by P. J. Morse
Despite the decent amount of information I gleaned, I didn’t consider my first day on the job a success. I didn’t have any strong leads on the necklace’s whereabouts unless I wanted to break into the Buckner’s house and raid their pantry. If Sabrina really did leave priceless jewelry in powdered-lemonade jars and forget about it, maybe I would find her missing necklace in a jar of flour or cocoa mix. But the maids would recognize me no matter what disguise I wore, and Sabrina just didn’t seem like a forgetful type, even if her own husband and her maids said she was.
I may have had trouble understanding Sabrina, but I was getting a clear read on her husband. Mr. Buckner didn’t have a single picture of his wife in his office. Regardless of what he told me about caring for Sabrina and wanting her to be safe, his office decor indicated that he was more concerned with objects and appearances than with his spouse.
Then I heard someone say, “Hey, Harold, can I have a snack?”
“Hey hey!” Harold stood up and gave Larry’s hand a hearty shake. He shot a nervous look at me but picked up his bucket of nibs and passed it to Larry.
I froze. I hadn’t seen Larry in a long time. I felt queasy and remembered what I did after he broke up with me. Instead of doing all the girly stuff like eating pints of ice cream, I immediately picked up my guitar and churned out songs for the band. I wrote manifestos about breaking up bands, breaking hearts, and breaking faces for good measure.
Then I wondered why Larry stopped by. A while back, after a booze-filled night out with Muriel in North Beach, I had drunk-texted him from a tiki bar. Muriel and I had gone through the usual conversation. I asked her to join the band, and she said no. So I texted Larry to ask if he would return to rock music for a one-night-only appearance with the Marquee Idols at South of the Slot. I didn’t think he would text or call me back, and I certainly didn’t think he would return to my apartment.
Larry looked good, too—tall and lean with his bangs brushed over his head at an angle. His new short haircut worked for him, highlighting his cheekbones, which were so sharp they could cut glass.
I took a deep breath, stood up, and gave him an awkward one-armed hug, the kind of hug macho guys give each other because they don’t want to make contact. “Hello, Larry,” I said. “What’s up?” Even though I needed his help, I couldn’t resist giving my voice a chilly edge. He never uttered the official words, “I want to break up,” as if I weren’t good enough for that courtesy. When he broke up with the band, it was implied that he was breaking up with me.
“Just returning your text. And checking on you. The timing of that text was pretty good. I realized I left a few CDs here,” he said.
Harold looked from me to Larry, from Larry to me, as if he were watching a riveting tennis match.
“I don’t need to be checked on,” I told him. I remembered why I should be glad Larry was gone. He treated me as if I were playing private detective, not as if I were really a private detective.
Larry’s face indicated that he expected some static, so he changed the subject. “How’re the boys? I saw Wayne the other day.”
“The boys, as a matter of fact, are fine. Shane’s still a ladies’ man, and Wayne’s still stoned. They’re playing great.”
“Hm.” Larry put his hands in the pockets of his slacks, which I noted were perfectly pressed, something he never would have done when he was with the band. Was someone pressing his pants for him? And who was she? He caught me looking at the crease in his slacks and doubled his efforts to lighten the mood. “So, Harold, what are you reading these days?”
“I really have to go to the bathroom!” Harold proclaimed, moving as quickly as he could up the stairs. I thought I heard him mumble, “This is awkward …” as he went.
Once the door closed behind Harold, Larry said, “He’s right. This is awkward. I like Harold. Tell him I hope I didn’t upset him.”
“He’s not upset. He’s just being Harold.”
“He’s looking out the window at us,” Larry pointed out. “He’s worried about you.”
I turned around to see Harold poking his face through a curtain. I grinned and waved. His face disappeared, but he was probably still listening in. Thanks to the thin walls of his building, he had to have overheard some of my shouting matches with Larry as he tried to get me to quit detective work, and he had to have known everything. I told Larry, “Actually, I think he’s worried about your safety.”
