‘Guys,’ Hardy said, nodding.
The guys were not in good humor. Coming abreast of him, Drysdale said, ‘We don’t want to talk about it.’
‘The hand?’
Glitsky, as big, black and mean looking as the lanky, white Drysdale seemed benign, snapped, ‘What hand?’ He reached behind Hardy and pulled at the door.
‘We’re not talking,’ Drysdale said.
They were walking in the door. That’s what I like,‘ Hardy said, ’the free and easy flow of information, the genial give and take of ideas…‘
The door had closed on him. Hardy stood a moment, shrugged, and went up to meet Esme’s attorney.
* * * * *
Aaron Jaans crossed spit-shined shoes over his well-creased pants, showing a bit of the red garter that held black socks halfway up his calf. The thought crossed Hardy’s mind that Jaans might be Esme’s pimp as well as her attorney. Hardy didn’t have any moral problem about prosecuting pimps. He hated pimps.
‘I guess the basic problem here is the priors,’ Hardy said. ‘Esme doesn’t seem to be getting the message.’
Jaans leaned onto the back legs of the chair across from Hardy’s desk. He pulled the cuff of his pants down over the distracting garter. The lawyer had a broad, elastic, dark black face, high forehead, aquiline nose, straight hair starting to go a little gray. There was still a trace of a rogue British accent from somewhere.
‘She’s a working girl, Mr Hardy, and you and I both know that you can arrest her every other day and she’s still going to go on the street when she’s out.’
‘Not if she’s in jail she won’t.’
Jaans rolled his eyes, but quickly, deciding against too much histrionics. ‘In jail?’
‘We’ve got felony grand theft here. Four hundred and sixteen dollars. That’s jail.’
Jaans leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. ‘Mr Hardy, you and I know that no judge wants this kind of rap going to trial. Clogs the docket horrible. It also ties up your vice witness for the better part of a day or two, gets him off the street and what good is he doing? You start taking all these people to trial… well, you know this as well as I do.’
Hardy was getting a little tired of the civics lesson. He shuffled the folder in front of him, pretended to be reading. ‘The offer,’ he said, ‘is felony probation, ninety days in jail or a five-thousand-dollar fine.’
‘Are you serious?’
Hardy nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘Is there some new policy going down?’
Hardy shook his head.
‘Where’s my client going to get five thousand dollars? Do you think she’s going to go out and get a job typing somewhere? Managing a McDonald’s? She won’t do that. She has no skills, Mr Hardy. You know what she’ll do, don’t you? She’ll have to be on her back for a month to make that kind of money. Do you want that?’
‘I’m sure her pimp could get her that money in two and a half seconds. But she’s not talking about her pimp. She says she doesn’t have a pimp. So, I ask myself, how can we get a handle on this pimp, close up his shop?’
Jaans took a breath. ‘You know, Mr Hardy, some of these pimps are not nice men, I grant you, but they do provide protection for their girls, abortions if they need them, that kind of thing.’
‘They’re keeping their assets productive, that’s all. Simple business.’
‘You know how long a lone girl on the street is going to last?’
‘You’re telling me that pimps are solid citizens, is that it?’
Jaans turned his palms up. ‘They provide a service.’
Hardy leaned forward, fingers laced, elbows on his desk. ‘What they do, Mr Jaans, what pimps do,’ he paused, ‘as you and I both know, is take these ignorant, poor, sad, really helpless women and keep them degraded, stoned, and on their backs until their looks go at twenty-five. After which their life span, due to needles and disease and just generally getting the shit beaten out of them, is about six months.’ Hardy took a breath, calming himself down. ‘So maybe this five thousand will make Esme decide to give up her pimp, and then maybe I can have a little fun.’
Jaans nodded. He uncrossed his legs, stood up and reached his hand over the desk. Hardy, surprised, got up himself, hesitated, then decided to take it. ‘I’ll convey your offer to my client,’ Jaans said.
He stopped at the door, turned, raised a finger to make a point, then decided against it and disappeared into the hallway.
