by Jack Lynch
“Well, Miss Bitch holds that against me. And she doesn’t like some of the language I use, but I figure fuck her, it’s the best way I express myself. And of course she’s jealous of my looks and how I like to show them off.”
“How did you and Jerry meet?”
“I met him on the beach at Santa Barbara. We both like to surf. And we just sort of felt mutually attracted. He was going to school at Isla Vista. He was a little more straight and clean-cut than most of the boys there then. I mean, I guess it’s part of my vanity. I’ve got a good, healthy body and I didn’t want to sleep around with guys who had crabs or were all strung out on speed or something. We lived together the last six months of his schooling, then he went into the Army for two years. We wrote regularly and saw each other when he came home on furlough. And during that time I didn’t meet anybody I liked better. So we just started going together again when he got out of the Army. When he got the job with Coast West we got married. He went through a training program, then he was assigned to the office in San Francisco. And here we are.”
She lapsed into thought, and it lasted for a while.
“What is it, Marcie?”
“I was thinking about what you asked. If he could be chasing around with other girls. He’s gentle and shy, most of the time. Oh, he can lose his temper when he’s at home here, but I don’t think he’d have the guts to cheat on me. He might, once, if he was drunk or something, and things just happened that way. But he’d blurt it out to me in a day or two.”
She thought about it some more. I don’t think she was quite as sure of all that as she used to be.
“But what if it turned out that he was seeing somebody?”
She reached for her cigarettes and gave me a weak grin. “I don’t think we should pursue that.” She made a little gesture of apology and lit her cigarette. “It’s just that I got some pretty strong passions. I get emotional about things sometimes. Since I don’t have any reason to think that Jerry’s playing around, why think about it and have a nervous breakdown in front of you?”
“Right. That wouldn’t help find him. You’ve lived here about two years?”
“Yes.”
“Has anything out of the ordinary happened to either one of you in the past year or so?”
“What sort of thing?”
“Lawsuit, accident, a spat with your neighbors. Anything like that.”
She thought carefully before replying. I wished all the people I talked to were like that. Once you got used to her cuss words she was a pleasure.
“The only thing different was that Jerry was in the hospital for about a week, in December. He’d strained his back playing handball in the Army. It never seemed to bother him until just before Christmas. Something went wrong and he was put in traction.”
“Does he get disability pay from the government?”
“No. He said he’d look into it if this becomes a regular thing. But he doesn’t like the hassle of that. Forms to fill out and all.”
“Are your parents living, Marcie?”
“Sure. Down in Santa Barbara. My dad’s a retired postman. We write once in a while, but we’re not really close.”
“Who are Jerry’s close friends?”
She frowned as she considered it. “He really doesn’t have any, around here. There was a crowd he used to run with down south, before we started living together. But he’s never met anybody up here he wanted to spend much time with. Outside of work.”
“How does he spend his spare time?”
“We go out to the beach some. Surfing’s pretty good out at Bolinas. And he likes to paint. He got into the art thing while he was going to school. He’s happy to pack up his shit and spend a day sitting and painting a bunch of boats rotting away down in Sausalito.”
“Does he gamble? Hang out in bars much?”
“No, none of those things.”
“Do you know his boss, Emil Stoval?”
“I’ve met him.”
“How do you get along?”
“You mean how do he and Jerry get along? Okay, I guess. I haven’t heard anything different.”
“Do you have much occasion to see Stoval?”
“No.”
She got up and walked out into the center of the patio to stare at the sky. “We get shadows back here pretty soon. I’d like to get a little sun first. Without my clothes on, you know? Is this going to take much longer?”
“It doesn’t have to. I would like a recent photo of Jerry, if you have one.”
“Sure. Come on in, I’ll get you one.”
I followed her back into the house. She pointed across the living room debris. “There’s a picture of us together on the wall. I’ll get you a smaller one you can take with you.”
I crossed to look at it. It was a photo taken of them at some beach. He was a tall, spare-looking youngster with an open face and moderately long blond hair. It must have been taken before he went into the Army. He looked a lot younger than twenty-six.
The girl returned with a pair of snapshots. One showed Lind leaning against an automobile. The other was a mug shot.
“Will these do?”
“They’re fine. Is this the car he’s driving?”
“Yes, a Ford Mustang.”
“Do you know where he keeps the title to it? Maybe the same place he keeps the insurance policy on it.”
“I’ll see.”
She clumped back down the hallway. I wandered over to a bookcase running the length of one wall. It had some Book-of-the-Month Club selections and a broad collection of paperbacks. They ranged from high-class soap opera with lurid covers to Walden, Hemingway and Ayn Rand. There were any number of one-volume surveys—world religions, Roman history and the occult included. Marcie returned with the title to the Mustang and I wrote down some numbers.
“I see Jerry’s quite a reader.”
“Are you kidding? He doesn’t read the morning newspaper half the time. He’s—you know, arty. More visually attuned. He’d rather sit and watch the color TV with the sound off, just to enjoy the images.”
“Those books are all yours?”
