Melanie went back to the living room, flipped pages of the phone book and called a place she knew. When she hung up she said, They're not delivering, not with the riots.'
'Try someone else.'
Seven calls later – three pizza places, two Chinese, a Mongolian Bar-B-Que and a piroshki house – and not one was delivering. Melanie was standing by the phone in the living room, starting on the eighth, when Kevin looked up from his stuffed chair. 'I think I'm going nuts here, is what I think. Are you going nuts, or is it just me?'
She nodded. 'A little.'
'Hey, it's Friday night. It's dark out. People – normal people – are on dates, into themselves.' Her look was not encouraging. 'We go out, maybe Ann's got a wig or something, I stuff some cotton balls in my cheeks…'
'You're going to eat pizza with cotton balls in your cheeks?'
'Okay, no cotton balls. But maybe a little lipstick, a tasteful touch of rouge
Melanie was shaking her head. 'Kevin…'
His hands were flat against his sides. 'I am truly going crazy here.'
'So am I,' she said, 'but it seems every time we poke our heads outside-'
'Not every time,' he reminded her. 'Last night we sat in the line at that drive-in for a half hour and nobody recognized us.'
'Nobody was looking at us there.'
'Or for us, which they also wouldn't be at some local little dive, either. In fact, think about it, out in public is about the last place anybody would expect to see us. Even if they looked right at us, just sitting casually eating a pizza, they'd go, "No way. It couldn't be. They wouldn't be that stupid." '
Melanie sat by the phone, giving it some thought. 'On the other hand, look at, say, John Dillinger. Coming out of a movie theater…'
'He was set up, Melanie. Nobody knows where we are right now, where we're coming from, where we're going.' He was up out of the chair. 'I actually think it's a smarter choice than if we just went out to get some food at the store. We go, we eat, we come back, what do you say?'
Ann did have hats, and they each wore one – Kevin's a multicolored ski cap that he pulled to his eyebrows, Melanie's a faux-velvet beret into which she tucked her hair. They selected accessories, and Melanie applied an extra coat of fire-engine red lipstick. She also painted two moles on her face. Kevin had opted for the more natural look, although he couldn't resist a small golden ear cuff.
The city, when they were out in it, still smelled of smoke, and, contrary to Kevin's notion that people were dancing all over the place, there wasn't much sign of it. The tent city in the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park was, after all, only two blocks north of them. At the cross-streets, looking through, they could see campfires and the harsh blinking of yellow caution lights on the sawhorses that set off the campground.
Melanie had her arm around Kevin's waist – the night was chilly – her hand in his back pocket. He held her tight against him and they walked fast. Haight Street itself was not a curfew area, although there was almost no street traffic and few pedestrians. Every few doorways homeless people asked them for money. Kevin dropped his last few quarters.
As Kevin had predicted, no one seemed to notice. The street might have been empty, but Pizzaiola was crowded enough at nine something on a Friday night. Kevin picked a booth in a back corner.
'Under the Exit sign, just in case.'
'That's not funny.'
Melanie went up to order – a large combination with anchovies, a pitcher of Sam Adams, two glasses.
'Could I see some ID, please?' the man behind the bar was an African-American about Kevin's age. He smiled at her, no threat, waiting.
She froze. She had been twenty-one now for six months and, especially while she had been dating Kevin, had gotten used to ordering beer and not getting 'carded.' Now she stared, all but open-mouthed, wondering what to do. She couldn't bolt out of here alone, not without Kevin, not without alerting the whole neighborhood. She half-turned – Kevin wasn't even looking her way.
'Ma'am?'
'Oh, sorry.' Nothing else to do. She took out her wallet and presented her driver's license, which the man held under the light. 'Thanks. Who's the other glass for?'
Oh God… they were going to get caught. She should just run – yell to Kevin and run. 'My boyfriend, back there,' she said, striving for control. 'He's older than I am.'
The man squinted over through the dimness. 'That old, huh?' He was still smiling, drawing the pitcher of beer. 'Waitress will bring it right over.' In a daze, she crossed back to the corner, sat down at their table.
