Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  “Completely, sir,” I said in a conciliatory voice.

  He closed the door without another word, and I headed to the side of the house. I conducted a quick inspection just in case Morley was watching. However, there was almost no chance that the pretentious runt would be wasting his time spying on the servant class. Between short man’s syndrome and being named Rene, his arrogance was probably the only hope he had of salvaging his ego. I didn’t know where he fit into the whole scheme, but at least I had a sense of what Sarie Botha’s professional life entailed.

  On my way back down the hill, I swung past Laurie Odum’s house for no good reason other than a vague unease that came from having dealt with Morley. As I drove by, I saw a man on the landing outside the door to Paul Odum’s study. I’d told Laurie to wait to call a locksmith until I was sure things were safe. And when I didn’t see a service vehicle parked on the street, my alarm bells went off. I turned at the corner, parked my truck, and wished I had a gun. I walked back toward the house at a leisurely pace. As I approached, I could hear the racket of a drill and then the banging of a hammer. Whoever the guy was, he wasn’t worried about making noise and drawing attention to his work. And there was no sign of Laurie Odum—or the cops.

  I crossed to the other side of the street and found a garden along the sidewalk, where I could kneel down and keep an eye on the handyman while giving a passable impression of weeding the flowerbed. The guy looked to be in his sixties and was wearing jeans and a yellow sweatshirt emblazoned with a blue oval and the letter C. He sure wasn’t trying to hide, unless he was heading to a Cal football game after his project was completed. He managed to get the door open, but he didn’t go into the loft office. Instead, he installed a new handle, after which he stood up and admired his work. The guy closed up his toolbox and walked heavily down the stairs. He headed up the driveway and then turned up the street.

  I thought about following him, but just then the lady of the house whose garden I was “weeding” came out and shouted, “What are you doing in my flowers?” The handyman turned to see what the commotion was about as I waved to the woman and replied that I was just going to pick one flower for my girlfriend. “Go to a florist, you cheapskate!” she shouted with all the generosity of the rich. I muttered an apology and headed down the street toward my truck. There was no point in trying to tail the guy now, and he didn’t look to be dangerous.

  Driving back into Berkeley, I wondered why Laurie had called a repairman and why he didn’t have a company vehicle. But I couldn’t afford to be distracted given the challenges already on my schedule. My last stop was the Hearst Museum of Anthropology. At least parking next to campus was unrestricted on the weekends. On a sunny September afternoon, the residents of Berkeley were apparently out picnicking or tending their pot fields, so I had the museum to myself. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, other than some background to engage Miss Botha in some witty banter this evening. Anthropology exhibits are not the best places for developing pickup lines, but I was never much good at such things, and she was not your typical nightclub target.

  I wandered through a special collection of Mayan artifacts. There was a faded but evidently rare painting of a market scene and lots of intricately decorated clay pots. The jade masks were impressive and suggested that, for all their glory, the Mayans were not a happy bunch. What really caught my eye was a stone slab with a detailed carving of a ritual bloodletting. I supposed that piercing a person’s tongue was a step up from human sacrifice. It was the sort of tradeoff that I was hoping to make if everything went according to plan.

  I chatted with the only other person in the museum, the guy assigned to keep watch, man the counter, and answer questions on Saturdays when nobody else wanted to be indoors. He told me he was a new curator at the museum. Seems that rookies don’t get a break in any field. Our conversation started with a lecture on pre-Columbian culture. I eventually steered him toward my less academic interests.

  “I understand that Professor Morley is quite an expert on the Mayans,” I said.

  “Sure is. Berkeley managed to steal him from Yale with an endowed professorship.”

  “I’ll bet the students were thrilled to have a professor of his caliber.”

  “Not really. Morley was pretty much given free rein to pursue his research. He doesn’t have any use for undergrads. Called them ‘stupid, idealistic sheep.’”

  “Well, he must have a following among the upper-level students.”

  “Yeah, riding his coattails is not a bad strategy. In fact, he was on my graduate committee.”

