Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!)

by Michaela Thompson

  Humble was a fairly good word for it. The place didn’t look dirty, or especially threadbare, so much as simply drab. The lumpy-looking brown couch, the scarred coffee table holding a small portable television set, the paper-littered card table with a typewriter on it, all bespoke someone who didn’t spend much time thinking about his surroundings. There were two colorful objects in the room: a pale blue stained-glass butterfly hanging in a window, and a huge ginger-colored cat not so much perched on as spilling over the sill below it. When we walked in, the cat gave us a bottomless green stare.

  “Maggie, meet A. J.,” Andrew said.

  “A. J.?”

  “His full name is A. J. Liebling, but you can call him A. J. We’re pretty chummy and informal here, aren’t we, old buddy?”

  A. J. made no reply. “Nice cat,” I said.

  “Most of the time. He did throw up in my typewriter once. That was hard to forgive.”

  Andrew took the Mexican carryall, and I watched him toss the I. Magnin bags on the floor and pull out the folder. I still had the disconnected feeling that had come over me when I’d found the folder in Richard’s safe. I realized that I wasn’t nearly as eager as Andrew to see what was inside. I walked to the window and touched the butterfly. “How pretty.”

  He glanced up. “My former girl friend gave it to me just before she took off to seek big bucks in Iran. She’s an engineer.”

  I scratched A. J.’s head and felt him start to purr. Andrew was fumbling with the folder’s knotted strings as eagerly as if they had been ribbons on a long-expected present. “Come on,” he said, patting the couch. “Now we’ll see.”

  I crossed and sat while he pulled papers from the folder and put them down between us. The papers weren’t in any obvious order. Some were covered with the positive handwriting I remembered from Larry’s suicide note. There were lists of names and phone numbers and what looked like hieroglyphics, photocopied documents, and a four- or five-page typescript that Larry had amended heavily with a black felt-tipped pen. One thing was certain. They were about Richard. The name “Richard Longstreet” jumped at me from almost every page. Some of the photocopies were of letters on his letterhead. Picking one up, I read it. It was addressed to Richard’s tax man. Richard was planning to become a partner in an industrial park currently being built in Dallas, and wanted the accountant to tell him what the tax ramifications would be. Innocuous enough, surely.

  I put the letter down and picked up a page of handwritten notes headed “Partners in Framton Associates.” Underneath was a list of names, some with notations beside them like “cattle” and “dept. store— same name.” Circled on the list was “Redfern, Inc.” Next to this entry Larry had written, “J. Malone.” Jane Malone, of course. The Basic Development executive. But what was Framton Associates? I found the answer in another letter, from a Bill Framton to Richard, welcoming Richard into partnership in their new project in Dallas.

  Now it was getting clear. Richard had invested in a Dallas industrial park, becoming partners with Jane Malone, while here in San Francisco as Redevelopment Director he was supposed to regulate and oversee Malone’s Golden State Center project. Conflict of interest. How could Richard have been so stupid?

  Andrew, meanwhile, had been reading the typescript. “Wow,” he said reverentially. “Larry did a real job on this. A hell of a job.”

  “How did he get this information?”

  “Some of it’s a matter of public record. The rest— the letters and stuff— I don’t know. Maybe somebody who works for Richard doesn’t like him, and was willing to help Larry out.”

  Richard had a new receptionist, I remembered. The former one might have succumbed to Larry’s blandishments or charms.

  “Well, it was idiotic of Richard,” I said. “He should’ve been more careful about his investments.”

  Andrew’s face took on a wary look. “Maggie, you don’t think Richard invested in that Dallas venture by mistake, do you?”

  “Well— I guess not. Of course it’s conflict of interest. Clearly.”

  Andrew put the papers down. “Let me ask you this. What does Richard make a year? Sixty thousand? Seventy?”

  “Something like that.”

  “According to Larry”— Andrew tapped the papers with his finger— “Richard bought into the Dallas thing to the tune of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Did Richard have that kind of money?”