'This was a good idea,' Kevin said. 'Tomorrow we… what's the matter?'
The waitress arrived, put the pitcher down between them, left without a glance. Melanie was trying to control herself, shaking her head so Kevin would stop asking, not call any more attention to them. Kevin leaned over the table, closer to her. 'What is it?' Whispering. He put out his hand and she covered it with hers and told him.
At the bar Melanie's bartender was a dervish, more pitchers were getting filled. Behind the open counter, one of the cooks was spinning pizza dough in the air. Sting was on the jukebox singing Love Is Stronger Than Justice. Though there wasn't a dance floor a few people were free-form dancing, apparently immune to the rhythm changes in the tune. Nobody was paying any attention to Kevin and Melanie. Kevin mentioned this.
'I know. But you… what if…?'
He patted her hand. 'We'd take off. We're getting pretty good at that.' He flashed his confident grin. 'Hey.' He touched a finger to her face. 'It's okay, Mel.'
'Kevin, I'm no good at this stuff anymore. That guy looked over at you and I thought I was going to be sick.'
'But you are good at it.'
She shook her head. 'What's going to happen to us? When does it stop? Does it stop?'
He pulled his hand out from under hers and made a show of filling both glasses, stalling for time. 'That's what we're going for, stopping this, aren't we?'
'I don't know what we're going for anymore. I'm just scared, that's all I know. Scared to death.' She paused. 'Sometimes I think we're not even going to live through this. That somebody's going to kill us before it's over.'
He leaned all the way back in his chair. 'That's not going to happen.'
'You want to knock on wood when you say that. Please.' Dutifully, Kevin rapped once on the table. It wasn't entirely to make Melanie feel better. 'You know, come to think about it, it's really only me. Mel, you've got other options. You could-'
Her eyes flashed. 'No way! You think I'm leaving you now, after all this?'
'I thought you just said-'
'I never said that. I don't want that. I'm just scared, Kevin. I'm scared for both of us. Who in his right mind wouldn't be scared right now?'
'What I'm saying is, you could just walk out of here, this minute, take a cab down the Peninsula to your parents' house, get a lawyer…'
'No. Shut up, Kevin.'
His face was near hers again, his voice low. 'Maybe you should, Mel. This isn't fair to you.'
She took a sip of her beer, swept the room with a glance. She broke a steely smile, met his eyes. 'Fuck fair,' she said. 'This whole thing isn't fair. If the world were fair you'd be getting a medal at the White House…'
'I don't know if I'd go that far. I'd settle for the warrant getting lifted.'
A nod. "That would be a good start.'
The waitress arrived with their pizza, slapped it steaming onto the table, was gone.
Kevin gestured after her. 'See? Perfectly safe,' he said.
'There's hope,' Wes said.
Kevin was talking on the pay phone in the hallway by the restrooms and the emergency exit at Pizzaiola. 'We were just talking about that.'
'Where are you? What's that noise?'
'Pizzaiola. Pizza place out on Haight.' Into the black hole of silence: 'We had to get out, Wes. We were going stir crazy. It's cool. Nobody knows who we are-'
'Kevin, everybody knows who you are. Maybe, let's hope, nobody's reco
gnized you where you're at right now, but that's not the same thing. Could you please try and remember that?'
'Sure, Wes, sure. Look, we're leaving in a minute anyway, going back to our cosy little hideaway. What about the hope?'
Wes was having trouble with his friend and client – the most wanted fugitive in the city, county, state, possibly the whole country – hanging out in some pizza joint, but there was nothing he could do about it now. 'Evidently Glitsky didn't have me followed home,' he said. 'It was somebody else, the DA, not the police.'
'Okay?'
'Okay, so suddenly I think we might have a decent chance to get what we wanted last night – a hearing at least, extra protection.'
'A decent chance…?'
'Better than none, Kev. I'm trying.'
'I know. I just… so you've talked to this Glitsky…'
'Whoa. Not yet. He's calling sometime tonight. Frankly, I expected it by now.'
