The guy was an average-looking Joe, wearing a gray pinstripe double-breasted suit. He wore a gray Hamburg and his shoes had a good-quality shine on them. He carried a very expensive black Italian leather briefcase, the kind that opens at the top and expands. He looked like a banker to me. He put on some black frame reading glasses and started reading the latest edition of Black Mask. What a nance!
I went out on deck and had a butt. It was windy, but you could really smell the salt air from the sea. It’s that salt air that makes San Francisco sourdough bread taste so good, unlike any other in the world. I took a deep breath; my head was not hurting at all from all the booze yesterday. I thought I would follow this guy to his office and find out who he is. Then I would find the office of Morehouse and Wheeler and see what was going on there. I was running over in my head what I was going to say to Connie Morehouse. I decided to call and see if she wanted me to continue, though after yesterday, she might not want me anymore in any capacity. But I had to give her the benefit of the doubt: she was hurt, lonely, and feeling betrayed.
The ferry docked and I followed the guy to the Financial District. He stopped at a flower shop and got a white carnation for his lapel. Up Market Street, he stopped at a newsie and asked for the latest edition of Modern Detective magazine. I wanted to puke.
The strolling continued until Wells Fargo headquarters. I figured this was where this bird perched. But I was wrong. He went to a teller and cashed a check, and went back onto Market.
He walked to the new Federal Building between Hyde and Leavenworth. It was only a couple of blocks from my office at Union Square. In the large marble lobby, I looked up at the building directory until he got in an elevator. He was the only one to enter the car. I ran over and watched as the arrow went up and stopped on the fifth floor. Another car opened and I asked the elevator operator for five.
“I’m sorry, sir, but that is a restricted floor. Authorized personnel only.”
I said I needed to consult the directory; that I might have gotten the wrong floor. I got out of the car and re-checked the directory. There were agencies and names everywhere, but I didn’t see any listed for the fifth floor. As I was gawking at the directory, a postman came huffing and puffing into the lobby with two leather mailbags one on each shoulder. He went to the box below the mail chute and with a large key, unlocked the box and started scooping envelopes into the bags.
I went over to bother the guy after he was all loaded up.
“Hey buddy, what time do you pick up here?”
“Every two hours starting at eight a.m. till five, Monday through Friday.”
“I was trying to deliver a letter to the IRS on the fifth floor, but the operator said it was restricted up there. Do you know what address I use to send them a letter?”
“You got it wrong, pal. The IRS is on three, not five.”
“Well, I was sure the gal said the fifth floor. What’s up there on five, then?”
“Buddy the IRS is on three. The Attorney General and the FBI have offices on five.”
“Are you sure? The directory says the FBI is seven?”
“The fifth floor is some special office. It’s called the Organized Crime Federal Task Force. They are trying to run the mob out of Chinatown, can you believe that? Like that is ever going to happen.” He pulled the straps higher on his shoulder and headed for the revolving door.
A bolt of lightning ran through my heart. I went to the elevator and told the operator to take me to seven. At the reception desk was an older brunette, the kind of broad Hoover handpicked for the assignment because she looked tough. As I approached, a couple of agents were leaving.
“Hey, Judy, you need anything? Coffee or something?”
“No thanks, Phil. I appreciate you asking.”
She looked at me.
“Hi, I’m Sean O’Farrell from the fifth floor. I was wondering if you had a reverse directory I could use. We don’t have one down there.”
“Sure, sweetie, I keep telling the big cheeses that you guys don’t have enough equipment down there,” she said. “That’s what happens when they quickly set up these task forces.”
She handed me a reverse directory for San Francisco and Sausalito. I looked up the address of where the girl went and got the name: William Broadcreek, Sausalito 5143. I handed back the directory with my thanks and faded out as quickly as I came.
I went to the phone booth in the lobby, looked up the number for the FBI, and dialed. Judy answered the phone. “Good morning Federal Bureau of Investigation, San Francisco.”
“William Broadcreek, please.”
