Cocaine and Blue Eyes Page 6

  Catherine didn't flinch. She bristled. "I don't believe in discussing my sister's sex life with a private detective."

  "Why not? Nobody else'll have those qualms. They'll tell me every piece of dirt they can dream up, and they do dream up a lot."

  "Do you like wallowing in filth?"

  "Sometimes. Not always, mind you, just sometimes."

  "You're such a noble man."

  "I like knowing the truth, that's all."

  "Does it show itself to you often?"

  Like water, I sought her level. "Does Dani fuck a lot?"

  "Fuck you." She drank a lot of brandy then.

  The black maid came into the library and said Catherine's lunch was ready in the solarium. Catherine rose to her feet.

  "One last thing. Does Dani have a car?"

  "Yes, she does." She hesitated. "A 1955 Thunderbird. She has personalized plates. They spell out her name."

  "D-A-N-I? On a '55 T-Bird?"

  "Yes, that's right." And then she scooted past me and disappeared down the hallway towards the staircase.

  The maid had stayed behind. Her eyes were sullen and bored, as if she hadn't reconciled herself to life among the honkeys. I could sympathize a little. I didn't like living among the honkeys, either. But then I felt the same towards every ethnic group. I like living alone.

  "Is she always like this?"

  The maid didn't smile. "Sometimes."

  I sighed and tucked the check into my wallet. Catherine Anatole would be a difficult client. She was probably lying, and she certainly could sling the red herrings. Listening to her got me nowhere fast. I was glad I was leaving.

  I followed the maid down the hallway. She was silent, showing me where to go. I didn't care. I felt like talking. "She's a real liberal," I said, eyeing the hedgerows of braided black hair. "I bet she even gives you a ride home after dark."

  Over her shoulder: "I take the 22 Filmore bus home."

  The maid faced me as she opened the huge door. She didn't say a word, just held open the door. Feeling stupid, I walked out into the chilly afternoon. A faint mist was already falling on Pacific Avenue. I buttoned my coat and pulled up my collar.

  A Mercedes 450 LSC with a ski rack was parked in the narrow drive beneath a clump of Monterey pines. A bumper sticker said the owner was a member of the Far West Skiing Association. There was a current turista decal on a side window.

  I went out to the garage and peered through a dirty window. The garage was empty, but there was an oil stain on the concrete. It might've come from the Mercedes. I found my car and drove around the block twice. There was no sign of a 1955 T-Bird with or without personalized plates.

  I drove down Steiner Street to Geary Boulevard and jumped on the Skyway south. Just before the Army Street turn-off, the mist faded away, and dollar-sized raindrops pelted my hood. They made a drumming sound, like bullets falling from the sky, then trickled away into silence a few moments later. The raindrops steamed on the hood for a while, and then they too were gone.

  Chapter 6

  O. Anatole Fish Company was the last building on a dead-end street down in Butchertown. Back in the Forties, when San Francisco was butcher for the West Coast, there were scores of slaughterhouses down here. The city's health department closed down a bunch, and the rest moved east to Stockton, leaving behind a rat's nest of junkyards, food processors, mills and machine shops, freight transfer warehouses, truckstops, plastic factories and beer distributorships.

  The building itself was old brick and butted against the China Creek piers. It was painted a bilious aquamarine, like the inside of a health club swimming pool, and a giant dolphin in drag leered down at me.

  A loading dock for long-haul semis ran the length of the north side, and there was a parking lot for employees and visitors on the south. The lot was filled with delivery vans and pickups. I drove through it, looking for Dani's Thunderbird.

  A black man in black rubber boots and a red rubber apron was hosing down the loading dock. Fish innards moved sluggishly with the jet streams of water. Gulls swooped and darted around him.

  As I came nearer, he turned his hose away from my path and aimed it at a large gull a few feet away. The soaked bird raked its claws and feinted at the black boots. The man tried to kick the bird, but the dingy-feathered gull scuttled away, cawing and hissing its hatred.

  "Goddam scavengers." He sprayed two others who fought over a fish head. "Flying rats. That's what they are. I wish this was a gun."

