A Place of Fog and Murder, page 3
He looked over at the man at the bar. “Want an intro? I ain't acquainted with 'em. Doesn’t come in here regular like.”
“No.” I held up my hand, with a cigarette already balanced between my fingers. “No, I just — sometimes it’s good to do something nice. No credit to me, just tell him to leave his coin in his pocket and enjoy his drink.”
For a moment, Stan shook his head. “If yer gonna’ be in the Big Boy’s business, ya gotta’ stop bein’ nice. Nice don’t get ya nowheres.”
I lit up.
Nice should get you somewhere, shouldn’t it?
The man at the bar looked confused when Stan refused his money. The down-on-his luck fellow was a nice-looking guy. Heavily lined features: what I call an interesting face. Maybe I should let Stan introduce me, but honestly, the last thing I needed was a fling.
Stan's always right — nice should get you somewhere, but it doesn’t. I pushed the half empty cigarette case out in front of me and accepted my drink from Stan.
Drinking and smoking.
Reminded me of when I was last in the Big Apple. My pal and famous detective, Nick Charles, went through a pack and a half of cigarettes, not to mention a bottle of Scotch, in the time we were waiting for his wife to finish up at the Salon. My hero, Mrs. Charles. Most folks would expect I'd prefer Nick. He's swell and all, and a damn fine P.I., when working, but it’s the Missus who had the bulk of my admiration. Nora Charles was as sharp as a razor and twice as smart as her spouse. But like the rest of us dames, the credit doesn't come her way. I still like her plenty. Heck, she even looks more like the actress who plays her in the picture-shows than I do. I look like Myrna Loy or so everyone tells me.
I didn’t need to smoke them all tonight, so I grabbed the case and shoved it back in my bag.
I missed them — the Charles. I missed my old friends in New York, but it was the price I had to pay for restarting my life.
My friends out here were few and I was happiest that way. I preferred the controlled solitude of managed loneliness.
I sat down in a back booth. The cushion under me was loose. Surreptitiously, I slipped the file underneath. Just in case Mason’s embarrassment wasn’t enough to stop him from trying something stupid before eight tomorrow morning. I could drop by Stan’s in the morning when he was restocking and cleaning, and I could retrieve it before my meeting.
Drinking and smoking. Until my eyes wouldn’t stay open. After a while, it puts loneliness on the back burner.
The man at the bar kept peeking over at me. It was the booze talking, but his eyes looked me over as if trying to be amused. As if he knew me.
Paranoia all over again.
In that moment, I decided I’d had enough to drink.
I sobered right up and headed home using every indirect route I knew. At least this time, I worried for nothing.
STAN THE BARTENDER was more than a little surprised when I asked to come in around seven forty-five. I was more than a little surprised to find him awake and supervising the deliveries. Did Stan ever sleep?
The expression on his face told me he wasn’t happy I’d used his bar as a safety deposit box. Sure, I apologized, as I retrieved the file. He was due that much.
“Ya remember dat mug, dat one you bought a drink for last night?”
Sort of. “Sure,” I said, shoving the file into my bag. “What of it.”
“Left right after you did. Watched you walkin’ up the hill.”
“Didn’t sit well with your gut,” I asked, trusting in my bartender’s intuition.
“Yup. He didn’t follow you, but he did watch where you got off to.”
“Good thing I never take direct routes home.” I patted Stan on the shoulder. “Thanks, Stan. I appreciate you watching my back.”
“If yer Uncle Joe was here, he’d powder my brains if I let some mug pester you. Ya keep yer peepers open — I ain’t always gonna be dere.”
The mention of Uncle Joe made my chest tighten. I guess some hurts don’t ever go away.
I LOVE IT WHEN I’M right.
At eight a.m. sharp, Mason met me at the Signal Tower, all by himself, looking more than a little sheepish. A bandage covered the bridge of his nose and a little dried blood still lingered around the edge of his nostrils.
