Knob and his acolytes: the photos Drake pulled do not surprise me. Yet ambushing me at night in the park is one thing; not that hard to get away with. But breaking into and vandalizing my apartment—whatever possessed them to take such a risk?
As I walk home I think the matter over. It couldn't be our little run-in at The Werewolf; that was street stuff, bluster. Which brings me back to my theory they were paid to do it. Considering that both their attacks occurred after my confrontation with Crane and my rebuff of Sarah Lashaw, I return to the notion that Crane and Lashaw ordered me hit.
Fine! At least now I know whom I'm dealing with. And I'm prepared to take this escalation as proof Crane's got something serious to hide. Knob's a street hustler, the acolytes are punks, but Marcus Crane is acting like a man in trouble . . . and I must doubt that his fear of me is over a few fuzzy photographs showing him soliciting on the Gulch.
Entering my building, I glance at the security video camera. The lens is small but it gives me comfort. Upstairs, when I turn my key in my new lock, there's a sweet sound as the bolt is thrown. I shut the door behind me and disarm the alarm. If I fail to do so within fifteen seconds, a siren will start to shriek.
I go immediately to my darkroom, pull negatives of the shots I took of Crane in front of his house, print up the whole series on eight-by-ten paper, squeegee the prints, pin them up and look closely at his face.
Is this the face of a killer? Perhaps in the final shot. But is it also the face of a man who could cut his victim into pieces in Wildcat Canyon, paint up the torso, then haul the head and limbs back downtown?
I have doubts. Crane's too suave, his car's too nice; he's not the type to sully himself. Sure, he'd plunder a person's body, use him without qualm—but would he take pleasure in the blood, eroticize the butchery? I don't think so. Still, I must not forget, he is my enemy.
Joel calls. He's been phoning around trying to locate the four cops.
"We can't see Hayes—he's been dead five years. Classic gun-in-the-mouth cop suicide."
Even as I wince, I understand Joel has forgotten about my mother.
"Waincroft," he continues. "lives down in Santa Cruz. Night watchman at the pier amusement park. I finally got hold of him. Sounded like he does a lot of drinking. Says he wants to think it over before submitting to an interview."
From cop sergeant to night watchman—what a fall!
"Puccio's another story. You know Giordano's in North Beach?"
"Pizza and pasta joint. Great calamari salad. "
"It's his mom's place. He's the maitre d'. Invited us over tomorrow for a late lunch after the crowd thins out."
"What about Vasquez?"
"Since he's still a cop, his interview'll have to be cleared through S.F.P.D. Public Affairs."
I tell Joel about the break-in, Drake's ID of the perps, my hunch that Knob and his boys are working for Crane.
"I'm worried about you, kiddo."
"I can take care of myself."
"Maybe. . . but admit it, so far you haven't done too good a job."
He's right, which pisses me off. "So tell me, Joel—what would you do if three guys jumped you, then broke into your house?"
"Well," he says, "I guess I'd put in a new lock, then sign up for a martial arts class."
I print up my shots of Knob and his flunkies on poly-contrast, quick-dry them with my hair dryer, place them in an envelope with my eight-by-tens of Crane, walk down to Marina Aikido, take a class and shower. Afterward I use the pay phone to call Maddy. She says it's okay to come over, so I walk on to her place on Alhambra.
She looks particularly fragile today, but I know better than to inquire after her health. Still I'm touched when, in the hallway, she takes hold of my arm. After we're seated on her couch, I notice the translucence of her skin, the thinness of her wrists, the delicacy of the cords that protrude from her neck. Her eyes, on the other hand, are sharp as ever.
"You look good, Kay," she says, "strong, confident. But you've been having trouble."
How well she knows me.
"That's why I've come."
She glances at my envelope. I open it, pull the photos, spread them out. "Not proof sheets this time, just prints."
Unlike other teachers I've had, slop prints don't bother Maddy. Technical stuff, she knows, can be taught by anyone. She concerns herself with how her students see.
"These are grab shots of hostile models," she says. "A couple are very good. This one"—she picks up the shot I took of Knob and his boys at The Werewolf, "and this"—she chooses the last in my series on Crane, the one in which he appears about to break. "But you've done a lot of work like this, Kay. You've learned how and you do it well. You shoot them straight and refuse to flinch." She looks at me, questioning. "But you didn't come to hear that. There's something else."
I ask her if she'll look closely at the pictures and tell me what they say to her about the people.
"I know this isn't what you usually do, Maddy, but you're so perceptive . . . and I need some good advice."
She waves her hand to shush me, resumes studying the prints. I watch her as she peers at their faces. I wonder why I have come to her for this when I could have easily shown the shots to Rita Reese. Rita's also shrewd about people; she could tell me whether Knob and Crane are truly dangerous. But Maddy is the only person I know who has come to her understanding of the world through black-and-white photography.
"This man"—she is studying my Crane series—"at first he doesn't know what to make of you. You confuse him, threaten him. He's accustomed to masking himself and at first he does it well. Quickly he comes to hate you. I'm sorry to tell you—his hate goes deep. It fills him. He is a man who can hate easily. Beneath his mask, you see, he's a man who hates himself."
