by Ian Bull
They head to the paddock and relax on white bleachers in the shade under oak trees. Kath reads the racing forms while Bella checks out the jockeys and their horses circling the paddock.
Bella likes pink; she wins big with pink, and she goes for any jockey and horse that wears pink, be it polka dots, solids or stripes. Kath goes for the odds. She likes a horse with 7 to 1 odds or below and always bets that horse to show, which is a decent payoff for a horse landing in either first, second or third, without a big upfront risk.
The gals have a great time. Bella uses her age to sneak them into the Thoroughbred Club where they seize the sweetest spot in the grandstand. They pay for their beers and hot dogs with big bills and leave big tips, so no one cares. It turns out that both of their systems work, and each of them turns five hundred dollars into a thousand. They're in a fantastic mood when they cross the parking lot and head back upstairs.
Kath swings open the door to Aunt Bella’s tiny apartment, and in the middle of the small kitchen table is a huge bouquet of flowers.
“Aunt Bella! Someone sent you flowers!”
“Again? They’re from my secret admirer,” Bella says as she takes off her hat and glasses and sticks her winnings in her ceramic Winnie the Pooh cookie jar.
“Since when do you have a secret admirer who sends you flowers?” Kath asks.
“I can’t say. That’s why he’s a secret.”
The bouquet is pink roses and tulips, which proves to Kath that this admirer knows Bella well. Kath reads the attached card while Bella puts the kettle on for tea. “‘To the most amazing creature on Earth.’ He sounds like he’s quite a catch,” Kath says, snapping the little card in her hand.
“He’s very romantic. A little too romantic, if you know what I mean,” Bella says.
Kath corners her great aunt in the kitchen as she plops bags of mint tea into two mugs. “This Meadow Song place is pretty racy,” Kath says. “Maybe I should move in.”
Bella pulls the whistling kettle off the burner and pours the hot water for the mint tea. “First, you tell me all about your man. The one you work with,” Bella says.
“He can’t be trusted.”
“What else is new? That’s true about all men,” Bella says, waving her hand.
“I don’t tolerate lying. We don’t have to live that way anymore,” Kath says.
Bella hands her the brown mug of mint tea, then crooks her finger, beckoning Kath to lean close to listen. “Don’t be too picky. You’re only young once, darling, trust me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
T he Hall of Justice on Bryant Street is the law enforcement guts of The City. Superior Court is on the ground floor along with Traffic Court, and the main headquarters of the San Francisco Police Department ramble everywhere else in the building, which is the size of a city block.
Police detectives are on the fifth floor, which is where Detective Alden Stone sits. His desk is in the third row of ten desks each, right in the middle, and he's a good cop who works harder than the rest. He is six feet tall with sandy brown hair and he is in decent shape. He's stressed, however, all because of his new computer. All the detectives must use them now, and if the captain wants him to use it, he’s going to use it, damn it.
Originally from Boston and a family of cops, he moved west ten years ago with his wife and ten-year-old son and joined the SFPD, where he moved up to detective within five years. He also gave up his love of the Red Sox and adopted the Giants instead (which he never dares admit to his East Coast buddies), but the Giants aren’t destined to win a World Series until 2010, thirty years from now. In the meantime, he likes his job, loves his family and sometimes goes to watch baseball in blustery Candlestick Park, even sneaking away for an afternoon game with Hal Weinstein, a parole agent on the third floor who likes the national pastime as much as he does.
Stone pecks at his computer console, wishing he could just bang out the report on his old IBM electric typewriter instead. The computer screen is black, and the letters are green, and he gets lost when he tabs too far and enters data in the wrong panel, or cell, or whatever the computer consultant calls it. He wishes he was outside watching a game or investigating a burglary.
His boss, Captain Han Yee, a middle-aged officer with twenty-five years on the force, wanders through the maze of desks, pulls up a chair and sits down. “Captain Han” oversees all the detectives and runs a tight ship. The lean and lanky captain is also one of the best tennis players in The City, dominating the public courts in Golden Gate Park at least four times a week. He leans back and exhales, until Stone finally looks up.
