There's Nothing to Be Afraid Of Read online

  Maybe, I thought, I didn’t belong in this world of the nineteen-eighties, where things counted more than people. Maybe I was too much a child of the sixties, a throwback to a time when many of us had tried to care about one another. But I couldn’t change that; I’d just have to muddle along, doing what I could in my own small way. And one thing I could do was try to make matters better for these people—here in the Globe Hotel, in San Francisco’s Tenderloin, on this wintry day in the eighties.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carolyn had to get back to her office, so I said, I’d check in with her later. We parted on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, and I watched her hurry off toward Market Street, her shiny hair bouncing as she made her way among the slower-moving pedestrians. A tall black man—wearing only jeans and an open leather vest in spite of the December chill—stopped to stare at her with obvious pleasure. Carolyn brushed by him, her pace not faltering. He turned, made a move to follow her, then shrugged and continued on his way.

  When I was sure the man wasn’t going to change his mind and go after her, I went to my car and locked the olive-green sheet in the trunk. Then I looked up Eddy Street toward the corner. There was a grocery store, Tran’s Fine Foods, and I could see a pay phone just inside its door. I went up there, skirting three old women in black who looked as if they’d just come from Mass and a strolling blond girl in hotpants, an early rise for San Francisco’s hooking community. When I got to the phone I discovered I had no change, but the wizened Oriental man behind the grocery counter willingly broke a dollar for me. I called Marin County Information, got Roy LaFond’s office number in San Rafael, and called to make an appointment. Monday was his busy day, his secretary said, but he could make time for me at two o’clock.

  Hanging up the receiver, I looked at my watch. Five past eleven. Three hours to kill, and I might as well spend most of it in the neighborhood. I turned back to the counter and watched the old man ring up the sale of a pack of cigarettes. A transistor radio on a shelf behind him was blaring rock-and-roll, and when the song ended, the announcer came on with the call letters: KSUN, the Light of the Bay. It was the station where my friend Don worked—a raucous, rowdy and thoroughly ear-splitting frequency on the dial. I wondered why the old man wanted to endanger his eardrums with it.

  When the customer had left, I went up to the counter and said, “Excuse me, are you the owner?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Hung Tran at your service. What may I do for you?” His accent was heavy, but his pronunciation was clear and precise.

  “My name is Sharon McCone, Mr. Tran. I’m a private detective, working for some of the people who live at the Globe Apartment Hotel.”

  He nodded, displaying no surprise at my occupation.

  “Do you know any of the Globe’s residents?” I asked.

  “Yes, I do. This is the nearest market. Many of them shop here.”

  I looked around. While the store was stocked with the standard items you find in any city grocery, there were also distinctly Oriental foodstuff—big sacks of rice, tins of soy sauce, bok choy in the produce section. “Then perhaps,” I said, “you know of the frightening things that have been happening at the Globe?”

  “Yes, a number of the people have spoken of them to me. This is what they have hired you to find out about?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you will be able to help them.” His eyes, behind gold-rimmed spectacles, were polite but emotionless.

  “I hope so too, Mr. Tran; who do you think is responsible for frightening these people?”

  Now he looked surprised. “I? I have no opinion.”

  “But surely you must hear things. People talk. In your position you must know a great deal about what goes on in the neighborhood.”

  He laced his waxy-looking hands together across the front of his gray smock. “People talk, yes. But what they say often makes no sense.”

  “Still, it would help me to know what they are saying.”

  His eyes strayed toward the door. The girl in hotpants stood there, arranging her fall of elaborately teased blond hair with the aid of her reflection in the plate glass. Mr. Trans lips curled, then he looked at me. “They say many things. Some think it is the owner of the building, who seeks to remove the people so he can rent the apartments at a higher rate.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I have seen this owner. He is not one to hide in basements.”

  “What else?”

  “They say it is the young me, the bui doi.”

  “Bui doi?”

  “In my language, it means ‘the dust of life.’ You would call them gangs.”

  “Street gangs, juvenile delinquents?”

  “That is what outsiders say. They do not understand that in our culture we do not have gangs like those of your black or Chinese or Chicano citizens. If this is the work of the bui doi, it is far more serious than teenagers. But I do not see what interest they would have in that hotel.”

  I made a mental note to call a man I knew on the police department’s Gang Task Force and find out about the so-called dust of life.

  “What else do the people say?” I asked.

  “That this is the work of a sick person. There are many in the neighborhood.” Again Mr. Tran’s eyes went to the door, but the hooker had moved away.

  “They mention the prostitutes and their pimps, but of course that is nonsense. Those ones care only about money. They talk of Brother Harry, the street preacher.”

  “The man with the sandwich boards?”

  “Yes. He claims to be a man of God, but he is full of hate.”

  “How so?”

  “His message is one of vengeance. Listen to him. You will understand.”

  “I’ll do that. Is there anyone else in particular?”

  The old man spread his hands. “In this neighborhood we have derelicts and bag ladies, and criminals who prey on them. We have many homeless persons. There are people who act strangely—who shout or glare at others on the street. Who is to say which one might be responsible?”

