Wolf in the Shadows

by Marcia Muller

  “No, you don’t, Shar. You’re not a small businessman who’s struggling to give his kids a decent life. And I know what you’re going to say to that: the illegals are trying to give their kids a decent life, too.” He paused. “Hell, you know I feel for them. We’re all getting fucked by the people who run things. And I’m not claiming I’m running a charity here, but the guys who hire on with me get treated good and can at least put food in their families’ mouths. A square meal’s a damn sight more nourishing than some rich politician’s yap about rights.”

  “You have a point there.”

  “You bet I do.” His eyes narrowed. “Why the questions about the illegals? You on an immigration case?”

  “I’m not on any case at all, at least not officially.” And then I began to tell him about it. Soon the words were spilling out so fast I could barely catch my breath, fast and with too much emotion—an odd mix of anger and fear and determination.

  John didn’t say a word the whole time, but his face grew grim. “So that’s why the questions,” he commented when I finished. “The Holiday Market.”

  “You know the place?”

  He nodded. “In the past year we’ve been doing a lot of jobs in the South Bay. Cops run the illegals off from the Holiday now and then, and they go down the street to the parking lot of a taco stand. When the cops run them off of there, they’re back at the market.”

  “John, I’ve got to find out if Hy went there, and what happened. Is there any way you can get the guy who runs the place to talk with me? Or do you know anybody he might trust?”

  He considered. “Two of my foremen, Al and Pete, are Hispanics, and I know they’ve done a lot of hiring there. Maybe one of them. I’ll ask.”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course.” He frowned, pulling at his lower lip—a childhood habit when he was worried. “But look, kid, aren’t you getting in over your head?”

  Kid. Years ago he called me that. When had he stopped? Somewhere around the time I shot and killed a man. With surprise I realized it had taken him all these years to accept it and acknowledge that deep down I was still his baby sister.

  Truthfully I replied, “Maybe I am, but I’ve got no choice.”

  “This Ripinsky guy means that much to you?”

  “Yes. It’s … an odd relationship. I don’t know exactly how to explain it. But he’s the only person—with the exception of Ma, maybe—who’s ever understood who and what I am and not judged me because of it.”

  “Ma?” John stared at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses.

  “Yes, Ma. She said some things to me last fall when she was visiting that made me realize she knows me better in some ways than I do myself. Maybe knows all of us better than we think.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Oh … that there’s a side of me that’s kind of … wild, is how she put it, that isn’t going to fit into any of the convenient little niches that society uses to confine people.”

  “You know, that’s interesting, because she said something to me, too, around the same time. What she told me was that under all the craziness I was really conventional as hell and just waiting for the time to come along when I wouldn’t be too embarrassed to let it show.”

  “You?”

  He grinned. “Well, look at us. Who’s the one who showed up here at the crack of dawn looking like something the dog dug up? Who’s the one who made the other eat breakfast?”

  “True. God, if she saw those things in us, I wonder what she saw in Charlene and Joey and Patsy?”

  “We ought to ask them.”

  I leaned my head back, suddenly feeling it was too much trouble to keep my eyes open.

  “Hey, stay awake for a few more minutes,” John ordered. “Can I borrow this Ripinsky’s picture?”

  “Sure, but what—”

  “I’ll have some copies made at the one-hour photo, and if Al and Pete think they can do something for you, I’ll give them the pictures and have them ask around. In the meantime, you get some sleep.”

  “What?” I sat up. “I’ve got to—”

  “You don’t got to. Until one of them comes up with something, there’s nothing you can do. So give me the picture, go in the boys’ room, and sack out.”

  I had to admit the idea appealed. “You’ll wake me up as soon as you know something?”

  “I’ll wake you up. Go!”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes! I swear to God, you remind me of my kids.”

  “I swear to God, you remind me of Ma.”

  “Well, everybody needs some mothering now and then, kid. Everybody.”

