CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Friday would be the day—the night—of the show at the Coliseum. But first Lindsey wanted to look for Andrew Joshua Hammersmith. He drove into San Francisco and put the Hyundai in a muni lot. Then he walked to Hammersmith’s hotel, a rotting pile of bricks that might once have housed respectable citizens. Now it had been converted to warehouse welfare cases and newly-arrived Asian refugees.

A hand-lettered cardboard sign hung in the doorway, advising one and all that no one was admitted except residents. Lindsey tried the door and found it locked. On a Friday at 11:00 AM. He rapped on the glass. He could see a few old men and women sitting around the lobby on faded furniture. A black-and-white TV set was mounted on a bracket eight or nine feet above the floor. Lindsey could make out a gasoline commercial. The people in the lobby were enchanted.

Lindsey tapped again, using a coin. A clerk leaned on the hotel counter, also engrossed in the gasoline commercial.

Lindsey crossed the street, entered a restaurant and saloon called Original Joe’s, and phoned the hotel.

After twenty rings a sleepy female voice answered.

Lindsey said he had to see Mr. Hammersmith.

The voice said no visitors were allowed.

Lindsey said it was an insurance matter.

The voice said no visitors were allowed.

Lindsey said it was worth twenty dollars.

The person on the other phone dropped the receiver into its cradle.

Lindsey crossed the street once more and rapped on the front door with a coin.

The sleepy-looking clerk—Lindsey could now tell that she was a woman—dragged herself to the door. She stood there, leaning against the glass for support.

Lindsey took a twenty out of his wallet and held it up for her to see. He felt like a private eye. The door opened and he stepped inside the hotel. The twenty disappeared before he could say a word. When the clerk locked the door behind Lindsey, he said, “What room is he in?”

“That’ll cost you another twenty.”

He paid, got the number, and walked past the enchanted TV viewers and up a flight of ill-smelling stairs. He found Hammersmith’s room and knocked on the door. It cost him another twenty to meet Hammersmith.

He was out of his uniform now, wearing a pair of ragged jeans and a faded plaid shirt.

Lindsey said, “I have to talk to you. Just for a few minutes.”

Hammersmith said, “I got nothing. Don’t know nothing. Go away.”

Lindsey said, “Then give me back my twenty.”

Hammersmith smiled. “No way.”

Lindsey said, “I don’t want to hurt you. I just need to know a few things about the car that was stolen at the Kleiner Mansion in Oakland.”

Hammersmith said, “I’m too busy.”

“Busy? Doing what?”

“Got to get my lunch.”

“You can talk to me.”

“Lunch time. Maybe you like to buy me lunch, we can talk some.”

Lindsey computed how much this was costing him. Well, International Surety should go for it. “Where?”

“Right across the street’s okay with me. OJ serve some good food.”

Lindsey sighed. “All right.”

They got a booth at the restaurant across the street. Lindsey had a late breakfast of bacon and eggs. Hammersmith ordered a T-bone, extra rare. Hammersmith refused to talk about anything except the Giants’ prospects until the food came. Then he dug in with gusto. Finally he sat back in his seat and said, “I could take another of those.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, sir. You want to hear me talk, ply me with steaks.”

Lindsey gave in.

Hammersmith said, “Now, what you want to hear?”

“It’s about the car.”

“I know that.”

“I’m trying to find it.”

“Okay.”

Where to start? Lindsey said, “Ah, are you a member of the New California Smart Set?” He knew that Hammersmith’s name was on the membership list, but it still seemed strange to him.

“Charter member. Ollie van Arndt made me do it.”

“He made you?”

“Put my name down. Pays my dues. Always gets me to come to the parties. I don’t mind. Lots of good food. Good drinks. I don’t drink much, but I like a little champagne now and again. I don’t mind.”

Lindsey shook his head. “I don’t understand. How do you know Oliver van Arndt?”

“I save his daddy. Saved him in England.”

Lindsey had mostly cleaned his plate, but he found a stray bit of bacon and nibbled on it. “Was that during the war?”

“Forty-four. June 6, 1944. You know what that day was? That was D-Day. Ike took the whole armada across the channel.”

“You were part of it?”

“Me, part of it?”

“Well, I thought—you leg.”

