The McCone Files

by Marcia Muller

  I rolled my eyes. The wonder bus was a KSUN publicity ploy—a former school bus painted in rainbow hues and emblazoned with the station call letters. It traveled to all KSUN-sponsored events, plus to anything else where management deemed its presence might be beneficial. As far as I was concerned, it was the most outrageous in a panoply of the station’s efforts at self-promotion, and I took every opportunity to expound that viewpoint to Don. Surprisingly Don—a quiet classical musician who hated rock-and roll and the notoriety that went with being a D.J.—never cringed at riding the Wonder Bus. If anything, he took almost a perverse pleasure in the motorized monstrosity.

  Secretly, I had shameful desire to hitch a ride on the Wonder Bus myself.

  Wayne Kabalka looked somewhat puzzled at Don’s statement. “Wonder Bus?” he said to himself. Then, “Well, if everyone’s ready, let’s go.”

  I turned to Don and smiled in a superior fashion. “Enjoy your ride.”

  We trooped out into the parking lot. Heat shimmered off the concrete paving. Kabalka pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Is it always this hot here in September?”

  “This is the month we have our true summer in the city, but no, this is unusual.” I went over and placed my bag carefully behind the driver’s seat of my MG convertible.

  When John Tilby saw the car, his eyes brightened; he came over to it running a hand along one of its battle-scarred flanks as if it were a brand new Porsche. “I used to have one of these.”

  “I’ll bet it was in better shape than this one.”

  “Not really.” A shadow passed over his face and he continued to caress the car in spite of the fact that the metal must be burning hot to the touch.

  “Look,” I said, “if you want to drive it out to the pavilion, I wouldn’t mind being a passenger for a change.”

  He hesitated, then said wistfully, “That’s nice of you, but I can’t…I don’t drive. But I’d like to ride along—”

  “John!” Kabalka voice was impatient behind us. “Come on, we’re keeping Corinne and Nicole waiting.”

  Tilby gave the car a last longing glance, then shrugged. “I guess I’d better ride out with Wayne and the girls.” He turned and walked off to Kabalka’s new-looking Seville that was parked at the other side of the lot.

  Gary Fitzgerald appeared next to me, a small canvas bag in one hand, garment bag in the other. “I guess you’re stuck with me,” he said, smiling easily.

  “That’s not such a bad deal.”

  He glanced back at Tilby and Kabalka, who were climbing into the Cadillac. “Wayne’s right to make John go with him. Nicole would be jealous if she saw him with another woman.” His tone was slightly resentful. Of Nicole? I wondered. Perhaps the girlfriend had caused dissension between the cousins.

  “Corinne is Wayne’s wife?” I asked as we got into the MG.

  “Yes. You’ll meet both of them at the performance; they’re never very far away.” Again I heard the undertone of annoyance.

  We got onto the freeway and crossed the Bay Bridge. Commuter traffic out of the city was already getting heavy; people left their offices early on hot Fridays in September. I wheeled the little car in and out from lane to lane, bypassing trucks and A.C. Transit buses. Fitzgerald didn’t speak. I glanced at him a couple of times to see if my maneuvering bothered him, but he sat slumped against the door, his almost-homely features shadowed with thought. Pre-performance nerves, possibly.

  From the bridge, I took Highway 24 east toward Walnut Creek. We passed through the outskirts of Oakland, smog-hazed and sprawling—the ugly duckling of the Bay Area. Sophisticates from San Francisco scorned Oakland, repeating Gertrude Stein’s overused phrase. “There is no there there,” but lately there’d been a current of unease in their mockery. Oakland’s thriving port had stolen much of the shipping business from her sister city across the Bay; her politics were alive and spirited; and on the site of former slums, sleek new buildings had been put up. Oakland was at last shedding her pinfeathers, and it made many of my fellow San Franciscans nervous.

