January 1969
During the day, Norm Quentin was quiet, awkward. Sears Roebuck white shirts, black slacks, and a pocket protector housing a neat row of pens and mechanical pencils all screamed ‘nerd,’ making him the butt of jokes at his office. But at night, when his real work would begin, he could perform all his duties without any interruption. A CIA member since the early 1960’s, it was inconceivable to him that anyone would not give total allegiance to his or her country. Anything less should be labeled as treasonous, so when John Cummings informed him he wanted out, Quentin went ballistic.
“I can’t take it anymore. I don’t care what you say. This is not what I bargained for when I signed up with you people years ago. I was just a kid. What did I know?” The Prof pounded his fist against the side of a building.
“Don’t you remember our agreement? Aren’t you forgetting your reputation as the great American Liberal? We can expose you at any time, you know.”
“I know, I know! You guys have me in a vise. I just can’t handle the pressure anymore.”
Quentin chuckled. “Maybe if you got rid of your little hippie girl, things might be less—well, less complicated, shall we say.”
“Shut up about her. Just shut up!” That’s my business!”
“You do realize, don’t you,” Quentin persisted, “she’s nothing but trouble. We know all about her; far more than even you know. I’m telling you, she’s more trouble than she’s worth. If I were you, I’d dump her.”
“Well, you’re not me, are you? Just leave me alone! Talk to Ashton. He’s the boss. He’s the one who got me into this business years ago. Maybe, he’ll let me go.” As John charged off, he left the agent alone, shaking his head in the shadows of their designated alley.
May 1969
At 3 a.m., overactive hormones jolted Susan awake, shrouding her in a fine mist of perspiration. As usual. This time she glanced over to his side of the bed. Empty, of course. He’s with her again. Who the hell does she think she is?
Undoubtedly one of his students. God damn him! How typical! This time, I’ve got to do something…
Chambers & Co., nestled between the Tanner Coffee Shop and Lee’s Cleaner’s, offered little diversion for people buying a cup of coffee just before they picked up their laundry. Caked grit on a smoke-smeared windowpane barely camouflaged a second-rate private investigative agency that lured desperate housewives craving revenge on their foolish husbands. Susan Livingston Cummings was no exception. A faint smudge of frosted lipstick on the Prof’s collar the night before was the final straw.
“My fee, Mrs. Cummings, is the usual per diem. Here’s my invoice.” A hung-over Joe Chambers handed her a piece of paper as she nodded and extracted an envelope of cash from her pocketbook. This time, she was determined to nail the bastard.
“How are you going to do it? Follow him secretly, like in the movies?” Her patronizing tone was a little overbearing.
“Actually, I was thinking of auditing one of his classes first, get to know him a little,” replied Chambers defensively, proud of the unique approach he took with his cases.
“Just remember. No matter how charming or clever he is, don’t let him fool you. He’s only out for himself.” She snapped her purse shut and stood up to leave.
Two days later, sitting in a packed lecture hall, the P.I. observed the Prof. adjusting the microphone on the podium, seconds before the lecture began. Cummings was amazing. Anecdotal details supplemented a fascinating slide show of ancient Egypt and afterwards, when the students surrounded their teacher like bees buzzing over a honeycomb feast, probing him with questions and totally at ease with him, he was charming. More than that. He reeked charm.
It was getting late when Chambers sauntered out of Pratt Hall and headed towards Fillmore Avenue and his favorite watering hole. He could relax and start his Prof. John Cummings campaign master planning, his favorite part of every job.
He entered the Matrix and walked over to the bar. Placing his jacket on top of the counter, he extracted a pad from his briefcase and etched out some notes for several minutes before stowing it away again. He was on his second drink when he looked up to see the Prof. settling down on a neighboring barstool and ordering a drink.
“Hey, you look familiar. Have we met before?” John was cordial.
“Yes. I just audited your class—great lecture, by the way,” Joe added.
The bartender slid a mug of beer over to the Prof, who then held it up as a salutation. “Are you interested in history, Mr…?”
