P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental (6 page)

I fought the urge to read the text, but the sweet, sweet Crackberry juice was already in my veins. I set down the guitar and picked up the Crackberry. Instead of a client, it was my friend Muriel, and all that appeared on the screen was a question mark.

I tapped a “Yes?” on the little keyboard. I wasn’t a huge fan of the texting lingo, as it reminded me of the silly “love you lots” messages that high-school girls wrote to each other in their yearbooks, and I would vomit before I used lingo like “LOL” or “WTF.” Muriel was bound to chide me for writing too much later.

“@ Seagull’s Nest.”

“Be there,” I thumbed back.

Muriel returned a text for the sole purpose of correcting me. “B there.”

A drink seemed like a good idea. I had a long day with practice and the new case. I grabbed my keys and satchel and zipped down the stairs. Harold heard the sound of my boots and leaned out of his living room to greet me. “Are you off to the Seagull’s Nest?”

“You know me all too well, Harold! Don’t wait up!”

I heard Harold chuckle and return to his Sinatra. He watched out for me in a way that my parents, who were always entangled in various social obligations, never did. Before the divorce, they hired nannies and relied on boarding school headmasters, anyway. Even though my professions required me to stay out all night and sleep late, I admitted that I liked the idea of a father figure who was a little bit worried that I might not come home.

CHAPTER 8

BUCKY

S
MILING TO MYSELF,
I
WALKED
along my side of the park toward the Shell station. Some drunk computer programmers were clowning around on the swing sets. One of them yelled the line from the “South Park” cartoon show, the one about killing Kenny, as if it were an original joke.

A homeless guy who liked to take his naps there shouted, “Kenny is dead, dammit! He’s been dead for a while, and I didn’t see nothin’!”

As I turned onto Third Street, another homeless guy shouted, “Every time you people say that, I expect a dollar!”

I crossed over to Bryant Street and was already thinking about a tall, fresh glass of cheap beer. Despite the city’s reputation as an artists’ mecca, I believed San Francisco bars as a whole were too clean, tidy, and tourist-ready. When I went to a bar, I didn’t necessarily want my choice of overpriced microbrews and fusion cuisine. The Seagull’s Nest wasn’t a tourist hangout. Instead of microbrews, it had the basics on tap. In place of fusion cuisine, the menu featured bags of Funyuns and Fritos hanging off the wall behind the owner, who usually staffed the bar. It had wood paneling, pool tables, and what I thought was the best jukebox in the city.

I was already rehearsing what I’d say to Muriel, who was a coffee jockey by day and a bassist for the all-girl punk band the Thunderpussies by night. Her particular band dressed in color-coordinated mini-dresses from the ‘60s. They chugged from whiskey bottles on stage and were once arrested en masse for mooning a heckling crowd and inciting a riot. When I first moved to San Francisco and started going to shows, the Thunderpussies were making their debut, and I admired their sense of style. We started hanging out since our bands used the same practice facility, the Echo Chamber.

Even though Muriel came off surly and a little frightening with her black-and-purple striped bob, blue arm tattoos, and rings up and down her ears, she was actually sweet, and we bonded when Muriel gave me some of the Thunderpussies’ spare guitar strings after the Echo Chamber’s snack shop ran out. I kept trying to talk Muriel into taking Larry’s place, but the Thunderpussies were way more successful, and Muriel had a fling with Shane that didn’t end well.

In fact, it ended with Muriel threatening to shove her bass up Shane’s ass and throw flaming bags of dog crap on his front stoop. One downside of hanging out with Muriel was that Shane was bound to come up, and I wasn’t sure whose side I should take in the rumble between my friend and my drummer.

But I had been plotting to ask Muriel to join the band again. Muriel had said that the front woman of the Thunderpussies was seriously considering going back to college because she had some sort of epiphany about helping mankind instead of rocking out and boozing every night. So, if the Thunderpussies were on the verge of breaking up, talking to Muriel was worth a try.

The Seagull’s Nest was on a desolated block of Bryant, so I walked a little faster. I passed a cluster of muscular young men who had poured themselves into tight black turtlenecks. One of them looked at me as if he were a little afraid to approach me, but he took the leap. In halting English, he asked, “Excuse me, miss? Where is the End Up?”

