Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (40 page)

"I don't think so, Amy. And that doesn't really answer my question.
Do you have any idea—"

"No!" She unwound her arms from her knees and stood. "It's way after
eight, and I've given you a lot of my time. My boyfriend's… I have a
date. You'll have to go now."

I regarded her levelly for a moment, and she again looked away from
me. Finally I stood, putting on my jacket. When I picked up Tracy's
sketchbook, I expected her to protest my taking it, but she didn't seem
to notice.

Café Comedie was located on South Park, in the area known as SoMa,
or South of Market. At a little after nine, I drove along Bryant
Street, past the Hall of Justice. The offices of the bail bondsmen were
brightly lighted and doing a brisk business. I smiled as I passed my
favorite: Cable Car Bail Bonds, housed in a spiffy little trailer that
I just knew had to also be the sales office of the used-car lot next
door. I've never been able to decide which of the establishments I'd
patronize were I to require their services; Cable Car has a nice San
Francisco ring (and is probably a favorite with tourists), but what
greater feeling of security could be engendered than by taking one's
business to Dad's Bail Bonds, just down the way?

Beyond the neon strip near the hall, the streets became darker,
somewhat deserted. The warehouses and light industrial concerns were
shut down for the night; here and there lights blazed at one of the
legion of trendy restaurants and clubs that have sprung up in SoMa, and
I spotted an art gallery that appeared to be holding some sort of
showing.

South of Market is an eclectic neighborhood where auto repair shops
and factory outlet stores vie for space with clubs and leather bars.
Landmarks such as the Old Mint, the Rower Mart, China Basin, and the
Moscone Convention Center attest both to the area's rich heritage and
bright future, but winos still stumble down the sidewalks, and
pawnshops and transient hotels abound. I find SoMa fascinating because
of its inconsistencies and contrasts, and now I wondered why I'd taken
so little time to explore it.

I turned off Bryant onto Second Street and began looking for a place
to leave the MG. Although parking is relatively plentiful in that part
of the city, especially after the employees of the various businesses
have gone home, I was certain that South Park itself would be jammed
with vehicles belonging to residents and patrons of Café Comedie.
Around the corner on Brannan Street I found a space just the MG's size
and wedged it in there. Then I locked up and walked back to the
entrance to the parkway—more of an alley than a street.

South Park is a perfect example of where SoMa has been and where
it's going. Originally a fashionable retreat for the Gold Rush gentry,
it began to deteriorate as early as the 1870s, when its stately
Georgian homes were converted to rooming houses for Japanese
immigrants. During the Depression its grassy ellipsoid was set aside by
the city's parks commission for "soapbox speeches." I didn't know how
successful that venture was, but I did know that when I last visited
it, in the early 1980s, it had been taken over by derelicts and drug
dealers. But now, if the presence of Café Comedie and a couple of small
eateries was any indication, the curious little parkway might
eventually be restored to respectability.

I walked between two warehouse like buildings to where the roadway
split and curved around either side of the small park. A row of
sycamore trees hugged its perimeter; through their bare branches I saw
odd, hulking shapes that appeared to be playground equipment. Café
Comedie was easy to spot among the
small houses and squat functional buildings facing the park.

It was on the far end of the north side, sandwiched between a
packing company and a brightly painted Victorian. Its floodlighted
brick facade was whitewashed, the mortar between painted blue; a
red-white-and-blue striped canopy emblazoned with the club's name
extended out from the front door. In a small fenced-off area on the
sidewalk stood two wrought-iron tables with similarly striped
umbrellas. A pair of white-coated valet parking attendants waited at
the curb.

As I approached, an Audi swung around me and stopped at the canopy.
One of the young men rushed forward to open the car door. I followed
the well-dressed couple inside, suddenly conscious of my casual jacket
and jeans. A quick glance at the other patrons reassured me, however;
their attire ranged from fancy cocktail dresses and tuxedos to basic
thrift-shop and L. L. Bean.

