Chapter SIX

Beauty Sleep? Forget it. Run in your stocking? Learn to mend it. Good or bad, right or wrong, this is your world now. Take no guff.

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

MORNING HAD THAT SPECIAL kind of promise. This morning especially. The fog was burning off, the dampness suggesting a good and hard cleansing had been achieved. The City could be a lovely place when its washed behind its ears.

I rolled over and clutched my pillow like a neglected lover. I couldn’t sleep in, but I didn’t need to get up quickly. The Lockwood case was intriguing and a good way to stoke the brain-box up to full steam. That, and a cup of hot coffee would be essential.

My place is medium in size. Ah, the view of 10th Avenue, and if I lean into the bay window, I had a full gander at Judah Street. There were two cafes in earshot and an Italian restaurant more than willing to help you pack on the pounds. Tailors. Mom-n-Pop grocers. Mechanical repair shop working on Nightcrawlers and various robotics. It’s a good neighborhood. One might think I chose the place for the location and size.

Three escape routes exist other than the front door. I can see anyone coming up the stairs and down my hallway. Fire escape out my big window. Big dumbwaiter a gal like me can fit in. Back door of the complex a couple of yards away.

So far, my work hadn’t required me to mix with the bad crowd. But it was bound to happen, one way or another. My client did say his stepdaughter had some questionable friends and I concurred.

Now that I had a dangerous career, I’d laid off with wearing earrings. They turn out to be good only for the crooks who want to grab you by something. Besides, they were expensive.

And I don’t wear rings. Certainly not like the honker that dame was wearing the other night. Wow-wee, somebody liked her. A lot. Maybe too much and she’d sparked a few jealous fires. Was this why Alley-man was chasing her?

I hadn’t paid enough attention — I’d been caught up in my self-centered-grumping over Mason. I need to learn to be on alert. Always. No excuses on my part. Pemberton’s was very clear on the subject — pay attention or get killed.

Today, I had to figure out what the Lockwood business was really all about. Looking after his wayward stepdaughter out of honor? If it turns out he was, I think I just found the perfect man.

Opening the icebox reminded me I needed to put on my domestic housekeeper hat soon and go fetch groceries. No eggs. No bread. Even the coffee tin was down to a teaspoon – not enough to make a cup of raw ambition. Ice, as in “necessary for an icebox,” was not as abundant as my mother would require. I’d ask Mrs. McCarthy to arrange for the ice man to come in.

I’d give up a little coin for a meal this morning. Happily, San Francisco had more cafes per capita than New York. An achievement of significant proportion.

I didn’t dress to impress anyone but myself today. Belted navy-blue sweater with a neat white polka-dot bow. Beige rayon skirt with kick-pleats, hemmed just shy of ankle length. Street Oxfords with a functional heel. I laid out a plaid, wool cap. Short, powder blue, leather gloves. And an overcoat, because sunny didn’t mean it was warm. This was San Francisco, after all.

I packed my daily-go-to-work-purse with only the essentials, such as case notebook, pencil, and pen. Private Investigator’s License and Badge, in a leather case. A small box of ammo for the two-shot Derringer on the leg. Change for cabs and coffee. Cigarette case and freshly refilled lighter. I grabbed out one cigarette and lit it.

The apartment building began to rumble, then shake a little harder. Not an earthquake — quakes were more undefined, unsteady. This was steady. The cable cars and trolleys rattled the place a little while racing up and down Judah, but not like this.

It happens now and then. I sat on the inside ledge of my bay window, smoked, and watched the big vessel float by, its intercontinental-strength engines rattling everything nearby. A dark shadow passed over the window.

Not something you get used to. Service was regular these days, but the airships had only been in service for the past few months. They weren’t blasé yet. A couple of neighbors, out with their dog, stopped and stared upward. A guy was trying to use the wall as a wind block while lighting his cigar. Once accomplished, he looked up and let a billow of smoke flow into the air.

A huge Swastika adorned the sides and bottom of the balloon-envelope — my skin crawled, and I tried not to spit.