  Twelve

  When I woke in the narrow kid’s bed, afternoon sunlight had made the small room unbearably hot and stuffy. I lay there for a moment, groggy and filmed with sweat. The phone rang somewhere and was abruptly cut off by the answering machine; I heard my brother’s recorded voice intone something about having reached Mr. Paint, and a woman left a mostly garbled message.

  Finally I got up and opened the one window. Outside was a high-fenced area full of tall plants—John’s dope garden. Solid evidence that my brother hadn’t been taken over by an alien, after all. But what did he do with the plants when the boys stayed here? Surely he didn’t allow them to gaze at a marijuana farm through their bedroom window. Or did he? Well, that was his business; where the boys were concerned, at least, John seemed to know what he was doing.

  I wandered out to the kitchen; the only noise was the faucet dripping. The mentality of the drought years persisted among San Franciscans; I went over and tightened the knob until it stopped. In the fridge I found a can of ginger ale vastly outnumbered by six-packs and drank it thirstily while contemplating the problem of how to get in touch with Rae. By the clock on the stove, it was one thirty-nine; she’d probably be at her desk. Trouble was, I couldn’t be sure the All Souls line didn’t have a tap on it. By now RKI’s operatives would be mounting a full-scale search for me.

  Finally I went to the phone on John’s desk and dialed All Souls. Pitched my voice higher than normal when Ted answered and said I was calling for Tony Nolan, the client for whom Rae was performing a number of background checks. Rae came on the line and immediately recognized my voice.

  “Shar—” she began.

  I cut her off. “No, I don’t need to talk with Ms, McCone. I need to talk with you. I’ve found the remedy to the problem, and I want to discuss it in fifteen minutes.”

  Rae was silent.

  “I have the remedy, do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.” She sounded grave, even grim. “I’ll be there early, if possible.”

  I hung up before she could say anything else.

  Eyes on the clock of the VCR, I paced around the living room, went to the patio door and opened it to let in some of the afternoon breeze. One of the neighbors’ ducks had wandered in and was contemplating the Jacuzzi with more than normal interest, so I shooed it away. Then I went back inside and snooped idly into cartons as the minutes ticked by. One was full of photograph albums, and I pulled the topmost out and flipped through its pages. A Christmas picture caught my attention: John, Karen, Johnny, Billy, and little Kimmy, who had died of leukemia when she was two. They sat on a couch, the kids on their parents’ laps, everyone smiling, their eyes shining from the glow of the tree—mercifully unaware of all the bad, sad days to come. I’d often wondered how things might have turned out for John and Karen if Kimmy hadn’t died….

  Time to call Rae. I looked up the number of the Remedy Lounge in my address book, dialed, and identified myself to owner and bartender Brian O’Flanagan.

  “No,” he said formally, “you need to call the office number for that. Do you have it?”

  If Brian had installed Rae in his office, which was also his home at the back of the bar, it would mean she’d been followed there. An RKI operative might be within earshot of this conversation. “Is it listed with Information?”

  “That’s right.” I detected
a note of relief in Brian’s voice as he said good-bye.

  This didn’t sound good, not good at all. Neither Rae nor Brian was the sort to imagine things. I called Information, got the number, and dialed. Rae answered in the middle of the first ring.

  “Shar?” Her voice shook slightly.

  “It’s me. What’s going on?”

  “Plenty—all of it bad. Gage Renshaw was at All Souls this morning asking if we’d heard from you. God, he’s got mean, cold eyes.”

  “You talked with him?”

  “Yeah, Ted had me come up front and deal with him. I went into the song and dance about you being sick, but he didn’t buy it. And at noon when I went over to your house to feed the cats, somebody followed me. I shook him, but when I got to your place, they had somebody on it, too.”

  I felt a touch of panic—a flashback to when my house had been vandalized two weeks before. “Is everything all right there?”

  “Except for Ralph puking on the couch, I think so. But, Shar, now somebody else has followed me here.”

