Dead Skip

by Joe Gores

  1.Joyce Leonard Tiger—1600 Fell Street.

  2.Harold J. Willets—736 Seventh Avenue.

  3.Fred Chambers—The Freaks, Clement at Tenth Avenue.

  That took care of the Western Addition and the Richmond District. After that he would cross Golden Gate Park and head out through the Sunset District, south toward the San Mateo County line. Doing that would add:

  4.Kenneth Hemovich—191 Stillings Avenue.

  5.Timothy Ryan—11 Justin Drive.

  Very often, of course, you were led off on tangents by something hot you learned at one of the addresses. But at least you started out with a game plan. His, tonight, left him with one case on which he could do nothing until the next day.

  6.Charles M. Griffin—3877 Castro Valley Blvd., Castro Valley.

  The trouble was that the possible embezzler lived in the East Bay. Heslip had merely been assigned to check out Griffin’s San Francisco work address, which was a parking garage down on First Street. Which, of course, would be closed for the night by this time. Tomorrow for Mr. Griffin.

  SIX

  Joyce Leonard Tiger.

  The Fell Street address was just beyond Central, on the other side of the Park Panhandle from the decayed Haight-Ashbury where the love-children syndrome had ended in muggings, murders, bad trips, and addiction. No 1972 Cadillac Coupe de Ville with the subject’s license number in the area, a black neighborhood even though the subject was listed as being white.

  Sitting in the car, Ballard read over the single report—Heslip had gotten the case only two days before.

  Per Mrs. Shirley Jackson, landlady at 1600 Fell Street, the subject had skipped out the previous Wednesday owing nearly four hundred dollars in back rent. Real name: Joyce Leonard. But she had been living common-law with a black named Tiger. Mrs. Jackson didn’t know if Tiger was a first, last, middle, nick, or assumed name. Tiger would leave in the early evening with the subject, then the subject would come back alone with a man, and keep coming back alone with a steady stream of men who stayed between fifteen minutes and an hour each. When the stream stopped, Tiger would return.

  The Mary Magdalene lay, as old-time field agents like O’Bannon would call it.

  Heslip also had checked with the subject’s listed work address, Bethlehem Steel’s Accounts Receivable office at Third and Illinois. Subject terminated “for cause” (unspecified) on 12/15 of last year. Merry Christmas.

  The only other given information (facts listed on the case sheet when it came to the field man) was that she had a mother named Thelma Barnes in Stockton.

  Ballard checked the names above the mailboxes in the gaudy vestibule of the cheap new building. No Leonard. No Tiger. His watch said 10:42. He rang the Mgr bell.

  Mrs. Shirley Jackson was a bride or her husband had been at sea for a long time. She sat on the arm of his chair during the entire interview, squirming slightly under his explicit sexual caresses. All three of them—she, her husband, and her husband’s hands—seemed totally indifferent to Ballard’s presence.

  “Like I told the other gentleman from your company, she just up and moved out in the afternoon. When she knew I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Cadillac, huh?” said Mr. Jackson suddenly. He was a lean sad-faced black man whose long skinny fingers roamed his wife’s body like electricity. “That woman went through more cars—like went through a car a week, something on that order. I remember two Fords, two Mercurys, then she had a Dodge. Now a Cadillac.”

  “I had to help her up the stairs last month,” said the wife. She was small and round and cute and shiny as black patent leather, with remarkably dainty feet and hands and a roll of flesh under her breasts that was irresistible to those busy hands. “She’d been in a fight with Tiger, had lost two front teeth.”

  “Did the men stop coming after that?” asked Ballard.

  “Only for a day or two.”

  “Even without them teeth she was a fine-looking woman.” Jackson’s hands pinched. “Yassuh, fine-looking woman. Few bumps and bruises don’t . . .” He ran down, then volunteered suddenly, “Sheeit, she was always pretty beat-up-looking anyway. Her an’ Tiger used to bust up each other an’ the furniture till they’d pass out, most nights.”

  “Anyone see her move out?” asked Ballard, writing on the gold carbon of Heslip’s report.

