“He’s the fellow who declared martial law, I gather.” My efforts to calm Gustaw were working about as well was the pickle juice was working to settle my innards.
“A traitor. He’s no Pole. The bastard is a katsap,” he growled using what I took to be an insult but didn’t figure that asking would help defuse the situation. Gustaw stepped back and folded his muscular arms across his massive chest. “At least President Reagan stops trade with the Soviet bastards after police shot mine workers in Katowice. Police are criminal dogs.” I nodded supportively but was losing track of the diatribe as his English deteriorated. Ludwika came out of the kitchen, drawn by the tinkling of bells from the door and the absence of anything sounding like a greeting to the customers.
“Gustaw, shame on you,” she said. “We are running a bakery, not a union hall. Behave yourself and help these people.” The couple seemed relieved to have someone attend to them, even if it was a still grumbling bear of a man. Ludwika brought me ruchanki—apple fritters—and a glass filled with an orange concoction.
“Kogel mogel,” she declared. “Drink.”
“What is it?”
“Drink. I beat raw egg yolks and sugar, add whipped cream and then orange juice. Drink.” It sounded better than kefir, which wasn’t saying much. As the couple paid for their poppy seed rolls, I washed down my deep-fat fried medicine with the thick tonic, left a fiver on the table and snuck out before Ludwika could impose further Polish treatments.
~||~
When I got to the shop, I was feeling better although still in need of caffeine. I poured a cup from Carol’s coffeemaker. The scalding liquid was less painful than the insipid pop music. A pair of marginally competent crooners declared their endless love for one another. The lyrics and plaintive orchestration were more syrupy than Gustaw’s sweetest pastry. I turned down the volume.
“Hey Riley, show some respect for Diana Ross and Lionel Richie,” she said.
“I will, when they respect the taste and intelligence of the public.”
“Well aren’t you in a grumpy mood for a Friday.”
“Not at all, babe. I have such good news that you’ll be happy to have that vapid duo silenced.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Yesterday afternoon I landed a sizable payment for that spider extermination. And my pursuit of the twisted tale of Lane Linford has led to a lucrative contract for my off-the-books services as an investigator.”
“The cash flow is welcomed, given the state of our accounts. But I’m not sure that it justifies your monkeying with my radio.”
“Ah, my love, there’s more.” I’d made up my mind while munching on Ludwika’s apple fritters, although recognizing that omens were not the best way to make business decisions. “I think this recent windfall provides what we need for you to buy your Apple computer.” She jumped up from her chair, squeezed the sides of my face into a pucker, and gave me a big kiss followed by a breasty hug. If she’d been straight, Nina might’ve had something to worry about. As it was, I simply enjoyed the womanly, if platonic, warmth. We both knew her effusive gratitude was a performance for our mutual benefit, sustaining the appearance that the decision was mine to make and that it was possible for me to have said no.
“So, what are Larry and Dennis up to this fine, drizzly morning?” I asked once she turned me loose.
“I had them stocking a shipment of chemicals that arrived late yesterday. But while they were doing that, the public housing director called and accepted your bid for the job on Aguello. So now the boys are loading up for the big treatment.”
“Okay, anything else I should know?”
“Yes. Lieutenant Papadopoulos called and said you should meet him at ten o’clock at some place called Sappho’s Sweets in the Tenderloin. If you aren’t there, then you become a ‘person of interest’ in the deaths of the Linfords—and he said he’d sure hate for that development to get out to the press, what with our business needing to maintain a good public image.”
“Very subtle of him. I guess he’s anxious for an update.” I turned her radio back up to fill the air with the gravelly strains of some guy pleading for a woman to return to him. He evidently couldn’t remember her name and just sung “Lady” to woo his true love. I suspect he was more successful attracting record producers than women.
“And Riley,” she called out as I headed down the hall, “see if you can get through the calls on your desk before rendezvousing with your Greek pal.”