She turns to me, shows her most sibylline smile. "Yes, your pictures are like stories." She pats me on the knee. "Proof of their power." She picks up the shots of Knob. "Not much here. He buys, sells, trades. One of your hustlers, I suppose, though there's something that separates him from others you've shown me. He's older, harder, tougher. He's got a vicious streak."
She picks up the Werewolf shot. "Here he looks different. He wants to show you his scorn, but, like the first man, he's afraid." She looks at me. "You know how, after we hurt people, we study them closely to see how deeply we have cut?" She taps her forefinger against Knob's face. "That's how he's looking at you here. But he doesn't find what he wants. Instead he sees strength—which surprises and awes him. Yes, he's afraid of you, Kay. And he will hurt you again if he can."
I feel sweat break out in my armpits.
"The two with him?" I ask.
"Kids."
"So you don't think they're bad?"
"Only in a gang. Then they'd pile on. But alone"—she shakes her head—"they're cowards."
The sky is dark by the time I reach the Hampshire Arms. The grunge on its granite facade is lost in shadow. The same lackadaisical gum-chewing kid with bad skin is sitting behind the desk. He's the opposite of Snooty at The Sultan's Tent. There they guard their guests; here they regard them as whores and all their visitors as johns.
Doreen's in, Alyson's out. Doreen invites me up, but, as usual, begs me first to walk around the block while she cleans up. When finally I present myself the room is, also as usual, not cleaned up, and redolent with booze.
Doreen sits at the dresser in a camisole applying eye makeup. I notice a tightly curled jockstrap at her feet.
"Hey, Bug!"' She pecks my cheek, then lightly strokes my arm. "Great biceps, dearie. Get some tats, spike up your hair, pierce your brows, go punk."
I sit on the bed, watch her skillful moves as she wields her eyelash brush.
"Business is off. Soon the holidays'll come, then the short cold days of winter. What I need now is a new john, deanie—someone handsome and flush who'll take me to Hawaii."
"I hope you find him, Doreen."
"Don't know." She shrugs. "Either I'm losing my looks, or the pickin's are gittin' slim."
I show her my Werewolf photograph.
"Yeah, Knob and his flunkies. They don't look pleased."
She turns back to the mirror.
"The flunkies—do they have names?"
"Price and Pride. Frick and Frack." She shrugs. "One on the right's Tommy, one on the left—they call him Boat."
"Uh-huh." Doreen draws her eyebrows with an economy of motion that would do any girl proud. "I once asked him about that. He said his given name is Bato, which means something like 'Hey, kid!' in Serbo-Croat. His family lived in France, and the kids there starting calling him Bateau. Later, when he moved to the States, that got translated into Boat."
"How old is he?"
"Fifteen tops. Jailbait. Tough on the outside, mushy as caramel underneath. It's that sweet candy part, dearie, that they like. Ass skin's soft as a baby's, the puniest patch of body hair and cock hard as a spike."
"Knob and his flunkies—what's the deal there?"
"Come on! You know! He rents them out, high prices too. Ever notice how he protects them, barely lets them out of his sight? He's their mom, they're his pussies. . . and come to think of it, the most valuable commodity on the Gulch.'
She finishes up her eyes, turns to face me, cocks her head. "Why so interested, dearie?"
"The three of them beat me up. And that's not the half of it." I tell her about the break-in, the things they wrote on my walls. The sexual insults shock her.
"Positive they did all that?"
"I've got a witness."
"What're you going to do?"
"Still thinking about it."
"Want some advice?"
I shrug.
"Leave it alone, Bug. Whatever hard feelings Knob had toward you, they're over now that he's put you down. But raise the stakes and he could do you serious harm. There're rumors about him, dearie—and none of them are nice."
I thank her for her counsel, but don't commit either way. In fact, I have a plan, but need more information before deciding whether it'll work.
"Tommy and Boat—any difference between them?"
"One's got lighter hair, but that's not what you mean." Doreen ponders. "Boat's softer than Tommy, more naive. Tommy's more your smartass type, Boat's more your runaway kid."
"Thanks, Doreen."
She looks into my eyes. "Think about what Mama told you, dearie—don't mess with Knob. He's the kind who'll squirt you with lighter fluid, toss in a match, watch you burn, lick his lips and walk off whistling a merry tune."
Knowing my new hotel-quality mattress has arrived, Sasha comes to me at midnight with a bouquet of irises, pocketful of ace bandages, twinkle in his liquid eyes and devilish plan.
Lovingly he ties my wrists to the bedposts, spreads my thighs, ties them back to the handles of the box spring, then produces a feather with which he tickles my parts. I giggle and squirm, thrash and laugh, my nipples swell, I go creamy until all I can think of in this rapture is requital.
"Please, please, please . . ." I moan.
