He put the car back in gear, passed the freeway entrance and turned up Van Ness toward Bush Street.
Hardy didn't even feel safe at the Hall of Justice.
He'd been there since before noon, trying to get his gun back. He had called Moses McGuire at home and asked him to trade shifts at the Shamrock. He had looked in at Judge Andy Fowler's-Jane's father's-courtroom, but they had been in recess and the judge was not in his chambers.
They were being pissy about the gun. Glitsky was not above giving his friend a little object lesson in the letter of the law, and he had taken the weapon downtown so that Hardy could sign for its proper return, so the registration could be validated. Thank you, Abe.
But the gun had not even been logged in yet, and no one seemed in a hurry to get it done so Hardy could retrieve it.
Finally, realizing he probably wasn't going to have much luck, he took the elevator upstairs to the third floor, where the assistant D.A.s had their offices.
He found himself breathing more easily as he walked the long halls, hoping to recognize someone and give himself an excuse to stay inside and off the street. Up here, almost everyone wore a coat and tie or a uniform and most were white. Hardy did not suppose Louis Baker would get up in costume to blow him away. Downstairs, every black man Hardy saw had been turning before his eyes into Louis Baker, walking around free as a breeze, carrying a bullet with Hardy's name on it. If he felt that way in the Hall of Justice, where they had metal detectors at all entrances, Hardy did not want to think about what he would feel like outside.
There were about one hundred assistant district attorneys in San Francisco. Almost all of them-except a few political appointees who worked for the man himself, District Attorney Christopher Locke-plied their trade, two to a room, in ten-by-twelve offices equipped with two desks and whatever files, bookcases, posters, plants, mementos, and bits of evidence might have accumulated in the course of two busy people working on too many cases with not enough time.
There were no names on doors, no indication of rank or personality. Most of the doors into the hallway were closed, and a significant number of rooms with open doors were empty. Hardy did not remember if it had been like that when he had worked here. Probably, since nothing else seemed to have changed very much.
He passed the case-file library and leaned across the counter, looking in at the banks of color-tagged folders.
"What you want, Hardy?"
It was still Touva-a tiny round woman with Brillo hair who had already been an institution when Hardy started out. She forgot nothing and filed with a fanatical precision -if nothing else went right in a case, you could at least always get your files when you needed them. She looked at Hardy impatiently, by all signs unaware that he had not worked there in almost a decade.
"How you been, Touva?"
"I been busy, of course. You got a case number, Hardy? I got no time to chat."
"No case."
"Okay, then. Later."
Dismissed, he kept walking. A couple of faces looked familiar to him, but he was surprised that he saw no one he actually knew to talk to. Had it been that long? He felt like he'd gone back to his old high school.
Finally he stopped near a doorway where a studious young man was sitting in a chair studying blowups of photographs that Hardy did not want to look at too carefully. He had seen enough of that stuff firsthand this morning. He had already decided who he had to talk to.
"I'm trying to find Art Drysdale's office," he said.
The kid tore himself away. "Probably a good idea anyway," he said.
"Pardon?"
"Oh, sorry. Talking to myself. Probably a good idea to get away from this for a minute. Drysdale, you said?"
They walked back past the file library. Drysdale's office was two doors beyond it on the other side of the hall. As Hardy knocked, the kid, into his work, was already halfway back to his room.
"It's open."
Drysdale was turned away from the door, his feet propped up on the windowsill, talking on the telephone. There was no one at the other desk. Hardy moved some folders from a chair to the floor and sat to wait.
"No," he was saying. "No, we don't know that."
He listened. Hardy noticed his knuckles white on the receiver.
"You want my opinion, it's not even likely. I think it's a big mistake."
He said 'uh huh' and 'right' a few times, loosening his collar with one hand, the knuckles on the other one staying white. "All right. It's your decision." A beat, then loudly, "Course I'll do it. It's what we do, isn't it? But it sucks, Chris. Sir. It really sucks." He slammed the phone down. "Son of a bitch."
