Not Exactly a Brahmin (16 page)

And Jeffrey? I still wasn’t willing to believe he hadn’t been attracted to Lois.

Shareholders Five? What did Adam Thede and Carol Grogan have in common? And who were the other three members? And what had drawn Ralph Palmerston’s attention to them?

Those were the main disparate themes. For smaller threads there were such questions as why Ralph Palmerston was so furious with Sam Nguyen at the repair shop? Had Lois Palmerston been involved in prostitution or with cocaine, as Jackson suggested? I wished I could somehow braid them together. But what I had was just separate hairs.

When I finished dictating, it was seven o’clock, much later than I would have guessed.

I had thought of going home, taking a shower, putting on fresh makeup before I met Cap Danziger. But it was too late now. I hadn’t eaten since the doughnuts this morning. I wasn’t sure what, if anything, was in my fridge. And I was suddenly too ravenous to do without.

I straightened up my desk, and from habit checked my IN box—nothing that couldn’t wait—and from new habit Howard’s—nothing, period. I headed to Ay Caramba, the Mexican restaurant across University Avenue.

Ay Caramba was decorated like brightly colored Mexican pottery. A line of students waited to give their orders and take a plate of huevos rancheros (even at dinner) or tostada suprema to a table. It was already quarter after seven when I fell in behind two undergraduates in down jackets. “Governments believe what they want to believe,” the tall one said.

The other—shorter, darker—nodded.

“Look at the Germans in World War Two. I mean, they decided to march through Belgium.”

The shorter one nodded.

“Because they felt Belgium was rightfully theirs. And because they figured, as a matter of course, that all the other governments would understand that.”

The companion nodded.

“And when they slaughtered the Belgians, they figured everyone would understand because they—the Belgians, I mean—shouldn’t have been preventing the Germans from reclaiming what was rightfully theirs. See?”

Again, the nod.

“Now you look at our government. They think …”

Their dishes were on the counter. The silent companion grabbed for his. I moved forward, and in less than a minute my own taco special was before me. I carried it and a Coke to a table by the window, emptied my tray, and sat down, stacking the tray atop a pile on the next table.

There was a gentle tap on the window.

I turned.

No one was there.

It took me a moment to realize that the tapping was raindrops. “Damn,” I said aloud. Of course, I didn’t have an umbrella. As far as I knew, rain hadn’t even been forecast for today.

I took off my jacket and draped it over my shoulders. Picking up the taco, I watched the rain. My thoughts turned back to Carol Grogan, but I caught myself. No. I was off duty. I had to leave my work at work. The Palmerston case was important, but now that I was in Homicide every case would be important. If I allowed myself to become absorbed in them, I wouldn’t have any life at all outside work.

Instead I thought of Howard. What could that man be planning to wear to his Halloween party? It had to be something significant, timely. Something to do with the city, with the year? Clayton Jackson and his wife were coming in their Raiders shirts (“
Oakland
Raiders,” Clay had explained, “not those L.A. turncoats. There’s nowhere but a costume party we’d be seen in those shirts now.”) Howard liked football and basketball, but not enough to buy a team jersey. He played volleyball in the park occasionally, but what he and his ever-changing group of teammates wore for those sessions was closer to the rags in the free boxes than any coordinated uniform.

What else? He liked to read about the Second World War. He could have joined in on that monologue about the Germans, citing generals, battles, and field strategy. He could have told them Churchill’s reactions. Churchill? Hardly. For six-foot-six Howard to pass himself off as the short, portly prime minister would take some disguise. If he could do that, he deserved to keep his parking space.

I took a bite of the taco. The tortilla was crisp, the cheese was sharp, and the salsa was hot enough to make me fling open my mouth to let my tongue cool.

Hitler? I couldn’t imagine Howard wanting to spend all evening as Adolf Hitler.

De Gaulle? Ah, de Gaulle. Now there was someone Howard’s size. I could see Howard as le Grand Charles.

I put the remains of the taco carefully on my plate, resting it against the side so it wouldn’t fall apart. Then I swallowed some Coke. But where would Howard come up with a de Gaulle uniform? There hadn’t been anything that resembled that in the costume store today, and besides, I knew he hadn’t gotten his costume there. The San Francisco costume store? I’d have to call them. The French Consulate in San Francisco?

