by P. J. Morse
“Works next door?” I gasped.
“Oh, yeah. He told me his cousin got him a bellhop job at the Hotel Barbary.”
That didn’t surprise me since Dr. Redburn fired him the night before, and I doubted any other doctor would hire him as a receptionist.
Whitney went on. “He starts tomorrow. Ugh. He’s probably going to ask me to lunch again.”
I could taste victory. “I doubt that will happen,” I replied.
The line of people buying plastic crates and filing boxes grew, and the manager sent Whitney back to her station. I wrote down my phone number for the manager. “If he comes back in here, you let me know right away. Identity theft is a major problem.”
I left Boxes Galore and darted away from the Hotel Barbary because the hotel’s main entrance was only a few feet from Boxes Galore. I didn’t need for the seemingly omnipresent Fake Jorge to be starting his new job early and try to kill me for good. Even if he were starting a new job, I was sure Fake Jorge hadn’t given up on getting a cut of that necklace cash.
I began formulating a plan for making Fake Jorge Vazquez talk when my Crackberry rang, and I saw Mom’s number on the display. As soon as I picked up, Mom asked, “Clancy, are you all right?”
“What? Of course.” I didn’t mention anything that happened the night before. “Are you all right?”
“Esperanza just got the mail, and there was a note in it. It said, ‘Do you know where your daughter is?’ on one side. And on the back it said, ‘We know where you are.’”
I came to a halt in the sidewalk. After a few people bumped into me and cursed me, I picked up with the flow of human traffic. “What? Did you call the police?”
“Yes,” Mom said. “I’m not an idiot. They’re the idiots. They told me I have to come down and file a report and file all this proof … the note was so ugly. Crumpled. The paper had brown stains. Brown stains! Ew! And it was in all-caps! I hate all caps!”
My stomach churned. Someone must have been tailing me to know where my mom lived. “Mom, don’t worry about the note’s aesthetics. Was it handwritten? Typed?”
“Typed,” Mom replied. “And the font is ugly, too!”
That didn’t help. If the note were handwritten, maybe I could have gotten a better idea of the hand behind it. “Okay. Did anything else happen along with the note?”
“Hans thought he saw someone cross through the yard, and he didn’t recognize him. Esperanza … well, she’s jumping at all the noises, so I can’t really tell. We’re thinking about going out for a while.”
I didn’t like that idea. Fake Jorge Vazquez’s primary weapon was an ice-cream truck, and he may have been behind the wheel when Rosa died. I stopped walking and ducked into the doorway of an office building. “Mom, listen to me. You need to stay put.”
“Honey, Esperanza is about to lose her mind. And I’m pretty scared, too.”
“Mom, do not leave the house. Leave the house, and you will be in danger, I promise you. You stay put, okay? Don’t go anywhere until you hear from me.”
“This is so ridiculous. I have a dinner party … ”
I thought fast. Mom had a little getaway place in Sausalito. “You’re not going to any dinner parties. You’re going out of town. Period. In fact, I’m going to get you. Stay put, and keep Hans and Esperanza with you.” A yoga pro and Esperanza were better bodyguards than nothing.
“But …”
“DO IT.”
I clicked the phone shut and started running for Cherry 2000. If Fake Jorge, Travis and whoever else were going after Mom effective that afternoon, they were going to go after everyone I knew. And that meant Harold, too.
CHAPTER 33
THE BUCKET
I MADE IT HOME AND FOUND the lawn chair outside and Harold’s front door unlocked. A ruckus was already raging inside. I heard Harold shouting. I heard Dad shouting. Then I heard a terrible thud that resembled the thunk of the shovel against Travis’s head, but not quite.
Although I bolted down the hallway, fists up, ready to protect Dad and Harold, I soon saw the two of them in action and was pleased to discover that they didn’t need much help.
“How dare you insult me with a racial epithet! And an incorrect epithet! You dimwit!” Harold screamed.
Then, another thunk. Harold had his fist in his bucket of Cheese Nibs and was pounding Travis about the head and shoulders. That had to sting, as Travis was already sporting a large bandage on his scalp, courtesy of me and my shovel.
