Herkimer’s had been an Oakland fixture for years, a venue for all sorts of music—blues, jazz, bluegrass, rock. I’d been to the club several times, though not recently. The nightspot was located in Oakland’s increasingly trendy Uptown district, on Telegraph Avenue at the corner of Twenty-third Street. And it had been closed for a year, after a fire that had seriously damaged the building.
Back in my office, I turned to the Internet and began clicking my way through the links that popped up on my search. I located a few online images of the club’s calendars and looked at the lineup of musicians for the weeks just before the fire. Among them was a popular Bay Area act, Lavay Smith and her Red Hot Skillet Lickers, that played jazz, blues and swing, fronted by the sultry Lavay. That same week, a bluegrass group had been featured, along with a blues singer and an R&B duo. On Sunday nights, the club had what they called Open Mike Nights, where anyone who had a yen to get up on stage with a microphone was given the chance to perform.
The blaze happened on a Monday night in April. The club had been closed that night. That was fortunate. No one had been killed or injured.
The fire at Herkimer’s was on a much smaller scale than the blazes at the construction sites, or the Ghost Ship debacle. The club was primarily a bar and performance venue, but it had served food. So there was a kitchen, and it appeared that the fire had started there. Initial news coverage said the fire’s cause was unknown, but under investigation. Later reports said it was arson.
Rory Davis, who owned Herkimer’s as well as another bar and two local restaurants, vowed that Herkimer’s would reopen. But thus far, the club was still closed. A couple of news articles outlined Davis’s plans for a bigger and better club, but talked about delays due to the fire investigation, insurance woes, design reviews, and the permitting process.
I searched for contact information on the owner. I found a phone number and made the call, expecting to get voice mail. Instead I got Rory Davis.
“My name is Jeri Howard,” I said. “I’m a local private investigator and I’d like to ask some questions about last year’s fire at Herkimer’s.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s a possibility the club fire could relate to a case I’m working on.”
A few seconds of silence as Davis thought about it. “Sure. I’ll be at one of my restaurants within the next hour. It’s Temescal, on Telegraph at Forty-fifth Street. Come on over, we’ll talk.”
I locked up my office and went out to the parking lot, getting into my Toyota. Before going to the restaurant, I drove over to Herkimer’s. I found a parking space on Twenty-third Street, next to a fenced-off area where the BART tracks came out of a tunnel that led back to the underground stations at Twelfth and Nineteenth streets. To the northeast, paralleling the elevated section of the Interstate 980 freeway, was the above-ground MacArthur BART station. As I glanced down into the right-of-way, with its twin tracks, I heard the rumble of an approaching train. Then a moment later, the first of several silvery cars emerged from the tunnel, heading toward the station.
I turned and walked in the direction of Telegraph. This block had a funky urban vibe, partly residential, partly business. To my left were several apartment buildings and on the other side of the street, a parking lot. I reached the corner. The one-story building that housed Herkimer’s had a stucco exterior that had once been pale green, with darker green trim on the windows. Now the walls were blackened with soot that had withstood a season of winter rains, the grime ingrained with the stucco. The windows were boarded up and covered with graffiti. So were the display cases that had held posters. The marquee above the front entrance was wrapped in duct tape and a layer of protective plastic that had come loose at one corner.
Standing at the front of the building, I noticed the location of two security cameras affixed high on the building, both angled toward the entrance. When I retraced my steps to the side of the building, I saw another camera pointing at another door which led into the building, presumably the kitchen.
I turned and looked across Twenty-third Street. On the opposite corner was a Mexican restaurant, an order-at-the-counter burrito joint that was doing a brisk lunchtime business. It, too, had a security camera.
Where there were cameras, I thought, there had to be some video footage. I headed back to my car.
* *
Temescal, the restaurant where I was meeting Rory Davis, was named after the neighborhood where it was located. The eatery had opened within the past year and I’d been meaning to try it, since the reviews were good. The dining room and bar had a trendy industrial look, with concrete floors and a high open ceiling that bounced with noise, shiny stainless steel fixtures and lots of varnished pine. The counter fronted on an open kitchen. It was after one o’clock and the lunch crowd was thinning out. A man and woman at a nearby table had just been served—a fried chicken sandwich with sweet potato fries for him and for her, a generous salad of mixed greens, scattered with cranberries, blue cheese, walnuts and slivers of roast chicken. At another table, two men were working their way through enormous burgers.
A young woman stood at a small front counter that held menus and a reservation book. Like the servers, she was attired in black jeans and a black T-shirt.
“Table for one?” she asked.
“I have an appointment with Rory Davis.”
She nodded and picked up a phone, making a call. Then she said, “This way, please.”