But sweet dark Sasha enjoys inflicting pleasure. I writhe until I reach a point beyond endurance. Finally my lover comes upon me to deliver me from desire. I cry out, tremble, give myself up. I want to draw out every quantum of his passion, employ him to help me mount crest after crest of pleasure. And so I do until at last I arch, then fall back released.
It takes a long time for the vibrato in me to subside. Meantime Sasha, who smells as usual of sandalwood, whispers to me the erotic secrets of multi-armed Hindu deities and their consorts, fleshly means, he promises, we will use to join together and pierce our earthly prison.
"Insights! Revelations! Orgasms like bolts of lightning!"
"Sounds great," I tell him, burying my face in his shoulder. "I'm crazy about you. You know that, don't you?"
I feel him quiver with delight.
Then, as an afterthought: "Next time, Doctor, I'm tying you!"
They have a wood-fired oven at Giordano's, the kind that fills the restaurant with an aroma of wood smoke and baking pizza crust. The walls here bear a sooty patina, there are plain wood tables, creaky old chairs, a long bar frequented by local characters and an array of framed and inscribed photographs of movie stars and famous figures from the worlds of sports and California politics.
Joel and I are sitting with Enrico ("Call me Ricky") Puccio in the proprietor's booth opposite the cash register near the door. From here Ricky can greet his friends as they pass in and out. He's a short, stout, balding guy in his fifties, dressed in dark trousers, white shirt with French cuffs, and flamboyant tie. He doesn't look like an ex-cop, rather like what he is—an ebullient, happy, hospitable host at a very busy dining spot, adept at greeting guests.
I glance around. Though it's past two-thirty, most of the tables still are filled—tourists, people from the financial district, local store owners, North Beach regulars. There's a plate of olives in olive oil on every table, a basket of bread sticks and a bottle of wine from the Giordano family winery. The pastas and calamari salad here are famous. Another house specialty is the antipasto plate of fresh mozzarella with tomatoes, basil and roasted red pepper. But in the end it's the pizza that brings them in—the best pizza in town.
Ricky has stood to shake hands with a man I recognize, a lawyer friend of the Judge. When he rejoins us, he apologizes.
"Room'll clear out soon. Now eat and drink. When things settle down, we'll talk."
This suits me. I'm dying of hunger. But Joel is unhappy. He likes focused interviews. Today he's at the mercy of an extrovert.
I recall the evaluation of Puccio in the confidential Internal Affairs report: "Sloppiest of the bunch, apparently ignorant of police norms and procedures." Well, I think, Ricky may have acted sloppy and dumb back then, but he sure runs a sharp operation now.
Shortly after three, he joins us in a buoyant mood. I switch on my tape recorder.
"What can I tell you, guys?" he asks. Then, before Joel can reply, he touches my arm. "Give my best regards to your pop, Kay. Tell him to come in sometime and that his money's no good here. Tell him I like to feed old pals."
"As I told you," Joel says, "we're doing a piece on the T case. And that, of course, includes Sipple."
Ricky stares at Joel, then pops up, this time to speak to an elderly woman in the back.
Joel shakes his head. "He doesn't want to talk."
"Why's he seeing us?"
"Wants us to like him."
"Do we?"
"Not yet," Joel says.
Ricky returns scratching his head. "Sipple, Sipple—oh, yeah!" He beams. "Nearly forgot about that. Now why'd you bring it up? There's good things in this life like weddings and graduations, and there's crap like Sipple you want to forget ever happened. Know what I mean?"
But soon we get to it. Ricky's too loquacious, can't abide the silence that follows. So he starts off on a riff accompanied by an array of gestures and expressions sufficient to mime his feelings to the world.
"They called us buffoons! Know what that means to an Italian? Got any friggin' idea? Clowns, fools—it's what we yell at the politicians when they march them off to jail for graft. So don't be so sure we were all that stupid. Maybe we weren't stupid at all." Again Ricky touches my arm. "You know your pop, Kay. You know how smart he is. If he was stupid that night, then that was about the only time he was—right?" He shakes his head vigorously. "Maybe we were a few good cops doing a dirty job best we could." He shows a secretive grin. "Maybe there was a lot more that happened back then than met the eye. . . ."
He doesn't tell us what that might have been. Rather he retells the story we already know, but from an outsider's point of view. All the while, there's a look of complicity in his eyes that implies we share a secret about the matter, which, by mutual consent, none of us will broach.
"Now let's take a look at who was there that night, all right? I'm talking about the sworn officers, no one else."
Ricky takes a lick at his thumb, sticks it up.
"First we got Wainy Waincroft, straight-arrow sergeant, last of the true blue-flame believers. You don't make Sarge being an asshole, least not in good old S.F.P.D. Sure, old Wainy had a temper, he could knock a guy around it came to that. Busted a few heads in his time, no doubt of it. Not a college man, no. . . but few in those times were. Ragged around the edges—you betcha! But stupid?" Ricky shakes his head. "I never heard anyone call Wainy stupid, not until Hale, that is."
He prongs his forefinger.
