Chapter TWO

Fear does several things. It pours ice down your spine. It makes your legs fail you. Your senses telescope down to a pin-point and you forget the feeling in your hands. It’s not just in your mind – it’s physical and visceral. But we humans were built to respond by either fleeing or freezing. A P.I. has to fight such responses or die trying.

If only it were that easy.

~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935

I MADE MY WAY BACK to my office, taking odd routes where I could see if someone was tailing me. Uncle Joe taught me that, and it's my habit now.

Tarps still protected my recently acquired, previously misused furniture. Drying paint fumes filled my nose. The walls and the window sign weren’t done yet. Oh well. The painters said it would be another day. My satchel fell over on the secretarial desk. I righted it, cautiously, then seeing nothing exploded, I backed away. The pins coming out of my wig set loose waves of relief on my scalp and freed the monster headache waiting in the dark. My feet hurt, my hair hurt, and I was damp through and through. But — I was alive. And there awaited something decidedly alcoholic in my desk, in the next room.

Sauntering over to my desk, the clunk of my shoes kicked off provided some satisfaction, countered by my tugging on one particularly disagreeable hairpin.

Agent Mason, jerk Bruno, G-man, and tasteless dresser stood with his hands buried deep in his overcoat pockets. I saw that slight lump under his arm, no doubt his shoulder-holster complete with government issued rod.

I felt my sass rising in my chest, wrestling for room with my pride. Walking out to him, I decided the sooner I got this over with, the better.

He stuck out his hand, demanding without actually asking. I looked at his hand and tossed the wig into it. “I told you not to go in a disguise. They can see right through that sort of ...”

“And I assessed the situation and decided to ignore you.” I gave him my back to stare at. I had a bottle of something medicinal in my desk, like every good detective should, and I wasn’t offering him any. Not a drop.

“Where is it?” Mason was the kind of guy who makes your skin crawl when he talks. His sentences tended to end with a squeak, as if he wasn’t sure if he would stop yacking.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you, you get more with honey than vinegar?” I turned and pointed down at the satchel and glowered. “Help yourself, or do you need me to serve it up on a tray, with a sprig of mint?”

Mason didn’t like it when I talked back to him. He hadn’t since the first time I’d sassed him. Too damn bad.

He scrounged around in my satchel to find the file. Once he opened it, he ignored me, so I poured myself a shot of Bourbon from the bottle I retrieved from my desk. Glass in hand, I strolled back into the front office.

“I was guessing you were more of a Rye girl, being from upstate New York.” He didn’t bother looking me in the eye.

“You need to do better homework. I lived on both coasts and one-time overseas. I drink what I like.” I sarcastically saluted him. Resting my sore backside on the edge of the front-office desk, drinking deeply, observed him. Not that I really wanted to. I wanted to go to bed.

His hazel eyes raced across each page inside the file. “You know what’s in here?”

He finally looked up at me with a disingenuous smile. “You should. Turns out we have —”

“What part of S.T.O.P escapes your understanding? I don’t want to know. I didn’t want to know about the goings-on at Hunter’s Pointe either, but you set me up for that one. Happily, I know nothing about your current hustle. Call it ‘willful ignorance.’ Any honest sleuth wants nothing to do with dangerous, paramilitary nutjob nonsense. I’m done. Got it? Done. Do I need to spell it for you too?”

At first, he seemed annoyed, then amused. “I didn’t ask you earlier, did you see anything interesting at the Pointe, when you were there?”

“Liar. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. We got what we needed tonight. And they ain't the wiser, or so you tell me.”

“Sure, they are.” I drank deeply, letting him see the gorgeous amber contents of my glass. “Maybe your current mark followed me here.” Now I was the one lying, but I needed to gauge his reaction. As much as he acted like one, Jim Mason wasn’t a fool.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I told you, you were only getting a file for me. They ain't the sort to get too upset. Now, the boys at the Pointe? Those militia boys enthusiastically play soldier. Still ... maybe you don’t need to worry about them either.”

“You should. Don’t blackmailers get their comeuppance in the end?” I asked, allowing the alcohol to end my sentence for me. “You got what you want, how about you ante-up with my license and badge, and that damn fake report to the War Department.”

Laughing, he waved me off. “I didn’t bring those out tonight. I wasn’t sure you’d be successful. Besides, I might need another favor.”

I didn’t want to be right about this, but I was. The blackmail never ends. He’d never stop, because men like him never do. He forced me to do his bidding at the cost of my career and my livelihood. Probably my life. That was how it worked.

Rage can be a funny thing. I don’t remember too much between his gregarious comment and my planting my heater right between his shocked and terrified eyes. He raised his hands in a warding gesture.

