Colleen pulled the Bersa, flipped the safety off, tucked the gun behind her butt, opened the door.
“Oh, hi,” she said.
Down Jacket actually smiled. A woman always generated interest from men.
She heard Boom coming in the front door downstairs, ready to back her up.
“Damn light’s burned out again,” she said to Down Jacket. Shook her head. “Or someone swiped the bulb again. Wouldn’t you know it?”
She came up with the Bersa, fast, saw the man flinch. His hand went inside his jacket, but she already had the gun on him. She shook her head.
“‘Freeze,’ as they say on TV.”
He did, hand in his jacket.
The taller guy behind him with the pack turned quickly. Boom was coming up the stairs evenly, sawed-off shotgun out.
“That will be enough of that,” he said.
“Take your hand slowly out of your jacket,” Colleen said to the guy in front. “And it best be empty when you do.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Are you a cop?”
“No,” she said. “Lucky for you, by the looks of things.”
He slowly brought his hand out, empty.
“Gimme the bag,” she heard Boom say to the tall guy.
“They’re ripping us off,” the guy in front said to Colleen in disbelief.
“Kinda,” Colleen said, gun on him.
He gritted his teeth.
“What’s the verdict?” Colleen asked Boom as he went through the bag.
“My guess is a few thousand tabs of acid.”
“Wow,” Colleen said, reaching inside the man’s jacket. She came out with an old .38 compact with a duct-taped grip. “This doesn’t look very legal. I better hang onto it.”
He glared at her. If looks could kill.
“Where’s Pamela?” she asked him.
“Who?”
“Aadhya,” Colleen said. Pamela’s Moon Ranch name.
“Aadhya took off. Couple of months ago.”
“I thought she was coming tonight.”
“You heard wrong.”
Colleen’s mind was spinning. “Okay, you two, on your way. Tell your boss he gets this bag of goodies back when I find out what happened to Pamela Hayes—Aadhya.”
“I told you, Aadhya took off.”
“Not to be rude, but I need to hear what your boss has to say.”
He looked at her for a long moment, clearly not happy. But happy enough to get out of there unhurt. But not too thrilled at being robbed.
Colleen said to Boom: “Show these two out, will you? Make sure they leave.”
“You got it, Chief.”
The two men shuffled off downstairs, Boom behind them, just as a door upstairs on the third floor opened, AC/DC loud through the opening. Shuggy emerged.
“Hey, guys?” he said over the banister. “Is that you?”
“Pizza delivery,” Colleen shouted back in a deep voice.
There was a pause. “What?”
“Pizza,” she said, gun behind her back.
The van started up outside.
Shuggy’s heavy footsteps came thumping down the stairs.
Shuggy appeared shirtless on the landing. Muscular but with a gut and tattoos. He squinted in the dark.
His mouth dropped when he saw Colleen. Outside, the van squealed off.
“What the fuck? Carol Anne?”
“Hey, Shuggy,” she said. “How’s it going, dude?”
“What are you doing here?”
She shrugged.
Boom came back in, up the stairs.
“Who the fuck’re you?” Shuggy said to Boom. He turned back to Colleen, mouth agape.
“I’m so glad you didn’t use a racial epithet, Shuggy,” she said.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Carol Anne?”
“You should have just stayed in your room, Shuggy.” Colleen came out with the gun, waved Shuggy into the darkened room with it. “C’mon, c’mon.”
Boom followed, bag over his shoulder.
“That’s why you wanted to know about Monday,” Shuggy said, putting it together. “You wanted to fucking rip me off.”
“Not you specifically,” she said. “Moon Ranch.” She smiled. “This has nothing to do with you, right now. If you want to keep it that way, you best pretend nothing happened. C’mon. Get in here already.”
Shuggy came into the room, looked at her, then Boom, then back at Colleen, shook his head. “You think you’re actually gonna get away with this?”
“You know, I really do, Shug. Where’s Pamela?”
