by Bill Moody
“He didn’t have the computer,” Cameron says, “unless it was in his car.”
“I know. I think he wanted to check things out first. Andie could have taken him quietly right there in the coffee area if Rollins hadn’t shown up. He followed us here.”
I see Rollins saying something to Andie, then stomp off toward his car and get in. He rolls down the window, gives Andie a parting shot, and drives off, tires screeching. She watches him go and stalks back toward us, her eyes flashing.
“God, he’s an asshole,” Andie says. “He was sniffing around for a bust.” She sighs and leans against a car and crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s going to file a report on all this.”
“I’m sorry,” Cameron says. “This was all my fault.”
“Forget it,” Andie says. “He’s bluffing. I told him he’d have to explain causing an incident and Borders was going to file a complaint. Besides, I’m in good standing. I got shot in the line of duty.” She looks at me. “I also called him on mailing the file.” Andie smiles as she says it. “You should have seen the look on his face.”
Shocked because she knew or because he didn’t know what she was talking about? I can’t decide which it is.
“What file?” Cameron asks, but Andie doesn’t answer him.
“Did you recognize the guy?” she asks Cameron.
“No,” Cameron says. “But that must have been him. He just came in and sat down.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He started to then, when he saw that guy crashing into the table, he jumped up and left. He didn’t have the computer with him either. We’ve scared him off entirely but maybe he’ll call back.”
“Yeah,” Andie says. “It’s not over, but if he does call, it’s going to be different now.”
“Hey wait, guys,” I say. “Let’s let it go. It’s too complicated now. Andie, you’re going to get yourself suspended.”
Andie looks at me, still angry about Rollins’ intervention. “You know what? I don’t really care. I’m so sick of working with jerks like Rollins.”
“Andie, you don’t mean that.”
She lets her head fall forward. “Maybe,” she says quietly. “Dammit, we almost had him. Did you have the money?” she asks Cameron.
“Yes,” Cameron says. He takes the envelope out of his jacket pocket.
“Okay, here’s what we do,” she says. “It’ll take Rollins time to stir up things, if he actually does. Let’s wait and see if the guy calls back again. Then we’ll go from there.”
They both look at me. There’s no stopping Andie, I can see that. She hates to fail and she’s determined not to now. I shrug. “It’s your call. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I always know what I’m doing.” She starts off back to the store. “I’ll be right back,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Man, she is something.”
“You have no idea,” I say.
“What was the file she was talking about?”
“It’s a long story. Nothing to do with this. I’ll tell you sometime maybe.” I light a cigarette, looking around the parking lot. People are coming and going, totally unaware two FBI agents had clashed over an extortionist.
Andie comes back then. “I smoothed things over with the manager so he won’t report anything. Let’s go.”
We all drive back to Tiburon and wait in the guest house, admiring the view, making small talk, trying not to check our watches every five minutes.
Now, I almost hope we don’t get a call, tapes or not. Andie can finesse her way out of any trouble Rollins can cause her. No harm done so far. But half an hour later he does call, just after noon. This time the voice is not synthesized.
“I told you to come alone,” the caller says. There’s an edge to his voice now, a desperate note we can all hear. “Those were cops in Borders weren’t they?”
“It was all a mistake,” Cameron says.
“Yes, your mistake. Now we do it differently, and this is your last chance. If I don’t get my money, you can forget your computer and I’ll destroy those tapes. I don’t care what’s on them, understand?”
Andie listens and nods at Cameron.
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Tonight then, at Hunters Point. Ten o’clock. Building C-128, by the water.” Then he hangs up before Cameron can acknowledge.
Andie and Cameron both glance at each other. He hits the hang up button and we listen to the drone of a dial tone for a moment through the speaker.
I look at both of them. “What? What’s Hunter’s Point?”
“Worst possible place,” Cameron says. “The old Navy Shipyard, right on the Bay. Mostly deserted now except for some artists who have leased a few buildings and made them into studios. It’s very exposed, bad, dangerous area, especially at night. Lot of gang activity nearby.”
“He’s right,” Andie says. “I’ve heard about it.” Andie grabs her cell phone. “I’m going for a walk,” she says. “I need to think about this. Have you got a map of the city?”
Cameron nods. “I think so.” He shuffles through some papers and magazines on a book shelf and comes up with one from a car rental company.
“Good,” Andie says, then she leaves.
I suggest to Cameron we go get some coffee. We get in my car and start down the hill. I see Andie walking, head down in measured steps. I pull alongside her and stop. “Hey, we’re going for some coffee. Want me to bring you back something?”
She stops and looks up. “No, I’m fine. I’ll get something later.”
I drive on, watching Andie in the rearview mirror till she’s out of sight. We find a coffee place Cameron knows near the waterfront and sit at the outside tables. We order coffee and some sweet rolls, listening to the water lap against the landing pier.
“She got shot?”
“She did, in a bank robbery that went wrong.”
“Jesus,” Cameron says. “She is tough.”
“So tell me about Hunter’s Point.”
