There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of

by Marcia Muller

  “Who did they spy on?”

  “Their families, particularly their sisters.”

  “But why?”

  “The boys are very traditional. And they are afraid for their sisters in a neighborhood such as this. They wanted to make sure no harm came to them.”

  “And to make sure it didn’t, they followed them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good Lord.” That meant that Duc had probably followed Dolly on at least one occasion when she had met with Otis Knox. Perhaps he had even followed her to the Crystal Palace and figured out what was going on inside. What would Duc have done if he had known about Knox and his sister?

  I thought I knew, and it made me even more concerned for the alienated and missing young man.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Brother Harry was preaching furiously in front of the Sensuous Showcase Theatre when I came out of the grocery store. He stood on his square of blue carpet, waving his arms and shouting and, for once, attracting quite a crowd. Behind him, the theatre was dark, although I could see the cashier just inside one of the plate-glass doors.

  I went down there and worked my way into the crowd, curious to see what Harry was saying that had made them stop. Up close, I saw that the preacher’s fleshy face was mottled red, his eyes flashing with zealous excitement. The intensity of his voice and motions seemed to hold his listeners spellbound.

  “The wages of sin, brothers and sisters! The wages of sin is death! Otis Knox was a pariah among us, a panderer, a purveyor of sin and degradation. He has now been made to pay. . . .”

  I looked around at the crowd. They were the usual neighborhood types—winos and bag ladies, pimps and whores, ordinary shabby citizens—and they all stared at Harry, mesmerized by his diatribe—which might very well be the only eulogy the porno king would ever have.

  “The Lord has delivered a mighty blow and rid us of this foul creature! He has lifted His great sword and meted out His divine justice! Justice and retribution, brothers and sisters. Retribution for Otis Knox’s sins. If you do not also wish to pay this same terrible price, you must repent. . . .”

  I had heard enough. Turning away, I spotted Jimmy Milligan at the edge of the crowd. The poetry lover was obviously in one of his down periods, standing with his head bent, hands jammed in the pockets of his worn corduroy jacket. When I went up to him, I saw that he was crying.

  “Jimmy,” I said, “are you okay?

  He looked up, elfin face twisted, tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks. He said, “Come away, O human child . . . to the waters and the wild . . . with a faery, hand in hand . . . for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

  “What is it, Jimmy?” I said.

  He shook his head, tears flowing faster. “Come away, O human child.”

  I remembered that Knox had said Jimmy would sometimes stand in the street and cry. This was not unusual behavior for him and, at any rate, there was nothing I could do to help. I gave his arm an ineffectual pat, but he caught my hand and held on.

  Through his sobs, he said, “The world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

  I sighed and said, “I guess so, Jimmy.” I stood there for a minute, holding his hand until he got himself under control. Then I watched him shuffle off down the sidewalk toward Market Street, still mumbling the poetic refrain.

  The crowd around the preacher was beginning to thin. I skirted it and went up to the door of the theatre, where the cashier still stood watching through the glass, her jowly face rigid with revulsion. When I tapped on the door, she shook her head and motioned for me to go away.

  I shook my head and indicated I need to talk to her. Finally she unbolted the door and let me into the lobby.

  “So what is it?” Her voice was harsh with emotion, and her eyes, beneath heavy blue shadow, were puffy.

  “I need to talk to you about Mr. Knox.”

  “Talk to Brother Harry. He thinks he knows it all.”

  “I know how you feel; what he’s doing is disgusting.”

  She clenched her teeth and glared at him. “Yeah, it is! Otis never did a thing to him. Anybody else would have had the cops here every time Harry set up shop. But not Otis. Oh, he’d chase him off once in a while, but mostly he let him be. And this is how Harry repays him.” Then she turned toward me. “So what do you want?”

  “I’m a private detective, working with the police on Mr. Knox’s death. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  She looked at me skeptically, but said, “So ask.”

  “I was with Mr. Knox at his ranch last night around seven-thirty. He got a phone call and indicated he needed to come back to the city. Do you know if anyone here at the theatre made that call?”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t here then. I get off at six.”

  “Who was here?”

  “Arnie, the projectionist. Karla, the night cashier.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “Karla’s probably at home. I don’t know the address offhand, but I could look it up. Arnie’s in the projection booth. He practically lives here, has a mattress in there when he curls up. Another of Otis’s charities, like that fucking preacher.”

  “Where’s the projection booth?”

  “Through the door over there and up the stairs.” She paused, then added in a small voice, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About the theatre. Should I lock up and go home? I don’t know what to do. I’ve been coming here every morning for years. There was always Otis to tell me what to do. Now I don’t know.”

  Another of Knox’s “charities” at loose ends. “Why don’t you talk to Mr. Knox’s lawyers?”

  She nodded slowly, as if it were a revolutionary concept. “Maybe I will.” And then she turned back to the door, one palm flat against the glass as she looked out at Brother Harry.

  I went through the swinging door to the main part of the theatre. The big screen was dark, the rows of seats empty. To the right was a stairway that led up about six feet to a partially open door. As I climbed up, I caught the heavy odor of marijuana. I knocked on the door, and a voice called out for me to come in.

