by Brian Lawson
Danny shook his head. “I don’t know about Dugan. He’s pretty much out of it.”
“Not so much he couldn’t solve your puzzle for you.”
“It’s not solved, but it’s the first real lead. The crime fits, the time fits, the people are going to tie it all together,” he said, dropping his hands to his side, the letter wrinkling in his hand. “Jesus H. Christ, I don’t believe it. It’s true, Chuck was right. ”
“And now?”
“Now, I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I wanted this to be true, to make Chuck out to be telling the truth, I don’t know, I never took it much further. I still can’t believe anybody cares any more, enough to kill somebody? I guess I should see this guy, this Skelley and find out, right?”
“You got to be too stupid to live if you don’t want to talk Skelley. And you don’t strike me as stupid,” Larkin said. “I bet you go in there, throw him a bluff and put the wind up him and we’ve got something. I can feel it in my bones. If not his father, this kid, what’s he around my age by now? You want me to go see him, sort of one old timer to another?”
Danny shook his head; it seemed more reasonable for him to make the call, if it were going to be made at all. “No, I’ll do it.”
“Then you better have a story to tell him so he’ll talk. Can’t be just showing up at the front door, ask to sit down and tell him your life story, and oh, by the bye, was your daddy involved with teenage sex slaves back in ’27? And are you involved in killing a bunch of old geezers who remember it all?” Larkin said. “Not everybody has as generous a spirit as me. He might just take offense.”
It made sense, as many things Larkin said did make sense. “Okay, how about this, I’m a writer. Working on a book, say, about influential families in San Francisco in the 20th Century or something. That work?”
Larkin nodded and began walking again. He said, “You sure ain’t much of a liar, are you?”
Danny looked over at him. “I guess that surprises me, a little. My lady friend, in Seattle? She seems to think I lie quite a bit.”
Larkin waved on his thick-fingered hand like he was swatting away flies. “That doesn’t count. Every woman thinks that about every man. That’s different. I mean, you want to tell the truth. It just shows on you.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad quality to have.”
“Nobody said it wasn’t good, just that it might get in the way,” he said, laughing deep in his chest. “We’ll see after you talk to mister Skelley. If you can.”
CHAPTER EIGHT:
Danny Meets J, Skelley, Esq.
It had been surprisingly easy to get an interview with John Skelley, Esq.
Back at the motel Danny had simply turned to the Yellow Pages and there was the listing. He was surprised at first he could find him, then he realized that because he had been tracking an old crime to this point didn’t mean that the people who might be involved knew they were being tracked; they were simply going about their lives, oblivious to the chase. First the secretary and the explanation of his mythical business, then a man’s voice came on, cool and business like. To Danny’s surprise he promptly agreed to an interview: 6:30 that evening, at his office, 115 Sansom.
After spending the afternoon on the Internet and going back down to the Main Library to dig up everything he could on the current head of the Skelley family, he was tired and took a cab downtown. Dropped off in front of the small, light stone building at the corner of Sansom and Bush, Danny knew he was going in blind; he didn’t have enough time to thoroughly research the Skelley history; he was stuck with a few thin references in newspapers and a brief outline in the latest edition of Who’s Who in California. And even that slim information was focused exclusively on John Skelley: about the father, only indirect references in the son’s bio. He pulled out the tape recorder and listened to the few notes he’d recorded at the Library:
“Notes on John Skelley ... let’s see, born 1934 so he’s 64 this November... graduated Stanford law 1959... married to former Marjorie Cook-Johnson in 1960... youngest member of Assembly in 1964, three terms, no major sponsored legislation, served on usual committees, no chairmanships and resigned in 1969 when father died... took over family law practice and real estate business in 1970...two children, daughter Jennifer born 1964, died in 1965, only surviving child Patrick born 1966... widower, wife died 1973... no memberships other than the bar...dozens of awards for civic service, citations from the mayor and governor...honorary chairman of this, past honorary chairman of that, but not active in any organization...sits on several boards of directors as member and counsel to others... and a note here to check on those and see if any of these companies and people were involved with David... a thoroughly successful man duller than he should be after doing that much….”