* * * * *
Lou the Greek’s was a restaurant and watering hole for cops and D.A.s, across the street from the Hall of Justice. Lou was married to a Chinese woman who did the cooking, so the place served an eclectic menu of egg rolls, chow mein, shaslik, rice pilaf, hot and sour soup, baklava and fortune cookies. Occasionally Lou’s special would be something like Kung Pao pita pockets or pot-sticker kabobs.
There were two bars, standing room only, at the front and back walls. Now, at five-thirty, the din was ferocious. An arm-wrestling contest was going on in the center of the room, twenty or thirty cops screaming, trying to get their bets in.
Drysdale and Glitsky huddled over an ancient Pong machine by the back door. Hardy pushed his way through the crowd. Drysdale was ahead, eight to six. Neither of the men looked up.
‘Boo,’ Hardy said.
Glitsky looked up for an instant, but it was long enough for the blip to get by him. ‘Damn.’
‘Nine six,’ Drysdale said. ‘Gotta pay attention.’
‘Just play,’ Glitsky growled.
Hardy watched the blip move back and forth. Both of these guys were good, playing at the master level, and the blip really moved. Hardy went to the bar, elbowed his way in and ordered a pint of cranberry juice, lots of ice.
Back at the Pong game, Glitsky glowered in defeat. Drysdale sat back in his chair, legs crossed, savoring a beer. Hardy squatted, checking out the final score of eleven to six. ‘You owe me five bucks,’ Glitsky told him.
Drysdale sipped his beer. ‘He never beats me anyway. I wouldn’t pay him.’
‘Can we talk about the hand?’
‘What hand?’
Hardy looked at Drysdale. ‘What hand, he says.’
Drysdale ran it down for Abe, who had spent the day interviewing family members of a murdered old man. The hand wasn’t the most compelling item of the day for him.
‘So who is it?’ Glitsky asked when he’d finished.
Drysdale shrugged. ‘Some guy,’ he said. Then, to Hardy, ‘What’s to talk about?’
‘How about if he was killed?’
‘How about it?’
‘You think he was killed?’ Glitsky asked.
‘I think he’s dead at least. How he got that way I don’t know. I wondered if you’d heard anything.’
‘I heard a good new song the other day,’ Glitsky said.
Hardy turned to Drysdale. ‘I thought the coroner might have come up with something.’
Drysdale frowned. ‘I doubt he’s even looked at it.’
‘It sounded like Garth Brooks, but it could have been Merle Haggard. A lot of these country guys sound the same to me.’
Hardy chewed some ice. ‘Yeah, well, if it does turn out to be a homicide, I wouldn’t mind drawing the case.’
‘Homicide’s a pretty long shot,’ Drysdale said. ‘Guy might have drowned, anything.’
‘I know. I just wanted to put the word in.’
Drysdale thought about the proposal. ‘You haven’t had a murder yet, have you, Diz?’
Hardy shook his head. ‘Not close.’
‘It could have been Randy Travis, though,’ Glitsky said. ‘Sometimes when he sings low he sounds a little like the Hag.’
Drysdale appeared to think hard a minute. Glitsky was humming the first few bars of his song. Finally Drysdale looked at the last inch of beer in his glass and finished it off. ‘Sounds fair,’ he said to Hardy. ‘You found it. If it’s a murder, it’s your case.’
Glitsky stopped humming. ‘Hardy makes the big t
ime,’ he said, reining in his natural enthusiasm.
Hardy fished in his pocket and dropped a couple of quarters into the console in front of him. ‘Have another game,’ he said to Drysdale, ‘and this time let him win.’
* * * * *
Hardy sat on the Navajo rug on the floor of his living room, way up at the front of the house. His adopted daughter Rebecca was in his lap, her tiny hand picking at the buttons of his shirt. In the fireplace, some oak burned. Outside, the cocoon of fog that wrapped the house was darkening by degrees. Up in the kitchen, he heard Frannie humming, doing the dishes from their dinner.
The room, like the rest of the house, had changed with Frannie’s arrival. Previously, Hardy had lived almost exclusively in his back rooms — the kitchen, his bedroom, the office. His house was in the old Victorian ‘railroad’ style, living room up front, a dining room, then a small utility room, all of which opened to the right off a long hallway that ended at the kitchen.
