Till the Butchers Cut Him Down Read online

  “The Remedy?” It was All Souls’s tavern of choice, down the hill on Mission Street.

  “God, no. Would I get made up to go there? This is a nice bar—a club, actually—in the Marina. We’re going to … look for men.”

  I waited.

  “Did you hear what I said—look for men?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  She sighed. “Nothing, I guess. It’s just that I feel so … inexperienced. I haven’t really done that since college.”

  “This must mean it’s finally over with Willie.” Since she divorced her perpetual-student husband, Rae had been seeing Willie Whelan, self-styled discount-jewelry king of northern California—to say nothing of former fence of stolen goods. The relationship had fallen apart over some nonsense about a prenuptial agreement last spring, but since then the two had argued on an almost daily basis, and I’d expected they’d eventually get back together.

  “It’s over,” she said, her mouth hardening. “And now I’m getting on with my life. But, God, it’s rough. Can’t you give me some advice? I mean, you’ve never had any trouble getting men.”

  I hadn’t, maybe because I’d always met my lovers when I was too wrapped up in something—a case, a cause, a class—to be anxious about my lack of male companionship. In my experience, most worthwhile people are put off by someone who is obviously seeking nothing more than a warm body. But I wasn’t about to tell Rae that when she was feeling so fragile, so I said lightly, “Consider the quality of the men I’ve gotten.”

  “Hy’s terrific, Shar. And you guys have a great relationship—so unconfining.”

  “Mmm.” I thought of the rose petals that had almost littered my office floor. “Well, Hy excepted, I haven’t done all that well.”

  Rae was silent; I could tell she was checking names off a mental list. Then she shrugged and turned back to the mirror. “Well, I just know that if I meet anybody tonight, he’ll be horrible. But I’m ready; I’ve memorized my friend Vanessa’s instructions.”

  “Instructions?” In spite of wanting to talk about Suits, I was curious as to what kind of rules were mandated for present-day barhopping.

  “Instructions.” Rae nodded. “Don’t wear anything too revealing, but try to look subtly seductive. One glass of wine beforehand for courage, but only one, and you travel by cab. Avoid the guys who’re scamming at the end of the bar by the door; they’re usually nerds or predators, or both. Never go anyplace with a guy the first night; instead, exchange business cards and make arrangements to meet the next week in a public place. But always carry condoms, just in case.” She snorted. “The damned things’ll probably stay in my purse so long they’ll be fossilized. To tell you the truth, I’d much rather hang out and play pinball at the Remedy.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “No, I’ve got to at least give this a try. Tonight we hit this low-key place in the Marina where a lot of stockbrokers hang out. If nothing pans out there, we’ll try a SoMa supper club and this neo-yuppie bar in South Beach next week. And if those don’t produce, there’s a Eurocrowd café in North Beach that we’re saving for the week after that. And the week after that, you’ll find me in front of the Remedy’s pinball machine.”

  I hesitated, trying to come up with an appropriate response. Actually I felt superior and envious at the same time. For as long as I’d known her, Rae had drifted from one emotional catastrophe to another; this man-hunting scheme was sure to steer her into trouble again. But at least she was sailing forth, out there with her face to the wind. Rae would never dream of hanging around her office after business hours, contemplating mayhem on an innocent rose sent by a straying lover.

  She noticed my silence and frowned. “Did you come up here for a reason, or just to chat?”

  “A reason. Somebody who could become my first client showed up today.”

  Rae ran her fingers through her unruly curls and stood up. “Good money?”

  “He said to name my fee.”

  “Go for it.”

  “I’m not sure I should.” As she took the russet outfit from its hanger I began filling her in on Suits and his problem. My voice rose as I talked; I could hear myself becoming unnecessarily strident.

  “Dammit!” I concluded. “Why does this have to happen now? I don’t want my first client to be a weird guy out of my past who has serious potential to drive me crazy!”

  “Sounds like he already has,” she said mildly, adjusting a scarf around her neck.