He paused, listening to the empty run-on hiss of the tape; he had recorded walking from the reference center to the newspaper files and forgotten it was on for a minute, then had clicked it off. He had spent a solid three hours cross checking the newspaper files with the dates from John Skelley’s life he’d picked up from Who’s Who, looking for any mention of the Skelleys for the specific years:
“Not much on Skelley the politician... fourteen articles in six years...declaring for the seat, endorsed by the retiring incumbent, Skelley stating his commitment to the people of the District, blah blah blah... a few articles where he’s quoted on this issue or that, but always as a second or third source...a nice if bland feature looking at his first term and declaring for re-election...a little more in the second term but not much...it’s like he was there but so far in the background nobody paid much attention, even the people in his district...he had to have one helluva district operation to get re-elected without ever writing or backing any major legislation...it’d be interesting to look at his voting record some time but it’s probably going to read like a Democratic party-line vote all the way.…”
He also had come across an impressive, but somehow vague, obituary for the old man from July 17, 1969, that included some mention that the law practice and real estate business would be taken over by son John Skelley, a three-term Assemblyman from San Francisco. Then nothing:
“Even the obit is bland...nobody seemed to really know much about the old man...real estate law, civil law, a husband and father...even served in WW I and managed to come out unscathed and without commendation...went into law, went into the DA’s office, went into private practice, was successful then died suddenly from a massive heart attack...not much that fits John Dugan’s description of a tough Irish wheeler dealer...wonder if Dugan’s not out of it and making some of this stuff up...
“then, nothing...it’s like once the old man died and John resigned his Assembly seat and stepped out of the public spotlight he dropped completely off the face of the planet...took up the out of sight out of mind role of the old man...how could you be in politics the way David was, down in the belly of the beast in Irish ward politics and nobody mentions it...how could John be there and slip out of view so fast...who quits like that...how the hell do these people work.”
He clicked the recorder off and went into the building, climbing the marble stairs to the second floor, then down to the end, his tennis shoes squeaking on the uncarpeted hallway.
The offices were on the shadowed east side of the building overlooking Sansom. John Skelley’s second floor walk-up law office was uninspiring: outer office with a tidy secretary’s desk, several industrial pale three-drawer filing cabinets with serious steel bar locks through the handles, industrial grade steel wool carpet, cream colored painted walls dotted with a few old cityscape photographs of what looked like New York and San Francisco and a large framed designer’s rendering in sepia of the Golden Gate Bridge that took up one long wall between the deep casement windows. Everything looked ordinary, even transient and cheap but on closer inspection the Bridge art was in fact a signed and dated original architect’s rendering with an effusive dedication in one corner to David Skelley; one of the photog
raphs a signed and numbered Ansel Adams Danny thought was in a museum. It was money disguised as modesty, the quick show to wealth and taste cloaked in the trappings of ordinary commerce. The way rich people who don’t want to seem rich show only the quickest flash of diamond cufflinks to the working stiffs on the sidewalk. The door to the inner office was ajar and Danny walked over, knocked and stuck his head in.
Muffled traffic noise from l the busy Bush and Sansom intersection two floors down rumbled in the room. Danny got the vague smell of after shave he couldn’t place and tobacco, although there weren’t any ashtrays in the room. In fact, other than the desk, desk chair and two secretary chairs in front of the desk, the office was empty: no bookshelves, lamps, small tables. No awards on the walls; no mementos on the desk top, just a four-tiered in-out basket set with a modest number of files, notes and miscellaneous pieces of yellow legal sheets, a dozen or so bulging manila folders neatly stacked on the corner of the desk. No computer, no typewriter, just a squared away legal pad in the middle of the worn leather blotter and a Mont Blanc fountain pen. And the man behind the desk who waved him into the room.