While Hardy had designed and built the back room for Rebecca, Frannie had painted and redecorated the front rooms, brightening them up in white with dusty rose accents. Hardy’s nautical theme pieces, such as they were, were banished to his office. Now, on the mantel in place of the dusty old blowfish, was an exquisite caravan of Venetian blown-glass elephants. A framed DaVinci poster, a study of horses, graced the wall to the left of the fireplace. On the right, Frannie had filled the built-in bookshelves with hardcovers from Hardy’s office —Barbara Tuchman, Hardy’s complete Wambaugh collection, most of Steinbeck, Marquez, Jack London. Four new lamps filled the corners with light.
Hardy took it all in — the plants, the dark sheen of the cherry dining-room furniture, his baby girl. It seemed nearly impossible to him that all of this was so comfortable now, so right. Frannie came through the dining room and stood leaning against the doorpost. Her long red hair glinted in the light from the fire. She wore jeans and a Stanford sweatshirt, white Reeboks.
‘You were so quiet,’ she said.
Hardy rested a flat palm against Rebecca’s stomach, feeling the heart pumping. ‘I don’t think I was home once this time of night when I was bartending.’
‘You miss it?’
‘Bartending?’ He shook his head. ‘No. It’s funny. I used to think I was addicted to it — you know, the noise and the action. Now I’m sitting here, the fire pops and that’s plenty.’
She came over and sat down, Indian-style, across from him. She ran a finger up her daughter’s leg, left her hand there. ‘Aren’t you tired? Did you sleep at all last night?’
Hardy shrugged. ‘As Mr Zevon says, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’
Frannie didn’t like hearing that. Rebecca’s biological father, Eddie Cochran — Frannie’s husband — had been killed just about a year ago.
Hardy sensed it. He put his hand over hers. ‘In truth, I am severely fatigued.’
As Frannie got up to pull the curtains over the bay window, the doorbell rang. ‘We don’t want any,’ Hardy said.
‘I know.’ Frannie went to the door.
Jeff Elliot knew news when he saw it, and if a human hand turning up in a shark’s belly didn’t deserve more than a graph on the back page, he’d eat his press card.
He knew that a good percentage of all the great stories —Watergate, Lincoln Savings, Pete Rose — had begun as tiny drops in the vast pool of information that came to a paper every day. And what made those drops congeal to a trickle that became a flood had been the reporters who viewed the news as their canvas. News happened, sure, but what made the news a story was what excited him. You couldn’t make things up, but you could manufacture interest, an angle, a hook. That’s what made a good reporter. And Jeff knew he had the gift — his bosses just hadn’t seen it yet.
So things weren’t moving as quickly for him as he’d hoped. In college in Wisconsin, he’d been the editor of the paper, then three years at the Akron Clarion, and finally his big break, the San Francisco Chronicle. But now he’d been on the coast for seven months, and he was amazed that even here in the big city, so little came in via the police incidence reports — the IRs — that was even remotely sexy.
And that’s what he’d been doing — the lowest dog work, checking over the IRs, looking for a lead, a grabber, a story. And then, today, finally, the hand.
He balanced his crutches against the doorway to ring the bell. Almost immediately, the door opened to a very pretty red-haired woman in a Stanford sweatshirt. The house smelled of oak and baking bread. He gave his little waif grin.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said, ‘but is this where Dismas Hardy lives? I’m Jeff Elliot with the Chronicle and I’d just like to ask him a few questions.’
‘It’s interesting you should ask that,’ Hardy said. ‘It came up just today downtown.’
‘What came up, the homicide question?’
They’d moved into the dining room, and Frannie had poured a black and tan — Guinness and ale in two layers —for her husband. The reporter, really not much more than a kid with a pair of bad legs, had a cup of coffee. Frannie, pregnant, had a glass of water and sat quietly nursing Rebecca, listening.
‘Well, the odds are good that whoever it is, he’s probably recently dead. It could be a straight drowning, but we had to consider the fact that somebody killed this guy and dumped him in the ocean.’
The reporter had his dictaphone on the table between them.
