As soon as the lovebirds entered the library, I ran home and packed an overnight bag. Since I didn’t know what I was getting into, I packed a shirt, underwear, and socks, and put on the double shoulder holster with the twin .45s. I tossed four extra loaded magazines in the leather bag. I threw in a couple decks of Luckies, a shave kit, and my library book
I timed it just right. I caught a cable car heading back to Union Square. I jumped in my car and headed to the Embarcadero and arrived at 5:50 p.m. I parked, grabbed my bag and ran for the boat.
At the California Transportation Company office, I stood in line to buy a ticket. With Mr. Morehouse’s picture in hand, I started looking for my subject and I couldn’t have been any luckier. The guy was three places ahead of me in line.
He bought a round-trip first-class ticket on the steamboat Delta Queen for three bucks. Boarding was about to begin at six. After purchasing my ticket, I hung in the back of the waiting room until boarding began.
Morehouse was tall, about six feet, and broad-shouldered, with a thin mustache and wavy brown hair. He kept taking off his grey fedora and running his hand through his hair in a nervous manner. He looked more like a banker than an architect. He was reading a newspaper, but I got the feeling he was reading something behind the newspaper he was trying to hide. His eyes darted around the room, and at the door, like he was looking for someone. I’ve seen guys do that before, looking to prevent anyone from coming up behind them.
The double doors leading to the gangway opened and the waiting room emptied to the sternwheeler’s main deck. I stayed behind Morehouse as he went straight to the dining room and got a table. I went to the other end of the room and ordered the special: chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas, with rolls. It was great. I had been on the run all day, and the only thing I had eaten was that donut from Marty’s. I followed dinner with a piece of apple pie and a glass of milk, and was halfway through my after-dinner Joe and butt when Morehouse got up to leave. The steamboat was only two hundred and eighty-five feet long, so he couldn’t get lost, but I wanted to see if he went right to his room.
He walked up the grand staircase and stopped by the purser’s office to yap with him. I was close enough to see him reach for his room key, and I caught the number: 211. Then Morehouse leaned in close and the purser whispered to him. Morehouse nodded, then slipped the purser five clams. I doubted it was for a sneak peek at the breakfast special.
Morehouse hightailed out of the lobby and flew up the stairs like a little kid running to a candy jar. I had trouble keeping up with him. He went to the top deck, all the way forward, near the pilot house. He looked around and knocked twice on a door. He whispered something and ducked in. The room number was 420. The wooden shutters were closed and I couldn’t see inside.
I waltzed over the rail and lit a butt, and pulled out that collection of short stories by Mark Twain. Before that I had read Twain’s Life on the Mississippi. There was a passage about being on a steamboat at sunset. I was living that passage at this very moment. I was as close as I could be to the pilot house without being there. The sunset was orange, red, yellow and gold, with a kiss of purple. The breeze was light, and the flag on the jack staff slapped lightly in the wind. I was as far forward as possible, but I could still hear the steady, rhythmic sound of the paddlewheel churning up the water of the Sacramento River. A man and woman, arm in arm, strolled the deck near me heading toward the stern and the paddlewheel. The water was like glass, and the only evidence of our movement was the small wave created by the high bow of the Delta Queen. I was as if I was on an oversized birthday cake sliding through the water, silently and gracefully.
The steamboat was full of people everywhere, except where I stood, alone. It was how life is for a private detective. People who read the pulps and dime-store detective novels think that every day is a gunfight or a fistfight. It couldn’t be farther from the truth. Most of the time you are waiting, watching, and sitting around. Most of the time it’s cold, raining, muddy, cheap, and uncomfortable. You spend your days and nights waiting for that five seconds that the man you are shadowing reveals himself. Just like now, standing and waiting for a guy behind a closed door. At this time and place the sunset was warm, and beautiful. For once, I didn’t mind the wait.
As I was watching the sunset, I heard out of the quiet: “Hey buddy.” I looked around and couldn’t see who called. Then he called again. I looked around again, then up. It was the captain sticking his head out of the window of the pilot house.
