Bones of the Barbary Coast (Cree Black Thrillers)

by Daniel Hecht

  Cree had long since stopped entering numbers into the computer. She sat on her stool as Horace's colossal agony and his subsequent rescue from it resonated in her. She could almost see his emotion, a shimmer of painfully contrasting colors.

  "I never again felt a desire to injure anyone," he said, more composed. "And I came to believe that loneliness is the ultimate root of the pain we inflict upon each other. And that to remedy the pain, all we must do is address its root."

  Cree nodded slowly, giving that its due. "I tend to think along similar lines," she said carefully. "And I'd like to believe it. The problem is . . . it might work for you and me, but I'm not sure it's something we can apply to the rest of mankind. What about greed, lust for power, racism, all the other awful motivations? It would be hard to argue that the Holocaust happened because Hitler and his collaborators were lonelyl"

  His certainty did not waver. "Oh, yes. Absolutely. Imagine how alone such a person is—one who feels so very, very removed from his own kind that it is possible, even enjoyable, to torment or kill them? To be so removed, to know so little of the humanity of those you hurt, to have so little faith they might know you or care about you? To have so completely abandoned hope of knowing or caring about another? Oh yes. What more exact definition of loneliness could one conceive? That is the absolute distillation of the state."

  An elegant summary, Cree had to admit. It was very close to her own basic principle, the truth or theory or hope at the basis of her methodology and her survival. Hearing this old man say it made it a little less tentative.

  When Horace spoke again, he had gained back every bit of his professorial assurance. "To the point of my long soliloquy, Ms. Black. Your relationship with Bert and new friendship with Ray means that—aside from myself, with whom both are incensed right now—you are the only person with a connection to both men. With any investment in both or any leverage with them. With any chance of helping them avoid—"

  " 'Unintended consequences?' " It came out with more irony than she'd intended.

  "Yes, those." Skobold remained unruffled. "It appears to be up to you to open the door."

  "Um, Horace, I don't—"

  "I have utmost confidence in you, Ms. Black," he said sternly.

  47

  BERT WAS THINKING: Saturday night, after a day like today, you needed something, you deserved something. But it was all Latin at the Oasis and rock 'n' roll at the Metronome, no outlet there. At least the Tenderloin Club could reliably deliver its anesthetic, and besides there was business to attend to. He ordered his whiskey and managed to grab the same corner seat where he'd met Hank Chambers. He liked a good view of the door.

  This afternoon, after Cree left, he'd felt like he had fire ants under his skin, all this pent-up energy and no place to put it. In his eagerness and frustration he'd stupidly called Hank. The conversation was short and not sweet.

  "Don't badger me, Bertie. You know it'll take a few days. Jesus, it's Saturday! Don't you have a life? Because I do, okay?"

  "Yeah, I know that. I was just checking in."

  "I'm on it. I told you I'd do it. I even looked into your dog attack in Sausalito, on a Saturday, Bert, and that hair evidence isn't worth shit. No follicles for DNA, the microphotos won't prove anything, you can scratch that one off your list. The others I start on Monday. But don't badger me on it."

  Disappointed at the Sausalito case falling out of the mix, pissed at Hank's attitude, booze at the headache stage, he'd called Horace and blown his top for ten minutes. He'd ended it by slamming the phone down on the old man's excuses, then stalked around his house just feeling desperate, pissed at Cree, scared for her, hating Cameron Raymond. He wished Cree could see the light and do one thing for him, get a photo of that map on Ray's wall. That could break it open. Again he berated himself for failing to take the picture when he'd had the chance. Another five seconds then and he'd be in much better shape now. That had nagged at him unbearably and he'd felt his urgency spike. It was a day or two ahead of schedule, but he'd broken down and made the calls to set up tonight's appointment.

  Bert downed the rest of his second drink, checked his watch, and only a few moments later looked up to see two men come through the entrance of the Tenderloin Club.

  Right on time, bless their bent and dirty hearts.

