“Holy shit,” I said. “They don’t fool around, do they?”
Marty checked his pocket watch in his vest and gave it a few winds. He smiled and shook his head.
“That’s not all, Sean. The next morning when the inspector went to the precinct, he opened his desk drawer and the informant’s tongue was in there. The Chief went ape. They talked to every cop, inspector, janitor, and suspect that was in the building. They never did find out who put the damn thing in his desk. These people don’t mess around, Sean, so why the hell are you screwing around in their business?”
“Marty, I can’t really talk about particulars,” I said. “But I can tell you this is a personal family affair and is no way associated with their business interests. I wouldn’t have taken the case if there was anything illegal going on. Their youngest kid is involved.”
Marty folded up a newspaper into a perfect roll and tossed it underhand to a young lawyer coming into work. Simultaneously, the kid tossed a nickel to Marty and he caught it. It was in the cash register in a flash. Marty regarded me again.
“Old man Wang is a real piece of work. I hated the guy while I was working Chinatown, but I respected him after I left and I still do.”
“Do you know anything about the two gorillas that follow him around?” I said.
“I don’t know their names, but I have seen them around and I know what they look like. About three years ago, when I was about to retire, there was this dumb rookie that told those two apes to move the car from the front of that social club. They were waiting for Mrs. Wang to come out. He told them to move it now and he started to get tough with those two. He swung his billy club at one of them and the gee stopped it with his hand, one inch from his face. He took the club away from the kid and broke it in half over his knee, then he handed the two pieces back to the kid. I stepped in before anything else could happen.”
Marty smiled, refilled his mug, and went to work on it.
“The funny thing about the Wang’s is the way they do things, they always seem to know everybody everywhere and have lots of friends. When I got the rookie back to the precinct, there was a brand-new billy club and an apology note from Mrs. Wang to the kid. I don’t know, Sean. There is a kind of mystery or mystique about them. They run Chinatown, don’t you ever forget that. Whatever happens here in San Francisco it is just that, San Francisco. The same rules don’t apply in Chinatown and they sure as hell don’t apply to the Wang’s.”
As Marty and I were talking, a young beat cop entered the lobby and waved to Marty. He went into the bathroom and came back for a cup of Joe.
“How are you this morning, Mr. Durrant?” he said.
Marty gave a theatrical sigh. He took a mug and filled it with coffee.
“Look, rook. It’s Marty or Sarge. Don’t get all formal on me. Here, have some coffee. There is a chill in the air.”
The kid almost blushed. “Thanks, Sarge.”
Marty jerked a thumb in my direction.
“Tommy, this is Sean O’Farrell. He is a private eye who works in this building, so you’ll see him around. Sean, this is Tommy D’Amato. He just started this beat last week.”
The kid had a good firm handshake and a genuine smile.
“Nice to meet you, Tommy, welcome to the neighborhood. How long you been on the force?” I said.
“About nine months, Mr. O’Farrell. I started out in the Embarcadero and the ferry terminals.”
“Tommy, call me Sean. This town is full of people that don’t like cops, so you need all the friends you can get.”
“Amen to that,” Marty piped in.
“Thanks, Sean.” The rookie took a pull on his Joe. “Do you mind if I ask you a professional question?”
“Sure, shoot.”
“My sergeant says you have to read people, and one of the things he said was you got to know when a gee is carrying a rod. I can’t tell if you are or not,” Tommy said.
“In my line of work, Tommy, I don’t need to carry a roscoe with me wherever I go, but frankly, I usually do. Right now I have on a suit and an overcoat. Overcoats make it real hard to tell if a man is packing. I’m a private eye, I have to look sharp. My suits are cut specifically to allow for a double shoulder holster. I can carry twin .45 caliber automatics. I always carry two, you can’t be too careful. As a result, you can’t tell if I have a rod or not even without an overcoat.
