Reginald Rockwood III died today at the age of 35. He was an heir to the fortune of one of California’s wealthiest families. Born in San Francisco in 1925, he attended the Cate Preparatory School and the University of California, Berkeley, where he graduated with honors. He served with distinction in the armed forces of the United States, and was decorated for bravery during the Korean War. His parents and a sister, Mrs. Eugene Haskell of Palo Alto, survive him. Services will be held at Grace Cathedral this coming Tuesday.
IT WAS A CRISP autumn day in San Francisco in 1960, and John F. Kennedy had just been elected president. Samuel Hamilton was sitting at the large round table at the front of Camelot, his favorite bar. Little did the public know the bar’s name would soon be co-opted by pundits to describe Kennedy’s short reign. It was the table he had shared with Reginald almost every night for the last two years.
Samuel, a transplant from Nebraska, was a mix of Scottish and German ancestry. He had dropped out of Stanford at the end of his second year after his parents were mugged and murdered by unknown assailants. That, however, was not his only woe. While in mourning, he had gotten drunk and driven head-on into another car, badly injuring a young woman. He would have gone to jail had it not been for the maneuverings of a young San Francisco lawyer. As a result of the accident, Samuel had lost his driving privileges for three years, which further plunged him into a darkness that he was still unable to exit.
He read with sadness the words in the obit column of the local newspaper, where he worked selling classified ads. Rockwell’s death did not help his state of mind. Unable to shake his parents’ demise or the accident, he had been wandering aimlessly for the past six years, nursing the depression that seemed to follow him and that served as an excuse for his lack of purpose. And now this!
With Reginald’s death, Samuel had lost his drinking buddy and the person he’d gotten used to commiserating with. Samuel had listened with admiration and a certain envy to Reginald’s stories of world travel and his conquest of exotic females in every corner of the globe. They’d even talked about the possibility of taking an adventurous trip together. For someone in Samuel’s condition, Reginald was a life raft.
He scratched his head of fast-receding red hair in puzzlement, drawing deeply on his unfiltered cigarette. His baggy sports coat, its sleeves freckled with burn holes, hung limply from his shoulders, which were flaked with dandruff. Everything about him stood in sharp contrast to the dapper Rockwood, who’d been a handsome and charming man in spite of the disdainful smile that often twisted his expression.
Samuel recalled the deep lines around the corners of Reginald’s mouth and eyes—eyes that had begun to protrude slightly, probably because of the fast life he led. Not that the lines had detracted at all from his distinctive looks: he was slim and long-boned, with heavy eyelids, well-defined eyebrows, and a full head of black hair that was always slicked back. He looked like an Italian movie actor, and in Samuel’s estimation he was an immaculate dresser. In fact, he never saw Reginald wearing anything other than a tux. Sometimes he even wondered if Reginald’s dress wasn’t out of place, but he never dared mention it. Who was he to have an opinion about fashion? His friend was a nocturnal creature and Samuel assumed he circulated in high society, where a tuxedo, perhaps, was appropriate. He flicked the ashes of his cigarette toward the ashtray but missed. A few spilled onto the table while the rest floated gently to the floor.
It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning. Outside the bar, one could gaze at the San Francisco Bay and watch the cable cars as they turned and made their way down Nob Hill toward the other side of the busy city, their bells clanging. On cold and windy days like this one, the conductors provided blankets for passengers who wanted to cover their exposed legs.
Samuel was the only one at the table that morning. He called to Melba, one of Camelot’s owners. She was a woman in her early fifties, but she looked older; smoking, drinking and hard work had worn her out. She had the coarse voice of a sailor, and her only sign of vanity was the blue tint in her gray hair. In the bar’s dim light her coif looked like a wig.
“Did you know that Reginald Rockwood died?”
“Yeah, I read the obituary in the paper,” she said. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“He was an asshole when he was alive, so he’s an asshole when he’s dead,” she muttered.
“What?” exclaimed Samuel. “I thought he was well-liked and respected here. He certainly had an air of success about him.”