“I bought and read them, if that’s what you mean. Just because I’m a dropout doesn’t mean I’m illiterate. That’s what Jerry’s sister can never understand. My folks turned me on to reading a long time ago.”
“My apologies. I appreciate the help you’ve been.”
“It’s nothing. I’m going to feel better knowing somebody’s looking for Jerry.”
She followed me out onto the front porch.
“If you think of anything else that might help, I’d like you to call the number on the card I gave you. If it’s after office hours an answering service will take the call. I check in with them regularly.”
“I’ll remember. And I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier.”
“That’s okay. I’ve had lots worse.”
I went on down the stairs and climbed into my car. Just before driving off I glanced back up at the house. Marcie was still out on the porch, watching me. She saw me looking and gave me a funny little wave, as if she were throwing me a lucky wish.
FOUR
I headed back for San Francisco. The Marin-bound commuters were leaving town in a tide of iron. Bridge traffic going in my direction was pinched down to two lanes, leaving four lanes open to outbound traffic. It was a minor annoyance. The same as what I’d learned so far about Jerry Lind was a minor annoyance. He didn’t seem to behave right, all things considered. Maybe deep down he was as wacky as his sister seemed to be.
I avoided the clogged downtown area, driving down Bay Street and along the Embarcadero to Howard, then shot on up to the parking garage across from the Chronicle, left my car and walked over to the office on Market.
Carol Jean Mackey was just leaving when I arrived. She’s a tall, practical girl from Minneapolis with a long face that she used like a jujitsu throw, reminding me of a horse with the capacity for social commentary. California, even Northern California these
days, gave her a lot of opportunity to show her stuff.
“Able to get everything postponed, Ceejay?”
“Yes. What’s the big new job?”
“I’m working for Janet Lind, the TV newswoman. Her brother’s missing.”
“You mean you actually talked to her?”
“Yes, why?”
“I can’t believe her act, that’s all. From what I’ve seen of her while dashing across the room to change the channel, I’ve decided she’s just a big version of those dolls with a string coming out the back. Pull the string and they talk.”
“You might be right, but she’s got a long string.”
“And lots of money, I hope. You’ll be last to leave today. The counselors are banging away over at the tennis club.”
“Did a police detective named Foley call?”
“No.”
“Okay, thanks. Have a good weekend, Ceejay.”
I went on into my office and dialed the Hall of Justice. Foley was out working and they didn’t know when he’d return. I sat thinking about things for a while then looked up the number of Coast West Insurance again. There had to be somebody around who could give me a better idea of what went on inside young Jerry Lind’s head. I got through to Stoval’s secretary.
“Hi, Peter Bragg again, Miss Benson. Sorry I missed you to say good-bye.”
“You nearly missed me now. I’m just leaving. Mr. Stoval’s already gone for the day.”
“That’s okay, it was you I wanted to talk to. I’m spinning my wheels over Jerry Lind. I had the impression when I first called that you were concerned about him.”
“Of course I am. He’s a nice boy.”
“How long have you known him?”
“For as long as he’s worked here. Nearly two years.”
“Were you familiar with his work?”
“Somewhat. I’m not exclusively Mr. Stoval’s helper.”
“That’s interesting. Maybe we could meet for a drink somewhere and talk about Jerry.”
“I’d be happy to help, Mr. Bragg, but I can’t right now. I’m meeting an old school chum who’s passing through town.”
“I see. Well, I know how that’s apt to go. Tomorrow, maybe?”
“I’ll tell you what. How about later this evening?”
“Fine, if you’re sure you won’t still be with your friend.”
“No, as a matter of fact you’d be doing me a little favor. My chum might think we’re still as close as we once were, and he knows I’m not married anymore. He is. I’d like to have the appointment with you as an excuse to break away. I’m just not a very good liar.”
“Okay. Want to meet somewhere in town here?”
“Not especially. I live in Sausalito and I’m meeting my friend there, at the Trident.”
“That’ll be handy. I live in Sausalito myself.”
“Fine. Then why don’t you come up to my place later. Any time after nine.”
“Okay. What’s the address?”
She gave me a number on Spencer Avenue, up in the hills, and told me how to find my way back around to her basement apartment. A few minutes after she hung up I had a call from Foley.
“Hello, Peter, I got pulled out of the office.”
“So I heard. Anything special?”
“Not really. I’m calling from a dead whore’s apartment on Eddy. She and her boyfriend had a beef. Listen, I just phoned in to see what we and the Marin sheriff have on Lind. It isn’t much. Sacramento doesn’t have anything unusual on his car. He doesn’t have a local police record and because of his job a run was made on his prints in Washington. It only showed he had an okay Army record. So unless his car or a body turns up there’s not much more to be done.”
“Okay, John, I appreciate the help. You might ask the guys to flag his file. Tell them you have a half-assed friend who’s interested if anything develops. I’m beginning to worry about the guy.”
“Why’s that?”
“I can’t find anywhere he would have gone off to, or a reason to go. And he knew he’d be coming into a bucket full of money if he stayed put.”
