American Static Page 9

  He circled the small park once with his car. Streetlights now illuminated the park while the evening shade turned to night. No sign of Teresa’s friend. He drove off. Police would be arriving soon and he wanted to be seen by as few people as possible. He started to weave through the nearby streets, guessing which way Steven and the girl went. No sign. He cursed himself for not shooting them both while they stood on the porch. He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. It’d been almost twenty minutes since he’d entered the house. They could be anywhere by now.

  ***

  Teresa’s plan was to stay on the bus. When it reached the end of the line, get on another bus. Stay on the buses all night. Maybe migrate toward the beach, Golden Gate Park, somewhere they could hide in true darkness.

  “What’d he look like?”

  Steven’s thoughts were crowded with conflicting feelings. His guilt, his worrying about Teresa—a girl he didn’t know—and his own dire circumstance. Teresa’s question entered his mind like a distant ringing phone. “Who?”

  “Him. The guy you brought to Raja’s? The guy that’s claiming to be my fucking father.”

  “I dunno. A regular guy, I guess. He was friendly, funny—at first.” He told her about getting jacked in Willits, how Quinn found him, about trusting him, their ride down and the stolen car. He said he seemed okay when they drank at the motel. He thought Quinn was just a badass, like his brother. Then he told her about Joe-Joe and the fork.

  “Joe-Joe? I know exactly who you’re talking about. Piece of shit deserved more than a fork.”

  Steven wasn’t sure what she meant by that, why she’d said it with such vehemence, so he continued with his story. He told her he feared Quinn after that. He didn’t know why he kept going on with the search. He admitted he had nowhere else to go. “He made it sound like you were in danger. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  “Even though you knew it was the wrong thing. In your gut, I mean. You knew he was bad.”

  Steven didn’t answer.

  “Who told you I’d be at Raja’s?”

  Steven described Filth, or Phil, or whoever he was. How Quinn had coerced him, then threatened him.

  She looked out the bus’s window and said, “Fuck.”

  The bus shook and rattled. They were nearly alone on it now as it reached the Financial District. The last of the nine-to-five crowd all moving in the opposite direction. They got off at Mission and Main and walked the block to Market Street. Steven asked if they should take the train out to the beach. Teresa said, no, it didn’t make enough stops. They needed to be able to get off at a moment’s notice.

  “You really think he can track us down here?”

  “You don’t know my father’s friends.”

  They migrated with the throngs of departing downtown workers onto an outbound bus. The Number 7 Haight Street. It was crowded, standing-room only. The two of them stood close together near the back of the bus, hanging on to the chrome pole for balance. Every time the driver hit the brakes, Teresa was bumped into Steven by the mass of riders that encompassed them. Every time their shoulders met, Steven felt a tingle of excitement. It’d been quite some time since he’d been in such close proximity to a female. Even longer since he’d had a girlfriend. Not since his first year in high school.

  Teresa didn’t seem to notice any chemistry. The riders had thinned out by the time the bus reached the Haight Ashbury, but there were still no spots for them to sit down. She told him, “A few more stops and we get off. We’re going to head for the park.”

  Steven nodded, content for the moment to let her remain in charge. It was her city; he was lost. He’d given up trying to recognize his friend’s house in a city that replicated the same look over and over. Wedding cake houses and Victorian flats.

  They got off at the edge of Golden Gate Park. Homeless people and old hippies sat in circles under the lights at the park’s entrance. A punk rock runaway dressed in rags called out to Teresa as they moved along the path into the darkness.

  “Keep moving,” Teresa said. “They’re all scumbags here. She probably wants a cigarette or something.”

  The farther they went in, the darker and less populated it got. Teresa pointed right to a grove of tall trees that looked absolutely black.

  “I can’t see in here,” Steven said.

  “That’s the idea. If you can’t see out, they can’t see in.”

  He stumbled on branches lying on the forest floor. “How far we gonna go in?”

  “You scared?”

