by Paul Hina
agency—a first row space in the Raydeon Building on Montgomery Street—he nears a newsstand, and the man working the stand makes eye contact with him.
"Get your Chronicle!" the guy yells.
Clay just smiles at the guy and starts to pass him by, but the guy steps in front of Clay.
"This is your paper, pal."
Clay had seen this trick before. Jack was always happy to use the newsstand guys around town to send covert notes to his guys on the street. It was an easy way to warn his detectives if there was something to look out for, or if something out of the ordinary was happening. Clay never could quite figure out how the newsstand guys knew who to give the paper to, but Jack had his fair share of trade secrets he wasn't eager to reveal.
Clay takes the paper, reaches into his pocket, and grabs a couple coins to give the newsstand guy.
"Sports page is worth a look," the guy says as he backs away from Clay.
Clay takes his meaning and opens to the sports page as he walks from the newsstand toward the office building. Sure enough, there is a note written at the top of the sports page.
Don't visit office. You got a tail. Walk two blocks to Pine. Turn right. Enter under the pipe.
Clay folds the newspaper and tucks it under his arm. He resists the almost overwhelming urge to turn and try to see who's following him. He keeps moving. But now that he knows someone's on his tail, he's suddenly conscious of his stride. He tries to keep his pace as normal as possible to avoid tipping the guy off to the fact that he knows he's there.
He turns onto Pine and almost immediately spots the sign shaped like a pipe. It's hanging above the storefront of a tobacco shop.
The musky smell of pipe tobacco washes over Clay as he enters the shop. It's a nice, calming aroma, but Clay's feeling anything but calm. His heart is racing. He's usually the one doing the following, not the other way around. He's never knowingly been the one being followed. Suddenly, he feels a great deal of sympathy for the people he's followed in the past, particularly the ones that you could tell already suspected they might have someone tailing them. If you don't know you're being followed then no harm done—at least as far as you're concerned. If you know you're being followed, it's scary.
The man behind the counter is an older fellow with a thick handlebar mustache. He has a pipe planted between his lips, and looks harmless enough. He perfectly fits the caricature of a guy that would own a tobacco store.
"Clay, go up to the counter," a voice whispers from a hidden corner of the shop. Clay can't see the person who belongs to the voice, but it sounds like Jack.
Clay walks up to the counter.
"Order a pack of cigarettes," the voice says.
"But I don't smoke anymore," Clay says, looking over in the direction of the voice, and finally sees Jack. He's standing beside a rotating pipe display in the rear corner of the shop, out of sight from the storefront windows.
"Don't look over at me," Jack says. "Just order me a pack of cigarettes."
"I'll take a pack of Lucky's," Clay says.
The guy behind the counter reaches under the counter and places a pack of Chesterfields on the counter.
"I ordered Lucky's."
"But Jack smokes Chesterfields," the guy behind the counter calmly says.
Clay places some change on the counter and grabs the Chesterfields.
"Is he gone, Howard?" Jack asks.
"Looks like it," the guy says after taking a quick look out the storefront windows.
"Come over here, Clay."
"What's this all about?" Clay asks, handing Jack his cigarettes.
"Listen, we don't have much time. He'll be outside waiting for you to leave, and if you're not out there after a few minutes, he's going to suspect something is up."
"Who is it?"
"He's one of mine."
"One of yours?"
"Ramsey called me last night, told me he wanted someone in San Jose tailed. I told him that I didn't usually work the San Jose area, but that I knew a detective in the area."
"You told him my name?"
"No, he never asked. But when he gave me the info, it was you he wanted followed."
"What's he want with me?"
"He's only going to tell me so much, but he did say that you were poking around in a case they didn't want anyone poking around in. So, somebody ratted you out."
"Yeah, I know the guy," Clay says, thinking of Kevin.
"So, you know what this is about?"
"Yeah, I know," Clay says. "But why do you actually have to follow me? Can't you just let me be, give him a phony report?"
"In the old days I could, but, now, Ramsey is too paranoid. He sometimes has his guys follow my guys."
"What?"
"Yeah, he's gone bananas, but he pays me on time. So, what am I going to do? Ramsey business may be crazy business, but it's still good business."