He swiveled in his chair. "Yeah?" he began. Then, recognizing Hardy, "Hey!" He stood up, extended a hand. "Here's a sight for sore eyes. What brings you downtown?"
Pushing sixty, Drysdale still looked like he could put on a uniform and be right at home on the ballfield. Before turning to law he had been a star for USC and then played three years of pro ball, including forty-two games as a utility infielder in 1964 for the San Francisco Giants. A framed newspaper article on the wall of his office was headlined 'Drysdale No Relation to Dodger Don,' which was an important point to make in a town that hated the Bums. Don Drysdale, the Dodger pitcher, had a last name in common with Art, but no genes.
Art had been with the D.A.'s office for over thirty years. At one time or another he'd been in charge of Misdemeanors, Vice, White Collar and Homicide, and now served as a kind of minister without portfolio, unofficially doing much of the work that the citizens elected Christopher Locke to do.
Drysdale himself wasn't the District Attorney because his pragmatic view of life was out of sync with the political structure in San Francisco. He did not favor affirmative action in the District Attorney's office, and he had once been foolish enough to make the point to a group of reporters and editors who had been doing profiles on potential candidates for public office.
"If you were elected D.A.-"
"But I'm not running for D.A., or anything else."
The early denial being part of every campaign, that didn't slow anybody down. "If you were the D.A., what percentage of new hires would be-substitute one-gay, black, Hispanic, female?"
Drysdale's answer, now famous in the lore of the city, was "If they could do the job, I'd hire chimpanzees. If they can't, they're worthless to me."
Of course, the media played this to mean that Drysdale thought women, gays, and other minorities of all stripes were worthless. He had followed his aphorism with the more balanced statement that some jobs-airline pilot, brain surgeon, prosecuting attorney-ought to be filled by qualified candidates, not by quota, but San Francisco reporters know news when they hear it, and calling chimpanzees smarter than minorities was good copy, even if that wasn't what he said, much less meant.
Now it was old news either way. Art Drysdale didn't worry about it. He coached his inner-city baseball team that had finished second the previous year in the city's Police Athletic League playoffs, went home to his wife, who had her own design firm, and otherwise counseled the young female, gay, black, Hispanic, Caucasian, or (he sometimes felt) simian attorneys who weren't succeeding in putting bad people behind bars, which was their job. He was the most popular man in the office.
"So to what do we owe this surprise, Diz?"
"I think the big surprise is hearing you yell at someone."
Drysdale waved it off. "Aw, that's just Locke. Sometimes the old seniority isn't the blessing it's cracked up to be."
"What's he doing?"
"Somebody's got to investigate a couple of cops."
"That's ugly."
"Yeah. Plus it's nothing we'd ever charge on our own. But we're showing our continued sensitivity to the plight of harassed gays by the fascist police force. Subtle stuff like that."
"Why'd you draw it?"
Drysdale grinned. "Cause it's such a lemon. Locke gives it to a rookie here and bingo, end of career, or at least end of cooperation for a year or two
with the department. Me, I'm immune I guess. Seniority. I've offended everybody at least once anyway. Can't do any more harm."
"Who are the guys?"
"Clarence Raines and Mario Valenti. Homicide. You know 'em?"
"No. But Homicide guys?"
"I know." Drysdale picked up an autographed baseball and tossed it back and forth. "Plus there's my well-known discretion." He flipped the ball across to Hardy. "But you, sir? Coming back to the trade?"
Hardy laughed, said no and ran down his last twenty-four hours.
Drysdale was thoughtful for a moment. "Ingraham left here after you, right?" He shut his eyes, remembering. "Something went wrong."
"What was that?"
"Gimme the ball."
Hardy tossed it back to him. It flashed from hand to hand, faster than Hardy could follow it. Drysdale closed his eyes again, a juggler in a trance. Finally he stopped. "Nope, it's not there."
Hardy lifted his shoulders. "Well, he's dead anyway. I guess it can't matter too much anymore."
"I know a guy, though, hates his guts. You might want to talk to him. Tony Feeney."
"He should've died a long time ago."
