My old man told me from day one: “You never hit a women, you protect them, and you honor them, your treat them all like they were your mother or grandmother.” He would really get all worked up about this subject. “The lowest kind of skunk hits a women. When they do, boyo, you straighten them out.” He said.
I knew what that meant. When I was thirteen, my pop’s younger sister Martha, my Aunt Martha, was married to a cable-car gripman. He was a big strapping Scotsman named Brown. He was over six feet tall, and huge like a weightlifter. My old man was only five feet six and wiry. He was a baker, he wasn’t real big but his hands and arms were strong. He still kneaded bread by hand, and he was a kind and gentle man.
One Sunday after Mass I walked with Pop to my Aunt Martha’s house. The old man had a loaf of sourdough bread for his sister. We heard the screaming and yelling a block away. All the neighbors were on the sidewalk, wondering if they should get involved. The old man pounded on the door. My Aunt Martha opened the door. She had a split lip that was bleeding, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Uncle Ian was yelling at my Pop to get out. Pop ignored him and went into the kitchen got a cold towel and helped my aunt calm down. We were there for a good hour. He helped her to bed and quietly closed the bedroom door.
I was sitting in the living room as my Uncle Ian was towered over Pop.
“Go home, you bug Irish prick,” he snarled, “and worry about your own wife and your own business, why don’t you.”
Pop kicked Uncle Ian in the leg, and he went down to his knees hard. Pop started kneading Ian’s face like soft dough. Fifteen socks to the puss later, my old man was whispering in his ear.
“Don’t you ever hit my sister again, or I’ll shove a bagpipe so far up your ass every time you fart it’ll play ‘Scotland the Brave.’ So help me God, I’ll ship your body back to Glasgow if you touch her again. And one more thing, Ian: don’t ever call me a bug Irish prick again.” He popped Ian one last time and my uncle went down for the count.
As we were walking back, Pop spoke.
“I’ve told you before, Sean. Never hit in anger, never get down in the gutter with your enemy. But always remember, there are some men in this world that need a little straightening out every now and again. That would be your Uncle Ian.”
He never spoke of it again. All I know for sure is my old man never laid a hand on my mother. From that day forward I was pretty sure Uncle Ian never did it again to Aunt Martha.
I knew I did the right thing, popping that broad at the bar, but I still felt awful. Oh well. I had another Coke and pulled out my library book and read for a while. I finished a couple more stories and the book was almost done. Mr. Twain never disappoints. I paid for lunch and picked up a Sacramento Bee and a San Francisco Chronicle for the ride back. I was at the register when I looked out the window and saw that the blue Packard had pulled into the bank across the street. The kid with the bow tie got out and opened the door for Morehouse. He was cleaned up, all right. He was wearing the same suit, but the kid must have gotten it cleaned and pressed at the hotel.
Morehouse went into the bank, and walked out two minutes later counting money. He had a butt dangling from his lip and his fingers were counting away. He piled back in and the kid drove him the three blocks to the Delta Queen. I had twenty minutes before we boarded.
I strolled the street to the piers. The pilot I met on board, Charlie McCoy, was about ten steps ahead of me. Past him, a kid in a three-piece suit and white fedora was walking toward me, reading a racing form and smoking a butt. He bumped into Charlie. That’s when I called to Charlie. He turned around and waved. I raised my left arm and yelled hello.
When the kid with the white fedora was even with me, I clotheslined him with my left arm. His legs went straight out and he landed flat on his back. He was stunned and tried to get up, but I put my foot on his shoulder above his left arm.
“Easy cowboy, don’t make me get tough.”
A street cop came running up.
“I saw that, pal. What did you hit the guy for?”
The kid started to protest. He raised his left arm and pointed at me. I grabbed the kid’s hand and twisted his arm.
“In two seconds, punk, I’m going to twist this arm off and beat you to death with it,” I said. “Give him the wallet back.”