"What do I do now?"
"Drop the case."
"I can't do that."
"I figured you'd say that," Jack says. "Okay, here's what you do. You're going to want to leave here, turn left, and go to Fitz's Bar at the end of the block. Have a couple drinks. My guy is supposed to let Ramsey's guys know where you've landed so they can pay you a visit."
"What? What's that mean?"
"Don't worry about it. They're not going to hurt you. Not yet anyway. They're just going to try and scare you off the case. Tell them what they want to hear and then get out of town. I think that'll buy you a day or two to wrap things up, but, after that, if you're still working it, they'll do more than just scare you."
"Should I be worried?"
"I don't know. I don't know what you're into, and I don't want to know. I plan to maintain plausible deniability just in case Ramsey found out I tried to help you. I will say this, though, Ramsey called me personally about you. He never does that. So, you've got him worried, and the last thing you want is to have Ramsey worried about you."
"And you don't know anything about the case I'm working? He didn't say anything to you?"
"I don't know any more than what you told me on the phone. Other than that, all I know is that Ramsey doesn't like it, and he wants a rolling progress report on where you're going, how long you stay there, and who you were there with. You know the deal," Jack says. "Look, you've gotta go, you've already been here too long."
"Why in the world are you hiding from your own man?"
"If my man knows I met you, Ramsey's men could find out just as easily," Jack says.
"You're starting to sound pretty paranoid yourself."
"No question about that. Ramsey's paranoia always keeps me thinking two steps ahead," Jack says. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"If you know anything about a girl from Milpitas that Ramsey might have had it in for, that could help."
"Milpitas. Near Fremont?"
"Yeah, you know anything?"
"No, but I'll look into it," Jack says. "And if I hear of any surprises coming your way, I'll figure out a way to let you know.
"Thanks," Clay says and turns toward the door.
As he leaves the shop, and turns left toward the bar, he sees the guy that's been following him. There's no mistaking the type. The nonchalance of his posture as he leans against the brick facade of the pipe shop makes him stick out. He's dressed too nice to be a loiterer, and the rehearsed apathy of his stare says that he's clearly watching while simultaneously trying to seem like he's not watching. Clay never realized how conspicuous these guys could be before. It makes him wonder how obvious he is as a tail. Maybe this is how Jack's newsstand guys know who to pass his notes to. Maybe all P.I'.s are as easy to spot as this joker.
After about a hundred feet or so, Clay sees the sign for Fitz's Bar. When he gets to the door, he grabs the handle, but doesn't open it yet. He takes a look back down the street, and his tail is about twenty, twenty-five feet back—too close, really. It's probably hard to stay too far back when you're following a guy with a bad limp. Clay just walks too slow.
Still, the guy knows he's been caught, and he crosses the street, trying to look as spontaneous as can be.
For a moment, Clay just stands there, door handle in hand, and it occurs to him that if he were going to make a run for it, now would be the time. The guy following him is crossing the street, and is deliberately not looking back, too scared to get caught again. Plus, Fitz's is on the corner of Hayes and Pine. He could just turn down Hayes and disappear down the next available alley. Then, once he was clear, he could run for… No, he couldn't run. It's still so easy for him to forget about his physical limitations.
He's not going anywhere other than Fitz's for the moment.
Fitz's Bar is a dark place for this time of day, just before noon. There's only one window in the place, by the door, and it's too small to let much daylight in. The music that's playing sounds like the kind of music you'd like to hear if you'd already tied one on and were feeling lonesome. It's a slow, mournful jazz, but it's quiet enough to be hardly more than a hum. The music seems appropriate for the only two guys sitting at the bar. They both look like they have something to mourn, and they are sitting about as far from what little light is shining in from the front window as possible. They wear the same kinds of expressions you'd see at this time of day at Eddie's back home, but they seem more caricatured by the darkness in the room, the slow sadness of the music.
The guy tending bar seems about as happy as Clay is to be here. His face is heavy and tired, and he looks more like a guy that should be sitting at the bar than tending it. He's much more resigned to his work, not at all like Eddie. Eddie makes everything look so easy. It's like Eddie's Bar was