“Sorry, Captain Han. I get lost in this stuff.”
“Everyone’s behind. When we have a real database, everything will go faster,” he says.
“Yes sir,” Stone says, but he lets doubt seep into his voice.
“Did you look at that South San Francisco warehouse robbery?”
“But isn’t that San Mateo County?”
“Chief thinks we should take the lead. It keeps good relations.”
Stone smiles and opens a drawer. He pulls out a plastic bag, and inside is a woman's brown leather glove. "This is all we got. It's Italian, top of the line. Only sold at the San Francisco Macy's, nowhere else, so the woman probably lives in The City and went south for the job. We got a fingerprint from the warehouse, and we're beginning to cross-reference it with the computer files, but the database isn't fully built so it will still be a while."
“Anything on the male?” Captain Han asks.
“Nothing except for the description the two guards gave us. Stocky guy, brown hair, good athlete. He’s built like a halfback, but he scaled and flew over that cyclone fence like a kid.”
“I have to tell the Chief something more than that the female burglar bought gloves at Macy’s,” Han says.
“If these two are pros, then her print is going to come up. And they’ll probably try another robbery. If they’re as sloppy as they were on this one, we’ll catch them,” Stone says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
S am stands on the corner of Divisadero and Geary Street, waiting for Cliff and Dozer to drive up in their Lincoln Town Car. His leather jacket is dry, but it doesn't look so new anymore. The leather is cracking, and the bullet hole in the breast pocket makes it look cheap, but it's the warmest jacket he's got. It's the middle of June, the month when the rest of the country is heating up, which means San Francisco is beginning to plunge into a wet, blustery cold.
He's early, which gives him time to think. He feels like he's in a burning house with one window that's still open, and he must dive through it to escape. Paul is the fire who wants half a million dollars. Sam is holding those flames in check, but Paul can flare up at any moment and burn him. Rose is his escape window; when she shows up, so Sam can dive through to safety. That’s when he'll get a parole transfer from Hal and move to another town. But Rose has gone missing, and now Sam is committing crimes for Paul, and Hal is getting suspicious. His escape window is closing, and one slip up could trap him inside where the fire will consume him.
Then there's Kath, who is a complete distraction from what he must accomplish. They have a weird attraction/repulsion thing going on, which is tough to figure out while planning a heist, while also trying to find Rose. It's too hard on the brain.
Prison was easy compared to this, he thinks. Then he remembers what prison was really like, and he changes his mind. Enduring ten times this madness is better than going back to prison.
Sam spots the Lincoln coming up Geary Boulevard and waves. Dozer pulls over into the bus zone, and Sam hops in the back. Dozer re-enters the flow of traffic heading towards the ocean. Cliff points at a black duffel bag on the rear passenger seat next to Sam.
“That’s everything you asked for,” Cliff says. “You must have something big planned.”
Sam unzips the bag and goes through the contents. There are electronic supplies, a small vacuum, a blow torch, duct tape, marbles, zip ties, and more. Sam zi
ps it back up.
“I also need a getaway car parked for me in front of this address,” Sam says and hands Cliff an index card with an address on it. “Nothing flashy. Leave the key on the front left tire, under the wheel well.”
Cliff and Dozer look at each and smirk, evidence they don’t think much of him.
“Anything else, superstar?” Dozer asks, looking in the rearview mirror at Sam.
“Yeah, I need a thousand dollars.”
“Don’t you already owe Paul five hundred times that?” Cliff says. “What for?”
“Expenses. And Paul’s job is to give me what I need and to cover expenses.”
“Paul isn't going to like this," Cliff says, peeling off ten Ben Franklins from a wad of cash he pulls out of his front pocket. He hands it over like he's doing Sam a favor.
“Pull over here," Sam says and grabs the cash. Sam opens the passenger door while the car is still pulling into the bus zone at Geary and Arguello Street. He jumps out with the duffel bag, slams the door without a goodbye, heaves the bag on his shoulder and walks away. Cliff and Dozer honk, wanting him to turn around, but Sam ignores them.
