The Breakers

by Marcia Muller

  “Thank you. Now, I’ve met Zack—”

  “He’s a good guy and the last tenant left. Unless you count Tyler Pincus, who’s hardly ever there. Comes and goes, stays on the first floor.”

  “Did Chelle know him?”

  “Friendly little thing like her? Sure she did.”

  “Were they…?”

  “Involved? No way. Tyler’s as gay as a mariachi band on Cinco de Mayo. He’s also a little nuts.”

  “How so?”

  “Fancies himself a wizard. Manic, but harmless.”

  “How can I reach him? I’d like to ask him if he’s heard from Chelle.”

  “Hmmm. There’s this bar over on Noriega Street, near Forty-Sixth—Danny’s Inferno—where he hangs. Kind of a locals’ joint. Two of Chelle’s workers, Al Majewski and Ollie Morse, are regulars too. Tell Danny I sent you.”

  “Okay, thanks. By the way, there’s something weird on the second floor where Chelle’s been staying—I guess you’d call it a collage of pictures and newspaper clippings on violent criminals.”

  Cap’n Bobby grimaced. “Yeah, she told me about it. I guess you could call it a rogue’s gallery, but the word usually connotes someone or something playful. Nothing playful about that display.”

  “You have any idea who put it up?”

  “Nope. But this part of the city’s always been known for its weirdos. For instance, Mooneysville.”

  I was familiar with the story. In the late 1800s, when the Geary Street, Park and Ocean Railway had been extended to the beach, a squatters’ colony rose up where Playland, the old amusement park that was demolished in the 1970s, used to be. A man named—appropriately, as it turned out—Con Mooney started selling food and whiskey to folks who came out on the rails. Soon there were all sorts of tents and shanties from Cliff House to Golden Gate Park that sold bad food and worse drink. There were also games of chance and other hustles. Mooneysville only lasted two years before the city shut it down, and oddly enough, the people who had built the shanties actually helped the cops demolish them. Then they went on to more legitimate enterprises in more savory locations. The beach seemed pretty savory to me these days, but back then it was a con man’s—or woman’s—dream.

  “Did Chelle seem upset about the wall?” I asked O’Hair.

  “No, I guess she found it intriguing.”

  “And you have no idea who created it?”

  “I’ve never even seen it. My legs gave out before I could manage the climb. First I heard of the wall was when Chelle was inspecting the building and told me about it.”

  “What I’ve been wondering is why she would choose to sleep near that wall on the second floor, rather than in one of the downstairs apartments.”

  “Don’t know. Maybe because the heat of the day rises from downstairs. There’s no furnace in that building, and none of the fireplaces work. Electric space heaters are expensive to run. So she told me she made herself a nice, cozy nest and seemed very happy with it.”

  “Makes sense. So far it’s been a cold summer.”

  In most other cities in the country, a forecast referring to a cold summer could be taken as erroneous. Not so in San Francisco, where the average summer temperatures often hover in the midfifties or lower.

  I asked, “Cap’n Bobby, what can you tell me about Tyler Pincus?”

  “Oddball character. Sometimes he chants and dances in public. He’s disruptive, and Chelle wants him out of there. She posted eviction notices on his door twice, but they were ripped down.”

  “She have any plans to evict Kaplan?”

  “No way. He’s been good to her, and, tell you the truth, I think they might be kinda sweet on each other.”

  “You think they had a relationship? Zack said they didn’t.”

  “Well, he ought to know.”

  I asked, “Do you remember anything more about the past tenants?”

  “Hmmm. My brain gets kinda foggy this time of day, but my ledger’ll tell you. Li,” he called to the waitress, “will you bring me that ledger that sits next to the cash box in my office?”

  She disappeared through a curtained archway at the rear and emerged with a ragged, oversize book. When she handed it to O’Hair, she studied me as if she was trying to figure out what I was doing here.

  Cap’n Bobby noticed her interest. “Li,” he said, “this is Sharon McCone. Sharon’s a private detective looking into Chelle Curley’s disappearance.”