I picked that time of the morning just to be a rat — it was too early for the likes of Mason, and he probably hadn’t slept very well — not that I had either, but a broken nose was about as uncomfortable as it gets. The bruise on his temple guaranteed that he’d slept on his right side. Personally, I hoped he had nightmares about being caught as a blackmailer or getting the stuffing pounded out of him by me. Both carried a promise of shame, which I found satisfying.
Me? I’d dressed up a bit — why not? My togs were a little out of date, but then, when does a hounds-tooth wool suit ever go out of style? It was a single-breasted, hip-length jacket with matching skirt and overcoat. Blue silk scarf knotted into a bow at the collar, black oxfords, heels, this time, gloves and beret completed a fashionable appearance.
My little derringer was in my purse for the moment. I felt ready for anything Agent Mason might dish out.
Out, in front of God-n-everyone, I made him hand over my license and badge and one life-ending false report.
Dejected and embarrassed, not to mention bluing under both eyes and swollen from his broken nose, Mason pulled his hat down and his collar up.
Me, I felt like the weight of the world was coming off my shoulders. Watching him try to dodge all the automobiles and Trolleys and Nightcrawlers, while crossing Market at Third Street, was funny. A ‘Crawler almost got him too. Ha! I was counting on never seeing his mug again, yet, deep inside, I was sure I would. Men like Mason were Users, and Users always come back like a bad penny.
Well, I wouldn't see him for a little while. Certainly not until his nose healed. And, while he’d never let me pull that move on him again. I'm not out of options. I’d think of something else.
The morning was cloudy and still foggy, but some streams of sunlight worked their way out and to the ground. Maybe we’re in for some finer weather?
I really did feel lighter. Not that I was surprised, with everything taken into consideration, but my sense of doubt about ever escaping Mason’s clutches had been heavier than a locomotive. And I know my locomotives.
I took a moment to light up a cigarette and admire the Lotta Crabtree Signal Tower Fountain. The Signal Tower was a handsome bit of public art. Bronze cast and glowing, despite the fog still milking on penthouses like a kitten. Lion’s heads, griffins, etched-glass images of sailing ships, rose above the ornate base. Victorian aesthetic decoration wrapped the tower with its bright lamp, one hundred and fifty feet above the street. At the top was a speaker for public emergency announcements and a red light, all part of the City’s warning system. In theory, we would be directed on where to go and what to do in case of an invasion or an earthquake. Presuming anything broadcast over the City speakers could be heard and understood. The monthly tests sounded like muffled screams, hardly intelligible.
The actual water fountain stopped working in ’06, when the Big Quake mangled the pipes below it. It was dizzying in its outrageousness, but then, so was Lotta.
Wind whipped down Market, making me pull my coat collar tighter. None of the trees had much left in their branches to blow away but plenty of leaves still covered the sidewalk, plastered in place by the damp.
Swaying with each bump in the sidewalk, a Delivery ‘Ton, with a basket of milk bottles in each hand, worked its way down the sidewalk. Its human-esque form looked completely non-threatening. Big wheels replaced legs and it moved slowly enough to avoid colliding with pedestrians. The name of the dairy farm decorated its tin chest. It was sweet in some ways.
Two down-on-their-luckers changed their path to close in on it. One shouted at it about ‘Tons taking jobs from humans, while the other knocked one of the baskets of milk bottles to the ground. The ‘Ton stopped to try to pick up the basket, and the two men were on it — kicking and yelling, slamming dents into its semi-hollow sides.
I yelled.
I don’t know why. The ‘Ton didn’t feel anything. I just couldn’t stop myself. I was witnessing bullies at work. I learned the hard way, there were few things more loathsome than a bully.
Others on the street were of a similar mind.
The Ne’er-do-wells ran away, laughing. The cops won't do anything. They hardly lifted an eyebrow for humans when harassed on the street, they certainly weren’t interested in helping mechanical gizmos.
We had trouble getting it back up onto its wheels. After a moment, it took its one remaining set of bottles, reconnected with its delivery signal, and rolled away.
