Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (7 page)

"Amy, would you mind if I look over the room alone? I could
concentrate better."

She shut her mouth abruptly, turned, and strode back toward the
living room.

Touchy, I thought, looking after her. Touchy, and quite mercurial. I
wasn't sure about the public defender's claim that Amy hadn't told
everything she knew at Bobby Foster's trial, but there was more to her
than initially met the eye.

I searched the room carefully, taking my time. Few things that I
found interested me, except for a thick notebook in which Tracy had
written sketches of characters she portrayed in her comedy routines. I
set it aside to take with me; it would help me get to know her better,
and I could copy it and return the original before Laura Kostakos
realized it was gone.

What did interest me was how few things of a personal nature I
found. There were no letters, postcards, souvenirs, diaries, not even
an appointments calendar. Of course, I thought, they might have been
removed by the police or Laura Kostakos. Or perhaps Tracy had not been
one to save things or keep a journal. Finally, noting it was after
eight o'clock, I took the notebook containing the character sketches
and returned to the living room.

Amy slumped on the couch, working on another glass of wine. When I
came in, she looked up sulkily.

I said, "I'd planned to ask if you'd noticed whether any of Tracy's
things are missing, but after seeing her room, I can't imagine how you
could have."

"Yeah." Her good humor returned—marginally. "Given what she owned,
there was no way to keep track."

"I gather the two of you were good friends."

"The best."

"How did you meet?"

"Through a roommate referral service—one that matches people up
according to their preferences. Where they want to live, how much they
can pay, whether they smoke or not. You know."

I knew. Such services could be iffy, but apparently this one had
done well by Amy and Tracy.

I ran through my routine questions—some of which I already knew the
answers to, ones that merely served as checks on Amy's truthfulness.
She answered them all without hesitation: they had lived together for
two years before Tracy's disappearance; they'd squabbled about the
usual things, such as boyfriends staying overnight too often; they'd
confided in each other, given parties and dinners together, played
racquetbail at a health club a couple of times a week. As far as Amy
knew, Tracy had had no serious personal problems; her career had come
before anything else.

"She was all set for a big breakthrough," Amy said. "Her appearances
at Café Comedie were terrific exposure, and Jay—that's Jay Larkey, the
owner—had renewed her contract for another six months. She'd landed a
couple of TV commercials, and a Hollywood agent had agreed to take her
on. She could have been another Carol Burnett, only then this… thing
happened to her."

"You say 'this thing,' but I got the impression before that you're
convinced she's dead."

"I say 'thing' because I can't stand to use the other word. But like
I told you, I know she's dead, and I can live with it. Bobby killed
her. He confessed, didn't he?"

"There are a lot of discrepancies in that confession."

"But there was evidence."

"Tracy's mother thinks she disappeared deliberately and faked the
evidence. Tracy said some things that make her believe—"

"What things?"

"That she felt she had turned into a bad person. That circumstances
were forcing her to do things she never would have before."

Amy drew her feet up on the sofa and locked her arms around her
knees. "God," she whispered.

I looked inquiringly at her, but she shook her head, refusing to
elaborate.

"You testified for the prosecution at the trial," I said. "Bobby's
public defender thought you were holding something back."

She tightened her grip on her knees. "What could I hold back? All I
did was testify that Trace was supposed to wake me when she came home
that night, but didn't." Her voice had changed, gone high and shrill.
"All I said was that she was dependable, like clockwork. I don't know
anything else. And it wasn't my testimony that put Bobby where he is—it
was his own confession."

"You sound as if you feel bad about testifying against him, though."

She wouldn't look at me.

"Do you?"

"Look, I don't like having had any part in sending somebody to the
gas chamber, if that's what you mean. But I told the truth, and I
wasn't holding anything back. There isn't anything I could have held
back."

I didn't reply. After about thirty seconds of silence, Amy squirmed
uncomfortably, her eyes still focused on the opposite side
of the room.

I said, "What about the things Tracy told her mother? Do you have
any idea what she might have meant?"

"Look, everybody knows Mrs. K is crazy. She probably made the whole
thing up." But Amy's voice was even more shrill now; hearing what her
roommate had told her mother had frightened her.

"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."