Carol had crammed more “While you were out” notes into my inbox than dollar bills in a stripper’s G-string. For the rest of the morning, I made calls and charmed customers with better lines than a pop singer in heat. Winter wasn’t usually a busy season, but I guess even the vermin weren’t keen on being outside in the cold rain. The little bastards were gathering in furnace rooms, kitchen cabinets, and bathroom sinks without having the good sense to stay hidden.
One distraught and unladylike woman with a talent for graphic description was beside herself having seen, “a cockroach with some huge thing out its hind end, either an erection or a turd and in either case I want the revolting creature out of my house.” I explained that it was most likely a female extruding an egg case, but this didn’t reduce her disgust with the exhibitionist insect. I put her down for a treatment early next week and she seemed pacified, although not pleased with having to live with six-legged flashers through the weekend.
~||~
After making a dozen calls, I headed to Sappho’s Sweets on the corner of Turk and Eddy. The place wasn’t a strip club, as the name might suggest, but a Greek bakery. I found Lieutenant Papadopoulos looking dapper, with an ankle resting on the opposite knee to draw attention to his two hundred dollar loafers. He was sipping coffee and munching on what looked like a biscotti, but I gathered from the menu board was a paximathakia.
“What’s good in this joint?” I asked, feeling my appetite returning. Papadopoulos uncrossed his leg and dunked the cookie into his coffee.
“This ‘joint,’ as you call it, is one of the venerable, legit businesses left in the Tenderloin. We are just a block from the location of my father’s shoe repair shop, which was a viable business back when people valued workmanship. He sold the store after the old neighborhood was drained of its vitality by the soulless bastards who built the Bay Bridge through the heart of Greek town. I’m glad he didn’t live to see what’s become of this neighborhood.”
“Yeah, right. So, what is delectable at this fine establishment?”
“I’d recommend the koulouria, not too sweet, and the hint of lemon and vanilla is perfect with Greek coffee. And the kourambiethis will melt in your mouth like the finest shortbread.” I grabbed one of each and returned to the table with a cup of coffee that rivaled Gustaw’s for potency and a glass of ice water that the lady behind the counter insisted went with the coffee.
“So Lieutenant, what’s on your mind?” He didn’t look amused.
“I need an update on the Linford case.”
“It’s only been a few days. I’m trying to run a business while digging into the dark corners of the city’s two-legged vermin.”
“I get it, but Grant Roberts is chomping at the bit for some arrests that will please the righteous and wealthy who have what it takes to propel him from assistant DA to the top banana in the next election.”
“So the sleazebag needs to bag some sleaze?” He gave a slight nod. “And I suppose that having your name wrapped up in a big case wouldn’t hurt the chances of making captain.” The shortbread was every bit as good as he’d promised.
“I’m just trying to solve murders,” he snarled, setting his stout coffee cup onto the saucer with a clink to punctuate his annoyance. “And if I can do that and keep decent people from being endangered by freaks, so much the better.”
“I’m making progress, if wading into a deepening cesspool of deviance counts as progress. But I don’t want to bring the police into the sewage at this point because you’ll just spook the bo
ttom dwellers. Besides, you wouldn’t want to get those fine shoes filthy.” He plucked a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and buffed the toe of a shoe.
“Okay, I’ll give you until the end of next week.”
“That’s generous of you. In the meantime, I hope you can find one of those twofer deals—murder and vice all wrapped up and ready to deliver to the DA.” The koulouria was arguably better than its buttery, sweet competitor. If I wasn’t such a loyal guy and Sappho’s was closer to my house, I’d be tempted to cheat on Gustaw.
“I might have caught just the case which is why I’m giving you a few days. Last night, the Tenderloin reverted to its namesake with a major orgy.”
“C’mon Lieutenant, a bunch of folks sweating and humping is hardly the launching pad to captain. Besides, there’s nothing illegal about group sex, is there?”