  From there we began the long ascent through the Berkeley Hills to the Caldecott Tunnel. The MG’s aged engine strained as we passed lumbering trucks and slower cars, and when we reached the tunnel—three tunnels, actually, two of them now open to accommodate the eastbound commuter rush—I shot into the fast lane. At the top of the grade midway through the tunnel, I shifted into neutral to give the engine a rest. Arid heat assailed us as we emerged; the temperature in San Francisco had been nothing compared to this.

  The freeway continued to descend, past brown sun-baked hills covered with live oak and eucalyptus. Then houses began to appear, tucked back among the trees. The air was scented with dry leaves and grass and dust. Fire danger, I thought. One spark and those houses become tinderboxes.

  The town of Orinda appeared on the right. On the left, in the center of the freeway, a BART train was pulling out of the station. I accelerated and tried to outrace it, giving up when my speedometer hit eighty and waving at some school kids who were watching from the train. Then I dropped back to sixty and glanced at Fitzgerald, suddenly embarrassed by my childish display. He was sitting up straighter and grinning.

  I said, “The temptation was overwhelming.”

  “I know the impulse.”

  Feeling more comfortable now that he seemed willing to talk, I said, “Did Mr. Kabalka tell you that he let me in on where you’re really from?

  For a moment he looked startled, than nodded.

  “Is this the first time you’ve been back here in Contra Costa County?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll find it changed.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Mainly there are more people. Place like Walnut Creek and Concord have grown by leaps and bounds in the last ten years.”

  The county stretched east from the ridge of hills we’d just passed through toward Mount Diablo, a nearly 4,000-foot peak which had been developed into a 15,000-acre state park. On the north side of the county was the Carquinez Strait and its oil refineries, Suisun Bay, and the San Joaquin River which separated Contra Costa from Sacramento County and the rest of the Delta. The city of Richmond and environs, to the west, were also part of the county, and their inclusion had always struck me as odd. Besides being geographically separated by the expanse of the Tilden Regional Park and San Pablo Reservoir, the mostly black industrial city was culturally light years away from the rest of the suburban, upwardly mobile county. With the exception of a few towns like Pittsburgh or Antioch, this was affluent, fast-developing land; I supposed one day even those north-county backwaters would fall victim to expensive residential tracts and shopping centers full of upscale boutiques.

  When Fitzgerald didn’t comment, I said, “Does it look different to you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Wait till we get to Walnut Creek. The area around the BART station is all high-rise now. They’re predicting it will become an urban center that will rival San Francisco.”

  He grunted in disapproval.

  “About the only thing they’ve managed to preserve out here is the area around Mount Diablo. I suppose you know it from when you were a kid.”

  “Yes.”

  “I went hiking in the park last spring, during wildflower season. It was really beautiful that time of year. They say if you climb high enough you can see thirty-five counties from the mountain.”

  “This pavilion,” Fitzgerald said, “is part of the state park?”

  For a moment I was surprised, then realized that the pavilion hadn’t been in existence in 1969, when he’d left home. “No, but near it. The land around it is relatively unspoiled. Horses and cattle ranches, mostly. They built it about eight years ago, after the Concord Pavilion became such a success. I guess that’s one index of how this part of the Bay Area has grown, that it can support two concert pavilions.”

  He nodded. “Do they ever have concerts going at the same time at both?”

  �
�Sure,”

  “It must really echo off these hills.”

  “I imagine you can hear it all the way to Port Chicago.” Port Chicago was where the Naval Weapons Station was located, on the edge of Suisun Bay.

  “Well, maybe not all the way to Chicago.”

  I smiled at the feeble joke, thinking that for a clown, Fitzgerald really didn’t have much of a sense of humor, then allowed him to lapse back into his moody silence.

  When we arrived at the pavilion, the parking lot was already crowded, the gates having opened early so people could picnic before the show started. An orange-jacketed attendant directed us to a far corner of the lot which had been cordoned off for official parking near the performers’ gate. Fitzgerald and I waited in the car for about fifteen minutes, the late afternoon sun beating down on us, until Wayne Kabalka’s Seville pulled up alongside. With the manager and John Tilby were two women; a chic, fortyish redhead, and a small dark-haired woman in her twenties. Fitzgerald and I got out and went to them.

