There's Something in a Sunday

by Marcia Muller

  We inched along Bay to Columbus, where cross traffic jammed up in the intersection and blocked the flow for two changes of the light. Then Wilkonson made several turns, none without difficulty and two of them wrong for Cost Plus. I followed, my aggravation level rising. Cars executed strange and illegal maneuvers; strollers wandered outside the crosswalks, oblivious to danger; at Taylor a man blocked the street taking a picture of the cable car. I clutched the wheel harder and reminded myself that my dentist had recently warned me against grinding my teeth.

  Wilkonson’s Ranchero finally reached the entrance to the Cost Plus parking lot. He would have to make a left turn to enter, and the line of oncoming traffic was bumper-to-bumper. I waited two cars behind him, wondering what he’d decide to do.

  He put on the Ranchero’s left-turn signal. The oncoming cars crawled by unheeding. He extended his arm from the window and gestured at the lot. A man in a Cadillac kept moving, looking determinedly ahead. Someone-in the car behind Wilkonson, I thought-beeped his horn.

  Wilkonson might be from the country, but he understood city driving. He ignored the beep and just sat there. Finally there was a break in traffic. The Ranchero inched forward. A camper with Illinois plates speeded up and tried to cut it off. Both Wilkonson and the camper’s driver slammed on their brakes.

  Sometimes when you’re tailing a person-surreptitiously privy to his or her every movement for a long period of time-you develop a certain empathy. It’s as if you begin to read the subject’s thoughts: no matter how far you are from him, no matter how obstructed your visibility, at a given crucial moment you have a flash of warning about what he’s going to do.

  A flash came to me now. And Wilkonson did it.

  He had stopped the Ranchero only inches from the camper’s front bumper. They were close, but the Ranchero had the edge. Wilkonson extended his left arm out the window in that time-honored middle-fingered salute. Then he wrenched the steering wheel and drew in front of the camper, nearly ramming a car parked at the curb. He slammed into reverse, barely missing the VW that had been behind him. When he completed the U-turn, he raced the vehicle down the other side of the street, fishtailing wildly, tires screaming.

  As he roared past me, I caught a glimpse of his face. It was purpled, viciously twisted-one of the most frightening pictures of murderous rage I had ever seen.

  TWO

  Today’s weird jaunt through the city had come about because, late Friday afternoon, Jack Stuart-the newest attorney at All Souls-had asked me to take on the weekend tail job for one of his clients. The job, Jack said, had nothing to do with any legal work he was handling for the man; he was merely arranging it as a favor. But All Souls makes a practice of extending investigative services to steady clients, so I agreed. I had no definite plans for Sunday, seldom had any weekend plans at all these days; the job would fill up otherwise empty hours and, besides, I would be paid overtime.

  At four that afternoon I drove to the South of Market District to meet with Jack’s client, Rudy Goldring. Goldring was a custom shirtmaker, and the offices of his firm, Goldring Clothiers, were located on Stillman Street, a one-block alley in the shadow of the I-80 freeway and not far from Moscone Center. The narrow street was lined with cars on both sides, most of them in defiance of NO PARKING signs, and many with two wheels pulled up on the pavement. I squeezed the MG in between a new Toyota and a beat-up van and went looking for Goldring’s number. The buildings were an odd mixture of old postwar warehouses and factories and Italianate Victorians; Goldring Clothiers occupied the bottom floor of one of the Victorians, a sprucely painted blue one near the corner.

  A bearded derelict in threadbare army fatigues sat in the middle of the marble steps drinking a Colt .45. When I started up to the door, he jumped to his feet. I tensed but kept going. He stepped in front of me.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” He had a bad body odor and his breath was rank with beer, but he spoke with great formality.

  “What?”

  “Who are you here to see?”

  “Um, Mr. Rudy Goldring.”

  “Come this way, please.” He led me to the door and opened it with all the correctness of an English butler.

  “Uh, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure.” He pulled the door shut behind me.

