“Of course,” my father said. “Forgive me. These are your friends.”
“I’ve talked to them,” I said, “about the noise.”
“You should talk to them about their ark.” I had known it was coming, and here it was. School time. “I sent you to Sunday school. You don’t remember anything?”
“A little.” Mostly I remembered Marcia Goldberg. She was beautiful.
“You don’t remember that God promised he would never send another flood? That he made a covenant with Noah that he wouldn’t do it again?”
I hadn’t remembered that, no, but I nodded. It didn’t help. His right hand was out of his pocket, his index finger raised in the rabbinical manner. Point one was about to be made.
“God said, ‘I will establish my covenant with you; neither shall all flesh be cut off anymore by the waters of a flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.’”
Neither had I remembered that my father could quote endless passages from everything he’d ever read, including Time magazine.
“I guess these people think that’s changed somehow,” I said.
“And he said in his heart, ‘I will not again curse the ground anymore for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite anymore every thing living, as I have done.’”
“Well— ”
“And,” the index finger would not be deterred. “God told Noah how big he should make the ark. He said, ‘The length of the ark shall be three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits.’” With a final emphatic poke at the air, the finger crashed, with the rest of the hand, against his thigh. “You going to tell me that thing is three hundred cubits long?”
“No, I’m not. Because I don’t know how long a cubit is, or even what it is.”
“A cubit is from my elbow to my fingertips.”
“Mine, too?”
“Smart guy. About a foot and a half, a couple inches more maybe.”
Eighteen inches per cubit— maybe a little more— would make the original almost 500 feet long. I had figured this one for somewhere around 150 feet.
“They had to fit it on the lot,” I argued. He snorted. “They’re building more than one,” I said, wondering why I was on their side.
“That ain’t no ark.”
“They think it is.”
“It ain’t no ark.”
“You want to walk some more?”
“Sure. Maybe we can see somebody building the Brooklyn Bridge.”
Lee was just pulling up as we rounded the corner toward home. She was driving a nearly new BMW.
The three of us walked up the driveway together. Tigris and Euphrates, lounging on my scraggly leaf-strewn lawn under the silver-dollar eucalyptus, yawned at us.
Even though she didn’t ask, I explained that I had some work I needed to do that day, and would not be able to join them until dinner.
Eva was not quite ready to leave— she had cried out her hello from behind a closed bedroom door— so we all sat around the living room. I certainly wasn’t about to go yet.
I asked what their plans were.
“I thought we’d do a little tour of The City. Chinatown, the Wharf, Golden Gate Park, then maybe go over to the Cliff House and watch the seals, have a glass of wine. You said you’ll be able to have dinner with us?”
“Oh, yes, definitely. Where should we meet?” I now noticed that my father had slipped away, but I hadn’t noticed where he’d gone.
“When do you think you’ll be free?”
I wanted to visit Marjorie’s grandmother and Victor’s junkyard that day. I knew the junkyard was open because I’d checked it out by calling. I had not called the grandmother. I really had no idea how long the day’s chores would take.
“It’s hard to tell,” I said mysteriously, “but I should be free by six.” I expected to be free a lot sooner than that, but I didn’t want to take any chances. Besides, busy is attractive.
“Then I guess the simplest thing would be to meet you back here and go on.”
“You wouldn’t rather eat in San Francisco?”
“Not particularly,” she said. She smiled. Her green eyes had brown flecks in them. “I have to drive back up to Petaluma tonight anyway.”
“Okay.” I smiled at her. “I’ll see you here around six, then.”
“Yes. Around six…”
Eva came in from the bedroom. Simultaneously my father appeared at the front door. Lee turned to them, all business, and began to talk about the day’s plans. I was no longer there, so I left.
– 11 –
The address that Beatrice had gotten for me was a few blocks below Market Street, just a mile or so south of the Berkeley border. Poor to lower middle class, the main streets infested with dealers, junkies, and punks, but the residential blocks of small stucco houses, too many of which had bars on the windows and doorways, were well kept, the yards fussy in their neatness and respectability.
Mrs. Burns’s pale green stucco was bigger than some of its neighbors. It had a second story and a shallow front porch. The front yard was solid juniper. Attached to the porch on one side was a trellis overcome and sagging with the weight and aggressiveness of a huge purple bougainvillea with two-inch thorns. On the other side of the entry, lined up on the porch, was an array of cactus plants. There were no bars on the windows. Maybe she thought guard-plants and the BEWARE OF THE DOG sign taped to the front door would do the job. Another sign, in the window, said CHILD CARE.
I rang the bell, and a dog barked hoarsely. A moment later, I heard footsteps coming toward the door. A curtain at the front window shifted a few inches. A voice said, “Who’s there?”
I told the voice my name, and explained that Beatrice, a friend of Marjorie’s, had given me her address; that I wanted to talk about Marjorie; that I was a friend. There was some hesitation behind the door, then it opened the width of a chain. A dark wrinkled face looked me over very carefully.
“What do you want with Marjorie?”