“I got him! I got him! Hit him again!” Dad shouted as he held on to Travis’s legs. Travis was in a big-box electronics-store uniform. Like Fake Jorge, clearly he had a lame day job and was looking for some side money on his break. Only that was proving to be more difficult than he expected. “Hit him harder!” Dad yelled.
The Cheese Nibs were flying, and bright orange dust covered Travis’s dark blue polo uniform. It began to rain down on Dad’s hair.
“Bonehead!” Harold screamed.
Thunk.
“Knuckle-dragger!”
Thunk-thunk.
I thought about getting involved, but I thought better of it and ducked into a coat closet off the main hallway. If Travis saw me—his real target—he might fight harder. He had a score to settle with me after the shovel incident.
“Capitalist swine!”
Thunk-thunk-crack!
“You broke my favorite snack bucket! Cretin!”
“Stop biting me, old man!” Travis screamed. “Ow!”
Dad hollered “Ow!” in reply.
Then I heard footsteps and the creak of a window at the back of the building.
“Yes!” Harold was running after Travis. “You go out the way you came in! And I will tell Ms. Parker you were here! And then you’ll be sorry!”
I leapt from the coat closet to see the back window ajar and Harold triumphantly hoisting the Cheese Nibs bucket into the air. Dad was on the floor, kicked away by Travis. He was holding his shoulder, but he reached up to give Harold a high five. “Harold, I did not expect that of you! Well done!”
I then made myself known. “You guys are the best!”
Dad staggered up, ran to me, and hugged me tightly. He began to sob. “Oh, Clancy! He wanted to kill you!”
“I think he wanted to kill you, too!” I said into his shoulder. I started crying, too. It was one thing to try to hurt me, but another to try to hurt my family, and that included Harold.
Dad let me go. Then I heard Harold breathing heavily. “Oh, no!” I led him to his sofa and helped him sit. “Don’t be scared. You did great. I shouldn’t have left you alone … What happened?”
Wiping his face and leaving a smudge of cheese dust on his cheeks, he said, “Your father drove up, and I was going to go inside to get another beer, you know, to steel myself if he started yelling at me. No offense.”
“None taken,” Dad replied, sitting down by Harold on the sofa and wiping the knees of his pants, which were covered in cheese powder from the fight.
Harold continued, “So I went in to get my beer, and I see this big stranger. And this person goes, ‘You old insult-I-refuse-to-repeat-from-unevolved-individual, you’re coming with me!’ And I said, ‘No, I will not!’ And he had a gun, but I had my bucket, and I was too fast for him.” Harold leaned in. “I think he has slow reflexes.”
I tried not to giggle. “I think I caused that.”
“And that’s when you dad came in!”
I wasn’t quite sure, but I thought I saw Dad blush slightly. “I heard the noise when I got out of the car. Harold seemed to have that oaf’s head covered, and I went for the feet.”
“Did he ever! So we fought, and then you came in. Oh!” Harold took some more deep breaths.
Then Dad started letting out uncontrollable giggles.
“You okay, dad?” I asked. “I thought you’d be pissed.”
“Honey,” he said, wiping away a tear. “That was … strangely fun.”
“You had fun? You had fun!” I started j
umping up and down in the air. Dad, in all the years I knew him, never once seemed to be having a good time unless he was making money.
Then his face became serious, “But the reason I came here was that I’m going home. And I want you to come with me. You are in real danger, and you can’t hide it from me.”
“Me, either!” Harold added.
I grabbed Dad’s hand and Harold’s hand. I knew I had to end this mess and end it now. “Okay. You’re not going to like this. Before you were so rudely interrupted, I was coming home to tell Harold to pack his bags. And that goes for you, too, Dad. You’re not going home. You’re going to Sausalito!”
“I don’t need to pack.” Harold let go of my hand, got up and walked into his laundry room. “I just put a clean pair of boxers in my pocket.” Then he patted his pockets. “Wait … my toothbrush.”
While he was looking for toiletries, my father asked, “Can’t we both just fly back home? I can get a ticket for Harold, too. I don’t even want to be in San Francisco anymore. We almost got killed here!”
I replied, “It’s not a game anymore. This isn’t just a matter of handing the case off to someone else. It’s going to be over with tomorrow, and the people I’m dealing with … well, they obviously want to send me a message.”