“Oh, no. I wasn’t no dogface. I was Air Force. Army Air Force. I was ground crew. We put up everything we had, close air support for the invasion. Those planes was coming back all shot to shit, corpses in ’em, crashing on the tarmac, it was terrible.”

Hammersmith took a forkfull of baked potato and chewed on it. “Terrible.” His eyes had a distant look. “This P-51 come in, holes in the wings, half the tail shot away, engine smoking. Comes in on half a landing gear, ground loops, I’m riding the rescue wagon.”

Lindsey waited while Hammersmith chewed some green beans. “I do love the food at OJ’s.” He closed his eyes in pleasure. When he opened them he said, “We get about twenty yards from this 51, flames start coming out of the engine, crew chief yells ‘No way,’ and the wagon starts to pull away from the 51. You see what I’m telling you, Mister? What’s your name? Mr. Lindsey. You see what I’m telling you?’

Lindsey nodded.

“That engine was on fire. Meant the fuel tank was gonna blow. But I saw that pilot. He was alive. He was struggling to get out of the cockpit. I jumped off the wagon, got him out of that cockpit, drug him away. Then the 51 blew.”

Lindsey said, “Is that how you lost your leg?”

Hammersmith grinned. “No way. I didn’t get a scratch. But I saved that pilot. He said he’d take care of me forever. That was Ollie’s daddy. Dead a long time now, but Ollie takes care of me, too. I get a little check every month. And he makes me go to those club meetings. I don’t mind. Lots of good food. And champagne. I don’t mind.”

Lindsey said, “But you leg.…”

Hammersmith said, “Well, afterward I stayed in. I figured, I made tech sergeant here. I got nothing outside. Never went to school. Never learned no trade. So I’ll just stay in. They kept me. Shee-it, I saw some of the world. They sent me over to the Pacific, we was gettin’ ready to land in Japan but the war ended first. So they sent me back to Germany, I was in the occupation. No more Air Force. They put me in the ground force. I got to see a lot of things.”

A waiter cleared their plates. Hammersmith ordered a slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee.

Lindsey said, “Your leg.”

“Yeah. Well, I saw those prison camps, those death camps. That was terrible. And some of them DP’s—you too young to remember DP’s. Displaced persons, they called ’em. Homeless people, that’s what they were. People wound up in the wrong country, or they tried to get away from the Rooshians, or they was POW’s and didn’t want to go back, or they was Jews, that was really sad, some of the things I saw.”

He wiped his face with his napkin. “I saw some nice things, too. I saw Hitler’s place at Berchtesgaden. Birdy’s Garden, we called it. But it was Berchtesgaden. That’s a kraut word. Don’t know what it means, probably something about a garden. Well, I was ready to stay in the service for life and would you believe I’m riding in a six-by-six truck and the driver’s a little drunk and he rams a building with it and we get all broken up. Three men killed. I lost my leg. So they give me a new leg and a pension and they send me home. So I look up Captain van Arndt, only by then he was Mr. van Arndt, and here I am.”

Lindsey just looked at him.

“That was forty years ago I lost my leg,” said Hammersmith.

Lindsey said, “What do you know about the car theft?”

“I saw it happen.”

“I thought Joseph Roberts was the only one who saw it happen.”

“I saw it happen,” Hammersmith repeated.

“Did you tell the police?”

“I tried. They wasn’t interested.”

“But Sergeant Gutiérrez—”

“I told him I didn’t see nothing. Police don’t care what some old black man see. Not with all those fancy folks there. Old black man, half crazy, wearing an old uniform. They don’t care.”

Lindsey said, “What did you see?”

Hammersmith said, “Two niggers stole that car. They come walking up, look around, jump in and they stole it. That’s all.”

“Two—uh—two.…”

“Two Oakland niggers. They bad people. I didn’t see nothing. I don’t know nothing, I don’t have nothing. You have time for another piece of pie? OJ’s, they serve very fine food.”

* * * *

Actually, the show was more fun than Lindsey had expected. Mother had been wildly excited at the idea of going to it, although the more she talked about the upcoming event, the more confused she became. She clearly had no comprehension of a ’50s-’60s revival. To her, it was just an exciting night.

Did she think it actually was the ’50s? Did she think that her husband was still alive, that she was a bride? How, in the fog-filled and twisted channels of her mind, did she account for her adult son?