  Nearing waved and slouched toward him, long legs in black jeans, snug gray turtleneck. Behind him came Koslowski, dressed in sweat pants and a baggy nylon workout jacket that didn't hide the bulk of his shoulders and upper arms. Koslowski had white-blond hair cut so short he looked bald from a distance, a thick neck, a wise-ass smile in a face unlined by conscience.

  Nearing slid into the other side of the booth, scanned the crowd, rubbed his hands together. "Drinkie, drinkie," he said expectantly.

  Koslowski came over to Bert's side and chucked him on the shoulder. "Rich tells me you boys had a good old time at the Laundromat the other night. Says you really rocked, Machete." He waited for Bert's half-hearted high five, then sat next to Nearing.

  They made a good pair, Bert thought: sharp skinny dark-skinned Nearing, bulky blunt-headed pale-faced Koslowski. Both of them lethal, both cocky. The fuck-you attitudes with a paranoid edge. As they'd sat down, Bert had seen the lump where Koslowski's hip holster pushed out his windbreaker. It gave him a dark pleasure that they'd read his wishes so well from his earlier phone call and that they were willing on such short notice.

  "So what's the deal, Bertie?" Nearing asked. "You're Mr. Mystery here. You got a tip for us, or what? Something with profit potential?"

  Bert had planned to keep it all in character, the wise-ass tough guy attitude, but now he felt his purpose seeping out of him, their attentive faces reminding him of the many times like the Laundromat and the soiled feelings and confusions that came after.

  "No. This one's more from my side of the job. Something you do to redeem your poor lost souls, for the good of mankind. Or to make old Bert happy in his sunset years. Whatever. It's about going to a guy's place and getting photos of some evidence. If it requires busting the guy's head, so much the better."

  They looked at him with heightened interest. Bert felt the moment stretch, but any force he'd owned had leaked out of him and he couldn't think of how to get off the dime. First it occurred to him just how pissed off Cree would be. That, he rationalized away by reminding himself that Cree being mad was a better end result than Cree being hurt or dead. But then he realized that she might even be there, she could get hurt that way, too. Meaning he'd have to tell Nearing and Koslowski about her, tell them not to go if her car was there or if they had reason to believe she was inside.

  It was getting too complex. For several seconds, he didn't think he could bring himself to go further, and anyway they didn't look like they were buying it.

  But then Koslowski made a little grin, a why not shrug, and it changed again, turned back into a kind of game, that satisfying mix of machismo and dark-hearted righteousness, us against them where us was Bert Marchetti and the two guys in front of him right now. He felt a wave of gratitude and with it a renewed determination.

  Koslowski checked Nearing's face and must have found assent. "Are we talking tonight?" he asked.

  48

  RAY ARRIVED HOME well after midnight. He had barely run at all, but the cold wind and darkness had proven to be the gift he'd needed. Now even the grimy dark of his own street looked pregnant, expectant. It was as if the pure black of infinite space shone down through the fog-diffused glow of the city, bathing the silent industrial streets in the absence of light. Darkness was the raw material of all creation and being immersed in it gave him energy and power.

  He locked the van, went to his front door, and gave it an experimental shove. Its solidity pleased him. He had spent the afternoon replacing the jamb and then reinforcing it with a heavy steel plate, six feet long, that he'd bolted deep into the bricks of the wall so that it overlapped the jamb. Then he'd fixed the inner door with a new, heavy-duty lock set. Wh
en he'd left the house earlier, he'd locked the dogs into the residential section. Bert wasn't going to get in again.

  He had just opened the locks when he heard something on the parking apron behind him. His heart leapt with the irrational, joyful trepidation that it might be Cree. But an instant later he knew it wasn't. Wrong noise. This was the quick quiet sound of someone coming at a run from the deep shadows of the first loading bay.

  He stepped into the black of the doorway without showing any haste, just a guy coming home late, not worried, no. The instant he was inside, he started the door swinging shut and leapt to the right. Leaning against the wall was a three-foot length of old plumbing pipe left over from when he'd installed his kitchen sink. He couldn't see it, but his hands found it immediately.