“Most of the criminals you will run into are lowlifes, and they got a bulge in their coats you can see for a block. When you get near them you will see them lower their shoulders and they will touch their rod on the outside of their coat and make sure it is tucked away. It’s a reflex action, its fear. They can’t help it,” I said.
Marty piped in. “Tommy, the day is coming you will instinctively know when a bum is carrying a gun. You know to brush your teeth before you go to bed. You don’t have to look on a map to find your way home, you know where it is. It’s the same thing: you’ll walk down the street you’ll get one look and you’ll tell him to stop and he’ll make a run for it. Guaranteed, you are going to know.”
The rookie drank in the advice and the coffee. “I got to get back on the beat. Thanks, gentlemen.” The kid reached in his pocket, but I cut him off.
“You beat cops don’t make enough to buy free advice. The coffee is on me, Tommy.”
“Thanks, Sean. Thanks, Marty.” Tommy said with a smile and spring in his step as he went through the revolving door and back onto the street.
I handed Marty a dollar bill. “I’m buying the kid’s coffee for a month, Marty. He’s going to be a good one.”
“Like you have to pay for his coffee, O’Farrell. Cops drink free at this joint.”
“Yeah, I know, but it’s a privilege to buy coffee for a kid like that.”
Marty put the bill in the drawer.
“He’s a great kid, Sean. His sergeant is a guy named Mulligan, he’s an old buddy of mine, and he stops by to check on the lad. He likes him too, but he has the same concern I do.”
“What’s that?” I said.
“He is such a nice kid. What I worry about is when the moment of truth comes, when he has to pull his service revolver and pull the trigger, will he hesitate?”
“Maybe he will and maybe he won’t,” Marty said. “What he might do is get himself or another cop killed. That’s why they moved the kid to here, more of a business area. No violent crime here. Mulley asked me to look after the kid.”
“Well Marty, I’ll keep an eye on the kid too. I worried that the poor kid is going to die of poisoning from this cheap tonsil varnish you serve here.”
“Hit the bricks, Dick Tracy. Go to the bathroom and look in the mirror, you can tell your wise comments to someone who cares.” Marty said.
I turned my back on Marty and headed to the elevators with a smile.
CHAPTER FIVE
I got to my office, turned the light on and took off my trench coat and placed it on the hat tree, along with my fedora. I opened the shades and turned on my newly battered desk lamp. It was still foggy and it seemed earlier than eight thirty. I got the coffee pot to perking and took out the morning paper for the Seals score from last night. They lost to the Rainiers up in Seattle. It just wasn’t the same as it was when Joe DiMaggio was playing for them. They sold Joey to the New York Yankees for $25,000. Lefty O’Doul was the manager when Joey hit in sixty-one consecutive games. Damn it, without Joe, the Seals were just another baseball team.
The smell of fresh coffee filled the office as I picked up the phone and dialed the main library number. I had a lump in my throat as I asked for the reference desk.
“Good morning, reference desk, Miss O’Doherty,” Katlin answered.
“Good morning Miss O’Doherty, Sean O’Farrell calling. I was calling to see if Hemingway showed up yet?” It was a lame line, and there was a long pause.
�
�I’m sorry, did you call me this weekend, Mr. O’Farrell?”
There was no hiding on this one. “Yes, I called a couple of times but there was no answer.”
“I’m very sorry. There were several people sick this weekend. I had to fill in at the Richmond branch one day and the Chinatown branch the other. I didn’t have much a weekend. I’m sorry I wasn’t around to take your phone call.”
I let the air out slowly. “Well maybe I can take you out to dinner this Saturday night, if you are available.”
“I get off work at five on Saturday. Shall I meet you?” Her voice was tight and nervous.
“I’ll meet you at the library, and I’ll take you to North Beach for Italian.”
As I was formulating how to conclude our conversation, a woman walked into my office.
“I have to go, a client just walked in. I’ll see you Saturday.” She gave me a friendly goodbye and the line clicked off.
