Cole Fire, page 9
Cole was no longer listening to Leonard Chin, he was fishing around in this trash can. Luckily, the janitors were on an every-other-day cleaning schedule. Near the bottom was the envelope, and on top of it was the crumpled yellow letter.
“Tell me about the note again,” Cole said.
“Not much to tell. It was just a few words on a sticky note written in black felt tip pen. ‘Have Cole Sage write the end of the story.’”
Cole smoothed out the crumpled piece of legal pad on his desk. “I’ll fax you something. Hold on a second.” Cole covered the phone. “Hanna, please fax this to this number,” Cole called out a number from his rolodex.
Hanna grabbed the crumpled sheet and scurried from the room.
“I got a weird letter. I thought it was just another screwball rant and tossed it. This doesn’t sound like a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Chin replied.
“Got it yet?”
“Yeah, here it comes. Hold on.”
“I don’t imagine there is any relationship between the two torched businesses,” Cole continued.
“No, but there is with these two notes. It’s the same handwriting.”
“Were there fingerprints on the sticky note?” Cole asked.
“No, and I bet a buck there won’t be any on this one either.”
“Send somebody to pick it up and you can dust the letter.”
“Why don’t you just bring it with you?” Chin asked.
“Where?”
“To the fire site,” Chin answered. “You’re coming to get the story, right?”
“No.”
“What do mean, no?” Chin said in disbelief.
“I’m in the middle of a really big assignment. I can’t just drop it to follow a nut case.”
“Yeah, but it appears that you are part of this,” Chin insisted.
“What, because some nut job wants me to write the story? Been there, done that. No thanks.”
“You mean the guy with the bomb that wasn’t a bomb? I got a lot of mileage on that one, telling people we were friends. I even told people I taught you the pencil thing.” Leonard Chin said, trying to get a reaction from Cole.
“Geez, Chin.”
“Just giving you a hard time. Seriously though, there’s no way you can’t take a couple of days and lend a hand? You could get into your cop wanna-be mode.” Chin was pulling out all the stops.
“So, did Margaret Cho die and they need a new Asian comedian?” Cole gave back as good as he was getting.
“All right, I tried. I’ll send somebody over to pick up your letter. I’ll add it to the file.”
“OK, keep me up to date.”
“No, you made your choice.”
“Funny,” Cole grunted.
“Later,” and with that, Chin was gone.
You think Matt Drudge has these kinds of problems? Cole thought. He must admit his heart really wasn’t in the Jesse Monday story. The guy’s been dead four days. That means if they were hatching up some kind of a resurrection scheme they were a day late.
Cole worked through lunch, putting together a framework for this feature on Jesse. The obituary was pretty straightforward. Chuck Waddell wanted closure. Did Chris Ramos follow a fake, a false prophet? Cole knew Waddell well enough to know he was hoping for a “stairway to heaven” story. Cole knew he wouldn’t get that.
Two o’clock came and went and the need for fresh air, food or both was the wall Cole hit.
“I’m going to go grab a bite.” Cole said, passing Hanna’s desk.
A brisk breeze met Cole on the sidewalk. He took a deep breath and decided on a falafel wrap for lunch. With no cars coming, Cole darted across Mission and made his way to the light on 5th. It was after the lunch rush and it should be quiet. The sun seemed to make the sky a deeper shade of blue and the awnings on Soma just a bit more burgundy. Cole took another deep breath as he walked towards the corner.
“Don’t turn around,” a voice said as Cole felt a hard object shoved against his back.
“OK, who is it?” Cole said sarcastically as he began to turn.
“I will shoot you. I am invisible. No one seems to know I exist or pays any attention to what I do. They are too busy on their cell phones.” The voice was hard and showed no sign of humor.
“Right here in broad daylight? With cops and city workers everywhere? Right.” Cole stopped abruptly. “What do you want?”
“Keep walking and turn left at the corner.”