  He couldn’t see her face in the dark and he wasn’t sure if she was teasing.

  “I thought you said we were going to the beach. We’re a long way from the beach, right?”

  “The beach is too cold. Besides, the woods are infested with perverts down there. If you’re gettin’ tired, we can stop and rest.”

  Teresa used a Bic lighter to illuminate the woods around them. There was a large sawed-off stump a few feet ahead and they both sat down, back to back. Steven got out his cigarettes and offered Teresa one. They smoked in the dark, the orange glow from their cigarettes marking their place in the darkness.

  Chapter Twelve

  Carl woke first. He wasn’t used to sleeping anywhere but his couch, and his back was stiff and sore. He got up and used the small plastic one-cup coffee maker provided by the motel. Powdered creamer. He hated powdered creamer.

  He stood at the window watching the morning traffic. He arched his back while he stood, hoping to relieve the pain. He thought about Barbra. She loved the city. She was always pestering him to go. The time was never right. Or the money. He should have taken her more often. He should have done a lot of things.

  “What’s the plan, early bird?”

  Carl didn’t notice Peters had woken up. He turned and looked at the younger man still in bed, rubbing his eyes.

  “Get some real coffee,” Carl said. “That’s number one.”

  “Ten-four on that. Lemme shower and we can get out of here.” Peters sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. “You think we’re going to hear from that Pino character?”

  “I don’t know. We can’t sit around and wait for his call, though. That much I do know.” Carl sipped at his coffee. “I thought maybe we’d see if we can visit this Richard Allen fella. See what all the fuss is about.”

  “I’m game. Where do we find him?”

  “Old school. Last known address.”

  “Old school, huh? I thought if you were from the old school you were too old to say old school.”

  “Hurry up with that shower, son. I still need to shave.”

  Carl finished his coffee while Peters took his shower. He was glad for the company. Glad to be distracted from thinking about Barbra. He had been dangerously close to slipping into a melancholy fog. As it had always been, thinking about a case brought him back to the present, kept him from dealing with his own life.

  He readied himself, unplugged his cell phone from its charger, gathered what personal items lay on the nightstand, and took his service revolver from the drawer. His tried and true .38 policeman’s special.

  It felt good to be on the job again.

  ***

  By now, Quinn was certain Teresa had told Steven he was not her father. He doubted Teresa would remember him. He didn’t think they’d ever been formally introduced. She was kept away from her father’s activities. With good reason, too. Her father’s world was filled with people like Quinn.

  Last night, Quinn had gone back to comb the Powell Street Station area, driven up to the Haight Ashbury, then back through the Fillmore. He eventually tired of the approach and decided to go back to the motel to sleep. He figured he had about another day before his latest credit card came up bad and he needed the rest. There were still a few beers in the sink the boy didn’t drink.

  When he woke up he felt strong, ready, hungry. He went through the morning ritual he’d avoided when Steven was with him. He did push-ups, stretches, and dips on the
furniture. Being alone in the room reminded him of why he was here, what he needed to accomplish. He pictured the girl, what she looked like now. The dyed red hair, the ragged clothes. She looked desperate and he knew, somehow, that would make her easier to find.

  He took whatever he needed from the room. On the way past the front desk, the concierge asked if he was going to be staying another night. Quinn smiled and said, “Maybe two.” He had no intention of returning. He was back on the hunt.

  ***

  Tremblay waited for Pino in the parking lot of All Star Donuts at 5th and Harrison. He’d gone in to get a coffee, but was too queasy for early morning pastries. He watched as a patrol car pulled in and two young policemen walked into the shop. Cops and donuts. Textbook stereotype. Homeless people camping in the shop, hiding from the cool morning air. A couple of Asian kids talking and laughing with the man behind the counter. No Pino.

  Tremblay picked up what was left of the bottle of Maker’s Mark from its spot on the floorboards and uncapped his coffee to pour a hit in. He’d just unscrewed the cap on the bottle when there was a knock on his window. He rolled it down a crack.