The club was one large room—I guessed it had formerly been a
warehouse—with a bar along the left wall and a raised platform at the
front. Small round tables with white cloths were crammed close
together; those at the rear were tiered for better visibility. A couple
of waitresses were seating people—quietly because a show was in
progress. I shook my head at the one who looked questioningly at me,
then took a seat at the bar.

When the bartender came up, I gave him my card and asked to speak
with Mr. Larkey. He studied the card for a few seconds but didn't
comment; he was in the upper reaches of middle age and somewhat jaded
looking, so I assumed nothing surprised him. When he said he'd check, I
ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc and swiveled to watch the show.

The comedian was probably in his late twenties, a big man encased in
soft baby fat, with a clown's mobile face. His first routine involved
cruising the main street of Modesto on a Friday night; next he segued
into a bit about a sex-starved
teenager. He wasn't all that funny, but the audience seemed to find him
hilarious. Something to do with his delivery, I supposed, the
contortions into which he could twist his rubber like mouth. After a
while I grew weary of watching him wander around the stage mumbling
inane things, then pausing to loudly announce, "I'm
hoorny!
" I turned
back to the bar.

The bartender was approaching with my drink, my card still in his
hand. He said, "Mr. Larkey would like to know what this is all about."

"Tracy Kostakos."

I actually succeeded in surprising him; he blinked and went away
again. I sipped wine, trying to shut out the voice of the comic, who
was now imitating the sex-starved kid's father.

After a while the bartender returned again. "Mr. Larkey will see
you. He's in his office. Through the door that says Yes."

I stood, leaving payment for the wine on the bar. " 'Yes'?" I asked.

" 'Yes,' meaning, 'Yes, this is the way to the restrooms.'"

"Cute," I said in a tone that conveyed exactly what I thought of
that.

"Yeah, well, it goes with the territory." He looked glumly at the
howling, snorting clientele.

As I went through the door that said Yes, the comic asked in the
father's baritone, "Just how do you explain this, son?" In a slurring
falsetto he replied, "I'm
hoorny!
"
For some reason, that brought down
the house.

Halfway down the hall beyond the restrooms, the door marked OFFICE
stood partly open. I knocked, and a voice told me to come in. Jay
Larkey sat on an exercise bicycle in the middle of the cluttered space;
he wore a bright blue sweat suit and was pedaling furiously. When he
saw me, he backpedaled and stopped. The
dentist-turned-comedian-turned-club owner looked much the same as the
last time I'd seen him on TV:
curly brown hair that stuck out in wild tufts and cascaded down onto
the nape of his neck; narrow foxlike face; mouth full of sharp little
teeth that always seemed to bite off the ends of his tart, needling
punch lines.

I'd once read an interview with Larkey, in which he'd said that in
order to be funny, comedy had to hurt, a la Don Rickles. I wasn't sure
I agreed with that—I dislike humor at an innocent person's expense—but
Larkey often made me laugh in spite of myself. And a friend who had
been the target of one of his attacks on audience members at Harrah's
Lake Tahoe had told me that afterward Larkey had come up and thanked
him for suffering such abuse. Maybe, I thought now, it was the dentist
in him that made his humor vaguely sadistic.

Tonight, however, Larkey didn't look as if he were about to crack
jokes. He glared at me, then snapped, "All right— what's this shit
about Tracy Kostakos?"

I came all the way into the room and shut the door. "I'm working for
Bobby Foster's attorney, on the appeals process. I understand you don't
think Tracy is dead."

Larkey frowned, then began pedaling again. "Well, you heard wrong.
At one time I did, but she's been gone too long. If she was alive,
she'd have surfaced by now. But I'll tell you one thing: that kid
didn't kill her—he wouldn't kill anyone. So sit down, if you can find a
place."

I looked around. There were a couple of chairs, but they were buried
under a welter of cardboard file boxes, weight-lifting equipment,
discarded clothing, newspapers, and trade journals of both the
entertainment industry and the dental profession. Larkey noticed my
confusion, waved an arm, and said, "Take my desk chair."

I moved behind the desk and sat. It was mounded with papers, many of
which appeared to have to do with a real-estate transaction.

