Open Chains

by D. F. Bailey

  “True enough. I never imagined it could be like this. Pay check to pay check.” He took another tug on his straw then let out a muffled burp. “So that’s it?”

  “It’s a good start, but there’s one more thing,” Finch said, sensing that he was moving forward now.

  “What’s that?”

  “This.” Finch placed a slip of paper on the bar and pushed it toward Finkleman. “That’s a local phone number. Currently unassigned. I need to know who it belonged to last — and where I can find him.”

  “Did you try a reverse cell phone look-up?”

  “Yeah. Something called beenverified.com. But since the number’s unassigned, I couldn’t get any info.”

  “Hmm. That could make it difficult.” Finkleman tapped the number into his phone and called it. He pressed the phone to his ear and heard the standard out-of-service message. He curled his lips in a scowl. “You know, lapsed cell numbers are hard to trace.”

  “Any way to break into the database?”

  “You’d need a special program.”

  Finch tipped his chin to one side and leaned forward, a gesture that said, so are you interested?

  “I might be able to dig it up.” His eyes narrowed as he considered the problem. “But I can’t say when. Maybe next week, or the week after.”

  “Of course.” Finch waved a hand to suggest that he understood the limitations involved.

  “All right, then. I’ll see what I can do. You good with that?”

  “More than,” Finch said.

  They both stood up.

  “You’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty. I appreciate it, Gabe.” He felt an unusual fondness for Finkleman. The young man respected him and he appreciated the affection that came with his respect. “So, do you go to Starbucks often, Gabe?”

  “Apart from meeting you here, as little as possible.”

  “Really? You seem to know all the specialty drinks. I don’t know why, but I thought this was part of your orbit.”

  “My orbit?” He laughed at that. “No, I find coffeehouses and bars depressing. Everyone sits around waiting. Waiting for what — who knows? Wondering when the next shoe will drop. Could be when Korea nukes LA. Or a glacier shears off of Greenland and dives into the Atlantic. Or the president shuts down the FBI for good. Like I said, who knows? That’s the difference between the past and the future. No one ever has to wait for the past. It’s gone and most of us survived it. But the future? Good lord, sometimes the wait seems unbearable.” His hand swept across the room to suggest the scores of Starbucks patrons were all on a psychic precipice. The lattés and cappuccinos were nothing more than a Xanax placebo to suppress their fears. “That’s my definition of mass social anxiety.”

  For the first time Finch recognized something contemplative in Finkleman. Obviously, he was much more than a data geek. Finch liked that. Liked Finkleman’s youthfulness, his clear-eyed, open attitude. Perhaps his human empathy had always been there and until now he’d never felt secure enough to reveal this part of his inner life to Finch.

  “Maybe,” Finch replied, but he doubted it. Once again an image of Nine plunging over the cliff flashed through his mind. What a long, long way down. Had his corpse surfaced yet? Would the RCMP soon be confronting Finch and Eve? “You know, there’re certain people waiting for the past to catch up with them, too.” A morbid laugh sputtered from his mouth as he considered how his recent past could easily swallow him whole. “Maybe that’s another dimension of anxiety.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you that.” Finkleman nodded, then smiled as if he’d just absorbed a new insight. “I guess in some cases, waiting for the past to catch up to you might be even worse than what tomorrow brings.”

  “Yeah. I know people affected like that. It can get pretty bleak sometimes.” Finch glanced away. “Be thankful you’re not one of them, Gabe.”

  ※ — FOUR — ※

  AFTER HIS MEETING with Finkleman, Finch felt unhinged. The conversation about waiting for the past to catch up with “certain people” stayed with him as he left the restaurant. On the way to the car parkade he concentrated on the faces passing him on the sidewalk. Who among them was free of guilt? The thousands of pedestrians, each absorbed by their own tragicomedies, offered a passing distraction, but nothing freed Finch from his own sense of foreboding. Driving his RAV4 along Howard Street he tried to assure himself that the repeating image of Nine plunging over the cliff would dissipate as soon as the coroner’s report on Turino’s death was published. Maybe.