  "Stop feeding them. They'll go away."

  "I ain't feeding them."

  "Where can I find the boss?"

  "Upstairs." He gestured with the hose. "Elevator's over there."

  A woman waited for the elevator. She was in her mid-thirties, a pale-cheeked housewife with average looks and not a hair out of place. Her black raincoat hung open, and she was brushing water beads from the cloth with short, choppy motions, as if they were dog hairs. Under the raincoat, she wore a black wool pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse. There was a pea-sized diamond ring on her third finger, left hand.

  We entered the elevator in silence. There was no button for the second floor. She punched the third floor button, and the doors closed on us. She made a point of retreating into the corner furthest from me. I didn't think I was a carrier or contagious, but I suppose one can't be too sure nowadays.

  She glanced my way and her eyes were nuggets of ice. There was no life in them, a vagueness behind them, a disinterest with the real world. I've seen that look before in downer freaks. It comes from viewing the world through a barbiturate haze. There were other explanations, too. You see those same eyes on topless dancers and starving waifs and female impersonators. Maybe she was trying too hard. Most women who wear black during the day are.

  The elevator opened onto a brightly lit corridor. There were several doors on the right, and a single one on the left. The woman scooted through one on the right. I moved slower and read the letterings on each frosted window. I learned O. Anatole Fish Company was the sole occupant.

  I came through the reception door. Two grizzled-faced men in mackinaws and jeans were shouting at each other. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with short mousy hair, managed to keep them separated. She told both to sail up to the Standard pumps at Fisherman's Wharf. "Pick up your ice and five thousand gallons, then go fishing first tide tomorrow. And use those credit cards we gave you."

  The sailors filed out together, grumbling and arguing over how to split up the last five hundred gallons of December's diesel fuel allotment.

  She turned my way. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm here to see Mr. Anatole."

  "Riki's in conference right now, but if you'll just have a seat, I'll tell him as soon as I can."

  "Riki? Is that his name?"

  "That's his nickname. It's short for Orestes. That's what the O. stands for in front of our name. He was named for Orestes Anatole, the founder."

  "Was that his father?"

  She shook her mousy hair. It made a rustling sound. "Great-great-grandfather. We've been in business since the Gold Rush."

  "Orestes?" I didn't believe her.

  "Orestes," she corrected. "Only nobody calls him Orestes. They call him Riki."

  "Is Riki any relation to Dani?"

  "They're first cousins," she told me.

  A door opened behind us. A young man backed out of Riki Anatole's office. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail, and he had a stack of ledgers under an arm. He was all beef and solid. Fifty pounds heavier and a couple inches taller than me. When he turned and passed us. I saw he was Chinese and soft-featured. If I were a barkeep, I'd think twice about checking him against the legal drinking age.

  "He's a big boy," I marvelled.

  She looked over. "That's our bookkeeper."

  "He should be a bodyguard."

  "He's a fairy." She decided to be professional and asked if I wanted some coffee. I said I'd read a magazine instead.

  The magazines I found we
re about the fishing industry, of course. I opened one near the middle and started a technical article about tuna-seining. Within a couple paragraphs, I was rooting for the dolphins.

  The outer door opened again. A young woman came in. She was dressed to kill, Thirties style, completely in red. A silk flowered blouse, calf-length flaring skirt, three-inch platform shoes. Her face was as pale as any kewpie doll. Curly red hair hung over her shoulders like a rouge Niagara. Red lipstick and red fingernails. And, in the midst of all that, standing out like a fire engine, were round eyes as cool and green as jade.

  I set my magazine on the end table.

  She asked if she could see Riki Anatole.

  "And your business?"

  "It's about a job."

  "I don't believe we're hiring right now, but if you want to leave an application ..."

  "We met last night. He asked me to come by today."

  "Was he sober?"

  "What does being sober have to do with anything."

  The receptionist didn't smile. "His wife's in the building."

  The redhead's smile wavered. "He will see me, won't he?"