  I shook my head, thinking, Only in San Francisco, then looked around. I was standing at the beginning of a long hall carpeted in pearl gray with darker gray walls. Several doors opened on either side of the hallway, and I could hear the sounds of voices and a telephone ringing. There was no one in sight, so I knocked on the frame of the first door.

  A man’s voice called for me to come in, and I entered what had once been a Victorian parlor. It was also carpeted and painted in cool shades of gray, and its walls were hung with framed reproductions of mechanical drawings of cable cars. Its fireplace appeared to be in working order and on its mantel sat a trailing philodendron in a shiny brass pot. The rest of the room was in chaos: shirts of various colors and styles hung from long hooks extending out from the walls; boxes and mailing cartons spilled onto the floor from the shelves and chairs; there was an ironing board in the window bay; the big mahogany desk was piled with what looked like invoices and purchase orders, some of which had also fallen to the floor.

  The man behind the desk must have been in his sixties. He had a full head of the type of curly white hair whose highlights make it look yellow. His face was deeply lined-by good humor, I thought. His eyes were the palest of blues, his dark suit and white shirt correct enough for a diplomatic reception, and when he stood, I found he did not quite measure up to my own five foot six.

  He extended a hand and said, “You must be Miss McCone.”

  I clasped his long bony fingers. “And you’re Mr. Goldring.”

  “Yes. Please sit down.”

  I looked where he indicated and saw a chair that was half-buried under shirts and boxes.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He moved around me, almost scampering, and gathered everything up. “We’re starting to ship our Christmas orders, and things get out of hand.” For a moment he stood, at a loss as to where to put his burden, then dumped it on the ironing board. Most of it promptly fell off. Rudy Goldring threw up his hands in mock despair and went back to his desk. “Please,” he said again, motioning at the now empty chair.

  I sat, and he ensconced himself in his desk chair. It was a big padded one and it dwarfed him. I said, “Do you do all your shipping from these offices?”

  “Most of it goes from the factory down the street. Maybe you saw it-the tan building on the corner?”

  I hadn’t, but I nodded.

  “It’s the merchandise for the stores that goes out from there. Not really custom work just better-than-average ready-to-wear. Every state in the Union we’re into now, and the volume grows every year. A man’s going to spend the kind of money he has to pay for shirts today, he wants quality. But this” –he motioned around the room- “is my custom trade. Old customers. Good customers. I like to give them personalized service. We inspect each shirt here, iron it, pin it, pack it nice. Some of these men have been coming to me for more than thirty years now. They expect good personal treatment, and they get it.”

  “Do you have a retail outlet here in town?”

  He smiled, his face wrinkling deeply, and spread out his hands. “This is it. A man wants to be fitted or look at samples, he comes here. We got a nice room in the back, we offer coffee or a drink. The fitting is part of the experience of getting a really good shirt.”

  “How much does a custom shirt cost?”

  “Anywhere from sixty to two hundred dollars, depending. But for that you get a lot of shirt. We take sixteen different measurements, take into account the collar height as well as its size. Maybe you got a husband you want to give a custom shirt for Christmas?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “A nice-looking woman like you? A boyfriend, then?”

  I hadn’t, not at the moment, but it
didn’t trouble me to admit it-usually. I shook my head, smiling.

  “Ah well, by Christmas you might. Then you remember me. We’ll fix him up with something nice.”

  “I’ll remember. But now we’d better get down to business. Jack Stuart tells me you want someone followed this Sunday.”

  At the mention of business the smile slid off Rudy Goldring’s lips and his eyes clouded. He picked up a letter opener from the mess on the desk and held it between his hands, turning it over and over with the tips of his bony fingers. After a moment he said, “Yes. Man by the name of Frank Wilkonson. He checks into the Kingsway Motel on Lombard Street late every Saturday night. Leaves on Sunday morning. Usually he goes back to the motel after dinnertime Sunday evening, stays till one or two in the morning. I want to know where he goes and what he does.”

  “On Sunday, you mean.”

  “Monday morning, too. Everything until he gets on the 101 freeway going south out of town.”