I explained that I was trying to find Noah, and that Marjorie was, apparently, with him. She nodded once and opened the door.
“Can’t be too careful these days,” she said.
“Absolutely,” I agreed. There was, indeed, a dog, possibly one to beware of. He stood beside the woman mumbling toothlessly, his rheumy old eyes glaring at me, daring me to attack.
“His name’s Francis,” she said. “After that talking mule.”
“Hi, Francis.”
His tail swung slowly back and forth a couple of times. He limped arthritically out of the room. I never saw him again.
Mrs. Burns was a small, thin old woman with gray hair and a lot of lines around her eyes. She was wearing a longish navy blue dress with tiny white dots, and a pale blue bib apron, which she took off when she led me into the living room.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” she said, “I want to check on the kids before we settle in for a talk.”
“Kids? On Sunday?”
“Not everyone works during the week, you know,” she chided me. “The two I have on Sunday, their mama’s a waitress.” She walked quickly, but a bit stiffly, toward the back of the house. I heard a child giggle. She came back.
I had taken the offered seat on a brown plush couch, the likes of which I haven’t seen outside an antique store since my grandmother died. The kind with tapestry cushions and claw feet. The plush was worn along the arms and back. The room itself looked newly painted in a cream color with brown trim. It was crowded with furniture: side tables, a three-tiered bric-a-brac table, a large easy chair with a footstool, a huge plastic recliner. The nine-by-twelve rug was a deep plum color and looked new. The room was warm and comfortable and smelled of lemons.
“You like the rug?” she asked.
“It’s very nice.”
“Marjorie bought it on sale.”
“Recently?”
“Oh yes, just a
month or two ago.”
“I guess Noah pays her pretty well, then?”
She frowned at me. Not a polite question. “Our expenses are low. And he pays her just fine for the work she does, yes.”
“Mrs. Burns, what do you think has happened to Marjorie?”
“Happened?” She gazed at me for a moment. “Why do you think something has happened to her?”
“The people at the ark think that Noah has been kidnapped. And he left a note saying she was with him. What do you think that means?”
“Mr. Samson, I’m sure I don’t know. All I know is that she said she was going over to Lake Tahoe on some kind of business. She didn’t say she was going with Noah. She’s a grown woman. I didn’t ask.”
I had noticed a framed color photograph of a young woman on the three-tiered table. I got up and walked over to it. “Is this Marjorie?”
“Yes.” She was beautiful. Very dark, with a wide, soft smile and strong, arrogant eyebrows. Her eyes looked calm— maybe a little hard?— and her hair was very short.
“When was this taken?”
“Oh, not even a year ago.”
“Has she changed her hair since then?”
“No.”
“Do you have another of these photos?”
“You want a picture of her?”
“Yes.”
“I have a black-and-white you can have. If you won’t lose it.” She didn’t like the idea, but my suggestion that Marjorie might actually be missing had worried her. “I’d like some coffee now. Can I make you some? Or would you like some soda? Marjorie likes that Napa Natural orange. We have some of those.”
“I’d love one, thanks.”
She wasn’t gone long; the coffee must have been on the stove and the photograph within easy reach. She handed me a can and a glass, then the photo.
I poured. “I hope you don’t mind these questions, ma’am,” I said. “But there is some concern that Marjorie might be in trouble, or in danger, along with Noah.”
“I see that now,” she replied, just a bit impatiently, “but I still don’t know why anyone would think that.”
“Is it usual for her to go off for a week or more at a time?”
“Well, no. It’s not something she does much.”
“She works with you here. Isn’t it hard taking care of everything yourself?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” She allowed herself to look just a little tired and put upon. For the first time, I realized she had to be in her mid-eighties. “And of course I wish she’d get back soon.”
“The people close to Noah think he’s been gone too long, too, and that he wouldn’t have gone off that way and disappeared. They think the note he left was dictated by someone else. And he disappeared with a lot of money.”
“What did the note say?”
“That he had something he had to do.”
“Maybe he did.” She sighed. Everybody had something to do and she needed help.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Maybe he did.” I drank some of the orange soda. “I don’t know how to ask this, Mrs. Burns, but do you think there might have been anything going on between Marjorie and Noah?”
“You certainly do come up with some very personal questions, Mr. Samson.” She sipped her coffee. “I don’t think so. Or at least not so I noticed. She’s out a lot. She works on that ark. She helps out that young Carleton Hinks, walking around the streets. Like I said, she’s a grown woman, and I can’t be worrying and wondering all the time. But I think I would have seen it if she was in love. When she was going out with Carleton all the time, she thought she was in love with him and it was plain to see in her face.”
“What about Carleton? She broke up with him, right?”
She nodded.
“How did he take it?”
“Kind of hard, she said.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Seems like a nice enough boy. Maybe a little wild. Polite with me.”
“A little wild?”
“Don’t you think it’s a little wild to be running the streets wearing shirts that say ‘Guardian Angels,’ pretending to be policemen?”
“You don’t approve?”