  The door bounced open hard and slapped against the wall and in the faint light near the opening he saw a burly form land in a fighting stance. Its blunt head ticked left and right.

  Ray swung the pipe. It slashed out of the dark and connected with the guy's forehead. The big figure went over backward with a shriek, sprawling into the doorway, but immediately a second shape eclipsed the light, coming over the fallen body. Ray reacted too late, and something hit him on the side of his neck just under his ear. He toppled back into the building, shocked, disoriented. Distantly, he heard the clank of his pipe hitting the floor and the dogs starting to bay and the fallen guy swearing.

  The new attacker was almost invisible, a quick black shape in the darkness. Ray fell hard on his right shoulder but recovered his senses enough to roll the instant he hit. The club or stick smacked the pavement just behind his head as he rolled again. When he came up, he scuttled sideways toward the depths of the building, the shelter of deeper darkness. The area near the door was empty except for the guy he'd hit with the pipe, who had come up to sitting position. Just as Ray spun to scan for the second intruder, the club hit him again, right above his temple. He backpedaled, off balance, tripped over a loose brick, fell again, rolled instinctively. A crazy swimming fog and spangles of lights filled the inside of his head.

  He fought to stay conscious by telling himself there was a way to do this. It was to use the spectrum of senses he used in his night runs. Eyes were no good. In darkness, you felt space on your skin, you made a picture of a place with your ears, you intuited presences. Quick tiny gritting noises told him the invisible guy was over to his left, coming in a fast arc towrard him. He threw himself toward the sound, lashed out with one foot and felt it hit. Not enough to hurt anyone.

  Ray ducked down onto all fours and scrabbled deeper into the building, the movements close behind him. He cut hard right and spun and from here he could see a flitting silhouette against the doorway glow, closing fast. He drove his shoulder into the dark man's belly and followed him over and put his weight on top as they hit the cement. He couldn't see a face, but he felt a leather jacket and a strong, whipcord-lean body. The guy had to be stunned, but Ray felt snapping punches land near his throat, the strikes of somebody with martial arts training. He sprang off and by kinetic memory knew where the head would be as the man sat up. Ray pivoted and flung his foot out and felt it make solid contact.

  A brilliant light came from near the doorway and somebody shouted, "Freeze, motherfucker!"

  It all came together in Ray's mind, thefirstguy must have gotten up, freeze means a gun, a cop, and he knew these were Bert's friends and maybe Bert himself was out there and soon to come in. Outrage flooded him. It was like the second stage of a rocket igniting, a powerful pulse of force. He sprinted toward the light, eyes averted.

  A flash lit the room, but he wasn't looking and all it did was give him a better idea of the space. He barely heard the explosion of the gun, even though by now he was close enough to feel the pressure wave of the blast. At the last instant, as the flashlight spun to track him, he dropped and went hard to the left on all fours. His hands ran into a cinder block and grabbed it, and he stood up with it just as the wedge of light caught up with him. The cinder block came around and eclipsed the light and the next muzzle flash before it crunched into the gun hand. The light beam panned wildly and then was rolling along the floor. Ray saw enough of the big form outlined against the fan of light to swing the block again. It made a solid sound when it connected with the guy's head.

  When the second light came out of the darkness twenty feet away, he pitched the block at it. The block ghosted out of the beam and the light flicked to track it, a momentary distraction that was all Ray needed. He could feel the dark man in his space, he could smell him, knew where the light had been and where the man would move. He went toward that space and collided with the sinewy leather-clad body. Now the guy had a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other, but he was off balance and Ray caught the gun in both hands. He spun so the gun was at his shoulder, then bent hard at the waist and twisted it free. An elbow to the face to put the guy down, then a hard heel to the temple to keep him there.

  The hulk of the other man lay half in and half out of the fallen flashlight's beam, unmoving. Ray grabbed the nearer man's jacket and dragged him across and laid him alongside, tested the bulky man's pulse at the carotid and found it steady and firm. He retrieved the flashlight and then the guns in case Bert Marchetti was out there and planned to make some grand entrance. He shined the light on the thinner man, then knelt and rummaged through his pockets: extra ammunition clip, digital camera, several pairs of plastic handcuffs, and at last a wallet. A police ID. Richard Nearing.