"Next you got Billy Hayes. Squirrelish little guy, eyes like a rodent, but shiny, hear what I'm saying? Shiny little eyes, not dull. Billy was a boxer. Did you know? Was City Golden Gloves finalist in the bantamweight division, thought about turning pro, went into the cops instead. Boxed for us awhile as a welterweight. Was Potrero Station champ a couple years. Coached kids in the Activities League and they loved him for it. Sweetest little guy, Billy. Best hand-eye coordination you ever saw. He could pack one helluva wallop. So was he dumb?" Ricky shrugs. "Good clean record. Never lost any evidence, made his share of collars, but then boxers act like dummies sometimes, all that bobbin' and weavin' , you know—all those punches to the head. Softens up your brain, they say, though funny no one ever noticed any softening in Billy till Inspector Jonathan Topper Hale—let's call him 'Halo' since that's what he puts around his head!—yeah, not till the old Halo himself brought it up."
Ricky sticks up his middle finger.
"Jack Farrow. Truly kingly man. Worked bunko five, six years in Chinatown with Rusty Quinn, made more collars there than the Chink cops worked with 'em. Learned the lingo, built up a network, ended up with an army of deep throats up Stockton, down Grant. You didn't mess with old Jack. Sweet guy, but not one to take any crap. They say he could swing a nightstick good as anyone in Central. Course when they transferred him to Park Station, maybe he turned slow and dumb. Funny thing though—no one I ever spoke to noticed it."
His ring finger rises.
"Me? Better let someone else tell you. My ma, the old stove out back—she taught me never toot my own horn."
Ricky raises his pinky.
"Which leaves us with Louie Vasquez, number five. Kind of odd man out his being Hispanic and the way he approached the job. Now the squawk on Louie was that he acted real bright, going to college at night, betterin' himself, all spit and polish, shoes shined like mirrors. But the deeper squawk, the locker room skinny, was that Louie was an intriguer. Not too big on swingin' the stick, not Louie. More the gabby type. Yak, yak, yak. But when the shit hit the fan, they said, old Louie, he was more 'n likely to take off on those bright shiny shoes of his."
Ricky places his hand flat down on the table, fingers spread as far as they will go. His nails, I note, are beautifully groomed, but his hand is quivering, the knuckles losing color as he presses down hard with his palm.
"Five guys," Ricky says, "Wainy, Billy, Jack, Ricky and Louie—and suddenly they all go stupid. Find important evidence in a capital case but don't recognize it as such. Lose said evidence because no one takes care to follow S.O.P. Five guys, competent guys, tankin' on the job. But funny, isn't it, that those five, all bright enough, all with good records, suddenly go flat all together. Like there's this contagious disease, know what I mean? This disease that strikes them all at once. And suddenly they're—what?—bunglers, screw ups, buffoons. Yeah, I do think it's funny. Matter of fact, I wake up sometimes middle of the night and laugh so hard my wife gets mad. 'You dreamin' comedy again, Ricky?' she steams, kicking me in the shins. 'Shut up, paesan', you'll wake Ma and the kids.' But it's still so friggin' funny I gotta bury my head in the pillow to stifle the guffaws."
Joel and I sit gaping. The riff is finished. Ricky, knowing his performance has been splendid, rises in the manner of a grand seigneur. "'Scuse me now, guys. Gotta consult with Ma out back. Your lunch is on the house. No tips neither. Your money's no good here—least not today!"
Later, outside on busy Columbus Avenue, I turn to Joel.
"Do you like him better now?"
"Actually, I do," Joel says. "He's s got a way about him. The way he talks—it warms you up."
I walk through the labyrinth of narrow lanes that adjoin the financial district, short little streets lined with old low brick buildings which now house galleries and antique stores, specialty book shops, elegant architects' and attorneys' offices. Jackson Square, Gold Street, Balance, Hotaling, Gibb, Ils Lane—the core of what's left of the once-infamous Barbary Coast.
The late-afternoon light down here is sweet, shadows are long, you can hear your footsteps as they ring off the cobblestones. I wander here as I allow Ricky's words to float through my head, seeking to net some secret from the depths . . . a secret which floats so close I almost feel I can touch it, but which always, just as it comes within my grasp, slips elusively away.
I find myself thinking a lot about Ariane Lovsey. From what I've discovered, this woman is so powerful and strange as to make the other players I've met in this pursuit seem but ordinary folk. David deGeoffroy, Jonathan Topper Hale, Jerome Tattinger, Sarah Lashaw—I've met vivid personalities, all bigger than life, spoken with them, entered their orbits. But the one who exerts the strongest force field is Ariane, Amoretto, the one I've never seen.
I'm spending nearly all my time in the darkroom now, printing out my negatives, assembling my pictures into some sort of visual order. Perhaps, I think, in the rarefied details of the photographs—the shadows, backgrounds, the very grain of the film—I will discover the hidden pattern that I seek.
