There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of

by Marcia Muller

  I hit the talk-back button. “So were you.”

  “Thanks. When the tape’s done, I’m back to you, Carolyn. I’ll ask a question. You talk. Talk long, about whatever you want. The lines aren’t exactly lighting up.”

  Both Carolyn and I leaned back, looking up at the lights above the window. They were dull and still.

  Carolyn said, “Well, at least the in-house hot line isn’t flashing. That means none of us said ‘fuck.’”

  Don laughed and said, “Commercial’s almost over. We’ll talk about general stuff. Fill lots and lots of air time until somebody gives us break.”

  The commercial ended and he led into a discussion of the refugees: statistics, history, anecdotes. Carolyn talked, her eyes fixed—as mine were—on the lights.

  “So what future do you see for the refugees, Carolyn?” Don said. “Where are they going in their—”

  The first blue light started to flash. Carolyn’s fingers dug into my arm. Don grinned in relief, picked up the phone, and said, “Hey, we’ve got a call-in. Don Del Boccio here.”

  “Don?” The voice was old-lady trembly.

  “Yes, darlin’.”

  I started. It was a word Don never used, particularly to someone as old as this woman sounded. But his was radio, and when the woman replied, she seemed pleased.

  “My name’s Virginia Millburn. I don’t know anything about the missing boy, but . . .”

  “Yes, darlin’?”

  “But . . .well . . . I do have a nice empty room in my house. A room with an adjoining bath. It isn’t big, but I was thinking that if Carolyn had a small family or a couple who wouldn’t mind sharing the kitchen with me . . . Well, my husband died last spring, and I’d surely welcome some company. I wouldn’t charge. The company would be enough, you understand.”

  Don blinked, obviously touched. “Virginia Millburn, you’ve made my day! Can you believe that, folks? This lady is offering to open her home to some of our new citizens. Virginia, tell you what—I’m going to switch you over to one of our KSUN operators and you can give him your name and address, phone number, all that stuff. And right after the show, Carolyn will be in touch. Hey, Carolyn—what do you have to say to this lady?”

  Carolyn was shaking her head in amazement. “I say that’s an incredibly generous offer. Thank you, Virginia. Thank you very much.”

  A second blue light had been flashing. Don switched over the call, then picked up the next line. “Don’s Forum. Who’s this?”

  “This is Ellen. I think I saw the guy you’re looking for.”

  I tensed; so did Carolyn; even Don’s voice was taut.

  “Where, Ellen?”

  “At the Greyhound bus station in El Cerrito. I recognized him by the haircut. And he had his guitar.”

  “His what?”

  “His guitar.” The words were slurred, and I realized the woman was either drunk or stoned. “Didn’t you say he always carried a guitar?”

  “No, darlin’, we didn’t. But thanks for the info. I want to repeat it to our KUSN operator. So just wait a minute, I’ll switch you over. Appreciate it very much.” He looked at us and rolled his eyes. The other blue lights were flashing. He picked up another line. “Don’s Forum. What have you got for us?”

  The male voice was cultured and stuffy. “I must speak to Carolyn.”

  “You’ve got her.” Don pointed to the phone in front of us.

  Carolyn picked it up gingerly. “This is Carolyn.”

  “You’re the Oriental lady?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, why don’t you and the rest of your people just go back to Japan.?”

  “What?”

  “Go back to Japan where you belong.”

  “Sir, we’re from Vietnam. We can’t go back.”

  “Just go back to Japan and take your Toyotas and Datsuns with you—”

  A connection was abruptly broken. Smoothly, Don said, “A misunderstanding, folks. The fellow was obviously out at the fridge getting a beer when we got started.” He picked up another line. “Don Del Boccio . . . I think.”