Feeney was Hardy's vintage but a different grape. Dark hair, pressed three-piece suit, trim body, shined shoes. No hint of mellowing out.
"Well, he did die this morning."
Feeney seemed to gather something inside himself. Then he astounded Hardy by giving himself a thumbs up and saying, "Fuckin' A," like he'd just won a big one.
Then, realizing what he had done, he came back to Hardy. "If he was your friend I'm sorry, but-"
Hardy stopped him. "Before yesterday I hadn't seen him in half a dozen years."
"How'd it go down?"
"Looks like somebody shot him."
"I hope he walks, whoever did it."
"Well, whoever did it shot his girlfriend too."
"You know who it was?"
"Yeah, they think so. I think so."
Feeney opened his desk drawer and popped a life Saver. He offered one to Hardy. "Fuckin' Ingraham. Always gotta be a woman around. Girl should've known better."
Hardy didn't know what that meant, but he'd come back to it. "What'd he do to you?"
Feeney had an unlined angular face with a small mole on the same spot of each cheek. Hardy thought he could be a model-not so much handsome but a definite 'look.'
"There was a cop named Hector Medina," he began. "Used to be in Homicide. Now he runs security over at the Sir Francis Drake."
Feeney went on to explain that about seven years before, over a casual dinner with some D.A. friends, Rusty Ingraham had told the gang that 'everybody knew' Hector Medina had killed Raul Guerrero instead of arresting him. Guerrero had been a lowlife who'd been hassling women for years in the lower Mission and had come under suspicion for rape and murder. When Hector had gone out to question him, the official story was that Guerrero pulled a gun and Medina had to shoot him.
As with any incident of this type, there had been an investigation and Medina had been cleared.
Now, though, at this dinner, Ingraham had gotten into it. He was showing off for the woman he was seeing, impressing her, Feeney guessed, with his inside knowledge, and he'd said everybody knew that Medina had planted a gun on Guerrero and simply blown him away.
Okay, people are allowed to bullshit each other. But then the story got to the D.A., and Ingraham got called in and he didn't retract it. It was the truth, he said. Everybody knew it.
And so they'd started another formal investigation on Hector Medina, and Feeney had drawn the assignment.
"You know what it's like coming down on a cop?"
Hardy nodded. "Drysdale was just talking about it."
"He pulled Valenti and Raines, didn't he? Poor bastard. I hope he doesn't need any investigating done for the next two or three years."
"They lock you out, huh?"
"What do you think?"
Hardy the ex-cop knew. Nobody closed ranks tighter than policemen. "So Ingraham testified, or what?"
Feeney shook his head. "No. It never came to that. There just wasn't any evidence. I couldn't get it to trial. But you know how these things are. Medina was suspended for the second time during my investigation. The word got around. Soon enough everybody believed he'd purposely killed Guerrero, who, of course, was a scum. They reinstated Medina, gave him his back pay, but he only lasted about three months before he quit. Nobody feels too good about a killer cop, even if-"
"But he wasn't."
"Well, there was no evidence. But sometimes two accusations are enough to put a man down."
"So what about Rusty?"
"The only thing Ingraham did was screw up my career for the next few years. I mean, whatever Medina was or wasn't, I was the guy digging up dirt on this inspector sergeant of Homicide. So testifying cops get sick on the day I go to trial, evidence isn't tagged right or gets lost, reports get filed in the wrong folders, witnesses don't live where they're supposed to. They're a real creative bunch, homicide cops, when they put their minds to it. And I had Ingraham to thank for it."
Hardy sat back, his ankle on his knee, and looked at the city behind Feeney's back. All this was interesting, but didn't seem to have much to do with Louis Baker, or Rusty being dead. "So that was it?" he asked.
Feeney laced his fingers behind his head, arching his back. Hardy heard a few pops. "No. The good part is that old Rusty lost his credibility with Locke. The assignments just dried up. He only lasted maybe four months longer than Medina."
"He got fired?"
"What he got was the message. He sought, as we say, other meaningful work."
"So you haven't seen him in…?"