  I was astounded. “Of course not!” His Porsche, the trips to Europe, clothes, Candace’s schools, the house— living well had been an addiction for Richard, his way of making up for having had to work his way through college pumping gas. He could no more have amassed two hundred fifty thousand dollars than he could’ve allowed himself to wear a poorly cut overcoat.

  “He might have borrowed the money,” I said weakly.

  Andrew nodded. “He might’ve. If you asked him about it I expect he’d say he did. And your next question should be what he used for collateral. And after that, how’s he managing to pay the interest. And you know what you’d find out, if you got him to tell the truth? That he put up nothing, that he’s paying nothing, that he’s in this project for two hundred fifty g’s and he didn’t spend a damn dime.”

  It was storming outside. A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes. A. J. jumped heavily down from his perch and padded out of the room. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “This is the scenario. The Dallas people let Richard in on their deal to the tune of two hundred fifty thousand. The plan is to build the park fast, get the tenants in, and in three years sell it. Richard gets out with his original ‘investment,’ which he never made, plus profits.”

  Andrew was speaking in a well-modulated tone, but somehow I felt as if he were shouting. “I’m saying that was no loan,” he continued. “Richard was bribed.”

  How ugly. What a very ugly syllable the word bribe was. It conjured up paper bags filled with money, sleazy back-alley meetings. But of course it didn’t have to be that. It could be industrial parks in Dallas, and large unsecured loans, and people who minded their manners and belonged to the Yacht Club. “Bribed to do what?”

  “There are lots of ways Richard could help Basic Development. He could give them a five-minute head start on the Golden State Center bidding, so they could come in low. He could talk up Golden State with his cronies on the Redevelopment Commission and the Board of Supervisors so Basic would get their permits fast. He could square them with Public Works so they didn’t have any trouble with utility hookups. Richard could do plenty. He’s a guy with a lot of juice.”

  I had lived with Richard, slept with him, thought him handsome, elegant, knowledgeable. Instead, he was just “a guy with a lot of juice” who was willing to sell out. I stared at the disorderly pile of papers. I felt sick.

  There was another point— a point Andrew and I hadn’t yet discussed. I had found the folder in Richard’s safe. He had almost certainly taken it from Larry’s office the night Larry died. The idea that Richard might have pushed Larry out the window was no longer particularly farfetched.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Andrew’s hand was on my shoulder. At first, I couldn’t speak. Then I blurted out, “I was wondering if Richard killed Larry.”

  “All we can say is that it looks more likely now.” Andrew’s matter-of-fact tone made me feel calmer. It wouldn’t do, after all, to fly into hysterics because I had discovered that my former husband wasn’t only an insensitive philanderer but a criminal, and possibly a murderer as well.

  “You’re getting green around the gills. Want some wine? I’ll get you a nice glass of wine.” The anxious offer made little impression on me, aside from a fleeting notion that Andrew was sweet to bother. “Even better,” his voice floated from the kitchen, “we didn’t have dinner. How about”— the sound of a refrigerator door opening— “let’s see. Some scrambled eggs? A salami sandwich?” He reappeared with a water glass half full of red wine. “What do you say?”

&nb
sp; I was almost able to smile at his strenuous efforts to resuscitate my spirits. “I love salami.”

  He looked pleased. “I buy it downstairs. It’s the best. Sit right there, and it’ll be ready in a second.”

  Andrew made a very good salami on rye. Washing it down with more rotgut red from the jug on the table between us, I thought how all the elements of my life had moved, changed, taken on a different configuration, like a pile of leaves swirled about by wind. Some leaves fall back, but in a different place. Some blow away forever. At this moment, it was impossible to know what I would keep and what I would lose.

  Andrew finished his sandwich and leaned back. While we ate he had barely spoken, perhaps sensing that I preferred not to talk. Now he said, “I’ve got a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you want to go on with our investigation?”