  “Hi, Don.” The voice was deep and masculine. “This is Jim Wong. I’ve got a little house out in the Avenues, Twelfth Avenue, to be exact. I had a pretty good tenant there, but she moved out, and I was thinking. . . . The house is paid for and I don’t need to charge a lot of rent. It’s got two bedrooms, a big basement, a yard. Would be perfect for a family. Would Carolyn be interested in having it for some of her people? Say, for three hundred a month?”

  Rents in the city for the kind of property he was describing started around eight hundred. I looked at Carolyn; he eyes were wide.

  “Carolyn,” Don said, “would you be interested?”

  “Would I? Mr. Wong, that’s a most generous offer.”

  “Well,” the man on the phone said, “it needs a new refrigerator, but I’m sure I could buy—”

  “Mr. Wong,” Don said, “I’m sure there’s a listener out there who would provide a refrigerator. How about it, folks? Does somebody have an extra fridge? Just give us a call.” Then he added, “Mr. Wong, I take it you’re Oriental?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Were you born in this country, or are you remembering hard times you yourself endured?”

  The man laughed. “Buddy, I grew up in that house I’m offering out in the Avenues. I’m a native of the city, played football for S.F. State.”

  For the first time tonight, Don’s composure was rattled. “Football?”

  The man laughed harder. “You don’t remember Crazy Jim Wong? My dad was Chinese, but my mother was Samoan. Three hundred and fifteen pounds now, some of it muscle, that’s me!”

  “Sorry, Jim,” Don said, laughing himself. “I’m just a new kid in town. But I’d sure like to meet you sometime and we really appreciate your offer. Will you leave your number with the operator?”

  “Sure, buddy. And tell Miss Carolyn she’s got a real sexy voice.”

  Lines were lighting up madly. Don picked up another. The voice at the other end said, “I want to talk to the lady detective.”

  Still glowing with pleasure from the previous call, Don said, “You’ve got her, guy.”

  Smiling, I picked up the phone and said, “This is the lady detective.”

  The voice was muffled, but I still could tell it was shaking with anger. It said, “The Vang family problem is not something you should interfere with. It is dangerous. You could die like the other one. Do not interfere with God’s business. All things remain in God.”

  There was a click as he hung up. I sat there clutching the receiver, once again feeling cold all over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Fortunately, there were no more crank calls during the rest of the show. And once I recovered from the shock of hearing that hate-filled voice, I began to enjoy myself again. We received several offers of a refrigerator for Jim Wong’s house, two more calls from landlords who were willing to rent cheap to refugee families, and seven highly dubious tips as to Duc’s whereabouts. But the temperature of the little booth rose higher and higher, and both Carolyn and I heaved sighs of relief when we went off the air.

  I yanked off my headset and stood up, running my fingers through my damp hair, and she did the same. Outside, Don pushed his chair back from the board and waved his clasped hands in a congratulatory salute. The engineer hurried out of the studio, and we trooped after him.

  In the lounge, Carolyn turned to me, her face concerned. “Do you think that one caller was serious?”

  “The religious nut? Probably not; most of them just like to hear themselves talk. Isn’t that right, Don?”

  “Yes. And the later at night it gets, the more they phone in. The worst slot I ever held as far as nut callers was midnight to four.” But he looked thoughtfully at me; I’d told him about Brother Harry.

  Carolyn shivered. “Still, it’s scary knowing someone wants you to take your Toyotas and go back to Japan.”

  She smiled weakly.


  The engineer returned, bottle of wine and paper cups in hand. “Here,” he said. “You look like you need this.” He thrust them at Don, then went off down the hall, whistling.

  I said, “That’s the one, huh?”

  “The one what?” Don sat down and began pouring wine.

  “The engineer who gives you all the goodies.”

  “Oh, yeah, him and a couple of others.”

  “They all do that?

  “Most of them. Engineers are a weird bunch. But then, so are d.j.’s.”

  Don handed the cups around and we all drank in silence. After a little bit I said, “Will there be any more calls?”

  “Probably not. But if there are, the operator will take them.”