John Skelley rose from behind the small oak library desk to greet him, a small, tightly skinned man with a mane of thick silver hair and a grip like a large bird taking hold, thin and hard in the hand. He had small, pale blue eyes deeply set behind plain gold wire frame glasses.
“Please sit down Mister Boyle,” he said, waving to one of the two thinly padded brown leather chairs in the front of the desk. He sat down, adjusting the tidy pinstriped vest as he did; he sat with his coat on, tie firmly knotted. His voice was thin and piping and again Danny got the impression of a bird. “Now, what kind of book are you writing again?”
“Influential families of San Francisco. The movers and shakers, society leaders, behind the scenes power brokers, old money, etcetera. Everyone’s list seems to have the Skelley family prominently featured,” he said, trying what he hoped was his most ingratiating smile. He placed the tape recorder on the desk. “I hope you don’t mind?”
“In fact, I do,” Skelley said without smiling. “Why don’t you put that back in your pocket and let’s just talk, shall we? Then we’ll see where all this is going.”
Danny nodded, sure, and slipped the recorder back into his jacket pocket. He smiled at Skelley; the little man nodded.
“You know Mister Boyle, this is rather surprising,” Skelley said, leaning back in the desk chair and steepling his fingers tips under his well barbered chin in a gesture almost like a prayer. “Hard to believe such a list would include the Skelley family. I’m an attorney, private civil practice. My father was in real estate law. There’s not much influence there, just ordinary working lawyers.”
“Who worked their way up from the bottom, right? Your father was raised on Protrero Hill, put himself through law school, got a job in the DA’s office. A self-made man in the finest tradition,” he said. It was mostly guesswork, hoping he had filled in the blanks in John Dugan’s story of the elder Skelley. “And a son who goes to the Legislature and has a real future before dropping out to take over the very successful family business. That’s the stuff of the American dream, I’d say.”
“You seem to know a lot about us, and I wonder how,” Skelley said, leaning forward now, hands on the desktop. The thin bird voice going hard and cold, snapping sibilants off to drop and shatter on the desk blotter. The small man’s blue eyes bored through the lenses at him; Danny wiped his slimy palms on his pants.
“Research, old fashioned digging,” he said, his voice sounding tight and dry. “Your father was in the District Attorney’s office at a time when there was a lot going on. Prohibition, rum running, police corruption scandals, opium dens in Chinatown, you name it. You were in the Legislature for three terms. That makes both of you public figures and that gets into newspapers, records. It’s all public.”
Skelley nodded and sat back, making the steeple again. “No doubt, no doubt. But you see, Mister Boyle, my father was a minion, a worker in the vineyard. Reporters didn’t talk to him, he made it a point not to be noticed. A trait, I must admit, I took after.”
“Still, he was still a public official, an officer of the court,” Danny said, scrambling, hoping this birdman wasn’t going to ask for specifics. “He had to go to court, had to file motions, it adds up.”
“It could, I suppose,” he said, smiling a tight smile that showed perfect white teeth. “But I doubt it. Mister Boyle, you don’t really seem the book writing type. You seem more the reporter type. Are you, a reporter, that is?”
“No, I’m not,” Danny said, feeling the spit dry in his throat until he felt like he’d never swallow again. “I’m not working for any newspaper or magazine. I’m writing a book.”
“Well it’s true you aren’t on any major publication’s staff. I checked, you see.”
“So why’d you agree to the interview?”
The little man smiled his best winter smile and nodded. “Fair enough. I was curious. You see, my family is very circumspect and has been for a good many years. The firm’s clients are circumspect themselves and expect it of us. We walk very softly in the public life of this city, Mister Boyle, so the chances of anyone even mentioning our name is unlikely. I wanted to see who you were, take your measure. Now, I’ve done that.”
“And?”