I followed as she led the way past the bar to a hallway that led back to the restrooms. Beyond this we went through a swinging door and the woman pointed me toward a small square office off the kitchen. Seated at a desk with a computer and the usual peripherals was a short, compact woman in her fifties, with a sun-browned complexion and brown hair, silvered at the temples. She wore it short, showing off a pair of dangling silver earrings that went with several silver chains around her neck. She had a habit of twining her fingers in the chains as she talked. She was casually dressed in blue slacks and a bright pink pullover.
“Ms. Davis, I’m Jeri Howard.” I handed her my business card.
“Call me Rory,” she said. “Have a seat. What will you have to drink?”
I pointed at her desk, at a tall glass of tea with ice cubes and slices of lemon. “That looks good.”
“Sure.” She picked up a phone and punched a button. “Gina, will you please bring another lemon iced tea? Thanks.”
A moment later one of the servers appeared at the door, carrying a frosty glass. I thanked her. When she’d left, I took a sip, then I said, “Tell me about Herkimer’s. I know it’s been around a long time. I’ve been there several times. And I used to wonder about the name.”
She smiled. “I used to go there myself, when I was in college, and after that. I love music. I was always hanging out at Yoshi’s here in Oakland, Freight and Salvage or Ashkenaz in Berkeley, or any of the clubs over in San Francisco. And Herkimer’s, of course. I grew up here in Oakland and it was an institution, really. As for the name, it was the guy that started the club. His name was George Herkimer. He opened way back in the sixties, and he ran it for years. When he retired, his son took over. Then the son decided to retire. By that time, I’d gotten into the restaurant and bar business. When I heard that Herkimer’s was up for sale, I jumped on it. I liked the club, so I made an offer and there I was, in the club business. I had a good run.”
“But the fire,” I said.
“Yeah, the fire.” Rory sighed and shook her head. “It’s been a major headache ever since. Thank God it happened on a Monday, when the place was dark. The hassles of dealing with the fire have been bad enough, God knows. But I’d just be devastated if anyone had been hurt—or killed.” She shuddered. “Like the Ghost Ship. God, that was awful.”
“It was. Walk me through what happened the night of the fire.”
She took another sip of her iced tea. “I was at another place I own, a bar on Eighteenth Street near the Fox Theater. That’s just a few blocks from the club. The manager and I were talking, and we heard the sirens. Didn’t think anything about it at the time. You hear sirens every night in Oakland. Then my cell phone rang. It was the guy who owns the Mexican restaurant across the street from the club. They’re open late and he was there. He tells me, Get over here, Herkimer’s is on fire.”
Rory threw up her hands. “When I got there, I nearly cried. It was bad. Seeing flames coming out the windows in front, and all that black smoke. I’m surprised the whole building didn’t go up. But the fire department got it under control. The whole inside was gutted, a mess. All that equipment, the furnishings.” She shook her head. “People were wondering if it was the wiring or the electrical stuff, but no way. It was up to code. In fact, I’d just had an inspector out there a month before. Then the fire department came to me and said it was arson. Who the hell would do a thing like that? I had employees out of work. Not to mention losing the income. And musicians losing a venue.”
“I stopped by the club before I came over here. It looks rather forlorn, all boarded up like that. Are you going to reopen?”
“Forlorn. Yes, it does look abandoned. The taggers have graffiti’d the walls like crazy. As for reopening, yes, I certainly plan to do that. Making it happen has already taken longer than I would like. Over a year dealing with the insurance company, the investigation and all that stuff. A major hassle. Complicated and convoluted. But things are falling into place. Knock wood.”
She did just that, on the wooden surface of the desk. “I finally got a payout from the insurance and I finally jumped through all the hoops provided by the city of Oakland. That was a chore, let me tell you. I’ve hired a contractor. So Herkimer’s will indeed reopen, with a complete remodel inside and out and new, state-of-the-art equipment. It’s April now. I’m hoping for fall or at least before the end of the year. I’m going to line up some big acts and throw the damnedest party you ever saw.” She laughed. “I’ve got your card. I’ll invite you to the grand reopening.”
I smiled. “Send me an invitation, I’ll put it on my calendar.” I paused and then went on. “Going back to what you said. Who would do a thing like that?”
She shook her head. “Don’t have a clue. The arson investigators asked the same question, over and over again. I wondered if it was just some idiot who liked to set fires and the club was an easy target. But I don’t think so. The building was locked up, like it usually was. And the investigation bore that out. Since you’ve been to the building, you know it’s on the corner, facing Telegraph Avenue. Whoever set the fire broke in through the door on the Twenty-third Street side. That door led to the kitchen and a big storage area. The fire started in the kitchen, according to the arson investigators. Some sort of accelerant. Cooking oil, probably. Since it was a kitchen, there were all sorts of things that would burn.”
