The rain let up as Colleen took the Third Street exit off 101 into San Francisco and headed back to H&M Paint. The black outline of Candlestick Park jutted up, backlit by misty lights across the bay.
She parked the Torino out front, secured it with the club, grabbed her collapsible umbrella and keys, stood for a moment, looking around. No one. She let herself in through the gate and tread carefully across the debris-strewn asphalt, protecting her only pair of pumps. At the foot of the stairwell she removed the high heels and carried them in one hand as she stepped up the cold wet metal stairs. The icy wetness on the bottoms of her bare feet made her move faster.
In her “bedroom” she changed into jeans and sweatshirt and hung her suit on a wooden hanger, hooking it on an overhead pipe that snaked across the office. She turned on the space heater and directed it toward the damp outfit.
She pulled on socks, cowboy boots, and poncho and, armed with her five-cell flashlight and the section of pipe that doubled as a weapon, set off to do her rounds. It was starting to sprinkle again.
By the end of her patrol, she headed over to the delivery truck that hadn’t delivered a thing in years, in the far corner.
Around the back, the bag of trash she’d found earlier was fuller. Flashlight beam down on the bag, she opened it with the knobby end of pipe. Another Tecate beer can and another burrito wrapper, Chile Verde.
She stood up, listening, scanned the area with the flashlight. Light rain needled through the beam. All she could hear was the backdrop of bay water, lapping against the bricks and rubble along the shore behind the plant. She marched to the truck’s cab, shone the flashlight up into it, gripping the pipe in her other hand.
“Whoever is up there better come out. Right about now.”
No response.
“I can call the cops, too. I don’t imagine you want that.”
She heard a squeak of springs, movement inside the cab.
“Okay, okay,” a voice said in a Latin accent, deep, as if full of sleep. “I’ll go. I want no trouble.”
She stood back. “Open the door.”
The door handle squealed. Slowly, the door opened.
A man with light copper-colored skin looked at her, blinking back the flashlight beam. He was propped up on one elbow on the bench seat, his jacket draped over him. He had obviously been asleep. He was about thirty, Latino, muscular, with a short back-and-sides haircut, and a jet-black pompadour combed back slick but tousled from sleep. He needed a shave about a day ago but was carrying it off pretty well. He had well-defined cheekbones and dreamy eyes. Despite the fact that he was sleeping in the cab of an abandoned truck, he was easy to look at.
“Who might you be?” Colleen said.
“Ramon.” His hand went up to shield his eyes. “Can you take that out of my face, please?” He spoke English with an accent but spoke it well.
She directed the flashlight beam to one side.
“Thank you.” He sat up at the wheel and rubbed his eyes as he threw off the jacket. He wore a paint-spattered long-sleeved T-shirt and painters’ pants, once white, now touched here and there with color. Not too much, though. The sign of a good painter.
“How did you get in here?” she asked.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Hole in the fence.”
Colleen turned, shone her flashlight out into the water, highlighting the hole in a section of fence. “That hole is a good six feet out. And the water’s got to be a couple feet deep.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What are you—part fish?”
“Took my clothes off from the waist down. Shoes and socks, too. Carried them in my backpack.”
She thought about him nude from the waist down and realized it had been too long since she’d spent the night with anyone.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” she asked.
“The Hilton was full. Why?”
“I’m the night watchman,” she said.
He grinned. “You’re about the most fascinating night watchman I’ve ever seen.”
She gave a smirk. “You’re illegal.”
“I’m from El Salvador. There’s a war going on. No work to be had there.”
“You always eat the same thing every night? Chile Verde burritos?”
“Saving money. Send it back home.”
She knew from his letter he had a wife and kids.
“You married?” he asked.
“Now what does that have to do with you trespassing?”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger.”
“Not anymore.” Then, “Look—I can’t have you staying here. It’s my job. It’s what they pay me for.”
“Then I’ll pay you, too,” he said, “to let me sleep in the truck. I’ll come late, leave early. Just until the end of the week. That’s when my job ends. We’re painting an apartment building over on Valencia.” His handsome face softened. She felt for him.
“Sorry,” she said. “No can do.”
“Okay.” He rubbed his chin. “Give me a minute to get my shoes on and I’m out of here.”
She stood there, looking at this Ramon, who was well built but didn’t look very dangerous. Not nearly as dangerous as the animal that raped and killed Margaret Copeland, possibly still out there. And then she looked up, the rain coming down harder now, hitting her in the face.
She looked back at Ramon. He had one sneaker on, was searching for the other. Then she thought about how having Ramon around might actually be useful.
“Hold up,” she said.
He did.
“Here’s the deal,” Colleen said, pulling the brim of the head of her poncho out to deflect rain. “You can stay until your job’s done, end of the week, sleep in the truck. But I haven’t seen you. If anyone finds out, you’re gone.”
“Okay,” he said. “And that’s it?”
She shook her head. “If I’m not here, you’re my eyes and ears. You see anything weird going on, anybody hanging around, you let me know.”
“How do I do that?”
She turned, pointed up to the building. “Office. Up there. Slip a note under the door.” She turned back to face Ramon. “I’m especially interested if la policia stop by. Or a big vato, looks like a cop.” She described Randy. “But anyone else, too.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t get involved with anyone,” she said. “Just observe and report. Stay low, keep your eyes peeled, and let me know if anyone stops by, hey?”
“Deal,” he said, pulling off the one shoe. “You’re a nice person—you know that?”
“You leave end of the week.” She turned, headed back to the warehouse, the flashlight beam bouncing on wet rocks and bricks.
“Your husband must have been crazy,” he said, “to let you get away.”
She fanned the comment away. He was buttering her up. But he meant enough of it. Enough that she couldn’t help but savor it.