Bad Scene

by Max Tomlinson

  “Carol Anne!” she heard Shuggy roar across the lot. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Jesus. Colleen stopped, turned.

  Shuggy was striding across the parking area, shoulders tight.

  “Home,” she said. “I think that casserole did a number on me.”

  “Not without me, babe. And I’m not ready to leave yet. Got that?”

  So it was going to be like that. “Well, babe, I got to boogie so you’ll just have to catch a ride with one of your biker buddies. Hope people don’t think you’re some kind of sissy, sitting on the back. Maybe you can ride on the big tricycle, huh?”

  Shuggy plodded up, eyes blazing.

  “What did you fucking say to me?”

  Shuggy was two feet away now, his hands twitching, about to become fists. Just like her ex. Colleen’s hand was over her pocket flap, ready to pull the Bersa. But she didn’t need Shuggy for an enemy. Not just yet.

  She broke out into a big grin. “Jesus, Shug. Can’t you take a fucking joke?”

  Shuggy blinked. “What?”

  “I’m messin’ with you, dude.”

  He stared for a moment. “Hilarious,” he said, not smiling.

  “But it has been a long night, Shug. That freaking noise in there gave me a mother of a headache. I need to get home. I can take you back now if you like. Otherwise, it’s Yellow Cab. But I’ll make it up to you.” She winked.

  “Run hot and cold, don’t you?”

  “Hey, I know,” she said. “I can come by Monday. You said you’d have some of that kinky-poo Arenas Light by then, anyway, right?”

  Shuggy shook his head. “I already told you: Monday’s not good.”

  She’d see about that. Monday was the day that Pam might show.

  “Tuesday.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “What were you and Dr. Lange talking about in there?”

  “Oh, this and that.” She gave his big arm a squeeze. “See you on the flip side.”

  “Next time, don’t leave me without a fucking ride.”

  She gave him another wink.

  He stared, as if trying to make her out, backed away a few steps, turned, strode back to the warehouse.

  She got her car keys out, got into the Torino, fired it up. Smoke belched out of the twin pipes. She headed off toward the gates.

  In the rearview mirror, she saw Shuggy watching her, motionless.

  What part did Pam play in this mess?

  She’d find out. Monday.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Colleen found Sergeant Matt Dwight sitting on a barstool at a high table in Henry Africa’s where the Tiffany lamps cast soft light on the hanging ferns that gave the bar its jungle-themed name. The model train whirring around on the suspended track overhead was audible over the gently volumed disco music as tiny wheels clacked away.

  It was early evening the day after the KKK pageant and the bar was a distinct contrast. It was also relatively empty. The pretty people tended not to go out until later.

  Matt Dwight wore a suede sport coat, purple shirt with big collar, wide brown knit tie. His just-shy-of-regulation haircut had been freshly blow-dried. Off duty. But a man like Sergeant Dwight was never truly off duty.

  And maybe just trying to impress? Under different circumstances she might not have minded.

  Colleen had donned long black polyester flares, a soft white cashmere sweater with a big floppy collar, and a checked, draped blazer, topped off with pointed Frye ankle boots. The kind of outfit one wore to stay warm on a stakeout like Mr. Philanderer’s trysting place, which was around the corner on Polk.

  Matt Dwight was nursing a beer. Colleen ordered soda water.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said. “What did you want to talk about?”

  Her soda water arrived. She took a sip.

  “How’s the investigation going?” she asked.

  Matt frowned. “No comment.”

  “Sounds like no progress.”

  He drank some beer. “No comment. And”—he drank another sip—“you know better than to ask, right?” He set his pilsner glass down on a beer matt.

  She placed Dr. Lange’s business card on the table.

  Lecturer. Writer. Activist. America First.

  “Dr. Lange,” she said. “The voice of the Aryan Alliance.” She had spent the morning at SF Public Library on Van Ness, at the microfiche machine. “He gave a talk last night at a neo-Nazi, KKK, neighborhood racist get-together in Hunter’s Point—in between Nazi punk tunes by Fist of Vengeance. Shuggy Johnston was there, as well as his two biker buddies. Ace and Stan admitted to beating up Lucky and throwing him in a dumpster, along with Shuggy. Stan—the tall one—also hinted that something big is coming.” She took a sip of soda water. “Dr. Lange talked about running for office, but didn’t say what office. He’ll elaborate when he and I get together”—she raised her eyebrows—“but he did mention ‘cleaning up San Francisco.’ So it makes the mayor threat look a little more serious.” She nodded at the card. “That’s his direct number on the back.”

