No Sign of Murder

by Alan Russell

  “I don’t know about a walk, Stuart,” he said. “I have to see a patient an hour from now.”

  “We’ll be back by then.”

  “And I have an awful lot of work that I need to attend to.”

  “It’s a perfect day for walking.”

  Norman took a short but pointed glance out a window. The day was grey. It was windy.

  “And you’re always saying you don’t get enough exercise,” I said.

  “And you’ve never heard of such a thing as advance notice?”

  “That’s an excuse.”

  “I’m not even wearing walking shoes.”

  “That’s another excuse.”

  “Is there a chance we can do our walking in here?”

  Norman is a sneaky fighter. He throws rabbit punches when you least expect them. I answered his question.

  “Anita was molested by her father,” I said, “from age six to twelve. I confirmed that yesterday.”

  “Let’s walk,” said Norman.

  We didn’t say anything for a while, just walked. We left his office on Van Ness and turned on Jackson, hitting the cable car line on Hyde.

  “Let’s follow the only moving National Historical Landmark in America,” I said.

  “How about let’s ride it,” said Norman.

  “San Franciscans don’t ride the cable cars,” I said. “You know that, Norman.”

  “How far are we walking?”

  “That, Norman, I don’t know.”

  He pulled his trench coat a little tighter, and looked a little wistfully at the cable car as it pulled away.

  “Do you know what Bernard De Voto said about our city, Norman?”

  “I don’t even know who Bernard De Voto is.”

  “He said, ‘Make no mistake, stranger, San Francisco is west as all hell.’ ”

  “And what am I supposed to say to that?”

  “Maybe you should give O. Henry’s line. He said, ‘East is east, and west is San Francisco.’ ”

  “It’s cold. Are we going to stop for a drink somewhere?”

  “Kipling wrote about drinking in San Francisco. He said, ‘Drinking is more than an institution. It’s a religion.’ ”

  “I’m hearing from everybody but Stuart Winter.”

  “He’s not that quotable.”

  “Then how about our drinks?”

  “They say that most of the landfill for the Embarcadero came from emptied bottles. It’s a fact that prohibition merely whetted the City’s tongue. Hard liquor became medicinal or religious. Cold medicine was a hundred proof, and Saint’s days occurred three or four times a week until the Volstead Act was repealed. And then the saints were forgotten but saints keep well.”

  “Stuart, do you want to talk about Anita?”

  “Not yet, Norman. Not yet.”

  “When do you think you’ll want to?”

  “Maybe by the time we reach Telegraph Hill.”

  Norman groaned. Loudly.

  “Fear not, Norman. Your historical guide is here.”

  “How about I flag us a cab. We must be talking close to twenty blocks.”

  “We both need it, Norman. Your stomach, my mind.”

  “Your point’s well taken.”

  “Are we having fun yet?”

  “No.”

  “We’re supposed to be. This is the Queen City of the Pacific. In days of old they said San Francisco’s front gates were pearly, and its streets were gold. But for fun you went to the back alleys, the byways where the smoke drifted from opium dens, and waiting where that smoke drifted were the whores who hawked and practiced their trade in cribs that were the scourge of the world.”

  “That doesn’t sound so marvelous.”

  “Do I hear echoes of a bluenose credo? Bluenoses never liked the fact that San Franciscans didn’t sin in darkness, and they still don’t. The self-proclaimed righteous have always said God was going to judge against this city. When the 1906 earthquake struck, those who thought they stood next to God said He had come calling on San Francisco. But do you know what Charles Field said?”

  “I don’t know who the hell Charles Field was.”

  “Field wrote:

  If as they say, God spanked the town,

  For being over frisky,

  Why did he burn his churches down,

  And spare Hotaling’s whiskey?

  Answer Field’s question, Norman.”

  “Maybe the devil has a thirst.”

  “And maybe God has a special place in his heart for drunks, fools, and Americans. That’s a trinity I know better than most, Norman.”

