Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (3 page)

"I wouldn't worry about it," I said mildly.

"Okay, so now you tell me this: How are you going to stop
this guy who's following me?"

I was about to say I wouldn't know if I was going to take his case
until I spoke with Hank, but something stopped me. This was
intriguing, dammit. Willie Whelan could provide me with an entree
into a world I'd never see otherwise. And the knowledge I'd gain
might be useful in solving future cases; after all, wasn't it better
to know how the other side operated? "How would you like to take
on a new employee?"

"Huh?"

"You say you have three runners—why not add another?"

"You mean you'd pose as one and check things out?"

"Right. It's better if no one knows who I am, even your other
people."

Willie studied me, then nodded decisively. "That might work.
You can come along with me tomorrow to the flea markets and I'll show
you the ropes. I'll tell my runners I'm training you to handle the
Berkeley Flea Market—I don't have anybody there."

"Good."

He went to open the garage door. "I leave early. You'll have
to be here at seven."

"No problem."

Willie accompanied me to the driveway, stopping to kick at the
tire of his truck, which was parked in front of the house. It was
still loaded with the merchandise I'd seen at the flea market,
including the parrot and the player piano.

"Isn't it a lot of trouble, lugging a piano around?" I
asked.

"Damn right it is. I only do it because I'm trying to unload
it fast. It's taking up too much space for what it's worth."

"No luck, huh?"

"Hell, no. I've been dragging it all over for a month now."
He stared at the piano, his mood pensive again. "And wouldn't
you know it? It just had to be."

"Had to be what?"

"I took that piano in a legitimate deal. Wouldn't you know?"

My new house was on a one-block segment of Church Street, out past
Thirtieth, where the J streetcar tracks turn and come to an end. The
street was not properly in my old neighborhood, the Mission district,
nor was it in the newly fashionable area called Glen Park. If
anything, it had a character all its own—one growing out of the
blend of races and social classes that lived there in peaceable and
friendly proximity. After only three months, I'd been made to feel I
was a welcome addition to the tiny community.

The house itself was a five-room brown-shingled structure nestled
between two larger Victorians. One of some four thousand cottages
built by the city's Earthquake Relief Corporation to house homeless
victims of the 1906 'quake, it had originally been a dark green
three-room box without any claim to distinction. Over the years,
however, a succession of owners had added the shingles, a front and
rear porch, two additional rooms, and indoor plumbing. The toilet was
in a cold cubicle on the back porch, and the living room ceiling was
caving in, but as soon as I saw the house I fell in love with it. And
before the then-owners had even accepted my offer, I'd rushed to the
library to read up on the earthquake cottages.

As almost every San Franciscan knows, the 'quake and fire of April
18, 1906, left at least half of the city's 450,000 residents
homeless. At first the people improvised, living in makeshift camps
on vacant lots or in the parks, but the foggy summer weather soon
made it apparent that there had to be a more permanent solution to
the housing problem. It was then that the Relief Corporation stepped
forward with its plan for the cottages—two rooms, some three,
and none costing over a hundred and fifty dollars to construct. Soon
teams of horses could be seen pulling the little green houses to
their final destinations on empty land all over the city. Mine had
been hauled to Church Street, and there it had sat on its deep
pine-shaded lot, waiting for me to find it some seventy years later.

Now as I got out of my car and approached the front steps, I
smiled at the house, pointedly ignoring the fact that the pitched
roof was badly in need of repair. On the porch, behind the pot of
geraniums I'd set out, was my cat Watney. He'd taken to hiding there
and spying on the activity in the street—a ridiculous ploy,
since the black-and-white spotted creature was so fat it would have
taken a redwood tree to camouflage him adequately. As I put my key in
the lock, he leapt out, nipped at my ankle, and then darted through
the door in front of me. I followed him as he sashayed proudly back
to the kitchen. Of course, Watney thought I'd bought the house for
him.

