6.

San Francisco Victoriana’s showroom was in the industrial Bayshore District, several miles across town. I drove over there in a pensive mood, wondering if I were wasting my time pursuing this clue. It was, however, the only lead I had. The only lead except for Jake’s comment about the person he was meeting being a drunk. If I interviewed all the drunks in a town like San Francisco, looking for a suspicious sign, I’d be at it for the rest of my life. No, better to try to track down the origin of the little piece of metal.

The showroom’s walls were covered with plaster rosettes and fish-scale shingles like the ones Wintringham had pointed out on his family Queen Anne. From the ceiling hung dozens of light fixtures, their outstretched arms ending in etched-glass shades. I looked them over carefully as I waited at the sales desk, wondering how a piece of metal like the one in my purse would fit.

A gray cat lay curled on the desk. It raised its head and favored me with a great yawn. I scratched its ears, and it began to purr.

In a minute, a woman with short blond hair emerged from a room behind the desk. “Oh, I see you’ve met Victoria,” she said cheerfully.

“Appropriately named.”

“A little cutesy, but she’s a cute cat. We’ve had her since she was a kitten. What can I do for you?”

“I need some information on light fixtures.” I took out the metal piece. “I have a fragment of one here, and I’m trying to trace the manufacturer.”

Her smooth brow creased. “Gosh, I don’t know if I can help you. The guys who would know are at the home show.” At my disappointed look, she added, “I’ll give it a try though. If it’s somebody local, I might recognize it.”

I handed her the fragment. She studied it, turning it over in his hands. Finally she said, “I could be wrong, but this looks like Prince Albert’s work.”

“Prince Albert!”

She grinned. “He’s really Al Prince, but, like Victoria here, the names go with the trade.”

“Where might I find this royal personage?”

“His shop is on Natoma Street, that alley between Mission and Howard, south of Market. He’s somewhere around Sixth. Look for a sign saying, ‘Prince Albert’s Lighthouse.’”

I thanked her and directed my battered red MG downtown. Once there, I parked on Sixth Street, nicknamed “Rue de Wino” because of the characters with brown paper bags who hung out there. Natoma was one car wide, its sidewalks crowded with parked vehicles. I settled for the middle of the street, keeping alert for approaching motors.

I was not unfamiliar with this part of town, having worked cases here before, but now I was amazed to discover that people actually lived in the back alleys of this commercial district. The surrounding blocks consisted of stores, office buildings, and light industry, but here on a Saturday morning children played in the street, women hung laundry on porches, and men tinkered with old cars. The houses were largely wood frame and in bad repair. With my newfound knowledge, I recognized small squat Italianates and Sticks. The elegant Queen Anne, however, did not belong in this working-class neighborhood.

I continued along for two blocks, skirting abandoned tricycles and toys, until I saw the sign for Prince Albert’s Lighthouse. It was a simple woodcarving that hung at a right angle to the face of the brick building. Another sign in the window said CLOSED.

Frustrated, I went up and peered in through the grimy plate glass. All I saw were worktables and unfamiliar machinery. A few light fixtures, similar to those at Victoriana, hung from the rafters.

The home show at Fort Mason – obviously that was the place to go. But first I had unfinished business to take care of. I returned to the MG and steered it toward Johnny’s Kansas City Barbecue.

It was a mistake to appear there even at the tail end of the noon hour. I knew that as soon as I stepped in the door. Dark eyes in black faces turned toward me, and the level of noise dropped to a hush. Johnny Hart came forward, his face an angry mask.

“What the hell you doing here?” he demanded.

Summoning bravado, I said, “I thought I’d try some of your barbecued ribs.”

“Well, forget it. Just get your ass out of here.”

“Don’t tell me you discriminate?”

“Sure I discriminate, ‘specially against lying little sneaks.”

“Don’t you want to know why I asked all those questions last night?”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Sure you do.”

Exasperated, he looked around at his silent clientele. “All right, dammit. But we’re not gonna talk here.” He grabbed my elbow and propelled me toward the kitchen.

Inside were two waiters and a dishwasher. They looked up, startled, as we came in.

“You fellas get out there and take care of the customers, huh?” Hart said.

Puzzled, they exited to the front of the restaurant.

Hart leaned against a huge chopping block. “Lunchtime rush is almost over. So explain yourself, Miss Private Eye.”

I blinked. “How’d you know?”

“I may be a nigger, girl, but I’m one of the literate ones. Your name’s in the paper.”

“Oh. Well, then you know why I asked you all that stuff.”

“What I don’t know is why the cover-up. You come around, you say, Look, I’m a private cop and this guy got dead – maybe I’ll help you, maybe not. But I sure as shit won’t lift a finger when you poke into things pretending to be some girlfriend of a knee-jerk liberal lawyer.”

I grinned.

“What the hell’s so funny?”

“You have just insulted Hank Zahn twice. Once by calling him a ‘knee-jerk liberal’ and once by implying he’d ever ask me out.”

Hart tried to look stern, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

I looked around the kitchen, sniffing. “Sure smells good.”

“So now you’re trying to hit me up for a meal.”

“All I’ve had today is coffee.”

“Dammit, girl, I don’t want to like you, and I don’t want to feed you, and I sense I’m gonna end up doing both. Ribs?”

