“You let her check out these places alone?”
“Only because she insists on it.”
“What’s she like when she comes out?”
“Like she’s just had great sex.” Filson shook his head. “The woman gets off on lowlife like I get off on the nags.”
Chapter 10
I live in a four-unit apartment building on the south slope of Telegraph Hill. Broadway is below me to the south; North Beach below me to the west. It’s my favorite part of the city and I’ve lived there almost twenty years, in apartment 3, top floor front; I’ve got a view and a parking place and I can walk home from the bar if I have to. During all that time, my neighbor down below has been a woman named Pearl Gibson. Pearl is eighty-four and she’s a pistol.
Over the years I’ve learned a thing or two about Pearl even though we’ve never talked for more than five minutes at a stretch. She’s been a widow since she was fifty. She had a son named Alvin, who died driving drunk up at Tahoe, and a daughter named Myra, who died in infancy from a viral infection that was never fully diagnosed. She doesn’t seem to be wealthy but she has enough money to pay her rent and to order Chinese food delivered five nights a week from a joint on Grant Street that doesn’t deliver to anyone else.
Pearl likes the Giants and 49ers, though not as much as she used to before everyone on the rosters was rich. She has a glass of wine at dinner, usually fumé blanc, and another an hour before bedtime, usually brandy—she thinks chardonnay is overrated, red wine keeps her awake, and hard liquor felled her father so she steers clear of spirits. She doesn’t take a pill except aspirin for arthritis, feels physically fit as a fiddle, and hasn’t seen a doctor since she broke her ankle eight years ago doing something she knew better than to be doing at her age, which was changing a lightbulb while standing on a rickety chair. She likes it when I bring her baked goods, especially cinnamon twists. I feel bad if I don’t do it once a week.
And that’s about it, the sum total of my knowledge of my neighbor Pearl Gibson, up to the point when I arrived home from Jimbo’s at six-thirty that evening, still puzzling over the turn of events at the launch party. As I was climbing the stairway toward my place on the second floor, I heard a door grind open at my back.
“Mr. Tanner?”
I smiled before I turned around; talking with Pearl was always a trip. “Hi, Pearl. No pastry today, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all right. Suzie across the street brought me an angel food cake this morning. Old people like me are the only ones who still eat angel food cake, have you noticed that, Mr. Tanner? Why do you think that is?”
“Because angel food is too white and white isn’t cool. And I really wish you’d call me Marsh.”
“I’ve told you before—that would be forward of me and I wasn’t brought up to be forward.”
I grinned. “I’ve seen less forward women leaning against lampposts on Hayes Street. How are you feeling this evening?”
“I’m fine as always except for the arthritis. I trust you’re the same?”
“I am, as a matter of fact.”
Her look morphed into a combination of Joel Grey and Yoda. “Is that attractive young woman still coming to call on you of an evening?”
I blushed as if I’d been discovered in flagrante delicto. “Have you been spying on me, Pearl?”
She drew herself to full height, which was on the downside of sixty inches. “I most certainly have not. But there are certain sounds whose origins are unmistakable even to one of my age and impaired recollection. If you get my drift, Mr. Tanner.”
Her drift was more like a tsunami. In the twinkle of her devilish eyes, my blush became a range fire. “I’m sorry we bothered you. I’ll try to hold it down next time.”
“Who said I was bothered? Quite the contrary, I assure you. I used to get rather noisy myself in the old days, or so I’ve been told. Oh, my. Now you’re discombobulated just when I need to ask you a favor.”
I pretended I didn’t resemble a walking tomato. Pearl always got me talking about things you shouldn’t talk about with women her age. Which is probably why I liked her. “How can I help you, Pearl?”
She pointed back toward the front door. “The mailman left a bundle down by my box and it’s far too heavy for me to lift. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to bring it up to me.”
“Glad to be of service.”
I trotted back down the stairs and looked toward the row of mailboxes that was set into the east wall. Below the four rectangular brass doors was indeed a hefty bundle, double-wrapped in twine. It looked to be mostly magazines, a dozen of them or more, along with some junk mail and catalogs and flyers and the like.
I grabbed the bundle at the knot and toted it down the hall. “Where do you want it?” I asked when I got to Pearl’s door.
She backed into her apartment and pointed. When I looked to see where she wanted me to put it, I had to work to keep my mouth shut.
What I saw was the sort of fortress a child would build, a wall three feet high and even higher in spots, entirely surrounding her couch and occasional table but for a narrow opening that served as an entrance to the embattled sitting area. I thought of WKRP in Cincinnati and the invisible walls one of the characters had insisted were defining his office, but this wall wasn’t invisible, it was just unusual, mostly because of its raw materials. Pearl’s wall wasn’t built of board or brick or Sheetrock, Pearl’s wall was built of magazines.
Hundreds of them, glossy and thick and sturdy, piled neatly so the stacks wouldn’t topple, a laminated fortification that hadn’t been in evidence the last time I’d been in Pearl’s place, which had been more than a year ago when I was recovering from a gunshot wound and Pearl had invited me down to give her the gory details while she made me some split pea soup.
