by Alan Russell
“Did you bring a drink?” she asked.
“Do you need one?”
“Why else would I have asked?”
“Maybe you wanted to take advantage of me.”
She laughed, but not too mockingly, and then surveyed me a second time. “I’ve had worse ideas.” Her tone wasn’t too insulting either.
“How about we go for a drink, then?”
“I can’t. I have to wait for Vincent to stop jerking off.”
“How long does that usually take?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“You’ve got time for some masturbatis interruptus, then. Let’s get a drink.”
She debated for the length of her smile, then grabbed my hand and led us out through a side door. “There’s a place nearby,” she said. “They’re beginning to know me there.”
“I wonder why.”
She tilted one of her spiked hair balls at me, and proceeded to gore my shoulder. In the light of day, she looked to be about thirty, though her assorted baubles and combined styles gave her a younger look. “Who are you?”
“How many people have said ‘Papa Bear’?”
“About a thousand jerks.”
“Stuart Winter. Private investigator.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“God. I always wanted to meet a private dick. I mean, in the flesh.”
“But flesh is weak,” I said.
“And don’t I love it,” she said, then added, “Are you carrying a piece?”
I wasn’t sure of her reference. “I don’t have a gun, no,” I said.
She turned to me, ran her hands up and down my chest, and said, “Then you don’t mind if I frisk you.”
I was debating an answer, when she turned again, this time into a bar. San Francisco has 1,500 of them, three bars for every church. I’ve always thought that if churches sold communion wine, they’d do a better Sunday business. Goldilocks didn’t order cream and porridge. She had a Tanqueray double with a splash of tonic.
“So what kind of case are you on?”
“The disappearance of Anita Walters.”
“Boring.”
“The case?”
“The person.”
“Do you know her well?”
“Better than I want to. She drives men batty. She’s great with her eyes and hands, but I’m not crazy about her mime act.”
“Jealous?”
“There are people who will tell you that. Vincent and I had a thing going for a while. He did the same dance other men do over her, and I didn’t like that.”
“Were they lovers?”
“I don’t think so. Vincent would have bragged. But she was his model and that was bad enough. I went to his studio a few times. It was like watching Salome do her dance. She was into power.”
“Where’s his studio?”
“He has one of those big lofts south of Market. Near China Basin, across from the San Francisco RV Park. It’s an alleyway on Lusk and Townsend. Vincent’s making that area the place to be for artists.”
“But now he’s a director.”
“New obsession. He’s still at his studio at first light.”
Goldilocks looked at her watch and then swallowed her drink. “Cuckoo clock says I gotta run.”
I followed her over to the theatre and saw her to one of the side doors. “Thank you,” I said, “and one last question, not related to the case. A boring question for you, I’m sure . . . ”
She interrupted. “How’d I get the name Goldilocks?”
“Right.”
“Maybe you’re not such a good detective. Maybe you should figure it out. Maybe I should put you on the case. Maybe I should have you nose around.”
There was one answer. “Maybe.”
“My publicist would tell you it’s because my first performance was in second grade where I starred in Goldilocks and the Three Bears. But he’s a liar.”
“And what would you tell me?”
“Oh, I’ve got lots of stories. Some of them I almost believe. But a detective likes truth, doesn’t he?”
I nodded.
She turned her back on me, then suddenly whirled about and raised her long flower skirt. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Her pubic area was gold.
“Not your usual peroxide blonde, huh?”
She lowered her dress, slowly, and held my eyes. “I give performances people don’t forget,” she said, and then Goldilocks was gone.
I stared at the closed door and finally spoke. “‘Someone’s been playing with my head,’ growled Papa Bear.”
8
I PARKED IN A quiet spot and made sure my phone was fully charged and there was good reception. Lucky for me, my phone had the latest voice-to-text app, which meant I no longer had to hunt and peck.
Me: Are you available now, Mr. Harrady?
Him: I am.
Me: My name is Stuart Winter. I am a San Francisco private investigator. As I mentioned earlier, I’m working a missing persons case.
Him: Who is missing?
Me: Anita Walters.
I waited for him to respond, but he wasn’t in any rush.
Me: She has been missing for six months. Her mother is very worried. Were you aware of any of this?
Him: No.
Me: You wouldn’t have any idea where she is, then?
Him: No, I wouldn’t.
Me: Has Anita tried to contact you since you left Greenmont?
Him: No.
Me: Why did you leave the school?
Him: Personal reasons.
Me: Personal reasons involving Anita Walters?
Him: I don’t like your implication. You make me sound like a guilty party. I am not.
Me: You weren’t involved with Anita?
Him: I was involved with stupidity.
Me: Were you involved with Mrs. Lockhart?
His answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming. Finally, he responded.
Him: She was separated at the time.
Me: What happened with you and Anita?
Him: I became personal with her, but not involved with her. I listened to Anita’s problems. I even took her to coffee a few times. In retrospect, I can see how naïve I was.
Me: About what?
Him: About appearances.