Lindsey knew there was no way to find out, no point in trying to rationalize her confused thoughts. But he couldn’t leave the subject alone.

He pulled off the freeway and into the parking lot at the Coliseum. The show had drawn an early crowd, that was obvious. The parking lot was nearly full, but he managed to find a spot between a giant Chevrolet station wagon and a vintage Volkswagen van. That spells out the audience, he thought, middle-aged family types trying to recapture the past and graying hippies who’ve never let go of it. He wondered if there would be any Smart Set members here tonight—but, no, the era was too late for them. They would feel as out of place in 1959 as 1989; they needed to go back to the late ’40s at the very least, to feel comfortable. And to the ’20s to be really happy.

He’d kept the Hyundai’s radio tuned to an oldies station, and the disk jockey had spent as much time plugging the revival show as selling cosmetics and gasoline. Between pitches he played old records, and Mother sang along with the McGuire Sisters, Johnny Desmond, Dick Haymes, and Patience and Prudence.

Outside the car, Mother looked at the Coliseum Arena building and stopped in her tracks. She clutched Lindsey’s arm. “This is the wrong place, Hobo!”

He shook his head. “No it isn’t, Mother.”

“It is. I’ve seen it on TV. This is where they have the circus. This isn’t the gym. This isn’t where they’re holding the dance.”

He managed to pry her fingers loose. He put his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the Arena. “So many people wanted to come, they had to move it here,” he said. With his free hand he pointed. “See the people? They’re all going to see the show.”

He was wearing the Leslie Gore baseball cap that came in the guest package. He felt pretty silly in it, but Mother got such a kick out of it, he kept it on. And when he looked around, he didn’t feel conspicuous. At least half the people headed into the Arena had got themselves up in period outfits. Men with greased-back duck’s ass haircuts, rolled jeans, even white tee shirts with cigarette packages folded into the sleeves. On a cold, wet night! Women with bouffant hair, pedal pushers, sweater sets.

He kept Mother close to him, found their seats and settled in. He bought Mother a souvenir program book full of photos of the stars and facsimile ads from thirty years ago. Hudson Jets and Nash Airflytes, Kools and Old Golds, DuMont and Admiral TVs, Drel and Duz, Toni Home Permanents and even one for a Voice of Music wire recorder.

The auditorium was huge and the lighting was dim. Joe Roberts’ status with his friend Buddy Baron mustn’t have been too high. Their seats were halfway up the side tier and half the length of the auditorium from the stage. The flat center of the floor, used for Warriors basketball games, was covered over with temporary seats.

Buddy Baron wasn’t too obnoxious an M.C. He told some jokes that must have come from old Bob Hope kinescopes, read a few headlines from ancient newspapers, and introduced the acts. Fats Domino led off with a medley of “Blueberry Hill” and “My Blue Heaven,” and played for half an hour. The Chordettes followed, featuring “Mr. Sandman,” and Little Richard went wild on the stage singing “Tutti Frutti” and “Good Golly Miss Molly.”

The program book contained a warning against taking flash pictures or recording the show. Nobody seemed to be recording, although anybody might have a bootleg cassette machine under his coat. And hundreds of people, it seemed, were taking pictures. Most of the cameras Lindsey saw had big lenses and no flashes, but there still seemed a steady sequence of bright pinpoints flaring and disappearing all over the auditorium.

He took a walk with Mother during the intermission, waited for her outside the ladies’ room. While he waited he watched the crowd surging to refreshment and souvenir stands. He felt a massive hand on his shoulder. He spun around. The hand belonged to a muscular giant outfitted as a ’50s motorcycle tough. Martha Rachel Bernstein stood beside him, dressed as his chick.

Lindsey managed a tentative smile.

The giant said, “I’m Ed Mason. You must be Hobart Lindsey. Martha spotted you from across the crowd.” He stuck out a huge hand.

Lindsey trusted his own to Mason, felt relief to get it back unpulverized. “Pleasure,” he managed. “You make a great Hell’s Angel. More convincing than Marlon Brando.”

Mason laughed. “Yeah. This is a little different from my usual beat. Last time I was in this joint, the Warriors topped the Lakers. Can you imagine that? This team, beating the Lakers?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t follow basketball.”

“Smart fella.”