“By coming here?”
“You got it. And now that they know you, you might see them again.”
“So?” Dad asked. “I can hire bodyguards, anyone. Easy. What about your friend at the barbecue place?”
“I don’t think it will go away unless I make it go away. You, me, Harold, Mom … We’re all dealing with bad people. You’re going to Sausalito. They don’t know about Mom’s place in Sausalito.”
Dad cringed. “I can’t spend time with your mother in that artsy-fartsy bungalow of hers. I can’t spend time with your mother at all.”
“Well, then you’re on your own. But I recommend packing a case of beer and dealing with it. And you might want to get that orange stuff out of your hair before you see Mom.”
“Oh, God!” Dad groaned. He immediately started running his hands through his hair. “Why couldn’t I have gone bald?”
Before either Travis or Fake Jorge came back, I started dialing everyone I trusted who had a car. Unfortunately, I didn’t know many people who fell in that category. Mom’s fingers were still busted from Peggy’s attack. Wayne didn’t pick up the phone. Shane didn’t have wheels because of that stupid scooter DUI. Not even Muriel had a car.
But Larry, whose number I still had on speed dial, did.
I didn’t want to call him, but I didn’t have much choice. As soon as he picked up, I said, “Larry? Larry? I need your help.”
I didn’t hear any background noise. Larry was probably in the library. “Are you in trouble again?” he asked.
Cringing at his judgmental tone, I tried to explain, “No. I’m not in trouble. But my mom, my dad and Harold are. I’m involved in a case with some really bad people.”
Larry sighed.
I ignored it and kept going. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re the only one who can help me—and them—right now.”
Larry stayed quiet. I wondered if he was trying to punish me for getting in yet another dangerous situation by making me wait. “Please, Larry.”
All Larry said in response was, “Tell me what I need to do.”
I gave explicit instructions to Larry to pick up Dad and Harold. Then Larry, Dad and Harold were going to drive to Mom’s. Once there, they were to stuff Mom into the car by brute force if necessary and just give her ice packs and Tylenol to handle any resulting bruises or sprains. All of them would drive up to Mom’s house in Sausalito and keep all the doors locked until the Giants game was over the next afternoon. While I laid out my plan, I started throwing a few crucial items in my duffel bag for my own sleepover.
Larry had his car at Fourth and Brannan within the hour. I felt lucky that I reached him, for he was the perfect choice—since I had been estranged from him for so long, neither Fake Jorge nor Travis would recognize him or the car. I walked with Harold and Dad, as if we were just running out for groceries, and then I hustled them into Larry’s waiting car.
Once he drove away, I waved at the departing vehicle and caught a cab for Wayne’s place in the Haight so no one could track Cherry 2000. I sat on Wayne’s doorstep until he got home because he was going to have an unexpected houseguest.
As I waited, I made multiple phone calls. I called the Hotel Barbary pretending to be Whitney from Boxes Galore. The manager informed me that Fake Jorge did indeed start the next day and it appeared that he was going by the name “Antonio,” although he would always be “Fake Jorge” to me.
I called up all of the big-box stores in the area, every last one of them, trying to find a big bald man named Travis who had a bandage on his head. There happened to be three bald, bandaged Travii, although one of the people on the line asked me if a Band-Aid counted as a bandage. Either way, none of the bald Travii were scheduled to work the next day. That wasn’t the best news since part of my plan involved keep track of Travis’s whereabouts, but it wasn’t a deal breaker.
I also called the Gold Rush BBQ, where Jamal was on duty. I had to wheedle, cajole, and promise a lot of cash to him in return for risking his job, but I had him on my side for the next day.
Then I made a call to Mr. Buckner. Though I didn’t have hard proof that he had stolen a credit card from the Real Jorge Vazquez, I couldn’t think of anyone else who would have done it. If Mr. Buckner stole the card, he was probably perfectly aware that I had evaded Fake Jorge and Travis the night before and was no doubt hoping I would call him so he could try to trap me.
Mr. Buckner answered the phone in a rush. “I’m so glad to hear from you,” he said. “What do you have? Did you get pictures?”
I felt like we were lying to each other, testing how much the other knew. “Yes. I have the pictures of your wife. She’s bumping into people on the street, and she looks disoriented. Was that what you had in mind?”