“Deputy Attorney General Broadcreek is at another number. Fairview 1244. I’ll connect you.”
“Extension 1244” was all the voice on the other end said.
“William Broadcreek, please,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Mister Broadcreek is in a conference. May I tell him who is calling?”
“Yes this is Jeffrey Gunderson from the San Francisco Chronicle. We were wondering if Mister Broadcreek would be willing to sit for an interview about the investigation that is ongoing in Chinatown?”
The phone went dead. I instantly dialed the number again. I got an operator.
“I’m sorry that number has been disconnected.”
I hung up. Chinatown. I’ll be damned.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I walked over to Union Square and checked in at the office. I gave Marty a wave and told I would be down and fill him in.
First order of business after I opened up the office was to call Mr. Wang. I told Jimmy something was hot with the kid and I would have to see Mr. Wang later. I told Jimmy that I knew Mr. Wang was not the kind of guy to be kept waiting, but there were developments and I needed to follow a hot lead. Jimmy understood and told me he would smooth things over with Mr. Wang.
Next I dialed Doctor Morehouse at her office. Her nurse told me she was with a patient, but she was waiting for my call and wanted to speak to me. She said she would call back shortly. Shortly was two minutes.
Connie Morehouse was stammering on the phone.
“Mr. O’Farrell, please forgive me, and please let’s forget about yesterday, please,” she said.
“All right, Doctor, There was no harm done.”
“Randall never came home last night,” she said, her voice quavering. “At two a.m. I received a call from a man named Patrone. He told me that my husband owes him over five thousand dollars, and he better pay up or else.”
“I know this gee, Doctor. He’s a lowlife in Sacramento. I’m sure your husband owes him the money. I am also betting he owes of a lot of other people as well. You need to face the fact that your husband is a degenerate gambler and he may be an alcoholic as well. One problem is feeding the other. It may be time to confront your husband and find out how many people have the hook into him. This is starting to get pretty serious, Doctor. These types of guys like Patrone don’t take no for an answer.”
There was a palpable silence.
“All right, Mr. O’Farrell, I believe you, but I want you to follow him tonight and see if you learn anything more. I am going to contact my family and see if I can get a large amount of cash to make these bloodsuckers go away. I don’t know if my marriage is going to survive this. My husband has got to grow up and act like a man. It is very hard being married to a screw up.”
Her voice cracked. I had been pretty hard on her, and I felt sorry for her. But that didn’t mean I could completely trust her.
“I want you do something for me, Doctor. I want you to go home and pack a bag. Check into a hotel. Make it a nice one. You can register in your own name, it will be okay. I don’t think these people will come to your home, but I don’t want to take the risk. If you talk to that riverboat-gambler husband of yours, tell him you have to go out of town on business.”
She agreed and hung up. I was ab
out to go see Marty and fill him in when the door opened and two suits walked in. They were trying to look tough. I slid the middle right drawer open.
“You O’Farrell?” The suit on the left demanded.
“Check the door, pal. I’m pretty sure there is a name on it in gold leaf.” I said.
“Look what we got here, Brian, a real honest-to-goodness smart-aleck gumshoe,” he said. “On your feet, wise guy. You’re going downtown.”
“What’s the rumpus?”
They just gave me a blank stare.
“Just a curiosity question: Where do you go to finds suits that cheap-looking?” I asked. “It must be a popular place, seeing how you both shop there. You two monkeys got some kind of ID?”
They practiced this a lot in front of a mirror, I could tell. They whipped out their black leather credentials folders and flipped them open with their arms fully extended.
“Special Agents Ashwythe and Dunderbeck, FBI.”
I opened my wallet and displayed my ID in the same way.
“Sean O’Farrell, Book of the Month Club. FBI, huh? Well, that explains the really cheap suits. They must have a cheap-suit-buying seminar at FBI finishing school. I’ll bet your mommies are real proud.” I broadly smiled.
“On your feet, O’Farrell. Get your hat. We’re going downtown,” Dunderbeck said.
