Chasing Sam Spade

by Brian Lawson

  Listening to Smith bellow wasn’t improving the irritation that was like a constant itch he couldn’t scratch, and his social skills were falling as his impatience grew. He knew the irritation and frustration had crept into his voice and from the looks he’d occasionally catch John throwing him, his new partner knew it to; Smith either didn’t pick up on Danny’s irritation, the tone, the fidgeting and foot tapping, or he simply didn’t care.

  “Okay, you don’t agree. That’s fair. I can take this some place else,” after Smith took a breath.

  “Nobody’ll touch it. It’s bullshit. Rumor, innuendo. A news story from 1927? It’s past old news, it’s non-news. And the tie to these deaths? Old guys have accidents, old guys die. I know, I’m an old guy and half dead already,” he bellowed. “You’d better just drop it. And trying to use that story as an angle to dig up dirt on somebody? That sort of thing won’t fly in this town, not attached to a family like the Skelleys.”

  Danny sat back, watching the light shimmering on Smith’s bald pate. He cleared his throat and said, “That sort of sounds like a threat. It sounds like what I got from Skelley.”

  “No threat, just a fact.”

  “Facts have an interesting way of changing to fit need. A little judicious gate keeping here, a little discrimination there,” he said, shrugging again. “Funny how it works out.”

  “Don’t mock me, Boyle. Don’t try and pull that academic crap in this office. I can’t hear so good but I damn well hear good enough,” he barked. “I said, stay away from the Skelleys. Good people.”

  “I think they’re involved in something. I can’t believe I come in here and give you a tip about multiple homicides…”

  “Deaths. That’s all, just guys dying. No homicides here, I’ll place long money on it.”

  “Look, it’s all tied together. The original crime, Hammett, what happened to my father, the old guys dying.”

  “Take it to the cops, you think you got something.”

  His face must have shown something. “Okay, that’s it. You’ve tried and they laughed you out of the place, right? Right”

  “I talked to a Lt. Guthrie.”

  “Good man.”

  “Well, he, I don’t know…”

  “I do, he said this was bullshit, plain and simple. Probably threw you out on your ear, right? Right. I might just do the same,” Smith shouted. Danny smiled a smile he no longer felt and gave a casual shrug he didn’t feel; instead, he could feel himself starting to tighten up, feel the days of frustration starting to come to a head.

  “Well I say there’s a story here. And I wonder why you don’t see it, ” he snapped, not caring suddenly if Smith could make out what he was saying or not. “What’s this to you. You guys asshole buddies, or something? Belong to the same club? I just wanted to ask a few questions, get your insight as a long time news guy, that’s all. Instead I get the run around and some back door threat about not messing up the sandbox.”

  Smith heard that. His feet jerked off the desk and slammed down and he was leaning forward over the desk, shaking a thin bone finger at Danny.

  “Don’t try to teach your granny how to suck eggs, son,” he growled, the loudest growl Danny had every heard from a human being.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve been covering this town for nearly fifty years. When I tell you there’s no story there, there’s no story there,” he said, for the first time keeping his voice down to a reasonable level. Danny wondered for a moment if the hearing problem wasn’t at least partially an act to give the elderly ex-reporter time to think and keep people off balance. And just as quickly he realized it didn’t matter; he wasn’t getting anywhere with Smith, for reasons only Smith could know.

  “So, what you want? A front page expose about the Skelleys giving too much time and money to charity? Keeping their noses clean and getting about their own business for seventy years in this town?” He leaned back, waving a dismissive hand at them. “Horse feathers. No story now, ever. You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

  Danny felt his assurance fading along with his energy under Smith’s withering opposition. Sitting in the pitiful basement office, a bone deep fatigue seemed to spread his headache throughout the body in throbbing concert; he could feel his patience wearing thin and the newspaperman’s screaming criticism was like a heavy sharp weight pressing down from the top of his skull. Plus the fetid little room stunk of rotting paper and sewage that probably was seeping up through the subbasement flooring.

  Now John took a shot at engaging the old man’s interest. He leaned forward and growled the two feet into the former editor’s face. “Don’t give me that. One old timer to another, I’ve been in this town as long as you and I know garbage when I smell it. And this stinks. That guy’s hiding something. Danny’s right”

  “And who asked you?”

  “He did. He asked for my help, so I’m helping,” John snarled, a match for the man in years and sheer contrariness. The close warm room and Smith’s constant screaming was starting to affect both of them; John had an unnatural rosy hue to his cheeks and sweat was beading on the back of his neck. “You ought to try it.”

  Smith spread his arms, bridging the room and seeming to gather half a century of newspapering into one expansive gesture. He bellowed, “Bullshit. Nothing there. A crime out of the 1920s, a conspiracy out of the 1940s, some crime you can’t even describe. Bullshit, you’re wasting my time.”

  Smith just shook his head, fluorescent fragments splintering off the old man’s polished pink scalp; impossible to keep that thing that shiny without a polishing cloth. He suddenly just wanted the meeting to be over and gave up trying to convince the old man to do his job. “If you won’t cover it, somebody else will. I’ll take it over to the Chronicle.”