Martha Rachel Bernstein said, “How are you doing with Three Eyes’ dissertation?”

“It’s good. Very good. Lots of useful information in it.”

“Really?” She sounded unconvinced.

“Well, I want to look at it some more. Okay if I keep it a while?”

Bernstein said, “Sure. Good luck.”

They drifted away. Seconds later, Mother came out of the ladies’ room. Lindsey guided her back to their seats, relieved that he hadn’t had to introduce her to Bernstein and Mason.

The second part of the show opened with special guests, Question Mark and the Mysterians, a one-hit band who played a couple of nondescript tunes plus their one hit, “Ninety-six Tears.” Then came the star of the show, Leslie Gore. Buddy Barton was beside himself introducing her. She sang half a dozen songs, all of them about crying. Then she got to her all-time triumph, “It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want to.”

The auditorium was very dark. Flashbulbs kept popping. Mother dropped her souvenir program and started to fidget and whimper. Lindsey leaned across her and bent to retrieve the program. As he tipped his head he saw a particularly bright flashbulb go off and felt something slam into his shoulder like an Ed Mason hit.

The music was loud and Lindsey was slammed back against Mother and somebody behind him made a sound somewhere between a gasp and grunt and people started screaming.

People were shouting and jumping out of their seats. People around them started complaining, then yelling. Ushers started converging on them and Lindsey tried to sit up with Mother’s souvenir program in his hand but something hot and wet was pouring all over him, maybe the person behind him had dumped a styrofoam cup of coffee on him.

Lindsey started to snarl at the person who’d dumped the coffee but either his voice wasn’t working or there was so much noise he couldn’t hear himself. Mother was grabbing him, pawing him, pulling him to herself. Something heavy fell on him, something warm and fleshy, the person who’d dumped his coffee, or her coffee. The person felt soft, like a woman. Lindsey dropped the souvenir program and groped upward with his right hand; his left hand didn’t seem to be there. He felt the person, yes, it was definitely a woman, he grabbed and felt her breast in his hand. He felt ashamed, let go. She would be furious.

The weight was gone.

The lights were on. Security guards and ushers were pointing flashlights around, and the house lights were coming on, bank after bank. Lindsey couldn’t hear the music any more, maybe it had stopped. He could only hear screaming and shouting, and through it the voice of Mother calling, “Daddy, Daddy, come quick, somebody’s hurt our little Hobo, somebody’s shot our little Hobo!”

He was picked up by strong hands and half-dragged, half-carried across rows of rapidly emptying seats. He was laid on his back on a cold concrete floor. Somebody shined a flashlight on his face, then on his shoulder. He followed the light. The shoulder was covered with red. The light swung back to his face.

A voice said, “Can you hear me? You doing all right?”

Behind the flashlight he could see a black face with frizzled hair and a moustache, a security guard’s uniform. “Hey, man, talk to me.”

Lindsey said, “Mother—”

The guard said, “Help me, we need a stretcher.”

Lindsey said, “Help my mother. She needs help.”

A voice said, “She’s all right. She’d okay. Lay still.”

Lindsey said, “What happened?”

The voice said, “Somebody shot you.”

Lindsey couldn’t grasp that. “Shot me? Somebody shot me?”

“Just lay back. Just lay back.”

They must have got him up the stairs to the ramp. He felt himself lifted. He felt something under him. He felt it moving, it had to be a gurney. There were people around him, faces and clothing, white and black, coming and going, and the gurney kept rolling.

Shot? Somebody’d shot him?

He went through a doorway, down a dingy corridor. He was in the parking lot, he could see the gray-black clouds illuminated by the glare of lights. It was raining. He could feel the cold rain falling on his face.

He could hear the wheels of the gurney grinding over bits of gravel. He could hear voices shouting and other voices with the peculiar sound of radio speakers and doors slamming and he was lifted and more doors slammed, and he thought he must be in a dead van if he’d been shot and killed and they were taking him off to the morgue.

Something stung his arm and he turned to see what it was and saw somebody in a white costume with a needle in his arm, draining his blood out. That must be what they did to corpses, to prepare them for embalming. That was really indecently fast treatment for a fresh corpse, they should really got him to the morgue first, or to the mortuary, before they started draining his blood.

“I’m dead.” He heard his own voice, sounding like a distant mutter.