  “Close to,” I admitted. “So what’s your take on it?”

  “Well, if I read you right, you’ve got several objections to taking his case. One, you think the whole thing may be some paranoid tic of his.”

  I nodded.

  “Two, you’re really still in the start-up phase with the agency, and you don’t have time for a complex investigation.”

  “Right.”

  “Three, this Suits used to be your lover.”

  “A one-night stand ages ago doesn’t really qualify—”

  “But he admitted he had a thing for you. That qualifies. And four—you said it—he’s weird.”

  I waited, aware of Rae’s habit of building a case for one side, then arguing for the other.

  She studied the hang of the scarf, made a face, and untied it. “Let’s address the issues in reverse order. He’s weird. Not a valid objection—you like weird people. Face it, Shar—you’re a little off center yourself.”

  “Moi?”

  “Tu. Okay, next objection—he was your lover, or whatever. Also not valid. You all but forgot about him years ago. And if he’s harboring any feelings, it doesn’t sound as if he’s going to let them get in the way.” She adjusted the scarf one more time, then yanked it off and tossed it on the mattress. “Third objection, you don’t have time. Bullshit. Anybody can make time to charge a huge fee for doing something interesting. If you ask me, you’re afraid to take this on.”

  “Afraid? That’s ridiculous!”

  “Is it? Shar, all this interest in learning the computer, all this haste to get it down pat so you can send Mick home before he gets any more obsessed with becoming an investigator—that’s just an excuse.”

  “For?”

  “For not plunging in and getting on with what you set out to do when you quit the co-op.”

  The words stung. For a moment I wanted to lash out at her, but I couldn’t come up with a suitable retort. And, much as I hated to admit it, she had a point.

  “Fourth objection,” Rae went on, “Suits may be going ’round the bend. Well, maybe he is, but you’ll never really know unless you take his case. Can you stand not knowing?”

  Again she had me.

  “Besides,” she added, “if somebody actually is trying to kill him, you can prevent it and become a little chapter in San Francisco history.”

  I snorted.

  “Stranger things have happened.” She picked up her purse and headed for the door. “Think about it.”

  * * *

  Before I left the co-op I ran into Jack Stuart, who was clearing out the last of his personal belongings from the room he’d formerly occupied on the second floor. Jack, the latest defector from the live-in contingent, had decided he needed a change of scene after the disastrous breakup of a love affair last spring—a breakup in which I’d played an unfortunate but necessary part. I helped him take his boxes out to his van, and then we shared some wine; I’d hoped he might give me an opinion on the Suits situation, but Jack was more interested in discussing the color schemes he’d picked out for his new condo on Diamond Heights. When I finally said good night to him, it was after nine, and I felt more isolated than ever.

  You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself, McCone, I told myself as I drove toward home. This is the life you chose for yourself; get used to it.

  * * *

  Most of the lights in my renovated earthquake cottage were blazing. I flicked off the overheads in the guest room and parlor as I went down the hall. A mutter of voices cam
e from the sitting room; I paused, listening. Damned if one didn’t sound like a police dispatcher.

  I hurried in there. Mick sat at my old card table, which he’d set up against the wall by the fireplace, and on it was the most elaborate radio setup I’d ever seen. Sound-level lights blinked as Mick fiddled with a transceiver; he was so intent on it that he didn’t hear me come in.

  Neither did Ralph, my orange tabby. He sat on the back of an armchair staring bloodthirstily at W. C. Fields, my crotchety-looking silk parrot, who hung on a perch by the window. I’d bought the parrot for seventy-five-plus-tax big bucks last June in exchange for information I thought might lead me to Hy, and ever since I’d brought it home, Ralphie had eyed it evilly, intent on ripping its throat out. I was equally intent that he wouldn’t touch it, and as I crossed the room toward Mick, I swatted the cat off the chair. He thudded to the floor, mowled in protest, and leaped over an empty cardboard carton next to Mick. Alice, his calico sister, was sitting in the box; she and Mick looked up with identical bewildered expressions.