I switched that sweet derringer to the left hand and prodded his coat with my right. Out came his rod, and he swallowed either a curse or a protest.

“Hold on, Lou, I’ll bring them by tomorrow. I promise.” He coughed and raised his hands as if to ward off any attack.

When this angry, I become a whole other person — someone you don’t ever want to meet. “No,” I spit through my teeth, “you’ll meet me tomorrow morning at Crabtree’s Signal Tower, at Kearny and Market, eight a.m. You’ll have my documents, a signed declaration stating you’ve decided you haven’t any complaint about me, your so-called report to the War Department, and my badge.” Each word came out with force.

“You wrote up that little piece of garbage putting my life in danger. You set me up to take the fall for you. They shoot traitors, you know, if they don’t hang them.”

“No, no, you got me all wrong, Lou.” His tone was desperate, and I took so much satisfaction in that. He took a tiny step back. “I was just kidding about favors. Sure — I’ll give you everything you asked for. You got my word.”

“Miss Tanner, do you understand how many laws you’re breaking right now?” Oh, he tried to sound tough, but I’d shaken him up too hard. “I gave you my word. I’ll give you back your badge, license, the report, everything. Scout’s honor.”

“I should take the word of an agent of the government who interfered with the proper conduct of the City and County of San Francisco and tampered with the U.S. Mail by intercepting legally issued licenses, then blackmailed a civilian with a false accusation? It’s a damn wonder the War Department isn’t here trying to arrest me.”

“Take your word of honor? What honor? Interfering with the mail is a Federal offense. Think your bosses like your dirty laundry showing up in the papers? Don’t fool yourself, I’ll do it — no, no — shut your yap — I don’t want to hear it.”

My little .41 confidence maker was doing its job on both of us. “Eight o’clock, tomorrow morning. Got it, Mason?”

“So, what if I give you your little badge — what then? You think you’ll hop right into business and start makin’ a load? You’re a dame. No one will ever take you seriously. I’m the only one who giving jobs to you. Me. And I own your ass, Honey. I don’t have to give you nothin’.” The words caught in his throat in places, but he was planting his feet.

My heartbeat was pounding inside and outside my head. Everything shrank down to the point where I was keeping my rod pressed on his skull. “Crabtree Signal Tower — Kearny and Market,” I repeated slowly.

“Why should I? I’m a government agent. To you, I am the government. I can do whatever I deem —”

I left him on the floor, dazed and bleeding, and I unabashedly took possession of the all-important file. He crawled away from me, clutching his bleeding schnoz. The file he desperately wanted fit perfectly back in the satchel next to my copy of the Black Mask and D&S Detective Magazine.

I wondered briefly if he had any idea an average dame could do that to a full-grown man? Apparently not, and besides, I've never been an average dame. I strolled out as if nothing happened.

After such a performance, my only logical next stop? Stan’s Bar on Franklin. I didn’t care how wet I’d get hoofing it over. I wanted another drink and a chance to smoke the rest of the pack if I wanted to. All the way there, I fumed and replayed the incident over and over in my head, along with a variety of responses I was too sleepy to think of. Damn the consequences.

I didn’t used to be like this — all anger and gun pointing. In fact, it's bad form to go waving one’s gun around, but as a PI, I sometimes need the motivator.

I thumped on through the door of Stan’s, looking like a wet sheepdog, took a booth, and settled in.

The place was fairly empty. I guess the weather kept the regulars at home. A man arrived after me and took a spot at the bar. Now, there were two of us. He looked like the average down-on-his luck fellow trying his best to keep up his dignity. He took off his cheap but decent hat and ran his fingers through thick salt and pepper hair, leaving some of it sticking out in odd directions.

Stan himself walked up to me. In his late fifties and as wide as he was tall, Stan looked at me cock-eyed. “Bad day, Lou?”

“I’ve only been coming here for a couple of weeks. What makes you think —”

“I’m a bartender. Ya think I don’ know dat look? I know dat look. Bourbon? Neat?” I love his Big Apple accent. Reminds me of home.

“Yeah, you know me alright. Thanks. Oh, and Stan, put that fellow’s drink on my tab.”

He looked over at the man at the bar. “Want an intro? I ain't acquainted with 'em. Doesn’t come in here regular like.”

“No.” I held up my hand, with a cigarette already balanced between my fingers. “No, I just — sometimes it’s good to do something nice. No credit to me, just tell him to leave his coin in his pocket and enjoy his drink.”

For a moment, Stan shook his head. “If yer gonna’ be in the Big Boy’s business, ya gotta’ stop bein’ nice. Nice don’t get ya nowheres.”