  Suddenly my job loomed large—and dangerous. I said, “But there’s no one in particular whom people talk about?”

  “They speak of one or another from time to time, especially if he or she has had a recent outburst of violence. But no one more than the others.”

  “I see.” I paused, then picked up a Hershey bar from a display on the counter and dug in my bag for money.

  Hung Tran held up a waxy hand. “Please, accept it with my thanks.”

  “But it’s I who should be thanking you for the information you’ve given me.”

  “No, you are helping my people. It is the least I can do.”

  Touched, I mumbled my thanks and put the candy bar in my pocket. “May I come to see you again, if I have more questions?”

  “Certainly.” His nod was almost a bow.

  The street preacher, Brother Harry, was still in front of the Sensuous Showcase Theatre. He stood on a small square of blue carpet that he had spread on the sidewalk to the right of the marquee, waving his arms and exhorting all to come back to God. The signboards he wore said PRAY TO JESUS on the front. One particularly vigorous gesture turned him partially around and I made out the words HE WILL ANSWER on the rear.

  In spite of his vociferous message, Brother Harry wasn’t drawing much of an audience. A few pedestrians eyed him with wary curiosity, but most ignored him, hurrying past with their gaze straight ahead or on the ground. Still others went up to the theatre’s glassed-in ticket booth, paid their money to the heavily made-up clerk, and went inside. Undaunted, Harry preached on.

  “He is waiting, brothers and sisters. He is waiting for you to come back to Him. His love is eternal, all-forgiving. But time passes quickly. And the end of the world approaches. There will be fire, flood, and pestilence. Only those who have come back to God, through Jesus Christ our Savior, will survive!

  “Blood will run in the streets! Your children will scream in agony! Your own flesh wil
l burn! The sinner will writhe in torment! None will be spared! Thus will be the punishment of he who does not accept God!

  “Return, sinner! Return or else . . .”

  Beside me, a man’s voice spoke. It said, “They must to keep their certainty accuse . . . all that are different of a base intent.”

  I started and turned. The man who stood there was probably in his fifties, with longish gray hair and a thick beard and mustache. His nose was elfin, his cheeks rosy, and the full mouth that was visible through the surrounding hair curved up in delight. He wore baggy khaki pants and a worn brown corduroy jacket—standard Tenderloin attire.

  Deciding he was harmless, I asked, “What did you say?”

  Patiently he repeated, “They must to keep their certainty accuse . . . all that are different of a base intent.” The rhythm in which he spoke indicated he was probably quoting poetry. More loudly, he added, “Pull down established honor; hawk for news . . . whatever their loose phantasy invent.”

  Brother Harry stopped preaching and looked over at us, his eyes becoming slits in his fleshing, weather-roughened face.

  The other man continued reciting, louder and louder. I backed off.

  Harry balled his fists and started toward the man, his signboards flopping clumsily. “You get out of here, you poetry-mouthing wimp! Get off my corner!”

  “Truth flourishes where the student’s lamp has shone, and there along—”

  Harry grabbed the name by the collar of his jacket and began shaking him. He was a head taller and looked more vigorous, in spite of the cumbersome sandwich boards. I stepped further back as Harry shouted, “This is my corner! Off!”

  Surprisingly, the other man’s eyes were sparkling, and his mouth still curved up in a smile. A crowd had begun to gather behind me, and he turned his head and said, “William Butler Yeats. ‘The Leaders of the Crowd.’ Now, that was a man who knew about God.”

  Harry’s face grew red and he continued to shake the man, sandwich boards heaving violently. The other man just smiled, his head bobbing this way and that. Harry’s face grew redder, both from fury and exertion. Just when it looked as if he might really hurt the man, someone stepped up behind him and grabbed his arm above the elbow.

  “Let go of him, Harry,” the newcomer said.

  Harry whirled, still clutching the poetry quoter. “Get your goddamn mitts off me, Otis.”

  “I said, let go.”

  Harry looked at the poetry quoter and gave him one last shake, then let go reluctantly, like a puppy relinquishing a bone. The man stumbled back a few feet, still smiling, and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. He stood there, rocking back and forth from heels to toes.

  I looked at the man who had broken up the confrontation. He was slender, with fine light brown hair, wearing jeans, a colorful red cowboy shirt, and elaborately tooled leather boots with two-inch heels. Letting go of the street preacher’s arm, he glanced at the bearded man and said, “Beat it, Jimmy. Go recite your poetry someplace else.”

  The man called Jimmy just grinned at him.

  “Get!”

  With a shrug, Jimmy ambled off across the street. Once he reached the other curb, he stopped and stood there, then thumbed his nose.

  The cowboy sighed and turned back to the street preacher. “Why do you let him get to you, Harry? You know Jimmy likes to see you all riled up.”

  Harry glared over at Jimmy, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Otis, the son-of-a-bitch keeps messing up my preaching. I ought to kill him, him and his William Butler Yeats.”

  “Well, Harry, the way I hear it, Yeats has been dead for years. And killing Jimmy wouldn’t be good P.R.” The cowboy named Otis waved emphatically for Jimmy to go away. Jimmy thumbed his nose again.