  “The Blodgetts,” said Jackson promptly. “Folks in 3-A. Said it was a big red moving van, too big for the little bit of furniture they had wasn’t broke. Black driver ’bout Mack-truck size, according to Miz Blodgett.”

  “You didn’t say nothing about that to me,” said Mrs. Jackson. Her tone of voice gave the busy fingers pause.

  “I disremembered, honey.”

  “If I thought you and that Mrs. Blodgett—”

  “Could that have been San Francisco Van and Moving?” asked Ballard. They were just across Stanyan from Park Emergency where Bart had first been taken, he knew, which put them in the neighborhood. And they had red trucks.

  “Hey, could be at that,” beamed Mr. Jackson, who seemed to welcome the interruption.

  The case sheet, folded in thirds, went above Ballard’s visor. S.F. Van was a good lead for the next day, but Joyce Leonard Tiger was dead for tonight.

  Harold J. Willets.

  Ballard parked at the curb by the Safeway on Seventh Avenue. Behind him, on the corner of Fulton, light spilled from the big Chevron Station, but Seventh itself was totally still and quite dark. Eleven o’clock on a week night in the Avenues was always dead.

  Harold J. Willets, boy racist. The last case Heslip had worked before he had gotten it.

  Nice if this would be it, end it right here. Of course, he couldn’t be sure unless Willets broke down and confessed or something, but on the other hand, a man who has beaten someone over the head is liable to exhibit nervousness under questioning, especially if head-beating isn’t his normal profession. Willets’ was driving a bread truck.

  Even so, Ballard sat in the car for a few moments with a sort of empty feeling in his stomach. But it was the routine which saved you. You did what you always did. And hell, he was just over twenty-five, weighed 184, took a size-forty-four jacket. A good left end in high school, handball now on free evenings, abalone-diving up the coast on weekends. Able to take care of himself physically.

  But then he would have said the same thing and more about Bart Heslip—until last night. He grunted, and got out of the car.

  It was anticlimactic. Willets wasn’t home.

  But lights were on next door, and five minutes of conversation there just about took care of Harold Willets. He’d spent two hours at their house the night before, 12:15 to 2:15, telling about the black son of a bitch who’d come and taken his car. The neighbors had told him they couldn’t do that, and today Harry had gone to see an attorney.

  “They can do that,” said Ballard flatly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m one of they.”

  Which left only five possibles on his list.

  Fred Chambers.

  Heslip’s reports showed that the subject could be found six nights a week at The Freaks, playing in a hot rock band called Assault and Battery. Was he kidding? Awfully damned appropriate for a cat who had slugged the client’s man down in Bakersfield and then had boosted the Buick right out of the bank storage lot after it had been repo’d.

  On three different nights Heslip had tailed the subject from The Freaks. Once Chambers had taken a cab, twice had ridden with friends, to three different addresses which subsequent investigation had shown were not his own. Heslip had not spoken to him, since the client’s orders were explicit: Repossess on sight. Do not attempt personal contact.

  He could be it, all right. See Bart recover the Buick, follow him, attack him, then take back the Buick and the case sheets to disguise the fact that the car had been repo’d in the first place. Think Bart was dead; try to make manslaughter look like an accident.

  Ballard drove out Balboa to Tenth Avenue, then cut over to
Clement. He turned right, went by The Freaks and on down to Ninth, over to Geary, up to Eleventh, past Clement to California, back down to Ninth, over to Clement, back up to Tenth. The classic search pattern, usually carried in reports as cruised the area, could not spot unit.

  Only this time, when coming back up Clement, he saw a white 1971 Buick Skylark in the white zone in front of The Jolly Coachmen, directly across from The Freaks. It hadn’t been there five minutes earlier. License, 331 KLZ. Jackpot. Fred Chambers’ car.

  Ballard parked around the corner on Tenth. His hands felt cold as he folded and pocketed the assignment sheet, got out the sixty-four GM master keys, window picks, hot wire. Ready to go. So go.

  Ballard walked up to the Buick and began running the keys on the door. Key 14 turned slightly, stuck. He worked it. It popped over. He jumped in, slammed and locked the door. Dammit, dammit! Key 14 just would not work the ignition. He began running the set.