“And I’ve concluded you are no threat,” he said, and his laughter was dry and cool, a thin tittering sound stifled almost as soon as it had gotten past his lips. “Now, enough about me, let’s talk about you. What’s your game?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your game, sir. In current vernacular, what’s your agenda?” he said, bird hands now finding another perch out of view in his lap. “I get the feeling you’re on a fishing trip. I don’t mind that, unless I am the fish. Then I mind it a great deal. Do I make myself clear?”
“Look, I’m just...”
“...writing a book, I heard that,” he interrupted, waving the lie away. “No, I don’t think you’re writing a book. Or certainly not one about, how did you put it, influential San Francisco families? You’re doing something, I do not know what it is but I don’t like it. And I will tell you this. If involves my family, you’d best cease and desist. You have fair warning.”
Danny stood up slowly, feeling his muscles tighten in his shoulders and neck; he turned and walked to the door, stopped with the cold old fashioned brass knob in his hand, then turned back walked back into Skelley’s cold, appraising gaze.
“I thought you were leaving.”
He pulled the newspaper article out of his pocket and threw it on the man’s desk.
“And this is?”
“This is where it all starts, Skelley. And it stinks like fish on ice.”
“My, my, how colorful. Perhaps you are a writer of novels,” he said, and Danny felt the cold wintry touch of his smile. “Well, let’s see what we have.”
Skelley picked it up in thin, white fingers, ran a quick lawyerly eye down the few paragraphs and dropped it on the desk. “Again, what’s your point?”
“Let’s just take the facts. One, from the article I’m guessing this poor little girl gets shot full of dope, chained up somewhere and then buggered, screwed and slapped around for a few days. Sounds like a Fatty Arbuckle party you folks are known for,” he said, leaning forward now in the desktop pool of cool light.
“Two, the bugger and shooter are an old man and what looks like a kid, maybe his son learning daddy’s trade or just a friend. Three, despite her statement and clear description, and your old man’s promises for swift and certain justice, nothing happens. I checked, newspapers, court records, everything I could get my hands on. Seems this gets as far as your old man’s desk, and then it simply slips out of view. No promised investigation, nobody embarrassed and nobody gets hurt. Except the girl. Did I mention that she was fourteen? Add statutory rape to the kidnapping charges that never got filed.”
“And what does this suggest to y
ou?”
This was it; get it out there, say it, or walk out and forget about Chuck and the Skelleys and the whole mess. He swallowed hard, “This suggests somebody put the fix in. And the guy they fixed was your old man.”
He paused, waiting for Skelley to change expression, to say something, anything. The man sat and stared at him with those blue ice eyes. Finally he took a deep breath and continued; in for a penny, in for a pound. “Four, Hammett finds all this out but doesn’t have the proof, maybe he doesn’t even know for sure it’s your old man, but he has something. So he writes characters into the book modeled on this little incident. Rhea Guttman and her dad and Wilmer and the rest. Maybe somebody leaned on him to get him to shut up, maybe he simply wasn’t sure, but he was sure enough to drop a line of clues in the book. You want the citations I’ll give them to you for starters.”
Skelley looked confused and said, “Whatever are you talking about? What book? Who are these people?”
“The Maltese Falcon. Dashiell Hammett. He found out about all this and put clues in his book.”
“A novel? You come into my office blathering like some schoolboy about sex slaves and impugning my family name and it’s all because of some third rate detective novel?” and a quick, thin smile broke out on his face, then spread into a genuine grin. He stopped short of laughing out loud, but it felt the same to Danny. “Are you mad?”
Danny suddenly felt drained and it took an effort of will not to slump into the chair in front of the man’s desk and apologize; maybe he was wrong, maybe he was becoming as obsessed and illogical as Chuck seemed. Instead he leaned on the back of the chair, white knuckled hands and stiff-armed and said, “Well, maybe I am. But not so crazy I couldn’t figure out what your old man pulled.”
Skelley was shaking his head. “What do you do, sit around all day reading old murder mysteries looking for clues to imagined crimes? Let me see if I understand all this. Follow along, if you can.”
