Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

by Julie Smith

  “But you won that case.”

  “So we did,” he admitted modestly. “But you know what? It was Jude’s work that really did it; in the end, it turned out he didn’t really need me at all. When we started working, though, I didn’t have any more hope for it than I have for your case.”

  “I’m feeling a little better.”

  “Shall we work on a change of venue?”

  “That’ll be a start, anyway. But I can’t help thinking the only real answer is to find the real Trapper.”

  “You know how your mother hates it when you play detective.”

  “Oh, stop.” I brought him up to date on Les.

  Dad attacked his petrale, brow furrowed. Finally, he said, “Why don’t you call his mother back? Maybe she’ll give you the names of friends who might know where he is.”

  “Okay. But I get the feeling she’s tried everything she knows to find him.”

  “Can you think of anyone at all who might know him?”

  “Only Miranda Warning—I mean, Waring. But she’s as elusive as he is.”

  “A couple of needles in haystacks.”

  “I’ve got a feeling it might be the same haystack—maybe the Tenderloin. But you might as well try to find someone in Chinatown.”

  “Why don’t you advertise?”

  “What?” A bite of fish fell off my fork. I had the sort of feeling you’d get if you said, “My shoes keep falling off,” and someone answered, “Try tying them.”

  “Place a classified ad,” said Dad, as if I hadn’t caught on. “Maybe offer a reward.”

  He’d certainly been right—obviously I needed an experienced co-counsel. Probably the day would come when my car wouldn’t start and I’d need advice to turn on the ignition.

  I hurried back to the office to call the Chronicle before the 2:00 P.M. deadline, composing the ad in my mind: “$100 reward for information about the whereabouts of Les Mathison or Miranda Waring.” No. Fifty dollars ought to do it.

  After I’d made the deadline, I called Les’s mother; she couldn’t give me any names, but promised once again to send me a religious tract.

  The ad ran the next morning, and I got ready for work with all the hope in the world. Which was quickly dispelled by the time I hit the streets. They were all but deserted. Once again fear stalked, in the wake of the Bonanza Inn bombing. I thought of going back for my car, but decided against it—it was a lovely morning and I wasn’t going to be bullied. Still, I can’t say I enjoyed the walk; in spite of myself, I had sweaty palms by the time I got to the office. The rest of me was slightly damp, too—I’d run the last couple of blocks.

  Kruzick was just making a pot of his execrable coffee. I said, “Any calls?”

  “No. Expecting any?”

  I told him about the ad. And the rest of the day, every hour on the hour, he amused himself by reporting sweetly that no one had called about it. So I was feeling fairly depressed at quitting time, as I took off my workaday heels and put on Nikes for the walk home—upset that the ad hadn’t worked and decidedly not looking forward to the walk.

  The day that had started out so beautifully had turned nasty with evening fog. The sidewalks were nearly empty, and once again the streets were jammed with traffic. Damn the Trapper! I walked fast, nervous but eager as well—I had an evening with Rob and a home-cooked meal to look forward to.

  I tried to cheer myself up—and get my mind off the Trapper with thoughts of Rob. I wondered what he’d make me for dinner. He might have learned some new tricks in his cooking class, but I was betting they were new tricks with chicken; he never made anything else. Basil was in season, though—maybe he’d make a pasta with pesto sauce. As I turned into Green Street, I hardly noticed that I was now off the beaten track—not only weren’t there any pedestrians, there wasn’t even any auto traffic. I’d succeeded in distracting myself rather thoroughly. Even so, I thought to look behind me once or twice, just in case. But I guess, in retrospect, I should have tried the trick they teach you in rape-prevention lectures—walking in the middle of the street. Someone was waiting for me, hiding in a doorway; someone wearing tennis shoes. I never heard a thing; I just felt a sudden, awful pain at the back of my head, followed by the certain feeling that I was going to throw up, followed by nothing at all, not even a sense of losing my balance.

  14

  I was literally lying in the gutter when some kind soul found me—or more accurately, a little knot of kind souls, ringing my battered body and looking concerned. I think I can best express the unutterable pain of the headache I had if I say I wasn’t the least bit upset that my panty hose were no doubt destroyed or my lavender raw-silk suit would have to be-cleaned, and I never even considered the probability that my clothing might have been immodestly rearranged by my fall.