  “I guess it didn’t work—as far as finding Duc, that is. The other things should really help the Center.”

  Carolyn nodded.

  “Unless,” I added, “that crank call—mine—was from someone who knows something about Duc. Or about the murder. Maybe the show brought him out into the open after all.”

  “I hope not,” Carolyn said. “That could be dangerous for you.”

  “Besides,” Don said, “he’s not really in the open. You still don’t know who he is.”

  I sipped wine. “That’s true. But I have a suspicion.”

  They both looked at me.

  “I’m going to talk to the police about it,” I added.

  Don looked relieved. “You should. Why don’t you use the phone in the studio?”

  “No, I think I’ll go back to All Souls.” Frankly, I didn’t want to talk with Greg in front of Don, even with a plate-glass window separating us. I didn’t exactly know why, but it had something to do with keeping my past and my present segregated.

  Carolyn finished her wine and stood up. “Well, I’d better get the phone numbers of the people who called in and call them back. I’m going to do it from home, though; I haven’t been there for two days, except to change clothes.”

  “Reception will have what you need,” Don said.

  “Good.” She looked at me. “Call anytime, if something comes up.”

  “I’ll do that.” I watched her leave, then turned to Don.

  He said, “Are you really going to talk to the cops?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not going to go off on your own and get in trouble?”

  He knew me too well. “No, I promise I won’t. What are you planning to do now?”

  “I promised one of the jocks I’d help him edit a tape. I’ll be here for a couple of hours, at any rate.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you later ad let you know what the cops said.”

  “Do that.”

  I gathered up my bag and jacket, gave Don a quick kiss and went outside. The night was cold and crisp, and the Christmas decorations on the front door of the studios made me think—with a pang of guilt—of my undone shopping. But how could I worry about that until Duc was home safe and the murderer had been found? I couldn’t; that was all there was to it.

  I drove the short distance to Bernal Heights, realize it would have been just as easy to go home and make my call. But somehow my house on Church Street—proud as I was of it—hadn’t become home yet; I hadn’t lived there long enough to really feel settled in. And All Souls had been my haven for years, the place where I’d always gone when troubled by the confusion and sometimes the brutal reality I faced in my work. Even now, dead as the co-op seemed, it felt better to go there.

  Surprisingly, warm light blazed in the bay window of the big Victorian. I parked haphazardly and hurried up the steps into the front hall. A Christmas tree lay on its side in the archway to the left, and on the floor near the window a tree stand had been assembled. I looked around but saw no one.

  Feeling a little more sanguine about the co-op—after all, someone had troubled to buy that tree—I went into my office and called SFPD Homicide. Greg was off duty. I tried his home number, and he answered on the first ring.

  “Listen, Greg,” I said, “I have a lead for you. I went on the radio tonight—”

  “I know.” His voice was grim.

  “What?”

  “A friend was listening to KSUN. He called me and said the lady I used to go with was on the air. Naturally, I tuned in.”

  “Well, then you know about the call I had—”

  “Sharon, why are you interfering with my case?”

  “I wasn’t interfering. I barely mentioned the murder. What I was trying to do was draw attention to Duc Vang’s disappearance—which everybody else seems to be ignoring.”

  “When a missing person report is filed and seventy-two hours have elapsed, it will get plenty of attention.”

  “Greg, that call—”

  “That call could have been from any of the multitude of nuts who listen to the radio. A show like that brings them out of the woodwork. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  “Greg—”

  “And I don’t want to hear any more from you either. As far as you are concerned, the case is closed. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said sullenly.

  “Good.” He hung up.

  I glared at the receiver, then slammed it into the cradle. Why had I ever thought Greg would be reasonable? I had a perfectly good lead for him—as I’d often had in the past. And he was going to ignore it—as he’d ignored other leads I’d given him over the years. And while he ignored it, Duc could be in even more serious danger than before.

  Thanks to me. Maybe the broadcast had been a bad idea.

