Muller, Marcia - [McCone 03] Cheshire Cat's Eye, The_(v.1,shtml) (20 page)

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"Come by my shop tomorrow morning, before noon, when I have to be out here. I'll give you the background on the fixture trade, show you how they're cast. Maybe that will help, even if I have lost your… er…clue."

And in the meantime, he would pump me about my investigation. Still, I might take him up on it. I'd keep my guard up—more, certainly, than I had today. And perhaps I'd find out something about Prince Albert. "Thank you. It will be a pleasure."

With a courtly gesture, Prince Albert offered me his velvet-clad arm. I took it, and we continued down the shady side of the pier.

Halfway back to my car, I saw a familiar figure lumbering toward the gate. "Paul!" I called. "Paul Collins!"

The pudgy young man turned, puzzled, then raised a hand in greeting. I quickened my pace and joined him.

"How come you're leaving so early?" I asked. It wasn't quite five, and the show would continue until nine.

"David arrived, and Larry's there. With more than two people, the booth is crowded." His moonlike face drooped. "Besides, if you want the truth, I'm not feeling very well. That murder…"

"Do you need a ride? I have my car."

He brightened slightly. "Thanks, I
could
use one. The bus service in our neighborhood… Well, you hate to ride them. With those teenage thugs holding up the passengers…"

Already I sensed Collins was a man who rarely completed a sentence, as if he had second thoughts on the worth of what he had to say. We walked in silence to the MG, and I waited as he squeezed his plump body into the passenger seat.

"If the neighborhood's so bad," I said as I drove out of the lot, "why do you stay there?"

"It's David's home."

"Don't you have any say about where you live?"

He looked surprised, as if the prospect had never occurred to him. "I suppose I would, if I bothered. But it's much easier to go along with what David wants, since it means so much to him."

"Why does it?"

"He's very attached to the family mansion."

"The big Queen Anne on the corner."

"Yes, the one where…" He stared out the window.

"Does he plan to live there when it's restored?"

"He did. Now…" Collins groped in his jacket pocket and produced a pill bottle. He poured two yellow tablets into his hand and gulped them. "Valium," he explained. "For neck tension, but today they help other kinds."

I nodded sympathetically.

"I don't know what David will do about the house now," Collins went on. "I could never understand his… well, I hate to call it an obsession, but it borders on that. Sure, Victorians are nice, I guess, but—Where I come from—Dayton, Ohio—we have big old houses too, but you don't see all the fuss."

Dayton, Ohio. So Paul Collins was one of the legion of homosexuals who had fled the Midwest to find freedom and acceptance in San Francisco. I glanced at him as he sat, gripping his knees with his hands and staring rigidly ahead. A complaint of neck tension was an easy way to get a prescription for tranquilizers, and I was willing to bet there was nothing wrong with Collins' neck. He probably took Valium because he hadn't yet come to terms with emerging from the closet. It was not surprising, given Dayton, Ohio.

I could well understand his discomfort. Look at my own background: Would the high-school cheerleader and navy brat from conservative San Diego have believed that, as an adult, she would not only tolerate what she then knew as "homos," but also include a few among her circle of friends? And yet even now, wasn't I, truthfully, uncomfortable when conversations with those friends turned to the details of gay life? Nine years in the Bay Area had changed me, but the vestiges of twenty in San Diego still clung.

I pulled up in front of the houses on Steiner Street. Collins still sat gripping his knees. He turned to me and said earnestly, "They
are
pretty houses. I just don't understand this obsession…"

I felt much the same way. While I was not indifferent to the Victorians' charms, I preferred the clean, sleek lines of contemporary architecture. But that was me: Why take a train when you can fly? Why figure by hand when you can use a computer?

To Collins, I said, "You're not required to share others' enthusiasms."

He smiled at the words of support. "I guess. Look, would you like to come up for some tea? I have fresh scones, from the bakery on Union Street."

The idea appealed to the Scot in me, as well as to my stomach. I accepted his invitation and followed him up the stairway to the yellow-and-blue house.

"Come to the kitchen. That's my domain." Collins led me through the double doors and dining room to a kitchen that was streamlined in every detail. Stainless-steel appliances gleamed. Gadgets for every possible purpose stood on the butcher block counters. At the rear, sliding glass doors opened onto a redwood deck with bright lawn furniture. The kitchen was spotless, artfully arranged. I reflected that it would fit with Collins' personality to be compulsively neat.