The kid reached into his inside left suit pocket and handed Charlie his wallet. Charlie was stunned.
“Hey, that’s my wallet.”
“The kid’s a grifter. He picked you clean when he bumped into you a second ago.” I addressed the kid. “Nice pull, Junior.”
The kid smiled with pride. “Thanks, mister.”
The cop asked Charlie if it was his wallet. Charlie checked and said it was. The cop kicked the kid in the side as hard as he could, then kneed the kid in the stomach and clamped the nippers on him. When he was sure he was secure, he took his billy club and raised it over his head. He was going to split the kid’s melon open. He swung through, but I caught the stick halfway.
“Come on, pal. The kid’s handcuffed, and he’s defenseless.”
The flattie was honked that I stopped him. He thought about it for a second and he knew I was right. He got the kid by his arm. Charlie put the kid’s hat on his head.
The kid said thanks. He looked at Charlie for the hat, then at me for saving his puss a workout. The copper hauled him away. Charlie and I watched him shove the kid down the street.
“Sean, how did you know the kid swiped my wallet?”
“I’m a private eye, Charlie. I know these things.”
“Well, I never knew he got my wallet.”
“Don’t worry, Charlie. That makes two of you.”
“Two of you, what do you mean?”
“As the kid was getting handcuffed, he lifted the cop’s wallet. And while he was at it, he got the flatfoot’s keys. They are in his left hand.”
Charlie laughed. “How do you see all that stuff?”
I shrugged.
The boarding had begun and Morehouse was already on board. I told Charlie I had to work for a while, but I would bring hot coffee to the pilothouse and fill him in.
I made my way to the top deck. The whistle blew and we slowly started to back away from the pier. When we were one hundred yards away and picking up steam, I looked at the street and saw the young pickpocket running as fast as he could go in spectator shoes, holding his white fedora with the black band. That cop was chasing him on foot, but you could tell that he was out of breath, out of gas, and about to give up.
The door to 420 opened, and sure enough, old Morehouse was in there again. If nothing else, this bird was consistent.
CHAPTER NINE
I knew Morehouse would be at that table all night. There was no sense standing outside that door and not getting a good night’s sleep. I decided that I would run below, have a nice dinner, then join Charlie in the pilothouse for coffee and watch the sunset.
There was a wait for a dinner table, so I chatted with the purser about the boat. The Delta Queen and her sister, the Delta King, were only a couple of years old. They were the most expensive and elaborate sternwheel steamboats ever built.
The hostess called my name, and I descended the grand staircase and took my table. Since the good Dr. Morehouse was paying, I ordered a steak, baked potato, and green beans. I’m a real steak snob; my favorite place for a steak or chops is John’s Grill, over on Ellis Street in San Francisco. It would be hard for the Queen to beat them, and they didn’t, but they came damn close. I ordered two cups of Joe and made my way to the pilothouse.
As it turned out, Charlie had been at the Brooklyn Navy Yard while I was there. He finished his twenty and came west. He was a tugboat captain in Suisun Bay, but he joined the Delta boats when the California Transportation Company opened for business. He started as the first mate and became a pilot within a year. It was a little slice of heaven
in the wheelhouse. It was quiet, peaceful and the scenery was world-class. It started to rain, ever so slightly, cooling things off and making the air fresher than normal.
Charlie asked what I was up to on board. I told him about the cake eater I was following in room 420.
Charlie laughed.
“That game has been going on ever since these two boats went into service. There are big rollers that ride this boat just to get in that game. Every Monday night and the Tuesday return.”
I went back two more times for coffee. It was a beautiful evening, just like the one before. Charlie was going to be relieved at midnight, so I said my goodnight.
I went by room 420 and sure enough, you could see the lights through the wooden shades. It would be another long night for Randall Morehouse.