  I asked, “What the hell is this?”

  Mick turned off the transceiver. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were home.”

  “So?” I asked, waving at the card table. “What is?”

  “My radio. I assembled it myself from components I bought up at garage sales and flea markets.”

  “You assembled it tonight?” I stared incredulously at him.

  “Of course not—a couple of years ago. Last week when I talked to Dad I asked him to pack it up and send it UPS. It came this afternoon.” His hand caressed the transceiver as if it were a beloved pet. “Look, Aunt … I mean, Shar. It’s got everything. Here’s the police band, and here’re the fire calls. This is UHF, VHF, MHz.”

  “You can listen in on the air traffic?”

  “Yeah, at both Oakland and SFO. What’s the frequency for Oakland?”

  “Ground Control’s one-twenty-one-point-nine.”

  He flipped a switch, turned a knob.

  “… Oakland Ground, this is one-two-one-three-Delta. I’m eastbound to Livermore with Alfa …”

  Mick said, “Next time Hy flies down, you can monitor the radio, hear him call in to the tower, and be over there before he phones you to come get him. Tell him you’re psychic; it’ll drive him crazy.”

  Next time Hy flies down … I pushed the thought aside, smiled in response to Mick’s delighted grin. His pleasure was so keen that I could hardly bear to blunt it, and yet …

  Avoiding the obligatory discussion, I went to the kitchen to survey my supply of frozen entrées. Mick followed and crowded in next to me, reaching into the fridge for a can of cola. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking that we really should put together an earthquake preparedness kit.”

  “A what?”

  “I was reading an article last week on how to get ready for the Big One, and I looked around the house and realized you weren’t. Prepared, I mean. So I called the state Earthquake Safety Hotline and got a booklet. I figure we could put everything we’d need in one box and store it in the closet of the room you use for your home office.”

  “That’s a good idea, but what if the closet collapses and we can’t get at it?”

  “Won’t. I checked while I was installing the antenna for my radio—there’s a main support beam running over it.”

  He’d installed an antenna on the roof of my house! “Mick,” I began weakly.

  “I can’t believe you never put stuff together,” he said. “How’d you survive the quake of eighty-nine?”

  “Crawled under a desk.” I took a package of creamed chipped beef from the freezer, trying to figure a way to get through to him.

  “You know, that’s probably not very good for you,” he told me, nodding at the package. “It’s got a lot of fat and sodium.”

  My frayed patience snapped. I pointed to his cola. “That’s probably not good for you, either. Your mom’ll cut you off the stuff as soon as you’re home.” I opened the package, poked holes in the plastic pouch, and stuck it in the microwave.

  When I turned, Mick’s shoulders were slumped and his mouth curved down dejectedly. “What?” I asked. Added to myself, I refuse to feel guilty.

  He shrugged, avoiding my eyes and scrubbing with a sponge at the already clean countertop. I watched as his lips pushed out in the same belligerent expression that his mother had worn for most of her adolescence.

  Yes, I thought, he’s determined not to go home. He sends for his radio, he talks about “our” earthquake preparedness kit. God Almighty, what am I going to do about him?

  I studied Mick thoughtfully, an idea beginning to take shape. What was I going to do about him? Well, why not do to him what had been done to me years before? I’d toss him into the business, give him a dose of hands-on experience, test his mettle. Mick wasn’t a child any more; whether his parents liked it or not, it was time he started making his own choices. If he had the makings of a private investigator, we’d find out soon enough.

  I said, “I’ve been thinking—how’d you like to stay on and help me out for a while longer, if your folks are agreeable?”

  The transformation in his spirits was tangible: he stood taller and his face shone with pure happiness. For a moment I thought he might kiss me; instead he began scouring the counter with renewed vigor. “They’ll agree,” he said, “because you’ll talk them into it.”