  “Must’ve been great having a fellow like that to learn from, eh?”

  “At times.”

  “I suppose big-name professors can be difficult even for advanced students.”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it. Just between us, the man was a goddamn tyrant. More of a tormentor than a mentor. Oh, he was a brilliant scientist and his productivity was incredible during his up periods.”

  “But?”

  “But during the dark times, his rage was legendary. So if you’re interested in meeting him, it’d be best to wait a few weeks. The anthropology students say he’s been in one of the worst moods on record since the start of the semester.”

  From there, he walked me through the galleries and provided a series of lessons on the various exhibits, a tour which lasted an hour past the posted closing. I had nowhere to be until evening, so I enjoyed the private tutorial. The most enchanting lesson was on the artwork from the Pueblo Indians. I’m not much for omens, but the Hopi creation story of the kachinas struck home.

  As I understood the Hopis’ account—which is much more interesting than the whole Garden of Eden thing—the first world to be created was populated by insect-like creatures that scrambled around in dark caves. Probably a good thing there were no exterminators at the time. Then Grandmother Spider took the creatures to the second world, where they grew fur and became bears and wolves and whatnot. From there, the old Spider took them to the third world, where they became humans. But some evil spirits invaded, so a fourth and final world was made. And there, Grandmother Spider created a pair of mountains which were home to the kachinas. The amazing thing is that this place in Arizona is called the San Francisco Peaks. Insects, spiders, and San Francisco—an eerie coincidence.

  Stopping by the gift counter on my way out, I couldn’t help but notice that they were selling some knockoff kachina dolls. As I read their tags, my guide was more than willing to expound on each of the dolls. I decided that one of them just might make a perfect way of endearing myself to Sarie Botha. With a bit of dark irony, I picked the Kokopelli figurine. It had an absurd turquoise head with a long beak. It was a trickster god with a mischievous—even dark—sense of humor, a flute player that brought good luck to hunters, and a fertility deity often depicted with a huge penis (this last tidbit courtesy of the curator). Deception, music, and sex all seemed to resonate with my plans for the evening. I plunked down seven fifty for the doll, dropped it into my pocket, and headed out into the dusk.

  I drove to the Savoy, Miss Botha’s weekend playground. It was still too early for much action, so I parked down the block and had a couple beers at a joint that was more my speed. I avoided the hard stuff, both because they didn’t have any decent whiskey and because I wanted to be sharp for later. After a couple of hours, I went out to the truck, grabbed my suit bag, and headed back into the bar for a quick change in the restroom. I went in looking like a working stiff and came out looking like a character from Saturday Night Fever. A few eyebrows went up from the guys perched on stools, and at the far end of the bar, a buxom blonde in her forties—trying to look like she remembered her twenties—nodded approvingly. I gave her a wink and headed out the door. My hope was that Sarie Botha would be just as impressed. I had my doubts.

  CHAPTER 36

  A light mist had begun to fall. The neon lights of the bars and clubs colored the night air and reflected from the wet street, giving
the scene a carnival atmosphere. As I approached the Savoy, there was a gaggle of men and women in their early twenties dressed to kill. My getup was tame compared to the guys in garish polyester shirts with nine-inch dog-ear collars and one decked out in a silver jumpsuit unzipped to his navel. He actually fit in with the women posing in halter tops with flared, sparkling pants and a leggy girl in a remarkably short skirt with tall, vinyl boots as white as the fellow’s jumpsuit. To add to the fashion show, there was a bizarre couple with the guy wearing torn jeans and a leather jacket studded with about a pound of metal, his partner sporting a short plaid skirt, a black T-shirt, and what for all the world looked like a dog collar.

  I walked up to the bouncer, a strapping fellow with a military haircut. He was the only one dressed like a normal person—suede jacket over a black turtleneck and tan slacks. The bouncer was half-sitting on a brushed aluminum stool, one leg resting on the middle rung and the other firmly set on the sidewalk. It was clear that he was ready to move powerfully from his perch if trouble developed under the lavender awning that proclaimed “The Savoy” in gold script.