I wondered if I should be giving Larry such a hard time. As far as boyfriends went, Larry was stodgy. But, as far as bassists went, Larry was spectacular. He had even more discipline than I did when it came to music, even if he had a tendency to act like a sanctimonious ass and nag me that my job was dangerous. He was one of the best bassists I’d ever heard because he managed to pull everything together. He anchored the band. I thought his decision to attend law school was akin to throwing his talent down the toilet.
“So you know what you want to study yet?” I asked. “Do you have majors and stuff in law school?”
Larry laughed. “So I guess Wayne told you the big news. Yep. I woke up one day and realized I want to be just like those personal-injury lawyers you see on television. Only I’ll have to lose all my hair first so I can wear the obligatory toupee.” When I didn’t laugh back, he added, “Just kidding. I definitely want to work for the city. I’d like to be a public defender. We’ll see.”
“You’d do a good job. I mean it.” Then I paused and crossed my fingers. I had to give it one more try. “So, think you’d be interested in crawling back on your hands and knees to join the band?”
“No,” he said.
“One night only? It’s the South of the Slot. That guy Andy might kick us off the bill—I’m serious—so it’s really important.”
“Eh, no,” Larry said. “Muriel won’t do it? She’s just making Shane sweat. She’ll say yes eventually.”
“Even if she does, you’re perfect for it! It’s just a few hours of your life … it’s not even until December 10—how can you say no now?” I heard myself and realized why I never pushed Muriel harder to do the show. I’d wanted Larry to do it the whole time.
“Well, not to be hostile …”
I braced myself. He was about to be hostile.
Larry continued, “But there’s a little thing called exams in December, and this isn’t the undergrad-cram-all-night-bullshit-your-way-through exam. You really have to know the material. I’m not saying no just to piss you off. I really absolutely cannot do it, and you know I can’t just show up without rehearsing. I like law school, and I don’t want to screw it up.”
All I could say was, “I understand.” I didn’t have the energy to get mad and decided it was time to wrap up the conversation. “Well, you sound happy. And I think you will be a good lawyer. But, if you ever get the urge, you have an open invitation for band practice.”
Larry didn’t say anything for a moment. I couldn’t even hear him breathe. “I doubt I’ll have the time, but I’ll keep it in mind. And I was wondering if I could get those CDs. They’re in that blue box, probably on top of your stereo.” He always knew where I kept everything.
I desperately wanted to tell him everything about the new song I was writing all about him, not to mention my new crazy case. We used to relax in bed in the morning, in my apartment, and I would make him laugh with impersonations of all the people I met with each new investigation. I thought he might like my impersonations of Mr. Buckner in particular. But all that came out of my mouth was, “Okay.”
I went up to my apartment, and the CDs were exactly where he said they’d be. When I went back down the stairs, I told him, “Let me know how it goes when you get your head out of the books.”
He nodded and gave me a second clumsy hug, like we didn’t even know each other. “I will. Really I will.”
When Larry had walked off and was safely out of earshot, Harold opened his front door and leaned out. “Why don’t you just ask him to marry you?”
I sat down in
my lawn chair, picked up my Crackberry, and pretended to be absorbed in pictures of the Buckner home. I said, “Harold, I know you’re over twice my age, but …” I then shot him a bold and proud middle finger.
He laughed at me and came down the front stairs. “Aw, you’ll get over it. He’s a good guy, but he’s not your type, anyway. A lawyer would only tie you down.”
He sat and put his book on his lap, but he didn’t open it. Instead, he told me, “You’re depressing me. The game’s on. I’m going for a walk.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I muttered.
“You’re exuding a depressive funk, and I don’t like it. Do you want to sit and sulk, or do you want to go watch the ballgame from behind the park?”
I thought that wasn’t a bad idea. “Yeah, I need to buy a book on the way.” I remembered my other goal for that day, checking out the book by Sabrina’s shrink, You Are Your Worthiest Cause. Even though Mr. Buckner called the book “silly stuff” back at the Seagull’s Nest, suddenly I found myself looking forward to some self-help.