  A short, stacked, very pretty brunette in hip-hugger purple cords and a funky tie-dyed silk blouse came from The Freaks, looked at the Buick casually, did a double-take, then ran across the street toward him. Ballard kept running the keys.

  “What are you doing in there? Get out of that car!”

  Ballard shook his head, kept running the keys. She turned and ran back across the street and into The Freaks, her solid rear jouncing pleasantly in the purple cords.

  Up to key 27 without success. Hell.

  Twenty-five or thirty patrons, mostly men, burst from The Freaks in a clot. Ballard, still running keys, could identify the subject from Heslip’s reports: blond hair down over the shoulders like Prince Valiant, a Jesus Christ mustache and beard. Not Christlike, however. When the door wouldn’t open, he began beating almost hysterically on the window with a clenched fist, kicking, shouting, “Get out of there, you fascist son of a bitch. I’ll off you, pig bastard . . .”

  The black-haired girl cried, “Fred! Fred! Here’s the keys!”

  The subject tried to unlock the door. Ballard held down the lock knob with one hand, ran keys with the other. The girl had a second set; the subject went around to the other side. Ballard slid into the middle of the car, held down a lock knob with each hand. It was getting hairy. A heavy-set lumberjack-type wearing slacks, no shoes, no shirt, and a paisley vest that left bare his hairy meaty arms, began pounding on the windshield with the heel of his hand, trying to bust it in.

  The girl disappeared; Ballard immediately used that hand to run keys again. Number 53, still no joy. Over his shoulder he saw that the girl had stopped a cruising black-and-white, was gesturing and pointing and crying. You don’t know it, honey, but thanks.

  One of the cops advanced on the Buick with his holster flap unbuckled. He rapped on the window with a gloved knuckle, stuck a tough cop’s face against the glass. “Okay, buddy, out of there. Easy!” he called.

  Ballard picked up his repossession order from the seat and held it against the window. The cop studied it, turned abruptly to the girl. “Hell, lady, he’s a private cop. He’s legal.”

  “But he can’t just—”

  “He’s got the paper that says he can, lady.”

  The subject, while Ballard had been showing the repo order, had finally gotten his door unlocked. He jumped in beside Ballard. “Out, pig bastard, or I’ll break you apart!”

  Ballard met his eyes. This he could handle. “Sorry, Mr. Chambers. I have to take the car.”

  Chambers began cursing shrilly. Behind the beard his face was contorted; spittle flecked his mustache. He still made no actual move to touch Ballard, however. The girl had unlocked the other door. The cop opened it to stick his head in. “Any chance of waiting until tomorrow on this?”

  “No known residence, five hundred bucks delinquent, he stole the car back from the client’s lot in Bakersfield after it had been repossessed down there, is currently out on bail under an aggravated assault charge in connection with that. You tell me, Officer.”

  “Yeah.” The cop turned back to the girl. “That’s it, lady. He wants it now.”

  “I . . . all right.” She caved in abruptly, leaned across Ballard to tell the subject, “Give him the keys, Fred.”

  “I’ll give him shit!” Fred yelped. “I’ll—”

  Just then the lumberjack went for the partially open door. The cop moved casually to block him, but the beefy youth shouldered him roughly aside.

  The second patrolman, a huge black who had been leaning against the squad car with his arms folded, the picture of noninvolvement, lunged forward like a fencer. His giant black hand plucked the attacker away like an orange. “That’s a cop you’re shoving, daddy-o,” he crooned. He had a dreamy, hopeful look on his face. The lumberjack’s hands curled into fists; the cop said softly, “Yeah!”

  He slammed the other man up against the squad car in the classic spread-eagle as if he were made of papier-mâché. As he frisked the youth and plonked him in the back seat of the squad car, the crowd quieted magically. The black cop called him in to the Hall of Justice for a make on possible wants, reading his statistics from his driver’s license.

  The girl, meanwhile, had started crying. “Fred, give him the keys!”

  “I’ll give him something, I’ll—”

  “Like you gave it to the black boy last night?”

  “I . . . what?”

  “One of our men,” said Ballard. “He’s in a coma. If he happened to catch up with this car last night like I did tonight—”

  “Oh, no,” said the girl in a sick voice. “You can’t . . . Fred wouldn’t . . .”