  We didn’t say much else on the way to Telegraph Hill. We walked quickly and determinedly to a location where feet serve better than unwanted cars. They don’t allow commuter parking on the hill. Those that made it to the top of the hill decided they didn’t want to be inconvenienced by the cars of those who hadn’t made it. Norman was huffing and puffing by the time we reached the crest.

  We looked around. Once Telegraph Hill was a signaling ground, a place where semaphore flags announced to the merchants and the interested citizenry the arrival of ships in the Golden Gate. Today the view is still unequaled, even if the only waving these days is for cabs or cameras. We looked around, took in the view, and Norman finally caught his breath.

  “Talk, goddamn you,” he said.

  “While we walk,” I said.

  He had to catch up to me, and when he did, I didn’t give him time to complain. “Anita was used and abused by just about everyone,” I said. “It got me down. I told myself I’d take today off and that I wouldn’t think about it. But that made me think about it more. You’re always saying I never open up. You’re always saying I internalize. That’s why I stopped by.”

  “I’m glad you did. Even if my body’s not so sure.”

  “Sometimes the mouth bone’s connected to the feet bones.”

  “And sometimes, Stuart, it’s connected to the butt bone.”

  We talked about the case. It interested Norman enough to silence his complaints all the while we walked on Montgomery Street. He didn’t remember his aching feet until we hit California. I suppose I felt better for talking. Mostly, I just recited facts, but their mention made me breathe a little easier, even if I didn’t know why. Norman’s feet slowed until he said he couldn’t walk another step. We stopped at Old St. Mary’s Church on California and Grant. Since 1854 San Franciscans have been admonished by the lettering on the church: SON OBSERVE THE TIME AND FLY FROM EVIL. Norman noticed the inscription.

  “Good advice for you,” he said. “Time you left your trade. It’s not healthy.”

  “Someday,” I said.

  “Flag us a cab, will you? Or carry me to the cable car stop.”

  “I’ll watch for a cab. But you picked a good resting spot.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Joshua Abraham Norton died on the spot near where you’re sitting in January 1880.”

  “Somehow that’s not comforting. But I suppose you’re going to tell me who Joshua Abraham Norton was.”

  I nodded, but didn’t start the telling right away. You wonder at stories, whether they can be as marvelous as they seem. The patina of time often leaves a gentler surface, one that you aren’t anxious to scrape away, but Joshua Abraham Norton passed any scrubbing test. He was the real article, one of those San Francisco legends that you don’t want to fade away, the kind worth a telling and retelling. Norton’s was a riches to rags to rich rags story.

  “Norton arrived in San Francisco in 1849,” I said. “He wasn’t just another sourdougher. He had money, and his fortune increased, but he got greedy. In 1854 he attempted to corner the rice market. The move backfired and left him a pauper. He next surfaced in 1859 when he walked into the San Francisco Bulletin and left his calling card, a written announcement that proclaimed himself as Norton I, Emperor of the United States. The Bulletin decided it was a good joke. They printed his proclamation, the first of many. And that was the start of Nort
on I’s twenty-one-year reign.”

  “He was the town joke?” asked Norman.

  “He started that way,” I said, “as the kind of joke that usually draws derisive laughter, but somehow the joke evolved and turned into an example of good humor, and there is a difference, if few precedents.”

  “You almost sound sentimental, Stuart.”

  “I am. And so were the people of San Francisco. They took Norton to their hearts. They courted his patronage, and even listened to his ideas. He demanded a huge Christmas tree be brought to Union Square as a holiday offering to the children of San Francisco, and it was, and is, to this very day.”

  Norman still looked skeptical. “Don’t tell me the people didn’t laugh at him during his reign,” he said. “I know human nature better than that.”

  “They did,” I said. “Some of his proclamations were ridiculous. He proposed funds for a bridge connecting San Francisco with Oakland, and later, just when the laughs were dying, he said that the Golden Gate should also be spanned by a bridge. He cabled the leaders of the world and proposed peace, and that was always good for a laugh, too.”

