CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
At one-thirty we paid our bill and left the Kangaroo Court. Junior looked like he was going to be a no-show. Not that anybody was surprised. His superiors weren’t really interested in serving Frame Johnson a warrant; they just wanted him out of town and the sooner the better. But I had a queasy feeling that Maxie Gray had engineered this morning’s events. And as though to prove it, fifteen bikers followed us outside. They swarmed around us and down the front steps and mounted their Harley’s. In the sunlight they looked a lot worse: like thugs who had had way too much to drink, and who at any moment could turn mob-ugly. Doc lit a cigarette and considered them with his customary open contempt. And it occurred to me in an unsettling sort of way that he might have had a little too much to drink himself. Frame as usual was rock steady, and he moved automatically to a position in front of and facing me, with his back towards the parking lot and the bikes. I was just going to suggest to him that we go back inside when an unmarked police car pulled up on the street in front.
I could see Junior sitting shotgun, watching us through the side window. Breakwood was driving; he kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the street in front of him. The scary thing was that I could see Junior was thinking. He had that look about him, like he was burning more calories than usual. He looked at the three of us, then he looked at the fifteen bikers, and he looked like he liked what he saw. His grin broke though the window; he was laughing when he climbed out of the car.
"Here comes your warrant," I said.
Frame turned around. "You think he has enough witnesses?"
"They would appear to be sufficient in number," Doc said.
We watched Junior wind his way through the bikes. The bikers watched him too. I guess this was what everyone was waiting for. He was wearing a trench coat and beneath that a dark gray suit. I could make out the outline of his weapon under his coat. Clenched in his hand was the warrant. His hushpuppies led him right to us. None of us made room for him and he was forced to stop at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t care much for the disadvantage in height, but he wasn’t about to let that temper his arrogance.
"Johnson!" He said in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the parking lot.
Frame acknowledged him with a disinterested glance. It was suddenly very quiet. Junior placed his left foot on the step in front of him and started up, but one look from Frame’s cold blues eyes stopped him. Whatever resolve Junior had possessed just mere seconds ago vanished. He was no longer laughing and his smile dropped off his face. Anger replaced them, but when Frame didn’t blink he took a giant step backwards. Behind him bikers snickered; one of them muttered, ‘Shit…’
Junior tried again from about two and a half feet away. He lowered his voice until it was heavy enough to throw. "Johnson," he said, shaking the warrant in the air. "I want to see you. Right now."
The right-now part got to Frame. I could see it in his face, the way his eyes narrowed into thin weapons. In one sure movement he stepped down the second and third steps until he was standing nose to nose with Junior. It was a neat trick he had, of getting larger until he literally appeared to loom over Junior like some dark and irresistible force.
"One of these days," Frame said, "you’re going to see me once too often."
Junior looked like he believed him. It was almost difficult to watch. You could see the egg all over his face—as Frame rudely shouldered past him. Doc nudged me and whispered that now might just be the right moment to get going. I tried not looking at Junior but he made it impossible not to; he just stood there in a sad funk, the warrant clenched uselessly in his fist, and his face set in humiliation. But it was Doc, of course, who probably made Junior feel worse by saluting him jauntily with his index finger and complimenting him on what a remarkable job he’d done of keeping the peace under such adverse conditions.
There was some laughter from among the bikers, and even a smattering of applause. Doc took me by my hand and hurried me across the lot after Frame as around us the Harleys erupted into life. They were more than loud, they were brutal and intrusive—and they scared me. I remembered how I felt the night bikers roared past my bedroom window: powerless—even with a pistol clutched in my hands. Then they started moving, slowly at first, at least a dozen of them, their chrome engines reflecting sun, as their riders struggled to balance them as they gained momentum. They seemed somehow more like ancient beasts than machines, belonging to some forgotten and violent race, and for a moment it struck me as odd that none of them actually possessed wings. It took only seconds for them to surround the three of us completely in the parking lot. Exhaust and noise and the leers of the bikers thickened the air. I stood between Doc and Frame, both of whom at least appeared to be calm; Doc broke out his flask and lit another cigarette.
