by Alan Russell
“My docket wasn’t exactly full.”
“And I could see you were getting better, getting that look back in your eyes. That mulish look.”
“Jackassable.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Mules are sterile.”
“I didn’t exactly see you painting the town red.”
I drank my Scotch and agreed in silence. It hadn’t been a good time. Goethe once said, “Know thyself? If I knew myself, I’d run away.” But I’d taken that hard look inside, and decided what I could live with, and what I couldn’t. I decided to be clean. Norman’s words were still in my head: “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” It sounded priggish, but maybe there was some truth in it.
“It didn’t take you that long to get better. Maybe a month. I knew you were okay when you presented me with that fake medal.”
I had made a copy of a Carnegie Medal on display in Special Collections. It had been awarded to a man who aided fellow workers overcome by sewer gas. Maybe I knew what it was like to be overcome by sewer gas.
“I thought you deserved a medal.”
“Which I still proudly display above my desk. But when you announced what you were going to do for a living, I wondered if you were really all right.”
“I wondered, too.”
“I mean, who really is a private detective these days?”
“You accused me of trying to be a stereotype.”
“I did. The glib, rugged-looking man going out to solve crime. I told you to keep your fantasies in the bedroom.”
“You were a little more graphic than that.”
“I didn’t think you’d stick it out.”
“I tested the water first, if you remember. Did my six thousand hours of intern gumshoeing. Didn’t even buy a gun until after my license was framed.”
“What’s this case about?” he asked.
“A missing deaf woman.”
“What?” Lee exaggerated loudly. I didn’t bite.
“Do you want to go for some dim sum?” I asked.
“No,” said Lee. He looked a little ashamed. “Joe said he was cooking a special dish. I think he called it the Native Son Surprise, or something like that.”
I smiled. “He does know I’m straight, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. But he’s not comfortable with you.”
“Native Son Surprise, huh?” It reminded me of something.
Lee nodded.
I cleared my throat for a recital:
“The Miners came in ’49,
The Whores in ’51,
And when they got together,
They produced the native son.”
Lee smiled. He remembered the rhyme. But Lee was originally from Connecticut. I was the native Californian. I was the native son.
6
I SPENT THE MORNING in my office writing up observations and making calls. I had neglected putting my notes in order, and tried gathering all of my jottings into something resembling a report. With enough organized observations in front of you, sometimes a dim light goes on in your head, and sometimes you even realize you’ve made your case. I never carried a tape recorder. It was more than people freezing in the presence of a machine, more than the hassles of transcribing those tapes. Opposing attorneys know only too well that they can ask for your tape recordings, tapes that can sometimes be detrimental to your case. But they don’t have a right to reports or observations unless they’re in the form of signed statements, something I don’t ask for. In legal jargon, my reports were “not discoverable.” I liked being not discoverable.
The phone rang and I was suddenly discovered.
“Don’t you believe in calling your answering service?”
“Miss Tuntland, I know you’ve heard this before, but I was just going to call.”
“If I wasn’t wearing chocolate lipstick and staring at a dozen beautiful roses, I wouldn’t believe you. As it is, I just have my doubts.”
“Treats and sweets for a fair maiden,” I extolled.
“Tinsel boodle for your pet poodle,” Miss Tuntland pooh-poohed, but pleasantly pooh-poohed. “But before the chocolate cloys in my mouth I better pass on your information. Mrs. Walters, remember her, the one with the voice, wants you to call her this morning. I also made your appointment at the Gorilla Project for tomorrow morning at eleven. Your contact is Dr. William Harrison, no relation to the general I’m sure, but autocratic nonetheless. He was less than pleased to spare the time for you so I wouldn’t count on a welcome mat. The address is 1211 Overhill Road.”
I wrote down the address and heeded her warning. Miss Tuntland’s impressions were invariably right.
“I also turned down more business for you yesterday. The uninteresting but highly profitable cases that you seem to eschew.”
“Thank you?” I answered.
“Have you called Denise yet?”
“I did. She gave me a week’s reprieve.” The fact of life for private detectives is that in order to make a living you usually have to work on about ten cases at a time. It was unusual that I was devoting all of my attention to one case. Miss Tuntland seemed to know that better than I.
As we said our good-byes, I hung up the phone and thought some dangerous thoughts: someday I’d visit that woman, someday I’d bring the roses in person. I think we were both scared of that day.
I dialed Tammy Walters’s number. After identifying myself, and getting just a touch of her over-the-wire charm school voice, I heard the expectant pause. “Nothing substantial yet, Mrs. Walters.”
I didn’t allow time for the usual disappointed pause. “Did you arrange a time for me to talk with your husband?”
“I did, though he was very reluctant. He was never happy about me hiring a private detective.”
“When and where will we meet?”
“The Standard Oil Building on Bush Street. His office is on the eighth floor. He said he would be free tomorrow at four.”
“I’ll be there. Will you be free, also?”
“Unfortunately, not.”
“Then I’ll ask you a few questions now. Does the name Will Harrady mean anything to you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about Darren Fielder?”