  It was a small room, with a ratty mattress on the floor, rows of shelves that held film canisters, and a projector positioned in the opening in the front wall. Arnie, the gangly youth I’d seen two days before in Knox’s office, sat on a chair in the center, his feet propped on the table that held the projector, smoking a joint. His gaze wandered vaguely to my face, held there a few seconds, then slid away.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “The cashier told me you might be able to answer a couple of questions.”

  “Sure.”

  “Last night Mr. Knox got a phone call at home around seven-thirty and had to come back to the city. Do you know if anyone here made the call?”

  He sucked on the joint, held the smoke down, then expelled it slowly. “Yeah, me.”

  “Why?”

  “Had to.”

  “Why?”

  “Projector fucked up.” He waved a languid arm at it. “I couldn’t fix it. Tried. Couldn’t’. Customers walked out. Called Otis. He came in.”

  “And what happened?”

  “He fixed it.” Arnie held out the joint to me, and when I shook my head, he dragged on it again.

  “What time did Mr. Knox get here?”

  “Time?”

  “Eight? Eight-thirty? Nine?

  “Maybe eight-thirty.”

  “And when did he leave?”

  “After he fixed the projector.”

  I sighed. “How long did that take?”

  “Not long. He’s a smart man. Was. Could fix anything quick.”

  “Did it take fifteen minutes? Half an hour?”

  “Half an hour max.”

  “And then what?”

  Arnie crushed out the joint and laid it carefully on the edge of the table, then stood and went over to the projector. He
touched the top reel with his index finger and spun it around. The film began to unroll.

  “Arnie, what then?”

  “He left.”

  “Do you know where he intended to go?”

  “Home?” He spun the reel harder and film looped to the table. “Maybe not home. I don’t know. I went outside with him. Needed some air.”

  No wonder you did, I thought, beginning to fear a contact high. “And?”

  “And what?” He grabbed one of the loops of film and pulled at it.

  “What happened when you went outside with him?”

  “Oh, yeah. He went off toward that truck of his. It was parked in the passenger zone where he always leaves it.”

  “And then?”

  “Harry stopped him.” Arnie backed off from the projector, pulling the loop larger.

  “The preacher?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “What happened then?”

  “They talked.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. I went back inside.” The film snapped and Arnie began to unwind it from the reel.

  “That’s it?” I said.

  “Yeah. Last I saw Otis, he was talking to Brother Harry.”

  The last I saw Arnie, as I hurried out of the booth, he was stringing film around like crepe paper at a child’s birthday party.

  The cashier wasn’t in the lobby when I went out there, and Brother Harry and his audience had vanished from the sidewalk—probably the beat officer had broken up the gathering. I crossed to Knox’s office and found the woman standing next to the desk, staring at the phone.

  “I should call the lawyer,” she said.

  I nodded, looking around at the collection of memorabilia: the beer cans and mannequin limbs, the stolen highway signs, the fishnet with its shells, bobbers, and crutch. When acquiring them, Knox had probably never given any thought to the fact that they might outlast him. Most of us didn’t, as we bought an object here, picked up a treasure there. These things had had meaning for Knox; now they were merely fodder for the junkman.

  The cashier was still staring at the phone. I sensed her reluctance to put an official end to her state of limbo. After a few seconds, I said, “How well did Mr. Knox know Brother Harry?”

  She turned to me, seeming glad to have a reason to delay her call. “Harry? Not well at all. You couldn’t exactly say they had much in common.”

  “Did you ever see them talking together?”

  “Trading insults, maybe, but not talking.”

  “Did the police run him off just now?”

  “Yeah, even the cops can’t stomach that kind of talk about a dead man. Actually the cops around here liked Otis. Didn’t much care for his business, but they liked him personally.”

  “He could be charming,” I said truthfully. “Look,” I added, “would it be okay if I made a couple of local calls?”

  “Sure, be my guest. Call long distance if you want. There’s nobody to care now.” She moved past me toward the door.

  I sat down in Knox’s chair, pulled the phone toward me, and called SFPD Homicide. When Greg finally came on the line, I told him about the projectionist’s phone call and what he’d said about seeing Knox last with Brother Harry, as well as Roy LaFond’s undisclosed visit to the Globe Hotel. He took down the particulars, and then I said, “Have you gotten the autopsy results on Knox yet?”

  “No.”

  “So you haven’t formed an opinion as to whether it was an accident or murder?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have you had a chance to think about whether I can continue to work on this?”

  There was a pause.

  “Greg, I think I can help you. I know the people here; they trust me. Besides, there’s been another development.”

  “What?”

  “Duc Vang—the young man I told you about, who was so evasive about what he and his friends did in the neighborhood—is missing.”

  “Since when?”

  “Sometime yesterday afternoon.”

  “So?”

  I considered telling him about the boys’ habit of following their sisters and my suspicions of Duc, but my loyalty to the Vang family—who were effectively my clients—prevented me. “He’s never disappeared before. He may be in danger.”

  “Kids disappear in this city every day. If he doesn’t turn up by tomorrow, his parents should file a missing persons report.”