“Bullshit. The guy was always wandering around in that fucking tux like he was on the way to some debutante party. But let’s face it, if he was really successful, he wouldn’t have spent his time here.”
Samuel was perturbed but chose to ignore the obvious slap at regulars like him. “You’re just mad because Reginald owed you $200, and now you probably won’t get your money.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Or do you know something about him that I don’t?”
“Just a feeling,” replied Melba. “Just a feeling.”
“Based on what?” asked Samuel.
“That the guy was a prick and tighter than a mule’s ass. He was here every night of the week and he never bought anybody a drink, not even himself. He was a loser.”
“You’re just pissed because he never gave you a tip.”
“It’s more than that. I bet you didn’t ever see him eat, other than at the hors d’oeuvre table in the back there.”
“That’s true. But he was always on his way to some big party. He’d have the invitation in his jacket pocket, and he’d drop in here for a nibble and a drink beforehand.”
“Okay, I’ll make you a bet,” said Melba. “Ten bucks says you can’t find one person this guy ever spent a dime on.”
“What d’ya mean? He was going to take me to Morocco. He’d already bought the plane tickets. At least that’s what he told me on more than one occasion.”
“Yeah, sure,” laughed Melba. “Show ’em to me.”
“Okay, I’ll take your bet,” said Samuel. He gave her one of his infectious smiles that shone from his face when he was happy or when he thought he’d won a significant coup, such as his bet with Melba. He had no idea how he could prove that Reginald actually had those tickets.
Samuel settled down and returned to his reverie. He lit another cigarette and sipped his Scotch—which he always drank on the rocks—and reflected on the fact that he’d spent a lot of time talking with Reginald and had thought he knew him. He’d found him to be a sensitive and intelligent person who had some insight into the world and its complex problems. He certainly didn’t see him as a cheapskate or a loser, as Melba suggested, or he wouldn’t have hung around him. Even she must have trusted Reginald a little, since she’d loaned him what Samuel considered a lot of money. And he would have stuck to that opinion and gone on with his mediocre life had he not gone to the service for Reginald at Grace Cathedral the following Tuesday.
* * *
Samuel arrived early, assuming it would be crowded, but he found the church deserted. He waited for the appointed hour, and still there was no service and no sign of anyone even interested in one. He went to the front of the church and checked the log of activities for the day, but nothing was listed for Reginald Rockwood. Figuring he had gotten the date wrong, he asked an avuncular priest he found wandering around if he knew anything about the deceased. The clergyman searched the church record; he showed Samuel that no service was scheduled for Mr. Rockwood that day or at any time in the past or the future.
Samuel went back to Camelot. Melba was just coming on shift. He explained to her what he had just been through.
“Reginald probably planted that obit himself and then skipped town because he owed so much money.” Samuel thought she was thinking of the $200 she’d lost.
“What about the body?” asked Samuel.
“That’s the thing. Are you sure the cadaver is Rockwood? He’s not the only guy in the city who dresses in a tuxedo.
“Someone must have identified him,” said Samuel.
“Maybe he was involved in an accident,” said Melba.
Samuel didn’t know what to make of it. He downed two double Scotches on the rocks and made his way uneasily back to his den on the edge of Chinatown, at the corner of Powell and Pacific. It was a small place with only enough space for a pull-down bed, a sofa, and a table, and it was badly in need of a cleaning. He hung his laundry on a wire strung across the room. There was also a little kitchen, which he never used, and a bathroom with rusty faucets. It wasn’t a palace but there was no reason to complain. A whole family of Chinese could live in an apartment this size.
He staggered up the stairs, went to bed, and didn’t wake up until the next morning.
* * *
After finishing his ablutions he went for a cup of weak coffee and a pastry at Chop Suey Louie’s, the local Chinese bargain café near his flat. He said hello to his friend, the proprietor, and received a broad smile in return. Louie’s mother was there, as usual, sitting at a table near the door keeping an eye on the clients. The little old lady had been in San Francisco for thirty years, but she thought she was still in Canton. She didn’t speak a word of English, and she never ventured outside of Chinatown. Louie, on the other hand, spoke English without an accent and was so proud of being an American that his restaurant was decorated with American flags and photographs of him and soldiers he’d served with in the army in the Second World War and Korea. He was about Samuel’s height and had black bushy hair; a round, kind, acne-scarred face; and an amiable personality that gained him more clientele than his kitchen merited.