Nazis. No, no, no! I wasn’t thinking about them or any experience I had with them. No. That was the past. I shoved that memory to the back of my head so hard it almost hurt. Gone. It never happened. Never.

I took another drag in disgust and looked out at the trees. The wind was blowing south, hard. I’d need a hat pin, and the Zeppelin would need to approach the Station Tower from the northeast. In other words, the traffic for all aero-service, rerouted due to weather, put the flight path over my neighborhood. Again. Good thing I was on my way out. If I wasn’t mistaken, another three Bloated Birds were due in by noon.

Despite there being no damn chance I’d ever set foot on one of those, the idea of luxury living at ten thousand feet intrigued me.

Through a brief cloud of smoke, I looked back at a narrow mantle topped with framed photos of me and the parents. I missed them.

There was Uncle Joe’s fedora, too. I kept it free of dust. And, that reminded me, I took the hat and propped it on top of my coat rack, as a lucky rabbit’s foot for my first case. Sort of like a reminder that Joe was watching — looking after me.

I propped my foot up on the sill and pulled back my skirt enough to reveal a pocket clipped to my garter belt. My little gun fit in my pocket just the way I wanted it to.

I stared out the window. The Zeppelin descended into Downtown and was readying to hook its nose up to the Montgomery Street Rail and Aero Station building, at the 52nd floor. I couldn’t see downtown from my place, but I knew the routine. The gangway would be extended soon. People actually walk out on that thing to disembark? I shivered.

Yup! Love to make my own living. And I had best hop to it if I was gonna' solve my first real case.

EVERY BLOCK CLOSER I got to the Montgomery skyscraper, the tighter my stomach twisted.

Life scurried up and down the big street. Despite the bright sky, things were cold and damp. Fresh, but chilly. The wind wouldn't let up. I stopped to take a measure of the City by the Bay. A few ‘Crawlers streaked by. I think I saw a human-driven cab, but I knew that had to be impossible. Those were rarer than Dodo birds these days.

Above us, the City was preparing for Chinese New Year with large, red cellulose lanterns shaped like enormous beach balls hung from every branch, telephone and light pole, and swaying in the breeze. We had paper lanterns, when I was a kid, but I couldn’t imagine those surviving in this weather. Bright red cellulose, with gold accents and tassels. At night, they glowed a strange inviting orange, begging everyone to head up Grant to Washington, and to be wary of dancing dragons.

Some creep wolf-called me from his automobile as I sauntered by. Yeah, sure, the kind of fella my Mother wanted me to bring home.

We, the working masses, waited on the corner for that cop to give us the okay sign, and crossed the street, dodging steaming manholes, slick rail tracks, and expensive cars making a turn, disregarding the traffic cop. Some folks crossed Market any-old-place they wanted. Trolleys and ‘Crawlers took up most of the center street, with four tracks for the Muni cars and another four for the ‘Crawlers. Vehicles and people squeezed in between. A long line of cars waited for their chance to make the turn at Kearny.

Looking down toward the Ferry Plaza, I saw the dome of the Palace Hotel, the Humboldt Bank Tower, and rows of elegant, post ’06 stone buildings, all rising above the elevated train tracks that intersected the big street at Fremont and at Montgomery. A pair of aging Fords darted by, missing a line of folks headed across the street to the next west-bound, street level tram.

The City was home to more rails than people. Big locomotives came in from multiple routes, ‘Crawlers raced around every small street; trolleys and trams rolled up and down the main avenues, and every hill had a cable car. It was little wonder that anyone tried to drive an auto here. Made no sense to me — I put my car into storage. A pretty ’30 Cadillac V16 Roadster in medium blue with cream detail and soft, roll-back roof. A gift, one I couldn’t afford on my own. Maybe, just maybe, when I getting settled into a routine, I’ll take a day and drive up the coast? A girl can dream, can’t she?

I felt the interest of a couple of laborers on the back of my, um, back. A little lower than polite to mention. The lot of us scattered in a variety of directions. The construction Joes and maintenance Bobs headed toward the hole at Van Ness and Market that had dreams of becoming a glass and marble edifice to modernity. Several ladies passed me, hurrying to clock in by nine a.m. Well-dressed men, leaving the hotels, headed toward Civic Center to prepare for the liquid lunches they eat.