“What?” Shuggy squinted. “Pamela?”
“Pamela Hayes. Aadhya. She delivers for Moon Ranch. Where is she?”
“How the hell should I know? Why do you even care?”
“Shuggy, as a rule, the person with the gun asks the questions. When did you last see her?”
Shuggy thought. “Couple of months?”
“So why did someone tell me she was going to be here tonight?” Colleen wasn’t going to mention Lucky by name, even though he was dead. There was—or should be—an active murder investigation over Lucky and she wasn’t going to interfere with that.
Shuggy’s eyes shifted. “I don’t know.”
A queasy feeling juiced Colleen’s stomach, the thought of Pamela and Shuggy together. She pushed it aside.
“Okay, Shug, time to get in the closet. And I don’t mean your sexual preference.”
“Just leave the bag of stuff and I’ll forget all about this, Carol Anne.”
“Nice try, Shug,” she said. “Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll hang onto it. And no games. You don’t want Moon Ranch thinking you had something to do with ripping them off, do you?” She gave a light switch smile.
Shuggy was shaking with rage. “You are truly fucked up if you think this is the end of it.”
“Probably. But get in the closet, already. I’m getting tired of this conversation.”
He complied, squeezing his big frame to get in. She pushed the closet door shut. Went and got a straight-backed chair, propped it against the doorknob, locking him in.
“You are going to be one sorry bitch,” Shuggy muttered through the door.
“Let’s go up to Shuggy’s place,” she said to Boom. “See what we can find.”
Downstairs they heard a door open, movement, someone coming out into the hall.
“What’s going on up there?” Lawrence the manager shouted. “Who left the front door open? How many times do I have to say it?”
“Damn,” Colleen said to Boom. “The manager.” She nodded at the window. “Fire escape. Let’s get out of here. You’ve got a final tomorrow.”
“So I do.” Boom went over to the window, heaved it up, held the curtain for her. “You first, madam.”
She climbed out onto the fire escape. Boom followed.
Soon they were back down on O’Farrell, hurrying for the Torino. And Colleen wondering where Pamela might be.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Back home, Colleen poured herself a glass of Chardonnay, kicked off her shoes, lit up a Virginia Slim. Sat down at her desk in her office where she hefted the clear plastic bag of LSD tabs. A good couple of pounds. Each tab was white, about an eighth of an inch wide and half as tall. A single hit could go for a couple of bucks, up to ten, so this bag was worth a fair amount. But acid had a shelf life. That would work in her favor.
If Shuggy was telling the truth, Pam had last been seen with Moon Ranch a couple of months ago. Moon Ranch would be making contact once they found their delivery had been diverted.
Almost two a.m. She got a sheet of paper out, wrote “Moon Ranch Arenas Light LSD confiscated at the Thunderbird Hotel, November 13, 1978” across the top, spilled a few tabs out on the sheet next to the heading, set the bag of tabs next to it. Got her Polaroid camera out, set up the shot, photographed the prize. She wrote down the van information, along with the license number. She folded the sheet of paper, slipped it and the Polaroid into a
n envelope, addressed to her lawyer, along with a note.
“If anything should happen to me, contact Inspector Owens at SFPD. Douglas Fletcher of Moon Ranch is the one to question first.”
She put a thirteen-cent stamp on the envelope, set the envelope by the front door in the alcove, finished her wine, took a shower, went to bed.
She lay back on the warmth of the water-filled mattress, thinking of her daughter.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning, a shred of blue broke through the clouds as Colleen looked down at Vermont Street. No white Moon Ranch van. No suspicious vehicles. She checked the back of the flat, peering over the third-story railing down to the yard, which had parking for the building’s tenants. Safe.