“There was a big write-up about it a few months ago.” He goes on for several minutes telling me about the shipyard and its landlord, the U.S. Navy. There are about three or four hundred artists—painters, sculptors, some musicians—that have rented some of the old buildings and turned them into studios. Once a year they have a big art festival that draws thousands and that’s where a lot of the artists make their money and connections for galleries around the city.
In addition, the San Francisco Police Department’s crime lab occupies some buildings, as well as the SWAT team headquarters. There’s also a railroad museum.
“The Navy has been required to clean it up before it can be transferred to the city so they have to tear up sewer lines, storm drains, and test for contamination. The yard had been used as a repair facility and decontamination of ships exposed to atomic weapons, so everybody leasing space is going to have to move out. The shipyard was deactivated in the mid seventies. A lot of testing has been done since then and only low levels of radioactive materials have been found. Once it’s cleaned up, the city is taking over and planning on turning it into commercial and retail space, parks, housing, but that will take years.”
“So at night, it’s deserted huh?”
“Pretty much, and I imagine a very spooky place,” Cameron says. “I have an artist friend who was there for awhile. I went during the day to visit him. It’s weird. All the old navy signs are still on the buildings. It’s like a ghost town, going back in time. The artists who rent are not supposed to sleep over there but it’s not very well enforced.”
“This guy must know it or he would never have decided to meet there.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Cameron says. “He even gave me a building number. He either has friends there or has spent some time.”
I look out over the water. The ferry from San Francisco is just pulling in. “So, open, deserted for the most part, abandoned bu
ildings. Not a great place to meet some guy to exchange money for a laptop computer.”
“No,” Cameron says. “I don’t think we should do it. Fuck man, I don’t want to go down there at night.”
“Let’s wait and see what Andie says.”
We drive back to the house and find Andie waiting, studying the map. She has it folded open to show the area around Hunter’s Point.
“What’s this?” she asks Cameron, pointing to a square with a star alongside it just outside the navy yard.
“Restaurant. Been there forever. Pretty famous at one time, but I don’t remember the name.”
Andie nods and paces around for a couple of minutes. She turns and looks at us, her face set and determined.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”
Chapter Eighteen
I’m still not used to the change in weather that happens so suddenly in San Francisco. Driving down 101 from Tiburon, it’s cool but clear, a three quarter moon competing with freeway and car lights. But as we come out of the Waldo tunnel, down the incline, the Golden Gate Bridge is shrouded in a bank of fog, and the temperature has dropped twenty degrees.
Andie and I are in her Ford; Cameron Brody’s BMW is just ahead of us as we cross the bridge and pull into one of the toll booth lanes. I pay the five dollars and follow Cameron as we head into the city. We stay on the two-lane divided road then drop down to Bay Street and turn on to the Embarcadero, past the Ferry Building, and continue on, skirting AT&T Park, the Giants baseball stadium. Cameron turns left on Third Street and I follow. He knows the way but Andie keeps checking the map.
At Evans Avenue, we turn left and pass through an older area of boarded up shops, buildings under construction, deserted office buildings and the occasional neon of a convenience store lighting the dark street. At the end of Evans, we make a little jog left near the entrance to the navy yard. Cameron pulls over by the curb. I park behind him and watch as he gets out and walks back to our car.
“I don’t think there’s anyone in the guard shack,” he says.
“Good,” Andie says. If there was, she had planned to flash her FBI credentials to gain entrance. “Pull in the restaurant parking lot.”
Cameron nods and goes back to his car and pulls in the lot. I park next to him. We go inside and sit at the bar, Andie between me and Cameron. We order three draft beers and look around. The walls of Dago Mary’s are covered with black and white, framed photos from decades earlier. There’s lots of oak paneling, ornate carving, done during the restaurant’s better days, but Cameron says it’s still a popular place.
Now that we’re actually here, I have even more reservations about Andie’s plan. She’s going to ride in with Cameron on the floor by the back seat, wait for the exchange to happen, then take Solano. She’d already grilled Cameron about Hunters Point.
“If he’s coming, he’s probably already here. For all we know, he’s friendly with somebody in there that has a studio,” she says. “He wouldn’t have picked this place if he didn’t know it well. You,” she tells me, “are going to stay here. Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to play it by ear. Just keep your cell phone on. Once we have him, I’ll call you.”
“Be right back,” Cameron says. He gets up and heads for the Men’s room.
Andie watches him go. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I look at Andie. I can see she’s pumped, ready for action, dressed in dark jeans, a black sweatshirt and running shoes. “Look, Andie, maybe we should just bail on this. We don’t know enough about this guy, what he’s going to do. There are too many variables.”
She shakes her head. “No, we’re here, we’re going to do it.” She pats my arm. “We’re going to get those tapes.” She sees the doubt on my face. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”
“Somebody probably said that to General Custer too.” Andie just rolls her eyes.
Cameron comes back, looking okay, not nervous, but I can imagine what’s going on in his mind.
Andie studies her watch. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s do it.”
We pay the check and go outside.” Andie gets in the back seat of Cameron’s BMW, and scoots down on the floor. She gives me a little wave as I shut the door. Cameron gets in, nods at me and drives off. I watch the car slowly cruise past the darkened guard shack, and bear right. I watch until the tail lights disappear, then turn back.