The suspicion was borne out by the precision with which he set the table, lining up red stoneware and Danish flatware on geometrically patterned placemats. He motioned for me to sit while he busied himself with teakettle, scones, and jam.

"How long have you lived in San Francisco?" I asked.

He poured tea and sat opposite me. "Four years, almost. I came out with David a couple of years after I graduated from college."

"Where did you meet him?"

"In New York. I'd inherited some money and gone there because I was interested in the theater, but I was having a hard time breaking in. I don't know how familiar you are with the gay scene."

"Reasonably."

"Then you know it can get pretty, well… rough. I'm a conservative guy, and the kinkier side of it isn't for me. And it can get lonely, too. It's hard to meet people. I guess it's the same for any single person, but…"

I nodded. I'd had my fair share of difficulty meeting men, although my work brought me into contact with more of them than the average job.

"Well, I was about to give up and go home when I met David. He was ten years older than me, an engineer, with a good job. I could look up to him, depend on him. And David… well, I guess he needed a home."

I looked around the spotless kitchen. Indeed Collins provided that. My eyes lit on a large portable TV set rolled into a corner. When I looked at Collins, he was blushing.

"My vice," he admitted. "I like to watch TV while I cook, especially crime shows. That was why I wanted to talk to you—it fascinates me, meeting a private eye."

I grinned. "If only you knew how boring it can be. Some of our clients find the most humdrum reasons for taking legal action. And, speaking of clients, what's David like? I haven't talked with him enough to know."

Collins tilted back his chair, brown eyes thoughtful. "I'd describe him first of all as intense. He gets wrapped up in his projects, he can't sit down, he zips around burning up these fantastic amounts of energy. You should see him on a job site. He's always peering over the workmen's shoulders, crawling on the scaffolding, pitching in to help. It tires me out to watch him."

"Was he close to his father?"

The non sequitur startled Collins. "Why do you ask?"

"He mentioned his father this morning."

"Oh." Collins studied his plump hands. "I'd say it was an ambivalent relationship."

"How so?"

"Mr. Wintringham was a very controlling person. Don't get me wrong, he was also a nice man. I liked him, but—David was already a grown man in his thirties when we came back from New York, but his father tried to dominate his life."

"Did David resist?"

"To a certain extent. You can probably guess his father wasn't too happy about us. When David and I got here, we lived separately for a while, but we started restoring this house right away, and David made it clear that we would move in here together. And Mr. Wintringham didn't approve when David started Wintringham and Associates, but he went ahead with it anyway. All in all, he resisted pretty well, but I know it was hard for him. Deep down, he loved his father and felt guilty because he hadn't lived up to his expectations."

"What were they, besides being heterosexual?"

Collins crumbled a piece of scone on his plate. "He wanted David to become an architect like him, but instead he studied engineering and even preferred construction work to that. When he became a general contractor, his father considered it… well, tacky, and…" The sound of footsteps distracted him.

The swinging door from the dining room burst open, and Charmaine confronted us. Her bell-like hair was disarrayed, her face contorted in fury. "Where is that son-of-a-bitch?" she demanded.

Collins' hands clenched. "Charmaine, what is wrong? Where is
who
?"

"You know damn well who! That slimy little bastard was supposed to wait for me at the show, but instead he took off in his goddamned Porsche with some blond. I let him have it, believe me I did, but he just walked out of there with her!" Her mouth trembled, and her eyes filled, washing out the anger.

"Oh, Charmaine." Collins held out an arm. "Come sit down and have some tea. That's how Larry operates. You should know by now."

She sat, elbows on the table, hair swinging forward to cover her face, and her tears.

So Larry French was the sleazy boyfriend van Dyne had mentioned. I should have known, from his treatment of Charmaine this morning. What an odd combination! Surely Charmaine could do better.

Collins poured tea into a fresh cup, making comforting sounds. I looked at my watch. There was half an hour before my seven o'clock appointment with Nick Dettman, but I decided I would walk over to his law offices to kill the time rather than intrude further upon Charmaine's distress.