  “There—you see, Otis?” Harry said. “He’s gonna stand there and mess up my act. How am I supposed to get through to these sinners when he’s doing that?”

  “I guess you won’t, right now. So why don’t you take a break? He’ll get bored and go someplace else.”

  “But I was really warming up.”

  “Take a break, Harry.”

  Anger flashed across the street preacher’s fleshy face, and then he turned and lumbered back to his square of carpet. He bent down clumsily, rolled the carpet up, and stood, tucking it under his sandwich boards. “Sometimes I think you’re on his side, Otis,” he said.

  Otis sighed again. “That’s your trouble, Harry. You don’t understand people. I’m on my side. Mine. Nobody else’s.” Then he turned and strode off into the Sensuous Showcase Theatre.

  Harry said, “Huh. The hell I don’t understand people.” He gave Jimmy one last glare and headed around the corner onto James Street.

  I looked over at the bearded man and saw his face fall. He shoved his fists into his pockets, kicked at the curb a time or two, and then shuffled off, his head bent despondently. The small crowd that had gathered began to disperse.

  I glanced at the marquee of the theatre. Something called Rajah was playing on a triple bill with A Mother’s Love and The Reluctant Couple. I looked at my watch, decided I had time, and followed the man named Otis.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  No one was in the ticket booth when I went up to it, so I just walked into the lobby of the theatre. The man called Otis stood to one side of the doors talking with the jowly, heavily made-up woman who had been collecting admission fees. The lobby was small, draped in red and black velvet and bathed in what was probably supposed to be sensuous crimson light. All the light did, however, was emphasize the worn spots on the velvet hangings and carpet. Beyond the doors to the main part of the theatre I could hear the mutterings of a sound track.

  When I came in, Otis broke off his conversation with the woman, frowning. “Better get back out there, Ruth. They’re wandering in without paying.”

  As he spoke, I realized who he must be: Otis Knox, one of the kingpins of San Francisco’s porn industry. Knox owned this theatre, as well as two others, plus was involved in film production and distribution. He was one of a handful of operators—along with the famous Mitchell Brothers—who claimed to be legitimate entrepreneurs selling a necessary and desirable product. In a recent newspaper interview, Knox had been photographed astride a horse at his ranch in and undisclosed Marin County location. The article quoted him as saying he was just a country boy trying to make an honest buck. Why he was always being hassled by the D.A.’s office was something he couldn’t understand. He’d claimed to be providing employment for a lot of people—including women who might otherwise be out on the streets. One quote that remained in my mind was: “And I keep a lot of lawyers busy. That’s all the D.A.’s harassment does—put money in the pockets of my lawyers, who don’t need it anyway.”

  Now Knox came toward me, barring further entrance. Up close I could see that he was older than he’d looked on the street—in his late forties—and that his light brown hair was blow-dried backwards in an attempt to disguise a spreading bald spot.

  “You want to see the movie, you have to pay,” he said, glancing at the woman, who was disappearing through a door to the ticket booth. “Go back outside, she’ll be glad to take your money.”

  “It’s not the film I’m interested in, Mr. Knox,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “If you’re a reporter, I don’t give interviews on short notice. Call and set up an appointment.”

  “I’m not a reporter.” I took out the Photostat of my license and handed it to him.

  He squinted at hit, holding it up to the dim light. Then his lean face twisted in annoyance. “Aw, Christ! Now it’s some unofficial beef. Who hired you?”

  “No one who has any interest in you or your business. I saw the scene you broke up on the street between Brother Harry and the man you called Jimmy. I’d like to talk to you about them.”

  His annoyance turned to perplexity and he handed the Photostat back to me. “You want to talk about those bums? Why?”

  A couple who were easily identifiable as tourist
s—she carried an enormous vinyl handbag, he had a camera slung over one shoulder—came in, the woman hanging back in obvious reluctance. I said, “Is there someplace better to talk?”

  Knox shrugged, then turned and headed for a door marked OFFICE. “Okay, I’ve got a few minutes and nothing better to do”

  The office was a small cubicle jammed with the kind of junk some people call collector’s items. The walls were covered with signs—street signs, Yield signs, Stop signs, Men Working signs. Shelves held old beer cans, disconnected limbs of mannequins, wooden cigar boxes, a gumball machine minus the candy, Coca-cola glasses, a mason jar full of marbles, a stack of Uncle Scrooge comic books, miscellaneous bottles, and a decoy duck. From the ceiling hung a fishnet full of glass bobbers, corks, and seashells. There was a metal desk covered with papers and two chairs in front of it—one of which held a saddle. Knox waved me toward the other chair and went around the desk. He fumbled through the papers, came up with cigarettes and matches, lit one, and put the match in an ashtray shaped like a foot.

  I sat down and looked up at the fishnet. A crutch rested incongruously among the nautical items.

  Knox was watching me. “You like my stuff?” He flopped into his desk chair, gesturing around us.

  “It’s interesting.”

  “Yeah. A hobby of mine, collecting.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve got even more at home. Bigger stuff. Jukeboxes. And old Coke machine. McDonald’s Golden Arches. Babe and Blue Ox.”

  “What?”