No Way Out (47 page)

He hadn’t come this far, setting things up for a perfect scoop on his fellow paparazzi, only to lose it now because of a schoolboy error. So he grabbed his backup camera – a Canon EOS 30V film camera – and proceeded to snap off a series of pictures, taking advantage of the four frames per second mode.

Because he was using an optical zoom lens, rather than a high-power telephoto, the quality of these pictures wouldn’t be quite as good as the others. But as it dawned on him precisely what he was capturing with the camera, he realized that the overall quality of the pictures was not the issue – as long as the identities were recognizable.

Kell’s
Irish Restaurant and Bar had the feel of a traditional pub, complete with pictures of the old country adorning the walls. Nestling in a corner of San Francisco’s Jackson Street and a quiet, nameless little alley that led to a parking lot, it was normally bustling with life. But this was Tuesday night, the quietest night of the week for places of entertainment, and it was getting on for the midnight closing time.

So the quiet evening was pretty much winding down when the two intoxicated men staggered in at this late hour. It wasn’t clear to the bar tender if they were gay or not. Certainly they were in each other’s arms. But it looked to the young, wiry barman as if one of them was supporting the other – as if one was a little more sober than the other, or at least marginally less inebriated. It also wasn’t clear if they were homeless.

On the one hand they looked somewhat unkempt. But on the other hand they looked rather well-fed – not fat, just well-fed. Down-and-outs tended to look poorly nourished, whether it be too thin from too little food or fat from eating the wrong kinds of food and lack of exercise.

Of course they might not have got to that stage yet. They could be only recently homeless. But these two actually looked quite fit. Both about six feet tall and with well-defined musculature, they could have been unarmed combat experts or survivalists. The barman knew that some gay men go in for body-building and that men with well-defined muscles frequently became gay icons.

But he had also learned not to judge people by looks. In his line of work, one could expect to see a lot of people every day, and it was all too easy to play guessing games about their backgrounds. The problem was that however much you thought you knew about human nature, you could always be blindsided by the visual clues. All he could say for certain was that both men were aged about forty, one drunk and bald, the other, more sober, with close-cropped sandy hair.

Another man, at the corner table, looked up for a second, as if taking in the change to his environment. Now he
was
homeless. You could see it not just in his clothes and unsuccessful attempts at personal hygiene, but even in his demeanor. He was a man who had no home to go to, with no light of hope in his eyes. He was about the same age as the other two, but smaller and more frail-looking. His matted brown hair appeared to have traces of grey. But it was hard to tell with all the grease and flecks of food that permeated the strands.

“What’ll it be?” asked the barman as the less inebriate man propped up the other on a bar stool.

“A Jack Daniel’s on the rocks for me,” said the man, in what may have been a Boston accent, “and an Irn Bru for my friend.”

The barman poured the whisky and slammed a can of Irn Bru down on the bar for the semi-conscious man. The man who had spoken, paid up and the barman went back to cleaning the glasses in the almost empty bar.

The half-sober man tore the ring off the Irn Bru can and practically poured it down the other man’s throat. Only when he had finished, did he down his Jack Daniel’s in a single swig. Then he stood up and looked at his drunken friend.

“Sorry Corny, gotta go.”

And with that the half-sober man stood up abruptly and left, watched covertly by the homeless man in the corner.

Seated at the bar, the drunk, looked around for his friend nervously and failing to spot him, seemed somewhat disoriented, as if trying to get his bearings.

“Where am I?” asked the drunk. It was then that the barman finally placed the accents of both men. They were British.

“Kells,” replied the barman. The drunk looked at him blankly. “Irish Restaurant and Bar... San Francisco?”  The barman waved his hand in front of the drunk, hoping to verify that the man was still this side of reality.

“I have to go,” said the drunk, sliding off the stool and unexpectedly managing to stay on his feet.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked the barman.

“I’m fine,” said the drunk, apparently sobering up, possibly from the caffeine rush. “How much do I owe you?”

The drunk took out a sizeable wad of cash, bringing a look of amusement to the barman’s eyes. But the barman had learned four things from his father: never lie, never steal, never cheat on your wife and never fight with anyone who wasn’t up for it. And it was a code he lived by.

“That’s okay,” he said, shaking his head. “Your friend already paid.”

This seemed to confuse the drunk even more, but his hand went back into his shirt pocket with the wad of banknotes and when it came out again, the money was nowhere to be seen. But the pocket was bulging. He turned and staggered out into the dark night.

It was no more than a few seconds later that the down-and-out in the corner got up and left, walking with a surprising sense of purpose and pace for a man without a home to go to. He too stepped out into the night, his eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness and focus on the drunk staggering away barely a yard ahead of him.

Even though the nocturnal atmosphere of this near-deserted street was quietly menacing, he was unafraid. This was
his
turf and he knew what dangers lurked in its lightless corners.

Focusing only on his quarry, he saw immediately that the drunk had turned right when he left the bar and was almost level with the alleyway that ran by the side of
Kell’s
.

Perfect!

*     *

“What took you so long?” asked the uniformed man in the driver’s seat.

“There’s always a queue at this time.”

The tall man slid into the passenger seat, handing a soda and one of the paper bags to his partner. As he sat, the height difference between the two became readily apparent. The crew at the precinct used to compare them to Abbott and Costello, although the analogy didn’t really work, because the tall one was barely twenty, while his short, squat partner was pushing forty and looked even older.