  From Howard, he drove down South Van Ness and turned right onto Seventeenth. When he found a parking spot near The 500 Club, a new idea occurred to him and he drew his phone from his courier bag. He clicked on “Google alerts” and entered three words in the search bar: “Tony Turino coroner.” Within the next few days, the report should be available from the Canadian authorities. As soon as it became a public document, Google would notify him. The best outcome would be a determination of “no suspicious circumstances” — or however Canadian coroners described accidental deaths. Satisfied that he’d done all he could about Turino for now, he locked the RAV4 and made his way across the street.

  The 500 Club was one of those places that takes its name from its location: 500 Guerrero Street. Standing on the corner of Guerrero and Seventeenth Street in the Mission District, the bar was housed in the ground floor of a two story building. The lower level exterior was painted a dark burgundy. The second-floor apartment above the bar, a dusky blue. From the corner entrance a neon cocktail glass rose above the roof and dwarfed the entire building. At night the red and amber neon lights flooded the corner with the promise of a boozy reprieve from all the ailments that plague the human soul.

  He entered The 500 just behind two grizzled-looking old-timers preparing for their first drinks of the day. Finch checked his watch: 2:42. Not only was the club open earlier than he expected, but half the tables were occupied with devotees clearly in a celebratory mood.

  “Dole Day,” the man wearing a tattered flat cap said to his friend. “Like Christmas once a month.”

  “Yeah,” his partner whispered in a wet voice and spat on the floor. “If I’m gonna die anyways, better today than tomorra’.”

  They sauntered up to the bar. The man with the hat unfolded a twenty dollar bill and smoothed it out on the buffed surface of the bar.

  “Six shots of Mellow Corn whisky,” he said with a measure of pride.

  “For starters,” added the second man. Apparently his imminent death didn't stop him from contriving a drinking plan for the day.

  “Starters, huh?” The bartender shifted his eyes from one to the other. When he noticed Finch, he nodded to suggest he’d take his order once he’d settled the regulars into place. “If you and Jonny are fixing on a few rounds, you know it’s gonna be cash ’n’ carry only.”

  “Yeah-yeah.” He tugged on the brim of his cap as if he needed to ensure it wouldn’t fly off in a breeze. “No need to fuckin’ recite the Constitution on us.”

  The barman poured six shot glasses and made some change on the money. The two men immediately downed a glass and slapped the empties on the bar. Then Jonny pocketed the change — muttering to his friend, “ ’member, that’s half what you owe me” — and they carried the four remaining shots to a table next to a black-and-white image of Elvis Presley that hung on the wall.

  Finch took a step forward and put on a half-smile.

  “What’re you drinkin’ pal?” The barman wore a name tag that read MARTY.

  Finch realized he needed to build a bridge before he could probe for information about J.R. He took a menu from the stack next to the cash machine. A single sheet inserted under a clear plastic veneer listed a dozen food items.

  “What’s the best food on offer?”

  “This ain’t the Ritz.” Marty shook his head doubtfully. Finch noticed a knot of three intersecting creases deeply embedded in the middle of his forehead. “Some folks go for the sub sandwich.” />
  “The sub, huh.”

  “Yeah, but the subs don’t get in ’til after four.” He tipped his head with a look that said, don’t blame me. “Meanwhile there’s pickled eggs, cheese wedges and” — he glanced over his shoulder to a glass case holding what appeared to be the day-old food items — “some Bavarian sausage. Which ain’t half bad,” he added.

  Finch stared at the glass shelf and tried to measure his hunger against the risk of eating any of The 500 Club specialties. “I’ll take an egg and two cheese wedges.” A second thought made him hesitate. “Is the cheese local?”

  “Yup. From Joanne’s Deli.” He hooked his thumb toward Seventeenth Street to suggest the deli stood a few blocks away.

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Smart choice.” Marty frowned as if his patience was thinning. “And a drink?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  “You got it.” He punched the tab into his cash register. “Eight fifty,” he said and pressed the back of his wrist across his forehead.