"Well," he muttered, "They certainly have a flair for the dramatic."
They circled us for a mad minute. It was almost dizzying. I collected myself by ignoring them and fastening my attention to the two men standing on the steps in front of the Kangaroo Court: Maxie Gray and Jon Ringold. They were, of course, enjoying the show. Gray taking it all in, his eyes sparkling, his smile wide and filled with teeth, while the attention of his partner in crime, Ringold, was focused exclusively on me. It gave me the heebie-jeebies just looking at him. He was neither frowning nor smiling, but just watching me, with his head tilted to one side, with all the cold and detached interest of a child watching an insect suffocating in a jar.
When Eugene showed up in an unmarked car, followed by two squad cars, the bikers roared off, one after another, in a thin line, out of the parking lot and up Sixth Street. Eugene watched their departure from his car. The squad cars then pulled into the parking lot, the cops eyeballing the three of us coolly. Gray and Ringold watched from the entrance to the Kangaroo Court; Gray clapping his hands together in applause, shouting "Bravo," oblivious to Frame’s cold stare, while Ringold leaned lazily against the building, smoking. Junior and Breakwood were, of course, long gone. In all the commotion I hadn’t even seen them leave. It was almost like they had never been there.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
The two squad cars patrolled the interior of the parking lot. One of them parked in back, between a dumpster and the rear entrance, and the other right in front of the restaurant. They came with two cops each, but they didn’t get out; they just took things in through their sunglasses. One of the officers was a woman—she was Asian American and wore the same perfunctory expression as the men, one of general disinterest, while not allowing anything to slip by unobserved. The four of them looked tougher than all of the bikers put together.
Gray and Ringold looked just like satisfied customers. They were on their second or third drinks, and as I watched they dispatched a waitress to bring them another round. Now with the bikers gone, what was left of the Kangaroo’s afternoon clientele, ten or fifteen people, had joined them outside to see what was happening. A few of them were on cell phones; I recognized them as reporters for the morning edition. Gray played the master of ceremonies, gesturing wildly with his arms, as he gave a blow by blow account of how the three of us, Frame, Doc, and myself, had deliberately provoked a dozen or so members of some cut-throat motorcycle organization into a weird confrontation. A crazy thing to do, no doubt, but then the three of us were crazy. It was in all the papers. We were the thugs—well, two thugs and one definitely crazy ‘broad’—who had shot up the Valley of the Moon just yesterday morning.
And here we were on the loose again.
"Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?" Maxie asked rhetorically.
Ringold nodded, watching Eugene, who had pulled himself out of his car and was now strolling leisurely, with his hands in his coat pockets, in my direction. "It certainly does, counselor," he said.
Eugene looked a lot like my Godfather right then. A little bit pissed, a little bit disappointed. He took in the three of us and shook his head ruefully. Gray watched all this with keen interest. Ringold tossed the butt of his cigarette onto the asphalt: Eugene walked right over it. He stopped in front of me.
"Wasn’t yesterday enough?" He asked the three of us, but his eyes were on me alone. Frame nodded towards Gray and Ringold and said loudly: "Why don’t you ask them?"
Gray smirked. "Go ahead," he bellowed from the steps. "Why don’t you ask us?"
"I would," Eugene said without looking back over his shoulder. "But I’d like an honest answer."
Ringold laughed and lit another cigarette. When our eyes met, he winked. The only way I could take it was as a threat.
"Oh, I think I can supply you with one," Gray said.
"Think again," Eugene said.
Gray arched his eyebrows and, for the benefit of his small audience, raised his hands, palms up, shoulder high, as though to say, what can you expect from an over-the-hill, underpaid, soon to be retired cop? He killed his drink and left its remains with the waitress, then, in full lawyer mode, moseyed on down the steps and across the lot. When he reached us, he insouciantly tapped Eugene on his shoulder.