“Pete Hamilton.” Joe always had a ready alias. “Yes, I’m interested.”
“Well then, you’ve come to the right place. I…” He was interrupted by the arrival of a beautiful young blonde girl, dressed in black bell-bottoms and a slightly sheer white peasant blouse. “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Lyla. Lyla, this is Pete Hamilton. And visa versa.”
After several handshakes, John indicated Joe should join in, ordered another round, and located a small table in the corner for the three of them.
Settling down with their drinks, Chambers turned to Lyla. He was trying hard not to stare too much at her exquisite face. “So, are you a student at SFS?”
“No, I’m not.” Period.
“That’s a very pretty thing around your neck,” he managed to say.
“Thanks.” Lyla kept looking up at the Prof.
“Yeah, that’s The Necklace. It never leaves her neck. Isn’t that right, Babe?” John was stroking the handle on his mug.
Lyla nodded, her face turning pink. “It’s symbolic to me, that’s all. It’s not a crime, is it?”
Chambers didn’t know what to say. They didn’t seem that much in love.
By the sixth round, the men were slurring their words. “Hey, you know, my girl is the original hippie girl,” John garbled. “She’s stayed with Ken Kesey on his La Honda compound and even with Timothy Leary back east. She tells me she knows Chet Helms and Bill Graham up in San Fran, and that she was privy to the first few posters made for the Avalon Ballroom.” The Prof. was flying high.
“That’s old news, Prof. Now I’m doing my own thing.” Lyla looked hurt.
“Right, your big art career. Of course, you’re the best macramé artist on the planet, and we all know how important macramé is for the evolution of mankind!”
“Go to hell!” She grabbed her drink and stalked off.
Through an alcoholic haze, Joe made a mental note. Maybe the old guy would go back to his wife, after all. He smiled and reached for his mug.
John laughed and checked out his new drinking companion. The two men nodded at one another, and with the immediate acknowledgement of the vicissitudes of all women, became instant comrades, making the Matrix their permanent watering hole during the coming months. There, John regaled the detective with great stories and Joe did think once or twice about taking Susan’s money as he downed beer after beer.
June 1969
“Why don’t you come with me to an SDS meeting? You’d get a kick out of it and you’ll see some good-looking co-eds.” John tried to gently push Chambers up the street with him.
“No. That’s a little too much for me. You go, and enjoy.” There was only so much the P.I. would do.
The meeting hall was packed with students and hangers-on, the hardened ‘revolutionaries’ up front, ready to change the country at any cost. They listened to John intently, taking notes, much like the students at one of his large lectures. But the outer layers of people were the most lax and far more interested in each other—how to pick up chicks or guys, and what kind of munchies were available.
Suddenly, several policemen infiltrated the room, declaring a ‘round up’ of subversives. They marched past the outer circles and headed directly for the middle with the true followers. Blocking protesters, they took out their clubs, swinging them high overhead as a warning.
John stood planted in the center, and like the great captain of a ship, refused to let his people go under. “Every
body, everybody! Remain calm. Nobody is going to hurt you. I am here for you. But stay CALM!”
The police, recognizing his power, wormed their way over to him. They muttered a few words in his ear as they carefully handcuffed him before the inner core began their protests.
“No, no, don’t worry. We are all in this together!” John smiled, offering a gesture of reassurance. Watching some other people being handcuffed as well, his soothing tones helped to maintain peace, and as the police led them all out of the hall, the peripheral crowd started cheering and applauding in support of their great chieftain.
One of the members remembered Lyla and ran to her apartment. Knocking on her door, he yelled,” Open up! Open up! The Prof’s in trouble.”
She flung the door open, wide-eyed, and within seconds, was charging over to the police station with the SDSer. But seeing the same night watchman from the year before at his desk, she shook her head. It was deja-vu in spades.
“Well, well, well; same old, same old. You here about your precious professor again?” Amusement wrapped across his face.
“Yeah, where is he? Is he OK?”