  “You make him sound like he wasn’t a comic figure.”

  “I don’t mean to. He was funny, a ridiculous little figure in epaulets, but he had such spirit. Norton was invited to major and minor ceremonies throughout the City. He often journeyed to Sacramento, where he made his wishes known to the state legislature, as if politicians weren’t comic enough by themselves. But wherever Norton went, he had a special way of making his own points and statements. At one gathering he was sitting on the speaker’s platform when anti-Chinese riots broke out. With violence all around, Norton stood up and recited the Lord’s Prayer. They say the riots stopped as quickly as they had begun.”

  Norman listened a little more attentively. “Did our Emperor have a court?” he asked.

  “Two companions named Bummer and Lazarus, and the blood royal certainly didn’t flow through their vein. They were mutts, unmistakably ugly mutts, that Norton rescued from death. They followed him everywhere, and became celebrated royalty in their own way. They sat next to Norton at opening night theatre performances.”

  “In a royal box, I suppose?”

  “Or reserved seats. And the audience always made a point of rising to their feet when the Emperor and his two companions entered to their seats.”

  “At this point I’ll rise for a cab and nothing else,” said Norman. “Flag one, Stuart.”

  I raised my hand to two passing cabs. They chose to ignore it. I kept watch for more.

  “You can look and talk at the same time, can’t you? Tell me more about the Emperor.”

  “There are lots of stories, Norman. But I just got you your cab.”

  Norman struggled to his feet as a taxi inched along through traffic.

  “When Bummer died, they say more than 10,000 people marched in his funeral procession His death prompted front-page obituaries, and eulogies from leading writers and citizens. But the dog turned out to be merely a reflection of his owner. Norman’s death in 1880 brought 30,000 people out to mourn, the largest funeral the City had ever seen. The flags of California flew at half mast, and I think a little of San Francisco’s heart was buried with our Emperor.”

  “Get in, Stuart.”

  “I think I have a little more walking to do.”

  “Then call me later.”

  “I will. Thank you, Norman.”

  I wondered why there was no statue to Norton, no plaque. Maybe he was too hard to explain.

  There was still some life left in my legs. Later I knew I’d pay the price. I continued up California and stopped at the Masonic Arts Temple. The placards announced that Secret Societies would open in two weeks. I decided I wanted a sneak preview.

  A woman, probably a frustrated understudy, barred my entrance. She snapped her gum at me and said, “The rehearsals are closed.”

  “Then could you take a note to Goldilocks for me?” I asked. “She told me to stop by, and I’d hate to miss her. If you like, I’d be glad to watch the door for you.”

  I said everything very quickly, and very sincerely. I had a smile on my face, and a puppy-dog manner. The guard’s gum snapping became a little less pronounced.

  “Okay,” she finally said, “but make sure you stay out of sight while I deliver the note. It could be my job.”

  “Thank you,” I said, already writing. My note was short, and I didn’t bother to fold it. It merely told Goldilocks that her favorite private dick was waiting outside to take her for drinks.

  I handed my note over, offered a little more gratitude, then stepped inside and waited for my messenger to walk out of sight. I moved quietly to the back of the theater, but my steps weren’t as stealthy as the two cat characters on stage. I couldn’t follow what was going on, except that at first they fought, then they made love, and then the two actions couldn’t be separated. But their entwinement became cattus interruptus when a fire leapt out of a garbage can; it spewed flame and ashes at the cats and outhissed them until they backed off with electric cries and electric eyes, their backs and tails charged and inflated.

  The fire died, but the garbage can didn’t settle. It bounced and tilted, shook and shimmied, spewing beer cans and rotten eggs and offal all over the stage in what I suppose advertised the birth pains of a city, but what does a city birth? I watched a figure emerge, a figure that was a living fire in a sequined flame costume. Snakelike, Goldilocks undulated from the garbage can, a self-birth that lifted her out of the fire. She was the pristine vision amid the filth. But somehow it was clear her character wouldn’t remain untainted for long.