  “They’ll laugh you out of the city room. Only reason you’re here is nobody upstairs will even talk to you.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out. He pulled out the small notepad and jotted down the phone number at the motel and his cellular number, then dropped the paper on Smith’s desk. “You can reach me at either numbers, if you get interested in the story. But you know, it’s a new world out there, Smith. Maybe I’ll just forget about mainstream media, newspaper, even TV, and just put it on the Internet, take it right to the people, no reluctant gate keepers deciding what news is or isn’t fit to print.”

  “What, like the Drudge thing? Nobody believes that garbage,” the old man snarled.

  “No? Well, maybe they’ll believe Salon. Yeah, I see that got your attention,” he yelled. “You guys dropped the ball on that, huh?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No bullshit. Straight fact. None of the so-called mainstream media would touch the story about Henry Hyde, right? He’s heading up the House Judiciary Committee on the Clinton impeachment and nobody wants to know about his five years playing house with some married woman. It took an Internet website to publish it,” he said, letting his voice drop to a reasonable level, but he could see Smith was still with him. “So then what happens? They break the story, you guys are caught with your thumbs up your collective asses and you have to cover it. It became the news you didn’t want.”

  “So what?”

  “So, same thing here. Not as big, but big enough. Somebody’s going to break this thing, but it sure as hell ain’t going to be you,” he said. “And I know guys in the newsroom at this paper surf the net and read Drudge and Mother Jones or Salon and a lot of other sites too. You can’t afford not to. You may not like it, but it’s part of the system now.”

  “No disrespect intended, professor, but teaching journalism ain’t the same as doing journalism, if you get my drift,” he yelled. “Stick to teaching it. Kids today can’t even spell. Don’t know how to write a lead, can’t find news with both hands. They all want to be stars, nobody wants to do the job. Teach them that stuff and leave the exposes to the pros. I told you a minute ago, don’t try to teach your granny how to su
ck eggs.”

  Danny could feel the heat building and he leaned forward, fists balled up white knuckled into the piles of newspapers on the desk.

  “I’m getting pretty sick and tired of being told what to do,” he said, keeping his voice as even, and low as he could, forcing Smith to lean forward to meet him. He almost spat the words into his face across half a desk. “Listen, I didn’t start out teaching. I learned this business the same way you did. I’ve covered every kind of story in a dozen papers in five western states. I’ve written about cake sales and I’ve covered murder trials. I’ll put my news judgment against you or anyone else, any time, any place. Don’t patronize me. You don’t want to help, don’t, but don’t tell me there’s no story here. You don’t want it, fine, good. Somebody else will.”

  He stood up and wheeled, grabbing the doorknob and almost jerking the rickety door off its hinges. He looked up at Smith who was towering in the room, his head almost touching the low slung fluorescent fixture. Danny pointed at the old man, taking aim down his finger, and screamed, “I’m going to embarrass this paper, old man and if you don’t like it you can go to hell. All of you.”

  Back on the street John scuttled along, half running, trying to keep up with Danny.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he yelled and Danny stopped and faced him, a big grin spreading across his face. “What the hell?”

  “It’s something I got out of The Maltese Falcon. Spade bluffs Guttman and Wilmer, threatens them and storms out. Remember the movie? Bogart walking to the elevator wiping his hands with the handkerchief and grinning like a thief?”

  Danny watched as the old man’s face shifted from confusion to humor and finally a grin broad enough to match Danny’s. “You got balls, kid.”

  “Not balls, John my friend, just a wild hair up my ass,” he said, slinging his arm around the other’s shoulders and walking slowly up towards Market St. “We had nothing to lose. He’s turned into one of the good ol’ boys. No rocking the boat, taking care of old friends. Well, maybe that’ll shake him up. Help him remember he was a newspaperman once upon a time. Let’s see.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime we keep looking. How do you feel about reading the newspaper?”

  “Good enough, I guess. Rather get my news on TV,” John said, shrugging under Danny’s arm.

  “Good enough. But this news is old news, real old news. Say back around 1928 or so.”

  “I thought you went through all that stuff?”

  Danny shook his head, “No, I just scanned it. After I found the teen sex slave story I didn’t do much else. But that’s before I really believed there’s something there. So now we look harder, day by day.

  “You mean I look harder,” John said, his tone suddenly pouty.

  “Yeah, you look harder but at least you’ve got something to look for,” he said. “Now we’re looking first for any follow-up on the teen sex story, anything. Or anything like it. Or for anything involving the DA’s office and Skelley. Any quotes by anyone in the DA’s office about any crime like this. And maybe check out the business page and society page. Look for old man Skelley. Or any mention of Skelley by anyone else. That’s the first thing.”

  “And the next thing?”

  “Let’s build a history of these people. I covered John, and we pretty much wrapped up the old man, so let’s start in on this kid of his, Patrick. Let’s see, he was born inn ’66, so he must have gotten out of college around 1988 or ’89. Let’s see if there’s anything in the papers, say, since 1989 forward,” he said, watching Larkin’s face. “You look a little confused.”

  He shook his heavy head and shrugged. “Not confused so much’s I don’t get it. What’s the point?”