Was it the human-style form that made me sympathize with it? Or just that I despise bullies so much I would defend a rock from one? Was I a so-called underdog; maybe I just projected myself onto the mechanism, like a reel at the picture shows. I am human, even when I don’t want to be.
Humans aren’t the “be all, end all of intelligent life,” despite what we tell ourselves constantly. In fact, we had the habit of being pretty damn lousy. I guess my optimism hadn’t woken up this morning.
First, we used and abused the Negroes. Then the Irish. The Jews had always been someone’s scapegoat, which certainly didn’t make it right. Now, we had technology we never imagined before, and instead embracing the convenience, we feared being displaced by them. Same damn fear just focused on a new target. Fear made bullies and fear made good people do stupid things. I was proud for a moment I wasn’t only person rescuing that ‘Ton. My philosophy was simple: no bully can be tolerated, even if he was haranguing non-sentient things like ‘Tons and ‘Bots. It was wrong. Period!
At my feet were puddles of milk — wasted. Hungry mouths waited in the shadows and alleys of the City, and waste was inexcusable.
What I could do about it, I did.
What I couldn’t, well, I’d accept it. For now.
With my diploma from the Pemberton Correspondence School of Private Investigation, and an operating license from the City and County of San Francisco, all in hand, I was armed and ready for my new life.
Breathtaking client?
Desperate evil gangster?
That was how it always started in the pulp novels, wasn’t it?
I was happy with the reality of investigation work. What happened in the pulps was great to read but nowhere near realistic.
I’d be busy ordering basic, take-me-serious stationary, and acquiring a couple of necessary items, eating lunch while I had the chance, and otherwise setting up shop.
I even managed to barter a couple of extra office chairs, leftover from the previous tenant, for a pair of opener tickets for the Seals. Sure, they’d sold off Joe DiMaggio, but he wouldn’t be gone for another year. That meant this year could offer some of the best ball played at Seal Stadium. Too bad they’d traded a star like DiMaggio, not a smart move, and I’d thought better of Lefty O’Doul’s management.
All those errands for me included picking up the evening paper, and to see if the latest copies of the Black Mask and the Diesel & Steam Detective magazines were in yet.
A man bumped into me. Tall. Moving too fast. Hidden under layers of winter attire. He mumbled something. I didn’t catch it.
I stopped for a moment.
The sidewalk was nearly empty. Why had he —?
My hand dropped down into my purse. A wave of relief cooled my skin — my badge and coin purse were still there. Everything was still there.
Staring down the street as I double checked the purse, I couldn’t find him. He vanished. But I remembered that he’d been like Alley-man from the night before, yet not so solid or wide. I didn’t have the same sense of size from him. But, damn my senses, I needed facts.
He was nowhere to be seen.
Then I found it.
The note he’d left me.
Chapter THREE
Every case has a beautiful client — that someone to fill the role of Damsel in Distress — and a horde of lowlifes to complicate matters. I learned right away that you can’t assume what actors are coming to your stage or what roles they’ll play when they get there.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935
I GAPED AT IT, KNOWING perfectly well it wasn’t something I’d forgotten in my purse. A flat, crisply folded piece of paper. I read it, twice, three times, then crushed it in my hand. My fingers froze. I turned around a dozen times, to check who was where and doing what. As they say, "just ‘cause you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to get you."
I hate it when I’m right. I hate it when they’re right.
The street tunneled down to a pinpoint of sound and threat. Every movement rattled my attention and twisted my core. Didn’t take detective school training to know — the man who’d bumped into me had dropped it in my purse.
A note.
Three words.
Sprinting to the office, in the Fox Theater Building at 1352 Market Street, Suite 333-A, I was greeted by the completed sign on the far window. The painters had done a good job. And for a moment, I chose to ignore the crumpled note in my hand.