  I waited, but Goldring didn’t volunteer any more information. His formerly animated face was flaccid and drained; he looked years older than when I’d come in.

  Finally I said, “Why?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why do you want to find out what he does?”

  Momentarily he looked dismayed. “Do you have to know that?”

  “It would help. The more I know about a subject and the client’s reasons for requesting surveillance, the better a job I can do.”

  “Oh. Well, I got a picture.” He rummaged on the desk again and came up with a color snapshot. I took it from his outstretched hand.

  It was a poor snap, trimmed to wallet size-taken outdoors, somewhere where there were oak-dotted hills in the background. The man had a narrow tanned face, sharp features, and wispy dull brown hair. He wore an open-necked plaid shirt and seemed to be leaning against the rail of a fence.

  I took out my note pad. “I’ll need more details about Mr. Wilkonson’s physical appearance. What color are his eyes?”

  “Can’t you tell that from the picture?”

  “No.”

  “Well…I guess they’re blue.”

  “His height? Weight?”

  “He’s tall. Thin.”

  “That’s as much as you can tell me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “How does he typically dress?”

  “Well, he works on a ranch. I’d say casually, like in the picture.”

  “Not a good customer for your kind of shirts, then?” I smiled, hoping to get him to relax.

  He remained serious. “No.”

  His sudden reserve and the lack of detail about Frank Wilkonson were beginning to irritate me. I said, “I assume he drives a car.”

  “An old Ford Ranchero. Green.” He consulted a scrap of paper. “License number SDK 080.”

  I copied it down and shut my notebook. “Mr. Goldring, what’s your relationship to Frank Wilkonson?”

  “My…he’s a relative. A distant relative.”

  “I see. I take it he’s come to San Francisco and followed this same routine on a number of Sundays.”

  “Three that I know of.”

  “And all you want is more detail on his activities?”

  “That’s right.” Goldring paused, his pale eyes anxious. I sensed he was afraid I was about to refuse to take the job, because he added, “You see, Frank Wilkonson is my…Cousin Meta’s boy. He’s kind of peculiar. Always has been. Since he’s taken to coming up here on Sundays, she’s been worried. A man like Frank can get into trouble wandering around this city alone. She just wants to know what he’s been doing, that he’s all right. It’ll be a relief to her, I couldn’t refuse. But I don’t have time to follow someone, wouldn’t know how to go about it, anyway. I asked Jack, he recommended you…”

  As he spoke, Goldring’s words gathered momentum, as if this were a script he’d memorized and at first had forgotten. Now, with one sentence cueing the next, he seemed to find it difficult to stop.

  I said, “I suppose your Cousin Meta felt it would be easier for you to look into it, since you’re here in town and she’s down in…?”

  Goldring watched me for a few seconds, and after I let the silence lengthen, his expression became resigned. “King City,” he said.

  I continued to study him in silence. After a few seconds of meeting my gaze, he wet his lips and looked down at the desk. When he picked up the letter opener again, his fingers trembled slightly.

  Rudy Goldring was lying to me-of that I was certain. Whether about King City or Cousin Meta or all of it, I couldn’t tell. But at that moment I was willing to wager a week’s salary that more than fifty percent of what he’d told me was outright lies.

  From the way he was avoiding my eyes, I also knew he was aware I’d realized his deception. A flush had crept up from under his immaculate white collar and spread over his face. I sensed he wasn’t a man to whom lies came easily-in fact, he probably hated telling them. The fact that he had lied meant his reasons for wanting Frank Wilkonson followed were of great consequence to him-and possibly not very honorable.

  After a good half-minute of further silence he spoke, still looking down at the desk. “Will you do this for me, Miss McCone?” There was a pathetic pleading ring to his voice that I wouldn’t have expected to hear from the high-spirited man who had greeted me, and it made me feel sorry for him.

  I hesitated. As All Souls’ employee, it wasn’t really my right to turn down an assignment, not unless the client asked me to do something illegal. If I refused to take on this tail job, I would have to do a good bit of explaining-both to Jack Stuart and my boss, Hank Zahn. Besides, I liked him, which is why I said, “Yes, I will, Mr. Goldring.”

