Muller, Marcia - [McCone 02] - Ask the Cards a Question 3S(v1)(html) (16 page)

At one o’clock I pulled up in front of the massive stone block that was the Hall of Justice. I watched as Greg ambled down the steps, admiring his trim body which, at forty-two, was still fit as an athlete’s. Greg was good company, good looking, and, in Hank’s words, managed to piss me off totally on the average of once a week.

“Good afternoon.” Greg opened the car door and got in. Quickly he reached into his coat pocket and tossed a bag of Hershey Kisses in my lap.

“Dammit! You promised!”

“I did nothing of the kind.”

“I’ll get fat.”

“Good. Then you’ll have to start seeing me again because no one else will have you.”

I sighed and pulled away from the curb.

“Where are you taking me, by the way?” Greg asked.

“I thought we’d try Dolores Park.” I named the grassy slope across from Mission High School.

“That’s fine with me. If I really cared, I could probably nab a few dope pushers during lunch. But that would mean more paperwork.”

“And I know how you hate paperwork.” I shot through a space between a MUNI bus and a police car and headed back toward my own neighborhood.

The park was dotted with loungers, many of them shirtless, spread-eagled to receive the warm rays. Teenaged couples from the school strolled about in ambulatory embraces whose maintenance required ballet-like precision. As we spread my car blanket at the top of the hill, Greg said:

“Ah, if only you would walk in lockstep and talk of love with me!”

I laughed. Greg’s bantering had begun to ease the tension I’d felt over this, our first real time together since our quarrel. I sensed he wouldn’t press the issue seriously today.

We finished arranging the blanket, and Greg burrowed through the bag from the deli, giving enthusiastic thanks for his salami and cheese sandwich. I opened the two bottles of San Miguel beer and unwrapped my own hot pastrami.

“The lunch is in exchange for information on Molly Antonio’s postmortem,” I said. “How close were you able to pinpoint the time of death?”

“Very. We know, from the husband, exactly when and what she had for dinner. From the stomach contents, she had to have been killed less than two hours after they ate at six o’clock.”

I thought of Gus Antonio, an arthritic little man who seemed continually bewildered by the world around him. “Can you be sure his information is reliable?”

“Reasonably. He and his wife always ate at six on the dot. And the meal stood out in his mind because it was, for her, a particularly sketchy dinner.”

“What was it?”

“Hamburgers and fried potatoes. No vegetable, which was strange because she usually insisted on two, even though the husband hates the sight of them. She told him she’d forgotten to shop, but would lay in fresh supplies later.”

It fit with what Mr. Moe had told me. “She must have been preoccupied with something, if she’d forgotten to buy vegetables. So, after this sketchy meal—which, incidentally, sounds a lot better than most of mine—Gus went to Ellen T’s to play dominoes?”

“Right. He claims he was in the back room all evening, until just before he found the body at eleven. We checked with the bartender, but unfortunately there’s a rear exit, by the restrooms. It’s possible Gus could have slipped out and come back, on the pretext of going to the john. We’re talking to the domino players today, but it’s difficult rounding them up.”

“It’s hard for me to picture Gus doing anything so devious,” I said. “He has so much trouble coping with life as is.”

“I know what you mean. I had difficulty getting a coherent statement from him this morning, even though he’d calmed down. Apparently he followed the same routine every night, though: first to his wife’s for dinner, then to the bar, then back to the wife’s, and finally home.”

“As near as I know, he never deviated from it. But I’m not home enough to be an authority on his comings and goings.”

“Sharon, what about this peculiar living arrangement they had? Do you know anything about it?”

I held my beer bottle up and squinted at the sun through its bubbles. “Only what I told you last night.”

“But what was the reason she threw him out? You don’t discard a husband after all those years—he says they were married for forty—without some event to trigger it.”

“All she would say was that she’s been driven crazy long enough.”

“How, though?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s damned strange.” He was silent a moment. “What about his job? He works for the Sunrise Blind Center.”

“Yes. He leads one of the patients, a man named Sebastian, who restocks the grocery store racks with the brushes they make there.”

“How’d he get into that?”

“Let’s see.” I considered. “The Center’s been in that location—on Twenty-fourth Street, in the buildings that used to be Saint Luke’s Catholic Church and Convent—for two or three years. Gus retired two years ago from his job as janitor at Edison School. Molly thought he needed something to keep him busy, and I think she asked if the Blind Center needed volunteers. They didn’t, but they had this paying position, and they offered it to Gus.”

Greg grimaced. “He’s not a person I’d entrust my life to while crossing the street.”

“Me either. Sometimes I think Sebastian should lead him instead of vice versa. All in all, he’s a pretty poor murder suspect.”