I've always loved darkroom work, working with my minimalist palette of blacks and whites. I feel safe here, protected by the solid walls and door, eyes comfortable in the gloom where my vision is at its best. So much easier to work in dim confined space with paper, film and chemicals than to go outdoors with a camera and confront the inconsistencies of natural light. And, I know, cowardly too. It was Maddy who three years ago told me to get out and walk the streets:
"You want to photograph people, Kay? Go out and smell them. Get that close. Smell developer and acetic acid and you'll stay a studio photographer. Smell people and you'll start becoming a photojournalist."
Finally, midafternoon, three days after our lunch with Ricky, Joel calls to rescue me from my cell.
"We're going down to Santa Cruz. Waincroft's agreed to talk."
We decide to take Route 1 along the coast; it's the slow way, but it's beautiful and will give us time to unwind and talk. We pass the seal rock beaches, turn south, and a little north of San Pedro Point pass some serious surfers riding awesome waves.
After Half Moon Bay there's barely any traffic, just miles of empty road running along the coast, rocky portions alternating with state beaches named for the creeks that run down to them from the hills. There's heavy fog here, the road snakes and I feel good sitting next to Joel, breathing the thick salty darkening air. Better, I think, to chug along with him in Melvin than to recline against the butter-soft seats in the back of Sarah Lashaw's chauffeured limo.
"I haven't spoken to a soul since we lunched with Ricky," I tell him. "Thanks for rescuing me. I've been talking to myself."
"Not a bad person to talk with," Joel says. "Any thoughts on that lunch?"
"His five-finger exercise—it haunts me still."
"Join the club."
"He must've told us something. By any chance, did you figure out what?"
Joel shakes his head. "It was more of a mood thing, like they were all smart guys, suddenly they all went slack and that's really funny except it isn't. But I keep thinking there's another level."
"Me too."
What I don't tell him is that the real reason I locked myself in my darkroom for three full days was so I wouldn't run over to City Stone Ground, corner Dad and try to coax out an explanation.
The Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk is the last beachside amusement park in California. Tattered, tacky, tawdry but proud, it clings to the water, attracting kids and old folks nostalgic for those pre-Disney days when a rollercoaster, carny music and cotton candy were all you needed to instill the blend of forced humor and melancholy summed up in the hollow word "amusement."
In my Art Institute days I did my share of picture taking here, roaming the boardwalk on weekends, catching images of the last hippies as they lurched, stoned, beneath signs depicting clowns with riotous smiles. Easy juxtapositions, art school stuff, but that was a time when nearly everything I saw through the viewfinder caught my eye. Busted windows, abandoned gas station pumps, feral street cats, overflowing trash barrels beneath thrashing palms—I would show Californians what they passed every day but didn't see, filtered through the fine artist's prism of my eye.
I soon got over it, learned the difference between picture taking and photography. Still, I know, sometimes an amateur will catch an image by accident so strong a pro could shoot a hundred rolls and still not equal it. Whenever I see a photograph like that I wonder again about what I'm doing. Which is why I need Maddy to coach me and keep me on my path.
Joel and I are standing outside a run-down Paddy bar called The Brogue two blocks back from the boardwalk on a street lined with raunchy motels. The gaunt and haggard man standing before us does not resemble the Lucius D. Waincroft I've been expecting. Time, I know, always takes its toll; Hale, I recall, looked far different than in his photographs. But the face of the Wainy now peering at us is totally unlike the proud, stubborn sergeant's face that appeared in the row of mug shot photos published in the Chronicle under the headline BUFFOONS. This man has rotten teeth, unshaven cheeks, burst capillaries streaking his nose. His eyes are milky, the left one twitching as he leers. When he bends toward me, I want to turn my back; instead I bow my head, forcing him to plant his kiss upon my hair.
"Do ye not know me, Kay? What a fine woman you've become!" His breath reeks of cheap booze and rum-soaked cigars. But now those milky eyes are filled with merriment. "Remember Uncle Wainy? I've known ye since you were a wee girl."
I have only the vaguest memory of him from childhood, being presented to him by Dad at cop picnics and sporting events. We used to attend those kinds of affairs before my mother turned agoraphobic, the first step in the decline that culminated in her suicide.
He studies me. "You've got your ma's sweet eyes, Kay. You truly do. Fine gal, Carlotta. I miss her. . . as I'm sure Jack and you must do. Most likely you think of her every day." He chucks my chin. "You're an artist now, I hear."
"Photographer."
"Yeah, sure, but that's an artist too, I understand."
As he turns to Joel the neon sign of The Brogue casts a shaft of light across his face—red light, I assume, though to me it appears as a glowing black bar. A dark uniform with some sort of security service patch on the shoulders hangs upon Wainy's emaciated frame.
I step back to take his picture. He poses grandly, Napoleon style, hand thrust deep inside his shirt. A heavy gun belt from which dangle the tools of his trade—field radio, flashlight, nightstick, holstered automatic—droops below his waist.
Flash!Whap! I catch an image: The Ruined Cop.
"Five of seven," he says, "time to go to work. Hope the two of you don't mind walking along with me. That way we can talk while I do my job."