The twelve tables of his small restaurant were all draped with blue oilcloth coverings. On each was a bottle of soy sauce, a saltshaker, a pepper container, and a chrome paper napkin holder. The counter where Samuel usually sat had six seats that faced a large aquarium covering almost the entire back wall in front of the kitchen. The tropical fish that swam among the carefully tended tank flora had a hypnotic effect on him. Sometimes he would come in just to watch them.
After his morning infusion, he caught the Hyde Street cable car to its terminus at the end of Powell Street and walked the few blocks to his job at the newspaper located at Third and Market, setting his watch to the clock in the tower of the Ferry Building at the foot of Market. His office, which he shared with five other ad salesmen, was in the basement of the twenty-story building that housed the giant journal. He walked down two flights of dimly lit stairs and when he finally reached the hallway, he felt grateful that the ceiling fan was working that day. It took away some of the musty smell that usually lingered there. He opened the opaque glass door with black bold letters that spelled “Advertising Department”. He flicked on the fluorescent light, which gave a greenish hue to the windowless room. Five desks were crammed into a space that should have accommodated two; each one was piled high with telephone directories and stacks of papers. Some had been there for a long time. He looked through his messages, all of which were pretty mundane: mostly promises to buy an ad at some undetermined future date. He tried to focus, but Reginald Rockwood’s ghost haunted him. Why wouldn’t a dead guy show up for his own funeral? He started thinking about what Melba had said about Rockwood planning his own disappearance. He went down to talk to the clerk in the obit department. He had the clipping in hand. “Do you remember anything about this?” he asked, showing it to the clerk.
The clerk absentmindedly took the clipping and disappeared into the back room. While he was waiting, Samuel tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his white shirt and the sleeves of his beige sport coat. The ashes of his cigarette fell on the floor, and the overhead fan scattered them into the corners of the small stuffy office.
The clerk came back with the file. “I remember the guy who brought this in: impossible to forget him. He was dressed to kill, in a tux, no less. He said his brother died, and he wanted to make sure we ran it on Saturday. The only thing that ticked me off was that he wanted to be served like a prince, but the SOB didn’t even give me a tip.”
“A tux, huh?” repeated Samuel, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Can you describe him? What color was his hair?”
“Real black, slicked back, brown eyes. Very handsome man.”
“How tall?”
“Tall, and well-built.”
“Did he leave an address?”
“Sure did. A fancy one, way down on Broadway in Pacific Heights.”
Samuel wrote it down. When he left, he was puzzled. He began to think Reginald really had come in with his own obituary.
He shot up the stairs and went out onto the street. It had started to drizzle, and he didn’t have a raincoat. He caught the Third Street trolley bus, which took him across Market and up Kearney, where he transferred to a Pacific Avenue bus right at the foot of Chinatown. Here even the smell was different. The sterile scent of the financial district was replaced by soy and ginger, and he could almost taste the noodles he knew were steaming in the Chinese kitchens that now surrounded him.
The bus lifted over the hill and across Van Ness into the neighborhood where he thought Reginald lived. He rang the doorbell of the stately mansion with Greek columns on the front porch. When the large, ornately carved mahogany door stained a deep dark walnut opened slowly, he found himself staring down at a pleasant-looking Chinese maid in a black dress covered by a starched white apron, who stared back at him through wire-frame glasses.
“Yes, sir. Help you?” she asked.
“My name is Hamilton. I’m from the local newspaper. I’m trying to run down a story on Reginald Rockwood III. Our records indicate he lived here.”
“No, no. That man no live here,” she responded.
“Did you know him, at least?” he asked, sounding relieved.
“That man came to party here. Vely hungry. Eat lots of free food and free drink from the trays, and then leave.”
“When was this?”