Greg began crumbling the edges of his sourdough roll. “He sure is, and I didn’t get anything useful from the other tenants of your building. They are the strangest damned lot.”

“Maybe I’m not around enough to notice it.”

“The next time you are, take a good look. There’s your manager, who evidently packs away beer on a round-the-clock schedule. There’s the guy on the second floor who has a huge statue of a nude woman in his living room—and nothing else except the Murphy bed. And there’s a woman on the third floor who looks exactly like a witch.”

“Mrs. Neverman.”

“Ah, you know her? She greeted me with a gun—the registration of which I’ve already verified—and refused to let me into her apartment because I might be a rapist. She thought nothing, however, of coming out into a dark hallway to talk to me.”

“You, a rapist?”

“Yeah, you never can tell when I’ll turn on you. Anyway, the Neverman woman claimed to be Antonio’s best friend, but she couldn’t tell me a single thing about her that shed any light on her death.”

“She’s probably suspicious of the police. She certainly seems suspicious of everyone else, the way she creeps around there. I don’t believe she’s ever spoken to me.”

“Huh.” Greg pushed his blond hair off his forehead. “Finally, there’s your corner grocer. Ye gods!”

“Mr. Moe? What did you think of him?”

“He’s got to be totally crackers. Kept insisting Antonio had died because of some evil prophecy from her fortune teller, but he couldn’t tell me who this prophetess of doom is or what she said.”

“Oh, he gave you that too?” But Mr. Moe hadn’t seemed to take the prophecy story seriously when I’d talked to him. Had he used it as a smokescreen? “What else did he say?”

“That she was in twice yesterday, once around five and again at seven. It fits with the time of death and the theory that she surprised her killer.”

I nodded. But something about the timing disturbed me. What? “I suppose you ran a check on Mr. Moe.”

Greg took a swig of beer. “Makhlouf? Sure. Why?”

I shrugged. “He’s one of these neighborhood characters that interests me.”

“As well he should. His story is more interesting than most we hear.”

“Tell me.”

“Mr. Moe, as they call him, emigrated to New York from Saudi Arabia as a teenager. His father was reasonably well off, and he bought a grocery store in Brooklyn. After his death, Mr. Moe continued to operate it. He married, had one child.”

“How’d he end up here?”

“The child, a daughter, married and moved here first. Then Mr. Moe’s wife was killed by a mugger—for less than five dollars, all she had in her purse. Mr. Moe sold out and came here to be with his daughter.”

“I never guessed that he had a family. He seems so solitary.”

“He is, now. Tragedy followed him here. The daughter, her husband, and their baby died in that big apartment house fire on Church Street seven years ago. Mr. Moe lived with them, but he was out buying the paper when the blaze started. Several months later, he bought his current grocery store, probably to keep his mind off his loss.”

I shook my head. “Symbolic, in a way.”

“What is?”

“The name of the store: the Albatross. A man with all that tragedy hanging around his neck might choose it for just that reason.”

Greg’s dark-blond eyebrows pulled together. “I doubt he’s all that literary-minded.”

“His record’s clean, though?”

“Reasonably. He’s been hauled in on suspicion of discounting liquor in New York, and there was some indication he’d received stolen goods from time to time, but basically he’s clean.”

“So that’s where your case stands.”

“Yep. Unless you have something else to add.”

“I don’t.”

“Too bad.” Greg crumbled the remainder of his sourdough roll and tossed a piece to a pigeon that strutted nearby.

I glanced up at the ominous cloud of birds that suddenly descended on us. Seeing my frightened face, Greg put the bread down and spread empty hands to them. “Sorry. I forgot you’re afraid of winged creatures.”

“I know it’s silly, but it’s a common phobia. And phobias like that can kill you. I’ve read of people dying of shock from being exposed to perfectly innocent things they feared. So no more feeding the birds, okay?”

“Okay.” He balled up the wrapper from his sandwich and stuffed it into the bag.

I started clearing the other picnic things, my eyes on the blanket. “Greg,” I said, “about the murder weapon…”

“Yes?”

“What exactly was it?”

“A piece of drapery cord. Unfortunately, it was a type of common manufacture.”

“It must have been cut off a longer piece, right?”

“Yes.” A puzzled note crept into his voice.

“So, if you found the other piece, you could match them? By microscope?”

“We could. Why?”

“Just curious.”

He watched me thoughtfully for a few seconds, then stood and folded the blanket. I retreated to the car as he tossed out a few remaining pieces of bread to the birds. We drove back to the Hall of Justice in silence.

When I had pulled up to the curb, I asked, “What do you think of Mr. Moe’s fortune teller lead?”

“It’s interesting. Why don’t you follow up on it?”

“Okay. I’ve got some free time.”