“Of course he is. Whatever his connections are, the Gods are looking out for your guy. Don’t you worry about him. He’s been released already!” The Watchman raised one eyebrow. “Maybe you should rethink your boyfriends, sweetie,” he cautioned, observing her frightened eyes.
July 1969
The music had been loud all evening at the Matrix; by 11:00 p.m. sharp, it was blasting. Psychedelic lights and colors swirled throughout the room, spinning everyone’s head, whether they were stoned or straight. Soon, the hieroglyphics on the back wall appeared connected—codes intertwined like colonies of mutant ants following their queen, bustling towards a special meal.
John sauntered in with Lyla and surveyed the room as a waitress sidled up to them both with a circular tray balanced on her left fingertips and a pen clutched in her right hand. Lyla was slightly wasted, but he was on high alert. A barmaid led them over to a far corner table, hidden by a large post, and motioned for them to sit down.
Lyla immediately leaned against John and closed her eyes; the night had started early for her, and she was more than ready for bed. Annoyed, he gently removed her head from his shoulder, shouted a few words to her over the noise, and got up to go to the men’s room. After he returned, he eyed the club, nodding to the music and trying to look cool. As if by magic, Quentin appeared and took two steps towards their table, but stopped when catching sight of Lyla. He about-turned and shifted away from them.
She waited a beat before asking John, “Who’s that?”
“Who’s—what? What are you talking about?”
“The man who was just here. He obviously knew you.” She was wide-awake now.
“You’re stoned. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Suddenly something on the table next to them seemed to fascinate him.
“The man who was coming to our table was looking directly at you, like he was going to say something. And for your information, I am not that stoned!”
“OK, OK. Let’s get out of here.” Steering her away from Quentin’s position at the bar he ushered her out of the club.
Back in her apartment, Lyla wouldn’t let it go. “Prof., you knew that guy. I know it. What’s all the secrecy?”
“What secrecy? You’re getting so whacked out on this LSD stuff, you’re getting psychotic, you know that? Hell, I might as well go home to Susan!”
Before she could protest, he made a beeline to the street, slamming the front door on his way out and leaving her open-mouthed.
But he didn’t go home. Sitting at his favorite table back at the Matrix, John realized how much he needed a break from his life. The women in my life are gonna kill me! I don’t really need Lyla. And for that matter, I could certainly do without Susan. Oh, to hell with everyone. I wonder where my new buddy is? He searched the room for Chambers, but when Joe did arrive, he wasn’t alone. Accompanying him was a man with salt and pepper shoulder length hair, sporting a blue shirt, a grey and black herringbone vest, blue jeans, black jacket, and cowboy boots.
“Prof., I’d like you to meet a friend, Mark Cowling. He works for the San Francisco Chronicle, and has been telling me some juicy tidbits about the Zodiac case.”
John brightened. “Sit down! Sit down!”
A half hour later, amidst blaring music and a smoky lightshow reflecting off the beer mugs, the three men stayed thick in discussion, oblivious to everything around them.
“You have to admit, the Zodiac’s damn good at what he does,” Cowling offered.
“Yeah, but let’s not celebrate the man,” Chambers said. “After all, he’s already killed, what? Five people? He’s been clever all right, but I do believe he’s going to get tripped up one of these days. What do you think, Prof?”
“I think the man’s brilliant. I particularly enjoy his codes. That’s an added treat. I mean, the ancient Egyptians had their hieroglyphics, the Pakistanis and Indians had their Indus scripts, and there were the Linear B clay tablets of the Minoan civilizations. Why not have your own code?” He stopped, self-conscious.
“No, don’t stop, Prof. I agree. Now, this is something only the San Francisco Chronicle and the SF police know…” Cowling leaned forward, drawing them closer. “Apparently, the way he killed his victims on the lake was a little different than most of his other ones. For example, he stabbed the woman in the back and the front. Weird, huh?”
The three men grew quiet, absorbed in their own images.
Quentin knew that if the moon were full, its darker shadows would most likely cast better areas for hiding things and people, so when he arranged the meeting with his supervisor, Ashton, he actually researched a good night on the Lunar Time Table.