Shortly after, she left in a pair of high-waisted bell-bottom jeans and her white leather Pony Topstars with the red stripes, and the letter to her lawyer and the bag of acid inside a paper bag. She’d called Gus Pedersen, her lawyer, earlier, brought him up to speed, told him to expect the letter. Gus was on his way out to go surfing, but was customarily unphased with the development, which was why he was the perfect lawyer for Colleen. The bag of LSD was going to a safe place. In addition, she carried her Bersa in her hollowed-out hardback copy of Pride and Prejudice.
Messing with Moon Ranch meant she would have to be extra vigilant in watching her back. Shuggy didn’t know her true identity, or where she lived. For now. She drove down to the Transbay Terminal in rush-hour traffic, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror.
At the Transbay Terminal she parked on 1st Street, recalling a recent case she had worked here. She got out amidst the inane racket of video games wafting out of the Fun Terminal, fed the meter, took her paper bag of acid and letter.
The Transbay Terminal buzzed with commuters, which was fine—hectic and anonymous. Back by the snack counter she placed the bag of LSD in a locker, inserted three quarters, pulled the key. On the way out of the terminal, she mailed the letter to her lawyer.
On the way home she swung by Mr. Philanderer’s love pad above the dry cleaners on Polk, did not see his car parked anywhere. Ten minutes later, Mr. Philanderer’s blond left the apartment, alone, in jeans, dark glasses, and a floppy hat.
Colleen decided to wait. She needed that photo of the two of them together.
Twenty minutes later, Blondie returned with a sack of groceries.
Fifteen minutes later, a tall young man with sculpted brown hair, sprayed to a fare-thee-well, wearing a snug blue leisure suit that showed off his bodybuilder physique, stopped by. He checked the street both ways before he rang her doorbell.
Blondie answered the door, gave him a peck on the cheek as she let him in.
Colleen got a photo of that.
Well, well.
It looked like Mr. Philanderer was being philandered on.
All in a day’s work for Hayes Confidential.
Feeling slightly grubby, she drove home.
At the top of Potrero Hill, the community garden and elevated freeway across the way, she turned right on Vermont, past her building, kept going. Circled the block before she went in.
On the corner she spotted two men parked in a beige Mercedes sedan where she wouldn’t have seen them if she hadn’t been looking. She drove past, turned right on 19th, headed downhill. One eye in the rearview.
The sedan appeared in the rearview mirror. Following her. She needed the safety of a crowd.
Ten minutes later, she was driving up to Twin Peaks, one of the highest points in the city. The Mercedes was not far behind and making no real effort to remain hidden. At the top of Twin Peaks, the sun was punching its way through clouds and there were plenty of cars parked and people out snapping photos and taking in the view.
She pulled up to a vista of downtown San Francisco and shut off the engine. She plucked her Bersa from Pride and Prejudice and tucked it the pocket of her black leather coat. She lit up a cigarette and got out of the car, strolled over to a view of Market Street below leading to the Ferry Building and the Bay Bridge beyond that. With all the sightseers, she wasn’t alone.
The Mercedes pulled up next to her red Torino and parked. The doors opened; two men got out. One young man with a shaved head wore an orange robe under a beat-up leather jacket. The hint of a shoulder strap was visible under his arm. The other man wore a pastel green polyester suit and white loafers with no socks. He was middle-aged, lean, with raw features and wiry gray hair raked over to the side. Sunglasses hid his eyes.
They sauntered over.
“Where’s your orange robe?” Colleen said to the older man, tapping ash into the air.
“Let’s just dispense with the small talk.” His voice was as rough as his exterior.
“Sorry, Mr. Fletcher. I’ll keep it simple. Just for you.”
“You know my name.”
“It’s on the restraining order you guys took out against me. You’re the head honcho up at Moon Ranch.”
“Then you know you’re not supposed to have any contact with us.”
“Seems you just contacted me,” she said, smoking. “And if you think that interaction down at the Thunderbird last night counts as a violation of the restraining order, I’m more than happy to let SFPD deal with it.”
He turned to the younger man. “Wait in the car.” It was like ordering a dog around. The young man headed back to the Mercedes, got in, sat, and stared straight ahead. If he had any emotional reaction to anything, it was beyond Colleen.