“Ah, the End Up! Keep going this way on Bryant, and hang a right on Sixth.” I looked at their outfits. Definitely Euros looking for a piece of some American male. “Where are you guys from?”

“Spain, miss.”

“Let me give you some advice. You look good, but you might want to be wearing less if you want to get in. Like, rip the sleeves off the turtlenecks. Hell, take the turtlenecks off! Adios, amigos!”

They stopped to re-evaluate their attire, and one of them was already yanking on his sleeves so he could expose his biceps. I kept moving. I could see the bar’s trademark blue awning and two bicycles locked up out front.

Then I heard the Spanish tourists shouting “Cuidado! Cuidado!” Tires screeched, and I turned to see a car hurtling toward me.

All I could see was the word “BUCKY” on the license plate, and I hoped that wouldn’t be the last thing I’d see before I died.

Just as I leapt out of the way and ducked into an alley, the car stopped. I peeked around the corner to see a rotund man emerge. He looked at the tourists, who stared back at him. Then he looked at me. “Miss Parker? Miss Parker? Your friend Harold said I might find you here.”

I poked my head out all the way to look at him and put the pieces of the puzzle together. Jamal and Harold were right—Sabrina Norton Buckner’s husband was indeed a god-awful driver. I waved at the tourists to indicate I was okay, and they walked off, muttering “loco!”

Shoving my hands in my jeans pockets, I replied, “Well, this is some introduction. Lemme guess, are you Mr. Buckner? Jamal said you were looking for me.”

“Yes, yes. I’m so glad I caught you.” He swept his hands against each other as if he were ready to get down to business, and he started walking around the front of the car. He looked ready to begin a full conversation right there on Bryant Street.

Once I got an eyeful of Mr. Buckner, I decided everything Jamal said about him was true. The headlights on his car threw everything on full display. The Beamer was blue with four doors. When Jamal said Mr. Buckner was a “white dude,” he meant it. Mr. Buckner was flat-out pasty. He had steel gray hair done a little long on the sides and swept back from his forehead, showcasing a receding hairline. He dressed as immaculately as his wife did, but, unlike her, he had indulged in a few too many meals at the Gold Rush BBQ, not to mention other restaurants, and his tummy strained against his suit buttons. Once he got a little closer, I confirmed all the little details that Jamal mentioned—the wrinkles, the tired eyes, the manicure.

“I’m Sabrina’s husband,” he said. Then he paused and added, “The chancellor.”

I played dumb. I almost blurted out in response, “Well, bully for you” because I was still pissed off that he almost ran me over. But I choked it back and told him, “Mr. Buckner, I don’t think this is the best place to talk. I’m more than willing to talk to a client, but would you be interested in visiting my satellite office?” I nodded my head toward the blue awning of the Seagull’s Nest.

He hesitated. “What about joining me in my car?”

I folded my arms across my chest and shook my head. Even if he was a public figure and his wife was my client, whether he knew it or not, he was still a stranger. Those Spanish tourists were long gone for a sweaty night at the End Up, so I didn’t have any witnesses in case anything went wrong. “The introductory meeting should always be on the detective’s turf. My satellite office, or no go.” I thought he was worried someone important might see him in a place as unsavory as the Seagull’s Nest, so I added, “Hardly anyone is in there at this time. And they’re not your type.”

Relenting, Mr. Buckner took my arm, which I didn’t like, and pointed the way to the Seagull’s Nest. “Whatever you say, Miss Parker.”

“Perhaps you’d better park the car first. And don’t forget the headlights,” I reminded him. Perhaps a scandal associated with his job and a wife who was pouring money into a shrink’s practice was making the guy absolutely scatterbrained.

I watched him trying to back his car into an open space, and I wondered how Sabrina Norton Buckner found a guy who didn’t even know how to parallel park remotely interesting. And how did a guy who couldn’t parallel park run a major university?

As Mr. Buckner climbed out of the car—awkwardly, given the size of his tummy—I asked, “Mr. Buckner, if you’ll excuse me, are you feeling all right?”

His eyes got wide, as if it never occurred to him that a private eye might notice details. “Oh, oh … the car. Yes, I am used to parking in Sacramento. Open spaces, you know!” He stretched his arms to suggest an expanse of land and gave me a forced smile.