The person in white said, “No, you’re alive. You’ve been shot. This is an IV.”

“No, it’s my blood. You’re draining my blood.”

“No, it’s an IV.”

He heard crashing sounds, distant, and wondered why the dead van didn’t shudder when it crashed like that but it didn’t. It seemed to be moving and he heard its siren warbling.

He kept losing track of where he was and what was happening, blinking his eyes to see the mortician who was draining his blood. The mortician kept saying, “Hang on, you’re going to make it,” and Lindsey thought that was very considerate of him, not wanting the corpse to be too upset about having his blood drained.

He lost track of the lights and darkness, the swerves and jolts, the passings out and the comings to. He felt somebody holding his hand and he opened his eyes to too much brightness. He squeezed them shut again, then opened them more slowly.

He felt a monstrous throbbing in his left shoulder and he looked that way and saw a mound of bandages and beyond the bandages a man peering at him. The man was familiar. Lindsey squinted at him, trying to remember who he was. Finally he figured it out. It was Doc High. Lindsey said, “You’re not a real doctor, you’re a fucking cop. You think I’m a killer.” He had a lot of trouble with the last word, and by the time he got it out he knew that a gob of spit had spilled onto his chin.

Angry with High, he turned his head the other way. Somebody was holding onto his right hand. He could see his hand held by two hands, black hands. He blinked and looked up to see whose hands they were. They were Marvia Plum’s hands.

Marvia said, “Bart, you’re okay.”

Lindsey said, “No, I’m not. Somebody shot me. I’m dead. They drained my blood out. They’re going to embalm me.”

Another voice, neither Marvia’s nor Doc High’s, said, “He’s still in shock. Don’t worry. He’ll be okay.”

Marvia’s face got very big, came very close to Lindsey’s. All he could see was her face, surrounded by her black hair, filling the world. He said, “You’re all black. You’re all black.” He could see she was crying. Her tears fell onto his face and they made his face start crying too.

He passed out again. There were more strange sensations, movements and unpleasant spells and things being stuck in him, and then he passed out but good. And the next time he woke up he knew he was alive. He must have made some kind of sound, or maybe somebody was monitoring him, because a nurse came running in and looked at him. Lindsey said, “Somebody shot me.”

The nurse said, “That’s right.”

Lindsey said, “How badly?”

The nurse said, “Not very. The bullet entered your left shoulder, broke a bone and ricocheted out. They cleaned out the splinters already. You’ll do fine.”

“I thought I was dead, before.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. But you’re not dead now.”

“Who shot me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is Mother all right?”

“I don’t know.”

He tried to sit up but she moved forward and laid a hand on his right shoulder. Her touch was light but it was enough to weigh him down. He managed to raise his head enough to see that he was connected to an IV—again!—and to a couple of sensors. He said, “Can I talk to somebody? I need to know—I need to know—”

His head fell back onto his pillow and he closed his eyes until somebody shook him by his good shoulder. Another person in white. This one was male. He looked young enough to be Joanie Schorr’s little brother.

“How are you, Mr. Lindsey?’

“Who are you?”

“I’m your doctor.” The little boy gave a name that sounded like a brand of gourmet pasta. “What can I do for you?”

This time when Lindsey tried to sit up it was the doctor’s hand on his shoulder that held him down. “You’re really going to be okay, Mr. Lindsey. You’ll be out of here in a day or two, and back to work in a week. You were very lucky.”

“Huh. How come?”

“Well, I don’t think anybody shot you from directly overhead. The police said that the shot came from across the Arena. Do you remember it?”

Lindsey concentrated. Mother had dropped her souvenir program. He’d leaned over to pick it up for her. He told the doctor.

“Your lucky break. If you’d been sitting up, you wouldn’t be here now. Whoever shot you must have aimed at your head. I don’t see how he could do that, across a huge, dark auditorium.”

“My Leslie Gore hat.”

“What?”

“I was wearing a baseball cap with a picture of Leslie Gore on it. A white hat.”

The young doctor whistled. “Talk about the good news and the bad news! That hat was a target. Without it, you’d never have got shot. And if you hadn’t bent over to pick up that program, I can tell you, you wouldn’t be here now, you’d be at the city morgue.”

Lindsey said, “I guess.”