As he leads us down to the waterfront, he explains that after Labor Day the amusement park is closed except on weekends. But that doesn't stop all sorts of riffraff from trying to force their way in from the beach.
At the gate he introduces us to another uniformed guard.
"Just going to show these young people the place, you don't mind, Mac?" Wainy says.
The gatekeeper shrugs. We pass through the office, Wainy pulls his card, sticks it into a time clock, returns it to its slot, picks up his watchman's key, clips it to a chain attached to-his belt, then motions us out to the kennel area, where he attaches a leash to the collar of an elderly black rottweiler, whom, he tells us cheerily, the guards have nicknamed Crud.
"Come on, Crudder. Come on, boy," he addresses the creature in a singsong. "Another night, another dollar, doggie—off to make our rounds. . . ."
Soon we're walking along a spooky row of shuttered booths, dimly lit by occasional security lamps and the glow of street-lights beyond the fence. In season the booths here, faded signs tell me, offer soda, burritos, franks and taffy, or provide places where you can win a Kewpie by virtue of your marksmanship or by defeating an expert at guessing your weight and age. There are booths that sell horror masks, magic tricks, poopoo pillows, where you can be photographed beside cardboard cutouts of Bogie, Elvis, Marilyn, Reagan or the Pope. But tonight everything's closed down, the only sounds in this nightscape Crud's panting and the echoes of our steps upon the wooden walk.
"Hale! Seen him, have you?" Wainy hoots, his chuckles resounding along the corridor of shuttered shacks. "He came down a few times. Asked me to open up. Ha! I wouldn't say a word, sent him packing. Last time he begged me. 'Please, Wainy, pleeeeease.' Didn't mind seeing him grovel, I tell you. 'No,' I said, 'I'd rather die a ghastly death than tell you anything, you no-good bastard son of a bitch.' That was about a year ago. I think he got the idea. Hasn't been back any rate."
"What did he think you could tell him?" Joel asks.
"Where we stashed the evidence—what else?"
"Did you stash it?"
"Ha! That's what Hale thinks. Got a bug up his arse. Bug's been nibbling at his 'rhoids since the day it happened. Hated me 'cause I wouldn't take a polygraph. 'Now why should I take it?' I asked him. My lawyer told me: 'Don't even think about it, Wainy. They're going to bounce you out, let 'em. But don't give 'em ammo they can use to shoot you down.' Good advice, so I hushed up, never told 'em a thing. Then they tried to take my pension. Was in and out of court five years over that. Case was settled in the end, though not so well for me. Which is why I'm doing this damn job here. Isn't half bad actually. Pays for the booze and smokes at least."
He yanks on the leash. "Dammit, Crudder! Stop scamperinn', you stupid mutt!"
But Crud, though old and overweight, pulls Wainy along faster than he wants to walk, forcing him to angle back like a thin man marching in the face of a ferocious wind.
"These hounds're damn near useless," he says. "Still the company insists we use 'em. They think big black dogs scare off invaders. Theory is kids who try and get in here from the beach side will hear the dogs and think twice. Ratfuck! Kids don't give a damn. They're wearin' wet suits anyway. They just stick some sleeping potion in hot dogs, throw them at the mutts, the mutts gobble them, next thing you know they're lyin' on their backs snorin' like there's no tomorrow."
The sight of Wainy trying to control Crud inspires me to take another picture. I step away to catch him in profile tilted backward as he fights the irresistible canine force.
"Poor Billy!" Wainy exclaims over the suicide of Billy Hayes. "After the cops he tried all kinds of work. Not like your pop, Kay—who could always make one helluva loaf. Billy didn't know nothing' 'cept boxing and law enforcement. He took up coachin', tried to develop a couple kids, but soon as he'd find a prospect some sweet-talkin' manager'd steal the kid from under his nose. So old Billy finally threw it in. Won't say I haven't thought occasionally of doing the same. Only reason I haven't is . . . curiosity. I'm always wonderin' what's going to happen next. Never find out, will I, if I chow down my gun?"
We enter the roller-coaster perimeter. Wainy uses his watchman's key to open the gate. Inside, the wood and steel structure looms above us like the skeleton of an enormous dinosaur.
"Couple of us here the other night," Wainy says, "caught ourselves one real live intruder." His milky eyes go cold. "Crud and the other fella's dog cornered him, then we surrounded him and beat him. Bloody pulp when we got done."
Wainy hee-haws, then shows a leer that chills my blood. Does he think Joel and I will admire him for this? Is he trying to psych us, or doesn't he give a damn? Probably the latter, I decide. He's a wasted man living in an enclosed world of booze, mean memories and the beat we're walking with him now.
"Won't be able to work much longer," he says, a propos of nothing. "Got lung cancer. Eatin' me up inside. That's why I'm so thin." He turns his head, spits. "Wainy's never been a squealer, and I ain't startin' now. So you won't get nothin' out of me, not even on my deathbed you won't."
I glance at Joel in time to see his eyes catch fire. "You're saying there is something to be gotten out of you?" he asks.