  A bass voice called for lights, and Vincent came on stage. He started talking, not loud enough for me to hear him, but close enough for me to decide I should leave. I didn’t know whether Goldilocks could get away to see me, or even wanted to, but I decided to wait no more than a half-hour. The doorwoman relieved me at my post, so I went outside and sat on the curb. My patience surprised me by running to the better part of an hour, and it was finally rewarded, in a manner of speaking, by Goldilocks.

  She was in some kind of costume, but not by much. She wore leather spiked gloves, a black halter top, and a black skirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and buxom as she was, there didn’t appear to be any need, save propriety, and that wasn’t in her wardrobe. Stiletto heels were obligatory for her outfit, and they were accented by snakeskin hosiery. I stared at her legs for several seconds. She obliged my look with a model’s turn.

  “Poisonous or nonpoisonous?” I asked.

  “Depends on the snake,” she said.

  She moved her hand up and down the fabric. “I like to slither in and out of them,” she said.

  I don’t know why I started the conversation, but habit made me try for the last word. “Let’s go get our venom,” I said.

  She hissed, but I still walked with her.

  “I figured I’d hear from you,” she said while we walked.

  “Why?” I said. “Just one look, that’s all it took?”

  “Do you want another?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat. Even those cats tangoing on stage knew to run from you.”

  “You saw?”

  She sounded pleased. I nodded, but didn’t comment, just opened the door for her, let her lead and draw all the attention. There were plenty of empty booths, but she chose a table in the middle of the place. I gave our orders to the bartender, who had more eyes for Goldilocks than his pour. At about a seven count he eased up. I asked for a couple of large water backs, carried the drinks to the table, and commented on the pour.

  “When I have a thirst, I ought to bring you along,” I said.

  “What do you do when you don’t have a thirst?”

  I thought of a few answers, all of them obscene, then decided to get serious. “Are you always acting?”

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but when I talk with you I feel you’re performing
. That makes me wonder, is this is you, or is it that actress called Goldilocks talking?”

  “I’m a Gemini. But the two selves have fused. I’m me. I used to worry about being able to turn it off, but now I don’t. I’m turned on all the time.”

  “There you go again.”

  She laughed at me, making me feel like a bit of a stick in the mud, and I could see her point, so I smiled back. Then she stopped laughing, and appraised me.

  “So,” she said, “did you come to court me, or do you still want to know about that deaf girl?”

  “Today’s a business call,” I said.

  She gave a loud mock-sigh. “Interrogate me,” she said. “Beat me, even. But do it in about ten minutes.”

  “Are you the jealous type, Goldilocks?”

  “No. I’m confident. If I don’t hold a man’s attention, then he’s blind.”

  “Or maybe deaf?”

  “Or maybe I’m holding something else.”

  She gave me her teasing smile, but I didn’t soften my glance, so she pouted.

  “If you’re trying to ask whether I was threatened by that deaf girl,” she said, “I wasn’t. Vincent and I weren’t really together any more when she came along. Not that we didn’t see each other now and again. We did and we do. But I’ve never been ready to parade in white with him, and never will.”

  “You’re still intimate, then?”

  “Infrequently.”

  “Why?”

  “Why infrequently? Or why not more frequently?”

  “Either.”

  “We’re good for each other in bed, but not out of it. We play off our fantasies.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Are you a voyeur?” she asked.

  “I’m curious,” I said.

  She gave me a look that was supposed to make me go weak at the knees, then accented it with licking lips. “When we fuck, we’re not afraid to assume different roles. We play scenes.”

  “So, you’re an actress in bed, too?”

  “And an acrobatress on a mattress.”

  “Let’s get back to you and Vincent.”

  “We’re kinky together.”

  “That’s what you said. Does your loveplay ever get violent?”

  “I suppose.”