  I shut off the light and left the office. I’d just reached the foot of the stairs to the living quarters when the front door burst open. Gilbert Thayer stood there, his bunny-rabbit face red and twitching. He looked around furiously, saw me, and said, “This is an outrage!”

  I looked around too, but couldn’t see anything that might have upset him except the Christmas tree. “Why? We all enjoy a tree. Hank’s Jewish, and he gets the biggest kick out of it of anyone—”

  “Where is he? I’m not going to stand for this!”

  There were footsteps on the stairs behind me. I turned and saw Hank descending, carrying a box labeled XMAS ORNAMENTS.

  “Something the matter, Gilbert?” he said unconcernedly.

  Gilbert raised his right fist and shook it. It clutched a piece of white paper that looked like an All Souls letterhead. “You’ll never get away with this!”

  Hank came the rest of the way down and set the box next to the tree. “Actually, I think I will.”

  “Never! You can’t dissolve the partnership! Not without everyone’s consent! And I’ll never give mine! Neither will—”

  Hank straightened, casually dusting off his hands. “Your trouble, Gilbert is that you don’t read carefully. Like you didn’t read the regulation about who the driveway is reserved for. Probably that’s what accounts for your mediocre grade in law school.”

  That stopped Gilbert, temporarily.

  Hank went on, “You see, in our partnership agreement there’s a provision for dissolution, as there is in all such agreements. And what it provides is that the partnership can be dissolved by a majority vote.”

  Gilbert’s little eyes darted from right to left. Obviously he was calculating which partners would be for him and which against. I felt a bubble of glee rising inside me.

  Hank said, “Don’t bother to count. I’ve got the edge on you, by one person. The meeting that that letter informs you of will be held, the partnership will be dissolved, and the assets will be divided.”

  Gilbert’s face began to twitch even more furiously. “The assets? What assets?”

  Hank grinned. “Well, there’s the office equipment—that’s a damned good Selectric II Ted uses. File cabinets area kind of battered, furniture’s not so hot, most of the volumes in the law library belong to individuals. But there’re some of the assets. There’s the hundred-dollar cleaning
deposit on the house—if anybody bothers to clean. There’s goodwill, of course, and that entails use of the name. But you and your cohorts don’t want the name, do you? Too sixties-ish, wasn’t that what you said?”

  He paused, looking elaborately thoughtful. “Oh yes—there’s the trophy we won two years ago in the ABA intercity tennis tournament. It’s kind of tacky, but it might fetch ten dollars. Of course, when you stack those assets up against the debts. . . I’m not sure we’ve even paid the latest bill for stationery yet.”

  Gilbert balled up the letter he held and flung it on the floor. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

  “Oh, moderately. More clever than you, perhaps.”

  “I want to see that clause in the partnership agreement.” But the fight had gone out of Gilbert; already he was resigning himself to defeat.

  Hank extended his arm toward the office. “Sure. Come on and I’ll show you. I happen to have a copy right on my desk.” He winked at me and escorted the bunny rabbit down the hall.

  I went over and picked up the letter, smoothing it out so I could read it. It was from Hank, in standard legalese, informing the partners of a meeting to be held at ten o’clock next Monday morning. The purpose of said meeting would be to take a vote on dissolving the partnership.

  I smiled, willing to bet that Gilbert and his cronies were the only partners who received copies of this letter. And I was also willing to be there would be no dissolution, merely a few resignations and a quiet resolution of any remaining problems. At the bottom of the page Hank had added a postscript that said, “Of course, All Souls has always operated informally. Should there be consensus in the interim between now and Monday morning that this time-consuming meeting is unnecessary, I am sure we will be able to dispense with it and get on with the more important work of this law firm—namely, helping our clients.”

  I liked the italics. They were a nice touch. The letter had been typed and initialed by Ted, and he might even have suggested them, since his “damned good Selectric II” had an italicized element that he was very proud of. Yes, they were a nice touch indeed.