  He dropped the letter opener and looked up, sighing faintly.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  We concluded by going over the scanty details about Frank Wilkonson once more. Goldring barely deviated by a single word from his earlier recital. When he showed me to the door, the derelict was still on the steps. He looked up and saluted Goldring. “Hiya, Captain.”

  “Hello, Bob. Isn’t it almost time for your supper?”

  “Dunno. What time is it?”

  “Close to five. You’d better get over to St. Anthony’s, or you’ll miss a place in line.”

  The derelict looked regretfully at the can of Colt .45 in his hand, then shook it. It sounded empty.

  Goldring said, “No more beer, Bob. Not until you’ve eaten.”

  The man shrugged philosophically, set the can carefully out of sight behind one of the porch pillars, and extracted a worn, fringed, tooled leather pouch from behind the other. When he stood, he adjusted its strap on his shoulder, then ambled down the steps.

  I said, “He seems to think he’s your doorman.”

  “He is, in a way. He guards the steps and shows people in, and I provide him with beer and remind him to eat. I suppose I shouldn’t be encouraging him to drink, but if I cut him off, he’s not going to stop. It’s harmless enough.”

  “He was certainly polite enough when I arrived, but isn’t he off-putting to your clientele?”

  “Most of them are used to Bob. He’s been here five years or more. The others are forewarned.”

  “He’s your personal charity, then?”

  “I guess you could call him that.” Goldring was watching the derelict walk away, his face a complex mixture of emotions. “There are so many of them, and there’s nothing to be done on a grand scale. But I can’t help thinking that if every business concern south of Market took an interest-Oh well, you don’t want to listen to an old man’s maunderings, Miss McCone. And I have a dozen shirts to pack before the late UPS pickup. You’ll let me know about Frank Wilkonson on Monday?”

  I said I would, and after shaking my hand, Goldring went inside.

  An interesting man, Rudy Goldring, I thought as I walked back to my car. Complicated, vulnerable, curiously appealing. And in spite of his obvious lies, an honest man. Co
nflicted because of that honesty. Was that really why, against my better instincts, I was taking his case?

  Maybe, maybe not. Sometimes I never knew exactly why I took on certain things-just as I never knew exactly where they would lead me.

  THREE

  At two on Monday morning I was still on the job, parked across from the Kingsway Motel in front of the coffee shop where I’d sat close to twenty-four hours before. I’d lost Wilkonson in the Wharf area but when I’d returned to Lombard Street, his Ranchero had been parked underneath the motel. About an hour later Wilkonson appeared on foot-probably coming back from having dinner at one of the nearby coffee shops or small restaurants. He went to his room and shortly after that the lights in its window went out.

  When I felt certain he would stay in his room for a while, I left the MG and went into the coffee shop. I hadn’t eaten anything since the sandwiches and fruit I’d downed while following him from nursery to nursery, and the emergency Hershey bars that I always carry in my purse didn’t appeal to me. I took the same window booth I’d occupied earlier and ate a burger and fries while keeping an eye on Wilkonson’s darkened motel room, then bought a large container of coffee. Back in the car, I whiled away the hours by listening to the radio and bolstering up my flagging energy level with chocolate and caffeine.

  The fog had come in again, thick and blustery. It sheeted up Lombard Street like wind-driven snow. I huddled inside my pea jacket, unable to run the heater because it was broken, and thought about the man I’d been tailing: his visits to places having to do with plants; his questions that I hadn’t been able to hear; his obvious anger.

  He had to be looking for someone. A man or a woman whose vocation or avocation involved horticulture. That could mean anything from retail nursery clerk to garden club president to landscape architect. When he’d questioned the various clerks, he’d probably been describing the person; the way he’d moved his hands while talking indicated that. Because he’d had to go to such lengths in his search, he either didn’t know the person’s name or had reason to believe he or she was going by an assumed one. Why? Because of trouble with the law? Because of a desire to hide from Wilkonson? And if the latter-again, why?