The woman was quite a looker. She was tall and blonde, fit and trim with a narrow face. Legs that wouldn’t quit, and brother, she was stacked. All that, and her makeup and fashion sense was impeccable. Her smart gray business suit matched her long skirt, black high heels and purse.
“Good morning, can I assist you, Miss…” I asked.
“Actually, it’s Mrs., Mr. O’Farrell. I am married. But rather, it is Doctor. Doctor Constance Morehouse, M.D. You have been recommended to me by an associate.”
She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at the pictures on the wall and walking around.
“Tell me, Mr. O’Farrell, who is this, a picture of?”
“That would be Jasper O’Farrell. He was the surveyor of San Francisco and designer of the ‘grand promenade’ that is today’s Market Street. O’Farrell Street here in Union Square is named after him.”
“Is he a relation then?”
“No relation that I know of. He’s just another Irishman made good in our fair city. Won’t you have a seat, Dr. Morehouse. How can I help you?”
She strolled over to the client chair and carefully sat. It was quite a production. She smoothed her skirt out and adjusted her sleeves, then slowly took off her black gloves and opened her purse. She placed the gloves in the purse and placed a pair of wire-frame eyeglasses on her nose and carefully placed the temples on her ears. Next, she removed a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eye. She was holding it all together, but barely.
“One of my nurses, Wilma Wellington, recommended you, Mr. O’Farrell. She said you were very good and discreet.” She gave me a knowing look.
“I remember Wilma quite well.” I left it at that. I didn’t want to discuss another client’s case.
“Wilma was destroyed by the fact that her husband was a cheat,” Dr. Morehouse continued. “She told me you investigated and confirmed the fact for her. I believe I need the same.”
She was on her feet again, pacing in a circle around the office. She couldn’t look at me while she told me her story.
“My husband, Randall Morehouse, and I have been married for twelve years. He has been a wonderful husband and provider. He is an architect and civil engineer. His firm was the designer of support structures for the Golden Gate Bridge. He is the architect of the Oakland Bay Bridge, as well as another bridge project in Sacramento. He travels there every week on business for an overnight trip.”
“How does he get there?”
“He takes a riverboat from the Embarcadero, every Monday evening at six thirty p.m. and arrives in Sacramento at five thirty a.m. He meets with clients all day, then returns at six thirty p.m. from Sacramento and arrives at five thirty a.m. He goes directly to the office and works all day. He leaves the office at five p.m. and is home by five thirty p.m. You could set your watch by my husband’s comings and goings. He is never late, never alters his schedule or habits for any reason what so ever. Until…”
Her voice cracked, and she dabbed her eyes again.
“Eight weeks ago he started coming in late, then later. Missing dinner, staying in Sacramento longer. He started coming home like he slept in his suit of clothes. Two weeks ago his office started calling the house looking for him. His employees played it coolly. The truth be told, they didn’t know where he was for days at a time. Suddenly I have had to keep putting money into our household account. He is flying through money. He refuses to talk about it, and brushes the entire affair off as my being paranoid.”
“Doctor, I know you have suspicions,” I said. “What do you think is going on?”
Her voice was firm and she had a face of stone. I guess it’s the kind of demeanor you would expect from a surgeon, but something about her was just a little too cold and steely for me.
“My husband is screwing another woman. A wife can tell these things. My guess is he is seeing a woman in Sacramento and maybe another here.” She delivered this news to me like she was cleaning out the cupboards, without an ounce of emotion.
“Tell me, Doctor. Does he have lipstick on his collars, the smell of another woman’s perfume, hotel receipts, receipts for flowers, gifts, things like that?” I asked.
She gave it some thought.
“I’m not your average housewife, Mr. O’Farrell. I am a surgeon, and I too keep a busy schedule. I have a household staff to do laundry, so I don’t know about lipstick and perfume. I can tell you there are no receipts at the house. I simply don’t know what to do.”
The tears were really flowing now.