  Ray held the guns in his lap as he sat on the black man's chest and caught his breath and thought about what he should do. After a moment, he realized the dogs were still barking and going crazy in there, ripping the kitchen door to shreds.

  "Dogs!" he called sharply. "It's okay. Basta! Quiet!"

  They obeyed instantly, as always.

  He thought about the darkness outside and wondered why with all his clarity he hadn't felt these men waiting. He hoped Bert wasn't out there, because if Bert came in it would be fatal for one of them. He was very angry at Bert. And it would only get worse when the endorphins percolated out of his blood and the pain in his neck and head and hands came roaring in. Just under the veneer of momentary satisfaction, rage was building. It seemed to bulge outward from the fire blot in his head and emanate through his whole body. He hoped he wouldn't let the anger unravel the gains he'd made tonight, and that he had the strength to channel it wisely.

  The rage was there, but still he felt surprisingly good. It was what the books called a paradoxical affect, pretty typical: clear, clean, focused, very much alive. And full of energy. Which was good because it was now looking to be a very long night.

  He felt the skinny guy's chest beneath him take one labored breath and then another. He toed the big bulky guy and got a slight groan in response. At last he got up and limped to the kitchen door to let the dogs loose, intensely grateful for their patience, their obedience, their unquestioning love and loyalty.

  49

  THE HISTORY ROOM didn't open until noon on Sundays, so Cree killed the morning in the basic reference section and the newspaper archives. First she wasted an hour trying to track down Lydia Jackson Schweizter's church through historical records, only to end up finding it in the current phone book, still in operation.

  She called, got lucky, and reached a Reverend Michaelson who told her that Sunday was a prohibitively busy day in his trade, but he'd be happy to show her their archives tomorrow. They made a morning appointment and Cree moved on to the newspapers, claiming a microfilm cartel within arm's length of the wall of file drawers. Looking through even the narrowed range of four years was a huge job, and she knew it would go faster with two sets of eyes. She wished Ray had answered when she'd called earlier.

  Still, it was easier this time. Her sense of urgency propelled her, and she was better with the viewing apparatus. She started on the 1888 newspapers, the likely year that the wolfman had begun to experience the rapid, unprecedented growth of his palate and front te
eth. It was also the year the feral dog attacks in the Barbary Coast had first been mentioned. Coincidence? Probably. Or not.

  This time she had equipped herself with two fine-point markers and an 1890 San Francisco map that she'd photocopied from a history text on the main floor. She scanned the Chronicle for all of 1888, and when she encountered reports of murders she marked the crime scenes on the map with a blue dot. Soon the Barbary Coast area was thick with blue, and the blocks near the intersection of Broadway with Kearney and Montgomery streets, called the Devil's Acre back then, accumulated so many dots they began to layer on each other.

  When she found the three reports of feral dog attacks, she marked them in red, nestling the dots right there in the heart of the blue cluster.

  She finished the 1888 spool, rewound, and took a moment to look at her map. As forensic sociology, tracking crime patterns, it was rudimentary, but she found satisfaction in seeing it laid out like this. She felt a little pumped up as she threaded the spool for 1889.

  More murders, more blue dots. In March, another mention of a dog attack, red dot. More murders, assaults, petty crimes. Lots of the usual urban scandals, celebrity gossip, cable car issues, other civic projects. Articles on city council meetings reported charges of corruption, complaints about sanitation, harangues from religious leaders outraged by the city's tolerance of liquor and sex, tirades about the continuing influx and pagan habits of the Chinese. Talk about paradoxical Victorian values: The police log showed arrests for spitting in public or use of profanity, while the same cops did nothing about the hair-raising vice industries of the Barbary Coast.

  Another couple of hours, another spool and another, and her enthusiasm began to wane. By the time she was done, it was gone entirely. In not one article, ad, or editorial did the newspapers of 1889 to 1891 contain any reference to another dog attack, let alone to wildmen, wolfmen, or werewolves.