My office was on the third floor, overlooking Market Street, a couple of blocks from City Hall, out in front of the Civic Auditorium. Situated on the southwest wing of the building, I had a great view of the street. The decorated arch above the Fox Theater marquee was as iconic a frontage as any building had the right to. The building offices had separate entrances to each wing and the occasional difficulty of having to claw your way through a line of unyielding ticket-holders.
My fingers began to warm from the exertion alone.
The more I thought about it, the more I dismissed the note as nothing more than a creeper writing out his sickness rather than whispering it in my ear. Or, shouting it at the world.
I wondered if the guy might be one of Mason’s cronies — a notion heating me up faster than anything else today. I wouldn’t put it past Mason to be petty. Mason's embarrassment changed the situation — he was acting on impulse driven by his wounded manhood. He wouldn’t call in official help after he’d been pummeled by a woman he’d blackmailed. Especially because he’d taken a beating from a woman.
Then, of course, my original premise still held up under scrutiny; the man from the alley, with the knife, was responsible for the note.
No. I was wrong. It wasn't Alley-man. I’d been in disguise, and it had been dark and raining, and my sense of Alley-man was his bulky overall presence. The note-leaver left me with the impression of being thin. But no. It wasn’t Alley-man.
It was just a creep trying to play me.
I let my breath flow out with all the tension. I had more important things to do than to pay attention to the note I shoved back in my purse. Much better things.
My office. My sign.
I love the window now. It didn’t only welcome me, it declared me, Lou Tanner, heart, mind, and soul — a flatfoot — a Private Eye.
It looked good.
My heart settled into a satisfied rhythm.
My insides warmed at the sight.
There are plenty of barriers for a gal like me to overcome. And I need to get past them right quick. Rent was due soon enough.
Hell, since Investigations is the chosen title, as opposed to “Investigator,” it suggested a whole company full of employees, and one might go so far as to mistake me for the secretary.
That reminded me — I needed a secretary. Maybe I should hire a man for the job — to be a wiseacre and throw this man’s world for a loop.
The letters were in blue on a cream-colored rectangle. They were also painted on the reverse, so everyone in the building across the street could read them. My neighbors were no doubt thrilled. Thrilled if they can see it past the bright red and white “Fox” sign for the theater downstairs.
I stooped to pick up the mail dropped through the mail slot. The paper slipped from my arm, and I scrabbled to catch most of the sheets before they hit the floor. I dumped the whole mess onto the desk and tried to make it look purposefully arranged.
Scrounging it out of my purse, I looked at the note one last time. I’d invented a couple of explanations, but I had proof of none of them. Still, a creep or Mason made the most sense.
Clean handwriting. Male. No flourishes.
You’re being watched
I wadded it up and threw it into the waste basket with some energy. I’d stay alert in the here and now, because that's what real detectives do, but I was done with the past.
I shook off those pesky thoughts. I wasn’t wasting any more time on the nonsense of those men. I had a business to run. Today or tonight was the first step on a trail only I would blaze for myself.
The whole block lit up again before a distant rumble rolled down the street.
Unusual weather for the City.
Standard San Francisco weather normally only consists of two weather patterns, fog and not-fog. One or the other. Never both. Of course, four seasons exist, but they’re not seasons, not the way I remember seasons while growing up in upstate New York. Out east, one has spring, summer, fall, and winter. Here, we have Rainy, Hot, Foggy, and Earthquake. Oh yeah, Earthquake Season. A little ham-fisted temblor gave us a shake down only a few days ago.
I’d slept through it. One becomes jaded over time spent here.
Look, if it doesn’t knock over the bookshelves or rearranges my furniture, it’s not something too exciting. Certainly not at 4:30 am. Nothing is exciting at 4:30 am. Almost nothing.
Thunder and lightning, though, aren’t usual around here. Rain? We have rain. We have fog that thinks its rain too, tries really hard, then retreats back out to sea.
Lou Tanner.
New Shamus in town.
Short, specific name, with no fluff or stuff.
Just get ‘em in the door and I’d convince them they needed me. A twenty-five-dollars-a-day-plus-expenses kind of need.