  I had been asking the question of myself. We had reached a watershed. Whatever happened from here on in would be serious. Nothing, I knew, would stop Andrew from going ahead now, but this was my opportunity to bow out, to stay in the background, to be— if possible— safe.

  “Yes. I want to go on.” Clearly, I couldn’t be content with discoveries half-made. I was on my way to finding out what a great deal of my life had been about.

  Andrew looked relieved. “I’m glad to hear you say that. A while ago, you got a little— weird. I was afraid you’d changed your mind about Richard. Gotten sympathetic to him, or something.”

  I shook my head. “I was married to Richard for twenty-two years. I haven’t gotten over letting his actions make a difference to me. But sympathetic isn’t what I felt.”

  “Good. Because if you don’t mind my saying so, Maggie, you’re obviously way too good for that guy. I mean, you’re terrific even leaving him out of it. Not a very graceful compliment, but at least I’m sincere.”

  I was grinning absurdly. “You have a way with words. Have you considered writing as a profession?” The energy that had deserted me came flooding back. “What’s next?”

  “Next, I think we should go to the little place down the street where I always go and make photocopies of all this stuff. I’ve got envelopes and stamps. We’ll mail a couple to ourselves, and a couple of others to friends I have who sometimes keep things for me. That way, we won’t lose it again. After that, I suggest we join a political protest.”

  “What kind of protest?”

  “Citizens Against the Golden State Center is having a meeting tonight at eight. I’m supposed to cover it. If we hurry, I think we can make it.”

  Sixteen

  Andrew was wrong by half an hour. The cigarette smoke was already thick and voices raised by the time we got downtown to the church basement where the meeting was being held. In spite of the terrible weather, the room was packed, with most of the audience sitting on folding chairs and the rest leaning against the walls. Damp from the rain and breathless from hurrying to get there, Andrew and I stood at the back, next to a table displaying pamphlets advertising everything from methadone programs to the church’s Older Singles group.

  In the front of the room a tiny white-haired man, barely able to see over the podium, was haranguing the crowd. Despite this fact, a steady buzz of conversation came from small knots of people who appeared to be caucusing, and members of the audience got up and wandered at will. The speech seemed to be serving the same function that a tinkling piano serves in a crowded cocktail lounge. Andrew took out his notebook, whispered, “He’s from the Senior Citizens Lobby,” and began scribbling.

  The Senior Citizens Lobby spokesman was denouncing the Golden State Center because it would do away with low-cost housing in the neighborhood. “In the words of Richard Longstreet, our esteemed Redevelopment Director, who was dreadfully sorry he couldn’t be here tonight to listen to our charges”— the man paused to give the crowd a chance to laugh sarcastically— “as I say, in the words of Mr. Longstreet, the Golden State Center will be ‘a part of the neighborhood but also a transformation of the neighborhood— a newborn, vital phoenix rising from underutilized and undervalued land.’”

  I squirmed. “I can’t believe Richard would say anything that corny,” I muttered to Andrew.

  He continued to write. “Probably a flight of fancy from his public relations flack.”

  “— ask you, my friends,” the speaker was continuing, “is out of what ashes is Mr. Longstreet’s phoenix rising? I submit to you it’s from the ashes of the little people who are being displaced because the City Hall fat cats think it’s a good idea!”

  This shot brought scattered applause and shouts of “Right on!” I thought it would have been a good stopping place, but the speaker made his point several additional times, using phrases like “disregard of the average citizen,” “unholy alliance between big business and big labor,” and “like to see them try to live on Social Security.”

  I surveyed the crowd. There was no obvious racial or cultural common denominator. “Who are all these people?” I asked Andrew.

  His eyes swept the room. “A lot of them probably live around here in cheap hotels that’ll be torn down when the Center goes up. Let’s see— that group over by the door is the Anti-Highrise Coalition. Very active bunch. I would guess some of the other people are merchants who don’t want to sell and move. Hey!” His elbow dug into my ribs. “There’s Joseph Corelli!”

  “Corelli? Where?”

  “Over there. See? Sort of hidden in the corner. Bald, heavy-set guy.”