  “Oh, is she missing?”

  “Since the weekend.”

  “That’s not very long. She’s a grown woman.”

  “Her parents are worried.”

  “Of course. Rich parents like to keep an eye on their darlings.” Li turned and went back to the bar.

  I said, “Where’d she get the idea the Curleys are rich? They’re not.”

  “Go figure. Maybe she thinks they finance her rehab jobs.” Bobby handed the ledger to me.

  “I’ll bring it back soon,” I said.

  “No matter. I’ve got no use for it any more.”

  “Appreciate it. Anything else you can tell me about the Breakers?”

  “Plenty. Was built in 1903 by a rich man named Ellison Yardley. This area was a playground for ladies and gentlemen of the city’s social set—that was before the quake of oh-six, which most of the buildings around here survived. Old Adolph Sutro was still sitting up there in his estate on the bluff. The Cliff House—I forget which incarnation it was, damned thing kept burning down—and the Baths were going strong. The Breakers fit right into that scene.”

  “I’ve heard part of the building was a restaurant.”

  “A fine one too. Mussels à la marinière, kidneys sautéed in Madeira sauce, sole Veronique, coq au vin.” Cap’n Bobby smacked his lips. “There was a ballroom on the second story—where your young friend is staying—and people danced the nights away.”

  “And the top floor?”

  “Ladies of the evening. You couldn’t have a successful establishment in those days without them.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “People are fickle. The war changed things. Able-bodied men went overseas. Women went into the aircraft plants. And after the initial excitement and joy of Johnny coming home, a new mind-set crept in. Everything and everyone became so serious: We had the bomb, the Russians had the bomb, God knows who else had it. Commies were forming clandestine cells all over the country. Silly slogans like ‘Families that pray together stay together’ appeared everywhere. Television had taken hold. And we had our inane fads. Remember the hula hoop, 3-D movies, sock hops, and drive-ins?”

  “Well, my older brother might.”

  “All those changes are why that building went into decline. The first two owners tried to operate in the same way Ellison Yardley had. Didn’t work; the old clientele didn’t come. Some claimed the food was too heavy and expensive, others said the place was too far from the city’s center. The next owner chopped it up—except for the second floor—into so-called luxury apartments. Apparently they weren’t luxurious enough. When I bought it fifteen years ago, I had plans. But then I ended up in this chair—auto accident—and got some kind of staph infection that flares up from time to time. When Chelle came to me with a lowball offer, I’d about given up on unloading the place, so I told her she could have it for next to nothing. We’ve been working together on the blueprints for the rehab job. But now she’s gone. I sure hope you can find her and bring her back by Friday. Not that I wouldn’t extend the escrow. I just want to know she’s okay.”

  So did I.

  4:25 p.m.

  Danny’s Inferno was located on a commercial block of Noriega Street between Forty-Fifth and Forty-Sixth Avenues: small hardware store, secondhand clothing boutique, ice cream shop, pizza place. I wondered if the proprietor of Danny’s had taken inspiration for its name from a neighbor, the Devil’s Teeth Baking Company.

  Inside, the Inferno carried out its hellish theme: glowing red fluorescent tubing shaped like a devil; oran
ge neon flames flaring above the bar; Beelzebub masks on the walls. Interspersed were occult symbols: the sun cross, celebrating the paganism of the Iron Age; pentacles, prominent in European witchcraft; the hex signs that carry on even today. Odd place.

  I took a stool at the bar. I’d drawn stares from a few of the customers and a waitress when I’d come in, but the barkeep seemed friendly. He looked somewhat like my image of Satan: wild black hair, thin, waxed mustache, spade-shaped patch of hair on his chin. He wore a red sequined vest over a black shirt.

  I said, “Is that your work uniform or do you always wear it?”

  He laughed, startling a couple seated two stools away. “Do I look like the kind of guy who gets off on people thinking he’s Satan?”

  “In that outfit, yeah.”

  “I change into my human clothes before I leave work.” He reached across the bar to shake my hand. “Danny Redfin.”

  “Sharon McCone.”