After I placed the fresh bundle at the base of the wall, I wanted to say something pertinent but couldn’t think what that would be. “That’s a lot of reading material,” I mumbled finally.
“Oh, I don’t read them,” Pearl scoffed as if I’d accused her of using them for napkins. She picked up a couple of copies off the nearest pile. “What would I want with Road & Track, for heaven’s sake? Or PC World, whatever that is?”
“Computers.”
“There. You see? I don’t know anything about computers and I don’t want to know anything about them. As far as I can tell, they make quality obsolete and quantity the measure of everything. If that’s not enough, it takes longer in line at the supermarket than it ever did with cash registers.”
Usually, a diatribe like that would have gotten me intellectually involved, in this instance by seconding Pearl’s notion about the seditious onset of technology, but I was still staring at the wall of magazines the way I stare at the apes in the zoo, as if they have something to teach me. “If you don’t read them, why do you have them?” I asked out of actual ignorance. “The subscriptions must have cost a fortune.”
Pearl waved a hand with unconcern. “It’s not that expensive, really, in light of the bigger picture. And besides, I don’t have any choice.”
“Why not?”
She squinted at me with sudden suspicion, as though I’d asked her age or her PIN. “All in due time, Mr. Tanner. All in due time. As soon as I’m back from Vancouver, I’ll have news that will satisfy both you and Mr. Larson, that Nosy Parker.”
“Who’s Mr. Larson?”
“The mailman, silly. Surely you know Mr. Larson.”
“We’ve met,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if we had or not.
Pearl looked at the clock that was ticking away at the far wall and threatening to disgorge a cuckoo. “I’m afraid I must ask you to take your leave, Mr. Tanner. I have to start packing. The plane leaves quite early in the morning, and the little blue bus will be here even earlier.”
“What’s in Vancouver?” I asked absently, still wondering about the periodicals.
“In due time, Mr. Tanner,” Pearl repeated mysteriously. “In due time.”
/> I shrugged and started backing toward the door. “Have a nice trip.”
“Oh, I shall. It’s cut-and-dried this time. Last time they tricked me, but this time I read the rules six times. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’ll have a nice chat when I get back. If you see Suzie, tell her the angel food was scrumptious.”
As far as I knew, I had never seen Suzie in my life.
I bid Pearl a quick good-bye and lumbered up to my apartment, which was sufficiently drab to make me consider a change of decor every time I came home, especially in light of the inevitable comparisons between Jill Coppelia’s place and mine. Mine always came in a poor second even when I was doing the measuring.
I fixed myself a drink, glanced through Newsweek and Harper’s, and speculated idly if I had enough unread magazines around to build a fort myself. Then I heated a can of Healthy Choice soup after adding salt and Parmesan to make it a little less healthy, ate a banana while I waited for the soup to cool, and finished off my dinner with five or six Oreos. Or maybe nine or ten. By the time I’d finished my second drink I was ready to make the call.
The phone rang a long time, which was a hint I should have taken, especially when the answering machine didn’t click on. Which most likely meant Jill was working and I shouldn’t have been trying to horn in.
I had decided to hang up when she answered with a bleat of irritation, “Coppelia.”
“You’re home now, counselor. It’s allowable to be polite.”
“I don’t feel polite.”
“Don’t sound it, either.”
“How’d it go with your celebrity?”
“Great. I’m really good at this bodyguard business.”
“That sounds sarcastic.”
“She got a death threat while I was standing ten feet away.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“How could that happen?”
“I’ll let you know when I find out.”
The evasion stoked her anger. “Fine. Great. So what do you want with me?”
“That’s a bit gruff, isn’t it?”
“I feel gruff, I told you. Gruff, gruff.”
“Well, Fido, the reason I’m calling is to get your comment on the story in the Examiner this evening that says the local grand jury’s look into cop corruption is foundering badly. Or maybe that’s floundering, I’m never sure there’s a difference.”
“My comment is, a flounder’s a fish and a founder isn’t.”
“Then what’s a founder?”
“Like Leland Stanford. He founded Stanford University. Or Steve Jobs. He founded Apple.”
“Or Bill Clinton.”
“What did he founder?”
“He found her in the Oval Office.”
“A punster. God spare us.”
“I apologize.”
“Some things are unforgivable,” she said, not entirely in jest.
“The conversation seems to have taken a wrong turn,” I said when I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Jill sighed like wind through the willows. “So has my life. Professionally, at least.”
Her despair swept through the line and made me shiver. “That bad?”
“At least.”
“So I guess it’s not a good time to ask how you enjoyed the after-hours activity last night.”
She giggled and diluted her mood. “Very much. Except it didn’t last long enough.”
I reddened for the second time in an hour. “I could try Viagra, I guess, but I didn’t think it was so bad. I also think when we get more accustomed to each other’s—”
“I didn’t mean that way, stupid. I meant the good feeling ended by the time I got to the office this morning.”
“Oh.”