  “Are you all right?” asked an unfamiliar male voice.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, and my rescuers fairly heaved a collective sigh of relief, reassured, I guess, that I still had the power of speech. Some of them drifted off to their various chicken or pesto dinners.

  “Can you walk?”

  But that didn’t seem to me to be the first order of business. “Someone hit me,” I said.

  “You were mugged?”

  I nodded. The kind souls began to whisper and fret; we like to think Telegraph Hill is as safe as Our Town.

  “But here’s your briefcase. And you’re lying on your purse. ” I sat up to retrieve the purse, sending new waves of pain down my neck and shoulders. Looking in, I saw what I thought I’d see—my wallet, still holding the twenty dollars I’d just gotten from an automatic teller machine.

  “You’re sure someone hit you?”

  With supreme prudence, I touched the back of my head and felt a doorknob. “Feel this.”

  But the stranger stepped back; fear of AIDS had made folks in these parts unduly fastidious. “Maybe you got that when you fell.”

  You can’t imagine what a frustrating feeling it is to get mugged and then have people argue with you about it. I’m sorry to say there was an unfortunate whine to my voice: “Didn’t anyone see him?”

  Blank looks all around. And finally: “Who?”

  “The guy who hit me?”

  No response at all. I had a sudden urge to regain my dignity—anger was doing wonders for my headache. I needed to get out of that gutter, and fast. I pushed up into a crouch, ready to stand—and promptly toppled back. It took four brave people, unafraid of exotic diseases carried on the skin of strangers, to get me upright, and even then I still felt dizzy. A kind woman about my age helped me up the hill to my apartment; I didn’t have to lean on her exactly, but it was good to know she was there just in case. We walked very slowly, she carrying my briefcase.

  Rob had already arrived, parked, and fetched up at my doorstep with a bag of groceries, a six-pack of beer, and a wok, which he was wearing on his head. God knows what my escort thought. I sent her away: “There’s my boyfriend. I’ll be all right now.” She looked decidedly skeptical.

  “Confucius say she who keep cook waiting get knuckle sandwich for dinner.”

  “I’ve already had one.”

  “Wha?” Usually Rob is more articulate than this, but he was reacting not only to what I said but, by now, to my general bedragglement and decelerated gait.

  “I got mugged.”

  Still not putting things together, he searched my face for bruises.

  “Okay, maybe it wasn’t really a knuckle sandwich; more like a deluxe club—prompt delivery at the rear.”

  He blinked, but caught on in a split second that no one would mug a person by smacking her bottom: “Back of the head?”

  I nodded, realizing for the first time how much I wanted to cry.

  Having finally got the lay of the land, Rob went quickly into action. He dumped his six-pack and his bag of groceries on the sidewalk, covered the distance between us in two swift paces, and took me in his arms. Very tender and comforting; exactly the thing to do if he’d only remem
bered to remove the wok. This time I saw the blow coming, but I wasn’t fast enough to dodge it. The most sickening clang rang through the streets as metal hit forehead. It hurt like the most ingenious torture of hell, but I was sort of grateful it happened: If a person got mugged and then got argued with about it and then her boyfriend mugged her again with a free-swinging wok on his head, surely she was entitled to cry. The tears started to form into great luxurious drops, and I let them slide impenitently into the open.

  Despite Rob’s exotic cooking skills, hot and sour soup was about all I could manage, but I was glad to have it and gladder still to have Rob with me that night. He was the one person in the world I could talk to about my worst fear—that Les had seen the ad and responded to it. At least he hadn’t followed me all the way home, so he didn’t yet know where I lived. But he knew far too much about the route I took to and from work.

  “Maybe,” said Rob, “you can get police protection.”

  “Are you crazy? Even regular people on the street didn’t want to believe someone really hit me. Martinez would probably accuse me of sapping myself.”

  “You’ve got to get it on the record.”

  I sighed and picked up the phone. A mere forty-five minutes later a pair of polite young cops turned up, took the report, acted properly concerned, and said they’d be sure to tell Martinez all about it. It was almost enough to restore my faith in the police department, but as long as Martinez worked there I’d have to consider it only a cut above the Ton-Ton Macoute.