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Glass of chardonnay.”

  “Yours.” He bustled along the bar, brought it back. “So what brings you to this lowly place?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for Tyler Pincus.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What on earth you want with him?”

  I set one of my cards in front of him. He looked at it, then tucked it carefully in the pocket of his red vest.

  “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “Actually, we have a mutual friend—Hank Zahn. He’s my lawyer.”

  “And one of my best and oldest friends. We go all the way back to college.”

  “I’ll be damned. This really is a small city, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s why I like it.” And sometimes why I don’t like it when trying to go about my business. “So what about Tyler Pincus?”

  “He hangs here sometimes.” Redfin scanned the few customers. “He hasn’t been in today, though.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Obnoxious. Always tries to be the center of attention, which is hard because nobody likes him.”

  “What does he do? For a living, I mean.”

  “Nothing. He pretends to be a magician, but he’s actually a trust fund baby.”

  A trust fund baby living in a place like the Breakers. No accounting for tastes.

  Danny said, “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. It’s probably not a big trust fund—if it exists at all.”

  “You know where I can get hold of Pincus?”

  “No, but I can take your cell number, call if he comes in.”

  “It’s on my card. Another question: does Zack Kaplan ever come here?”

  “Not too often. He’s a hardworking student. But I know him. A good dude. So what’s this about?” Redfin asked. “If it’s not confidential.”

  “It isn’t. The more people who hear about it the better. You know Chelle Curley?”

  “Sure. She stops in sometimes.”

  I outlined the missing person case for him.

  He shook his head. “I hope she’s all right. A good kid, you know, got a lot of smarts. I could help you—ask around about her.”

  “I’d appreciate that. There’s a guy named Damon she used to be with. Do you know his last name? Or where he lives?”

  “Nope, no idea.”

  “What about two construction guys she hired to work on the Breakers? Al Majewski and Ollie Morse?”

  “They come in pretty regular, probably they’ll be here tonight.”

  “What’re they like?”

  “Nice guys, good, solid workers. Ollie’s had his problems—bad war injury in Afghanistan, PTSD. Al’s his best buddy, looks after him.”

  “Let me know if they do come in. Now, what about this Damon? What’s he like?”

  “You want the good or the bad first?”

  I shrugged, and Redfin went on.

  “He’s a sharp-looking dude. Tall, dark curly hair, chiseled features. Personable too. Nice smile, firm handshake. That’s the good side. Now for the bad: there’s this thing about him, sorta like a big dog on a leash. He’s behaving, friendly. He likes being patted and given treats. But you look deep in his eyes and you know that if he weren’t being patted and given treats, if he weren’t secure on a leash, he’d jump on you and rip your throat out. That’s Damon in a nutshell.”

  “What else is bad about him?”

  “He doesn’t really like women, particularly successful, assertive women. He beat up one of my customers pretty badly last year.”

  I felt a stab of anxiety. “Chelle—”

  “No. At least not at first. But I think he may have gotten rough with her—she had bruises on her arms the day before she fired him. But she gave better than she got: I saw him on the street with his backpack crammed with all his stuff, and he had one beautiful shiner.” Redfin shook his head. “Why is it always the good ones like Chelle who get the short end of the stick? People who are trying to make a difference—and not just for themselves, but for others too? Why do bad things always happen to them?”

  His questions bothered me; I had no answer for them. And I felt as though he’d closed the book on Chelle, expected never to see her again. Happens a lot with runaways in this city, and we tend to downplay it. But when it happens to one of your own…

  5:51 p.m.

  The fog had moved in, so heavy that it felt almost like drizzly rain. In August, the interior of the Bay Area can heat up to triple-digit temperatures; people would be sweltering in places like Walnut Creek, Danville, and the great agricultural valleys. But here I had to put up the hood on my rain jacket.