“I know all the local FBI guys around here. How come I don’t know you two mutts?” I said.
“Let’s move it, O’Farrell. You are going downtown with us on own your two feet or on a stretcher. It doesn’t make any difference to us.” Ashwythe said.
“You two must be part of that Federal Bureau of Idiots special task force that Broadcreek is heading up?” That got their attention. They were stymied for a moment.
I leaned over my desk and lowered my voice like we were exchanging a secret.
“I know you boys are new to town, and you don’t want to look bad in front of all the other little agents on the playground, so let me give you a little tip. Just between the three of us, okay? This is Union Square. WE ARE DOWNTOWN.”
Dunderbeck had his fill and he was coming around the desk with a sap in his hand. I drew a .45 from the drawer.
“Listen, boys, unless you have an arrest or material-witness order signed by a judge, the only place you are asking questions is right here,” I said.
“Do you know you can get ten years for pulling a roscoe on a FBI agent?” Dunderbeck said.
“You know when I was in Boy Scouts, we use to sing a song about a butcher named Dunderbeck.” From his adverse reaction, he had heard it too. I smiled.
I started singing the song in a really exaggerated German accent and bobbed my head from side to side: “Oh Dunderbeck, oh Dunderbeck, how could you be so mean. To ever had invented that sausage-meat machine.” Dunderbeck cringed and turned crimson.
“What do you say we make a quick phone call before we go?” I picked up the phone and dialed Danny O’Day’s office. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Good morning, office of the San Francisco U.S. Attorney General.”
“Hi, Lois, Sean O’Farrell here. Is that good-looking and pithy Deputy Attorney General of the United States of America in?”
She laughed. “Hold on, Sean.”
A moment later: “Hey, Sean, what’s shaking’?”
“Hey Danny, a couple of quick items,” I said.
The two FBI guys were looking at each with a look that said What the hell did we get ourselves into?
“Father Mickey called from the church,” I said. “It seems the number-one hot water heater has had it. I called Tony Balducci and he thinks he can fix it by installing a new pilot light. Father Mickey wants a new one and he wants the Knights of Columbus to buy it. I’m just the treasurer, you are the Grand Knight, so this baby is all yours.”
“All right, Sean. I’ll put in on this week’s agenda. We can’t wait long on this thing,” Danny said.
“Next item, speaking of Tony Balducci. He is trying to weasel out of being the fish-fry chairman. I did it three years running, you did it two years running. This is Tony’s first year, so no dice on bailing out.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to Tony and smooth things out. What else?” Danny chuckled.
“I got two FBI agents here in my office that want to haul me in for questioning.” I smiled and looked at the two agents.
“What are their names?” Danny’s voice became all business.
“Ashwythe and Dunderbeck.” I said.
“Those are special task-force guys. Call me as soon as they clear out.” He hung up.
I slowly hung up the phone and kept my hand on the receiver. I didn’t say a word. Two minutes later when the phone rang, the two agents jumped.
“Sean O’Farrell, Private Investigations,” I said.
“Good morning, Mr. O’Farrell, this is Deputy Attorney General William Broadcreek. May I please speak to Special Agent Ashwythe?” Broadcreek’s voice was stiff.
I put the phone over my chest. “Is there a Special Agent Ass Wipe here?” I said.
Ashwythe held out his hand for the phone. I whispered to him, “I think he’s upset.” I gave him the phone.
“Special Agent Ashwythe. Yes sir, no sir, yes sir, I completely understand sir.” He handed me the phone and the pair walked out my door and never looked back, until…
I started singing that song again with a German accent.
“Now long tail rats and pussy cats will never more be seen, they all been ground to sausage meat in Dunderbeck’s machine. Oh umpa, umpa, umpa, umpa.”
If looks could kill I would be on the slab. Dunderbeck wanted a piece of me real bad. He stood there in the doorway and glared at me, his hands in tight fists. Ashwythe knew the score and wanted to clear out.