The man at the bar looked confused when Stan refused his money. The down-on-his luck fellow was a nice-looking guy. Heavily lined features: what I call an interesting face. Maybe I should let Stan introduce me, but honestly, the last thing I needed was a fling.

Stan's always right — nice should get you somewhere, but it doesn’t. I pushed the half empty cigarette case out in front of me and accepted my drink from Stan.

Reminded me of when I was last in the Big Apple. My pal and famous detective, Nick Charles, went through a pack and a half of cigarettes, not to mention a bottle of Scotch, in the time we were waiting for his wife to finish up at the Salon. My hero, Mrs. Charles. Most folks would expect I'd prefer Nick. He's swell and all, and a damn fine P.I., when working, but it’s the Missus who had the bulk of my admiration. Nora Charles was as sharp as a razor and twice as smart as her spouse. But like the rest of us dames, the credit doesn't come her way. I still like her plenty. Heck, she even looks more like the actress who plays her in the picture-shows than I do. I look like Myrna Loy or so everyone tells me.

I didn’t need to smoke them all tonight, so I grabbed the case and shoved it back in my bag.

I missed them — the Charles. I missed my old friends in New York, but it was the price I had to pay for restarting my life.

My friends out here were few and I was happiest that way. I preferred the controlled solitude of managed loneliness.

I sat down in a back booth. The cushion under me was loose. Surreptitiously, I slipped the file underneath. Just in case Mason’s embarrassment wasn’t enough to stop him from trying something stupid before eight tomorrow morning. I could drop by Stan’s in the morning when he was restocking and cleaning, and I could retrieve it before my meeting.

Drinking and smoking. Until my eyes wouldn’t stay open. After a while, it puts loneliness on the back burner.

The man at the bar kept peeking over at me. It was the booze talking, but his eyes looked me over as if trying to be amused. As if he knew me.

I sobered right up and headed home using every indirect route I knew. At least this time, I worried for nothing.

STAN THE BARTENDER was more than a little surprised when I asked to come in around seven forty-five. I was more than a little surprised to find him awake and supervising the deliveries. Did Stan ever sleep?

The expression on his face told me he wasn’t happy I’d used his bar as a safety deposit box. Sure, I apologized, as I retrieved the file. He was due that much.

“Didn’t sit well with your gut,” I asked, trusting in my bartender’s intuition.

“Good thing I never take direct routes home.” I patted Stan on the shoulder. “Thanks, Stan. I appreciate you watching my back.”

“If yer Uncle Joe was here, he’d powder my brains if I let some mug pester you. Ya keep yer peepers open — I ain’t always gonna be dere.”

The mention of Uncle Joe made my chest tighten. I guess some hurts don’t ever go away.

At eight a.m. sharp, Mason met me at the Signal Tower, all by himself, looking more than a little sheepish. A bandage covered the bridge of his nose and a little dried blood still lingered around the edge of his nostrils.

I picked that time of the morning just to be a rat — it was too early for the likes of Mason, and he probably hadn’t slept very well — not that I had either, but a broken nose was about as uncomfortable as it gets. The bruise on his temple guaranteed that he’d slept on his right side. Personally, I hoped he had nightmares about being caught as a blackmailer or getting the stuffing pounded out of him by me. Both carried a promise of shame, which I found satisfying.

Me? I’d dressed up a bit — why not? My togs were a little out of date, but then, when does a hounds-tooth wool suit ever go out of style? It was a single-breasted, hip-length jacket with matching skirt and overcoat. Blue silk scarf knotted into a bow at the collar, black oxfords, heels, this time, gloves and beret completed a fashionable appearance.

My little derringer was in my purse for the moment. I felt ready for anything Agent Mason might dish out.

Out, in front of God-n-everyone, I made him hand over my license and badge and one life-ending false report.

Dejected and embarrassed, not to mention bluing under both eyes and swollen from his broken nose, Mason pulled his hat down and his collar up.

Me, I felt like the weight of the world was coming off my shoulders. Watching him try to dodge all the automobiles and Trolleys and Nightcrawlers, while crossing Market at Third Street, was funny. A ‘Crawler almost got him too. Ha! I was counting on never seeing his mug again, yet, deep inside, I was sure I would. Men like Mason were Users, and Users always come back like a bad penny.

Well, I wouldn't see him for a little while. Certainly not until his nose healed. And, while he’d never let me pull that move on him again. I'm not out of options. I’d think of something else.

The morning was cloudy and still foggy, but some streams of sunlight worked their way out and to the ground. Maybe we’re in for some finer weather?

I really did feel lighter. Not that I was surprised, with everything taken into consideration, but my sense of doubt about ever escaping Mason’s clutches had been heavier than a locomotive. And I know my locomotives.