  “I thought as much. Is he outside in the bar?”

  “A couple of minutes ago when Brian came back here, he was. I spotted him coming down Precita and speeded up, so Brian managed to get me into the office without him seeing, but he knows I came in here. I’ll sneak out the back way when we’re done.” She hesitated. “Shar, what the hell’s going on?”

  “I gave them the slip last night and they’re trying to find me, that’s all. I’m perfectly safe now, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to know where. Listen, I don’t like to keep asking favors, but I need another.”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell Hank that I’m too sick to make a decision on the promotion yet.”

  “Oh, Shar!” Her wail made me hold the receiver away from my ear. “That’s the other awful thing. He knows. They all know.”

  “Know what? That I’m not sick?”

  “Worse, even. When I told Renshaw you were sick he said, ‘Don’t give me that. She went to San Diego on a job for us last night.’ And of course Hank and Mike Tobias chose that moment to walk through the foyer.”

  Well, that did it, I thought glumly. “They say anything to you?”

  “Not Mike, and Hank didn’t say anything at the time. But later on, he called me into his office. You know how he never reads you the riot act but you always feel like he has, anyway? Well, he said he was very disappointed in both of us—me for lying, and you for asking me to lie. And he was, Shar. You should have seen him.”

  How well I knew Hank’s disappointed looks. “Go on.”

  “He asked me what was happening, and I said I couldn’t talk about it. He said he’d respect that, but when I was ready to tell him, he’d be there.”

  “Then you’d better tell him.”

  “But—”

  “No, go ahead and tell him. I don’t want you taking the blame for me. Besides, I’ve screwed myself where All Souls is concerned, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “What about the promotion?”

  “I assume it’s no longer an issue. But you might tell him …”

  “What?”

  My anger had begun to rise: At the unfairness of the partners, who were trying to force me into a job they knew I didn’t want. At the new order they’d created at the co-op, which had made me feel I couldn’t go to Hank and ask him to allow me the time to deal with this crisis. At their petty new regulation against employees accepting outside jobs, which had made me ask Rae to lie. I wanted to give Rae a particularly unkind, wounding message to pass on to Hank.

  “Shar?”

  See what you made me do? The childish phrase suddenly popped into my head. A convenient way to blame everyone else for your own mistakes. Lord knew I’d often employed it, but I wasn’t a child anymore. I had neglected to explain my problem to Hank. I had asked Rae to lie. I had screwed myself out of my job. No circumstance or person had forced me to do any of those things.

  “Rae,” I said, “tell Hank I’m sorry. And tell him I’ll explain when I get back, for the sake of our friendship. You’re not to worry about being blamed for your part in this, either. I got you into it, and I’ll set things right.”

  “I’m not sure I care. Without you here, this won’t be a good place to work anymore.”

  “Don’t say that.” I heard an engine noise outside. Parted the curtains beside the desk and saw John coming up the driveway on his motorcycle. “We’ll talk more about it when I get back. I’ve got to go now.”

  “But where can I reach—”

  “Rae, it’s not safe. I’ll try to get in touch tomorrow. You take care.” I hung up and went to greet John.

  “So you’re awake,” he said, coming inside and leaving the door open to create a cross breeze. “Here,” he added and tossed me a manila envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “Extra copies of your boyfriend’s picture.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pay you back—and for a couple of phone calls I made. Did you find out anything?”

  He went to the fridge and got a beer. “Pete did. He’s got some family connection to Vic, the guy that owns Holiday Market. The reason Vic was so uptight with you this morning is that the place serves as a sort of information center for illegals—you know, if they’re trying to find somebody or a safe house or a ride north. Whatever they need, Vic helps them get it.”

  “Drugs?”

  He shook his head. “Not to hear Pete tell it. He says the Holiday’s there to help his people, not to bring them down.”

  “So what about Hy?”