  After the nice cops left, Rob and I settled down to the serious business of reconciliation, but I’m afraid there was a small hitch—I had to tell him I had a headache.

  * * *

  Dad called early the next morning: “Any response from the ad?”

  “Not yet, but it’s going to run a week. I still have high hopes.”

  “I’m starting to have second thoughts. I don’t think you should have used your name.”

  “But if I hadn’t, Les could find out who placed the ad just by calling the phone number.”

  “You could have used a box number.”

  “I thought of that, but anyone likely to know Les or Miranda might not be able to write.”

  “Maybe we should have used my number.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad, I can take care of myself.” I spoke with fingers crossed.

  After I’d hung up, Kruzick came in: “Somebody finally answered your ad.”

  “No!”

  “Two somebodies. One left a message, one wouldn’t.”

  “Men or women?”

  “Women.” He handed over a message slip: The caller was a Barbara Fuller.

  I dialed. “Ms. Fuller, this is Rebecca Schwartz returning your call.”

  “Who? Leath, stop that. Gina!”

  “You called about my ad.”

  “Oh, yes. Gina, nooo! I thought I might be able to help about Les Mathison. You’re not the only one who’s looking for him, you know. Someone came by the house the other day.”

  “The house?”

  “Leath, leave your sister alone! He used to live upstairs from me.”

  “I see. The person who came by—was it a woman? Late twenties, dark, about five feet five?”

  “Uh-huh. A little on the chunky side.”

  “Do you live on Twelfth Avenue, by any chance?”

  “Ouch. Gina—you don’t pull your mother’s hair!”

  Chunky-schmunky, I hung up without waiting for an answer—I didn’t need my ears assaulted and I could call back if there wasn’t a Fuller at Les’s address. “Alan, what about the other woman?”

  “She said she’d call back about noon.”

  “Damn!” I’d have to cancel my lunch date.

  “Don’t take it out on me; this isn’t Babylon, you know.” Hardly. If it were, I could kill Alan for relaying bad news, but I was afraid I’d go through quite a few replacements as well. Could it be I was a pessimist? No. Absolutely not. If I erred, it was surely on the side of optimism—I actually expected that woman to call back at noon.

  By two o’clock my stomach was doing a fair imitation of a pride of lions. “Alan, could you do me a favor?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miz Boss—I’ll get y’all a hamburger toute de suite. There’s nothing I loves more than fetchin’ and carryin’.”

  “How’d you know what I wanted?”

  “Your tum growlin’ like a ol’ houn’ dog.”

  “Know what, Alan?”

  “Yes’m. I ain’t never caught a rabbit and I ain’t no friend of yours.”

  “Quite correct. And one other thing.”

  “I know, I know. Never use y’all in the singular—Miz Chris done filled me in.”

  I reached for my wallet, but my hand closed on one of the frothing blood capsules Rob and I had bought at the Pier 39 magic shop. It burst. As I drew a gory hand out of my bag, Kruzick drew back: “Stigmata! Lord help me, I ain’t gon’ study war no more.”

  One day, I thought, I was really going to have to clean out my purse. But for the moment I was glad I had a little bag of tissues in it. Kruzick calmed down as I fossicked for them: “You aren’t really hurt, are you? I mean, that’s gotta be nail polish, right?”

  Nail polish! I’d worn it twice in my life—at my senior prom, and once when I had an interesting occasion to impersonate a hooker. “Look, Alan—how about if I pay you later?”

  “Why not just give me a raise and we’ll call it even?”

  I made one more dive into the purse: “Here’s five bucks. Keep the change.”

  “Maybe I can find a cheap burger somewhere.”

  Being hungry makes me mean and so do Kruzick’s adorable little bits; at the moment I was feeling quite as murderous as the Trapper himself. It was a fine time for the phone to ring and of course it did. “It’s about your ad.” A woman’s voice.

  “I’ve been waiting for your call.” Perhaps I spoke a bit testily; at any rate, I got a defensive response.

  “I been at the doctor’s. My leg’s actin’ up again, and with the diabetes I’m in there two, three times a week. Sometimes more.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I waited, but she seemed to have forgotten what she called about. “You saw my ad?”