Feeney straightened up in his chair. "Many years," he said. "And when did you say he was killed?"
"Last night."
He nodded. "Good. For the record, I was playing poker with four other guys from this office all last night. I can give you their names if you want."
It was like a thing, man. If you ran with Dido, you did something with your shoes.
Lace was checking it out. It was like a sign in the cut that you were part of it. Lace looked down at his feet, at the high-top Adidas, the shoelaces curling like skinny snakes around his feet.
He pushed off the building, hands in his pockets, and looked out through the cut. Dido doing some business. Couple of honkies waiting in the shiny black car. One guy out talking with his man.
Dido looked bad. Dido always looked bad, but today, hot and still, you could see him. He wore the Adidas, like always, yeah, but that's why he had his name. With the black tank shirt you could see the power-the dark skin looking oiled, shining in the sun. Arms like Lace's legs. Couple of years ago, when Lace still a boy, he and Jumpup used to ride around, one each on Dido's shoulders.
The only man around bigger than Dido was just got back from the big house. He was out doing something now with his shack. It was in Dido's cut, so it was Lace's business.
He kicked his way slowly down the cut, his long shoelaces trailing in the dust behind him. With a nod of his head, he drew in Jumpup, a year younger than himself, but bigger. At thirteen, Jumpup could nearly jam a basketball already.
Lace didn't know if the man planned to be on the street, if he had a name. Dido told them-the Mama told him -the dude was Louis Baker, but that wouldn't be their name for him if he was going to be here. Like, Lace was Luther F. Washington. But he was Lace. Jumpup, same thing. Been called Jumpup since he could walk. Lace didn't know his other name. Those names didn't matter.
The man was working without a shirt, setting out a few cans of white spray paint. He wore some baggy pants with a thin black belt and hard shoes without socks. There was a long scar from the top of his shoulder swinging across his back and under his arm. It was old, blacker and shinier than the rest of him. His chest reminded Lace of a horse-maybe three times as broad as his own, covered with curly black hairs that here and there glistened with drops of sweat.
Jump
up said, "Too buffed." Impressed.
His arms. Just moving easy, you could see the cords rippling under the skin. The man was humming.
They stood across the cut in the shade of the building opposite him, watching as he shook one of the cans and began spraying white paint over the graffiti that covered the side of the Mama's place.
Lace checked far down to his right. Dido still doing that business. He nudged Jumpup on the arm, and together they moved out into the sun and across the cut.
The man was covering a lot of Lace's work. Dido favored a dark blue in his cut. Course there were older colors too, from before-words, symbols, dicks, some magic stuff. Red and green mostly before the blue.
The man was being careful. Starting at the corner, he was already halfway down the side of the building. Not doing the whole thing, just spraying white over the marks so there was new white and old white, but no colors. No sign it was Dido's cut. It got Lace a little worried, but there might be nothing in it. The man had done his hard time-he got Lace's respect.
Lace and Jumpup were close enough now. He turned to face them and nodded. "How you boys?"
Lace felt Jumpup go back a step, but the man went back to spraying. Maybe he didn't know.
"You stayin' here?" Lace asked.
The man stopped long enough to nod again. "That's right." Spray spray spray. Nothin' to think about.
"You back in from the big house?"
He stopped again, straightened up. Way up. "You readin' my mail?" he asked.
"You ain't be covering Dido's name?" Jumpup, getting right to it.
"The blue," Lace explained.
The man stepped back, halfway across the cut, looked at his work. "This be my home, now, with Mama. I like a nice white place." He showed some teeth and stepped back up to the wall.
Lace had to say something. "Jumpup and me, we do the color in the cut here."
He lowered the spray can. "No, I don't s'pose. Gotta be just so."
"We been doin' it." Jumpup sounding tougher, but, Lace noticed, still standing behind him.
The man shook his head. "I only got so much paint. Takes some skill with the can." He stepped to the wall and sprayed, covering over a red circle. "Like that," he said. "No waste. You learn that at the House. The Lord don't like it much neither. Waste."
The Vig dh-2 Page 4