  The redhead was Corinne Kabalka, her strong handshake and level gaze made me like her immediately. I was less sure about Nicole Leland; the younger woman was beautiful, with short black hair sculpted close to her head and exotic features, but her manner was very cold. She nodded curtly when introduced to me, then took Tilby’s arm and led him off toward the performers’ gate. The rest of us trailed behind.

  Security was tight at the gate. We met Roy Canfield, who was personally superintending the check-in, and each of us was issued a pass. No one, Canfield told us, would be permitted backstage or through the gate, without showing his pass. Security personnel would also be stationed in the audience to protect those clowns who, as part of the show, would be performing out on the lawn.

  We were then shown to a large dressing room equipped with a couch, a folding card table and chairs. After everyone was settled there I took Kabalka aside and asked him if he would take charge of the group for about fifteen minutes while I checked the layout of the pavilion. He nodded distractedly and I went out front.

  Stage personnel were scurrying around, setting up sound equipment and checking the lights. Don had already arrived, but he was conferring with one of the other KSUN jocks and didn’t look as if he could be disturbed. The formal seating was empty, but the lawn was already crowded. People lounged on blankets, passing around food, drink and an occasional joint. Some of the picnics were elaborate—fine china, crystal wineglasses, ice buckets, and in one case, a set of lighted silver candelabra; others were of the paper-plate and plastic-cup variety. I spotted the familiar logos of Kentucky Fried Chicken and Jack-in-the-Box here and there. People called to friends, climbed up and down the hill to the restroom and refreshment facilities, dropped by other groups’ blankets to see what goodies they had to trade. Children ran through the crowd, and occasional Frisbee sailed through the air. I noticed a wafting trail of iridescent soap bubbles, and my eyes followed it to a young woman in a red halter top who was blowing them, her face aglow with childlike pleasure.

  For a moment I felt a stab of envy, realizing that if I hadn’t taken on this job I could be out front, courtesy of the free pass Don had promised me. I could have packed a picnic, perhaps brought along a woman friend, and Don could have dropped by to join us when he had time. But instead, I was bodyguarding a pair of clowns who—given the pavilion’s elaborate security measures—probably didn’t need me. And in addition to Fitzgerald and Tilby, I seemed to be responsible for an entire group. I could see why Kabalka might want to stick close to his clients, but why did the wife and girlfriend have to crowd into what was already a stuffy, hot dressing room? Why couldn’t they go out front and enjoy the performance? It complicated my assignment, having to contend with an entourage, and the thought of those complications made me grumpy.

  The grumpiness was probably due to the heat, I decided. Shrugging it off, I familiarized myself with the layout of the stage and the points at which someone could gain access. Satisfied that pavilion security could deal with any problems that might arise there, I made my way through the crowd—turning down two beers, a glass of wine, and a pretzel—and climbed to the promenade. From there I studied the stage once more, then raised my eyes to the sun-scorched hills to the east.

  What a great way to enjoy a free show, I thought. The sound, in this natural echo chamber, would easily carry to where the watchers were stationed. How much more peaceful it must be on the hill, free of crowds and security measures. Visibility, however, would not be very good….

  And then I saw a flare of reddish light and glanced over to where a lone horseman stood under the sheltering branches of a live oak. The light flashed again, and I realized he was holding binoculars which had caught the setting sun. Of course—with binoculars or opera glasses, visibility would not be bad at all. In fact, from such a high vantage point it might even be better than from many points on the lawn. My grumpiness returned; I’d have loved to be mounted on a horse on that hillside.

  Reminding myself that I was here on business that would pay for part of the new bathroom tile, I turned back toward the stage, then started when I saw Gary Fitzgerald. He was standing on the lawn not more than six feet from me, looking around with one hand forming a visor over his eyes. When he saw me he started too, and then waved.

  I rushed over to him and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to stay backstage!”

  “I just wanted to see what the place looks like.”