“Of course,” I muttered to my taco. The consulate might know where to get them. There was a phone in the back of the restaurant.

I jammed the rest of the taco into my mouth and got up.

I was halfway across the room before I realized that the remaining piece of taco was too big for my mouth; I could barely close my lips over it, and the attempt to chew sent salsa down my chin, and—I knew even before I looked down—onto my good blouse.

In the bathroom I sponged at the stain on the beige blouse. The water diluted the red salsa to a salmon-colored oval above my left breast. It looked acceptable only to someone who had seen the original red. Maybe if I left my jacket on …

The French Consulate was even more discouraging. No one answered. Presumably the staff had decided that visiting Parisiens could fend for themselves at night. After all, San Francisco was not Teheran.

And it was ten to eight, too late to go home and change, even if I had had a clean blouse in my closet. I put on my jacket. It covered the stain—if I didn’t move my arm.
If I didn’t move my arm.
How tame a date was I expecting?

C
AP
D
ANZIGER WAS NOT
in the showroom when I arrived at Trent Cadillac. A man with curly gray hair, who looked more like a business executive than a car salesman, told me he was in the shop.

Thanking him, I followed the path I had taken last night when I’d been headed to see Misco.

The shop was like any other auto repair area—cars lined up in invisible stalls, tubes hanging from the ceiling, man-sized portable diagnostic computers next to several infirm Cadillacs, oil spots and grease. A rear garage door was closed, but through the window a small car lot was visible. Surrounding it was a hurricane fence, ten feet tall, with particularly nasty-looking barbed wire on top. The lot was well lighted. It was not a lot an amateur could break into. Even a professional would have had to devote more time than was practical to broaching the fence.

At the far end of the shop a mechanic was looking under the hood of a silver sedan. Only his white, overalled back and legs were visible. For an instant I wondered if he were Sam Nguyen, but he was too big—and when he stood up—too fair-haired to be the small Vietnamese.

In the near end of the shop a horn tooted. Cap Danziger was leaning in the driver’s door of a maroon sedan. “Want to climb in and see how the other half drives?” he called.

“I think I’m better off not knowing,” I said, walking toward him.

He stood up and shut the door. It made a solid clunk. He was wearing a light brown tweed suit with a pale blue shirt. He looked as if he’d sauntered out of
Brideshead Revisited.

I pulled my jacket closed over the salsa spot.

“You ready for that drink?” he asked, heading toward the street.

“I suppose.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“I am. It’s just that I thought for a moment that mechanic was Sam Nguyen and I needed to ask him something.” So much for my big resolve not to think about the case on my own time.

“What could he know that he hasn’t already been asked? Your friend who deals with cars—”

“Misco.”

“Misco, spent hours with him. Sam didn’t come in till noon the next day. And Jake Trent had to eat it.”

We were on the street now. He paused, then putting a hand on my elbow, headed toward my car. “You didn’t answer my question. What more could you want to ask Sam?”

“It wasn’t about that. It’s just that Ralph Palmerston was furious with him earlier and I need to know what happened.”

“Well, you are a lucky lady. I was there.”

“You were?” I opened the driver’s door, got in, and reached for the lock on the passenger’s door.

“Right,” he said, climbing in. “Palmerston was waiting for his car to be brought around. I stopped to chat a moment. It’s good business to remind the customers who you are. Palmerston spotted Sam as he was headed out the far door. He called. Sam didn’t answer; he just kept walking. And Palmerston was fit to be tied. He looked like a head waiter had just poured soup on his lap. I’ll tell you, Jill, it took Jake Trent himself a good fifteen minutes to get the old boy calmed down.”

“Why didn’t Sam Nguyen say anything?”

“Got me. I didn’t mention it to him. Sam’s got a sharp temper. It’s not the type of situation he would want to be reminded of.”

I started the engine. “Is he deaf?”

“Could be some. He was in Saigon during the war. There were plenty of explosions and gunfire then.”

I pulled into traffic. “The seat belt’s behind the door.”

“I’ll pass.”

“I’ll feel more comfortable when you have it on. After all, my professional reputation rests on my passengers’ safety.” When he didn’t move I said, “Humor me.”