Kevin couldn't repress the sarcasm. 'Gosh, this is heartening…'
'It is bad, really, Kevin. I promise you. At least now we've got a good reason for you to stay put, not take off. This morning, you remember-'
'I remember.'
'Okay, then. This time tomorrow, I think we'll have something worked out. I know Glitsky's going to call me – he went to some lengths to get me back talking to him. I believe he's on our side – a cop. This is not bad news, Kev.'
'Okay, you've convinced me, I'm happy. Jubilant, in fact.'
Farrell sighed. 'Why don't we just set up a time when you'll definitely call me? You could also just give me your number.'
'I would, but I don't know it. It's not mine, after all. Or Mel's.'
'All right,' Farrell said, 'but this not being able to reach you is making me old.'
'I don't think that's it.' Kevin paused. 'Something, though. Something is definitely making you old. Has made you old. Did I ever tell you my cosmic radiation theory as the cause of old age?'
'I got a theory, too, Kevin. Old age is caused by living a long time.'
'That's a good one, too. Okay, so when?'
'Nine.'
'Nine? Wes, it's Saturday. It's criminal to have to wake up at nine on a Saturday.'
'Saturday! What's the difference – Saturday, Tuesday, who cares? Jesus, Kevin…'
'Nine's all right. I'm kidding you.'
'You're a riot, Kevin.'
'Don't use that word, Wes. Riot…'
'Nine,' Wes growled. 'Do it.'
This was her first job in San Francisco, and Special Agent Simms could not believe the weather – the first day of July and she was freezing. In DC it had been ninety, ninety degrees and ninety humidity, since the middle of May, and she had figured summertime in California would be close to the same except for the humidity. Previous assignments in LA, Modesto, Sacramento, even as nearby as Oakland had not prepared her for the microclimate here. Had she been the literary sort, she might have taken some warning from Mark Twain's oft-quoted remark that the coldest winter he'd ever spent was a June in San Francisco, but Margot Simms had not read anything but manuals in six years, and little else before that.
She was around the corner from where the surveillance van was parked in front of Wes Farrell's apartment, her hands wrapped around a tall glass of caffe latte. Though there was no wind, the temperature had abruptly fallen to the mid-fifties and she was wearing only a skirt and blouse and a lightweight tailored jacket. During the three plus hours she had spent in the unheated van after she had finally left the Hall of Justice, the increasing chill had worked its way into every cell of her being.
Ten minutes earlier she had given up, leaving her post in the van in a quest for a little warmth, which she had found a block up the street in a mini-mall. A corner diner – in DC they would call it a diner – except that here it was all angles, high ceilings, dramatic light. San Francisco was into drama, she'd give it that. Substance zero, form ten. California fruit and nuts everywhere you went.
She had come in because the place looked warm and served coffee. Also beer, wine, breads, strops and flavored waters, pretentious crapola – you wouldn't just want a place to grabba quick cuppa, no, not here. The menu – even the coffee drinks – was all in Italian and there was an enormous glass counter under which were serving platters filled with exotic pastas and salads. Simms was only here for the warmth, for a mug of coffee to wrap her hands around. The latte was the closest they had.
It wasn't just the cold. She sat there alone at her cute tiny table, still shivering – most of the other little tables were filled with groupings of chattering urbanites her age and younger – it was near San Francisco State, that might have been part of it. Suddenly Simms realized she hated San Francisco with all her heart.
She was seized with an urge to take out the gun she wore under her ineffectual linen jacket and take a few pops at the track lighting, the tinted ftoor-to-ceiling windows, the espresso machines, maybe a few of the trendoids themselves. Wake 'em up.
What did they think was going on here anyway? The whole sham structure of a melting pot was being dismantled brick by brick all over the city at this very minute – had been all week – and here the intellectuals and bon vivants and liberals and faggots sat with their lattes and strops and the occasional white wine – what did they call it, schmoozing! Well, they weren't her problem, but God, she hated them. Let 'em eat – she scanned the blackboard menu – let 'em eat foccacia, whatever the hell that was.