She laughed. “Premature ejaculation is the least of my problems, believe me.”
“Do you think that’s an issue, honestly, because—?”
“Relax, Marsh. I’m joking.”
I chose to believe her so I could choose to drop the subject. “The grand jury’s not going well? Seriously?”
“Grand jury proceedings are secret.”
“I know.”
“If I divulged them, I could be prosecuted.”
“I know.”
“So, seriously? I’m toast.”
“Why?”
“At this point there’s no proof of anything more notorious than minor bribes and low-weight drug deals. If I don’t have more by the end of next week, I’ll have to wrap it up without seeking a true bill.” She paused to ask a question that didn’t need voicing.
“I told you before you got started that this was your baby and I wouldn’t get involved with it,” I said.
“I know what you told me, Marsh.”
“I don’t even know if I’ve got anything for you. Now that Charley’s dead, my sources in the department are few and far between.”
She fired for effect. “I think Charley told you lots more about the Triad than you’ve told me.”
“He didn’t. Not really. Though I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘told.’”
“Jesus. You are like Clinton.”
“He’s a premature ejaculator?”
“You know what I mean.”
I paused to let her cool down. “Maybe I should come over.”
“Sorry, but I have two witness examinations to prepare tonight.”
“I could bring a treat. Ice cream. Those brownies you like. We could take a little break.”
“You know what happens when we take a break.”
“Not always, it doesn’t.”
“Always.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Good for me.”
Her voice dropped to a level of despondency that was unique in our relationship. “I’m in big trouble on this, Marsh. I’m going to end up looking like an ambitious idiot who couldn’t deliver the goods. I’m probably going to lose my job because of it.”
I sighed. “Maybe I can help.”
“How?”
“Give you a name.”
“What name?”
“Not yet. I have to think about it first.”
“Well, think fast, goddammit. If you have anything, I need it tomorrow night.”
Chapter 11
Chandelier’s ex-husband lived in surprisingly tasteful decorum on the western edge of the city in a mock-Tudor house with a nice view of the Pacific as it assaulted Ocean Beach with a succession of blunt instruments in the form of twelve-foot breakers. The house was new and incongruous in an area of more eclectic homes that had been warped by the rain, bleached by the sun, and rusted by the salt in the breeze off the sea. Many of them looked more like barnacles than dwelling places, but not the one I was visiting. How Mickey Strunt came to possess such handsome digs remained to be seen.
I knocked on his door at precisely ten o’clock. From the time it took him to answer, I guessed that in Mickey Strunt’s world it was still the middle of the night.
After unlatching at least three locks, Mickey stood in the doorway like a toad just jolted out of hibernation. He was short and overweight, with vast patches of body hair on his chest and back and a bulge in his belly that looked like a Christmas prosthesis. As he stood scratching his balls and squinting his eyes, he looked as confused and vulnerable as a toddler. An instant later he retrieved his chosen persona and became as bellicose and belligerent as an adult.
“What the hell do you want?” he demanded with ersatz anger, his rotund arms crossed over a tank top that was numbered 23, his stubby legs sticking out of baggy red satin shorts that were also of the House of Jordan. The sleepwear was fitting, I decided—the only way Mickey Strunt would get to the NBA was in his dreams.
“Are you Mr. Strunt?” I asked unnecessarily.
He drummed his fingers impatiently, as though he were so busy the slightest interruption might delay his discovery of the origins of dark matter. “That depends. You a cop?”
“Not at all.”
“Collection agent?”
I shook my head and stuck out my hand. “My name’s Tanner, Mr. Strunt. I’m vice president for product development and concept content for one of this country’s leading media corporations,” I burlesqued heartily, playing the role I’d concocted on the way over, one that was calculated to find out if Mickey was threatening his ex-wife and, more important, to get him to stop if he was.
“Yeah?” Mickey shook my hand reluctantly, with all the spunk of a punk. “What’s that have to do with me?”
“Simply this. My employer is considering a major commercial involvement with your ex-wife, and believe me, the operative word is major.”
Instantly roused by the scent of money, he struggled to remain impassive. “So?”
“Before we finalize any agreement, we need to know what kind of person she is. And what kind of relationships she maintains.”
“Why?”
“We need to know whether she’s worthy of a sizable investment, quite frankly.”
Mickey shook his head in reluctant admiration. “Damn. The bitch made it to the movies without me.” A moment later he drew in his wonder and redonned his mask. “Am I right or not?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to comment on the specifics of our proposal at this time. It’s a cutthroat world out there, as I’m sure you know, especially in the entertainment industry. We’ve found from experience that absolute secrecy in these matters is the only way to maintain a competitive edge.”
His brain awash in fantasy, he didn’t hear a word I said. “What’s the deal? Miniseries? Feature film? Biopic? Multimedia release?”
I kept my nonexistent cards close to my nonexistent vest. “Let’s just say everything and anything is on the table.”
He literally began to drool. “She getting a producer credit?”
I shrugged casually, to suggest I answered such questions daily. “That’s not my decision, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
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