Ahead of me, I heard the Floaters. Truly, I try not to snicker at that nickname for the motorized hydrogen balloons used to lift cables into place. They were working on the new Emperor Norton — Bay Bridge. On water or in the air, Floater crews worked damn near anywhere. Loud banging echoed, pile drivers likely finishing the last of the piers over near Harrison Street. All the while, twin technologies and crews were performing the same waltz over by the Golden Gate. Two more years, we were promised. Just two more years. Then we could drive from the City to about anywhere across the Bay, without getting our feet wet.

Howie looked up at my approach. His dark skin glistened from hefting stacks of newsprint and arranging his stand. He tugged the brim of his hat. “Good morning, Miss Tanner. Been a while.”

“Good morning, Mr. Johnson. Too long. I need my news. Anything worth reading?”

Quickly cutting the strings holding stacks of papers together, he stood up and thought for a moment. “I’d say the most important story is on page four. Germany. Again.” Some fellow reached between us to snag the top paper and tossed a coin into the cash jar. Howie Johnson didn’t look to see if it was the correct price; in his opinion, he once told me, nothing matters except the honor system. If you don’t believe in it whole cloth, it won’t work.

He’d owned this stand for as long as I remembered. Grey had sneaked into his short, coarse hair over time, but I felt like it was only yesterday my Dad brought me downtown for an introduction to newspapers.

He was also the most politically savvy man I’d ever met. He didn’t just sell the news, he read it voraciously. He analyzed every aspect of government, stock market, and economic growth.

“Trouble. Nobody seems to be paying attention, but I see trouble on the horizon. After that man, Hitler, walked out on Jessie Owens at the Olympics, fuming about a Negro man being a champion over his superior athletes, I’ve been watching him. We should all be watching him and his cronies. Nothing good comes from his policies. His whole approach to reinvigorating the German economy is based on developing his military. Nothing else to do with a strong military but invade and fight.

“Who has time to care about some foreign country when they don’t know where their next meal is coming from? Besides, with Germany providing the only viable air travel to the west coast, they look like the good guys, right?”

He nodded solemnly, then smiled for a pair of men paying for another set of papers. Once they were out of earshot, he asked, “Ever hear of Mein Kompf?”

I looked at him, giving him my best, I-clearly-need-to-expand-my-knowledge look.

“Hitler wrote it. I managed to sneak a gander at the first chapter — they have a copy over at the Public Library — well, until I was moved along.”

My stomach fluttered, and a cold finger ran across my shoulders. Smartest man for at least a hundred miles and he couldn’t be left alone in a public library.

“Yeah. And that was only the few chapters I got a look at. Hitler’s insane ideas about master races is very nasty stuff. I can’t even imagine what else is in that book.” He adjusted his cap. “Something bad is coming. I wish more people were paying attention.”

“They’re asking for more space, out at Hunter’s Pointe.” He exaggerated the “e” at the end of “Pointe.” He always made fun of that. Some newspaper made a mistake, added the “e” and it stuck. Someone in the Militia thought it looked classy, so they never complained. I wanted to join him in the laugh, but ice was crawling down my spine. Militia? Forget it. It never happened, I told myself over and over.

“Sorry, I was trying to remember if I turned the stove off,” I lied, using that fib no one gets away with. All I got in return was a knowing look and respectful inaction.

I wished him a great day and headed down the street. Veteran of the Great War, Businessman, all-around smart cookie; if Howie Johnson said it was so, it was so.

At the coffee joint on Tenth, I settled into my desired routine of morning news and a paper cup of heaven. Espresso, they call it. It’s Italian. The owner’s Italian. He can call it anything he wants to call it so long as he doesn’t stop serving it. Not much to it and the nickel it cost made you wonder if he wasn’t ripping you off, until you drank it and briefly considered joining the Walrus Club for a fast swim to Angel Island and back. Yeah, it had that kind of effect. My kind of drink.

News of the day. I sat down inside the door, about a foot away from the radiator.