Her thoughts were interrupted by one of her technicians – Sam the Van Man – scanning through the windows of the place, recognizing her, getting to the door, through the maze of creative floor arrangement to her table. She was already up, coming toward him. 'We've got him,' he said, nearly breathless from his run. 'It's definitely Shea. Place called Pizzaiola – eighteen hundred block of Haight Street.'
Forgetting the cold and everything else, she was on her way out, dragging Sam in her wake. 'Let's roll.'
Kevin covered Melanie's hand again – easy, easy – as the black-and-white police car pulled up on the street in front.
'We'd better get the check.' Matter-of-fact.
But before they could catch the waitress's attention the two uniformed policemen walked into the pizza place, chatting, apparently taking a break, filling up – it seemed to Kevin – a lot of the space inside, using up a lot of breathing air.
'Will that be all?' Their efficient waitress.
"Thanks. It was great. Just the check, please.'
A quick turn and she was gone.
The cops stood together by the ordering bar, talking with one of the dough throwers. The waitress stopped up front next to the cops, said a few words, laughed.
Kevin and Melanie huddled together in their corner, keeping their faces as covered as they could. 'Just keep cool,' he said, and she nodded, squeezing his hand.
Not soon – say about the half-life of carbon later – the waitress came back with their check, dropped it face down, left. Kevin picked it up – $34.64 for a pizza and some beer – and reached for his wallet.
The cops finished with their order and turned to look for a table.
'No. Not here, not here,' Kevin intoned.
'Shhh.'
'You'd hate it here, there's a horrible draft. Also, I think something must have died in the hallway…'
'Shhh! Kevin…!'
Moving back through the restaurant, the policemen pulled chairs up less than three feet from where Kevin and Melanie sat at the next table over.
'I'm going to throw up,' Melanie whispered.
Kevin opened his wallet. He looked again. There was no money in it. Keeping his voice low, he gripped Melanie's hand. 'Where's the money? Did you take the money?'
She looked at him as though he were insane. 'You had the money, don't tease like this…'
Kevin folded open the wallet, showing her. 'I think we left it on the table back at Ann's.'
'We didn't…'
'I put it under a flowerpot on the kitchen table. I don't re
member taking it. I must have left it.'
Melanie covered her face with her hands. She wanted to run. She couldn't run. The police were right herel Looking at Kevin. 'Oh God!' It just came out.
Hearing her, one of the policemen – an older guy with a kind face – leaned over to them. 'You kids okay? Everything all right?'
Melanie stared at him. Frozen. Finally: 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'My cat, it just died, today.' She tried to smile.
Kevin gave them half of his profile – more than half would be inviting disaster. 'Murray,' he added, 'his name was Murray. Had him for six years.'
'Gee, that's tough,' the cop said. 'Myself, I'm not a cat man, but my wife is.'
Simms was the only woman in the team. The four men who'd been hanging out in the van were more prepared for the cold than she was – leather jackets, heavy pants. They had already patched a call to the back-up unit at the hotel – including the other marksmen – all of them would rendezvous at the famous corner of Haight and Ashbury and move in from there.
In her car, flying now out to Geary, but without a siren – damned if she was going to let any of the local authorities in on this. The San Francisco police would just screw it up. This was an FBI bust – Simms sat in the front seat on the passenger side, her three guys primed but controlled on the way out. They didn't say much, they didn't have to recheck their weapons, any of that – the weapons would work if they were needed. Her men were pros.
'What I want you to do is just walk to the bathroom.'
'Kevin, we've got to pay. We can't just leave…'
Kevin was using all of his strength to keep his voice down. 'I'm not giving them my credit card. I don't think you should either. I think you have to go to the bathroom, don't you?'
Melanie struggled with it, got up and disappeared into the hallway behind them. Kevin waited as long as he could stand it, then turned around to the policemen – more than halfway around. In the low light he had to take the chance.
A Certain Justice Page 36