  "Oh, I'm sure he will."

  "Should I come back some other time?"

  "That's up to you."

  "I'll waif, I guess. I need this job."

  "Whatever. And your name?"

  "Gideon. Ruthann Gideon."

  Ruthann Gideon came and sat beside me. She looked around for a friendly face. Finding none among the office help, she latched onto mine.

  She was the kind of chick who's always cool and funky. The kind who considers quaaludes très chic. Her closets were probably filled with Thirties trash. Sex came both male and female. Four letter words were adjectives. She probably swallowed diet pills with warm red wine. She loved dancing till dawn, and staying in would only drive her crazy.

  I slumped in my chair and tried looking suicidal and disgusted. She twisted and turned so her spine faced me. I straightened and smiled to myself. I felt pretty good. Young girls with jade eyes and no job can be poison when you're carrying a thousand dollar bill.

  The receptionist said Riki would see me now.

  I woke from my reveries and went into his offices.

  Riki Anatole rose slowly from his paper-cluttered desk to give me a hearty handshake. "Pauline said you wanted to see me." He was a big man, forty pounds heavier than me, but not athletic. He was a hulk beset by his own inertia. "Your name is ... ?"

  "Brennen. Michael Brennen."

  "Please have a seat, Mr. Brennen. I don't have a lot of time to talk with you. We're running a little slow today. Our trucks are waiting to go out on deliveries, and they should have been out this morning."

  He was a good-looking man in his late thirties. Salt and pepper sideburns and a wavy forelock that hid a receding hairline. He wore a red blazer, dark double-knit slacks and white patent leather shoes. There was a Linde Star Sapphire on his left pinky.

  Maybe it was his smile, the way he extended his hand to shake mine, or maybe just the red blazer and the white shoes. He didn't impress me as the head of a prosperous company. His type didn't run companies. They were doormen or waiters. Then I remembered his ancestors had done the hard work. They had founded this company. Riki was heir to their fortunes. That was his birthright, not anything he had earned.

  "Business sounds pretty good," I said.

  "This is my fifth Monday this week."

  "That's a long week."

  "And this is our slow season." He gave me a great big grin. "It'll pick up after the New Year's."

  I smiled back, sharing his good fortune. "I bet you say that to all your creditors."

  His hearty smile froze solid.

  "I'm a private investigator."

  "Pauline didn't mention that."

  "I didn't tell her." I passed over my photostat.

  He was too polite to glance at it. He gave it back immediately. Maybe the grey had always been in his face, hidden by rosy cheeks and big white teeth. Anyway, the grey was there now. Maybe he was afraid I was here to confiscate the books.

  "And whose husband do you represent?"

  The voice was husky and feminine and right behind me. It belonged to the woman in the black raincoat. She had been silent in the shadows until now. Now she stepped from them like a dowager queen approaching her court.

  Riki's chin started twitching, a faint and irregular pulse. "It's not about me," he told her.

  Her mouth made a small "oh," but no sound came. She walked around me to his side and took his forearm in a wifely gesture. The way she held it reminded me of tourniquets.

  "Mr. Brennen, this is my wife Lilian."

  "Pleased to met you, Mrs. Anatole."

  "Why are you here?" she asked.

  "I'm trying to locate Dani Anatole."

  Her ice eyes flickered at the name. A smirk rode her tight mouth. "And whose husband do you represent?"

  "This isn't a divorce case," I said. "I've got a message to relay to her, and that's all."

  "You were hired to relay a message?" She was impressed. "It must be important then."

  "Somebody thought so," I said.

  "Have you tried Sausalito? She lives there."

  "She moved out. No forwarding address."

  "She must've worn him out." She smiled. "Maybe my husband knows where she is."

  "I haven't seen her," he said.

  "Haven't you?" she suggested.

  "No, I haven't," he snapped. "Now that you've struck out, could you let us discuss this privately?"

  If eyes could have thrown spears, Lilian would have been skewered on the spot. But self-righteousness is a powerful armor. She had won her point and could turn her back on us. Like a cat sometimes turns its back on a cornered mouse. She walked in a slow circle around the desk and busied herself straightening the watercolors on the walls.