Across the street at the Coronet Theater, The Empire Strikes Back is playing. He knows Cliff and Dozer will be trailing him all day if he doesn’t do something, so he dashes across the four lanes of traffic on Geary Boulevard, pays his $2.00 matinee price and goes inside. He watches the spaceships and the aliens go at it for a minute, then sneaks out the back door.
He jumps on a 38 Geary bus heading back downtown.
He rides it all the way to the end of Market Street near the Ferry Building, then walks to Pier 30 and heads to Red’s Java Hut and buys himself a hot dog. He hasn’t had a dog since his first morning out of prison, down at Doggie Diner by the zoo, and he got a hankering for another one when he was leaning against the Ford Fiesta with Kath the other night. He spotted the Java Hut lit up on the dark pier, and decided he’d go there when he got the chance.
Now it's noon on a crisp late spring day, the warm sun is breaking through that marine layer, and he's got his hot dog, his black coffee, and he's sitting at the picnic table listening to the seagulls squawking overhead as the ferries cruise by on their way to Oakland and Larkspur.
Simple pleasures, he thinks to himself. It’s nice to have your heart set on something, and then make it happen. He remembers being eight years old and wanting to buy a Blackberry Soda. Saving 35 cents and then buying one at Davy Jones’ Liquor Locker on Taraval Street was the highlight of his summer. Life was easier then.
Sam is halfway through his second bite when Kath appears, interrupting his reverie. She drops an envelope in front of him and crosses her arms. She wears dark glasses, except for a jean jacket, and a Raiders baseball cap.
That makes sense, Sam thinks. She’s got to be the rebel.
Sam opens the envelope and checks out the thick wad of cash. “Water damage wasn’t so bad, huh?” Sam asks.
“Bad enough,” she answers. “It’ll smell like wet wool for a long time, thank you.”
“How’s your hand?” he asks, and Kath answers by holding up her palm and revealing a thin red line where the cut is healing.
“Are you going to tell me your plan?” Kath asks.
“To buy another hot dog maybe. Want one?”
“I meant for your job.”
“Oh yes! For that, I'm going to need to take you shopping for clothes. Interested?"
Kath’s eyes widen behind her sunglasses, but she keeps her lips pursed. “Sure,” she says.
Sam waves down a taxi, and they find their way to a chic boutique on Post Street, near Jones, called Clairo. Kath walks into the long narrow boutique, which sells wrap dresses and circle skirts and mermaid gowns, along with the jackets with padded shoulders and the oversized shirt dresses that are hip in 1980. She heads straight to the rack of expensive dresses against the wall, and rifles through them. Kath finds a blue and white striped dress with a mermaid silhouette. Sam watches as she holds the dress against herself and gazes into a mirror.
“I thought you'd pick from these dresses over here," Sam says, pointing to the discount rack on the other side of the boutique.
“I can pick out my own clothes, thank you.”
“But I’m dressing you for a job. You have to look a certain way.”
“You want me to look sophisticated, right?” Kath asks, then pushes him into a man chair close to the dressing room. Sam falls back against the leather back with a plop.
“Fine. Just make sure you can move and run in it, in case we’re being chased. You tend to get yourself into those situations,” Sam says, and when Kath glares at him, he shrugs.
Kath puts the mermaid dress back and grabs a Marilyn Monroe Seven Year Itch circle dress in light purple with tiny pink polka dots.
The young hip blonde shop girl with the big earrings steps forward. “I’ll open a dressing room for you,” she says. She’s been watching their interaction since Kath walked in, hanging back and waiting to swoop in and help close the sale. “Don’t step into it. Put it on from the top and pull it down, it’ll go on easier,” she whispers.
Kath winks at her as she opens the first dressing room door.