“I seem to remember that he was one of Anita’s friends, although he was a few years older.”
“Did she speak of him much?”
“No.”
“Did you get acquainted with any of the friends Anita made while she was living in her Russian Hill apartment?”
“No.”
“Did she ever mention their names?”
“No.”
“I understand she was a model for a group of artists. Did she talk about that with you?”
“Not that I remember.”
“One last question: Did you ever hear the name Kevin Bateson?”
“That’s Anita’s photographer friend.”
“Do you have his number or address?”
“He has a photographic studio with his name. I understand he’s now in Tiburon.”
I asked for the address of Anita’s old apartment in Russian Hill, and also took down the address of where the Walterses lived in Piedmont.
“I’d like to talk with you in person in the next day or two,” I said, “and I’ll also need to search through Anita’s belongings.”
“Fine,” she said, but then added, “Tuesdays and Thursdays are bridge days.”
I refrained from saying that missing daughters ranked above trump cards.
There are worse things than driving to Tiburon on a sunny day. I crossed over the Golden Gate Bridge. In 1846 explorer John C. Fremont compared the strait the bridge spans to Constantinople’s Golden Horn and thus it was christened. In modern times the price of real estate brought even greater truth to the naming.
I stopped for lunch along with half of San Francisco at Sam’s Anchor Cafe. Like all of Tiburon’s restaurants, Sam’s sits on the waterfront. If its food and drinks will never get it a sta
r in Michelin, its view and relaxed atmosphere ought to. I unbuttoned a few shirt buttons, ordered a sandwich, and asked for an Anchor Steam. For a little while, I pretended that I was again a member of the gentry. I was a single among deuces and four-tops, and my status relegated me to a chair next to the rope-enclosed deck, a fate I didn’t bemoan, for it got me a little further from the Marin talk and a little closer to the brine.
It was a day for the Bay, and if I couldn’t scan all 450 square miles of it, I wasn’t shortchanged by much. Angel Island appeared touchable, and paradise looked within reach. Saint Francis was only six miles across the water, which made for a double ecclesiastic dosing. The only fault I could find in the day was that my sandwich was slow in arriving. It was probably my fault for having ordered a deviled ham.
Tiburon is touristy. There’s not much to it besides the traps you’d expect. Kevin Bateson’s studio was on Bridgeway, the main street. It was nestled between two prefab ye-olde kind of stores that even A. A. Milne wouldn’t have gushed over. I parked near a pink scripted sign that read Bateson Photographic Studio. When I opened the door, I was greeted by bells clanging. But cutely clanging.
A blonde appeared and smiled on cue. She was cute, and her figure was ripe. Maybe too ripe. I was tempted to raise an imaginary camera and say cheese. Or maybe cheesecake.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to see Kevin Bateson.”
“I’m sorry, he’s doing a shoot right now.”
“That’s okay. I always wanted to see one.”
I walked around her butt, and her “but, buts,” past all the artfully decorated wedding pictures and graduation shots and octogenarians smiling after fifty years of nuptial bliss. I paused only at a cold-cream ad, and Anita Walters bending her face to the softness of the product. The blonde caught up with me there, but I walked by her again toward the sounds in the back.
“Kevin . . . Mr. Bateson, I told him . . . ”
Bateson and his model turned and stared at me. “Go ahead,” I said benevolently. “I’m a friend of a friend here to see Kevin. I just thought I’d watch him at work.”
The model looked at Bateson uncertainly, and Bateson gave me the same look. He must have decided it would be too much trouble getting rid of me.
“Okay,” he said, and then a little louder, “Okay.”
The blonde disappeared, and Bateson repositioned the model. They were working on a set with a white backdrop. It was clear the woman wasn’t a professional, a decision I didn’t base entirely on her face and figure. The camera tells a different story than the human eye, but it was more than that. The woman was inexperienced. Bateson walked her through shots and wardrobe. She was pretty, but he was prettier. He was young, early thirties, and as slick as his dark, greased back hair.
“Beautiful,” “great,” “that’s it,” “hold it,” “wonderful,” “give me that smile,” “that’s a winner,” and “ooooh heart-breaker” were a good part of his shooting vocabulary. He had endless film and patience, and what seemed to me good technique. He didn’t mind constantly positioning the model, and his coaching wasn’t all verbal. He worked with his hands, and lingered with them also.
“That’s a wrap, Vicky,” he finally said, and added a little more Hollywood by giving her a hug and a kiss. “I’ll have the portfolio ready for you next Thursday. After you change, stop by to see Angela.”
There was another theatrical hug and then Vicky disappeared. Bateson pretended that he had forgotten about me while turning off lighting and putting away equipment.
“How much?” My voice echoed a little on the backdrop. He looked up at me from his camera and pretended again. This time that he didn’t understand.
“Huh?”
“How much is she paying you for the session? To pretend that she has what it takes to be a model?”
“I don’t like the tone of your voice.”