In the morning I had sourdough toast, grapefruit, a soft-boiled egg, and coffee. The boat pulled in at exactly five thirty as scheduled. In a repeat of the previous morning, here came old Morehouse. My favorite daisy boozehound was ready for another day of work. He was a little bit better than yesterday, but not by much. He tried to throw his key in the basket, and missed, of course. He was walking like a sailor at sea on a rough night, weaving and bobbing, trying to walk straight but unable to manage it. As soon as he was on shore, two suits grabbed him and starting walking him toward the Financial District.
Doctor Morehouse was out of her nut if she thought this tool was fooling around on her.
I walked over a block to the parking area at the Embarcadero. My Ford was waiting for me. I mentioned before that I have always had a thing for cars. Last year I finished a big case for a law firm, Donaldson, Donaldson, and Drake. Their client had been embezzled for more than two hundred large. It turned out it was an employee was skimming the bank accounts. The dope kept the cash in shoeboxes in his closet. I waited till the gee was out living it up with his girlfriend, then I got into his house and took the illegal proceeds. I gave the money back to the client. They paid my fee and gave me a thousand-dollar bonus.
I own the house my parents lived in; I have no debt or bills. So I spent eight hundred and fifty clams and bought my baby. She was maroon, with a gray interior. A 1937 Ford Coupe with the three-point-six-liter V8. I do love her so. There is nothing like dropping her into a high gear and driving across the Golden Gate and driving around on a clear day in the country.
I paid the twenty-five-cent overnight parking fee and headed to the office. Marty was just opening up. He tried to lure me with a donut, but I was full from eating on the boat.
I opened the door, flipped on the light, and opened the bills and more bills that were scattered on the floor below the mail slot. I hung up my coat and made for the phone. Phyllis at Acme Answering gave me the rundown.
My sister Margie called from Los Angeles. Mr. Wang called looking for an update. Father O’Connell from my church called; please call back. Let me translate that for you: he wants something, he wants something fixed, he wants something done, he wants help, he wants money. In other words, call him back, because it’s all of the above. And last but not least, Kaitlin O’Doherty called. My heart skipped a beat.
I called her home number immediately. It was only seven thirty, but I thought I might catch her before work. The phone rang a couple of times and she picked up.
“Good morning. Sean O’Farrell returning your call. I hope I am not calling too early. I just got back in town.”
“No not at all, thanks for calling. My shift was changed today; I don’t work until one this afternoon. How would you like to go to lunch?”
I tried to remain cool, but it was hard. “Sure what time and where would you like to go?”
“How about Sears at eleven thirty?” she said.
“I’ll be there.” She said goodbye and hung up.
Am I free for lunch? She must be kidding; I’d cancel an audience with Pope for a chance at lunch with her.
I first called Mr. Wang and left a message with Jimmy: that I would meet him tomorrow at ten a.m. with a complete report. Next, I gave the good Doctor Morehouse a call. I told her I had a report; when could I see her? She had a tennis lesson, followed by a match. We agreed to meet at her house at three.
I drove home, grabbed a quick shower, shaved and put on my best suit and tie. I went into the dining room and opened the top drawer to the linen chest. It’s where I keep my gun-cleaning supplies. I also keep two cleaned ready-to-go M1911 .45s. Every Saturday morning was gun-cleaning time for two hours. In addition to the two .45s on my person, I had two spares in the drawer, one hidden in the kitchen under the sink, one hidden under the fireplace mantel in the living room, one in the night table next to the bed, one between the mattress and the box spring, one hidden in the door panel of the Ford, two in the office, and I keep one extra at Marty’s, behind a loose kick panel on the glass display case.
After I got out of the Navy, I received a crate. It held the parts for twenty M1911 .45s in a wood box. It was from a gunner’s-mate chief that worked for me, and knew I was a .45 fan. A private eye can never have enough firepower around.
Every Friday, I bring the office guns and the one from Marty’s stand home to clean on Saturday, and return all three on Monday. The .45 is a great handgun, but if you don’t take care of it, it won’t take care of you. If you don’t clean and properly oil your .45, it may not fire during the moment of truth. I heard horror stories about guys having their guns jam and at the cost of their lives in World War One. It wouldn’t be happening to me.