“Hey, Mack, usually they send a waitress up here with coffee. Could you find one of them and bring me a cup of Joe?”
“Sure, how do you take it?”
“Black.”
I left my station and went looking around for a crew member, but there was none to be seen. I went down two flights of stairs to a bar and asked the bar keep for two coffees: one black and one with cream. He delivered the mugs, and I hurried back up and found the small steep stairway to the pilot house.
The pilot on duty was grateful. “Thanks, pal. It’s starting to cool off up here, and the Joe really hits the spot.”
The view was magnificent. The pilot house itself was a sight. The mahogany wheel must have been ten feet across. A gleaming brass engine-room telegraph was nestled between cherry, mahogany, oak, and other exotic woods in the cabinets and window casings. The view was fit for a queen. Along the back of the pilot house were two elevated leather couches for guests to view the river. The pilot pointed to one.
“Pull up a seat on the lazy bench, enjoy the view.”
“Thanks, Captain. I was in the Navy; we didn’t have bridges like this one.”
“Oh yeah, I was in the Navy too. I was a boatswain’s mate. The name’s Charlie McCoy.”
“Sean O’Farrell. Don’t hold it against me that I was an officer.”
Charlie laughed. “This sure beats destroyer duty.”
Charlie moved back and forth, from side to side adjusting the big wheel. He was short and round, the kind of guy you would want on your side in a bar fight in Singapore. I liked him instantly.
I sat for a bit, but I needed to get back to my post.
“Hey, Charlie, I have to fade and meet a guy.”
“Sean, you coming back?” he asked.
“I should be back on board tonight.”
“I’ll be on watch from six to midnight. Come on back up. The lazy bench is always open for fellow sailors.”
We shook hands, and I descended the stairs from the pilot house and took up my spot again. After a few minutes, I decided it was time to walk a little bit. As I said, it was all about waiting, and sometimes luck is a big part of being a private detective. I had walked down to the stern and turned around when a girl with a tray full of drinks passed me. I followed. I was in luck; she stopped at 420 and knocked on the door. The door opened wide and she went in. Again I was lucky; they left the door open wide, and as I walked by she was handing out drinks. It was a poker game, and Morehouse was sitting there were a pile of chips in front of him. It was only a glance; I couldn’t stop and take a good look. Morehouse had been in there for two hours. The one thing that I could see from the quick glance that I got was that Morehouse had fewer chips than anyone else at that table.
It took just a five-second glimpse into a small stateroom to answer all of his wife’s questions: Randall Morehouse had a gambling problem.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the morning, in my stateroom, I shaved, showered, packed up, and had a quick breakfast of fresh eggs, toast, bacon, and fresh coffee. The Delta Queen had been tops; even the cream for the coffee was fresh.
The boat would be tying up in Sacramento in fifteen minutes. I had a hunch about Morehouse, and played it. I went by his stateroom, number 201, and the cleaning staff was in there. It looked as if it had never been used.
I took a spot on the top deck near the stern. There was a
table and chairs there. I had an unobstructed view of stateroom 420 at the other end of the boat. I didn’t have to wait long. The pilot blew the whistle, and the door to 420 opened. The poker-game participants piled out of the tiny door. The last to leave was Randall Morehouse, looking like he had been dragged from the bumper of a car. He looked more than tired; he looked beaten, destroyed, and humiliated. He didn’t walk; he shuffled his feet to the gangway like a man in disgrace. It was hard to watch.
I followed him to the gangway and he tossed his room key in a wicker basket. He didn’t clean up, eat breakfast, shave, or do anything at all. He just lumbered off the boat like a dead man.
He didn’t go far. At the end of the pier was an old flophouse. He paid four bits for a room, climbed the rickety outside staircase to the second floor, opened a door and went inside. The door did not close. I quietly went up and looked inside. Morehouse was face down on the mattress, fully clothed and out like a light. The room smelled of body odor, cigars, and vomit. It was the kind of hotel where chippies rented space by the hour. It was more than I could watch. I slipped back down to the lobby.