CHAPTER 14
WIDE AND WHITE
GOLD RUSH BBQ’S OUTDOOR PATIO was awash in a sea of orange-and-black as Giants fans ate before the big game against the St. Louis Cardinals. It was to be the first postseason encounter between the two, and the sports fans were drunk with either joy or massive amounts of booze.
South Park was near San Francisco’s baseball park, whose name changed depending on which telecommunications company’s star was ascendant. No one except the announcers ever remembered its name, and even they forgot sometimes, so I just called it the “ball park.”
The San Francisco Giants were having a better October than the Marquee Idols were. Their new star hitter, Clayton Crespo, was so good that fans were getting into fights at the park over whether or not Crespo was better than Barry Bonds. Even if a game wasn’t on, fans were always roaming around in their Crespo jerseys, basking in the team’s reflected glory, guzzling beers from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags and dissecting the team’s chances. It was the Giants’ year, they said. Then again, it was always the Giants’ year, but having Crespo around made it seem true.
If San Francisco loved Crespo, Crespo loved it right back. During his radio interviews, he regularly referred to San Francisco as “Sucka Free,” and he once told an ESPN reporter, “I love it here! This city is like one big hot tub!”
Indeed it was. The party was starting too early for two pasty male fans who had passed out on the side of the Gold Rush BBQ, and Jamal was trying to get them up when Harold and I walked past.
“Hi there!” I called. “Making new friends?”
Jamal nudged the larger of the two drunk fans who were napping in the Gold Rush BBQ’s shadow. “Get up, man! You’re gonna miss the game! C’mon or I’m gonna call the cops!”
One of the guys slowly opened his eyes. “Cops! Cops!”
Jamal continued his nudging. “You’ve never seen cops except on TV! Now get a move on!”
The guy woke up, stumbled, and tried to drag his friend behind him. Together, they staggered toward the ball park. As they left, Jamal sighed, “That is a waste of two tickets. Walnut Creek fuckheads.” He turned to me and Harold. “I don’t mean you guys. Gonna watch the game?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And if you have a spare second, I was wondering if you saw that fat guy with the Beamer around.”
Jamal somehow managed to address me while keeping one eye on everything else around him. He displayed considerable multitasking talent as he juggled keys, held the door, and kept up a conversation. “He find you? He must like this neighborhood. He was at the French place last night with some other people.” Jamal gestured toward Voltaire’s, the restaurant across the street.
“A chancellor at Voltaire’s!” Harold gasped.
“You are such a Communist!” I said. “A chancellor can have a nice meal or two.”
Jamal said, “I checked in with the hostess over there, and she said he dropped major cash on wine. Must’ve had a reason to celebrate.”
“What kind of major cash?” I asked.
“Couple hundred bucks worth.” Jamal told me while hanging a key he received in a lock box. “Gotta go—but the guy’s around here all the time!”
Harold and I kept walking toward the ball park, where we could catch the game from the free viewing area. First, we stopped at the bookstore, and Harold was appalled that I was buying Dr. Redburn’s book. He almost snatched it from my hands and put it back on the shelf. “If this is about Larry —” he tried to tell me, shaking his head.
“It’s not, it’s not, I swear! It’s for the Buckner case. I’d never read that junk!” I headed for the cashier.
Harold followed me. “I think your cases are getting stranger. I don’t believe in that self-help mush. Don’t they know that a nice cold beer cures all ills?”
The cashier rang up the book and said, “I agree, dude.”
Then Harold looked out the window and saw Anmol Singh’s ice-cream truck in front of the store. “Either a beer, or ice cream!”
I took the hint, threw the paperback into my satchel and started digging in my pockets for change. Harold and I walked out of the store and toward Anmol’s truck, which was stopped in traffic and blaring John Fogerty’s “Centerfield.” Anmol rang his bell and waved to us. Since traffic was so backed up from people trying to access the parking lots, I walked in the middle of the street and bought myself and Harold some ice-cream sandwiches, which were perfect for the warmer temperatures.