“OK. Now what’s the problem?” Ashton kept his hat low over his forehead as he inched further back into the orchestrated shadows.
“This Professor, this John Cummings, says he wants out.” Quentin couldn’t conceal his contempt.
“So? He’s not all that important to us, is he? He and I go back a long way. He was my roommate at Yale, you know. Maybe I should cut him some slack; I can appreciate his feelings.”
Quentin grunted. “I told him if he didn’t cooperate, we would expose him for all he’s worth!”
“Quentin, don’t be so dramatic, for God’s sake! After all, we’re not the Nazis, the last time I checked. Let the man go. He was never all that important, anyway. Besides, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“But, sir. I don’t think we should let this one go. You know who he’s been seeing, don’t you?” Quentin angled towards the CIA veteran and touched his cashmere coat.
“I know who he’s with, dammit. But I said drop it! And by the way, never touch me!” Ashton’s voice had chilled a good twenty degrees.
Quentin stepped back two paces, flustered. He glanced at a car going by, then back again, but his boss had vanished.
The hell with Ashton! he ruminated. He’s getting way too soft, anyway. Could be those rumors of him leaving Dow Chemical are true. But somebody’s got to fight for our country. I guess it’ll be me keeping an eye on the Prof and his loose cannon girlfriend, he thought, returning to his bare-bones walk-up.
August 1969
These days, going over to Lyla’s was thoroughly depressing. The Haight was a mere shell of its former self. Many neighborhood stores stood empty, the few opened ones overlaid with window bars or nailed wooden planks. On the street, most people were no longer hippies and freaks; the amphetamine and heroin users, pushers, and the homeless had taken over, constantly in search of shelter. By the time he reached her place, he was primed for a tiff.
“That’s right, Prof. Tear me down again, like always. I don’t know what you’re doing with me, man. Why are you still here?” Even with dilated pupils and unkempt hair, she looked amazing.
He hesitated. He really didn’t know why he was there; he couldn’t quite explain it himself.
August 1969
“I know all about your little chippie, dear!” Susan made a mock-toast to her husband later that evening as soon as he walked in the door. Her afternoon had included a tell-me-what-you-got-now-or-else showdown with Joe Chambers.
“Susan, I’ve got a splitting headache. Not now!”
“Of course, not now, not ever. A has-been, holding onto his youth by climbing into bed with his co-eds. My, my, how original.” The last word was more of a snarl.
He could feel his chest tightening. “Well, I see you’ve gotten a head start on your nightcap,” he sneered.
“That’s right! Just twist the whole thing back on me.” She downed a large shot. “Maybe you’ll find out I’m not such a doormat, after all.”
The vise was squeezing his upper body. “Are you threatening me?”
“Just wait and see. Time will tell.” She threw her head back and laughed, spilling her drink down her Evan Piccone blouse.
He had difficulty climbing up the stairs up to his study after that, and when his private phone rang, he almost didn’t pick up the receiver. Please, not Quentin. Please, not Lyla. Peace. I just need some peace.
“Cummings?” Quentin was curt.
“Yes, what is it?” John could barely speak.
“Maybe Ashton’s inclined to let you go, but I’m not. I mean it. You produce those papers or else…” Click.
His breaths were coming in little shallow hiccups. Maybe I should get checked out. This could be a mild heart attack. Maybe…
The phone rang again, turning his last hiccup into small whoop. Automatically, he reached for the receiver.
“Prof. I really need to see you. Pleeeeeeeze come!”
“Lyla, I don’t think…” The Indians were circling the wagons.
“Come on, Prof. Come just this once for me.”
Entering her apartment, he moved like a robot, numb, expressionless. But just seeing her lying on the couch, he could feel the anger surge. “You’ve become a total acid head, pissing away your life like all the rest of your generation,” he snarled. “Here, I want you to hear this. This, from one of your sacred sources of pot. Here, here. Listen to what it says.”
Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads Page 22