  “Don’t you know that drinking and driving is illegal?”

  “I’m only drinking and parking. Get in.”

  Pino walked around to the passenger side and climbed in.

  “How you doing?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Is that why they call you Terrible Tremblay?”

  “Fuck you, Pino. It’s too early for jokes. Did you manage to get what I asked for?”

  “The info on the girl?”

  “No, the other thing.”

  Pino smiled and pulled out a glassine baggie, fat with white powder, from inside his jacket. He dropped it into Tremblay’s lap.

  “Nice,” Tremblay said. He set his bottle down and immediately opened the bag and stuck his finger in. He pulled out the finger with a little stook of white balanced on it. He stuck the finger in his nostril and sniffed hard.

  “You’re welcome,” Pino said.

  Tremblay didn’t say anything. He repeated the same action with the other nostril and leaned his skull back against the headrest. “Not bad.”

  “San Francisco’s finest from San Francisco’s finest.”

  Tremblay decided not to pour the whiskey in his coffee, picked up the bottle and took a pull.

  “Jesus, Tremblay. There’re some fellow officers right there. Don’t get yourself pinched.”

  “What’d you bring me on the girl?”

  “Like I said on the phone, this is a two-way street.”

  Tremblay looked Pino in the eye for the first time. “I know it’s a two-way street. You don’t think I fucking know that? We don’t have to be passing each other and waving every time we’re on it either. I’m working on some intel for you, don’t worry. Good stuff, too. But right now I need to find this little bitch. Now what can you tell me?”

  Pino pursed his lips. “Same old Tremblay, huh? You might want to return your diploma to the charm school you bought it from.” He took a postcard-sized picture from his pocket and held it out for Tremblay to see. “This her?”

  Tremblay looked down at the photo of a greasy street waif. Not a mug shot, but not taken willingly either. The girl in the photo had stringy red hair that highlighted the blemishes on her face. She’d changed, sure, but no mistaking those eyes.

  “That’s her. She’s got an arrest record?”

  “Not really. This was taken by security at Macy’s. She was held for shoplifting and let go. An officer who thought she might be involved in cashing some counterfeit checks got his hands on it.”

  “How’d you get it?”

  “I know the guy. He was asking me about the check thing ’cause it’s a drug addict’s crime. There’s been a rash of ’em. This was taken a few months ago.”

  “Can I keep this?” Without waiting for an answer, Tremblay said, “Thanks,” and curled the photo just enough so he could fit it into the baggie of cocaine. He dug out another hit with the corner of the picture and stuck it up his nose. “Aaah, that’s better.”

  “Take it easy with that shit, man. You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack. You can’t drink a bloody mary like everyone else with a hangover?”

  Tremblay asked what else he had on the girl. Pino told him not much, but went on to list some known associates, possible hangouts. Reminded him that the methadone clinic might be a good place to check out, too.

  “Who else got collared on the check thing?”

  “A kid named Paul Testa, and a Wendy something, I don’t remember her name. This Paul Testa gave up everyone involved, but it didn’t do him any good. He still spent a week in county.”

  “Honor among thieves, but not junkies, huh? You got the particulars on him?”

  “I do,” Pino said. “They’re in my phone, but first I want to talk to you about something. I got a visit from a couple of yokels from Calistoga. Said you’re a person of interest in a murder happened up there? You know anything about that?”

  “A visit? In person?”

  “Yeah. Panzer put ’em on to me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Panzer? He’s homicide.”

  “Is SFPD investigating a Calistoga murder?”

  “No,” Pino said, “I think Panzer and this old boy from Calistoga go way back is all. You know something about this or not?”

  “I know I didn’t do it and that’s all you have to know. Now gimme what you got on the Testa kid. I got to get going.”