The chief was a hillbilly from Tennessee named Hartfield. He used to kid me endlessly about how particular I was about my .45. He use to chide me with that Southern drawl and say: “You know, Lieutenant, that pea shooter ain’t any more dirty than it was the last time you cleaned it, yesterday.” I wasn’t that bad, but the chief had a good chuckle over it at my expense.
We went to the range to do the military police semi-annual qualification. After everyone had qualified, the chief and I got into a friendly shootout. We were dead even after three magazines. On the fourth, the chief’s .45 jammed. I put all of my rounds in the black for a perfect score. I imitated the chief’s drawl.
“You know, Chief, that pea shooter ain’t any more dirty than it was the last time you cleaned it last year.” The entire group of guys howled.
All the chief could muster was a humble “sumbitch.” I wasn’t sure he was talking to me or his .45.
Happy memories. I put the two fresh .45s in the holsters and I left for lunch. Yippee!
CHAPTER TEN
Sears Fine Foods is one of those restaurants that make San Francisco what it is. I eat there a lot because the food is excellent and the service is fast. It is a block away from my office and it’s right on the Powell Mason cable car line. It just opened a few months ago, but it will be around for years to come. They serve this new breakfast called Swedish pancakes. The line is up the block on weekends, but you can still find a table during the workweek. I got there early.
I had a table by the time Kaitlin O’Doherty entered Sears. She was wearing a lovely emerald green dress that made her red hair and green eyes stand out even more. When you are trying not to look nervous you usually are anything but. But the second I laid eyes on her, I relaxed.
Her smile could melt the North Pole. So effective was her smile that I was about to call Santa and tell him to clear out while he could.
I didn’t know how to start things off, but she seemed to have an agenda as the waitress brought us coffees and menus.
“Mr. O’Farrell.”
“Sean, please.”
“Okay Sean. I asked you here to tell you something. I am looking forward to dinner on Friday, but I wanted to clear the air so to speak so that there is no misunderstanding.”
I kept a smile on my puss, but it wasn’t easy.
“I am going to tell you a little bit about myself and my past. If you don’t like wh
at you hear, I won’t blame you for taking a walk. Lots of men have.”
I sat there and smiled like an idiot and nodded.
“My family is from Boston. I am thirty-two. How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Well, I have been engaged to be married twice. The first guy was a lawyer from a prestigious family name. My parents were thrilled. The night before the wedding I got word that he got one of his family maids pregnant. The lout told me not to worry about it, that it would never happen again. Thank goodness I broke it off, I found out a week later it was not one pregnant maid, but two.
“Speed forward four years and I am engaged to a wonderful young man. His father is a U.S. congressman and he is a fast-rising attorney. My maid of honor came to see me, this time a week before the wedding, and told me my fiancée made a pass at her brother. I confronted him and he didn’t seem to think that it was a real problem. After all, dalliances with men isn’t really cheating, like it would be with a woman, he said.
“Then there was the handsome young doctor from New York. After dating for two months, I just knew he was going to pop the old question. One evening he came over to our house, my parents were out. He was dressed in evening clothes; I asked where he was off to. He told me it was none of my business, and he proceeded to beat me to within an inch of my life. Three weeks later I got out of the hospital and my father informed me he had been offered a promotion in San Francisco. I told him to take it, and along I came.
“That was four years ago. I live at home with my parents. If you think the police are tough in an interrogation, wait till you meet my mom and dad. One meeting with them and you are going to feel like you have been worked over with a rubber hose. I’ll give you a heads-up: they aren’t going to like you. They are overly protective, overbearing, surly, and downright inhospitable. I should also mention that my mother hears my reproductive clock ticking and sees her chances at grandchildren slipping away, so she may want a blood sample and a fertility test, any questions?”
She gave me a wry smile.
The Halfway to Hell Club Page 5