  “Well, the long shot is that the kid is involved with the same folks daddy and grand daddy were,” he said, waiting. “Yeah, I doubt it, too, but it’s a shot. More likely we can just paint a picture. If he’s being groomed for a campaign he must have some visibility. Maybe on the society pages, maybe the business sections. Who knows, but it’s worth a shot.”

  They walked up Market Street, Danny watching John and John seemingly focused on the paving bricks under their feet. Finally he said, “Sure, I’ll do it.”

  “But?”

  “But I think it’s a waste of time. We should be going after the father not the kid.”

  “I agree, but he’s been so good at keeping his head down for so long, I don’t think we can find anything. Let’s try it, see what happens. Okay?”

  Larkin nodded and smiled his broad, long-toothed smile. “So, what’re you doing while my fanny’s glued to some library chair?”

  “I’m heading for Superior Court records on McAllister,” he said, turning John up Market St. “If old David Skelley really got paid off for covering this up, or something like this, there have to be records somewhere in the archives. Like were any charges ever brought, then dropped?”

  “You said nothing showed up in the paper.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. If the people behind it were strong enough maybe they kept it quiet, who knows? Or maybe there’s something linking a name, or a business, or something, to Skelley. You know, ‘prominent young attorney David Skelley represented the Buggery Corp. in the litigation settlement,’ something like that.”

  “That’s really reaching.”

  “Yeah, but maybe we’ll get lucky. Then we put your information out of the newspaper together with the court records and maybe we’ve got something we can use to sweat this guy a little.”

  He patted his coat pocket making sure the phone was there. He normally didn’t carry it but he had stuffed into his coat pocket this morning. “I gave you my cell phone number, right? Okay, you get anything, give me a call.”

  The sun was out this morning, warming their backs as they headed west up Market. Danny felt better, the hangover burned off in the mock confrontation with Smith and just by being outside in the bright clear morning. Foot traffic was light on their side of Market Street while a steady stream of cars and pedestrians crossed Market from one street or another heading into the Financial District.

  “Doesn’t anybody use Market?”

  “Naw, just bums and winos,” John said, spitting at a particular large black grease spot on the brick sidewalk. “They spent all this money, widened the sidewalks, bricks, lampposts, signs and everything. Tried to get people to come down the way they used to, make Market the heart of town again. Nothing. It’s okay up further around the Nordstrom and everything, but still it’s dirty. Bums and homeless and nobody wants to be out here.”

  John continued, “But I tell you, it used to be something. Navy everywhere, shop girls all dolled up and strutting around. Lots of action and all night movies and restaurants every block. You could come down here on Friday night and you couldn’t walk on the sidewalk there were so many people out. Just having a good time, seeing the sights, and not just guys on the make or anything. Families. Guys with their kids and wives. Up there? At Powell up ahead? Used to be so many people at the cable car turn-around cars couldn’t even get through. Always a mess but nobody cared. Now, it’s all gone, empty like. It looks better but there’s nobody here anymore.”

  They walked in silence, weaving between the legless beggars and aggressive young street people who had turned begging into a mental martial art. One glassy-eyed kid in his early twenties, swaddled in layers of filthy clothing and carrying a tattered blanket roll, took two quick steps from the curb and blocked their path, hand out, mouth open.

  “I need some cash, man.”

  “Sorry, we’re short,” John said, trying to walk around the man who crab-walked over to block him again.

  “Come on, give it up. Help out a vet.”

  John stopped and looked the kid up and down. “What’re you, maybe twenty five, six? Get a job, punk.”

  “Fuck you old man,” he said, taking a half step forward until Danny slid over in front of John.

  “Okay
, back off, son. We don’t want any trouble here,” Danny said, looking quickly around for any help. There were a few pedestrians who were walking quickly by, looking sideways, staying out of the line of fire. No cops in sight. He tugged at John’s arm, trying to lead him around the bum.

  “Well, maybe you’re going to get some, asshole,” the man leered, turning as they circled around him and bending forward as though he had trouble seeing the two men when they were moving.

  “No, maybe we don’t,” Danny said, fishing a single out of his jeans pockets and tossing it at the man the way you’d toss a piece of meat at a street dog to distract it. Pulling John by the sleeve he moved them away from the bum and up Market. “Let’s grab a streetcar, okay?”

  “Punk bastard. For two cents I’d go back there...”

  “...and what?” Danny interrupted. “Punch him the nose? Come on, we don’t have time for this.”

  “Always time to teach some punk about the price of corn,” he said, still turned and looking at the kid who was shuffling away from them, trolling for another victim. Danny tugged at his sleeve and reluctantly John turned and started walking.

  “You know, sometimes you got to take a stand.”

  “Confrontation isn’t going to do you any good. Why risk getting in a fight?”

  “You just got through yelling at some guy and telling me how that works.”

  “Ah, that’s different,” Danny said. “I wouldn’t really have done anything. It was all for show.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But I saw you back there. You’re getting hot under the collar. I could tell.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m going to punch somebody.”

  “Never say never, Danny. Life is long and full of salesmanship. You never know what you’re going to have to do,” he said, patting Danny’s arm. “You never know.”