“May I have copies of the reports?”
“If it will help find out who did this, sure thing. I’ve got your card. Tell you what, I’ll scan the reports and email them to you.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. When I stopped by Herkimer’s on the way over here, I noticed the security cameras. Three on your building and at least one on the Mexican restaurant on the other side of the street. Were you able to get any useful video from those?”
Rory nodded. “Some, mostly from mine, but also a short film clip from the Mexican restaurant. Let me call those up and you can take a look at both of them. I’ve got them stored on the cloud so I can access them from here.” She turned to the computer and her fingers played over the keyboard. “The first video is from the security cameras at the club. It cycles around, front to back to front, and so forth.” She clicked on the icon that started the video and beckoned me to move closer.
I stood up and leaned toward the monitor. Here was a silent nighttime view of Herkimer’s, so different from the nights I’d been there when a band was playing, music spilling out of the club, when the marquee was lit up and club patrons, talking over one another as they crowded the sidewalk in front of the building. On this Monday night, the club was dark, the only illumination the spill of light from a nearby street lamp. At first there wasn’t much to see. Three young men, laughing and talking, walked by the front entrance of the club, then disappeared from view. Several cars drove by. Then another view, from Twenty-third Street, the back door of the club visible. Just past the door were several large waste and recycling bins and a scraggly-looking street tree. A dog with pit bull antecedents trotted by and stopped to sniff the tree. It raised a leg and urinated, then resumed its journey.
Another view of the Telegraph Avenue side of the building showed a man and a woman walking past. Back to the side street, where a homeless man approached the back door, wheeling a shopping cart. He stopped at the recycling bin behind Herkimer’s and raised the lid, removing several bottles and cans. He put them in his cart and pushed on toward Telegraph. The video switched views again, in time to catch the man with the shopping cart turning onto Telegraph. When the footage switched back to a view on Twenty-third, there was a car parked at the curb, farther down the street. It was dark, looking gray or black in the dim light, indistinguishable from any of the other vehicles in the shadows. The camera panned on the street and then back, in time to show two figures slipping through the side door, heading into the club. One of them was tall, the other a few inches shorter, and both were dressed in black, with hoodies over their heads, pulled down to obscure their faces.
“The firebugs,” I said. “Men, I’m guessing, from their height and build.”
Rory nodded, running a hand through her hair. “None of the people who worked for me would have had any reason to be entering the building at—” She pointed at the time stamp on the video. “At nine fifty-seven on a Monday night. Unfortunately, they’re both wearing hoodies and none of the video shows the slightest glimpse of their faces.”
The two men were inside the building less than three minutes. When they came outside they moved quickly down Twenty-third Street, disappearing into the shadows. The video switched back to the front of the building, in time to show a car stopped at the corner of Twenty-third and Telegraph. It was the same dark generic car, at least I thought so. The vehicle stopped longer than I would have thought necessary at that time of night. The driver seemed to be looking to his left, as though checking oncoming traffic. Or was he looking at the building that housed Herkimer’s? The hoodie was still pulled over his head and I couldn’t get a good look at his face.
Then the driver made a movement. He reached up and his left hand brushed the side of the hood that covered his head. Was he tugging at it, pulling it down further? The hand moved back to the steering wheel, turning it. The car made a right onto Telegraph, heading past the Mexican restaurant. I couldn’t see the vehicle’s license plate. In fact, it looked as though it had been covered with something, mud or dirt, perhaps. The fire happened in April, which meant it could have rained recently. It was possible the mud on the license plate had happened in the course of driving the local roads. But I wondered if it was in fact deliberate.
A moment after the car turned and disappeared, the camera cycled back to the front of the building. Through the building’s windows I saw a faint glow that got bigger, then expanded dramatically as the interior of Herkimer’s burst into flames.
“I’d give anything for a better picture of that car,” I said when the video ended.
“Wouldn’t we all,” Rory said. “Here’s the footage from the Mexican restaurant.”
She pulled up another video. This was one was grainy, quite short. It showed a view across Twenty-third Street, looking toward Herkimer’s, and it had captured the vehicle just as it pulled up to the stop sign. Bathed in light from the street lamp, I still couldn’t tell what color the finish was, though it looked gray or black.
“Someone in the passenger seat, still wearing the hoodie over his head. Those must be the guys. But it’s frustrating. I can’t see enough of them.”
“I had a guy I know work on it,” Rory said. “He zoomed and enhanced several of these shots. This is what he came up with.” She worked the keyboard again, pulling up a series of images that had been blown up. Despite the enhancements, each picture looked blurry.