Larkey continued to pedal. "I'm doing a public-TV fundraiser on New
Year's Eve," he said through gritted teeth. "Part of the proceeds'll
benefit the Potrero Medical Clinic— one of my charities. Otherwise I
wouldn't do it. I hate to go on looking like an overweight, washed-up
comedian. I thought maybe I could ride off some of the Christmas flab
on this thing."

"You don't look overweight to me. And you're certainly not what I'd
call washed up."

"Then you must have a vision problem, as well as seriously warped
perspective. I'm both, and I know it." He paused, puffing slightly and
wiping sweat from his forehead. "Thing is, I think I should care, but
deep down I really don't. I've got enough money, the club is turning a
profit, and for the first time in my life I'm enjoying myself."

"You didn't enjoy yourself when you had your TV show?"

"Shit, no. You know what pressure you're under in that life? The
punishing schedule? The lack of privacy? Your time's not your own,
everybody wants a piece of you. When I was practicing dentistry up in
Red Bluff, I would have killed for that life. But once I was actually
in it…" He shook his head.

"How long were you a dentist?"

"Five years. My short-lived career was a disaster. I was funny, and
who wants funny in their dentist? Cavities and plaque are serious
stuff. So there I was, tossing out one-liners when my patients couldn't
laugh because I had my hands shoved in their mouths, cackling my head
off while I was performing root canals. My practice fell off so much
that I decided I might as well move down here and take a crack at the
funny business."

"Well, you certainly succeeded."

"Yeah, but you pay a price for that success. I tried to warn Tracy
about that, but she wouldn't listen. Any more than I would have at her
age."

"You were close to her?"

"In a fatherly sort of way, like I am with all the kids who work
here. I care about my people—pay them well, offer a full medical and
dental package through the Potrero Clinic. Anyway, I tried to advise
Tracy, be her mentor. Not that she needed one."

"Why not?"

"She had her career well in hand. For a funny lady, Tracy didn't
have much of a sense of humor when it came to getting ahead in the
world. Way back when she was still in junior college, she read every
damn book there is on stand-up. Watched every comedy show on TV, went
regularly to the clubs, the competitions. Took notes, too."

I'd seen the shelf of books on comedy in her bedroom; they were well
thumbed.

Larkey went on, "She was constantly refining her act. You know how
she worked?"

"I gather she created characters, like Carol Burnett."

"Yeah—contemporary women, the situations they find themselves in,
their problems. Social commentary that made you laugh but also made you
think. Offstage she'd discuss them very seriously, as if they were real
people: Would Annie really do such-and-such? Was it in character for
Lizzie to go out with so-and-so? When she tried out a new routine,
she'd have somebody videotape it, and she'd study the tape for hours,
concentrating on word choice, small nuances. She approached comedy in a
scientific way."

"I take it that's not how it's usually done."

"Comedy's like any other art form: it comes from deep within, it's
more intuitive than scientific. Most of us just wing it, let our
material evolve. The ones who have to analyze usually don't have much
of a flair to begin with. But Tracy combined the scientific with the
intuitive—with brilliant results."

"If she was that intent on success, do you think she would have just
dropped out of sight? Everything I know about her
indicates she was on the verge of a breakthrough."

He took his feet off the pedals, let them spin to a stop. Then he
got off the bike and sat on a corner of the desk, one leg drawn up on
it, half facing me. "I don't know what to think," he said. "I wish to
hell I did."

"Any ideas?"

"None."

I leaned back in his chair, propping my feet on an open desk drawer.
"I've been trying to think of the typical reasons a twenty-two-year-old
woman disappears," I said. "She's on drugs, or pregnant, or suicidal.
She sees her life as at a dead end, or she's angry at her friends or
family and wants to hurt them. None of those motives fits with what I
know of Tracy."

"No."

"I thought of another reason: maybe her disappearance and kidnapping
was staged as a publicity stunt, to further her career. But that
doesn't wash, because in order for it to have been effective, she'd
have to have surfaced long before this."

"Right. Now she's old, old news."