“Oh, it’s not that.” She waved a large-knuckled, weary hand. “Somebody has to watch out for folks. The police sure don’t, or can’t, or maybe won’t. I guess it’s just too bad that somebody has to, and I guess I just don’t like anything very much, or approve of anything very much, anymore.” She looked at me with a tiny smile. “That’s how old women talk, you know. It’s because that’s how we feel. Can’t seem to help it.”
“So I guess you didn’t like Marjorie out there running the streets, either. Were you glad when she got involved with the arks, not patrolling so much?”
“Seemed safer, anyway. Crazy, but safer.” She laughed.
“Did you ever meet Noah?”
“No. Never met none of them except that Beatrice. Funny, mousy little thing, but Marjorie said she was a good friend to her.”
“This trip Marjorie was making to Lake Tahoe, did she say what it was about?” She shook her head. “Do you have any idea?” She shook her head again.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. I just don’t know.”
“Had she gone to Tahoe before on business?”
She thought a minute. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Mrs. Burns, it has been suggested that Marjorie might be responsible for Noah’s disappearance.”
She looked puzzled, then, as she understood, indignant. “You mean carried him off somehow, taking his money?” I shrugged, helpless and noncommittal. “No! That is not possible. Marjorie is not a criminal. She hates criminals. Her own parents were murdered by drug pushers. She’s a good girl. I think everybody’s going to feel real foolish when those two come back from their business trip.” Her small dark face was darker, flushed with anger.
“I’m sure you’re right.” I hoped she was, anyway. I finished my soda. “Could I ask you one more question?”
“Well, I suppose so, but I hope you’re not going to make me mad again.”
“I don’t think so. When was it Marjorie left, when she said she was going to Lake Tahoe?”
“Let’s see… it was on a Saturday. In the evening. She called me, I don’t know from where, and said she had to take a business trip to Lake Tahoe and she would be back as soon as she could. And not to worry.”
I pulled out my pocket notebook and consulted it. Noah had left his note on the morning of Saturday, the 14th.
“Would that have been the fourteenth?” I asked.
“Was that a week ago?”
“Yes. A week yesterday.”
“That’s right, then.”
“Had you seen her earlier that day?”
“Why no, as a matter of fact. She got up real early, before dawn, that day. Told me the night before she had some work to do first thing in the morning. Somewhere to go.” She anticipated my next question. “She didn’t say where.”
A child started wailing at the back of the house. She stood up. I stood up, too.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Samson, but I have to go to the children now.”
“I’ll let myself out. Thanks. I’ll call if…” She had already left the room.
– 12 –
Victor’s Auto Wrecking was west of downtown Oakland in an area that was mostly warehouses and small, decrepit businesses, with a scattering of houses that looked like they were waiting to be jacked up and moved somewhere else.
The freeway ran overhead, shadowing the street, its steady hum muting the sounds of life below. The junkyard was next to a tiny restaurant that washed the atmosphere with lunchtime barbecue sauce. The smell was almost irresistible, but I had made the mistake of stopping for a fast-food burger on the way.
I pulled open the office door and stepped into a small dark room lined with shelves of mysterious objects stuck together with grease and age. The black woman sitting behind the dented metal desk looked up
from a parts catalog and smiled. She had a kerchief over her hair and was wearing a light-colored smock she had somehow managed to keep reasonably clean.
“I’m looking for Victor,” I told her. “My name is Samson.”
“Yeah? Hope you’re not going to pull the place down around our ears.”
It was a joke I’ve heard too many times to count, but I smiled and dutifully recited my answering line.
“Not unless you try to cut off my hair.”
She snorted. “Victor’s out back.” She got up. “You come after a part?”
“No, I was sent by Carleton Hinks, a friend of his. I need to talk to him.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking a little less friendly.
“Okay,” she said doubtfully. “Just go out through that door, turn right at the garage and then left. He’s under the Gremlin.”
The door she’d pointed to was a small, narrow side door no more than five feet tall. I ducked through it.
The sunlight was blinding after the dim office, and the air smelled almost fresh, compared to the acrid odors of old metal collecting dust on the shelves. I nearly fell off the plank walkway, set above the ground on concrete blocks, that led from the office door to the open double garage and off to the right.
The walkway seemed to serve two purposes. First, it provided a bridge over what must have been, in winter, a swamp of mud and grease. Second, it was a crooked but stumble-free trail through a jungle of fenders, bumpers, gas tanks, and crates of the same kinds of mysterious objects that were stored inside. The garage provided shelter for more of the same, as well as a Buick— 1958?— with no wheels, no hood, and no engine. Besides the garage, Victor or someone before him had erected three small tarpaper sheds that I assumed held tools, or maybe car limbs and organs too delicate for the light of day.
I followed the walk around the garage to another, separately fenced yard wherein lay half a dozen vehicles of varying age, all missing vital parts.
I was stopped by the sight of a large tan dog, approaching me stiff-legged with suspicion. I spotted Victor’s feet sticking out from under a Gremlin.
Full House: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 3) Page 8