I waited until eight thirty to ensure that offices were open for business before I started making calls. There was a phone booth in the lobby of this dump. It was the kind of hotel where even the rats knew better than to set up shop. I jumped in and played a hunch. I opened the phone book and looked under state agencies. When I found the State Building Standards Commission, I wrote down the number and the name of the director, Gerald Ramsay.
I dialed the number.
“Gerald Ramsay, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ramsay is out of the office this morning and won’t return until two.”
I said thank you and hung up. Then I got the operator and called long distance to San Francisco. I called the main offices of Morehouse and Wheeler Architects. The phone rang only once. “Good morning, Morehouse and Wheeler.”
I cleared my throat. “Randall Morehouse, please.”
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morehouse is not in. May I take a message?”
“I certainly hope he is not in. This is Gerald Ramsay of the state of California Building Standards Commission, Mr. Morehouse was due at a hearing here in my office in Sacramento thirty minutes ago. He has rescheduled this meeting three times. Now if you people want your license to operate terminated let me know right now.”
“Hold please.” The receptionist was probably peeing and running at the same time. One minute later a new voice picked up.
“Good morning, Mr. Ramsay. This is Jonathan Wheeler, Mr. Morehouse’s partner. I had no idea that Mr. Morehouse is due in Sacramento today.”
“I’m not going to waste any more time here, Mr. Wheeler. It is now eight thirty and we are adjourned until after lunch. Your partner better be here at one thirty and ready to testify.” I slammed the phone down.
I left the hotel and went to the park bench across the street right near the Delta Queen’s pier. It was a bright and sunny day, and I returned my attention to Mr. Twain.
At eleven thirty, a Packard touring car drove quickly up the street and, with a squeal of brakes, stopped in front of the flophouse. A young man in a check double-breasted suit with a bow tie and white fedora jumped out of the car before it stopped and ran up the stairs. He flew into Morehouse’s room, and a minute later dragged Morehouse out and down the stairs. The kid took the beleaguered architect to the bar next to the flophouse and started pouring coffee into him. I slid into the joint and took a place at the bar. It was lunchtime, and the soup-and-sandwich crowd was in. A couple of men were drinking drafts at the bar. The place was a real hole. The kind of place where the whiskey is used to clean car parts, first.
The kid was working as hard as he could to bring Morehouse to life. I slipped back over to the hotel and used the phone booth again to call Morehouse and Wheeler. Wheeler picked up the phone.
“Mr. Wheeler, Gerald Ramsay here. One of the commission members’ children has been in an accident and we will have reschedule Mr. Morehouse’s testimony for another date, two or three weeks from now. We are sorry for the inconvenience.”
Old Wheeler was all apologies, and promised that Mr. Morehouse would meet with the commission on time in the future. I slipped back into the bar and watched the action.
Morehouse fell asleep at the table, and the kid went to the bar and asked for the telephone. The barkeep gave him some crap, but the kid slapped a ten-dollar bill on the bar, and the keeper slammed the phone on the bar. The kid started dialing.
“Mr. Wheeler, its Child, sir. Yes, sir, I know sir. Yes sir, he looks like he was up all night again, and yes sir, he’s drunk and hung over. I didn’t know anything about a meeting at the commission, sir. No sir. Yes sir, he is the worst I have ever seen him. Sir, something has got to be done, the Eighth Avenue bridge project is worth millions, and he is not getting anything done on it. Yes sir. I’ll get him to a hotel, clean him up, and put him back on the boat at six thirty, yes sir. Just a minute, sir.”
The kid went over and patted down Morehouse and took out his wallet. He returned to the phone.
“All he has is a return ticket for the Delta Queen. He is tapped out. Don’t worry, sir; I’ll put him on the Queen this evening. I recommend that Michaels or Linderman meet the boat at five thirty and get the old man to the office. Yes sir, I will.” He hung up.