  The microwave buzzed. I checked the pouch, found it lukewarm. Punched the buttons for a few more whirls. I was hungry and tired and out of sorts. It seemed as if I’d spent most of the day doing things for other people, and now I couldn’t even get the damned oven to behave—

  “Something’s wrong with that machine,” Mick said. “If you want, I’ll fix it before I go to work tomorrow morning.”

  Well, sometimes when you did things for others, they gave something in return.

  Six

  The call from Suits came at roughly one-fifty in the morning. For some reason I’d turned off the bell on the phone in my bedroom, so I heard nothing till Mick—his face showing the alarm of a person who wasn’t used to middle-of-the-night calls—tapped at my door. I grabbed the receiver, motioned that everything was under control and he should go back to bed.

  Suits’s voice was clogged with pain. “Sorry to wake you, but I need—”

  The rest of his words were distorted by a siren’s wail. I sat up, gripping the receiver. “Where are you?”

  “S.F. General. Emergency room. Can you come get me?”

  “Of course. What happened?”

  “Can’t talk now—they’re taking me to X-ray.”

  “Wait—”

  He hung up, leaving me with my questions. As I got out of bed and rummaged through my closet I decided that his injuries couldn’t be too serious, since he’d been able to make the phone call. Still, the echo of the pain in his voice made me pull on jeans and a sweater all the faster.

  * * *

  When I arrived at the big brick hospital at the foot of Potrero Hill, the lights of its parking lots were heavily misted. A couple of white-coated attendants leaned against an ambulance near the emergency entrance, but otherwise I saw no one outside. The city’s major trauma unit can be a madhouse at any given time, particularly on weekends and holidays, but it can also be as peaceful as a church after services let out. The quiet reminded me of another early morning when I’d waited there for word of Hank Zahn’s condition after he’d taken a bullet that I should have shielded him from. The memory still unsettled me, so I pushed it away.

  I went straight to the information desk inside the emergency entrance and inquired about Suits. Mr. Gordon, the intake worker said, was still in the examining room. I sat down at the end of the nearest row of chairs, avoiding the glances of the dozen or so people who waited there. Most were minorities, and a few had small children with them. A little boy was curled up asleep on a coat on the floor; an infant cried fretfully. Behind me a woman’s voice droned, talking about the quality of care a
t various Bay Area hospitals; after a moment I realized she was an emergency room junkie.

  They’re a sad and disturbing type of individual, a nurse friend once told me. They crave attention, so they manufacture ailments, and when their loneliness drives them from their homes, they head for the nearest emergency-care facility. The personnel are quick to spot them; intake workers place them far down on the priority list, hoping they’ll give up and go home. But most are content to remain in the waiting room, striking up conversations with anyone who will listen, disturbing people who are anxious about the condition of a friend or loved one, and ultimately driving up health-care costs. When they tire of one facility, they move on to another in a never-ending search for someone who will diagnose what’s really bothering them. An age-old problem, chronic loneliness, and one that our system isn’t set up to deal with.

  One’s compassion extends only so far, however, and mine didn’t stand me in particularly good stead during the next forty minutes while the woman babbled about her symptoms and how Kaiser Foundation Hospital had treated them the week before. When a maternal-looking blond nurse pushed Suits’s wheelchair through the swinging doors, I was more than ready to leave. His left arm was in a cast and bound to his chest by a sling; his pale face was abraded and purpled around the left eye, and his lower lip was badly split. When I came up to them, the nurse brought the chair to a stop.

  “What happened to you?” I demanded.

  “Long story.” He grimaced and flicked his eyes toward the nurse.

  She said, “Mr. Gordon had a run-in with somebody who didn’t like him.” From her tone, I judged she found that unsurprising. She added, “He’s given his statement to the police and is ready to go home.”

  Suits said, “I’ve asked Ms. Lubbock here if she isn’t perhaps related to Nurse Ratchet. She denies any kinship, but you could’ve fooled me.”