Kath strips down to her bra and panties and holds the dress up against her body. She sighs. It’s going to be a tight fit. She puts it over her head, gets the straps adjusted, exhales and tugs it down over her hips. She opens the dressing room door, and when Kath turns her back, the gal zips her up. They are two women don’t know each other but they are working in tandem to get Kath the dress she wants. Kath turns back around and looks at her with a question in her eyes: Am I hot in this? The shop girl nods and smiles.
Sam sits in his man chair and stares at his feet, bored. Kath steps out of the dressing room and coughs gently, and when he looks up, she smiles and swings the skirt for him. He freezes and stares at her long smooth bare legs, tighter waist and high bosom, all created by the magic of a perfect fitting dress. He mutters something.
Kath turns to the shop girl. “I think that means we’ll take it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
F ive hours later, Kath is back in her little house with the pink cement stairs and the musty smell of wet wood. She’s got fans blowing on the hardwood floors and the baseboards, and every piece of furniture is moved away from the walls, to help dry the place out.
She searches through her water-damaged shoes and finds a box with a pair of pink pumps that still look new, plus they fit. She puts on a lapis lazuli necklace and bracelet and her mother's thin Cartier watch. It's a knockoff, but a damn good one.
She checks herself in the mirror. She goes to touch her hair and then stops. She looks great. She should just dip herself in amber and preserve how she looks right now, she thinks. She’s thirty years old, she’s smart, in great shape, and she’s got style. Five years ago, she was a naive kid with big hair and bad taste who liked disco. Five years from now she may be fighting hard to hold on to what she’s got now. She’s peaking, and she knows it.
She wonders who she’s trying to impress. The men in her life? Or just herself? Because the men in her life sure don't seem to be moving up in the world. But Sam did buy her a chic dress. And he did save her ass the other night. And everybody can have an accident. Then again, Sam may be accident prone.
A long honk outside makes her break her gaze with herself.
She steps outside and finds a black limousine in the street, with its nose pointed up the steep hill. Sam stands by the open back passenger door, looking handsome, trim, and sophisticated in a blue pinstripe suit. Her opinion of him goes up a notch. As she moves closer, he hands her a rose and helps her into the back seat. Tick – he goes up another notch.
He slides in beside her, closes the door, taps on the glass, and the chauffer drives on. Ray Charles plays on the tape deck, as Sam pours two glasses of champagne.
“What do you think?” Sam asks.
“I prefer Cadillac limos to Lincolns, but this one is ni
ce.”
“What’s your favorite car anyway?” Sam asks, handing her a glass.
“A convertible Porsche. A ’64 blue Roadster would be perfect for me.”
“Duly noted,” Sam says, finishing pouring his glass. They clink glasses and sip.
Kath makes sure it’s a tiny sip. Champagne and Sam are not a good combo.
“You haven’t said what the job is. I’m not quite dressed for a break-in,” she says.
“We’re going to a party. The limo just gets us there,” Sam says.
The limo driver heads south of Market Street, turns down narrow Bluxome Alley and stops by Marjorie McKale’s art gallery. The heavy metal door is propped open, and music flows out of the second-floor windows. Sam and Kath fall in line behind two older art patrons walking up the steep wooden steps. “Just go with the flow,” he whispers.
They stop at the top of the stairs. Five people mill around the bright abstract paintings on the white panel walls, the bronze statues on pedestals and the serving tables filled with hors-d’oeuvres. Track lighting creates pools of light that people move through, and the lights of The City and the Bay Bridge twinkle outside the arched windows.
Gallery owner Marjorie McKale wears a loose copper-colored silk dress with a plunging V-neck and a matching silk scarf and silk headband in her short hair, like a flapper from the 20s. She even has a long black cigarette holder to complete her look.
She spots Sam and smiles as she walks over, and then frowns as she sees Kath.
“You're late,” Marjorie says.
“No, I’m not. You told me 7 p.m. It’s 6:45,” Sam says.
“And I didn’t say you could bring someone,” Marjorie says.
“I’ll pay her from what you pay me,” Sam says. “And you want them loose, right? They’ll buy more if they drink more, and people will drink more if she’s serving. Makes it better for everyone,” Sam says, and he flashes his tilted grin.
