the glasses from me and said, “Thanks, Chica. Nice hair. Muy bonita.” Then he leered.

  Sam said, “You take the second beer, Carolyn, while I go back to the bar. This is Araña Morales. Spider, meet Mrs. Carolyn Blue. Treat her nice. She’s a lady.” Then he left me with that man.

  “You wanna a game, Señora?” he asked.

  “Knock it off, Spider. You try to hustle the lady, I’ll knock you on your skinny ass,” Sam called over his shoulder.

  Mr. Morales called back, “That ain’t no way to talk in front of a lady.” Then he clicked his beer glass against mine and took a long swallow, after which he smacked his lips. “That Sam, he knows his beer. Lotsa guys doin’ the buyin’, they order some cheap shit. Corona now, it’s good beer.”

  Then he stared at me. For lack of anything better to say, I asked if he’d read about Lola Montez, who arrived from Panama in 1853 and was famous for her “Spider Dance.”

  He said he didn’t do much reading and added, “I hear you wanna know about Freddie Piñon? When Sam say that, I think why should I tell him anythin’ about mi amigo Freddie, but for a pretty lady with blonde hair, maybe I got some information.”

  I backed up. Sam returned, beer in hand. “So Spider, my man, you know where Freddie is?”

  Araña grinned at me with what I took to be lustful intent. He had a very strange drooping mustache, thin and straggling. It was hard not to shudder, and I did edge closer to Sam, who draped his arm over my shoulder companionably. “Quit looking at my lady like a goat in rut, Freddie. I don’t like it.”

  “Hey, you don’t dig women. You think Araña not know you’re a—”

  Some Spanish word followed that I certainly didn’t recognize but took, because of Sam’s expression, to be a rude term. “Watch your mouth, Morales,” Sam said in a threatening rumble. Mr. Morales looked alarmed and launched into apologies, which were met with Sam’s harsh “Shut up.”

  What would I do if they came to blows? Run for my life? Or was I obligated to hit Mr. Morales with a beer bottle or some such thing? Actually, all I had was my purse, Sam’s cell phone, and my glass.

  “When did you last see Freddie?”

  Morales rolled his shoulders, which made the spiders on his upper arms appear to creep around. Keeping a wary eye on Sam, he said, “I ain’t seen him myself since, like, Wednesday, but I hear he want his sister to take him in Friday night an’ she
tell him to fuck off ’cause if he was out of the halfway house, he was breakin’ parole, an’ she wasn’ gonna have the cops comin’ to her place to arrest him in fronta her niños.”

  “So, you think you could find him?”

  “Porque?”

  “You don’t need to know why I want to talk to Freddie. You just need to look. You find him, I make it worth your while. Comprende?”

  “Yeah. OK. I find Freddie, I call you.”

  “Right. Come on, Carolyn.” And before I knew it, I was out of the pool hall, which was good news, and out on the street, which was not.

  “Did you know that hoodlum is a San Francisco word?” I asked, feeling shaky and in need of ordinary conversation. “It meant young ruffian or criminal and evolved, perhaps, from youths who shouted “huddle ’em” when they were about to stone Chinese, which was evidently a favorite pastime.”

  “I doubt that Spider stones Chinese. No money in it, and it’s frowned on these days.”

  “Shanghaid is another. Men were knocked unconscious with clubs or doped on the city’s docks and carried aboard to serve as sailors on ships to Shanghai—”

  “Yeah. It was a rough town in the old days. So I’ll take my phone back,” said Sam. “That must have been some call you made inside. You came over looking like you were gonna bite someone.”

  I shrugged, returned the cell phone, and donned a helmet. “I’m just a bit peeved. Jason left a message saying he wouldn’t be taking me out to dinner. I don’t know how he expects me to make my expenses tax deductible if I don’t go to any restaurants I can write about.”

  “You want to try Japanese? I’m meeting Paul for sushi at Ebisu tonight.”

  “You’re inviting me along?” What a bizarre idea. Was Paul his lover? Would he resent my inclusion? “Is it good sushi?”

  “Best Dragon Rolls in town.”

  “I’ve never had a Dragon Roll.”

  “So hop on.”

  “Why not?” I agreed, climbing on behind him and feeling much more cheerful. Wouldn’t Jason be surprised to find that I’d had sushi, which he loves, with two gay men? Maybe I wouldn’t mention that they’re gay. Then, as we roared off, I began to wonder what Paul looked like. Hopefully nothing like Mr. Morales. “What does Araña mean?” I shouted at Sam.