  “Are you out of your mind? Your manager is paying good money for me to see that people stay away from you. And here you are wandering through the crowd—”

  He looked away, at a family on a blanket next to us. The father was wiping catsup from the smaller child’s hands. “No one’s bothering me.”

  “That’s not the point.” Still gripping his arm, I began steering him toward the stage. “Someone might recognize you, and that’s precisely what Kabalka hired me to prevent.”

  “Oh, Wayne’s been a worrywart about that. No one’s going to recognize anybody after all this time. Besides, it’s common knowledge in the trade that we’re not what we’re made out to be.”

  “In the trade, yes. But your manager’s worried about the public.” We got to the stage, showed our passes to the security guard, and went back to the dressing room.

  At the door Fitzgerald stopped. “Sharon, would you mind not mentioning my going out there to Wayne?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because it would only upset him, and he’s nervous enough before a performance. Nothing happened—except that I was guilty of using bad judgment.”

  His smile was disarming, and I took the words as an apology. “All right. But you’d better go get into costume. There’s only half an hour before the grand procession begins.”

  The next few hours were uneventful. The grand procession—a parade through the crowd in which all the performers participated—went off smoothly. After they returned to the dressing room, Fitzgerald and Tilby removed their makeup—which was already running in the intense heat—and the Kabalkas fetched supper from the car—deli food packed in hampers by their hotel. There was a great deal of grumbling about the quality of the meal, which was not what one would have expected of the St. Francis, and Fitzgerald teased the others because he was staying at a small bed-and-breakfast in the Haight-Ashbury which had better food at half the price.

  Nicole said, “Yes, but your hotel probably has bed-bugs.”

  Fitzgerald glared at her, and I was reminded of the disapproving tone of voice in which he’d first spoken of her. “Don’t be ignorant. Urban chic has come to the Haight-Ashbury.”

  “Making it difficult for you to recapture your misspent youth there, no doubt.”

  “Nicole,” Kabalka said.

  “That was your intention in separating from the rest of us, wasn’t it, Gary?” Nicole added.

  Fitzgerald was silent.

  “Well, Gary?”

  He glanced at me. “You’ll have
to excuse us for letting our hostilities show.”

  Nicole smiled nastily. “Yes, when a man gets to a certain age, he must try to recapture—”

  “Shut up, Nicole,” Kabalka said.

  She looked at him in surprise, then picked up her sandwich and nibbled daintily at it. I could understand why she had backed off; there was something in Kabalka’s tone that said he would put up with no more from her.

  After the remains of supper were packed up, everyone settled down. None of them displayed the slightest inclination to go out front and watch the show. Kabalka read—one of those slim volumes that claim you can make a financial killing in spite of the world economic crisis. Corinne crocheted—granny squares. Fitzgerald brooded. Tilby played solitaire. Nicole fidgeted. And while they engaged in these activities, they also seemed to be watching one another. The covert vigilant atmosphere puzzled me; after a while I concluded that maybe the reason they all stuck together was that each was afraid to leave the others alone. But why?

  Time crawled. Outside, the show was going on; I could hear music, laughter, and—occasionally—Don’s enthusiastic voice as he introduced the acts. Once more I began to regret taking the job.

  After a while Tilby reshuffled the cards, and slapped them on the table. “Sharon, do you play gin rummy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s have a few hands.”

  Nicole frowned and made a small sound of protest.

  Tilby said to her, “I offered to teach you. It’s not my fault you refused.”

  I moved my chair over to the table and we played in silence for a while. Tilby was good, but I was better. After about half an hour, there was a roar from the crowd and Tilby raised his head. “Casey O’Connell must be going on.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “One of our more famous circus clowns.”

  “There is really quite a variety among the performers in your profession, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, and quite a history: clowning is an old and honored art. They had clowns back in ancient Greece. Wandering entertainers, actually, who’d show up at a wealthy household and tell jokes, do acrobatics, or juggle for the price of a meal. Then in the Middle Ages, mimes appeared on the scene.”