  John leaned against the back of the couch, sipping beer. “He went in there around five-fifteen on Sunday, bought some coffee, then went back outside and hung around for about half an hour. Talked to two women, that’s all.”

  “Did this Vic know the women?”

  “One he’d never seen before and could barely describe. Just said she was short with short dark hair. Hispanic. The other—Ana Orozco—he knows, and he called her and asked if she’d talk with you. She will, but it’ll cost.”

  I’d expected to pay for information, would do so gladly if it would lead me to Hy. But I was running short of cash. “How much?”

  “Seventy-three bucks.”

  “That’s a lot. Why such an odd amount?”

  “Because she’s got two hundred and twenty-two bucks, and the abortion clinic charges two ninety-five. That’s why they know her at the store; she crossed the border on Sunday and came around asking about clinics.”

  “I thought Mexico was where you go for abortions. At least that was what they said in high school.”

  John shook his head, eyes solemn. “Even then, abortion was illegal in Mexico, and there’s been a big crackdown on the clinics. The wife of a buddy of mine works at a clinic in the Hillcrest district near U.C. Med Center; she claims that after the early sixties the only abortions you could buy in Tijuana were from cab drivers with rusty knives and pliers. I’m not sure I believe that, but I do know that the methods they use down there aren’t real good for a woman’s health. And they’re expensive.”

  “So now Mexican doctors are telling their patients to go to San Diego.”

  “Yeah. Gina, my friend’s wife, says that about a quarter of all the procedures they perform at her clinic are on Mexican nationals.”

  We were getting far afield from the business at hand. I asked, “Does Pete think this woman is on the level? Or could it be she doesn’t know anything but sees this as a quick way to raise the money?”

  John shrugged. “Pete trusts Vic, but he doesn’t know the woman.”

  “Well, it’s the only lead I’ve got, so I better follow up on it. Can you stake me to some cash?”

  “I’ll put it on your tab.”

  “Where is the woman?”

  “National City.”

  “And her address?”

  He hesitated, taking his time finishing his beer. “I’ll take you there.”

  “No, just give me the address
. This is something I have to handle by—”

  “No, it’s not.” He straightened, went to the desk, and rummaged in a cashbox. “It’s a rough area down there, and you shouldn’t—”

  “Exactly what do you think I’ve been doing all these years? Traveling with a bodyguard?”

  “Obviously you haven’t. In those years, you’ve been stabbed, almost drowned, and shot in the ass. Christ knows what else has happened that you haven’t told me about.”

  “John, I can take care of—”

  “All right—you can. But why make things harder on yourself than you have to?”

  “I’m thinking of you. This is a potentially dangerous situation, and I’m not just talking about muggers. It’s not your problem, and I don’t want to involve—”

  “I’m already involved.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He spread his arms wide in exasperation. “Look, do you want me to get down on my knees and beg you to take me? All right, I will.” Dropping to one knee, he raised his hands in supplication. “Dear sister, please take me with you.”

  “This is ridiculous. Get up!” I tugged at his arm.

  He stayed where he was, grinning idiotically.

  For a moment I considered telling him I had Pa’s .45 in my bag, but my use of firearms had erected a barrier between us in the past—had erected a barrier between me and other people I cared about, too. “Oh, hell!” I exclaimed. I supposed I could take him along, have him watch for a possible tail as I drove. But some ground rules would have to be set right now. “All right,” I told him, “you can come. But you cannot go inside with me when I talk to the woman. You will do exactly what I tell you. And you will navigate while I drive.”

  “It’s my Scout.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “One beer.”

  “One’s enough. You want to come or not?”

  He thrust out his jaw belligerently. I was reminded of him at ten, pouting because Ma had swatted him for trying to climb into the polar bear pit at the zoo.

  “You want to come or not?” I repeated.

  He got off his knees. “You know, you’ve turned into a bully.”

  “Are you going to obey the rules and do exactly what I tell you?”