He shrugged, tacitly indicating that he was indeed humoring me in what he found to be ridiculous caution. I felt like Mrs. Kershon trying to protect Billy from germs.

“This isn’t a Cadillac,” I said. “They say these seats will eject in a bad crash.”

“Then they’ll mash us into the seat belts.”

He had a point.

We rode in silence broken only by his directions. The bar he had in mind was located on The Arlington in Kensington. The Arlington is a road that begins at the Marin traffic circle, where Ralph Palmerston had died. It rises more slowly than Marin Avenue, north into the Berkeley Hills, passing through Berkeley, Kensington, El Cerrito, and Richmond to end near the San Pablo Reservoir. For me, it was even more questionable than Marin Avenue. That, I knew I’d never climb, but with The Arlington, there was a possibility. And with Cap Danziger in the car, I didn’t want to admit that my Volkswagen couldn’t make a hill that he thought nothing of. It was tantamount to showing him my salsa stain.

So I drove in silence, listening to the engine, judging how long to let it labor before shifting down, wondering why it was that we were in my car when Cap Danziger worked at a place whose lowliest model was worth thousands more, and wondering what it was about this man that made me hesitate to ask, and that made me feel I had to prove myself to him, had to prove my car was as good as his.

But if Cap Danziger noticed my underlying competitiveness, he didn’t acknowledge it. Half a mile before the block-long shopping area of Kensington, I downshifted to first gear. He didn’t comment.

“Not exactly a Cadillac,” I admitted.

“I’ll take your word. I’m almost totally innocent of mechanical knowledge. An engine is an engine as long as it runs.” He motioned me to a parking spot.

Gratefully I pulled in and turned off the ignition, got out, and followed him down an alleyway to a plain wooden door that led into a small, square, oak-paneled room. In one corner a woman played a viola. We settled at a table at the far side of the room.

After we ordered, I said, “I thought that someone who sold cars would have to know everything there was about engines. Don’t your customers ask?”

He laughed. “I’m relieved to hear you say that. That’s exactly what I assumed when I asked about the job. I have a cousin who gave me a crash course—no pun intended—on carburetors, power steering, and RPMs so I could sound automobile-literate when I was interviewed for the position. But I never needed it. Marv Belkowski—he owned the dealership before Jake Trent; everyone there except Sam is new within the last couple of years—didn’t waste time on fan belts or EPA ratios. He knew that Cadillac buyers aren’t going to ask about that. You see, Jill,” he said, resting his fingers on my arm, “anyone who buys a Cadillac isn’t doing it for the engine; they’ve got their own reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Fulfillment of a dream; indication that they’ve made it. Snob appeal. A Cadillac’s not just a good car, it’s a Cadillac. It’s not like deciding between a Nissan and a Toyota.”

“So what do you sell your customers on then?”

He smiled again. “I grace them with my patrician upbringing. I speak to them in my refined accent. I drop a few key words about performance, just for form’s sake—they never ask for specifics. If they did, I’d take them to Sam Nguyen. But they don’t. I am like the very correct British gentleman’s gentleman. Customers are not about to expose their ignorance in front of me. It’s all part of the snob appeal.”

“But surely some—”

“Not in the five years I’ve been there. Even the drug dealers—I suppose I should say gentlemen I assume to be drug dealers—don’t ask what’s under the hood.”

Our drinks arrived. I sipped my Cinzano, and asked, “What do your reputed drug dealers care about?”

He stared down into his glass, as if giving my offhand question serious thought. In the candlelight his sandy hair glistened. There were lines across his forehead and by the sides of his mouth, lines I hadn’t noticed in the sunlight, but rather than making him appear older, they seemed to accentuate the consideration he was showing my question. “Some drug dealers do ask about pickup. Having a fast engine can increase their margin of profit, I understand.”

“And their longevity.”

“Others, of course, focus on the exterior, the paint. Opera windows were big a few years ago. Landau roofs are still drawing cards. And for those with more money, the draw is Sam Nguyen.”

“Sam Nguyen! Is he involved in drugs?”

“No, no. Anything but. Sam is more firmly opposed to drugs than the strictest conservatives. He blames the drug trade for the downfall of his country. No, Sam’s attraction is that he is simply the best automotive modifier around. He can make any change in a car, no matter how absurd it sounds. He prides himself on never being stymied.”