All five rooms were empty, but there was a big pot simmering on
the stove. I lifted the lid and smelled tomatoes, onions, garlic,
oregano, and other less definable spices. It had to be one of the
wonderful Italian sauces that were Don's specialty. I looked out the
window and spotted him in a lounge chair under the big pine at the
back of the yard. The sight of him flooded me with a warm, homey
feeling— one I'd been experiencing with increasing frequency
since he'd come to visit a week ago.

I responded to Watney's pleas for food, then got myself a glass of
white wine, wondering, as I did every time I went into the
refrigerator, why it was my fate to be plagued with strange
appliances. In my last apartment, I'd had an old electrified icebox
that didn't keep things very cold. This house had come equipped with
a bright yellow 'fridge on which someone had painted racing stripes.
It froze everything.

Before I went to join Don in the yard, I picked up the phone and
tried to call Hank at All Souls. The phone there rang seven times
before one of the attorneys answered, and then there was so much
noise in the background that I could barely hear him. They were
having a party, he said. Did I want to come over?

"What are you celebrating?" I asked.

"Well, today's the day back in 1952 that Lillian Hellman
refused to squeal on her associates before the House Committee on
Un-American Activities."

"What?"

"It really is."

"Oh." I realized he must be standing next to the
literary calendar that someone had posted in the kitchen. "Is
Hank there?"

"No. He went to Bodega Bay for the weekend. Guess he doesn't
like Lillian Hellman."

"Probably not. If you see him, tell him I'll talk to him on
Monday."

"Are you coming over?"

"I don't think so." I wasn't in any mood for a drunken
crowd.

"Don't like Hellman either, huh?"

"She's okay, but I prefer Dashiell Hammett." I hung up
and took my wine to the backyard.

By coincidence, Don was reading a novel by another mystery
writer—Ross Macdonald, whose work I enjoyed even more than
Hammett's. He set it down on the spool table between the two lounge
chairs when I came out.

"I got you hooked, didn't I?" I sat down and nodded at
the book. Mysteries were practically all I read these days, with the
exception of an occasional foray into my old field, sociology. As I
got older and further removed from college, however, the Soc books
tended to sit face down on the coifee table, open to one of the first
ten pages, gathering dust.

"Yeah, you have. I only meant to read for a little while and
then light the barbecue, but…"

"We're barbecuing tonight?"

"I thought we would."

"So what's that in the pot on the stove?"

"Barbecue sauce."

"
Italian
barbecue sauce?"

"Sure. You don't expect a Del Boccio to cook like a Texan, do
you?"

Again the homey warmth spread through me, this time tinged with
unease. I'd have to examine this feeling more carefully sometime when
I was alone. Was I really ready for…?

"… surprises me that a private eye would want to read about
fictional ones," Don was saying.

"What?"

"I mean, don't mystery novels seem pretty unrealistic to
you?"

"That's what I like about them. They're so much more
interesting than my life. When you spend a lot of your time
interviewing witnesses and filing documents at City Hall, you
appreciate a little excitement on paper."

"Your life hasn't been
that
dull. How did it go with
Willie?"

"Not bad. I'm going to take the case."

"I thought you didn't like the idea of working for a fence."

"Willie's no ordinary fence. And his problem intrigues me."

"What he told you sounded pretty run-of-the-mill to me."

"It's what he didn't tell me."

"Such as?"

"Well, consider Willie: He deals with tough customers every
day. He's tough himself. From the looks of him, I'd say he can handle
most things that come along."

"So?"

"So somebody's following him. A little guy in a suit. If a
little guy in a suit were bothering you, what would you do?"

"Go up and ask him what the hell he's doing."

"Right. So would I. But why doesn't Willie? This guy has been
bugging him for three weeks, by his account. And has Willie once
approached him, tried to find out what's going on? No. Instead, he
calls his lawyer and hires a private detective. Why?"

"Did you ask him?"

"Yes. He said that as a fence he's vulnerable, doesn't want
to get into anything that will call attention to himself."

"But you don't believe that?"

"I'm not sure. It could very well be true, but on the other
hand, it might not be."