  “What’s up with those two?” I asked to open the conversation, nodding toward the leather-and-collar couple.

  “Punk rockers. It’s the new fad.”

  “Looks to me like they shopped the Salvation Army’s reject racks.” Maybe I should have skipped my disco duds and just gone with my rattiest work clothes.

  “I don’t even try to understand it.” He looked me over and kept an eye on the unruly crowd on the sidewalk. In particular, the aptly described punk couple seemed to be looking for trouble.

  “Kind of rowdy out here, eh?”

  “Yeah, I don’t need a disturbance messing with my evening.”

  “Well, I’d like to get out of the way. Got any space inside tonight?” I asked, looking toward the door. He gave what I took to be an apologetic wince, like he wasn’t happy with the answer.

  “Don’t think so. The Orchid Oasis is a couple blocks over. It’s a nice place. Less of a youth crowd, if you catch my drift.” I did, and I wasn’t offended. It was clear that I didn’t fit the Savoy profile. What I needed was an angle—and the bouncer had tipped me off. He’d said “disturbance” rather than “fight” or some other common term, and he’d been able to watch me and monitor the crowd at the same time. These added up to his being an off-duty cop making a few extra bucks.

  “Thanks for the recommendation, pal. Use code zero with this crowd.” His eyebrows lifted in recognition of being advised to use caution.

  “You a cop?” he asked.

  “I was. Had to quit to take over my father’s business after he died.”

  “Where’d you work?” Before I could answer, he stood and took a step toward the punk rocker, who was sneering at a guy who towered over him in four-inch platform shoes. The kid was trying to look tough, but the bouncer’s move convinced him to melt back into the scenery. When my new pal sat back down, I continued our little chat.

  “I was out of the Potrero Station in San Francisco.”

  “That covers Bayview and Hunters Point, right?”

  “Sure does.”

  “Tough precinct.” A couple came out of the club. He was struggling to keep her upright as they weaved down the sidewalk.

  “Looks like they got an early start.”

  “Yeah,” he grinned sardonically. “So it looks like there’s room inside after all.” He nodded toward the door, and I heard some grumbling behind me.

  The inside of the nightclub was a purple, pulsing pandemonium. The walls and ceiling were jet-black and the dance floor was snow-white, so the lilac lighting mixed with the cigarette smoke to create a sensual purple haze. The erotic feel was enhanced by a low throbbing from enormous speakers in the corners—as well as the sweaty crush of half-clad bodies squirming on the dance floor and around the glass bar that glowed violet.

  I worked my way through the crowd and spotted my target at the bar, talking with a guy in a sky-blue leisure suit and a geometrically patterned shirt unbuttoned to show off a tangle of gold chains and a crop of chest hair. She was wearing a red catsuit with a deeply cut halter top. She wasn’t overly well endowed, but the plunging neckline made what she had impossible to ignore. I hung back and caught a few snippets of their—mostly his—conversation. It wasn’t long until he figured out that she really was as bored as she looked.

  When the guy slid off his stool and melted into the crowd, I took his place. Sarie Botha showed no interest in me—I was hardly one of the young studs. She looked into her drink, a vodka martini from what I’d overhead. At least it wasn’t some fruity concoction. A point in her favor. The bartender, a guy with primped hair and sideburns to match, came over and asked me what I wanted. I scanned the array of bottles.

  “A Glenlivet for me,” I answered, delighted to see a single malt on the glass shelf. When they put their minds to it, the Scots could make a decent whisky. The bartender started to turn and I added, “And one for my friend, here.”

  I reached into my pocket and put the kachina on the bar. The movement caught Sarie Botha’s eye. She looked at the doll and then over at me.

  “Do you even know what you have there?” she asked.

  “Sure. He’s my sidekick. We go way back.”

  “To some people, scaling religious figures of other cultures might seem offensive.” Her accent was enchanting, but I’d have to do a bit a translating—I figured she was accusing me of stealing.