  I was at a loss for what to do next. Until I heard from Danny Redfin, I couldn’t try to chase down the two men, Majewski and Morse, who’d been working for Chelle. Damon, her rejected boyfriend, might be easier to trace, but I hadn’t the abilities; I relied too heavily upon the skills of my nephew, Mick Savage, and his second in command in our research department, Derek Frye, in pinning down information from Internet sources. But now Mick was unreachable, on a well-deserved vacation to the Australian Outback—by himself, being an adventurous soul—and Derek was dealing with a family crisis in southern California. It would be difficult to corral any other member of our research department on a Saturday night.

  I didn’t want to go home. My husband Hy was on the East Coast—Boston—conferring with a client. Our cats, Alex and Jessie, had been alone all day, so I called the pet-sitting service we used, but they didn’t answer. By now the feline hunger alarms would be going off.

  So I did the responsible pet owner thing and went home to feed them.

  I was just putting the latest thirty-pound bag of cat kibble into the pantry when I received a pleasant surprise: a call from my birth father, Elwood Farmer, a nationally celebrated artist who lived on the Flathead Reservation in Montana. Elwood hadn’t even known he had a daughter when I caught up with him in my search for my roots, but he’d taken to me—the product of a one-night stand with a visitor to the rez—and to his new paternal role with zeal.

  Tonight he said, “How’s that mother of yours?”

  “Which one?”

  It was our usual opening gambit. Ma—my adoptive mother—was a budding watercolorist and lived on the Monterey Peninsula; Saskia Blackhawk—my birth mother—was a high-powered attorney for Indian rights in Boise.

  “Katie.” I detected a somber note in Elwood’s voice. “I’ve been thinking on her all day. Can’t get her out of my mind.”

  “As far as I know she’s fine. If you’re concerned about her, I’ll let you know after her weekly Sunday call.”

  “Maybe I’ll give her a ring. Or maybe I won’t. Don’t want to bother the old girl.”

  “‘Old girl’—them’s killing words, you know. You worried about her, or what?”

  “After that business last Christmas, you never know.”

  Elwood had been visiting Hy and me for the holidays when he’d been badly beaten by a group of racists. During his long hospital stay, when he was largely unconscious
, Ma had concocted a fantasy about them being lovers on the verge of marriage, but when he’d recovered from his comatose state, she’d backpedaled with an Academy Award–worthy performance. Elwood—fully recovered now—had worried about her ever since. Whether he feared that she was going insane or that she might be considering taking up residence with him, none of us knew.

  The rest of our conversation centered on the doings of our large clan, and when I hung up, I reflected that it was fortunate that neither of us was a way station on the moccasin telegraph—that from-my-phone to-your-ear, from-my-fingers-to-your-e-mail network that binds us all.

  6:41 p.m.

  A call from Danny Redfin. Al Majewski had just come into the Inferno. He was meeting Ollie Morse there in half an hour; did I want to join them?

  I set off for the Outerlands again.

  At night all the curbside parking spots in the vicinity were filled. I finally found a space three blocks away and walked back to Noriega. In spite of all the cars—which probably belonged to residents who didn’t have access to scarce city garages—there weren’t many people out and about. Tendrils of fog curled around the tops of trees, and my footfalls echoed loudly on the damp pavement. There were few streetlights to show the way. Even the lights in the houses were dim, the windows heavily covered. I found myself glancing warily into the clotted shadows.

  The red neon glare of the Inferno made me quicken my pace. A knot of people stood on the sidewalk, smoking—which is no longer allowed in many areas of the city, which has the most stringent antitobacco laws in the nation. In spite of their exile to the cold and damp, the nicotine addicts seemed cheerful; some smiled and nodded to me. As I pushed through the door, I was greeted by a gust of warm air and Willie Nelson’s voice on the jukebox. Danny Redfin waved to me.

  A middle-aged, well-muscled man in faded jeans and a Black Watch plaid flannel shirt straddled a stool in front of him. Danny introduced me: Al Majewski. Al had spiky brown hair and large incisors that, coupled with his long, protruding nose and jaw, reminded me of a fox terrier. After we’d shaken hands another man joined us, a short-haired blond named Ollie Morse with a goatee. Al appeared to be sober, while Ollie was at least halfway in the bag.