  Over her shoulder: "I need that money."

  "What about your credit cards?"

  "Magnin's won't accept them."

  "None of them?"

  "If they did, would I be here?"

  Riki stared at his wife's spine. "I guess we better do something about that." He spoke softly, angered with her.

  She walked to the window. "I'm sure we will."

  Riki's face hardened. He wanted to say something to her, but he forced himself to face me. "Let's get outta here," he growled. He left his desk slowly, like a bear coming from hibernation, fighting inertia all the way.

  I had just lit a cigarette. I stubbed it out.

  We left his office and Riki told the receptionist he'd be on the first floor. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked into Ruthann Gideon. He almost wet his pants. He mumbled something, then scooted through the door.

  He stalked the corridor like a man chasing down money. Swift and purposeful. And maybe that is the mark of a successful businessman, but I knew there was more he feared behind him than anything he might face ahead of us.

  "I'm sorry about Lilian," he said.

  I said nothing. Who cared?

  "She didn't have to insult you like that."

  I hadn't felt insulted. I hadn't felt a thing. I thought she'd been insulting him. Which shows how much I know.

  "She's a good woman," he told me, "but she's always watching television. All those soap operas. She thinks life's a melodrama."

  We hiked the corridor to the last door. It opened onto a narrow staircase. The brick stairs were steep and slick with dampness. We started down them.

  "I understand that redhead needs a job."

  He shook his head. "Goddam cunts nowadays. They're always trying to use you. You gotta hire them before they'll shack with you."

  My sympathies went right to the redhead. So what if she collected cocktail napkins from the all night disco joints in the gay neighborhoods, waiting patiently for a slumming rock star to mistake her for a groupie? Anybody could get laid. Jobs are a lot scarcer than virgins.

  "Why do you want Dani?" he asked. There was concern in
his voice. More than I might've expected. He wanted no one interfering with her life. I felt, maybe wrongly, he could be trusted with the truth.

  "She walked out on Joey Crawford," I told him. "He tried to hire me to find her for him. Try and bring her back to him. He died before I could refuse him."

  "He's dead? Are you sure?"

  "He gets air-freighted to Spokane tomorrow."

  "He was from Spokane? I didn't know that." His mind was playing tricks on him. Doing what it could to avoid the scent of death. It lasted less than a moment. "How did it happen?"

  "An auto accident on the Golden Gate Bridge."

  "Dani doesn't know about it?"

  "I don't see how she could. It only happened this morning. It hasn't made the newspapers, and probably won't, unless it's a dead day for news. It was a routine accident. She won't be notified because she isn't next-of-kin."

  "Where do you come in?"

  "I was hired to find her, bring her back. It's a little late for that now, but I hope I'm the one who tells her he's dead. I figure I owe Joey that much, and she should hear it from somebody soon."

  "I wonder how she'll take it," he said to himself.

  "How close was he to Dani?"

  "I don't know. I didn't think too much of him myself, but I wasn't sleeping with him."

  "How long did she live with him?"

  "Three or four years, I guess."

  "Why'd she stay with him so long?"

  "Why does anybody stay with anybody? Maybe she loved him. Maybe she got used to him. Maybe she didn't like living alone. Maybe he was the lesser of two evils."

  "When was the last time you heard from her?"

  "It should have been at Christmas. The family was supposed to have a little get-together, but right after Thanksgiving she called, said she couldn't make it. Which turned out to be a blessing. Lilian and I went to Hawaii. Our first vacation together in years."

  "She left Joey about a month ago. Would you know where she went after she left him?"

  Riki didn't know. "Have you talked with Catherine? That's Dani's sister."

  "She said she doesn't know where Dani is."

  "Oh. I thought she might."

  "And why is that?"

  "Well, she is Dani's sister."

  "Are they close?"

  He gave me a broad grin. "Catherine thinks they're the best of buddies. She's always talking about how close they are. But they couldn't agree on the sunrise."