“With fries?”

“Beer?”

“Coke.”

Hart went to the stainless-steel oven and threw some ribs on a plate, along with some greasy French fries from a vat of bubbling oil. While he was drawing my Coke, he said, “You still didn’t explain yourself.”

“It’s really very simple: I wasn’t on the case last night. I couldn’t represent myself as investigating, it was without a client.”

“So instead of this investigating, you snooped.”

“I’m nosy, I guess.”

He set the food in front of me. Ravenous, I dug in.

“So what do you want today?” Hart demanded. “You didn’t come here to apologize for jiving me.”

“Well, in a way,” I said around a mouthful of fries. “I’m on the case now, and I need an ally in the community.”

“On the case, huh? Who hired you?”

“David Wintringham.”

“That fairy!”

“He’s not so bad.”

Sullenly, Hart shrugged.

“Well, he’s not. Did you know his father?”

“There you go, pumping me again.”

“It’s my job.”

“And you think I should help you with that job.”

“Sure.”

“What’s in it for me?”

I sipped my Coke. “A good feeling deep down in your soul.”

This time Hart grinned broadly. “You are the damndest. What do you want to know?”

“Richard Wintringham – what was he like?”

“Crazy old man.” He stirred the big pot of barbecue sauce. “Living up there in that big house all by himself. Strange man, but folks around here respected him. He gave the kids odd jobs, paid them good. Always sent a big load of food to the community center at Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was his neighborhood, and maybe he got off on being Massa on the hill.”

“What about David Wintringham?”

“Checking up on your boss, huh?”

“You bet.”

Hart considered. “Now that’s another kettle of fish entirely. Like I said, he’s a fairy, and the old man didn’t like that none.”

“Did he try to do anything about it?”

“Can’t change a tiger’s stripes. Oh, they fought some, I guess, but then the old man got killed, and David got it all. Right after, he moved to the house at the end of the block with his so-called friend, poor pudgy Paul.” Hart smiled at his own alliteration.

“The police thought Richard Wintringham was killed by a burglar.”

Hart’s eyes became veiled. “So I heard.”

I finished my ribs and scrubbed at my hands with a paper napkin. “But you didn’t believe it. And you don’t now.”

“What, you think you’re a mind reader or something?”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

He sighed. “Maybe, maybe not. Folks around here knew Wintringham had a lot of valuable stuff in that house. But like I said, they respected him in a funny way. I think if it was a burglar that killed him, it wasn’t anybody from the neighborhood. I would guess it was somebody from the outside.”

I couldn’t quite credit that; junkies and rip-off artists had few loyalties. “Okay, Mr. Hart,” I said, standing, “that’s about all I need to know today. I take it I can come back if I have more questions?”

He shrugged.

“What do I owe you for lunch?”

“Forget it. It’s on the house.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I kind of like talking to you; keeps me on my toes. Only one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Next time you come, would you mind using the back door? Don’t want to upset my clientele any more than I already have.”

“I get it,” I said and obliged by leaving that way. From the alley behind the building, I made a beeline for the phone booth that I’d called Greg and Hank from the night before. This time the lieutenant was in his office. He answered, sounding rushed.

“I wondered if you had the results of the postmortem on Jake Kauffman,” I said.

“Not yet, but we should by late afternoon. There’ve been two other murders, and we’ve got bodies stacked up in there like firewood, so they’ll get it out fast.”

No wonder he sounded harried. I chanced another request. “Greg, three years ago next month, another man was murdered in that house.”

“Richard Wintringham. Right.”

“Have you reviewed the file yet?”

There was a pause. “Who are you working for?”

“David Wintringham, the son.”

“Jesus Christ, you can’t keep out of it, can you?”

“No.”

Another pause. I could picture him, drumming his fingers on the desk. “So now you want me to review the file on the Wintringham killing and pass along the details to you.”

“Yes.”

“Christ, papoose…All right. I have to look it over anyway. Only let me tell you this: You and I are going to have a long, serious talk over dinner tonight.”

“Greg, I may be sort of late for dinner.” I had a few things I wanted to do first.

“How late?”

“Well…”

“Never mind. Why don’t you meet me at my place whenever you can? That will give me the opportunity to entice you into my bed.”

“All right.”

“I don’t believe it. You agreed.”

“To the first, not the second.”

“We’ll see.”

Maybe we would. It was a tempting prospect that had dangled between us for weeks. I said I’d see him later and hung up.

Outside the phone booth, I was startled by the specter of Johnny Hart, still in his stained chef’s apron. He was out of breath.

“Got a message,” he announced. “Nick Dettman wants to see you.”

“Who’s Nick Dettman?”

Hart looked outraged. “Who’s Nick Dettman! Former city supervisor, big deal in this district and you…”

“Now I remember him.”

“Well, he wants to talk.”

“When and where?”

“Tonight. He’ll meet you at his law office on Haight Street at seven.” He gave me the address. “You know where that is? Storefront with an orange door?”

I copied it down. “I’ll find it.”

“Good. I’ll tell him you’ll be there.” Hart turned and loped off.

I watched him. Although I liked Johnny Hart, there was still – and probably always would be – a wary racial tension between us. Could I trust him? I didn’t know.

Well, it looked like it would be an interesting evening on all fronts.