Me: What problems did she discuss with you?
Him: To discuss them would be a betrayal of her.
I was getting tired of that sticky wicket.
Me: To not discuss them would be the larger betrayal. Anita might be in danger. She might need help. What you say might help me locate her.
Nothing appeared on the screen for a long time. Will Harrady weighed my words and his thoughts. The steam finally worked on the clam.
Him: I don’t think I can help you with any revelations. Anita had the insecurities and usual problems of most young people. And she had more than her share of anger. What you saw and what was there were two very different things.
Me: Meaning?
Him: Meaning behind her smile there was anger.
Me: Anger at whom? Or what?
Him: We never got to specifics. She said she hated insensitive people. And there were familial problems.
Me: Such as?
Him: Anita once told me she hated her father. But that is hardly unique. I’ve heard that from many students.
Me: Why were you dismissed from Greenmont?
I waited on his words again.
Him: Because I wasn’t innocent enough, and neither was Anita.
Me: What do you mean?
He: She had a crush on me. I think I was her first love. I didn’t lead her on. Students get crushes on teachers. It’s kind of lovely, and kind of comic, and I guess I was flattered that such a pretty young lady felt that way.
Me: How flattered?
Him: Not Lolita flattered.
Me: You said she wasn’t innocent enough. Explain.
Him: Anita didn’t know about love, but she knew about hate.
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Me: And in what way weren’t you innocent enough?
Him: I wasn’t exactly surprised she was capable of love. But what surprised me was her hate.
Me: Tell me about her love, and her hate.
Him: The two of us were walking one day away from the school, when Anita startled me by putting her arms around me and pulling me close. As I disengaged from her, I tried to explain how her behavior wasn’t appropriate, but that only seemed to encourage her. She tried kissing me, and she kept signing that she loved me. I probably overreacted by pushing her way. I will never forget her look of reproach. I tried to apologize, tried to offer words of comfort, but she was too angry to listen and stormed off.
Me: How did you lose your job?
Him: The day after our misunderstanding, Anita came to class but didn’t linger afterwards as she usually did. It was only later, when I was doing paperwork during my prep period, that she came to see me. At first, I didn’t notice her. It was only when I looked up that I saw her in front of me unbuttoning her blouse. I signed for her to stop, but she wouldn’t. That’s when I tried walking out of the room. Anita caught up to me, though, and threw her arms around me. And that’s when Deidre—Mrs. Lockhart—walked in.
Me: You’re saying you were set up?
Him: It was no secret that Deidre stopped by to chat during my prep period.
Me: I imagine you proclaimed your innocence?
Him: I did. But I couldn’t argue my poor judgment. I had seen Anita outside of school. That was inappropriate. I supplied my own rope for the hanging. At least they let me resign for what we all agreed to describe as personal reasons.
Me: Did Anita claim you came on to her?
Him: She refused to comment on the situation. But Mrs. Lockhart is certain Anita saw her turning the corner on the way toward my classroom just before she entered the room.
Me: Any idea why Anita did this to you?
Him: Clearly, she wanted to hurt me, but I’ve never been able to understand her rage.
Me: Thanks for your help in this.
Him: I hope you find her.
GETTING A BETTER HANDLE on the enigma that was Anita, I texted Ellen Reardon and asked if she would be available to answer some more questions. She immediately answered my text, and surprised me by inviting me to come over.
This time around I remembered to ring her doorbell only once. The observant investigator even noticed the little sign this time, the one that read, I CAN’T HEAR KNOCK. PLEASE USE BELL. Ellen greeted me at the door and ushered me in. I noticed all of her handiwork was put away this time. In its place was an iced bucket of white wine.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked.
“That’s the best offer I’ve had in a long time.”
She poured each of us a glass of wine, and then sat down next to me. The wine was cold, and she was warm, and in the laws of nature and man that makes mush.
“I was going to make myself a chicken sandwich for dinner,” she said. “How about I make a sandwich for both of us?”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble. How about I take us out for a bite?”
“It’s no trouble at all,” she said.
“I’ll agree if you promise to let me reciprocate in the future.”
“Deal,” she said.
We ate our sandwiches, and before long finished the bottle of wine. There was a second bottle after the first one, and lots of talking to accompany the drinks. At first, I was conscious of facing Ellen, and overenunciating my words, but it didn’t long before both of us were comfortable communicating with the other. I asked questions about Anita, but I asked more questions about Ellen, which I think she appreciated. The wine helped smooth our conversation, but eventually we reached the point where friends wouldn’t have lingered quite so long, and lovers would already have begun their love. We were at the smiles-and-looks stage, putting a toe or two in the water and trying to gauge the temperature. Ellen must have sensed some of the stop signs in my head.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
“That I have to be up before sunrise.”
She had the choice to hear, or not to hear, and interpret my words in the way in which she wanted. “Yes,” she said, agreeing, and then nestled her body close to mine and started stroking my chest.