  “Like hell Fred wouldn’t,” said Ballard.

  “Look, I’ve been driving the car ever since Fred started his gig here,” she said desperately.

  “What time does his last set end?”

  Chambers said, in a small voice, “One-thirty, one-forty-five. Man, I didn’t clobber any spa—any black. I didn’t, man.”

  The cop looked pointedly at his watch. Chambers slid hastily out; the girl dropped the keys in Ballard’s lap as if suddenly glad to be rid of them. When Ballard pulled away he could see, by the rear-view mirror, that the lumberjack was being released from the prowl car—which meant he was clean downtown.

  Halfway to the office, Ballard suddenly started shaking. He had to pull over to the curb and park for a while. It had been a pretty close thing back there. The Freaks’ clientele seemed trying to live up to the name.

  But as he started up again and headed for the office, he drew a mental line through Chambers, Fred.

  SEVEN

  A HEAVY hand on an auto horn jerked Ballard’s head up. His eyes were bloodshot; he had drooled on the desk top. Man, dead asleep. What time? He looked blearily at his watch. One-twenty. A shiver ran through him as he got upright, yawned, knuckled his eyes, pulled on his topcoat. Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, for Christ sake.

  Twenty-four hours ago, here at DKA, Heslip had been getting it. How was he? Any change? Hell, too late to call. Ballard stumbled past the Chambers Buick, set the alarms before pulling the door shut behind him. Involuntarily he looked right and left before crossing the sidewalk to the Yellow Cab he’d called. Nobody, of course.

  “Yeah, make it Geary at Tenth Avenue.”

  He settled back in the rear seat, to fall asleep immediately. The cab stopping woke him up, he paid the driver, got his receipt, walked down Tenth to his company Ford. Shivering, he got the motor started, tried to knuckle sleep from his eyes. Then he grinned to himself. Maybe he ought to go around the corner for a beer at The Freaks. Yeah, sure. What he ought to do was go home, get some sleep.

  But only forty-eight hours left to Kearny’s deadline. And two more cases lined out for tonight yet.

  Kenneth Hemovich, 191 Stillings Avenue.

  Where the hell was—oh yeah. Out off Monterey Boulevard somewhere. He checked the map, then used Park Presidio to get through Golden Gate Park to Nineteenth Avenue in the Sunset. Patrick Michael O’Bannon, the best field man DKA had next to Kearny himself, had played as
a kid in the sand dunes where the Sunset District now was. He said. You could never tell, with O’B. He was a blarney Irishman for sure.

  Ballard turned up Congo from Monterey, was immediately into a maze of streets which curved and climbed up the flank of Mount Davidson. The air coming in through the rolled-down window to keep him awake was wet and heavy. Stillings was only two blocks long; he parked a block from 191 to recheck the file.

  Heslip had started the Kenneth Hemovich case with a given work address of 1680 16th Street. This turned out to be a private home where nobody had ever heard of the subject. Cute. The given residence address had been 644 Mount Vernon Avenue. Not much better: a black woman with eight children and a TV addiction. She hadn’t removed her eyes from the twenty-six-inch color screen, Heslip’s report stated, during the entire interview.

  At least she knew the subject, had even seen him three times with Virginia Pressler, the thirty-two-year-old girl friend. The Mount Vernon woman had cared for the three Pressler children (eleven, nine, and eight) until three weeks before, when old man Pressler had come and abruptly taken them away.

  Hemovich and Virginia Pressler were living together as man and wife “in the sight of man but not before the Lord God Almighty,” she told Heslip. She didn’t know where they were living together. Written neatly across the face of this gold report carbon, in Giselle’s hand, was the address where Ballard now was: 191 Stillings Avenue. Ballard’s blood quickened. Had she gotten it verbally from Heslip? Had Bart been here last night to learn . . . what?

  Ballard went up the street, his shadow dancing long and thin before him. The under-the-house garage was locked, but he could see through the mail slot that a car was in there. His flashlight could give him the color, blue, but not the make. The file carried no color for the Hemovich Roadrunner.

  When he stepped back out on the sidewalk, a voice called from the totally dark doorway of the house. “Hey, what the hell you think you’re doing?”