I took a moment to light up a cigarette and admire the Lotta Crabtree Signal Tower Fountain. The Signal Tower was a handsome bit of public art. Bronze cast and glowing, despite the fog still milking on penthouses like a kitten. Lion’s heads, griffins, etched-glass images of sailing ships, rose above the ornate base. Victorian aesthetic decoration wrapped the tower with its bright lamp, one hundred and fifty feet above the street. At the top was a speaker for public emergency announcements and a red light, all part of the City’s warning system. In theory, we would be directed on where to go and what to do in case of an invasion or an earthquake. Presuming anything broadcast over the City speakers could be heard and understood. The monthly tests sounded like muffled screams, hardly intelligible.

The actual water fountain stopped working in ’06, when the Big Quake mangled the pipes below it. It was dizzying in its outrageousness, but then, so was Lotta.

Wind whipped down Market, making me pull my coat collar tighter. None of the trees had much left in their branches to blow away but plenty of leaves still covered the sidewalk, plastered in place by the damp.

Swaying with each bump in the sidewalk, a Delivery ‘Ton, with a basket of milk bottles in each hand, worked its way down the sidewalk. Its human-esque form looked completely non-threatening. Big wheels replaced legs and it moved slowly enough to avoid colliding with pedestrians. The name of the dairy farm decorated its tin chest. It was sweet in some ways.

Two down-on-their-luckers changed their path to close in on it. One shouted at it about ‘Tons taking jobs from humans, while the other knocked one of the baskets of milk bottles to the ground. The ‘Ton stopped to try to pick up the basket, and the two men were on it — kicking and yelling, slamming dents into its semi-hollow sides.

I don’t know why. The ‘Ton didn’t feel anything. I just couldn’t stop myself. I was witnessing bullies at work. I learned the hard way, there were few things more loathsome than a bully.

The Ne’er-do-wells ran away, laughing. The cops won't do anything. They hardly lifted an eyebrow for humans when harassed on the street, they certainly weren’t interested in helping mechanical gizmos.

We had trouble getting it back up onto its wheels. After a moment, it took its one remaining set of bottles, reconnected with its delivery signal, and rolled away.

Was it the human-style form that made me sympathize with it? Or just that I despise bullies so much I would defend a rock from one? Was I a so-called underdog; maybe I just projected myself onto the mechanism, like a reel at the picture shows. I am human, even when I don’t want to be.

Humans aren’t the “be all, end all of intelligent life,” despite what we tell ourselves constantly. In fact, we had the habit of being pretty damn lousy. I guess my optimism hadn’t woken up this morning.

First, we used and abused the Negroes. Then the Irish. The Jews had always been someone’s scapegoat, which certainly didn’t make it right. Now, we had technology we never imagined before, and instead embracing the convenience, we feared being displaced by them. Same damn fear just focused on a new target. Fear made bullies and fear made good people do stupid things. I was proud for a moment I wasn’t only person rescuing that ‘Ton. My philosophy was simple: no bully can be tolerated, even if he was haranguing non-sentient things like ‘Tons and ‘Bots. It was wrong. Period!

At my feet were puddles of milk — wasted. Hungry mouths waited in the shadows and alleys of the City, and waste was inexcusable.

With my diploma from the Pemberton Correspondence School of Private Investigation, and an operating license from the City and County of San Francisco, all in hand, I was armed and ready for my new life.

I was happy with the reality of investigation work. What happened in the pulps was great to read but nowhere near realistic.

I’d be busy ordering basic, take-me-serious stationary, and acquiring a couple of necessary items, eating lunch while I had the chance, and otherwise setting up shop.

I even managed to barter a couple of extra office chairs, leftover from the previous tenant, for a pair of opener tickets for the Seals. Sure, they’d sold off Joe DiMaggio, but he wouldn’t be gone for another year. That meant this year could offer some of the best ball played at Seal Stadium. Too bad they’d traded a star like DiMaggio, not a smart move, and I’d thought better of Lefty O’Doul’s management.

All those errands for me included picking up the evening paper, and to see if the latest copies of the Black Mask and the Diesel & Steam Detective magazines were in yet.

A man bumped into me. Tall. Moving too fast. Hidden under layers of winter attire. He mumbled something. I didn’t catch it.

My hand dropped down into my purse. A wave of relief cooled my skin — my badge and coin purse were still there. Everything was still there.

Staring down the street as I double checked the purse, I couldn’t find him. He vanished. But I remembered that he’d been like Alley-man from the night before, yet not so solid or wide. I didn’t have the same sense of size from him. But, damn my senses, I needed facts.