“Three months ago.”
“How is it you remember him?”
“I remember everybody that come here, including name. He tall, handsome, for white devil. Black hair. Vely hungry. Eat everything, then go.”
“Do you know where he lives or where he came from?”
“No, no. Just come to party. Never saw him before. He had invitation.”
“Can I talk to the lady of the house?” he asked.
“Not here. Leave card, maybe she calls you.”
Samuel gave her his card.
“Welcome, sir,” and she closed the big door.
* * *
Samuel had time to think on his bus ride back downtown. It was becoming clear that his friend had written his own obituary. He realized that it was probably all lies but he couldn’t figure out why Reginald would do such a thing. Melba’s doubts rang in his ears. He certainly wouldn’t do it to get out of repaying $200. Surely he owed more than that or had other serious problems. What did he know about the guy? Not much, really.
He got off the bus when it stopped in front of the newspaper office, went downstairs, and sought out a friend of his who was a reporter on the police beat. He found him pounding away on his typewriter, his fingers smudged with black ink from the carbon paper. He explained to him what he’d found out.
“Try the medical examiner. They investigate deaths,” the reporter said.
Twenty minutes later, Samuel was at the medical examiner’s office right behind the new Hall of Justice, where all the criminal courts were located.
“Is the boss in?” he asked the clerk, an emaciated young man with yellow teeth.
“He’s with someone right now. It’ll be about fifteen minutes. Who should I say is calling?”
“Samuel Hamilton. I was sent over here by the reporter on the police beat; I work for the newspaper.”
“Maybe I can help you?”
“We’re looking into the death of Reginald Rockwood III. Does the name ring a bell?”
“Yeah, it sure does. I was fussing around with that one for a while, but the boss took it over personally. They say the guy was a socialite.”
“What d’ya mean, ‘they say’?” asked Samuel.
“Take it up with the boss,” said the clerk. “He’s free now.”
Samuel walked into the medical examiner’s office. He was a tall, shabby-appearing man, with the melancholy air of a turtle, dressed in a white medical jacket with a nameplate. There were anatomy charts displaying different parts of the human body, and in one of the corners stood a real skeleton, on which he’d placed a French beret.
“The clerk tells me you’re inquiring about Reginald Rockwood,” the examiner said.
“He’s the one. Some things about this guy just don’t make sense,” Samuel confessed. “You know, he planted his own obituary a few days before he died.”
“Well, the body we’ve got here is him, all right. The fingerprints check out.”
“What was the cause of death?” asked Samuel.
“Suicide. He jumped in front of a trolley bus. But he needn’t have bothered; he was a pretty sick young man. The autopsy showed that he had a liver the size of a football. I guess he knew what was coming and took a shortcut.”
Samuel shook his head in disbelief. “I went to the address he left as his own, but the maid said he never lived there.”
“Really? We haven’t found a home address yet. Did they know who he was?”
“Only that he went to a party there three months ago,” answered Samuel.
“We called the Haskell woman, the one he claimed was his sister, but she never heard of him,” said the examiner.
“I’ll cross her off my list,” said Samuel. “Do you know if and where he worked?”
“Not a clue,” said the examiner. “He was admitted to San Francisco General on Friday night, but he was in a coma, according to the records. He died on Saturday morning without regaining consciousness. No one’s claimed the body yet. And from what I gather, no one will.”
“You have his body here?” asked Samuel, surprised.
“This is the morgue. Where else would it be?”
“Can I see it? He was a special friend of mine, and it would mean a lot to me.”
The turtle face expressed doubt for a moment. “This is a little out of the ordinary, but I suppose we could use a physical ID for the record. Follow me.”
Together they walked down the hall, through some swinging double doors, and entered the morgue. They went through another door on the right side of the hallway into a room full of what looked like stainless steel boxes stacked four high along three of the walls. Each was eighteen inches square and had a number on it. On a desk right next to the entrance door was a ledger book and a notepad. The examiner looked up the name Rockwell and wrote a number on the pad, then ripped it off and walked down the row of squares until he reached number twenty-five. He rechecked the number.