The doctor said, “By the way, who’s Leslie Gore?”

Lindsey said, “You wouldn’t know. Your mother might.”

The doctor chuckled. Then he said, “Lady sitting behind you wasn’t so lucky.”

Lindsey waited.

“When that bullet ricocheted it went up at an angle and got her in the throat. Severed arteries, crushed larynx, lodged in her top vertebra.”

“Then she’s—”

“Than a doornail. That’s how it goes. You were sitting up, you’d be in dead right now and she’d probably be at home with a story to tell her grandchildren. You bent over, she’s at the morgue and you’ll have the story to tell.”

“What about my mother?”

“What about her?”

“Is she all right? Was she hurt? She’s a little…confused, sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Lindsey. But we’re supposed to call OPD when you can talk. I think you can talk now. You agree?”

“I guess so.”

An hour later High was back.

Lindsey found the control that made his bed sit up. He saw that he was wearing an angel gown. He was still hooked to the IV but there was a tray beside his bed and he was able to reach for a glass of water and sip at it.

High was wearing a button-down shirt and a striped tie, a gray tweed jacket and charcoal slacks. He smiled nervously at Lindsey and wiggled his hands around as if he couldn’t decide what to do with them.

Lindsey spotted a hardbacked chair and gestured toward it.

High bobbed his head and slipped into the chair. “Nice to see you again,” he said. “How are you feeling? They taking care of you?”

Lindsey said, “I don’t even know what hospital I’m in.”

High said, “Kaiser Oakland. They were going to take you to Highland but the emergency room was too full. Motorcycle accidents and crack wars. You’re lucky. I understand the food at Highland is even worse than it is here.”

“I don’t think I’m hungry.”

“Can’t say that I blame you. You don’t look too great.”

Lindsey said, “What happened? Some little boy came in here a while ago and said he was a doctor. Said somebody’d shot at me from across the Arena.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know who? Do you know why? Did you catch him?”

High fumbled for a pocket notebook.

Before he had it open, Lindsey said, “Are you sure he was aiming at me? I mean, in a place that size, what were there, something like 14,000 people there, are you sure he wanted me? The little doctor said that a woman sitting behind me was killed, is that right?”

High nodded. “Mm-hmm.” He had his notebook open now and referred to it. “Angelina Tozzi, age 42, of San Leandro. At the show with her husband. Three children, one grandchild. Husband is taking it pretty hard.”

“You’re sure he was after me, not her.”

Again High nodded. “Akim Ibrahimi, a.k.a. Alvin Joseph Jackson of 94th Avenue, Oakland. He said, and I quote, pardon my French, ‘Fucker burned me, motherfucker burn artist fucker, show the fucker, miles, hundreds of miles, blow fucking head away cocksucker fucker burn me show fucker burn me blow that white hat right off his fuckhead.’ You were wearing a white hat, weren’t you? Several witnesses sitting around you said as much.”

Lindsey pushed himself upright with his uninjured arm. “Whoa! Wait a minute. Alvin J. Jackson?”

“Black male, twenty-three years old, unmarried.”

“Did he say why?”

“Other than the choice little statement I read to you?”

“I never heard of Alvin J. Jackson. Or Akim whatever that other name was.”

“Ibrahimi.”

“Well you must have asked him. What did he say? Where is he now?”

High flipped his notebook shut and open again a couple of times, looking unhappy. “He’s with the coroner. Preliminary report says he was full of cocaine and alcohol with traces of cannabis, methamphetamines, and a few other funny substances. He had a very unusual weapon with him. A Dragunov.”

“What’s that? Sounds like a thing with wings and claws.”

“Soviet-made sniper weapon. Apparently he smuggled it into the Arena disassembled, slipped it out from under his coat and put it together in the presence of 14,000 witnesses. It was very dark in there.”

“I know.”

“Took one shot at you, wounding you and killing Mrs. Tozzi. Threw the weapon away—it landed seven or eight rows from where he was sitting. He was able to run out of the auditorium and get to his car and reach the freeway.”

“Nobody stopped him?”

“Nobody knew what had happened. Nobody heard the shot except the people directly around him. Too much noise. And the Arena was dark except for the stage. That’s why he was able to sight on your baseball cap. There was so much confusion, so much panic, he just ran out.”