“Nothing, unless you charge admission, include sixteen-year-olds, and end the evening with a dead kid who was either the stupid result of erotic asphyxiation—or the homicidal result of an overzealous partner.”
“Murder?”
“Depraved indifference, at least. In fact, that will probably play even better in the papers. Roberts will love working ‘depraved’ into the charges. There’s not much doubt that someone, or perhaps several someones, at the pecker party knew the dumb shit was trying for the magic moment when a guy reaches orgasm and unconsciousness at the same time. It’s supposed to be as good as a coke high.”
“Wasn’t there something in the Chronicle awhile back about a nutcase artist offing himself while trying to get off?”
“Yeah. It was before I moved to homicide, but vice was involved in the investigation. Some transvestite who went by the name of Von Boday or something like that. He or she or whatever thought comic books were art and hanging yourself was foreplay. Never did nail anyone, although his kid was supposedly in the next room at the time. What do you tell a twelve-year-old boy?”
“Your old man dying has to mess with a kid’s head, even without knowing about the masturbation and strangulation combo.”
“Exactly, but this time we have the names of adults who were at the orgy and someone’s going to hang—without getting any satisfaction in the process.”
“Lieutenant, you keep chasing the hangers-on at the orgy, and I’ll stay on my twisted tour.”
Papadopoulos gave a little snort. “Oh for the good old days, when perverts had only a half dozen tricks and the Greek families had their neighborhood.” He threw back the last swallow of coffee and headed into the grayness.
I bought a wedge of baklava and ate as I drove to Bug Broker Ltd., in the hope that Sam Scudder could give me the lowdown on the spider market. The flaky filo made a mess in the cab of my truck, but the day was about to get even messier.
CHAPTER 20
Bug Broker Ltd. was squeezed between a rusting Quonset hut landscaped with a tangle of decomposing engine parts, oil drums, and steel cables, and Yat Sun’s Imports which had a sign advertising: “Chinese Herbes and Spices are Speciality” (proofreading evidently not being their specialty). I pushed open a heavy metal door leading into Scudder’s business. The office was a linoleum-floored, wood-paneled affair featuring movie posters of Them!, Deadly Mantis, The Fly, and other insect horror flicks. I assumed the rest of the building housed a menagerie of multi-legged film extras. Scudder was sitting at the battered metal desk, talking on the phone. He waved me toward a chair and continued his conversation.
“Yeah, I told you it would be twenty bucks a pop for the tarantulas, but my Mexican supplier jacked up his price because the rains have drowned so many of the spiders. Their burrows are underwater which means my business is underwater if I can’t get fifty bucks a head.” There was a pause and he ran a hand through his thick, curly hair which matched the black curls spilling from the top of his shirt and cradling an Egyptian scarab beetle pendant that dangled from a gold chain.
“Alright, I’ll go thirty,” he said leaning into the conversation, “but you gotta pay me the same as you’re paying the stuntman. What with the rains, the only tarantulas available are Chilean rose which are much harder to predict than the red-kneed. If you want to keep your cast safe, then I’m going to have to absorb some risks handling the spiders. My initial estimate didn’t include working with an aggressive species.”
Scudder leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk, evidently satisfied with his negotiating tactics. The poor props manager on the other end of the conversation probably suspected he was being conned. I gave Scudder a conspiratorial smile and he winked. After a long interlude involving his alternately grunting assent and rolling his eyes, he said, “Alright, we have a deal. I’ll amend the contract and fax it to you.”
Scudder took his feet off the desk, hung up the phone, opened a drawer, and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of Old Crow. “If you’re here to buy my services, I’ll pour you one, “he said, filling his own glass to the brim, “but if you’re here to sell me something, leave.” It wasn’t noon yet but I thought better of declining his hospitality.
“Pour me one. I’m in need of what you can provide.” That was mostly true.
“And you are?”
“An admirer of your negotiating skills. We both know that Chilean rose tarantulas are no more dangerous than the Mexican red-kneed. And neither is going to bite anyone unless they’re badly mishandled.”