  When she was done, Matt Dwight pursed his lips with apparent respect. “You have covered a lot of ground since I last saw you. But it’s ground you were not supposed to cover. You assured me you’d stay well away.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But Lucky was murdered.” She wasn’t going to mention her concern for Pamela. That was private. “And I feel responsible. I still haven’t heard from SFPD regarding Lucky. They normally follow up on suspicious hospital admissions. The time after a homicide is crucial. Every day the trail grows colder.”

  “I know. Homicide has a lot on their plates.”

  “I’ve called—or tried to call—Owens,” she said. “But can’t get hold of him.”

  “He’s out of the office.”

  That she knew. What she didn’t know was the reason. His wife had been distinctly unfriendly when she had called. Marriage problems? “So, do I contact Homicide myself ? I’m not sure where Lucky stands with SFPD at the moment.”

  “No,” Matt said. “This is connected to the mayor thing and I need to make it very clear one more time that you back off, Colleen—and do not discuss any of this with anyone else, either. We can’t afford to scare off a key suspect we’ve got our eye on.”

  “That suspect being Supervisor Jordan Kray?”

  He gave a sigh of exasperation. “That doesn’t concern you, Colleen.”

  “I have time to work on it.” She sipped fizzy soda water. It was not in any way like a glass of Chardonnay.

  He shook his head. “Owens said you were a pain in the ass.”

  “One that has helped Owens solve more than one case—at no cost to the City of San Francisco.”

  “Look, Colleen, I really appreciate this new info—really—and I’m going to make good use of it. But the mayor case is being triaged with the chief. There are reasons—good reasons—why you’re not privy to them. Okay? This is not a job for Jane Citizen.”

  Jane Citizen. “I’m the one who alerted SFPD to this, bub. You might have all been living in blissful ignorance if I hadn’t.”

  He drank some beer. “I’m sorry about your friend. Really. And I appreciate the leads. Owens says a lot of good things about you, too. I can see why. But you need to do as you’re asked. You don’t want the chief coming down on you, do you? Not while you’re on parole.”

  She did not. She drank soda water. “Got it,” she said.

  “Good.” He smiled. He had a nice smile. “Now that that’s out of the way, can I buy you a drink? Something stronger than club soda?”

  They sat there a moment, looking at each other. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi oozed over the sound system. She suppressed a smile at the timing.

  “I’m actually working a case tonight,” she said. “So, it’ll have to be some other time. Maybe I’ll even tell you my sign.”

  He laughed.

  But if he thought she was going to stay away from Shuggy and
his crew, with Pam in the mix, he was mistaken. Colleen had passed on the info from last night, taken care of her civic duty.

  Now she’d take care of Pamela.

  Outside Henry Africa’s, Colleen got her camera bag back out of the trunk, got into the Torino, started her up. Mr. Philanderer’s wife was pushing for a photo of the two lovebirds together so she could sue the pants off him. Colleen had never felt such a desire to finish a crummy investigation, get paid, focus on what mattered.

  Down Polk Street, past the Palms Café, the lights were on upstairs over the dry cleaners. Yes. There was no street parking to be had so she drove around the block. San Francisco was getting to be New York. She was just about to head home when she saw Mr. Philanderer’s blue Dodge Magnum parked near Sukkers Likkers. She drove back up to Van Ness where she finally found a spot. She got out, camera bag hoisted over her shoulder, jogged back down to Polk.

  She passed the spot where the blue Dodge Magnum had been parked.

  Gone. Damn!

  At Sukkers Likkers she picked up a pack of Virginia Slims and a book of matches. In the car, she tore open the pack, ripped off a paper match, lit up, blew smoke and frustration out the window. It started to spit rain. She turned on the windshield wipers.

  At Gough she got on the freeway, headed south but didn’t turn off at her exit.