“Doctor, this is going to be very hard for you to hear. But please, consider this,” I said. “It may be something else entirely. If I look into this and you are right, it may mean the end of your marriage. But if I look into it and you are wrong, you will feel guilty for the rest of your life. So, you have to ask yourself what is worse: knowing or not knowing.”
Dr. Morehouse opened her purse and took out a gold cigarette case. She fumbled with the lighter and couldn’t get it to light. I got up, walked around the desk, and lit a match for her. She inhaled deeply and relaxed slightly.
“Mr. O’Farrell, every time my husband comes home hours late and crawls in my bed, I feel like there is another woman in there with me. I have to know, one way or another. If I am wrong, I will tell him and suffer the consequences, but I have to know.”
“Doctor Morehouse, I’ll take your case. I’ll follow your husband to Sacramento this evening and report to you on Wednesday. Where can we meet?”
“Please come to my home. I am off on Wednesdays and frankly I’d prefer that my office staff not know what is going on. I suggest you follow my husband to his office Wednesday morning, and then you can come to my home.”
She handed me an ivory business card. On the back was her home address and phone number. She fumbled in the purse for her wallet and handed me two photographs of her husband.
She had a vacant look on her face. “He is quite handsome,” she said. “I know I am very busy and not the perfect wife, but I can’t imagine him running to another woman. It just doesn’t make sense.” You could tell she was questioning herself more than her husband. She was shifting around in her chair, she smoothed the bottom of her skirt. She was straightening her appearance, but she was a mess inside.
“Doctor, sense has got nothing to do with it,” I said. “Years ago I was in the Navy, stationed at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I was in charge of the base military police force. I was called to a Navy commander’s home. He was killed in New York City. He had a wife and three lovely children. He was going into the city at night and hiring prostitutes off the street. One of them slit his throat with a knife for five bucks. There was no reason at all for any of it. I had to tell his wife what had happened. She blamed herself for not being a good enough wife. Sometimes, there are simply no reasons and no good answers.”
She nodded. “What is your fee, Mr. O’Farrell?”
“I get fifty dollars a day plus expenses. I am working anothe
r case, so I will prorate based on when I am working on yours. I will give you a complete accounting.”
Dr. Morehouse stood up, shook my hand and slowly walked out the door. She was good-looking from the front, but there was something about those long legs and the stockings with the seam up the middle of the back of her legs that really made her look even sexier. If Mr. Morehouse was screwing another woman on the side, he needed to have his head examined. I looked at his picture, and I was sure the guy was bing. I watched the good doctor walk down the hall to the elevator. Easy Sean, she’s married, she’s a client and you don’t do that.
Jesus, I needed a cold shower.
CHAPTER SIX
After the doctor made her exit, I decided I needed to watch the lovebirds for a few hours before I faded from town. As I was leaving the building, Marty waved me over.
“Hey, Sean, did the looker with great-looking gams find your office?”
“You’re all class, Marty. Yes, the lady doctor found my office,” I said.
He laughed, but he suddenly became sullen.
“Sean, I’ve been a cop for over thirty years before they put me out to pasture, and I know people. That dame is no good. She may look all sugar and spice, but that broad is all about calculation and manipulation, I know the type. You be careful, kid.”
Normally, Marty is one joke after another. This time he was serious, and I took it as such.
“Thanks, Marty. I’ll watch my back.” I said.
As I started to walk away, Marty opened a box of donuts and flashed them at me.
“Take a look, O’Farrell. Boston cream, your favorite.” He gave a sinister laugh.
“You bastard, you really know how to hit a guy low.” I grabbed a napkin and a doughnut and left.
It was another exciting day of watching the lovebirds living their charmed lives. After today, I could hang a sign around my neck that said PRIVATE DETECTIVE PLEASE IGNORE, and those two kids would walk right by it. When they were together, I was starting to get the impression that they were simply friends. After I got back from Sacramento, it was time to see Mr. Wang and fill him in on the big goose egg I had collected.
The Halfway to Hell Club Page 3