“I want to go to Soma’s,” Cole popped off.
A hard blow to the back of the head made Cole’s vision sparkle.
“Just in case you want to continue with the funny comments.” The voice behind him seemed to pulsate in Cole’s ears.
“All right. I get it.” Cole stammered, as he turned to cross back over Mission.
In front of the Mint building a city crew diverted traffic. They removed a manhole cover and were running a large blue cable down the hole. The canvas tent all but blocked the visibility up Mission Street. There was no one in front of them and Cole felt the pressure of the gun in his back ease.
A few yards up 5th Street, the voice said, “Cross.”
Cole obeyed, stepped off the curb, and walked toward the old Mint building.
As they passed a bus shelter, the voice behind him said, “Sit down.”
One of the Plexiglas panels was out of the back of the shelter. “Keep your eyes on the Chronicle building,” the voice commanded.
Still aching from the blow to the head, Cole complied silently. The man moved around behind Cole and put the cold steel of the gun to the back of Cole’s neck.
“What do you want?” Cole asked harshly.
“Just to have a chat.”
“We could have done that at Soma’s over lunch.”
“I don’t think you are taking this seriously.” The voice was followed by a sharp rap to the top of Cole’s head. “I have something to say, and you’re making it difficult. It took me quite a while to realize that you were the Sage I met in ‘Nam. The piece you did a while back on the treatment of aging veterans in the Bay Area clicked it in place.”
“Do you need help? I met some good people doing that story. I can put you in touch. This way is not going to get you far.” Cole spoke with a direct firmness.
“My problems are my own. My concern is for America. My friends died it Vietnam. Others lost their sons in the Middle East. Now these people are everywhere you look. We have lost the wars and the victors have invaded our city. I am doing something about it. I will continue to burn their nests until the last one is gone. Little Saigon, Little Bangkok, what is next, Little Basra? There are no more Americans. Illegals get welfare, food stamps, and free medical. Vets are left dying in cold hallways.” The man behind Cole paused.
“Tell him it is his responsibility to tell the truth and rid the city of this vermin.” For the first time, Charlie spoke to Don Wiltz.
“I will. I will,” Wiltz said aloud.
“Will what? Cole questioned.
“Nothing, never mind. Your job is to tell the story.”
“How’s that?” Cole asked.
“You were a condescending smart ass in Saigon. You haven’t changed, just got old. I almost didn’t recognize you. Had to look you up on Google to make sure.” Wiltz was interrupted again.
“Enough with the family reunion. Let’s get this done.” Charlie was yelling this time.
“All right!” Wiltz shouted. “Tonight the fire will blaze again. You have friends in the police, I’m sure. In the morning, call them. Then write the reason for the fires. Demand the removal of all enemy combatants and their offspring from America.”
“Look. What’s your name?” When there was no response, Cole continued, “We both know that’s never going to happen. You really think burning down a few businesses is going to make the government round up people and deport them? Really? You’ll be caught, and you will be punished. Let’s do this the smart way. Turn yourself in. No, better yet, I’ll go with you. Then I’ll interview you and tell your side of the story. Then...”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Wiltz screamed.
“No, I think you need help,” Cole said very calmly, but firmly.
“He thinks you’re nuts! Kill him. Show him, show him that you may not have any balls but you are strong and will get the job done!” Charlie’s voice exploded in Wiltz’s head.
“Killing him will not get done what I want done!” Wiltz growled.
“Tell your friend that enough people have been killed.” Before Cole could start his next sentence the Chronicle building turned white, bright red, and then everything went black.
The next thing Cole knew he was looking up at a Muni Bus driver, a police officer, and a paramedic. His wrists were zip-tied to the bus bench and a twelve-inch section of one-inch pipe was lying in his lap.
“Can you tell me your name, sir?” the muscular African American policeman asked.
“Sage, Cole Sage.”
“You’re OK,” the paramedic said reassuringly. “You’ve taken a nasty blow to the head.”