  ***

  Carl Bradley held Peters’ iPhone in his hand while they navigated their way over Market Street to Portola and down into St. Francis Woods, an exclusive old-money neighborhood on the other side of Twin Peaks. Carl had called Panzer and caught him in a bad mood. The detective reluctantly gave them Richard Alvarez’s address.

  Just follow the blue dot, Peters told him as Carl looked from the map on the phone to the opulent area they descended into. They were both struck by the plush, well-kept hedges and gardens in front of the enormous single-dwelling houses.

  “Jesus, who can afford to live here?” Peters asked.

  “People who bought these places forty, fifty years ago, that’s who.”

  The driveways were off the street and those that did have cars in them had nice ones: Mercedes, Bentleys, even a Rolls Royce. The area was quiet except for the occasional landscaping crew with mowers and leaf blowers. They found the address and noted three or four cars crowding its driveway, all behind an ornate wrought iron gate that fit in quite well with the house and the neighborhood.

  “Here we are,” Peters said. “Certainly looks like someone’s home.”

  “Well, let’s find out.” Carl handed Peters back his phone and got out of the car. They wandered up to the sidewalk entrance. It was blocked by a gate that matched the driveway’s. Carl didn’t see a bell or an intercom. He did see a video camera near the top of the gate pointed right at them.

  “What now?” Peters said.

  “Can I help you?” A voice sounding like it was coming from an intercom speaker, but neither Carl nor Peters could see where the speaker was.

  “Hello?”

  “Can I help you?” the voice said again.

  “My name is Carl Bradley and we’re here to see Mr. Richard Allen.”

  “Do you have a warrant, or is this a service or a summons or other legal proceeding?” The voice sounded almost automated, modulated, like a robot.

  Carl and Peters looked at one another. Carl hadn’t mentioned being a cop.

  “No, sir, we’d just like to speak to him.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Allen isn’t in. You’ll have to return at another time. If you’d like to leave a name or a number, I’ll see to it that he gets it.”

  “Like I already mentioned, my name is Carl Bradley, and this here—”

  The gate before them buzzed. Carl reached out and pushed it. Immediately they heard barking dogs. Three large Dobermans coming at them full s
peed, all teeth. Carl pulled the gate shut again.

  “Jesus, look at them dogs,” Peters said.

  A thick man in a track suit appeared at the front door, arms crossed, smiling. Another, smaller man appeared behind him. The smaller man was dressed in an identical track suit of a different color. The smaller man whistled at the animals, then whistled again. He shouted something that couldn’t be heard over the barking. After a few more shouts, the dogs obeyed and turned back toward the house. The first man in the track suit secured the Dobermans and the smaller one walked out to the gate.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  He was small, thin, and sported a Clark Gable-style mustache. Expensive-looking sunglasses covered his eyes and a modest gold chain hung around his neck.

  “Are you Mr. Allen?”

  “Let’s start with who you are.”

  Carl told him. He omitted the fact that he was retired. He told the man he’d like to ask him a few questions about a fellow officer he was reported as being associated with, reassuring him this was not an official police visit. Trying to make it seem like they were searching for the whereabouts of one of their own.

  “Only trying to get the rest of his statement in a police matter,” Carl said.

  The man took this all in without saying anything. He smiled and nodded, made dry smacking sounds with his lips, but did not open his gate. When Carl finished, he said, “If you came all the way over, you must already know I’m Richard Allen. You also must know I haven’t seen Mr. Tremblay in quite some time. It’s true that I know the man; he used to frequent my restaurants before his fall from grace. Legendary appetite.” The man smiled to himself. “Somehow that relationship, a cook to a customer, was twisted into something more sinister.”

  Peters asked, “You’re a cook, Mr. Allen?”

  “I was being facetious. I’m a restaurateur. I own three here in the city, two in Marin, and two on the Peninsula. If you gentlemen like upscale Mexican, I’m happy to treat you both to an unforgettable culinary treat. If you feel like an early lunch, I can call my place on Geary and let them know you’re coming.”