  She stopped at a Union 76 on Ocean, near the 280 Freeway, where gas was now up to seventy-one cents a gallon. While the attendant filled up the car, she used the payphone. Called Boom, her sometimes helper, roadie for a local band a former client of hers sang with, and a Vietnam vet working his way through college.

  Boom was home, studying. Finals week was approaching.

  “I hate to drag you away, Boom,” she said. “But I can really use a little backup Monday night. Staking out the Thunderbird Hotel on O’Farrell.”

  “I always need the work, Chief,” Boom said in his deep, easy voice.

  “Around ten. We’ll be done in a couple of hours and you can get back to the books. Bring a little persuasion.”

  “Think I’ll have to use it?”

  “No. Just something to wave around in case things go south. Use rock salt.”

  She told him about Shuggy, possibly meeting with Moon Ranch. And Pam.

  “You found Pamela, Chief ? But that’s great.”

  “Maybe I’ve found her.” Then, “I’ll pay you a bonus.”

  “Deal. Grandma’s eightieth is coming up. I’m taking her to The Tonga Room. Sip Blue Hawaiians while the indoor rain comes down on the little thatched raft floating in the pool.” Boom’s grandmother had raised him single-handed in the projects.

  “I’ll pick you up around nine. I need you to rent a room for me at the Thunderbird Monday night. Second floor if you can. And use an alias.”

  “I’ve got one or two of those,” Boom said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Are they finally here?” Boom said, looking up from his textbook.

  The bare overhead bulb reflected off his glasses, stark light over room 201 in the Thunderbird Hotel where Boom, an imposing black Vietnam vet, sat on a sagging bed while Colleen waited by the window for Moon Ranch to show. It was past eleven p.m. They were over an hour late.

  The room had peeling wallpaper and reeked of disinfectant, not quite masking the other odors lurking underneath. Elsewhere in the hotel, TVs and stereos railed, punctuated by the occasional shout or laugh.

  “Just a pizza delivery,” Colleen said with a sigh, watching a Chevy Vega take off. She let the curtain fall back into place. Lucky’s cryptic note had implied Moon Ranch would be here at ten. More to the point, it suggested that Pam might be somehow involved. Shuggy, upstairs in 312 with AC/DC blasting, had said he was getting some acid tonight. Colleen had tiptoed up there when Boom and she first arrived, smelled the weed from outside Shuggy’s door.

  It had been months since Colleen had seen Pamela, and then only from a distance.

  Boom pushed his glasses into place, went back to studying macroeconomics. He wore his camouflage USMC jacket to ward off the cold.

  Elsewhere the noise was standard Thunderbird Hotel. You could set off a bomb and people might not notice.

  “Looks like the Ranchers are no-show, Boom,” she said with a sigh. “And you’ve got a final tomorrow.”

  “No sweat.” Boom flipped a page. “We can give it a little longer.”

  “I appreciate it.” Colleen remained by the window, peering out the gap in the curtains. She wore a black ball cap and her gray rain jacket. Little Bersalina was nestled in the right pocket. She had her Canon SLR camera ready.

  Pamela had taken up with Moon Ranch, a sect based up in Point Arenas, last year. Shunned Colleen. Worse, Moon Ranch took out a restraining order against Colleen when Colleen went up and tried to talk some sense into her daughter.

  Her split from Pamela began over a decade ago, when Pam was still a child. Colleen had come home from the rubber plant in Denver one evening, found Pamela crouching in the corner of her bedroom in just a T-shirt. Her father’s physical abuse had always been an issue in terms of punishment, but that night, for the first time, his unhealthy interest in his daughter finally reared its ugly head. Colleen recalled the sparks of anger that stippled her vision. Mostly at herself for not seeing it sooner. Back downstairs, she found her ex in the kitchen, frying eggs in a pan. Avoiding eye contact. When confronted, he said Pam was making up stories to get attention. She’s like that. Pam had always been inward, and now Colleen saw why she’d been even more so.

  The handle of the screwdriver sticking out of the tool bucket in the corner of the kitchen caught her eye like a magnet.

  She remembered her vision shaking, her neck tightening.

  It was over in a flash.