Wainy lets out with a crazed laugh. "You bet there is, friend!"
"Come on, Wainy," I plead. "Tell us. Who'll be hurt by it now?"
"Your dad for one. Why don't you ask him, Kay, see what he's got to say?"
"About what?"
"What'd you think, girl? It. Hear me? What the hell else we talking about? What're we doing, for Christ's sake? What'd you come down here for? Not to pay your goddamn respects. I know that. You came to ask 'bout the same thing Hale, that wheedling bastard, tried to sweet-talk an answer to. It! Stinkin' it. That stupid bag of—ha! give the man a Kewpie doll, Harry!—that bag of ever-lovin' shit-eatin' fuck-all ev-eye-dense!"
Though Joel keeps at him, plugging him with questions, Wainy's done answering for the night. He goes silent on us, leading us back toward the security gate, mumbling something about having to feed Crud his dinner.
"I'm not used to walking these boards with visitors," he mutters.
"Saying you know where that evidence is, Wainy?" Joel asks again.
But Wainy doesn't reply. He's finished with us, can't wait to see our backs. I try and stall him by asking him to pose again. He obliges but the humor of his Napoleon stance is lacking, as is the pathos when he was being dragged forward by Crud. Now he just stands there, blank, dejected, grim.
Then I get an idea.
"Take off your shirt," I tell him.
"Kidding me, Kay?"
"Uh-uh. Strip. I wanna see some skin."
He hoots, but even so strips to the waist, handing off Crud to Joel.
"Great!" I tell him, focusing. "Now put the gun belt back on. That's right, the way it was. Just let it hang there. Yeah!"
Flash!Whap!Flash!Whap!
"Now do something, Wainy! Give me a show!"
He thinks a moment, perplexed. Then he gets a notion. He starts whistling, some sort of Irish ditty, then starts moving, raising his feet, pumping his arms, hopping.
Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap! I can't believe my luck. The man's dancing an Irish jig right there in the middle of the deserted amusement park. He's got the ribs of a concentration camp survivor and the expression of a lecher, and still he high-steps, while Crud, incredulous, sits on his haunches watching his mad master dance. My motor drive hums, my flash strobes the night as I freeze him in absurd postures against the stanchions and girders behind. I shoot till he's exhausted, wheezes, coughs, finally bends forward to let the drool run free.
"How you like them beans, girl?" he demands, crouched over, expectorating onto the boardwalk.
I like them very much, I tell him. And, to myself, I give a title to what I'm sure will be a remarkable series: "Wainy's Last Hurrah."
At the gate he bids us a sweet farewell.
"Kind of you to drive down and see me," he says to Joel. They shake hands, then Wainy turns to me, looks deep into my eyes.
"You're a grand-looking gal, Kay," he says. "Carlotta's eyes too. Such lovely music she could play. Break your heart with it she could. So beautiful it was to see her fingers rise and fall, the delicate way she caressed the keys. Be well and happy, that's what I wish for ye, Kay. I do."
And with that, teary-eyed, he kisses me in the center of my forehead, then turns away.
"Come on, Crudder boy. Time to chow down, doggie."
He strolls with the big black dog back toward the kennel while we stare after him from the other side of the gate.
Joel and I barely speak on our way north, the fast way this time, the one that mounts the hills, picks up Route 280 west of San Jose, then follows the freeway up the peninsula.
"This is getting interesting, Kay. I'm thinking—maybe Hale was right."
I don't respond because I know what he means—Hale's theory that there was some kind of obstruction-of-justice conspiracy in which Dad played a part. I really don't want to think about that. For one thing it strikes me as implausible. It was Dad, after all, who suggested we talk to the other cops. Why do that if he had something to hide?
"My father's the most honest man I know," I tell Joel. "All he's interested in is baking honest loaves of bread."
"Kay!" Joel sputters. "I wasn't—didn't mean—"
But of course we both know what he meant.
"Let's talk to Vasquez," I suggest. "Then, if you still want to interview Dad, I'll set it up."
San Francisco sparkles as we approach it from the back; I always think of the front of the city as the Water side. The lit towers of the financial district stand like totems against the sky. A few minutes later, as we drive past the low buildings of SoMa, a distant growl of motorcycles rends the tranquil night.
This is reality, I think, thankful to be home. Wainy's world, so dark and menacing, frightened me more than I realized.
Joel drives me up Russian Hill through residential streets. I'm glad he doesn't choose Polk or Van Ness—I need quiet now, have no desire to pass through the Gulch.
"I'll never forget the sight of that old man," Joel says, "whistling and dancing on the boards. He knows he's a goner, but still he danced till he dropped." Joel turns to me. "A dance of death, do you think?"
"Or a dance of courage."
I ask him to drop me a block from my building. After he stops the car he takes my hand.
"Are you willing to follow this all the way, Kay—no matter where the trail leads? Because if you're not, that's fine. Just say the word. If you don't want to go on, I'll understand."