Mr. Buckner unleashed a theatrical sob. “Poor thing!” Then he paused a moment. “I need to get those pictures. When can we meet?”
“I have the photos with me. I can get them to you, but I don’t want to go to Pacific Heights. I don’t want to run into your wife. She might figure out that I’m working for both of you,” I lied.
“Of course,” Mr. Buckner said.
“So, I’d like to keep our meeting close to my neighborhood this time. Can we get together at the Gold Rush BBQ tomorrow? Before the game might be a good time. No one will notice you there.”
Silence came from his end. What was he thinking? Was he happy that he might be able to institutionalize his wife and get his mitts on her money? Was he disappointed that I didn’t say anything about a missing necklace?
When Mr. Buckner finally said, “I’ll be there,” his voice was completely flat.
CHAPTER 34
DRAGNET
AT 12:05 THE NEXT DAY, a distracted Mr. Buckner practically threw the car keys into Jamal’s hands. He was late to his fake meeting with me because of slow traffic on the Embarcadero. I was watching from my vantage point at the outdoor patio tables in front of the Townsend Delicatessen. I was undercover as a jogging yuppie doing a set of interminably long stretches before my workout. I had on Mom’s present of the yuppie tracksuit with the word “JUICY” emblazoned on my backside, and a pair of powder-blue Pumas graced my feet. A blonde wig, a Giants ball cap and shades finished off the disguise. Little did passers-by know this yuppie jogger had a pistol in her pocket.
I’d spent all night preparing for the moment of Mr. Buckner’s arrival at the Gold Coast BBQ. By noon the next day, I had called on everyone I trusted to pull the dragnet good and tight around Fake Jorge, and I’d start making Mr. Buckner sweat even more, too. I had Jamal at Gold Rush BBQ, Shane at the Echo Chamber in Potrero Hill, Wayne hanging out by the Gold Rush BBQ valet parking lot, and Larry protecting Mom, Dad and Harold up in Sausali
to. I also hoped that Muriel would turn up where Shane was, at the Echo Chamber, but I had a little less control over that.
I congratulated myself on the creative touch that might get Shane and Muriel, if not back together, at least reconciled. And maybe, just maybe that would lead to an opening gig for the Marquee Idols at the South of the Slot, but I wasn’t going to push it. I called both Shane and Muriel and told them the same story—I was hoping to bring in a possible informant and needed to grill him in a safe place, and I just wanted some backup.
Only I didn’t tell either Shane or Muriel that the other one would be there. I told them to arrive at the practice space at the same time, and I’d see what happened. If the episode turned out to be a disaster, I figured it wasn’t a loss. Either Shane’s blood would be on the floor, which would terrify Fake Jorge into telling everything he knew, or the two would be all lovey-dovey and off in a corner somewhere while I did my work.
When Wayne got home the night before and I filled him in, he said he was honored to participate in one of my adventures. He even promised that he’d dress up. I said all I wanted in return was for him to be completely sober and to bring Westy. “You want Westy? What for?”
“I’m gonna need a lot of room,” I replied. “We’re going to be tying up a greasy hog.”
“Hooray!” he replied.
As for Larry, his primary duty was to keep Mom and Dad from killing each other. His second duty was to keep my mother entertained and off the phone. Then his third duty was to call the cops and the San Francisco Chronicle if I didn’t call him by the end of the Giants game.
My plan unfolded as soon as Jamal had Mr. Buckner’s keys and was behind the wheel of his Beamer. I started jogging up Brannan so I could meet Jamal on Brannan and Second.
Jamal turned the corner and nearly missed me. I had to flag him down, and when I hopped in the car, he exclaimed, “You don’t look like yourself!”
“Yeah, I don’t feel like myself, either. Okay—off to the Barbary!”
Jamal made his way toward downtown, trying to dodge groups of conventioneers in their badges by the Moscone Center. At a stoplight past the Bay Bridge, he pulled off the Gold Rush BBQ windbreaker. He had a crisp white shirt on underneath. He wasn’t exactly dressed like a chauffeur, and a limo service would faint at the sight of his neck tattoo, but his look would do in a pinch.