  The man Andrew described was leaning against the wall, arms folded. He looked like a prosperous businessman in his fifties who had sampled a little more Luigi’s pasta than was absolutely necessary. He was wearing a dark suit, and his fleshy face looked glazed with boredom. I wondered what scandalous secret Larry had known about this apparently upstanding man, something so damning that Corelli would pay to keep it quiet. Corelli’s name had been on Richard’s calendar, too. What was the connection between them?

  The senior citizen finished his speech to moderate applause, and there was a certain amount of milling around while the Anti-Highrise spokesman tried to find something to lean his numerous charts against. I told Andrew about finding Corelli’s name on Richard’s calendar and said, “I want to talk with Corelli. What could he possibly be doing here?”

  “Beats me. We should try to find out.” Andrew glanced around. “They usually have some barely potable coffee in that little niche over there. Want to try some while this guy gets organized?”

  As we threaded our way through the crowd, I caught snatches of conversation. People were talking about lawsuits, holding actions, and civil disobedience. Everyone referred to the Golden State Center as the “GSC.” Bitter voices flung out the name “Longstreet.”

  When we had almost reached the coffee urn something caught my eye. I thought there was a familiar face in a group to my left. I looked again, and stopped still. Standing about four feet away, not looking at me, was the narrow-faced man who had lurked beside my garage to grab me and warn me to stay away from the Times. He was smoking a cigarette. As I stared at him, he turned toward me. His eyes widened when they caught mine, and he turned immediately and moved away into the crowd.

  “It’s the man! The one from last night!” I cried over my shoulder to Andrew as I took off after him, excusing myself to the various citizens whose toes I was mangling. It would be perfect to catch him in this crowd, and demand what he thought he’d been doing. I’d be surrounded by witnesses if he tried to hurt me.

  I heard Andrew say, “What— wait a minute!” as I plunged on. I was gaining ground until a group of Anti-Highrisers, deep in a discussion of quality of life, wandered into my path. By the time I had disentangled myself from them, the man was gone.

  “You’re a real tiger, aren’t you?” Andrew sounded irritated.

  It had been a stupid thing to do. “I got carried away. But what on earth could he have been doing here? This whole situation gets stranger all the time.”

  “
Just watch out. I don’t want you to get carried away— literally.”

  “Neither do I.” I noticed that barging across the room had brought me considerably closer to Joseph Corelli. “Why don’t we rendezvous after the next speech? I want to strike up an acquaintance with Mr. Corelli.”

  Andrew’s response was to roll his eyes upward and wander away. I elbowed my way to Corelli’s corner and settled against the wall next to him. After a decent interval of listening to the Anti-Highrise speaker, who had finally gotten his charts propped up, I glanced at Corelli and said, “Good crowd here tonight.”

  Corelli looked at me. Up close, his face was heavily sensual, with full lips and knowing eyes. He looked me over with languid expertise and apparently decided I’d do to relieve his boredom. “They’ll never get anything accomplished if they don’t get organized,” he said, moving closer to me. His voice was deep, and he smelled of pipe tobacco and wine.

  “There doesn’t seem to be much structure,” I said. Corelli had moved so close it was making me nervous.

  “Chickens with their heads cut off,” he agreed. “The only good reason for coming here is that occasionally a very attractive woman turns up.”

  Well, well, well. I had made a hit. “Actually, this is my first time here. I don’t understand the issues as well as I should.”

  Corelli bent over me. “There’s not that much to understand. These are just a lot of people who object to getting screwed by the city.”

  “And what are you? One of those people who object to getting screwed?”

  He smiled wickedly. “Only in one sense.”

  I fiddled with the scarf at my neck. I hadn’t engendered this much sexual intensity at a first meeting since an eighty-five-year-old retired board chairman fumbled at the front of my dress while helping me with my coat at a charity benefit. I wondered if Corelli came on like this with every woman he exchanged words with, or if it was my unique charm at work. “No, really,” I protested.