I shake my head. "I'll go all the way with you, Joel. But thanks for giving me the choice."
He kisses me. I get out, cross Hyde, then saunter along the hedge looking to see if Drake is watching me from within the park.
"Kay!"
His whisper cuts to my ears. I follow the sound until I see him standing in thick foliage beside the trunk of a Monterey pine.
"Thanks for waiting up for me."
"Will the doc be coming by tonight?"
I shake my head, and as I do, note Drake's relief.
Later, upstairs, safe in my flat, staring out at the Bay, I can still feel the press of Wainy's lips upon my forehead and the power of his scrutiny as he peered into my eyes.
Joel phones at noon. I take his call in the darkroom, where I'm working up prints of Wainy dancing his jig in the night.
"I spoke to S.F.P.D. Public Affairs. There'll be no sanctioned interviews with Vasquez on the T case or anything else."
"His decision or theirs?"
"Both I expect."
"What do we do now?"
"Ambush-interview him tonight when he gets home."
By five we're set up, sitting in Melvin, on the opposite side of Valley Street from Vasquez's 1930s house. The street is lined with nice well-kept homes set side by side on small well-tended lots. The Noe Valley is known for its excellent climate, warmer and far less foggy than Russian Hill. A neighborhood of affluent young marrieds, yuppies, conservative gays, it costs plenty to buy a home here. Vasquez, who Joel tells me is married with three kids, appears to be doing well.
I'm nervous sitting here, loaded camera and micro tape recorder in my hands, scrunched up in this uncomfortable little car. Especially as time passes, the sky darkens, and there is as yet no sign of our quarry.
"What if he doesn't show?" I ask Joel.
"We'll wait till seven. If he doesn't turn up, we'll come back in the morning, try and catch him then."
"I'm wondering—is it really all that smart to surprise a cop? What if he thinks we're threatening him and pulls his gun?"
"I'll identify us as press right away." He shows me his police press pass. "Flash this in his face."
"And if he walks by?"
"Whatever he does he'll give us a look."
"Which is when I'm supposed to take his picture?"
"You got it, kiddo! Now sit back, keep your powder dry."
Still I'm worried. What can Vasquez possibly tell us in a situation like this, in full view of his neighbors, with his family hovering just behind the door? Joel says we're here to show commitment to our story, and if Vasquez gives us a "No comment," to put it squarely on the record. Still I'm nervous. I wonder how Dad would handle it. If Vasquez is smart, I think, he'll smile, invite us in, offer us Cokes, tell us he's sorry but under orders not to talk, then send us home with sincere regrets. And if he isn't smart, if we unnerve him? Then, I think, God save us from his wrath.
He turns up finally, just about the time I'm thinking he won't, parks his car, a new silver Taurus, in his driveway.
Joel touches my arm. "Go get him, kiddo!"
He's out his side before I can open my door. After that I move fast, nearly tripping as I cross the street, all the while struggling to keep up with Joel and intersect with Vasquez before he reaches his front stoop.
He feels ambushed all right. He stops to peer at us, alarmed. He's blocky and tall. I understand why Hilly felt intimidated. He has a head of thick black hair, wears heavy black-rimmed glasses, stands erect like a military man on parade.
"Joel Glickman, Bay Area News!" Joel speaks so fast the words run together.
"You were told—no interviews."
Vasquez starts up the front steps. I focus my camera ready to catch him when he turns.
"We've already talked to Hale, Ricky, Wainy, and Jack," Joel says. "Only fair you get a chance to tell your side."
Vasquez wheels, furious.
Whap! My strobe glints off his glasses.
"Bastards!" The word comes out of him in a hiss.
"What's the problem, Lieutenant? We're going to write about this whether you cooperate or not."
"You're scum! Get out!"
Whap!Whap! Got him twice more!
"'Journalist scum." Joel scribbles in his notebook. "Sir, can we quote you on that?"
Vasquez squints at me. "Who're you?"
"She's—"
I wave Joel off. "Kay Farrow, Jack Farrow's daughter."
Vasquez stares hard at me, like he's photographing me with his eyes.
"Your dad ought to spank your behind," he whispers, with an intensity that makes me tremble. Then he mounts the last two steps, enters his house and slams the door.
"He's bad," I tell Joel.
We're sitting in a bar on Church Street, the nearest one to Vasquez's house. I'm still shaking from the confrontation. Joel's trying to calm me down.
"I know what he said degraded you, Kay. But put it in context. How'd you feel if someone stuck a flash camera in your face?"
"I'm not talking about being degraded."
"What is it then?"
"He's a bad cop."
"Come on! He's head of Felony Prostitution. How bad can he be?"
"I don't care what he's head of," I say. "I've known cops all my life. I know what they're like. He's got bad cops' eyes. Hale, Ricky, and Wainy didn't. They were only nuts."
Joel spreads his hands. "I'll give it a couple days, write him a note, see if he's changed his mind about an interview."
"He won't answer. Then you'll want to talk to Dad?"
Joel meets my eyes. "Don't you think I should, kiddo?"