"Cipriani, is this honest enough?" he orated: "You’re obviously using your rank and position within the San Francisco Police Department to protect individuals who are the prime suspects in an ongoing criminal investigation. Your actions here today, as in the past, reflect poorly on the department you represent, and undermine the confidence that the citizens of this community have in their police force. You’re a disgrace to your badge, and your presence here makes a mockery of the oath you swore to obey."
Eugene turned and looked at Gray for a long moment and then he laughed. When he was through laughing he took Gray’s shoulders in his hands and squeezed them firmly. A slight grimace of pain crossed the counselor’s face; when he tried to shake off Eugene’s hands he couldn’t.
"Evelyn Claxton," Eugene said quietly.
Gray stopped struggling against Eugene’s grip. "What about her?"
"She’s not quite as dumb as her son is."
"Which one?"
"Any of them. But I was thinking particularly about Dwight."
Gray nodded thoughtfully. "Dwight is special," he said.
Eugene nodded too; a moment later they were both nodding.
"So what has the bitch told you now?" Gray asked, after casting a single sidelong glance over his shoulder at the bitch’s boyfriend, Ringold, who, out of hearing, in turn signaled him with a thumb’s up.
"Apparently," Eugene said, "your partner in crime, William Graham—a.k.a. Curley Bill—didn’t trust you quite as much as you trusted him."
Gray almost smiled. "Our relationship isn’t based on trust," he said. "It’s purely professional—Lawyer, client/client, lawyer."
"Then you don’t believe he was killed yesterday morning?"
"No."
Eugene stared at Gray for a long time. Long enough to make him blink. When Eugene finally spoke he spoke so softly that Frame and Doc and I had to lean into their conversation to hear it. "Evelyn Claxton said Graham was killed yesterday morning and buried in some canyon out by Bolinas. But I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that…"
"He was here just an hour ago."
"And I bet he bought drinks for everybody."
"He’s the generous kind."
"That’s what Officer White thought of him."
"Officer who?"
"The cop he murdered."
Gray shook his head. "I believe that was ruled as an accident," he said.
"Were you aware that Graham taped every conversation he had with you? He also kept detailed records of his car theft business. Who stole what when; models, makes, how they were moved out of the country, and where. It was quite an operation; no wonder the Feds screwed it up. My understanding is that your name stands out rather prominently. Under profit sharing."
Gray shrugged. His eyes tallied up points. He shook his head wearily. "Cipriani, let me put this in a way you might be able to understand: there’s not a goddamned thing you can get from Evelyn Claxton that you’ll ever be able to use in court. It’s just that simple."
"Nothing’s that simple," Eugene said. "If you don’t believe me you can ask Lieutenant Donahue."
"Ask him what?"
"Ask him what Internal Affairs is going to ask him this afternoon. Why his name appears right below yours in Graham’s ledgers."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
That’s when I decided to stick around. I didn’t think I could pass up the opportunity at seeing Junior in the hot seat. And I did feel fairly certain he’d want me to be there. Besides, this time of year it would be freezing in New Mexico and Colorado anyway. And I already had a bad job; it seemed doubtful that whatever Frame managed to come up with would be much of an improvement. I just started keeping a pistol with me at all times, even while I was sleeping. A small thirty-eight tucked beneath my pillow.
And Eugene, bless his heart, had squad cars patrolling my neighborhood about once every hour. I don’t know what it cost him; when I brought it up he just told me that the boys were doing it out of respect for my father. I can’t say if I believed him or not, so I let it go. If they helped keep the bogies away at night then I supposed I could live with it.
I didn’t see Frame before he and Michelle left. According to Doc, Frame went south to San Bernardino to see his family for a few days; Michelle would meet him a week later in Santa Fe. Things were sort of touchy there in San Berdoo. Frame’s wife was very well thought of among the Johnson clan, more so than Michelle, who they considered to be little more than an opportunist, which was ironic considering that Frame was currently unemployed and in most rings politically unnecessary. Perhaps, in time, their feelings towards the poor girl would change, perhaps not. Doc shrugged and drowned his cough with vodka.