I pointed at one of them. “This one, the picture of the driver. I noticed it in the video. It looks like he’s pulling at the edge of the hoodie.” Something stirred in my memory, then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “Could you share the videos and photos with me?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll study them again, along with the reports when you send them. Maybe something will jump out at me.” I paused for a sip of iced tea. “So the fire at Herkimer’s was no accident. And I doubt that it was random. That leaves us with deliberate. Who did you piss off?”
She shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I like to think I get along with everyone.”
I pulled out my phone and clicked into the photos I’d taken when Slade and Marsh met at Lakeside Park. One shot showed Slade, his face full on. His cousin was in the second photo, a three-quarter shot. “Have you ever seen these guys before?”
Rory shook her head. “I don’t think so. But I’m in the restaurant and bar business. I see hundreds of people. The thing is, if anyone got pissed off at Herkimer’s, it wouldn’t have been with me. I was at the club a lot, mind you. But not every night. I’m betting that person would have interacted with the manager, the bartender, the bouncers.”
“Good point. I’d like to talk with the Herkimer’s manager, then. Is he still in the area? Working somewhere else?”
“You’re in luck. He works here. And he’s working today.”
She got up from the desk and left the office. A few minutes later she returned with a slender man in his thirties, dressed in black like the other employees I’d seen. His hair was also black, slicked back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Rory introduced him as Tomás Calderón.
“Jeri Howard. I’m a local private investigator. I’m working on a case that might involve the Herkimer’s fire.”
“I’d sure like it if somebody caught up with those cabrones,” Tomás said. “Herkimer’s was a great place. I loved working there.”
I showed Tomás the same photo I’d shown Rory.
“Oh, yeah. I remember those guys,” he said. “I had a run-in with them. Twice.”
Things were looking up. “What happened?”
Tomás thought for a moment. “The first time was when they played at the club on Open Mike Night. We always did those on Sunday nights. The whole idea was to give local people the opportunity to perform at a venue with an audience. The Open Mike Nights were really popular. We had singers, guitar pickers, you name it. We had a set procedure, though. You couldn’t just walk in and get a spot. The way it worked was, the doors opened at seven o’clock and people who wanted to perform put their names in the hat, right away.”
“It was a lottery,” Rory added. “And we literally drew names out of a hat, a beat-up old fedora that had belonged to Mr. Herkimer.”
Tomás nodded. “Yeah. Lost that hat in the fire. Anyway, we kept to a strict schedule. I drew names out of the hat about twenty minutes after seven, so if you didn’t get your name in the hat by a quarter after, you were out of luck. And we usually had more people wanting to play than we had slots available. Once I drew the names, the show started at seven-thirty, sharp. The solo performers, they got to play one song, and if it was a group, they got to play two songs. Sometimes if I felt a performer deserved an extra song, I got to make that call. And we limited introductions to about thirty seconds. I was the sheriff, cutting people off if they went over their time. Or I could give them the hook, if necessary. My privilege, and responsibility, as the club manager.”
“So these two played at the club on Open Mike Night. Do you recall when?”
Tomás shook his head. I don’t remember when, but I remember those two. Because that one—” He pointed at Slade. “He was an argumentative son of a bitch. Everything had to be his way and he was always right, that kind of guy. I’ve got no use for prima donnas and there are a lot of them in the music business. I’ll put up with more from a headliner than I will from a guy on the margins, and he was definitely on the margins. He wasn’t as good as he thought he was.”
“What about the second time?” I asked.
“Second time, I threw them out.” Tomás shrugged. “Well, the bouncer did. On my say-so. Goes with the territory, managing a club. And I do remember when that happened. It was a week or two before the fire.”
“You had a confrontation with them?”
“It was verbal,” Tomás said, his expression sour as though he’d bit into a pickle. “Not physical, no fists flying, nothing like that. But words. And they got nasty.” He pointed at the picture of Marsh and Slade. “The shorter guy, the one with lighter hair, he was making racist remarks, because I’m Chicano.” Rory started to say something, but he put up his hand. “Hey, that kind of stuff happens. It goes with the territory. I don’t let it get to me. But that is why I remember those guys.”
“What led to this altercation?” I asked.
“They wanted to perform that night, but they didn’t get their name in the hat in time. That one—” He pointed at Marsh Spencer’s face. “He’d been drinking and he was a nasty drunk. He was pissed because they didn’t make the cut. They stayed. I remember they were sitting at a table at the back, both of them throwing back beers, getting loud. They started heckling the performers. I told them to put a lid on it and I got attitude. Finally I said, you guys are out of here. That’s when this guy started throwing out the racist bullshit. I had a couple of big guys acting as bouncers and they escorted these two bozos and their gear out the door.”
And Slade liked to get even, or so I’d heard. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine that Slade and his cousin Marsh came back to the club a week later and set the fire that ultimately destroyed Herkimer’s, putting the venue out of business.