Spreading out the newspaper, I took in my liquid get-up-and-go, and balanced it with the depressing, revolving door of world disaster.

Adolph Hitler, recently named Führer of Germany, held a rally with tens of thousands of saluting followers. I swear the guy could shoot someone in downtown Berlin, and none of his followers would care enough to criticize him. There were people in the U.S. who were tremendous supporters of the Nazi political movement. They saw the government of Germany as efficient, focused, and, I tried not to spit again, pure. Looking at the grainy photograph; people stiff-arm saluting — worshiping — this man. I’d met a couple of Nazis. I loathed the whole idea of a Nazi Party. Howie was onto something.

Some schmoe in Cleveland was shooting his mouth off about inventing a Death Ray Machine. Right. But then, I’d seen some pretty unbelievable inventions — okay, one particular invention — three months ago. Still, I didn't buy into it. If some brainiac invented a new weapon, the War Department wouldn’t let him keep it, let alone brag about it to the papers.

Sir Malcolm Campbell was planning on breaking the Land Speed Record with his Aero-Automobile. Damn dingus floats on a cushion of hot gas and uses compressed air to propel itself forward. I predict disaster. His rival, Sir Alton Bradley, claimed magnetics did the same and promised to match anything Campbell did. That might be fun to watch.

I set aside the news of the day and pulled out my notebook to review observations and notes from the previous nights. I honestly don’t remember writing much of it. Even whacked out with missing sleep, I managed a good narrative of who said what and things worth noticing. A good detective takes notes. Chapter 1: What it takes to be a P.I. Not vague, colorless notes, but clear, details, like how people appear, physical gestures, body language, vocal patterns, and what they say by the word. How someone maintains their home or office was as important as the description of a crime scene. Everything counts.

Looking at Elliott Lockwood’s list of contacts for Frannie Coventry, I decided to start with family. Nine times out of ten, it’s family that’s deeply involved. I was thinking that Frannie, perhaps tiring of her mother’s demands, ran off to another family member for solace or protection — or both.

I looked at her picture again. There were a thousand things wrong with the photo. For one, Frannie had been in her mid-teen-years when it was taken. I was guessing 1931 by the look of her fashion and hairstyle. She sure knew how to pose for a photograph. She was as confident and comfortable – as a clothing model might be. And she was familiar for some reason. But Lockwood didn’t say she had a career as a magazine model. I didn’t ask last night; I should now.

Also, for a teenage girl, she dressed much-too-much to the nines. She was tarted up like a movie actress: heavy-handed with the eye shadow, wearing those new false eyelashes, and dark lipstick. This wasn’t a portrait of a girl still in school, dreaming of meeting her future husband in college and having five children. This image was a crafted vision of a young, sexual creature, a siren preparing to drag a man to the bottom of the ocean.

Comparing Frannie to me at the same age wasn’t fair nor was it accurate. At her age, I was learning what it was like to have money. Dad’s overhead rail grips were patented and his stabilizing mechanism, the rescuer of many a sea-sick train passenger, sold like hotcakes. I was in pigtails and coveralls, climbing all over the latest locomotive or Pullman car. The conductors and engineers around New York Central Rail knew me by sight and put up with my incessant questions. If I wasn’t being a tomboy, I was playing detective with Uncle Joe.

The bottom line was that I might not have had the average girl’s childhood, but I had a childhood. Frannie looked like she skipped out on hers early and wound up being an adult all too soon.

AT THE STRANGE COLLISION of Market, Larkin, Hayes, and Ninth Street, sat that big, over-decorated theater that I loved. Inside and upstairs, my office awaited.

I heard the phone ringing inside as I worked the key in its lock. Oh yeah, I still needed a secretary that I couldn’t afford.

The phone kept ringing, thankfully, and my gut told me it was Lockwood. Who else would be calling me here? I sure hoped he would open up more about this case. I also sure hoped it wasn’t Mason.

“Tanner Private Investigations,” I answered, hooking my hip on the side of my desk and noticing that Not My Cat had taken over my boss’s chair.

It took him about three tries before he finally spit it out, “Something terrible.”