“You’re not suffering from heart trouble or anything like that, are you?” he asked Samuel.
“No, sir. I admit, though, I haven’t seen a dead person since my parents died a few years ago.”
“You’re sure you want to see it.”
“Yes, sir. It’s important to me.”
“Okay, you asked for it,” and he opened the drawer.
Samuel saw a white sheet covering the outline of a body on a metal tray. He felt the cold air from the open box. The examiner stopped pulling when the drawer was about three feet out, then slowly peeled back the sheet to expose the head and shoulders to just below the nipples.
“That’s him,” said Samuel, when he was able to speak after a long pause. He expected to see Reginald’s smiling face as he remembered it, but the violent death had smashed that face to bits. Samuel supposed that he’d fallen in front of the trolley bus and been dragged along the asphalt. His nose was flattened and one of his cheekbones was caved in; but it was his friend: the same black hair, well-defined eyebrows, and refined lips. He saw the autopsy stitches on his torso in between his breasts.
“That’s awful,” he murmured.
“What did I tell you?”
“What do these bruises on his arms mean? They look like someone had a pretty strong grip on him.”
“I wouldn’t put too much emphasis on those,” said the examiner. “He was in a coma for several hours before he died. Obviously, the nursing staff was moving him around.” He waited a few seconds then asked, “Seen enough?”
“Yeah, thanks. You understand, don’t you? He was a good friend of mine.”
“I understand,” said the examiner, covering the body and pushing it back into its place.
On the way back to the office, Samuel asked, “What’ll happen to the body?”
“We’ll hold it for a month or so; if it’s not claimed or there’s no other problems, we donate it to science. They always need cadavers at the University of California Medical School.
“I have one more favor to ask,” said Samuel. “Can I go through his belongings?”
“That’s sort of against the rules, too; but what the hell. We’ll say you’re helping to solve the mystery.”
He picked up the phone and told the clerk to let Samuel see the property file. In a few minutes the clerk entered with a garment bag containing a tuxedo, a shirt, socks, and underwear; and a plastic bag with a wallet, watch, cuff links and studs for a dress shirt, an almost empty pack of cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, and seventeen dollars in cash.
“Help yourself. You can use the evidence room right through there. Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks. I’ll report back if I find anything that might help,” said Samuel.
When he looked at the pile of stuff in front of him, tears welled up in his eyes. He didn’t cry easily, but it made him sad to think that this was all that was left of the poor bastard. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, realizing he just couldn’t turn and leave, as he had wanted to.
Instead, he started methodically going through the wallet. There was no driver’s license, only a social security card and a photo of a younger Reginald in an army uniform. He had lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders, but Samuel couldn’t tell if they were silver or gold. Next, he searched the pockets of his tuxedo and found an invitation to a party for the night Reginald had apparently jumped in front of the trolley bus. It was to an exclusive cocktail bash in Pacific Heights at the home of a wealthy industrialist. The invitation was engraved at Engel’s of San Francisco, an upscale printing establishment on Sacramento Street in the financial district. There was an RSVP number on it, so Samuel interrupted his search and called the number. They’d never heard of Reginald Rockwood III, and they had no idea why he would have an invitation. He certainly wasn’t invited.
In the autopsy folder, in addition to the examiner’s findings, was a one-page police report that indicated Rockwood had suddenly appeared in front of a trolley bus right by General Hospital, and the driver couldn’t stop.
He went back into the medical examiner’s office and told him what he had learned. “I’ll go over to the printers and let you know if I find out anything new. Thanks for sharing,” said Samuel, as he left.
* * *
Engel’s was on Sacramento Street a few blocks east of Montgomery, close to the Embarcadero, which ran next to the bay. Samuel pushed open the door and found himself in a nicely furnished waiting room with Piranesi engravings of old Rome on all the walls. There was no one at the reception desk, so he rang the bell. Almost immediately an attractive young woman dressed in a severe two-piece suit appeared and asked if she could be of service.