“Great.” He got out of the car and leaned back in the window. “After all,” he said with a grin, “I’d catch hell if I spent the taxpayers’ money on an all-expense-paid trip to Fantasy-land.” He turned and loped off toward the Hall before I could reply.

Dammit! I thought as I watched him take the steps two at a time with his agile gait. Was the man ever serious?

By the time I had run some errands and found another parking space near my building, it was close to four o’clock. Anxious to check on Linnea, I hurried toward home, but was arrested by a familiar procession on the opposite sidewalk.

A small, gray man, stooped with arthritis, led a taller, heavyset man by the arm. The big man wore an Army surplus parka to which were attached dozens of brushes—hair brushes, wisk brooms, feather dusters, bottle brushes—each held in place by a wire hook. He carried several brooms. The little man lugged a worn cloth suitcase with bulging sides.

Gus and Sebastian, the brush man, going about business as usual less than twenty-four hours after Gus’s wife’s death. Or were they? What was the heavy-looking suitcase for?

The pair crossed the street toward me, Gus raising a hand in greeting.

“It’s Miss McCone,” he told Sebastian.

“Gus,” I said, “I’m sorry about Molly.”

He peered at me with red-rimmed eyes. The lines of his face and his jowls sagged dolefully. “Thanks, Miss McCone.”

Sebastian shuffled forward and placed a hand on my arm.

“How’re you?” I asked.

His face, scarred and pitted by the explosion that had blinded him, twisted. “Not good at all. This is a terrible day.”

To Gus, he added, “Why don’t you go get the key from Tim? Miss McCone can help me upstairs.”

Gus nodded and labored up the front steps with his suitcase.

I asked Sebastian, “How come you’ve got him working, with Molly dead less than a day?”

Sebastian adjusted the brooms under his arm. “We’re not really working. I sent him in alone so I could tell you what’s happened.”

“What more could happen, after last night?”

“Plenty. And it’s a damned shame!” His face flushed an angry red, the scars white against it. “This morning Gus had to give the cops a statement. They were pretty decent to him—even gave him a lift down there and back. But when they dropped him off at that sleazy joint he lives in, he found all his stuff stacked out on the porch.”

“What?”

“Yeah. That bitch he rented from saw the story about Molly on the morning news. She said she was sorry for his trouble, but she couldn’t have him there any more. Claimed Molly might’ve been offed by the Mafia and that they’d go for Gus next, so it wasn’t safe having him in the house.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“Yeah, all that bitch wanted was to rent the room for more money. Gus has been there for so long, he wasn’t paying near what it would fetch today. Sorry for his trouble, my ass!” He snorted.

“So what’d Gus do?”

“Came to me, at the Blind Center. What else could he do? He doesn’t have any other friends.”

“He must.”

“Oh, sure, there’re the fellows he plays dominoes with, but they’re just first name acquaintances. No, I’m all he has. It’s a real shame when a person lives in a neighborhood for over forty years and doesn’t have any friends and then gets kicked out of his room the day after his wife is killed. This sure is some town!” Sebastian took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Makes me so mad I steam!

“Anyway,” he went on, “we fed him lunch at the Center. Poor Gus can’t even get himself a decent meal alone. Then Mr. Clemente—Herb Clemente, he’s our director—called the cops and asked if it was okay for Gus to use Molly’s apartment. They said fine, they were finished. A cop was there all morning, going through the place, but he was done by noon.”

“So that’s why the suitcase.”

“Yeah. Gus left his other stuff at the Center. I said I’d come along and deliver some brushes on the way. It’d be a shame if he had to go back to that apartment all alone.”

“You’re a good friend to him.”

“It’s nothing. Gus has been mighty good to me, and I couldn’t do my work without him. What say we go in now? He’s probably up there already.”

I took his arm and we climbed to the second floor, Sebastian leaning heavily on me.

Gus stood on the blue rug where Molly’s body had lain, the suitcase at his feet. When he saw Sebastian and me, he clasped his hands in a wringing gesture.

“Don’t know what I’ll do by myself.” His voice was choked.

I let go of Sebastian and put my arm around Gus’s narrow shoulders. “It’s rough now, but things will get better.”

He waggled his gray head helplessly. “I don’t know how to do for myself. All those years, Molly took care of me. Even after she retired and threw me out, she took care of me.”

“What did she do before she retired?” I knew very little of my dead neighbor’s past.

“She was a clerk at Knudsen’s.” He named a Mission Street clothing store. “For thirty-five years, she stood behind a counter selling nylon stockings and underwear. Thirty-five years. And then she retired and threw me out. Said I’d driven her crazy long enough and that she deserved a little peace in her old age. But she still took care of me. I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

I remembered the questions Greg had asked me. “Why did you drive her crazy, anyway?”