“Any idea it could be a San Francisco matter?”
“Not yet. He worked here, lived in Marin and traveled. If I see where it might be I’ll let you know.”
“Do that, Peter. Gotta go now.”
I went back to the phone book and found the listing for a J. Thorpe, on Klondike. The male voice that answered had a curiously breathless quality to it.
“Yes, hello?”
“Mr. Jonathan Thorpe?”
The voice took a turn. “Who is calling?”
“The name is Bragg. Mr. Thorpe doesn’t know me, but it’s about a matter of some importance.”
“This is Thorpe.”
There were other voices, all male and gentle in the background. Laughter. The sound of glass meeting glass.
“I’m a private investigator, Mr. Thorpe. You might be able to help me with a case I’m on. If you’d be good enough to spare me a few minutes.”
“When?” The voice was guarded.
“As soon as possible. I could drive out there right now.”
“That’s impossible. I’m in the middle of a cocktail party.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thorpe. But this could turn into a police matter at any moment. I was just speaking to Inspector Foley of the homicide detail. Maybe if you could talk to me for a few minutes it won’t be necessary for you to talk to him.”
“Just a moment.”
The receiver at the other end was put down and I heard the riffling of pages.
“Bragg, you said your name was?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you calling from your office?”
“Right again.”
“Hang up, please. I’ll call you back.”
I hung up, to let him prove it for himself. I couldn’t really blame Thorpe, if he and his friends were part of San Francisco’s populous homosexual community. Things were better for them in San Francisco than in a lot of places, and even better than they used to be in San Francisco a few years earlier, but it still wasn’t an easy life. And even private cops who professed to be ethical didn’t hesitate to bring a little pressure to bear when they needed help. The phone rang.
“Bragg here.”
“All right, Mr. Bragg. I suppose I’ll have to see you. Do you have the address?”
“If it’s the one in the phone book.”
“It is. We’re in a two-story flat on the corner. We’re in the upper.”
I drove on out. Thorpe lived in a quiet neighborhood of stucco and stone. I pushed the button under his mail slot. When the buzzer sounded, unlocking the front door, I stepped inside and climbed some stairs. They led to a hallway running the length of the flat. There were a lot of people and smoke in the place. Jonathan Thorpe came out to greet me. He was a tall, cadaverous-looking gentleman in his late thirties with thinning hair and eyes that didn’t look as if they’d been getting much sleep. He wore dark slacks and a turtleneck sweater beneath a white sports jacket.
“You’re Mr. Bragg?”
“That’s right.”
“Come along and have a drink.”
“That won’t be necessary. If we could just find a corner where we could talk for a few minutes…”
“No, Mr. Bragg,” Thorpe said with a vengeful smile. “You insisted on barging in here. Now you’ll just have to let me exhibit you.” He paused at the doorway to a large living room at the rear of the building. “You aren’t gay, are you?”
“Not beyond a friendly handshake.”
“I thought not. As you might have surmised, everybody else here is. With the exception of one or two who might be closet straights gathering material for a book. At any rate, when I announced that a real private detective was on his way over, they thought it was just a scream, and insisted that I bring you in so they could size you up, so to speak. This way, please.”
I sighed and followed the fellow into the crowded room. It wasn’t
the first occasion I’d had to mingle with groups of homosexuals. This was a pretty refined bunch. They dressed well and could easily have been taken for any stag bunch of men. If some of them seemed to hold their cocktail glasses kind of funny, or to posture a bit more than seemed normal, I figured it was just because I was looking for it. But they had a way of making you pay. When a solitary straight guy entered their midst, they could remind him he was in lonely country. As Thorpe and I worked our way through the crowd I tried to ignore the quiet comments usually made somewhere just behind me.
“…some muscle…”
“Not a youth, by any means…”
“If I had his body I’d make you all behave…”
Thorpe led me to a bar setup. “What will it be, Mr. Bragg?”
“Bourbon and water will be fine.”
“James, a bourbon and water for Mr. Bragg here.”
James was the bartender. James was slender and graceful. Almost willowy, you could call him, and not a day over eighteen. James was not overdressed. He wore a pair of men’s yellow bikini swim trunks and a knowing smile. He gave me my drink and Thorpe led me over to a corner window with a fine view of the sloping rows of homes marching toward the sea.
“Now, Mr. Bragg. What is this about homicide?”
“We don’t know for sure that’s what it is. If we did, you’d be speaking to somebody on the municipal force. But let’s start with your car.”
“My what?”
“Automobile. A blue Mercedes, this year’s model. License number Four-Zero-One-Bee…”
“Yes, that’s my automobile, what about it?”
“You don’t know where it is, right?”
“I certainly do. It’s in the garage downstairs.”
“You have it?”
“Of course I have it. Would you like me to go back it out a few times for you?”
“You reported it stolen to the Coast West Insurance Company.”
Thorpe raised one hand to the side of his long face. “Oh my dear God, I certainly did. And when I got it back I telephoned the police and told them, but I forgot to notify the insurance people.”