  “I can tell you what you want to know.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Come on over and bring the hundred dollars.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said come on over. You deaf?”

  “What was that about a hundred dollars?”

  “You want to know about Miranda and Les, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The way I read your ad, you’re offering fifty for Les and another fifty for Miranda.”

  I was so taken aback by the matter-of-fact way she peddled information, so much like the way Kruzick and company had played poker on Easter eve, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I was thinking: “See your Les and raise you one Miranda.”

  “I got gallstones, you know. My leg’s been actin’ up lately, and ever since that attack last winter, I ain’t been the same. Even close to it. Doctor said he never saw nothin’ like it.” I didn’t care if it kept me from catching the Trapper, I wasn’t going to ask about her attack. Instead, I said, “Of course. If you can tell me what I need to know, I’ll be glad to pay you a hundred dollars. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll come over in an hour or so.”

  “Doctor says I got to get some rest. I told him, ‘Don’t you worry. You know I’ll be in bed by three o’clock.’ He said I got to have two hours rest every afternoon, but I got to be up at five to fix supper for my son. He works nights, you know, so I always got to make sure I do that. I got no choice but to be in bed by three.”

  My watch said 2:25; that meant good-bye to my burger. It also meant there wasn’t time to get someone to go with me, in case I needed a witness, but she left me no choice. “Okay. What’s your name and address?”

  “Nola Pritchett; the Bonaventure Arms on Eddy Street
.” The address she gave me was one of the seediest in the Tenderloin; my confidence wasn’t vastly increased when she said, “Come alone.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Three people in my building right now got AIDS, a couple got TB, and I don’t even know how many’s walkin’ around with hepatitis. Strangers carry germs, so I don’t like ’em comin’ in and out, know what I mean?”

  It was just as well about the burger. I was fast losing my appetite. Mrs. Pritchett certainly didn’t sound dangerous, but just in case, I wrote a memo explaining where to look for me before I went out to find a taxi. I’d walked to work but I’d cut into Mrs. Pritchett’s naptime if I tried to hoof it to the Bonaventure Arms; or considering the neighborhood, I might not even get there. I mentally slapped my wrist for thinking that last thought. The Tenderloin was unwholesome, certainly, but maybe less so of late, as families of Asian refugees moved in because of the rock-bottom rents. It was not the kind of place where a Marin County native was completely comfortable, but plenty of hookers ranged about unmolested at all hours of the day and night; not to mention the unsuspecting tourists who booked rooms at the Hilton, not knowing the neighborhood wasn’t exactly Beekman Place West.

  There were plenty of junkies, crazies, and small-time thugs roaming the Tenderloin’s streets and juicing it up in its sleazy bars, but its true chambers of horrors were the filthy flophouses where who knew how many had serum hepatitis, and where crime—robbery and up—was as much a way of life as pasta in North Beach. The Bonaventure Arms was one of the vilest. The stink of vomit, urine, and rot was instantly evident, followed by equal assaults on the eyes—forty or fifty years of dust and piled-up crud on walls, floors, stairs, windows, and worse yet, what fragments there were of carpets. Specimens of Tenderloin humanity seemed almost to be blinking in the half-light, as if they’d been languishing like the Prisoner of Zenda. Surely Mrs. Pritchett’s ailments could only get worse in this atmosphere.

  I still stand by that opinion, but after learning that she owned the building and managed it—if you could call it that—I found my sympathy stretched to the thickness of poor-grade plastic wrap. Her own chambers, while larger, I surmised, than most in the building, surely couldn’t have been much better than the famous hole in Calcutta. “I hope you can stand the mess,” she said by way of greeting. “I haven’t felt much like tidying up lately.” By “lately” she had to have meant in the last ten years, as I saw a ten-year-old newspaper among the others piled on her floor. Every surface was crammed with litter and bottles and pill vials, all covered not with dust, but with accumulated gunk, reminding me of spices I bought for dishes I cooked once a year or so; whenever I needed saffron, say, or sage, I’d pull the bottle off my spice rack and find it sticking to my fingers. I had the feeling anything I picked up in Mrs. Pritchett’s living room wouldn’t be easy to put down again.