“You should’ve flashed your shield.”

“Unthinkable!”

“Why?”

“Abuse of power.”

He was smiling when he said it. The older cop snarled, but only
partly
in mockery.

“You got morals Kyle.”

“Why thank you Joe.”

“It wasn’t a complement.”

It was getting on for midnight and they were just settling down to their large quarterpounder meals when the radio crackled to life.

“Three-Adam-sixteen, we have a six-zero-three in Becke’s Alley, Code 2. Please respond.”

Needless to say, Joe was none too happy about it. He took the call, with his mouth still full.

“We’re in Pine Street. Haven’t you got anyone else to handle it?”

The female dispatcher for the Central and Southern stations laughed amiably.

“I
know
you’re in Pine Street Joe. And you’re the nearest we’ve got. You’ve been stationary for over ten minutes.”

She knew this from the SatNav transponder in the car that enabled her to keep tabs on a squad car’s position without the driver having to report in.

“We’re on a 10-7M”

“It won’t do you any harm to skip a meal Joe.”

Kyle stifled a laugh as he looked down at Joe’s beer gut. Joe scowled.

“Jesus, it’s just a fuckin’ prowler for Christ sake!”

“It’s a Code 2 Joe,” said the dispatcher, still in that same cheerful tone.

“All right, all right,” snarled Joe, putting his food back into the paper bag. “Ten-four!”

“Thanks Joe. And don’t get indigestion now, you hear.”

“Since when is a prowler a Code 2,” Joe muttered, reaching for the ignition key.

Code 2 meant “URGENT – Respond Immediately.

But Kyle was taken by surprise and spilled his soda as the car lurched forward. It was obvious that, despite the dispatcher’s cheerful tone, Joe didn’t share her upbeat approach to life – especially when it disrupted his mealtime self-indulgence. This was clear not only from the haste and aggression with which he started the car, but also the fact that he switched on the siren.

“She didn’t say Code 3.”

“Remind me which one of us is the rookie, Kyle.”

“It’ll scare the prowler off.”

“Oh ain’t that a shame! You mean we won’t be spending the next hour writing up reports?  You mean instead we’re gonna have to patrol these means streets and look out for the hoods, like the taxpayers expect us to?

No one could do sarcasm like Joe.

“If we chase him off here, he’ll just pop-up somewhere else.”

They hung a right at Kearny Street and then Joe stepped on the gas. But even in his haste and anger, he was careful to keep his eyes open for J-walkers who might step out into the road in a state of intoxication at this time of night.

“Five’ll get you ten he’s just a figment of some old biddy’s imagination.”

But Kyle wasn’t taking.

“
And
of course we want to serve the taxpayers by getting back to our burgers and fries.”

The rookie kept his smile as Joe scowled. Kyle could give his partner a run for his money in the sarcasm stakes when he wanted to.

*     *

Meanwhile in Jackson Street outside
Kell’s
, the homeless man had his eyes set firmly on the drunk. Losing not a second, he pounced, closing the gap with a couple of brisk, hobbling strides.

Sensing motion, the drunk reared up and turned, just in time to see the down-and-out’s advance. But the drunken man’s soporific reactions were not quick enough to respond to the knife as it plunged first into his liver and then his gut. He tried to let out a cry, but a hand clamped firmly over his mouth stifled it. He bit down hard, and it was the homeless man who let out the cry of pain that could all too easily have attracted the attention of others, if there had been any others about. Panicked by his own reaction, the down-and-out pushed the drunk hard into the alley, out of sight of any other people who might be walking down the street.

The drunk slumped into a seated posture, clutching his wounds and then lay back, almost as if resigned to his fate. With a stab wound to the liver, he had at most twenty minutes before life slipped away, unless help arrived. And he knew better than to expect any help. Even through his semi-comatose haze, his sense of realism kicked in and he knew that the next doctor to see him would be a pathologist.

Meanwhile, the homeless man made no further effort to approach the drunk. Instead he looked around for signs of danger or discovery. Nobody was about.

Now he had to make a quick choice. Jackson was one-way and turning
right
would take him in the same direction as the flow of traffic. This would mean his face wouldn’t be exposed to cars driving past, reducing the risk of being identified. But turning
left
would take him past the overhanging trees that reduced the light, thus making his face less visible to anyone on foot.

Right
would take him to Montgomery, which was nearer. But precisely for that reason, some one might turn in from that street and see his face in close proximity to the crime scene. In contrast, he had a clear view all the way to Kearny Street, and no one was coming from that direction.

He decided to turn left and was quickly hobbling past the overhanging trees. When he reached the Columbus Avenue intersection, he again looked round left and right, this time to make sure there was no approaching traffic. Seeing a clear path, he limped across towards Kearny Street.

It was as he approached the East-West Bank on the corner, that he became aware of a police siren in the distance. But he was unsure of which direction it was coming from. By the time he realized that it was approaching him from further down Kearny Street, it was too late.

He turned sharply and tried to retreat back into Jackson. But his abrupt turn served merely to capture the attention of the cops in the squad car. When they came to a halt and ordered him to stop, through the car’s public address system, he kept right on hobbling. When they leapt out with guns drawn and again ordered him to stop, he ignored them, praying that they wouldn’t shoot.

They didn’t. But Kyle – who towered over Joe by at least a head – sprinted off after the limping suspect and brought him down with a flying tackle so hard that the homeless man’s leg came off.