As for Doc, well he was leaving too. There was a pulmonary specialist in Colorado his wife, Katherine, insisted he see. Not that it would do him any good. He knew enough to know when to let the pot ride—but she, despite her temper and vile vocabulary, still clung to the hope that his health might somehow be salvaged. "She was obviously in denial," he explained, "but if it would make her feel better..."
We bid farewell over lunch at Nellie’s place, where we first met, across the street from Oakley’s Garage. He looked worse, if that were possible—what weight he carried was hunched over his cane and his features were so pale as to be translucent, and glistened sickly with cold sweat. He ate little; a bite was all, before he pushed his plate away, and concentrated on his drinking. But his wit was in tact and his eyes still sparkled as they darted through the window and across the street to the now vacant garage.
"My only regret," Doc said, his flask in hand, "is that I neglected to kill Dwight Claxton when the opportunity presented itself."
"Hopefully, you’ll be able to live with it," I said.
He smiled warmly at me. "Well, Katy O’Shea," he said, "I suppose I must. At least for a little while longer."
Lunch was on Nellie. She cried when we left, dabbing her eyes with the ends of her apron. She admonished Doc to keep in touch; he told her that he couldn’t imagine her being so unlucky.
Outside we paused to button our coats against the cold wind that swept in from the bay. Doc wrapped a scarf round his thin neck and adjusted his hat over his eyes. There was no sun, only a heavy gray covering the city like a blanket, muting sound and color and with them the senses. A cab pulled up and I held the rear door open as Doc slid into the backseat. He clutched his cane between his legs and lay his flask on the seat beside him. The effort left him breathless and perspiring. He coughed blood into his handkerchief and then took a deep breath, oblivious to the driver watching him in the rearview mirror. But a moment later he was smiling cheerfully again, and grasped my hand firmly in his.
"Katy O’Shea," he exclaimed suddenly, "I will miss you very much!"
I almost started crying myself, but instead just squeezed his hand in both of mine.
"We’ll miss each other," I said.
"For a time perhaps," he said. "Or until you regain your reason. Whichever comes first. In the meantime, you shouldn’t worry. I think the current state of affairs here will return to normal once Frame and I are history. Believe me, you have friends in this city. And none of them wants you hurt."
And that was the last time I ever saw him.
Afterwards, standing there in front of Nellie’s Place, I felt very alone, and very unprotected, like I’d just lost my only friends. And I supposed that was true enough. Driving home I thought about gunfights. And why I wasn’t getting out too. The only reason I could think of had to do with money. I was very near broke and I didn’t feel like I could borrow anymore. As it stood, if I didn’t get another client in the next few days I would be doing temp work downtown. Not a prospect I enjoyed. But there was another client, one just waiting for me to return their call, and with a check to prove it. A family planning center wanted me to find out who was sending them oddly worded if not altogether threatening letters to their clinic. The police, after a preliminary investigation, didn’t believe the letters fit the anti-choice terrorist profile, and recommended that the clinic upgrade their security system. They did as the police suggested and then they hired me as a consultant. My job was to run down the author of the crank letters. I personally doubted how effective I could be in resolving this matter for them, but I agreed to give it a try.
I celebrated my new job by staying home alone, just me, and my cat, and a bottle of wine. I disconnected the phone and kept the lights low. I watched some TV, an old noir film starring Kirk Douglas and Robert Mitchum, and then the news. Sky lay beside me on the couch purring as I rubbed his ears. The best thing about the news was the weather and it wasn’t all that good from where I sat. A heavy fog had drifted in from the ocean and it was like living under water. Cold and windy water, with the wind rattling my windows and the cold air thick and wet, so that I couldn’t be exactly sure when I first heard the motorcycle, only that it was there now, its engine roaring angrily, on the avenue just below my window.
I knew whose bike it was even before I looked. By now it had become a familiar piece of machinery to me. Just like its owner.