I was leaning on the bar while the kid tried to wake Morehouse. There was a back office in the rear of the bar. A short fat bald guy with an open vest and a cigar came out. He was flanked by two torpedoes. They were your garden-variety muscle. The fat guy walked up to the kid.
“Let’s get something straight, sonny. Your boss owes me a bundle of dough. Either he pays it, or you pay it, or he doesn’t come home to mama. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.” The kid was a little flippant in his response.
The little guy slapped him with the back of his hand. “Look, kid, I know you just work for the guy, but get this straight. He is out of time, and so are you.” The squirt and the two gorillas returned to the private office and slammed the door.
The kid was embarrassed. He picked up his hat, put it on, and got Morehouse on his feet. He shuffled his boss into the car and away they went.
The bar was so dirty that I saw cockroaches running for the exits. Needless to say, I couldn’t trust the food. But I had to risk it. There was a guy sitting at the bar nursing a beer and having a bowl of soup. It was potato, according to the barkeep, but it looked like it could bend the spoon. I ordered an egg-salad sandwich and a beer. I gave the bartender a dollar and told him to keep the change. “The little guy has a temper, doesn’t he?”
The bartender shrugged. “Little Joey Patrone is pretty much angry all the time. Forget to pay money you owe him, and he can be downright ugly.”
I was barbering with the bartender when what had to be the ugliest woman I had every laid eyes on squeezed in between me and this guy eating a sandwich.
“Hey good-looking, buy me a drink?”
“Another time, lady,” I said.
The bartender chimed in. “Beat it, Alice. We have had enough fights in here with you. Fade.”
“Screw off, Arthur. You just tend the bar, you don’t own it. Little Joey does and he don’t mind me being here.” She turned her attention to me.
“What do you say, good-looking? Want a date?”
I wasn’t in the mood, but I wasn’t looking for any trouble.
“Come on, lady. I have to go back to work. Leave me alone.”
She called me a cheap no-good rotten son of a bitch and slapped me in the face as hard as she could. I had to hand it to her, it was a pretty good slap. I felt it good.
“Easy, sweetheart, that’s your money-counting hand.”
The old broad grabbed an empty beer bottle from the bar and expertly broke it on the edge. Screaming at t
he top of her lungs, she swung her arm and the jagged neck of the broken bottle. Destination, my face. It was about six inches from my nose when I blocked it with my left arm. The bottle flew out of her hand and I gave her one stiff punch right in the snot locker. She folded up like a cheap deck chair, her eyes rolling around in her head. She had enough steam left in her boiler to tell me I was a cold-hearted bastard before she passed out on the floor.
She was right. I was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I left the bar and flophouse, and wandered through the downtown area. I knew Morehouse would be back on the Delta Queen for his return home. I had six hours to kill. I found a nice little drugstore with a lunch counter. I reordered lunch: burger and fries, with a Coke. I was eating because I was hungry and I didn’t know if I would get a shot to eat on the boat. That was all up to Mr. Morehouse. Would he sleep? Would be gamble again? Or would he find a honey to snuggle up to?
Ever since I got in the private-eye game I have always known that violence can walk right up and smack you in the kisser at any time. I have pulled a .45 eight times. I have never had to fire. Not yet, anyway.
I had always believed I could talk my way out of any fight. When you throw a punch, all reason is gone. And more than that, your ability to control a situation is gone.
I was still beating myself up for hitting that broad back at the bar. If I hadn’t cracked wise to her, maybe she wouldn’t have gone for the bottle and broken it. I could be in a hospital having multiple stiches in my face.
I hit her once, only once. It was as much as was needed. I didn’t haul off and beat her for five minutes. Even the barkeep told me afterward that I did less than any guy would have. Men who hang around in those kinds of bars carry blackjacks or worse. Still, I did feel like a coldhearted bastard.
The Halfway to Hell Club Page 4