  Finch pulled a ten from his wallet, said “Keep the change,” then found his way to an empty table in the corner of the room. A few minutes later Marty carried the food and Coke to Finch on a circular tray.

  “Thanks.” Finch leaned forward a few inches. “Hey, I’m looking for an old friend. Last time I saw him it was right here.” He pointed to the table where Jonny and his companion were sipping their whiskies. “Twelve years ago.”

  “Twelve years? Before my time I’m afraid.” Marty raised his eyebrows with a doubtful look. “Who’s the friend?”

  “Jeremiah Rickets. Everyone calls him J.R.”

  Marty glanced away and then narrowed his eyes. Finch knew he’d hit home.

  “And you are?”

  “Will Finch. We were in Baghdad together.”

  Marty shook his head. “You a cop?”

  Finch had to smile. “Do I look like a cop?”

  “No, you look like Bruce Springsteen. But without his guitar even he looks like an undercover narc.”

  Finch smirked. He was half Springsteen’s age. Finch hadn’t thought about it before, but with his wiry build, his taut, lean face, the earring stud and ring, Springsteen could easily pass for a narc. He reached into his wallet and pulled out the press card that Dixie had issued him an hour earlier.

  “I’m a reporter with The Post. A few days ago, someone told me that J.R. wanted to see me.”

  Marty glanced at the card with an indifferent frown. “Reporter, huh? Not much better than a cop, pal. Sometimes worse. Enjoy your meal,” he added and returned to his station at the bar.

  Finch took a bite from the first wedge of cheese. A medium cheddar, he guessed. At least it hadn’t gone off. The egg was passable, too. With the protein load, he considered making a visit to ZenFit, his local gym. It would do him good to renew the alternating-day, hour-long workouts he and Eve had maintained before he drove up to Canada last August. Back in the days when his life seemed to rise along an uninterrupted, upward plane.

  As he finished the last of his Coke, he studied the men in the room. No women, just men idly sipping their preferred beverages, trading stories or whispering to their own private ghosts. Years ago he’d imagined himself lost in a similar alcoholic haze, wandering the streets, trying to navigate the world. His father had ended up desolate, found dead next to a rail-yard in New Jersey. But now Finch had money. Lots of it. And he lived with a woman who was a multi-millionaire in a renovated home on Telegraph Hill with an unbroken view of San Francisco Bay. To most men in his situation, homelessness was nothing more than a twelve letter word with an internal rhyme. But Finch still worried about his future. As if complete destitution were a possible branch-track in his fate.

  He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. A text from Finkleman included a head-shot of Tony Turino. The message said, Grabbed this from a Google search. Still looking for Rickets. There was no mention of the anonymous telephone number. But Finch didn’t worry. He knew Finkleman would dig up that info sometime soon. The young man always underpromised and overdelivered.

  He rose from his chair, took his plate and empty glass over to Marty, who sat on a bar stool, thumbing through a motorcycle magazine.

  “Tell me something, Marty. How many submarine sandwiches can you buy for a hundred bucks?”

  A puzzled look crossed Marty’s face. He set the magazine face-up on the bar. Motorcycle Mojo. His lips pinched together as he ran a mental calculation. “Hundred bucks? Nineteen. And you get some change back. Why?”

  Finch drew five twenties from his wallet and tucked them under the bottom of his plate. “Next nineteen guys in here get a free meal. Just the ones who need it.” He locked onto Marty’s eyes. “Okay?”

  He hesitated. “Okay, I’ll tell them it’s on you.”

  “Don’t give them my name. Tell ’em it’s from a friend. All right?”

  “Sure.”

  Marty tucked the bills into the cash register and Finch made his way to the front door. Just as he was about to leave, Marty called out to him.

  “Hey, Finch.” Marty cocked his head to one side to suggest he’d once been a fan of Bruce Springsteen. “Yeah, J.R. used to come in here. Every other week or two ’til about a month ago. But now?” His head shook from side to side, a subtle motion that suggested J.R. had slipped into the wind.

  Finch swung around, walked back to the bar. He took his phone from his pocket and brought up the image of Turino that Finkleman had sent to him. “What about this guy? Tony Turino.”