  Seconds later, her ex was writhing on the linoleum, grasping at the screwdriver buried in his neck. Colleen stood on his arm as she turned the flame off under the eggs, moved the pan. When he stopped moving, she went upstairs, tried to console Pamela, but it was like holding a giant stone. She called her mother to come take care of Pam, then called Denver PD, turned herself in.

  Colleen spent nine years and four months in Denver Women’s Correctional Facility, the brunt of a fourteen-year sentence. The worst part? Not Roger, her ex, struggling as his life blood drained away on black-and-white linoleum. He’d gotten what he deserved. No. Colleen’s regret was that she had lost Pamela. Going to prison widened that divide.

  Pamela never seemed to forgive her. Colleen hadn’t considered that. A father so contemptible was not worth grieving for, surely. It was one of the more baffling questions that plagued her most days. She just could not get her head around it, even after all this time.

  Her thoughts were broken by a beat-up white van pulling up.

  The van looked familiar. She raised her camera to one eye, zeroed in on the license plate through the telephoto lens.

  The same van that had been parked outside her apartment a couple of months ago. That belonged to Moon Ranch. Here to make a delivery of Arenas Light, she bet.

  Was Pam in that van?

  Two figures sat in front. Colleen eyed them through the viewfinder. Two men. Colleen sighed, snapped a photo.

  The van’s hazard lights flicked on, flashing. Both front doors flipped open. The men got out, in orange robes, one man stocky, with a black watch cap and a daypack slung over one shoulder. The other wore a puffy down jacket over his robe and had the customary shaved head. The man in the watch cap looked around.

  The two men came for the Thunderbird.

  If two cult members visiting a drug dealer could be called elation, that’s what Colleen felt. Because Lucky had been right enough. Although there was no trace of Pamela. Yet. Maybe she was in the back of the van.

  “Looks like Shuggy’s delivery has finally arrived,” she said to Boom, snapping the lens cap on her camera, slipping the SLR into her shoulder bag on the chair. “Two guys. The taller one without a jacket looks like he might have the goods in a daypac
k. But Pam might be in the van, too. Go downstairs, let those two in before they ring Shuggy’s doorbell. Take a quick look in the van. If Pam’s not there, give me a sign, and we’ll stop these two on the landing—find out where she might be.” It was hard to control the anticipation.

  Boom dog-eared the page of his textbook, shut it, reached down to the side of the bed, picked up his satchel, put the book away, and pulled a sawed-off shotgun. He stood up. He filled the little room. He tucked the gun inside his partially zipped-up camouflage jacket.

  She nodded at the shotgun. “What do you have the cartridges loaded with?”

  “Rock salt,” he said. “I heard what you said.”

  Someone shot with a cartridge full of rock salt would suffer, to be sure, but not fatally. “Better hurry. Let them in before they ring Shuggy’s bell.”

  Boom made a right-on fist, went out into the hall, then quickly downstairs. She followed Boom out into the hall, flipping off the room light, the hall light too.

  AC/DC blasted in 312. “Hell Ain’t a Bad Place to Be.” Elsewhere the noise was standard Thunderbird: TVs, people shouting.

  Downstairs, Boom opened the front door.

  “You guys are late,” she heard him say to the two Ranchers who’d arrived. “Shuggy’s upstairs waiting for you.” Colleen pulled a washcloth from her back pocket, one she’d borrowed from the bathroom, went over to the light bulb hanging on the landing, unscrewed the hot bulb. There was ambient light from upstairs and downstairs, but this floor was nicely darkened. She stepped back into the room, closed the door partially, watched through the crack.

  “Go ahead,” she heard Boom say to the two visitors.

  One Rancher thanked him and Colleen heard two pair of feet enter the house. Boom went out into the street.

  Colleen darted over to the window, checked the street. Boom was peering into the van. He turned, looked up, gave her a shake of the head and a thumbs-down.

  No Pam.

  Spit, she thought. She had gotten ahead of herself.

  Plan B.

  She hurried over to the door, and, through the crack, saw the two men in orange robes on the darkened landing, the guy in the down jacket in front, the other guy with the bag behind him. They were looking around, possibly wondering why no lights were on.