“Let me guess. A Marin housewife. She probably wants to be an actress. And all of her friends have always said, ‘Vicky, you should be an actress. Or a model.’ ”
My echo was getting a little louder. “We’d better talk in my office,” he said hurriedly.
I followed him. And I found Anita Walters. In eight-by-tens, and a few more ads, and a couple of color shots. She was the only model featured on the walls in his office. I took my time examining her.
“What do you want?”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Putting together a good portfolio isn’t cheap,” he said.
“And let me guess: you have access to some of the top talent agents, and they’re always asking to look through your portfolios?”
Bateson proved he could still blush. “What do you want?” he asked again.
I gave him my card and pointed to a picture of Anita. She was leaning against a tree, her knees drawn forward to her body, a pensive beauty.
“I’m investigating the disappearance of Anita Walters.”
Bateson gave me a little pout, but didn’t say anything. I tried to encourage his mouth along.
“Where did you meet Anita?” I asked.
“I literally ran into her on the street.”
“And you said, ‘How would you like to be a model?’ ”
“I said it with much more savoir faire.”
“It didn’t faze you that she was deaf?”
“Not in the least.”
“I understand you two had a fight while she was still at Greenmont.”
I felt him tense, even if he tried not to show it. “Who said that?”
His was a very good question, since no one had. “I understand because of your fight Anita didn’t allow you to photograph her during her last year of school.”
“I photographed her.”
His denial wasn’t strong enough, so I let the silence mount.
“I photographed her a few times.”
“So where is she now?”
“I don’t know. At first I thought she was purposely being mysterious, you know, just disappearing . . . ”
“But now you think she’s dead?”
The word came reluctantly out of his mouth. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“If she was trying to get back at me, silence wouldn’t be Anita’s way. She liked active retaliation.”
“You sound like you know.”
He decided to give me his honest look, his “let’s get it all off my chest” attitude. It didn’t make me like him any better.
“I do,” he said. “You’re mostly right about her not letting me shoot her during her last years at Greenmont. I discovered her. I guess I sort of fell for her. And then we did have a fight. And after that, the few times she’d let me see her, the few times she’d let me photograph her, were more active teasing than anything else.”
“What was the fight about?”
“I’d rather not say.”
He looked ready to pout again, so I decided not to press it.
“You said she teased you after your fight. How did she do that?”
“It’s hard to describe. If I tell you it was mostly looks and glances, you’ll probably say I imagined it. But she knew how to jab both personally and professionally. She showed me letters from other modeling agencies, and made sure others told me about her work as an art model.”
“Who did she work for?”
“I never asked their names.”
“Were you lovers?”
“No.”
My eyebrows spoke for me.
“She wasn’t interested.”
I thought about that. It gave me a more positive opinion of Anita. “May I see her portfolio?” I asked.
He swiveled his chair and opened a file cabinet. I saw him carefully separate some binders, and then he handed me a folder. I thumbed through the photos for a few minutes, and separated some duplicates. I couldn’t swear I did it for completely professional reasons. Usually I’m dispassionate about photos of beautiful women. Imperfect flesh has always seemed
a far better thing than a perfect glossy. But I made my request.
“May I have these?”
Kevin Bateson nodded. His blonde came and interrupted our chat. “Mrs. Hutton is here for her session.”
“I have more questions,” I said.
“Why don’t you call for an appointment next time?”
His question was pertinent, and his spunk was returning, so I decided it was a good time to leave. I lingered in the front of the store, looking at the images on display. There were a lot of family shots, graduation pictures, and even portraits of pets. I didn’t like Bateson, but he was a talented photographer.
From his studio, I could hear him talking to his subject. “All right, Greta, great. Good. That’s it. Make love to the camera, come, make love to the camera.”
Whatever happened to good old, “Say cheese,” I wondered.
7
I SENT WILL HARRADY a text message, explaining that I was trying to locate a missing person. While waiting to see if Harrady would answer, I enjoyed the panoramic expanse all around me.
The gulls were active. I identified several varieties without the help of binoculars. People tend to think all gulls are the same, but among the subfamily Laridae there are a lot of physical and behavioral differences. Unfortunately, raucous and mewing cries are one universal gull trait, and the chorus was in full swing. There were Western gulls, Heermann’s gulls, and some immature Herring gulls. Background music might have also been supplied by a Thayer gull or two, and maybe a glaucous-winged gull, but I couldn’t be sure. The birds were swooping down on the pleasure crafts and accepting the offerings.
They’re interesting birds, but not my favorite ornithological study. They remind me too much of humans. I once witnessed two moneyed jokers throwing their loose change around in the Bowery. The laughter of the exhibition makers was worse than the curses of the scuttling and jostling derelicts. Their laughter reminded me of the grating cries of the gulls. I still remembered their laughter even though I hadn’t let it last for long.
My cell phone pinged, and I saw that Will Harrady had texted me back. He told me that now wasn’t a good time to talk, but that he would be available to text starting at six o’clock Eastern time. I texted back to thank him, and said I would contact him then.