Gus’s red-rimmed eyes became evasive. “How should I know? You know how women are.”

Sebastian propped his brooms against the wall and felt for a chair. He lowered his bulky body onto it, sitting near the edge to avoid leaning on the brushes that hung from the back of his parka. “I tell you, Gus,” he said, “something’ll work out for you.”

Again Gus shook his head. “Ain’t nothing going to work out from now on. When the rent runs out on this place next month, where’ll I go?”

“We’ll find you some place to live,” Sebastian said. “It’s not as if you’re poor. You’ve got your Social Security, and your wages from the Center, and there’ll probably be some insurance money from Molly. All we’ve got to do is find you some place cheaper than this.”

Gus looked far from convinced. To me he said, “What about Watney? I don’t know nothing about taking care of cats.”

I hesitated. I liked cats, but had never had one of my own. “If you want, I’ll keep him.”

“Would you?” A ripple of relief crossed Gus’s drawn face. “Molly’s got cat food and everything. You won’t have to buy none for a long time.” Eagerly, he went to the kitchen. “I’ll pack it up right now.”

“I seem to have acquired a pet,” I said to Sebastian.

“No harm in that. Molly loved him. You will too.”

“I guess. When did you last see…” I paused, embarrassed. “I mean, talk to Molly?”

Sebastian smiled faintly. “Don’t let it bother you. Folks say stuff like that all the time. Seems handicaps make the folks who don’t have them more uncomfortable than the folks who do. Anyway, it was late yesterday afternoon. Molly left a message with Mr. Moe for Gus to come by here before he took me home. She wanted him to fetch the clothes from the Laundromat—you know how folks will steal from the dryers over there. She was in your apartment when we came in, with your friend.”

“Oh? What were they doing?”

“Just talking, I guess.”

Gus came back, a cardboard carton clutched to his chest. “No, they weren’t. Molly was reading her the riot act.”

I felt a prickle of anxiety. “What about?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Probably her drinking.”

“Ah,” Sebastian said, “that’s the one who drinks so much.”

Was the whole world aware of it? “How did you know?”

“Molly told me. She found her lurching around in the trash bins last week.”

“In the trash bins?”

“Yeah. She was taking—trying to take—the garbage out.”

“Oh, God!” That was probably the day when, in a fit of manic housekeeping, Linnea had broken the handle of the toilet brush and incinerated an entire pot roast. “By the way, Sebastian,” I said to cover my agitation, “do you happen to have a toilet brush on you?”

He stood and felt over his right shoulder. I realized he could probably locate a given brush by touch faster than either Gus or I could by sight.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m fresh out.” To Gus, he added, “Did you take those off of there?”

Gus looked hurt. “Why should I? The brushes are your department.”

Sebastian grunted. “Could have swore I had them. We’re selling out fast.”

“Business is good, huh?” I asked.

“You bet. I’ve even added to my line. Shoelaces and rubber dishwashing gloves.” He indicated the new items, tucked into his belt.

“They can’t make those at the Blind Center.”

“Nope. We get them wholesale. Sure you can’t use a good shoelace?”

“None of my shoes need them. Would you drop a toilet brush off at my place when you get a chance?” I handed him the two dollars I knew it would cost.

“No trouble.”

“And if I’m not there and Linnea acts strange, don’t let it bother you.” No sense in trying to hide the situation.

“She sure was upset yesterday,” Gus commented. “Molly must’ve read her the riot act but good. I could tell, just from Molly’s voice. Lord knows she read it to me often enough.”

“What did she say to her?”

“Don’t know. I just heard her through the open door. She stopped when we came in and started talking about that sickly fern you’ve got. She talked on for a good five minutes before we could drag her away. Then I went to the Laundromat and Sebastian came up here to wait till I was done.”

“How did Linnea act while Molly talked about the fern?”

“She was kind of snuffling and sulking, but she said goodbye pleasant.”

“Hmmm.” I was silent for a moment.

“You worried about your friend?” Gus asked.

“A little.”

“You should be,” he said sagely. “Next thing you know, she’ll turn into another Tim O’Riley.”

I suppressed a smile, comparing the petite Linnea to burly Tim, but, unfortunately, there was some truth in Gus’s statement. And, even after years of steady beer-guzzling, Tim handled his alcohol far better than my friend.

Gus came forward with the cardboard carton. “Everything’s in here except the litter box. It’s got to be cleaned, so I’ll bring it down later.”

Good lord, I thought. A litter box. The poor cat had been cooped up since last night without one. I hoped Linnea had had the sense to… No, of course she hadn’t. I’d be lucky if she hadn’t thrown Watney out, thinking he’d wandered in by mistake. It was time I went down to check on both of them.