“Three.” Cole replied.
“How’s that, sir?” the officer interrupted.
“Three blows to the head.”
“Let’s get these off of you.” The policeman cut the zip-tie on Cole’s right wrist. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Cole’s head felt like it was filled with crude oil as he tried to process what did actually happen. His wrist stung as the second zip-tie was cut loose. The aching in his neck and shoulder eased a bit as he rotated on the bench.
“It wasn’t a gun,” Cole said, picking up the section of pipe. “A guy stuck this in my back as I approached the corner over there. Said he was happy to shoot me so I played along. I don’t think he was on the phone, but he kept answering, arguing actually, with somebody.”
“Did he take anything?”
Cole reached for his wallet. “Doesn’t appear so.”
Through the thumping throb of the knot on his head Cole decided to keep the exact content of their conversation to himself for a while. He needed to get back across the street and call Leonard Chin.
“Got an aspirin?”
The paramedic pulled off the blood pressure cuff and smiled at Cole. “Everything but.”
“Then I need to get back to work.”
“I really think an x-ray might be a good idea.”
“What, of my head? Already did that, it’s empty.”
“Where’s work, sir?” the policeman asked.
“Across the street.” Cole pointed to the Chronicle building.
“You’re the columnist!” the police officer said brightly. “My wife is a big fan of yours. Wait ‘til I tell her you got zip-tied to a bus bench. You want my name for the story?”
“I think I’ll just keep this one to myself,” Cole replied with a grimaced smile.
“That’s too bad, would’ve been nice for the scrapbook.”
“I tell you what, Officer Marcum.” Cole caught a quick look at his brass name-plate, “If I do write the story, you’re in.”
“You’re all right!” Officer Marcum beamed.
The paramedic zipped his duty bag closed. “I still think you should get an x-ray.”
“I just may do that.” He knew he wouldn’t but he figured it was the easiest way to end the conversation.
“If I don’t go to the corner, are you going to give me a jaywalking ticket?”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll walk you across myself,” Marcum offered. “I usually reserve that kind of treatment for little old ladies, but you’re looking a bit peaked.”
“You are a gentleman,” Cole countered, once again trying to manage a smile.
“That was quick,” Hanna said without looking up.
“Lost my appetite,” Cole replied as he closed his office door.
Cole’s fingers gently felt the two lumps and tender spot on his head. He hadn’t wanted to examine his injury while with the paramedic. He thought the farther removed he appeared from the pain, the quicker he could get back to his office and the phone, but the pain was growing more pronounced by the minute.
Scrounging around in his top desk drawer, he found a bottle of aspirin. Never one to read labels or follow directions, Cole took four and rinsed them down with the inch of cold mocha still sitting on his desk. The stiffness in his neck and shoulders eased a bit as he rotated his head from side to side. He buried his face in the palms of his hands and gently rocked with the throbbing beat in his head.
Are there more screwballs than there used to be? Cole thought as he replayed the strange encounter. What had he said about Vietnam? If there was a connection, it was one-sided because Cole neither recognized the voice or the reference. And what was the rant about enemies in the street? Cole’s head continued to pound.
The face of his watch was blurry but Cole could still see that it was after four-thirty, as he opened one eye and peeked through his finger.
“It was such a nice morning,” Cole mumbled as he gently leaned his head on the back of his chair.
The pounding rhythm of Cole’s throbbing head eased slightly with the pressure of his forearm across his eyes. A stream of thoughts and memories seemed to swirl and mix into an inky swamp as Cole fell asleep.
Like a diver coming back to the surface, Cole burst from the tar-thick slurry of sleep to the quick rapid knock on his door.
“Are you spending the night?” Hanna asked brightly.
Cole blinked and wiped his eyes. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“From the wall-rattling snoring, I’d say about two hours ago.”
“You must have needed it.”
The blows to the head took more of a toll on Cole than he thought. Maybe I should have gone for an x-ray, was a recurring thought. He was sure he was concussed. Home sounded real good.