  “Greg—”

  “Sharon, how old is Duc?”

  “I’d say in his early twenties.”

  “Then he’s of legal age. And it’s no crime for a person to be missing—you know that.”

  It was true. If Duc had chosen to disappear voluntarily, he was perfectly within his legal rights—provided he hadn’t committed a crime. In fact, when the police located a missing adult and found he had disappeared of his own free will, they could not even report his whereabouts to those who had filed the report without his consent. But if a person were involved in a crime . . .

  Greg said, “You’d better back off this investigation, Sharon.”

  I’d known he was going to say that, but I still felt a stab of dismay.

  “Look,” he went on, “I don’t want you getting in our way. Besides, that’s a dangerous neighborhood, and one person—maybe two—has already been murdered.”

  “You don’t have to protect me.”

  “Heaven help me should I try. But I mean it—stay out of it. As a personal favor, I’ll keep you posted on our progress, but that’s it.” He hung up to avoid further argument, and I sat holding the receiver, inwardly fuming.

  Well, I’d predicted Greg’s decision accurately, and now here I was at loose ends. I didn’t dare go against his orders; I’d tried that in the past, when we’d been lovers, and had almost lost my license even them. So what to do now? Go back to All Souls, where there were documents waiting on my desk to be delivered and filed? They could wait until afternoon. Go home and check to see if Barry had shown up after I’d left this morning? Somehow I doubted he had, drunk as he’d sounded on tape last night.

  A dial tone was coming from the receiver. I reached over and punched Don’s number on the pushbuttons. He answered, said Barry hadn’t shown up at the house before he’d left, and asked if I wanted to have lunch.

  “I’ve got to go downtown and pick up some new publicity stills at the photo processor’s,” he added. “Do you want to meet someplace near there? Temple Bar, maybe?”

  The idea appealed to me. Temple Bar was a little hideaway at the end of an alley near Union Square. It was cozy and dark, and its gloom would match my mood, I told Don I’d meet him there at noon.

  Then I thought about Carolyn Bui. She ought to know I’d been warned off the case. When I called her, however, she was just on her way out, to a meeting with one of their fundraisers downtown. On impulse, I invited her to meet Don and me for lunch.

  It was only ten-thirty. I had an hour and a half to kill. Since I was going downtown, I could stop at the department stores and begin my Christmas shopping. Or . . .

  Sallie Hyde’s florist stand wasn’t far from the restaurant where Don, Carolyn and I were meeting. There was no reason I couldn’t stop and talk with her. After all, what Greg had meant was for me to stay clear of the Tenderloin. Surely he couldn’t object to me visiting an acquaintance at Union Square.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Last night’s rain had completely blown over and once again Union Square sparkled with sunshine. Christmas shoppers were out in full force, as were the Salvation Army Santas and panhandlers. A string quartet in top hats and frock coats that made them look like characters out of Charles Dickens had replaced the dancer in front of I. Magnin’s, and the strains of their carols mingled with the honk of horns and the shrill of traffic cops’ whistles. Pedestrians crowded around the department store windows, pressing close to catch glimpses of the special holiday displays. I stopped to admire one myself—a Victorian parlor, complete with Christmas tree and
automated figures of a family exchanging gifts.

  Sallie Hyde was seated on the stool in her flower stand. She wore a bright red dress, but her big body slumped forward dejectedly against the little counter, handles idle, staring into space. The stand wasn’t doing any business; people hurried by as if they were afraid they’d be contaminated by her aura of gloom. I made my way through the crosscurrents of shoppers, and when she didn’t notice me standing there, I spoke her name.

  Sallie turned and then her face pulled down in a scowl. “You!” she said.

  It wasn’t the reception I’d expected. “What did I do?”

  “You know what you did.”

  “No, really I don’t. What is it?”

  Sallie looked away, and for a moment I thought she wasn’t going to speak at all. When she did, her voice shook with anger. “You sent those cops after me. They came down here, asking me all kinds of questions, in front of my customers, even.”

  “Cops? What . . . ?” And then I remembered Greg had planned to run a check on Sallie. What he’d turned up about her prior murder conviction must have prompted him to send his men out to talk with her.

  “Yeah, cops!’ She turned on me, eyes flashing. “They come around asking me stuff like how do I feel about the Vietnamese who live at the hotel? Do I still have a problem with children? Where was I when the Dinh boy died? They did everything but accuse me.”

  Abruptly her anger broke and she seemed on the verge of tears. “They come here to the place I work and ask me stuff like that when my customers are around. What if one of them heard and figured it out? They’re my regular customers, they like me. What would they think if they knew? And it’s your fault; you told them. I don’t even know how you knew.”

  I had told Greg about Sallie’s record, but I didn’t see how she could be so sure of that. “Did they say I told them?”

  She paused. “No. But you’re the only one who could have. Nobody at the hotel knows. But you—you’re a detective. You can smell out things like that.”

  I sighed, “All right, Sallie, I did tell the man in charge of the investigation. But they would have found out anyway. They run a computer check on anyone they interview, and that means all the residents of the hotel.”