At ten minutes to seven dusk had fallen. I had walked down Steiner and admired the old mansions around Alamo Square, but now I approached Haight Street, or more specifically the five-hundred block of Haight, known as "The Razor" because of its thriving drug trade.

My hand tightened on the strap of my shoulder bag, and I walked in the center of the sidewalk, out of reach of both the buildings and the parked cars. I was state qualified in firearms and owned two .38 revolvers. Unlike many in my profession, I liked guns and practiced regularly at a firing range. I did not usually carry one, however, because all too often a gun could intensify an already dangerous situation. In spite of that conviction, tonight I longed for its comforting weight in my bag.

Black men lounged against the iron grilles of the storefronts. They congregated in the middle of the sidewalk, talking, gesturing, making deals. I could tell the pushers because they carried bottles of soda pop. A detective on the narcotics detail had once explained to me that the heroin was packaged in toy balloons and distributed out of apartments that were changed every few days. The soda pop was a normal precaution for the street dealers. Should the law appear, they would swallow the balloons, washing them down with pop. The balloons, of course, could be recovered later.

I made my way toward Nick Dettman's storefront. I had decided not to bring my car to this area, where autos seemed to disappear as soon as they were parked, but now I regretted it. Lewd remarks followed me. An occasional hand reached out. I weaved, silently avoiding them. Soon the loiterers were behind, and I spotted the orange door Johnny Hart had described.

Large gold letters on the plate-glass windows said: NICK DETTMAN , ATTORNEY-AT-LAW . The room was brightly lit. I opened the door and stepped in.

A Formica counter ran across the front of the office, and sagging rattan furniture filled the waiting area. The rubber plant on the counter looked dusty and discontented. The place made All Souls seem on par with the plushest Financial District tax firm. I saw no one.

A deep voice said, "Come all the way in, please, and close the door. We have to conserve heat."

I did so and went around the counter.

The owner of the voice sat at a desk toward the rear. He leaned back in his swivel chair, hands clasped on his paunch, little feet barely touching the floor. I recognized his lined black features and receding hairline from old newspaper photographs.

"Hello, Mr. Dettman," I said.

"Miss McCone." He nodded. "Please have a seat."

I took the chair opposite him and looked around the room. Framed photographs of Africans that looked like they'd been clipped from
National Geographic
decorated the walls. There were shelves of unpainted plywood, piled with reference books and papers.

"Not an elegant establishment, but we do the best with what we have." Dettman's speech was educated, with only a trace of the ghetto.

"Since I work for a legal-services plan, I understand that necessity."

"Yes, All Souls. A good group. I presume you know Hank Zahn."

"He's my boss, as much as anyone there is. Our organizational structure is loose, to say the least."

"Do tell him hello for me the next time you see him."

I nodded. Not only would I do that, but I would also pump Hank for details about Dettman.

Dettman unclasped his hands and slipped one finger under his striped tie, which was looped over but not knotted at the neck. Rhythmically he flapped it up and down, regarding me in silence.

"Mr. Dettman," I said after a moment, "you asked to see me. I assume you do have something to say."

"In good time." He continued to flap the tie. "Let me start with a few questions."

"Such as?"

"Who are you working for?"

"I don't have to tell you that."

"But it would make our conversation so much easier." The words were slow, measured. Instinctively I glanced over my shoulder.

"No, Miss McCone, we're quite alone."

I smiled, covering my nervousness. "Good. I like my discussions to be kept private. As to your questions, you already know who I'm working for. There's no reason Johnny Hart wouldn't have told you. He hurried me through his restaurant so fast this noon that I didn't see you there, though."

It was a good guess, and it drew a thin smile from Dettman.

"So let's get down to business," I went on. "Why did you ask me here?"

The corners of his mouth turned down. He stopped flapping the tie, and his hand crept forward to his littered desk. I tensed, imagined a gun, then almost laughed when he pulled a Fig Newton from a cookie box resting there. He popped it whole into his mouth and chewed, cheeks puffed out.

Around the cookie, he said, "You're a forceful young woman, Miss McCone."

"In my business, one has to be. And, speaking of business, may I once again suggest we get down to it."

His hand strayed toward the cookie box, but he restrained it and laced his fingers over his paunch. "All right, Miss McCone," he said, "we'll begin with some background about this part of the city."