This is the part I hate, the waiting. I light a cigarette and pace around the parking lot. A few people come out of the restaurant going to their cars, but nobody pays any attention or even looks at me. Next to the restaurant is a small shop that’s closed now. I stand close to the street, in the doorway, but no cars approach for the next twenty minutes.
What if Solano doesn’t show? Maybe he decided after the fiasco at Borders, it was too risky, but Andie is probably right. He’s already there, waiting. I play out all kinds of worst case scenarios in my mind and grip my cell phone tightly, willing it to ring.
The restaurant parking lot is emptying out now as they start to close up for the night. I check my watch again, then see a car coming off Evans Avenue, heading for the entrance to the Navy Yard. I move back deeper in the doorway of the shop. I don’t know what kind of car Solano has, but I bet it’s not a tan Ford Taurus. As it passes me, I see the driver’s face clearly for a second. Ted Rollins.
Shit. How did he know? I watch him pass the guard shack, then brake and make a U-turn, and pull into the parking lot, stopping behind Andie’s car. He sits for a minute, engine idling, like he can’t decide what to do. The lot is almost empty now. Finally, he exits the parking lot and turns toward the Naval Yard.
I run for my car, jump in and follow Rollins, my lights off, staying back far enough to just keep his taillights in sight. He circles around several buildings, all with numbers on them, obviously not sure where he’s going, but eventually, he comes out in a flat area with huge spaces between the large warehouse type buildings that are silhouetted in the moonlight. Across the bay I can see the winking lights of Oakland and the Bay Bridge looming in the distance, traffic going back and forth, the cars looking like toys.
The taillights on Rollins’ car brighten as he brakes, then starts again, driving between two of the big buildings. One of them has a weak light mounted on the roof, trained on large block letters on a yellow background. C-128. Submarine Cafeteria. Damn, how did Rollins know?
I park behind another building and get out and circle behind Rollins, looking for Andie, not sure if she’s still in Cameron’s car or already inside the building. I watch for a minute as Rollins approaches the car and looks inside. He glances around then cautiously heads for the entrance to the building. I start to follow him when I feel a hand on my arm. I jump and turn to see Andie, gun in hand, crouching behind me.
“What are you doing here?” she whispers. “I told you to wait at the restaurant.”
“Rollins is here,” I say. I point to the building.
“What?”
We both look toward the building. Rollins must have heard something as he flattens himself against the wall at the other end of the building. The door opens and Cameron and Eddie Solano come walking out, heading for Cameron’s car. I can’t see anything clearly but Solano’s hand on Cameron’s arm.
Andie stands up and starts running toward them.
“FBI Special Agent,” she yells.
Rollins, whirls around toward her at the same time he sees Solano and Cameron. He starts toward them, gun drawn.
“No!” Andie screams, but she’s too late. Rollins is sprinting toward Eddie Solano like a defensive back closing on for an interception. Cameron crouches then drops to the ground. Solano freezes for a moment, then starts running toward the retaining wall by the water.
A few steps behind Andie, I stop, then she does too, her arm dropping, her gun to her side. We both freeze, watching helpl
essly as Eddie “Slow Hands” Solano, trying to dodge Rollins, trips, falls back, his arms flying out to his sides, the shoulder strap of the computer bag slipping off his arm and racing through the air toward the water.
It’s as if I’m seeing everything in slow motion. Ted Rollins lurches out to grab for Solano, realizing too late he’s on the edge. His knee hits the low wall, the momentum propels him forward, arms and legs flailing, as he goes over the side.
Ted Rollins, Eddie Solano, Cameron’s laptop, all plunging into the water.
And inside that bag, my tapes. The only documented recording of the Birth of the Cool rehearsals, right along with them, splashing into San Francisco Bay.
***
Cameron Brody and I sit on a couple of wooden crates watching the area around Building C-128 become a scene from a television crime show. A few members of the San Francisco SWAT team pace around mumbling curses, helmets tilted back on their heads, their rifles slung over their shoulders now, awaiting orders to disperse.
What must be ten or twelve squad cars, lights still flashing, ring the area. Someone has set up a couple of klieg lights facing the retaining wall where Rollins and Solano went over the side. I can see them both huddled on the ground, blankets wrapped around them after being fished out by two uniformed officers.
Andie is standing, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening to a tirade from a tall heavyset man in jeans and a dark wind breaker with FBI in yellow letters on the back, glaring at her and pointing to Rollins.
“I want to know what the fuck was going down here and somebody better tell me damn quick,” he says, his voice booming out over the water. “I’ve got a senior agent splashing around in the Bay with a has been blues singer over some goddamn laptop computer and some recording tapes fifty years old.” He takes a breath and looks around at the chaos. “I’ve got the fucking SFPD SWAT team here, and an agent who is on medical leave, apparently responsible for the whole thing. Jesus!” He turns and walks a few paces away, then whirls on Andie again.
“God dammit, Lawrence, talk to me.”
“I think that’s my cue,” I say to Cameron. I get up and walk over. “Excuse me,” I say. “I think I can help clear this up.”