“Come on, Dave, let it go.” Ashwythe pulled Dunderbeck by the arm out the door. Dunderbeck’s eyes were locked on me as the door quietly closed and the catch of the doorknob clicked shut.
I called Danny back the minute they were gone.
“Jesus H. Christ, Sean. What the hell is going on? This guy Broadcreek has got some real juice.” Danny’s voice was shaken, but took a breath and regained his composure. “He has been here a year, but they keep to themselves down there on the fifth floor. A pal in DC tells me he is tight with FDR and may be the next Attorney General. They know you are working for Wang, and one of the agents saw you shadowing his daughter. Jesus, his daughter, Sean! This whole thing is getting out of hand. Broadcreek is taking this very personal. He is baying for your blood. What the hell are you into?”
I cleared my throat. “Danny, I never discuss my cases with anyone, but I will with you this one time. You can’t tell Broadcreek, okay?”
Danny quickly agreed.
“The Wang’s hired me to get background information on the girl their youngest son is dating. This kid is clean as a whistle and not involved in the family business. He is an architect and engineering student. The Wang’s want to make sure the girl isn’t a gold-digger. Danny, the girl is Broadcreek’s daughter.”
“Holy shit in a country handbasket,” Danny said. “I see why you don’t want me to tell Broadcreek. He called, by the way, and is coming up to see me in an hour, I’ll keep quiet. You better watch your step, Sean. Broadcreek is pissed and he wants to break you open and bust you into little pieces like a fortune cookie.”
“Yeah. I ate Chinese the other night. My fortune cookie said, ‘Get the hell out of the detective business.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was going to be delicate, how I handled this with Wang. I made the intelligent choice and decided to work on the other case.
I’d been following Randall Morehouse for a few days, but I didn’t know where his office was. I got out the phone book and looked up Morehouse and Wheeler. Son of a bitch, there they were, big as life: M
orehouse and Wheeler, Architecture and Industrial Design, Inc. Union 4599, 300 Post Street, Suite 355. My building, six floors down.
I took the elevator down to the third floor. The hallway walls were full of pictures of projects Morehouse and Wheeler had designed. In the middle of the hall was an oak and glass case with a model of a bridge. The Oakland Bay Bridge. It had a sign above it: OAKLAND BAY BRIDGE, RANDALL R. MOREHOUSE ARCHITECT AND DESIGNER. It had an additional note: BRIDGE OPENED NOVEMBER 12, 1936, FINAL ACCEPTANCE AND PROJECT COMPLETION SCHEDULED FOR JUNE 1, 1938.
There were many pictures of Morehouse with San Francisco’s elite. He worked on several projects with Julie Morgan, who designed the Fairmont Hotel and designed that monstrosity of opulence and self-aggrandizement, Hearst Castle, for William Randolph Hearst, local millionaire and muckraker. She was considered the preeminent architect in the area. From the pictures, it looks like Morehouse worked with her a great deal. There were photos of many of the best homes on Knob Hill and Russian Hill. There were extensive drawings of City Hall and the main branch of the library. There was a photo of Morehouse and Andrew Carnegie. I think the good doctor was little remiss in calling her husband a screw up, as there were newspaper articles describing Morehouse’s designs as brilliant. Could this be the same cat that staggered off the Delta Queen? One thing I noticed in all the backslapping items on the wall was no mention of Wheeler or his designs. Kind of strange.
I walked to the end of the hall and peered into the office. Morehouse walked ten feet in front of me, going the other way down a hall with a cup of coffee in his hand and three young guys on his tail. Two of them were the guys who met the boat here in San Francisco. The third was the guy named Child who cleaned him up in Sacramento, then brought him back on the boat.
I turned and went back to the elevator, not wanting to be seen. I heard the door open, and footsteps. From inside the office, I heard a gal call out.
“Mr. Wheeler, Mr. Gladstone called. I told him you would call him later,” she said.
The Halfway to Hell Club Page 7