“My name is Samuel Hamilton. I work for the local newspaper,” he said, surprised at his own audacity. “We’re doing a story on a young man by the name of Reginald Rockwood. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“You’d better talk to Mr. Engel.” She dialed the phone. “Someone’s here inquiring about Mr. Rockwood.” Then she turned back to Samuel. “He’ll be right with you.”
A distinguished elderly man soon appeared, elegantly dressed in a dark three-piece suit but with a wide and bright tie. He greeted Samuel with professional courtesy. “You’re inquiring about Reginald Rockwood? He worked here, but we haven’t seen him in several days.”
“You apparently haven’t heard the news,” responded Samuel.
“What news?” inquired the old man.
“He died on Saturday.”
“Oh, my goodness. How unexpected. He was young and apparently healthy,” Engel commented.
“Can I talk with you in private?” asked Samuel.
He was ushered down an endless hallway to an office decorated with photographs of Engel alongside prominent social and political figures. The man offered him a seat. He seemed upset by the bad news.
“I didn’t want to discuss the details of his death in front of your employee.”
“How did he die?”
“Looks like he committed suicide on Friday.”
“Good Heavens! Why would he do that?” he asked searchingly. “You know, he was here on Friday as usual, and then didn’t show up again. We were wondering what’d become of him.”
“What did he do for you?” asked Samuel.
“He was our night janitor.”
“Janitor?” Samuel asked, in disbelief. “I always saw him dressed in a tuxedo.”
“A tuxedo? That explains it,” said Engel. “Here he mopped the floors and took out the trash for almost four years.” He was about to continue but Samuel interrupted him.
“Do you have an address for him or his kin?” asked Samuel.
“We did have an address and a phone number, but when he didn’t show up on Monday, we called the number and it was out of service. We sent a man out to the address. It turned out nobody lived there; it was a vacant lot. Then we started to worry because we thought that he’d left town for some mysterious reason, so we changed the locks on all the doors.
“That’s when we had a big surprise. We opened the broom closet where all the supplies are kept, and we found four tuxedos, a mini dresser full of his undergarments, and a shaving kit. There was even a sleeping bag tucked in one corner. He must have been sleeping in there.”
“Did you have any idea this was going on?” asked Samuel.
“None whatsoever.”
“If I understand your business, Mr. Engel, you do a lot of engraving for the socially prominent in the city?”
“That’s correct. For four generations we’ve taken care of the upper crust, and we do so with pride,” he answered.
“Is it possible that Mr. Rockwood was taking an invitation from each of the engravings your company made and attending the corresponding social events, pretending to be an invited guest?”
“Well, anything’s possible,” said Engel. Samuel could see that he was disturbed by the possibility that if this were made public, it would damage the prestige of his firm.
“Let me show you what I mean,” said Samuel, taking out the obituary clipping and handing it to him. Engel read it quickly and turned even paler.
“It’s beginning to make sense now. In the closet we also found a box of invitations from the past four years. They were filed in alphabetical order and had notes and phone numbers on them. It was as if he were making some kind of a record for reference purposes.”
“So the guy was actually living in your broom closet and feeding himself at your clients’ parties? No wonder his liver was shot,” said Samuel. “Did you find any plane tickets to Morocco, by any chance?” he asked.
“Nothing like that in his belongings. I would have noticed.”
“You’ve been a big help, Mr. Engel. Would you like me to let you know if I find out anything?”
“It would be greatly appreciated, young man. Mr. Rockwell was a pleasant employee. We’d like to know what happened to him.”
Samuel walked out of the engraving shop and confronted the afternoon traffic. The man was a cheapskate and probably a phony, he mumbled. His own dream of going to Morocco had gone to hell, and he’d lost the bet to Melba. He got on a bus, rode it up to Nob Hill, and walked to Camelot. He entered with his head hung low and took a seat at the bar in front of Melba.
“How did you know that Reginald was an imposter?” he asked.
“Did you ever look at his hands? They didn’t go with tuxedos and that air of grandeur. They were the hands of a working man.”
Samuel took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet; he slapped it on the bar and walked out.
The sound of Melba’s laugh followed him.