Both rider and bike were silhouetted eerily by the light of its own headlamp that failing to cut through the fog splashed back over them. And even then it was as though they had only partially emerged from the depths, for all I could see of Ringold was his face and the cigarette dangling from his mouth and his gloved hands high up on the handlebars and a single leg propping up the heavy machine. He was of course looking right at me when I slanted the blinds to peer out at him. I don’t know why I even bothered getting up.
We stared at each for some time. Whatever his thoughts were I didn’t think I liked them. The crazy part was that after he was through stalking me for the night he’d probably conduct a routine security check on Nellie to make sure she was safe and sound in her own sweet home. He was just that kind of guy. The terrible thing was that this was only the beginning, it could last indefinitely, right up to the moment when he decided to kill me.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
I felt only marginally better when an unmarked police car suddenly appeared from around the corner on Lake Street, its single red light flashing and its high powered beams enveloping Ringold and his machine in a halo of light. Ringold looked lazily over his shoulder at the car and removing the cigarette from his mouth tossed it contemptuously onto the street. I counted half a dozen of my neighbors watching from behind their windows or cracked front doors. Neither Ringold nor cop made a move; they just sat there in the middle of the street eyeballing each other. This went on for a long and tense moment. I thought it might end in some sort of altercation, that it somehow must, and then Ringold, glancing once more in the direction of my window, aimed a finger at me like a pistol with one hand as he pulled back on the throttle with his other and slowly drifted away.
He turned right on California Street and accelerated. The sound of his engine tore violently through the night. The cops observed his departure from their car. Although I couldn’t make out their features, I could see that there were two of them. The one riding shotgun was smoking, and the one behind the wheel was on the radio. A moment later they pulled away too, turning right, as Ringold had, onto California, but silently, with their flashing red light all but lost within the fog.
I loosened all the light bulbs and slept on the couch that night, if you could call it sleeping. What light there was fell from the streetlights outside through the seams of the venetian blinds, casting ominous shadows across the living room. The avenue where I lived, squeezed in between California and Lake, was very noisy. I listened to the sound of traffic, and voices, and music all night long. Instead of counting sheep I spent hours wondering how long the cops would keep an eye on me, how long before my Godfather retired. Each time I heard footsteps outside I reached for the pistol beside me. At some point I fell asleep. I know this to be true, because I remember waking. It was just light and Sky was crouched on my chest, grinning Cheshire-like at me beneath two dilated eyes. We stared at each other until I realized why I had awakened. Someone was leaning on my doorbell. It was a terrible noise, more a shrill buzzing than a bell, made worse by last night’s wine. I figured if I didn’t answer it, then whoever it was might just go away. But that’s now life works at six in the morning.
That someone was Eugene. I don’t know how long he had been there and I never got the chance to find out. By the time I reached the door he was pounding on it and shouting my name. I tried shouting back but I couldn’t find my voice; the wine, a gift from an admirer, had been that bad. But when I undid the bolt latch the pounding and the shouting stopped and when I opened the door Eugene pushed me inside and closed and locked the door behind him.
"Were you here all night?" He asked urgently. He looked past me into my apartment. "Were you here alone?"
He was worried about something, I didn’t know what, but as far as I was concerned it was too early for the third degree. "It’s none of your business," I said.
"I’m serious, Katy" he said.
"So am I."
He let it go. He looked me over. He shook his head sadly. In the living room he saw the blankets and pillow on the couch, the empty wine bottle on the coffee table, and the pistol on the floor. He pointed at the weapon.
"Has that been fired recently?"
I looked at it stupidly and shrugged. "No."
"Hell," he said. "And you’ve been here all night?"
"What happened?" I asked.
"A jogger found Jon Ringold’s body this morning. Out in Golden Gate Park."
I sat down on the couch and held my head in my hands. This time the buzzing came from inside, but it was just as loud, and just as lethal.
"You should have some coffee," Eugene said. He was kneeling over my pistol, examining it—just like a cop. He hooked a pen through the trigger guard and lifted it up for a better look, sniffing its short barrel. "He was shot in the head."
I got up. "But not with that," I said. "It’s too small."