“I want my package back,” Fletcher said.
“And get it you shall. Once I know where Pamela is.”
“She’s gone.”
“Yes, I know. You guys were hovering around my place a couple of months back, looking for her. She’d run off. You thought maybe she’d come to me.” How Colleen had wished. “But she hadn’t.”
“So how would we know where she is now?”
“Because it was rumored she was going to be at the Thunderbird last night.”
Fletcher raised his stiff eyebrows.
“And no,” she said. “I’m not going to tell you how I knew that.”
He nodded. “She used to help make the drop. No more. Like I said, she’s gone.”
“So she came back? After she ran away? Or someone found her? Brought her back to Moon Ranch?”
“No. She’s well and truly gone.”
“When?”
“Two months ago, as I said. More or less.”
“So why did I hear that she was going to be part of the festivities last night?”
Fletcher sighed, obviously weighing his words.
“How bad do you want your acid back?” Colleen said.
“When I spoke to Shuggy about setting up the drop, he requested Pamela be there,” Fletcher said.
“Why?”
Fletcher gave a nasty smile. “Why do you think?”
Her heart dropped. Just what she didn’t need to hear.
“How well does Shuggy know Pam?” Colleen said, her voice taut with emotion.
“Not as well as he would probably have liked.” Fletcher gave a quick smile. “Feel better?”
She actually did. “Shuggy was hitting on her.”
“When she used to help with deliveries, Shuggy always asked for her. He liked her, trusted her. When we spoke on the phone last week, he asked for her again.”
“And what did you say?”
“That I would see what I could do.”
“Even though she was gone.”
Fletcher shrugged. “Just trying to keep the customer satisfied.”
Lucky must have overheard that phone call.
“Even though she couldn’t be there,” Colleen said.
Fletcher shrugged. “She didn’t drive the van last night. That’s all you need to know. She’s gone.”
“So, where is she now?”
“How should I know?”
“Because Moon Ranch doesn’t like it when people leave without permission. You do your best to track them down, convince them to c
ome back. So you surely tried. I need to know where you last saw a trace of her. In exchange for that, I might be able to return your little tabs of joy. Before they go stale.”
“I hope you’re keeping them out of direct sunlight.”
“Of course. I care deeply about your drug-running operation.”
“Are you aware of the risk you’re taking?”
She puffed on her cigarette, exhaled. “I’ve sent details of the interrupted transaction to my lawyer. Anything happens to me, he takes that info, goes straight to SFPD. SFPD might not care too much about dope in our fair city, but if evidence of drug dealing is put right under their nose, even they have to do something about it. So there goes your acid. And your client Shuggy. And a lot of lucrative, repeat business. And for what? A little info? Pamela is gone. You got everything you were going to get out of her, what little money she had, money she finagled out of her grandmother. Whatever hold you had over her is finished. Focus on some new gullible kids. Not my daughter. Just let me know where she went, and I’ll get you the locker key to your product.”
Douglas Fletcher put his hands in the front pockets of his Polyester pants partway, chewed his lip.
“Five-fifty-five Fillmore,” he said. “She was there shortly after she took off. Last place we know of.”
“Two months ago?”
Fletcher blinked in thought. “Early October. The second week.”
About six weeks.
“And you couldn’t persuade her to come back?” Colleen asked.
“Pamela is incapable of true enlightenment.”
Colleen ignored that. “And what is five-fifty-five Fillmore?”
“You wanted to know where we last saw her. Now you do. The rest you can find out for yourself. Although you may not want to.”
A chill of apprehension trembled through Colleen. “Don’t think you’re getting your package back until I check things out.”
“Then it better be soon.”
“One more thing: if I see you or any of your people hanging around my place again, I’ll get upset.”
He stared at her through his sunglasses. “Your daughter detests you. You know that, don’t you?”
Bad Scene Page 8