"The Western Addition, you mean?"

He shrugged. "Western Addition, Hayes Valley, Fillmore, call it what you will. Every mapmaker has a different label for it, and boundaries overlap. Let's go into its history.

"The Western Addition was a prime residential area in the eighteen seventies and eighties, when the fine old homes your friend Wintringham is so fond of were built. Many of them survived the earthquake of oh-six because the boundary line where they dynamited to stop the fire's spread was Van Ness Avenue, several blocks east of here. In fact, for a while after the 'quake, Fillmore Street was a major shopping area for the entire city."

"Interesting, but I don't see the relevance."

He unclasped his hands and began flapping the tie again. "Let me continue. During World War Two, the shipyard business flourished in San Francisco. Southern blacks flocked to this area by the thousands to find work. The old homes were broken up into flats, and the ghetto you see today was under way."

"So what Wintringham is doing should be a welcome change."

Dettman shook his head. "What do you know about our local population shifts, Miss McCone?"

"There's been an exodus from the city. The middle class, especially families with children, have fled to the suburbs. It's left us with the poor on one hand, the rich on the other, and a lot of single people somewhere in between who, like myself, prefer urban life."

"Your information is out of date."

"How so?"

"Recently there's been a return to the city, mainly by middle-class whites who couldn't take the suburbs. There's also been an influx of gays, who are well off as a rule because most gay households have two wage earners and no children. These people are moving into areas like the Western Addition, buying up old homes, and restoring them."

I remembered Johnny Hart's similar comments to Hank and me last night. "And they're displacing the blacks who have lived here for generations."

"Right. Do you know where the next black ghettos will be?"

"No."

"In the older tracts of the suburbs. South, in Daly City. East, in Concord. Down the Peninsula. Look at East Palo Alto—as far back as twelve years ago, the residents sponsored an initiative on the ballot to change the name to Nairobi."

"Okay, I hear what you're saying. But, still, what does all this have to do with the murder I'm investigating?"

Dettman leaned forward, his palms flat on the desk. "It has everything to do with it. People don't like to be displaced, to have to move far from their jobs and the area they call home. There's a great deal of anger brewing in this neighborhood. We have a drug traffic that's run out of control. What you see here is an upsurge of rage. And when large numbers of people get angry, others get hurt."

"And you think Jake Kaufmann was a victim of that rage?"

"I know it."

I regarded him warily. There was a strange light in his eyes and his fingers, laced together once more, twitched. I wondered if Nick Dettman were completely sane.

"How do you know this, Mr. Dettman?"

"I know my neighborhood. I know my people."

"Or do you know about one specific person?"

"What?"

"Do you know who killed Jake Kaufmann?"

Our eyes locked together in the long silence. Then Dettman leaned back in his chair and gave a hollow laugh. "If I knew that, would I tell you?"

"No, but it doesn't hurt to ask."

"You'd be surprised, Miss McCone, how much it can hurt to ask. You can become one of the people damaged by the anger I described."

"Is that a threat?"

"Of course not. But you should realize that the streets around here aren't the safest place for a pretty white woman."

I didn't like Nick Dettman and I didn't like his insinuation. I stood up. "All right, if that's the level this conversation has sunk to, I'm going."

His hand crept toward the cookie box, and again he pulled it back. "You won't go before I give you a message for that faggot client of yours."

"Oh, yes?"

"You go back there and you tell him he'd better halt that housing project and get out of my neighborhood."

"Or else?"

He frowned.

"Or else?" I repeated. "When you threaten a person, there's always an 'or else.'"

His dark features twisted. It was a moment before he could speak. "Yes, Miss McCone, there is an 'or else.' People will get hurt. Like Jake Kaufmann was. It could start with Wintringham. Or his workers. Or his buddy, Paul. It could even start with you."

"Or you, Mr. Dettman," I replied quietly. "Or it could start with you."

I whirled and strode out of there, pausing briefly on the sidewalk to catch my breath. A young black man in a leather coat stepped around me, throwing me a puzzled glance. It wasn't until he had entered Dettman's orange door that I recognized him as the man who had come into Johnny Hart's the night before with the news of the "white dude's" murder.