Usually I see women around my age. Ellen had to be almost a dozen years younger than I was, but I didn’t pull away. Instead, I ran my hand through her hair, and it brushed against her ear and her hearing aid. Then I gently followed the contours of her lobe. Her hair covered some scar tissue around her ear, the stigmata of what I guessed was an operation. I thought to ask her about it, but asked something else I believed more important, even if I kept telling myself it wasn’t.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. Last week.”
The numbers didn’t add up for me. “You were in high school until you were twenty?”
“In California the disabled can stay in high school through their twenty-first year. But for my last two years at Greenmont I wasn’t technically in high school. I was an aide, which allowed me to get paid and get college credit.”
“But you roomed with a student?”
“There was a housing shortage, and I didn’t see the need to demand a single.”
“Is it uncommon to have older deaf students in high school?”
“Not particularly. We have more to learn, remember?”
She kissed me, and contradicted her last statement. I tried to say something, make some feeble protest.
“I can’t hear you,” she said firmly.
“Good,” I said.
The words fell on deaf ears, and so eventually did I.
I wasn’t ready for a morning after, and was glad Ellen slept while I gathered my clothes. At first, I crept around in the half darkness, and tried to not even breathe loudly, but then I remembered her hearing loss. I had an easier time dressing without having to be as concerned about making noise. On the kitchen table I left a thank-you note, and then walked out to car.
I would have liked a shower, a long, hot shower with plenty of soap, and a shave. I felt dirty, not only because I’d put in a long day and night, but because I had violated one of my rules. As an investigator it’s important to observe. That’s the job, and you don’t get involved, because that can interfere with the work. Involvement means sometimes you don’t think right, and don’t act right, and subsequently don’t clean right.
Like last night.
And maybe this morning.
I didn’t feel all repentant. Part of me felt very good. Part of me wanted to dwell on the stirrings going on inside. Part of me wanted to linger in Oakland over coffee and talk. But I didn’t stop. I followed the just-rising sun over the Bay Bridge, and drove to China Basin.
I parked on Townsend across from the RV park in front of Maxilla & Mandible. The name stood for truth in advertising. It was a bone store, featuring skeletal remains of animals. And humans. It must have been a morbid impulse that prompted me to put my hands to the window and look inside. Rows of bones lined the walls and displays, remains of the hoofed and the horned, the quick and the very dead. It was a good thing the store wasn’t yet open, for I had an irresistible impulse to walk in and yell, “The name’s Samson, and I’d like a jawbone of an ass.”
But the doors were closed, so I sought other ways of making an ass of myself.
Goldilocks’s directions were less than inspired. I wandered around Townsend and Lusk and settled on what must have been the right alley. The area was undergoing renovation, the old brick structures being recast in new forms. A lot of old warehouse buildings were still standing, and more than a few were being refurbished. Layers of whitewash had been applied to the brick buildings, but you could still read some of the old names, like Cleveland Van and Storage, and Ogden Packing. In back of the alley were railroad tracks long in disuse, and home now only for a lot of shattered glass.
I walked up the alley back to Townsend an
d stood looking around. The China Basin Building had undergone a nice facelift, and showed its six floors of red and black proudly. I heard a door close, and turned to the sound.
A man was muttering into his goatee. He looked like he was in active search of his muse or his mind. I stepped into his path and got his attention.
“Where’s Vincent’s studio?”
He took one hand out of his pocket, pointed to the loft across the street, then walked by and continued on with his conversation. It was a three-story building that had been converted into loft space. There wasn’t a doorbell. I tried the doorknob and it turned.
There were hardwood floors leading in several directions. They had the wear of years on them, and probably hadn’t been waxed since their installation. The place was old and drafty. The once white interior paint was gray and chipped, which didn’t explain the strong smell of paint in the air, so I followed my nose. If, as some insist, I’m a son of a bitch, then I claim my heritage as bloodhound. My nose led me up complaining stairs, where I paused to sniff for a few moments on the second floor, and then I walked up one more flight. I wandered a hall and settled in front of some large sliding fire doors, and used the metal grips to separate the doors. They slid on worn tracks to the right and left. The exposed area looked big enough to house a basketball court, but it was an art studio, a messy and occupied art studio.
Two sets of eyes looked at me. Vincent’s comprised one pair, a naked woman’s the other. She was cold. She was also weirdly positioned on her back, her arms and legs in the air.
“You are the private detective.”
Vincent had an impressive bass. He was well posed in front of his easel, brush in hand. I dislike artifice, and despise others who make me part of their set. I got the feeling that Vincent would have preferred me positioned like the model, or maybe a pinned butterfly. I started walking and looking around the studio, the very dirty studio, while I talked.
“I am. My name is Stuart Winter.”
“And you wish to know about Anita Walters?”
“Yes.”
“Vincent will answer a few questions, but this is his time to create. When Vincent tells you to leave, you will leave.”
“Fair enough.”
“Your first question is, ‘Do you know where Anita is?’ Vincent does not.”
“When did you last see her, Mr. . . . ?”