‘But,’ Hardy said, ‘we’re still a long way from knowing that. I don’t believe the coroner’s even had a chance to examine the thing yet. At least he hadn’t by the time I left the office.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘Well, if there was a body to go with it, he’d have done something I’m sure. But we haven’t got anything from Missing Persons, at least not yet. They’re checking other jurisdictions, I’m sure.’ Hardy shrugged. ‘It’s a process, that’s all. They’ll get to it.’
Frannie finished nursing and went to the back of the house to put down the sleeping infant. When she got back, Dismas had finished his beer and she could tell by his look that he was fading. He hadn’t slept, after all, in two days.
They were talking about Pico Morales pulling out the hand, back at the Aquarium. Frannie went around behind Dismas, massaged his shoulders and cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid this news conference has got to come to an end. I’ve got a tired man here who’s too macho to admit it.’
‘Oh gosh!’ Jeff Elliot looked at his watch, flicked off the tape machine. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. I’ve got to get this story written and filed, anyway.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not much new as a story.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve just got a feeling about this one. It’s somebody’s hand, for gosh sake.’
Hardy nodded. ‘You got a card? I’ll let you know if we find something.’
5
D.A. CALLS MYSTERY HAND A HOMICIDE
by Jeffrey Elliot
Chronicle Staff Writer
An assistant district attorney conceded last night that the grisly find on Sunday of a human hand wearing a jade ring was a homicide.
The hand was discovered in the stomach of a great white shark — the same animal featured in the movie Jaws — that had been delivered alive to the Steinhart Aquarium over the weekend.
Assistant District Attorney Dismas Hardy, who coincidentally had been present at the Aquarium when the hand was discovered, said the D.A.‘s office was looking into the matter. ’Somebody killed this guy and dumped him in the ocean,‘ Hardy said.
To date, there are no leads on the victim’s identity. Hardy acknowledged that authorities were checking with other jurisdictions in the area.
Although the coroner has not yet performed any tests on the hand, Hardy appeared confident that the victim would soon be identified and an investigation into the probable murder begun.
‘It’s a process,’ Hardy said. ‘They’ll get there.’
Christopher Locke was fifty-two years old and
the first African-American ever elected district attorney of the City and County of San Francisco. Locke thought his job essentially took place in the rarefied air of policy. He lobbied hard for the death penalty, for example. He determined whether there would be a crackdown on graffiti prosecutions, on gay bashing in the Mission district; he worked with the police department on coordinating the work of the Gang Task Force. He went to a lot of lunches, spoke both inside the city and around the state on issues involving law enforcement.
Locke’s longtime ally and best friend (to the extent it was possible to have one) was Art Drysdale, with whom he entrusted much of the day-to-day running of the office. Art was fair and firm, too outspoken to be a political rival, a good administrator and even better lawyer. The last thing Locke had time for, or wanted to do, was interact with his junior staff.
But here he was this Tuesday morning awaiting the arrival of Dismas Hardy, four months in the office. Hardy’s file lay next to the Chronicle, open on his desk in front of him.
It didn’t seem to Locke to be much of an article, but it had evidently been enough to prompt a call from some homicide lieutenant to the police chief himself, Dan Rigby, who in turn had deemed it important enough to call Locke at home before he’d had his coffee. Then, fifteen minutes later, he’d gotten another call from John Strout, the coroner, asking what the hell this homicide business was all about.
Drysdale had thought he’d just run down and tell Hardy to button it, but Locke had promised Rigby he’d handle the matter personally, so here he was.
Dorothy buzzed, and a minute later Hardy let himself through the door. Locke remembered him from when he’d welcomed him to the office — a formality about which Locke was punctilious. At the time, Locke had briefly wondered how Drysdale had found an opening on the staff for a male Caucasian.
Hardy wasn’t a kid by any means. This was his second time around with the D.A. He should know better.
‘Don’t sit down, Hardy. This won’t take long.’ Locke busied himself for a moment with Hardy’s file. Without looking up, he said, ‘I notice you’ve got seventeen specially assigned prelims’ — preliminary hearings —’you’re supposed to be prosecuting.‘
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