He flashed a crooked grin. “And how do you know that, Mr .... ?”
“Just call me Riley.”
“That your first or last name?”
“Last, but using my first just caused trouble when I was a kid.” I didn’t explain that being named Cedric Vladimir Riley was the recipe for attracting taunts and getting into fights going back to elementary school.
Scudder shrugged and asked, “Okay Riley, so what brings you to Bug Broker?”
“I’m the owner of Goat Hill Extermination. So we’re sort of in the same business. You bring ’em in and I take ’em out.” He chuckled and topped off my glass. From there, we sipped horrible bourbon and exchanged stories about how we got into our respective lines of work.
Scudder had been in the navy, traveled the world, saw some amazing creatures, and made connections. When he was discharged, he was looking for an angle to work and the light went on when he saw the scene in Dr. No in which a docile, pink-toed tarantula co-starred with Sean Connery. Scudder figured there could be decent money in providing film studios with insects and spiders from around the globe—and he had the contacts. The movie business was lucrative but erratic. However, with some inquiries, he learned Chinese immigrants were thrilled to score singing crickets and Japanese businessmen were anxious to gain status by having the biggest rhinoceros or Hercules beetle on the block. With pet stores selling hissing cockroaches, museums setting up insect exhibits, and zoos stocking butterfly houses, he’d found buyers with less money than Hollywood moguls but who provided steady demand between major deals.
Scudder had become the go-to guy when anybody needed a creature with more than four legs that couldn’t be plopped into a pot of boiling water along Fisherman’s Wharf, dipped in garlic butter and fed to the tourists. From the looks of his office, he wasn’t getting rich but neither was I.
I told him about my father converting his experience with killing mosquitoes in the Pacific during World War II into a thriving extermination business which I took over after leaving the police force. Before he could ask for details, I regaled him with an account of the fornicating cockroaches from this morning.
“Cock-a-roaches? She thought her house was infested with roaches dragging their giant cocks through her cupboards,” he roared. “Shit, you gotta love it. You’re okay Riley, but I still don’t know what I can do for you.”
“You can keep me from losing my business.”
“Ya need me to import some badass termites and disgusting roaches to keep your customers on edge?”
“Nothing so dramatic. Without going into specifics, my comp
any has been wrongly implicated in a recent homicide case. And yesterday, there was another killing which could draw your business into a sick story that would attract the press like flies to shit.”
“Hold on, pal. I don’t do anything illegal. Sometimes I stretch import regulations, but don’t accuse me of being involved in murder.” Scudder rose to his feet and his bulk was that of a former college lineman now in his forties—flab overlying a muscular core with a predilection for inflicting pain.
“Settle down,” I said, raising my hands in a gesture of submission. He lowered himself into the office chair which emitted a metallic squeak. “I’m not accusing you of killing anyone, just telling you how things could go down if I don’t get ahead of the story.”
“What story?” He took a sip of his drink.
“Among your customers is—or was—the owner of the Pleasure Palace and she paid well for exotic spiders.” He took another sip and leaned back with the tumbler resting on his gut. The chair emitted another high-pitched protest. “And one of your eight-legged products delivered a lethal bite.”
“I would never provide an amateur with a deadly spider.”
“But she was a regular customer, right?” I worked on my bourbon which was pretty bad. Actually, really bad, but I avoided wincing and insulting my host.
“Nothing large scale, but yeah. She ordered some standard insects like crickets and cockroaches for her shop. Can’t figure what her customers wanted with them and I probably don’t wanna know. She got real excited over spiders. The bigger the better. I figured she was into something kinky, herself.”
“How’d you figure that?”
“The woman damn near had an orgasm when I showed her a huntsman from Indonesia. The thing was bigger than my hand. It was like she was a speed freak or something. You know how those guys need more and more to get tweaked.”
Lethal Fetish Page 15