  “Turino?” Marty studied the picture. “Sorry.”

  “All right. I know this is a long-shot, but take a look at this phone number.” He passed the slip of paper with the 415 area code to Marty. “Any idea who owns it?”

  Marty studied the ten digits for a moment and shook his head with a vacant look. His hands rose in the air, palms up. Empty.

  ※

  When Finch parked his car near the corner of Shotwell and Twentieth Streets he realized he’d missed something obvious. Both The 500 Club and Shotwell's took their names from their locations. Smart marketing, he thought, and imagined it might be helpful for inebriated clients trying to navigate their way to and from the watering holes. Other commonalities: Both bars stood on corner intersections. Both occupied the lower floors of two-story wood buildings. Both housed apartments on the second floors.

  But the moment he entered Shotwell’s, Finch noticed the mellower vibes compared to the despair he’d witnessed in The 500 Club. Established in 1891, and decorated as an up-scale saloon, Shotwell’s was a party bar. And a late afternoon party was already underway. Young men and women occupied the tables in equal numbers. Not one of them over thirty. The crowd surrounding the pool table broke into cheers as a young blonde smashed the rack with her break shot and sank a ball in a side pocket. Further along the wall, the two pinball machines were clanging and popping as a chorus booed the latest high scores that illuminated the display on the backbox.

  Finch made his way to the bartender and took his place in line behind four patrons. As he waited, he struck up a conversation with two men standing ahead of him.

  “Looks like bad timing for me. Is this a party of some kind?”

  “What do you think, Walter? This a party or what?”

  Walter took a moment to ponder the question. “Not yet.” He smiled, a look that anticipated a bit more booze on the horizon. “Maybe in an hour or so.”

  The first man checked his Apple watch, a sleek little tablet with a black leather wrist band. He also sported thick, black-rimmed glasses which he poked up to the bridge of his nose with an index finger. “Two hours, tops.” He snickered. “Everyone’s gonna be in for a surprise.”

  “Let me guess,” Finch said. “Office birthday party, right?”

  “Yeah. For Marnie.” Walter pointed to the blonde who’d smashed the rack on the pool table. Her side pocket score must have been a lucky shot because as Finch turned to watch her, she sank the cue ball in the far corner pocket.<
br />
  Her fans let out bleak cry — “Ohhhh” — followed by more laughter.

  “Mmm, bad luck,” Finch said and turned back to Walter. “I’m Will Finch.” He held out his hand.

  “Walter Scott. And this is Rene Gnam.”

  As they shook hands Finch decided to play an old game he called Leading Questions. He liked to make intuitive guesses about people, pose them as questions and see how far along he could get until he was proven wrong. Even then, wrong answers could point to the truth.

  “So you guys are with a local tech company?”

  “EcoTechTonics,” Rene said and adjusted his glasses again. “ETT, to insiders.”

  “So you’re what … a tech company providing solutions to environmental problems?”

  “Something like that.” A ribald shout went up from one of the pinball machines and Walter leaned closer, bringing Finch and Rene into a huddle. “Industrial-scale carbon scrubbing to be precise.”

  “He’s coding and I’m finance,” Rene added. A self-satisfied smile suggested he’d recently scored a big money prize.

  “Okay, let me guess.” Finch put on a smile. “You guys just banked some angel investor funding that could carry you through to an initial offering on NASDAQ. Provided you demonstrate some ‘proof of product,’ as they say.”

  His new friends exchanged a glance.

  “Okay, maybe I’ve got that wrong.” When he realized his line of questions had run out of rope, another thought — a minor refinement — struck him and he decided to toss it to the two entrepreneurs to see if they’d play along. “Maybe you just signed off the NASDAQ package, and today’s big surprise will be your announcement to the staff. That means huge bonuses for everyone.” Will extended his hand toward the pool table and pinball machines.

  “How did you? —” Rene’s eyes widened and he let out an audible gasp.

  Walter held up a hand to cut Rene off before he said another word. “So, what is it you do exactly?”