“So,” I asked Harold while peeling the wrapping from the ice-cream sandwich, “why would Mr. Buckner, who lives near everything Pacific Heights has to offer, spend so much time in this neighborhood?”
“Maybe he’s a baseball fan?” Harold offered.
“Doesn’t look like the type,” I said. “He didn’t even mention the Giants or Crespo in the Seagull’s Nest, and the place practically begs you to talk sports.”
“True.”
We walked in silence for the rest of the way, nibbling at our ice-cream sandwiches and just trying to stay near each other as we navigated the hordes of Giants fans trying to get into the ball park. I often forgot that Harold was almost seventy, so he moved a little more slowly than everyone else as well. But he certainly wasn’t past shoving someone back if they got a little too close.
Harold and I made it to the back of the ball park and strolled along the path that faced the bay. We gazed upon all the kayaks, rafts, and inflatable swimming pools in the water, all of their passengers waiting to catch a Clayton Crespo homer. One guy in a raft was dressed in a mascot costume for a local hot-dog chain, and he held up a sign that said, “I’LL GIVE YOU FREE HOT DOGS FOR LIFE, CLAYTON!” I laughed so hard that I almost forgot about Larry, pop psychology, the Buckners, and the diamonds in the lemonade.
Since we could hardly get a spot in the free viewing area, we stood at the edge of the bay, straining to listen to the announcer and figuring out what was going on from the reaction in the bay, as most of the rafters and kayakers had portable radios. Several innings passed, and it didn’t look so good for the Giants. The atmosphere was beery, crabby, and pugnacious. Teenagers began to hit each other at the chain-link fence in front of the viewing area, and police officers were starting to muscle people back out onto the promenade.
I heard my Crackberry ring from inside my satchel, and I considered not picking up. My hands were sticky with the ice-cream sandwich I’d just finished, and I was fixated on the game. The bases were loaded with players for the opposing team, and the Giants relief pitcher was blowing it for everyone.
But I believed that a good private detective was always available, and the Crackberry would not be denied, so I licked my fingers and pulled out the phone. I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was 415. I asked myself, “What the hell kind of San Franciscan would be doing anything right now other than watching this game?”
When I answered, the voice didn’t even wait for me to speak
a word of greeting. “I need to see you,” a raspy male voice said. “I can help you with your case.”
“Which case?” I asked. The Buckner case was the most complex, but I had at least two wayward husbands, a child support case, and that head banging bassist’s neck-brace case simmering on the back burner.
“I need to see you now, Parker.” The voice started to crackle with interference. Whoever it was had a disguise. I heard the words, “Stolen goods. Meet me at Third and Brannan. 10 minutes.”
It could have been the necklace. It could have been any number of things. I was skeptical. “Hey, how will I be able to find you?” I asked.
The voice replied, “Wide and white.”
My next thought was that the voice didn’t sound like Mr. Buckner, but “wide and white” was a reasonably accurate description of him. I wasn’t carrying my pistol, which I used only when tailing someone, but I had to check it out. I turned to Harold and asked, “Do you want to be my bodyguard? I’ve been summoned to a secret meeting.”
“What do they want?” He was still working on his Ice-cream sandwich.
“I don’t know, but they want to see me at Third and Brannan.”
Harold dodged some fans who were trying to shove their way to the front. “I wouldn’t mind some fresh air. GO GIANTS!” he yelled as we pushed our way through the crowd and walked around the ball park toward Third Street.
When we returned to the Embarcadero, I noticed that the traffic had thinned out considerably. The Embarcadero itself was congested, but not too many people were turning onto Third Street between the bookstore and Rainbow Donuts, two businesses that were always desolate while the game was in progress. I had hoped more people would be out and about if I had any trouble.
Just as Harold and I crossed the Embarcadero and approached the Rainbow Donuts, a cheer rose up from the audience.
In front of the Rainbow Donuts, I could hear the “Centerfield” song yet again. Harold began humming. I looked behind me and saw Anmol Singh’s ice-cream truck hanging a right from Embarcadero to Third.