Lindsey tried to put his head in hands but there was a blinding pain in his left shoulder. His right hand flew up and smacked him in the face. “Oh, Jesus, I’m a mess.” He wiped his forehead with his good hand. “He’s dead?”

“He is. But his driver isn’t.”

“Driver?”

High referred to his notebook once again. “Willie M. Jackson, a.k.a. Ali Watani. No known address. Alvin’s brother. He’s alive. He insists that he doesn’t know anything about anything, his brother had a ticket for the show and told Willie he might want to leave early. Asked Willie to wait for him in the car with the engine running, and be ready to beat the crowd to the freeway.”

“You believe that, Lieutenant? You actually believe that?”

Before High could answer the telephone sounded. High picked it up. In a diffident voice he said, “This is Mr. Lindsey’s room.” Pause. “Yes, Mr. Lindsey is here.” He smiled at Lindsey. “May I tell him—?”

Pause.

“Not Henry Fonda?”

Pause.

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

Pause.

“I thought it was a little bit funny.”

Pause.

“Yes, I guess you do get sick of it.”

Pause.

“Mr. Lindsey.” He held the phone toward Lindsey’s good hand.

It was Joe Roberts, demanding to know who the joker was. Lindsey explained. Roberts said he’d just got around to looking at this morning’s Oakland Trib. There was a story in it about the shooting. He was beside himself with remorse. It was his tickets that Lindsey had used, his Leslie Gore hat that Lindsey had been wearing, he was so relieved that Lindsey was only wounded, that he was going to recover. And yes, it was tragic about that woman from San Leandro, he couldn’t feel worse. And could Lindsey ever forgive him for giving him those tickets. But anyway, had Lindsey had a chance to enjoy the rest of the show?

Lindsey muttered something polite and hung up. He sighed.

“A friend?” High said.

“A lightweight. Jackson is dead?”

“He got onto 980 headed west. Willie was driving. We got the CHP onto them. Went off the freeway at the Cypress structure in west Oakland. They were doing almost ninety. Caromed off a Toyota van and a Volvo station wagon and went over the guard rail. Willie was driving a ’78 Chevrolet Camaro, black with red and gold flame decorations. Straight down to the surface, thirty feet, landed in a front yard, fortunately unoccupied at the time. CHP got there, they were still alive. Alvin died in the ambulance. I read you his statement, didn’t I?”

“Yes. What about Willie?”

“You’ll get a kick out of this. He was a couple of doors from here at first. But they transferred him to Highland. He’s handcuffed to his bed. Probably recover, the docs tell me. But he says he was just Alvin’s driver, he’s sticking to his story, and for all we know it may even be true.”

Lindsey said, “Jesus.”

“Had an interesting arsenal in the Camaro,” High resumed, “as well as a few bindles of heroin, a box full of crack vials and paraphernalia, and about half a kilo of marijuana. Oh, and an empty whiskey bottle. Willie’s in a lot of trouble, but I don’t think we can pin the shooting on him. He may have been involved or maybe not, but he’s going to try and pin it on Alvin. And he’ll probably succeed. Of course we’ll check the weapon for fingerprints, but I expect they’ll be Alvin’s.”

Lindsey shook his head gingerly. “You know these guys?”

“Everybody at headquarters knows them. Apparently the brothers were new at the dope game, or pretty new anyway. We didn’t have any priors on them for that. But your friend Gutiérrez knows them well. Alvin in particular. He was an expert booster. Park you car for a minute, get out of it to make a phone call, and when you’re ready to drive away, it’s gone. That’s why everybody should have cellular phones.”

Lindsey gave him a look of mixed annoyance and puzzlement.

“Cop humor,” said High. “Sorry. Anyway, Akim, or Alvin, had a long record for auto theft, a few assaults and extortions.…” He consulted his notebook again. “…a couple of atrocious assaults and two murders to his credit. Ali Watani, or Willie, hasn’t racked up the record his brother has, but I suppose in time he will. Little brothers are like that. I found the murders in my files, but I’m afraid I didn’t remember Akim.”

Lindsey was incredulous. “This guy was walking the streets?”

“He was on probation for the most recent murder.”

Lindsey hit the button and lowered his head.