Don got up and went to the barbecue. I watched him, liking the way
he moved. He was a stocky man, but he handled himself with confidence
and a certain grace. Don had dark Italian good looks that had
attracted me immediately when we'd met last fall while I was on a
case in his hometown of Port San Marco. I hadn't been sure how we'd
get on otherwise, however, because he was a disc jockey— star
of the most raucous, nerve-jangling rock show on the mid-coast
airwaves. Then I'd found out that he did most of this show wearing
earplugs; that he loved Brahms and Tchaikovsky; that he adored salami
and cheese and rich red wine. Most important, Don could laugh at
himself.

"Anyway," I went on, "I've decided to take the
case, but that means canceling our plans for brunch tomorrow. I have
to be at Willie's at seven in the morning, so I can go around to the
flea markets with him."

Unperturbed, Don poured charcoal lighter on the briquettes.
"That's okay. There's a free concert at Stern Grove that I
wouldn't mind catching."

Another thing I liked about him was his self-sufficiency. Given
the erratic hours and unpredictable demands of my job, I'd always
assumed I wouldn't find a man who could put up with me. But now—well,
maybe I had.

The fire was blazing nicely. Don came over and sat down. "Do
you want to start replastering the living room ceiling tonight?"
he asked.

I sighed. We'd stripped what plaster remained from the lath and
prepared the surface. We'd bought the supplies and borrowed a
scaffold. Tonight was the only time I had free to work on it. "No."

"What do you want to do?"

"I want another glass of wine."

"And then?"

"Another. And then lots of barbecue ribs. And then I want to
go to bed early."

"How early?"

"No later than eight. I'll have to get up at six and they say
you need at least eight hours' sleep."

Beneath his shaggy mustache, Don's mouth began to curve up. "Eight
at night to six in the morning is ten hours."

"I know."

He winked at me. "I'll get you that glass of wine."

The next morning, Willie and I got in the red truck at his house
and headed south on 101 to the San Jose Flea Market. As we drove, I
stared sleepily at the little businesses and cheap apartments on the
frontage road. The Peninsula, bounded on the east by the Bay and on
the west by mountains and then the sea, was a string of communities
with names like Millbrae, San Carlos, Palo Alto, and Mountain View.
From the freeway, one was indistinguishable from the other, and I'd
often had the feeling that I was driving through the endless
outskirts of a town that stubbornly refused to materialize. There
ought to be someplace tangible here, with parks and houses and
palm-lined streets; but instead there was mile after mile of fast
food stands, shopping centers, termite exterminators, and convenience
stores.

At first Willie was silent, drinking coffee from a plastic cup
with a screw top that kept it from spilling. Then, as the caffeine
perked him up, he started talking about the fencing business.

"I get terrific customers at my permanent garage sale, you
know? Just terrific. I love 'em all. You wouldn't think there'd be
much traffic where I am, practically out in the Avenues. But it's all
word-of-mouth. One tells another, and then another. Pretty soon
you've got a regular clientele."

"Like who?"

"Anybody. Other flea market vendors looking for merchandise,
of course. Clerks from the stores down on Irving Street or over on
Haight. Secretaries, I get a lot of secretaries— they don't get
paid so good and they're always looking for a bargain. Tellers from
the bank where I do business—they catch on to me fast. And the
Medical Center—Jesus Christ, doctors are the cheapest bastards
alive. I got this one last week, drives up in a silver-gray Lincoln,
leaves the goddamn thing right in the driveway so people have to
squeeze around it. Suits he wants, designer suits. I show him where
his size is, and next thing he's upset because they don't still have
the labels in them. How's he supposed to know whether it's a Cardin
or Yves St. Laurent?"

"I tell him he wants labels he should go downtown to Brooks
Brothers. He doesn't like that much, but he quiets down, decides to
try some on. I show him the place I got curtained off at the back of
the garage. He wants to know why there's no full-length mirror.
Then
he wants alterations. I say, 'Do I look like a seamstress?' When the
guy finally leaves, he's got two designer suits for around a hundred
bucks. Not a bad deal, but he's still annoyed and when he goes to
back out of the driveway, he knocks over my garbage can that I've got
sitting there, all full of crap that I've got to scrape up off the
sidewalk with my bare hands.