CHAPTER 9

THE SEAGULL’S NEST

A
S SOON AS WE ENTERED
the Seagull’s Nest, I saw Muriel, with her candy-striped purple-and-black hair, chatting up a guy by the bar. The guy was wearing the standard-issue hipster attire of heavy black glasses and an ironic T-shirt that said “Tastes Like Chicken.” He was openly flouting the city’s no-smoking ban. I heard him say, “You would not believe what I could do with a sitar. It is one sexy instrument.”

I entered first, caught Muriel’s eye, and mouthed the word, “Client.” Muriel mouthed, “Huh?” and then pointed at the guy. As he droned on about his sitar, she mouthed, “Hot!”

I figured Muriel could more than occupy herself for a little while. I asked Mr. Buckner, “You want a drink?”

He was already starting to sweat, even though the bar was cool. He jumped when a Tom Waits track began to howl from the jukebox. He stared at Muriel with a mix of amazement and horror, as if he didn’t know whether to get her phone number or run like hell. “Um, yes. Gin and tonic, please.”

I nodded. I bought him his gin and tonic, along with a Bud and a bag of Fritos for myself. I said to Muriel, “Find me later.” Then I led Mr. Buckner to the back. “There’s a quiet corner where we can talk.”

The Seagull’s Nest had a raised plateau just behind the pool tables. From there, no one at the bar could see what was going on, and the owner would sometimes stroll back there to refill drinks. I would be able to concentrate and find out what Sabrina Norton Buckner’s husband wanted.

The chancellor climbed the stairs and sloshed his gin and tonic slightly, muttering something about how “interesting” the Seagull’s Nest was. He pulled out a handkerchief and made a show of wiping down the booth seat.

I took out my notepad and got to work. “What kind of work do you need from me, Mr. Buckner?”

Mr. Buckner raised his handkerchief to his forehead, all ready to wipe the sweat from it, but he thought better of it since he’d already pressed it to the seat. He stuffed the hankie back in his pocket and settled for smearing the sweat across his forehead with his hand. “I know my wife contacted you today. I found your card in our bedroom. She’s lost that necklace, hasn’t she?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to start looking for it.” That was interesting. Sabrina seemed to think her husband didn’t know about the necklace.

“Good.” The chancellor’s sweat dripped down his nose. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to add something to your case load—at a reasonable fee, of course. I don’t know if you know much about the UC pay dispute—”

I merely nodded. After living with Harold, I probably knew more about the dispute than the chancellor himself did, and Mr. Buckner wouldn’t appreciate my opinion. To help Mr. Buckner explain himself, I kept my thoughts to myself. “It’s my job to keep up with local news. It’s not my job to judge.” Sometimes I wished I could have those words tattooed on my forehead.

“I am under scrutiny, Miss Parker. I have reporters following me.” He smiled ruefully. “They probably do as much snooping around as you do.”

I doubted it. I knew a few reporters who liked to unwind at the local shows. Most of them drank harder than I or any other Marquee Idol did. Some of them bought pot from Wayne. And, when a few of them found out about my day job, they started calling
me
for tips.

The chancellor continued, “With the reporters after me at school, I don’t need any trouble in my private life. And my wife’s habits are causing me problems. It’s not just the necklace.”

“What do you mean by problems?” I asked.

“She hasn’t been stable lately. She’s not careful about where she goes or who she speaks with. She forgets things. She spends money like water. She decided to go to a psychiatrist, but he’s not helping. She talks to herself even more, and she leaves our valuables all over the house. That’s how she lost her necklace.”

“Funny,” I said. “She told me that she doesn’t lose things.”

Mr. Buckner continued, “The other day, I found a diamond brooch just sitting on the dining room table! Out in the open! Any of the maids could have taken it! She…” He paused, as if he were trying to find the right words. “She’s never had the strongest grip on reality.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But what do you want me to do besides find the necklace?” I asked.

Mr. Buckner stared me in the eyes, as if he were making a heartfelt pitch to a donor. “Losing the necklace would be terrible for us financially. But I really don’t want to lose my job and my wife. I need to rebuild my image to keep both. While you are looking for the necklace, I will pay you extra to keep an eye on her.”

“And report what I see back to you?”

He waved his hands. “If you find the necklace, I guarantee she will lose it again. If you know where she goes and what she does, then maybe I can help her get better.”