  “I could see how somebody might think that. Are you Hopi or Zuni? Or perhaps an anthropologist?” Her eyebrows shot up and she took the bait.

  “An anthropologist, if you must know.” She sounded put off, but her body language belied her tone. It was time to set the hook.

  “Well, Kokopelli and me are pals. We both like music and enjoy a good laugh—or at least we share a sense of irony about the world.” I didn’t mention the phallic feature, figuring that a bit of discretion was needed even in this carnal setting.

  “At least you know something about kachinas. I’m almost impressed.”

  “Why thank you, I think. It would be easier to impress you if I knew your name.” She paused and cocked her head, as if deciding whether I had potential for the evening.

  “Sarie,” she replied, turning to face me and offering her hand. “I took you for a dodgy oke, but buy me a dop and we’ll see if maybe I was mistaken.”

  I figured it was bad to be whatever it was she said and that I was invited to buy her a drink. But after that, things became much easier. I asked about her accent, and she told me about growing up in Johannesburg and coming to California to study with the famed Professor Rene Morley. It was easy to get her talking about her fieldwork in Mexico, the Mayan culture, and the politics of anthropology. She was smart and sassy with an enchanting smile which crinkled her nose and spread to her deep green eyes. All the while, she’d drained a half-dozen vodka martinis and I’d managed to keep up. We were in our own world—the frenzy around us was just so much background noise and motion, in the way that two lovers can walk down a bustling city street and ignore the honking taxis and jostling pedestrians. Every time she leaned forward to laugh, her halter top gapped just enough to flash a swollen pink halo at the peak of her breast.

  Despite my best efforts, the conversation eventually came around to me.

  “So, Riley, you know all about me and I don’t know a thing about you. Other than you take kachina dolls out for drinks.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I’m a former cop.” I’ve always been better at questions than answers, and I’d had enough to drink that keeping a series of half-truths from getting tangled wouldn’t be easy. So I decided it was time to make my move and take my ploy to the next level. Sarie had invested the last hour in me, so I figured she wasn’t going to cut bait.

  “Izit?” she encouraged.

  “Yeah, but now I run the family business. And I like to find something to spice up life on the weekends.” She slid her hand across the ba
r and let it come to rest on mine.

  “Some spice, eh? Ex-cops can be pretty unrestrained, I’ve heard.” Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

  “Or restraining, if you know what I mean.” I had no doubt that she did.

  “And perhaps you and Kokopelli, share another quality?” One long, thin eyebrow arched in interest.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Oweh,” she responded with evident delight—at least that’s how I took her phrase. Sarie gently bit her lower lip and suggested that we drive back to her apartment to continue getting to know one another. I slipped the Kokopelli doll into a coat pocket and patted the other to be sure that my supplies were in place. It was nearly time for the trickster. The bartender retrieved her fur coat—waist-length, black mink—and we headed out. The drizzle had stopped and wisps of clouds were drifting across the moon. The breeze was cool, so we walked quickly to her car, a lipstick-red Corvette Stingray convertible that matched her outfit perfectly.

  Her place—she called it her “pozzie”—was opulent. White leather couches and chairs, the deepest white shag carpet I’ve ever sunk into, a black lacquered coffee table, and erotic ebony carvings on the walls. The only color was a pair of jade masks, one with a terrible grimace and the other with a look of shocked surprise. They reminded me of the Mayan carving of a ritual bloodletting at the museum. There were at least four levels of flooring in the enormous room that included the entryway, living room, dining room, bar, and lounging areas, all of which surrounded a “conversation pit” featuring a white marble fireplace edged in polished onyx.

  I poured us a couple of drinks while Sarie went to work on the coffee table with a razor blade and a packet of white powder. Her hedonism seemed limitless. I brought our drinks over and declined her offer, so she sniffed the lines of coke herself. Our conversation drifted to what it took to feel alive. And then we drifted to her bedroom.