“I’m feeling pretty rough,” Cole said, standing. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Cole, you have blood on your collar!” Hanna cried as he swept past her on his way out.
“Tomorrow,” was all he said.
The cool crisp air of the parking garage snapped Cole from his groggy post-nap blur. The throbbing in his head was now just a slow steady ache.
“Oh, crap, I forgot those stupid fish,” Cole grumbled, opening the door of his car. I’ll do it tomorrow, he thought, unlocking the car door.
As he bent to get in the car it wasn’t quite enough and he hit his head on the doorframe.
“Ugh! I give up.” Cole groaned, placing his palm on his fourth blow to the head.
Maybe it was the throbbing in his head. Maybe it was aggravation at having to drive all the way to Kelly’s to feed a bunch of silly fish. Maybe it was just the routine of leaving work just like any other day that kept Cole from noticing the gray late-nineties Mazda pull away from the curb as he exited the garage.
Don Wiltz spent the afternoon patiently waiting for Cole Sage to leave the Chronicle building. He passed the time listening to KKSF News Talk radio and carrying on a long conversation with Charlie Baranski. He left the car only once to relieve his aching bladder in the alley. Wiltz only spent a few months in combat before being assigned to the press office, but his time in the jungle taught him to wait. He found a sense of tranquility in waiting. Sitting perfectly still, relaxed and finding the quiet place that the rest of his life lacked.
He found it amusing that he was parked only a few yards away as the police and paramedics came to Cole Sage’s assistance. He watched as the lanky black policeman walked Sage across the street like a little old lady. The ambulance rolled past him and didn’t even look at him. The police cruiser spun a U-turn in the street and came within feet of his car and the officer didn’t even notice him. He was invisible.
Never more than a couple cars behind, Wiltz followed Cole as he made his way to Sausalito. A delivery truck cut him off as the light turned yellow and he was stopped at the red light at the turn from Van Ness onto Lombard. For a few panicked moments Wiltz lost sight of Cole’s car. His heart pounded at the thought of losing Sage in traffic. What if he turned? What if he disappeared in traffic? Wiltz gambled an illegal lane change as the light turned to green. Darting from one lane and then another, zig-zagging through the traffic, he spotted Cole coming to a stop at a red light three car lengths ahead.
Just past the Palace of Fine Arts, a three-car collision brought traffic to a halt. From his vantage point, three cars back and one lane over, Wiltz could see Sage massaging his neck. Highway Patrol officers directed traffic, letting cars go through the bottleneck one or two at a time. Wiltz found himself stopped as the gap between him and Sage was filled by five cars.
As they approached the toll both at the Golden Gate Bridge, Wiltz and Sage were next to each other at different booths. Wiltz pulled away first and slowed as he pretended to look at the view from the outside lane. As Sage passed him, Wiltz allowed a three-car buffer before he changed lanes.
Cole made the turn at Waldo Point Harbor, and Wiltz was directly behind him for the first time. The parking places were numbered; Wiltz took the risk and parked several spaces from Cole. He sat and watched as Sage made his way toward the houseboats before getting out of his car. Wiltz hesitated at the entry to the pier. Not wanting to get too close, he stood to the side and watched as Cole Sage entered the fourth houseboat on the right.
“Welcome home, Mr. Sage,” Wiltz said angrily.
* * *
The smell of Kelly was like a soft kiss as Cole entered the houseboat. Everything about the place was her. Funny, he thought, I’ve never been here by myself, and it still feels like she could be upstairs or out on the deck. Cole smiled and walked to the counter. Kelly had taped a note to the front of one of the fish tanks:
Thank you sweetie for remembering, if you are reading this!
The big tank gets a teaspoon from the green can.
The little tank gets ½ tsp. from the green and a ½ from the yellow.
Sorry for the hassle. You will be rewarded!
XOXOXOX