High said, “Can you think of any reason Mr. Ibrahimi a.k.a. Jackson was angry with you? Let’s assume that Willie really was just a driver. Why would Alvin call you a, pardon my French, ‘motherfucker burn artist fucker,’ if he didn’t even know you? Do you think the brothers were the parties who stole that Duesenberg from the Kleiner Mansion, and Alvin wanted you to stop pursuing them?”

Lindsey stared up at the bottle of clear liquid that was dripping through the IV tube into his arm. “I wasn’t getting anywhere at all on that case. If Alvin stole the car, maybe you can find it by checking him out. Where did you say he lived?”

“Ninety-fourth Avenue. We’re checking out there. No luck so far, but we’re still trying. My people and the auto theft folks.”

Lindsey closed his eyes. He ought to tell High that Jackson was shooting at Joe Roberts, not at Hobart Lindsey. How the dickens did Jackson know that Roberts was going to be at the show and wearing a white hat? That was a puzzle, but if Jackson was in the cocaine business and Buddy Barton was as sleazy a character as Lindsey suspected, then Jackson and Barton might have been acquainted. And Barton might have shown Jackson a revival show promo kit, maybe even given him one—and mentioned that Joe Roberts would have got one, and would probably be at the show.

And if Jackson had stolen the car at Roberts’ instructions, and Roberts then cheated Jackson on a promised fee, that would make Roberts a burn artist. A man of Jackson’s temperament and background, hopped up on half a dozen drugs, could very well have decided to kill Roberts.

And shot Lindsey because he was sitting in Roberts’ seat wearing the white Leslie Gore hat. And killed Angelina Tozzi because Lindsey’s mother had dropped her souvenir program.

Mother had dropped her program.

Where was Mother? What had she thought when the shooting took place? Had she got home? There was no way she could have got the car keys from Lindsey’s pocket and driven to Walnut Creek in the Hyundai. She didn’t drive at all, hadn’t for years. Where was she? Who was taking care of her?

Lindsey realized that his eyes were closed. He was flat on his back. He managed to squeeze one eye open enough to see the IV bottle and the flexible tube that led from it to his right arm. What was in the bottle? Why was he so drowsy? His eye slid shut.

The little doctor bustled around Lindsey, touching and humming and checking. Lindsey felt like a character in a Whitley Strieber book in the custody of aliens. What was going to happen next? He tried to sit up, remembered that he couldn’t, but was able to open his eyes.

It was a little doctor, a little dark brown doctor in hospital whites. Electric light glinted off her glasses. Her hair was jet black, glossy, braided like a child’s. The little doctor smiled at him. “Mr. Lindsey.”

“I know you.”

“Parvati Mukerji. Yes. I was Mr. Kleiner’s doctor.”

“Mr. Kleiner.” He was repeating, that was all. He had to say something of his own. “Otto Kleiner?”

“That’s right.”

Lindsey said, “How’s the old fellow doing?”

Dr. Mukerji looked sad. “I’m very sorry.”

Lindsey lay silently, then raised his bed so he could look at Dr. Mukerji. “Jayjay Smith told me he was getting better.”

“Yes. He did rally. But he was so frail, Mr. Lindsey. Sometimes at that age.…” She put her hand on his wrist. At first he thought she was trying to comfort him, and he was about to say, “Well, I hardly knew him,” but he realized that she was checking his pulse. Some kind of doctorly nervous habit, keeping her hands occupied.

Parvati Mukerji said, “Well, you have had quite an experience yourself, Mr. Lindsey. How are you feeling now?”

“Still a little woozy. Uh—” He reached for the water glass. It had been refilled. He took a sizable drink. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“I’ve been here—”

“You came in Friday night. Or early Saturday morning. The accounting office will be most interested in the exact date you were admitted.”

“I’ll bet they will.”

“Anyway, you have been here almost three days. I’ve spoken with your doctor.”

“That little boy?”

She grinned. “He is young, isn’t he? You’ll be going home in another day or two. Right now you should start eating the delicious food that our kitchen sends up. I think it’s almost as good as you can get on most airplanes.”

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

Dr. Mukerji smiled at him again and walked out. He had another thought, and called after her, “My mother, was she…,” but Dr. Mukerji was out into the hall by then, the heavy door to Lindsey’s room was easing itself shut with a shushing sound, and apparently Dr. Mukerji didn’t hear. At any rate, she didn’t come back.