Eugene gave me a quizzical look as though I might just be his prime suspect. He followed me, with my pistol still dangling from his pen, into the kitchen where I ground coffee and made a pot of espresso. He laid the pistol on the counter and put his pen back in his pocket.
"Was he that scary? What kind of weapon would you have recommended?"
"For Ringold? Something bigger, a forty-five."
"It was something bigger. Maybe a forty-five."
I served the espresso at the small table in my dining room. I put too much cream and sugar in mine; Eugene watched disapprovingly. He took his black, with just a teaspoon of sugar.
"It looks like suicide," he said, watching me over his cup, which I resented.
"I don’t believe it," I said, ignoring his gaze. "He stopped by here last night."
"I know."
"A squad car chased him away."
"They followed him out to Ocean Highway. They let him go at the Cliff House. His motorcycle was parked on Kennedy Drive. The jogger found his body slumped against an oak tree near Stow Lake. Around five-thirty a.m. He was shot once in the head. A pistol, a forty-five, was found an arms length away. It looks like it was his. They also found an empty bottle of bourbon next to him. They estimate the time of death at around three or three thirty this morning."
"I was here," I said. "On the couch."
"And your pals haven’t been around either, I suppose?"
I looked at him. The coffee was just kicking in. "My pals?"
"Johnson and Christmas."
"I believe they were both asked to leave town; I believe Johnson left the day before yesterday and Christmas yesterday. You should be able to confirm that." At least I hoped he could.
Eugene looked at me. We refilled our cups. I added just a little more sugar than I had to.
"Funny thing about Ringold," he said. "He wasn’t wearing any shoes. There was a pair of expensive boots hanging from his motorcycle. Cowboy boots, fancy ones, must have cost him a thousand dollars. But, as cold as it was, he was barefoot, except for some rags he had wrapped around his feet."
"Was he that drunk?"
"Maybe. There were a couple of other things too."
"Such as?"
"His holster, one of those small things, fits on the belt behind the back—it was upside down. But then if he was drunk…"
"Sure," I said. "If he was that drunk…"
"But that’s not what spooked me."
"So what spooked you?"
"A piece of his scalp was missing."
I didn’t say anything. We sat there for a moment contemplating the scalping of Jon Ringold in Golden Gate Park. Neither of us needed any more espresso for that one. I put the cups and pot in the sink; Eugene stood up, and looked at his watch.
"Why don’t you get ready?" he suggested.
"Do I have to?"
He nodded. "Any reason at this point you shouldn’t be a suspect?"
Since I couldn’t think of one I shrugged it off.
"And call your lawyer, what’s his name?"
"Darrell."
"Call Darrell and have him meet us downtown. This will probably take most of the day."
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
It did take most of the day. And a lot of coffee. I didn’t know the cops who conducted the interrogation, nor had I ever seen them before. They were in their early forties and tough looking and not very interested in playing games. I got the feeling they had reached the stage where they were relying more on the wisdom of their experience rather than on the enthusiasm of their ebbing youth. Darrell sat at the table with me and they accepted him, more or less, as they would any lawyer, with some reluctance and a great deal of suspicion. Eugene, of course, wasn’t there, due to the obvious conflict of interest. But I felt certain that he was just behind the mirror, inside the observation room, listening to every word I said and trying to figure how much of it was the truth. He knew I was my father’s daughter. And from what I understand, my father could tell one hell of a lie when he had to.
My primary contribution to the interrogation was in repeating over and over for them what they already seemed to know—that the late John Ringold had parked himself on his bike in the middle of the street directly below my apartment and then split once the cops showed up. After I last saw him I went to bed—and yes, I was alone all night, and no, there was no way I could verify it. And that early this morning I had heard from an extremely reliable source that Ringold’s body had been discovered in the park, with a bullet in his head. And that I had also heard from that same reliable source that his death might have been by his own hand. After all, when Ringold wasn’t committing felonies or threatening women, he was prone towards melancholia, having suffered uniquely from an unhappy childhood.
While the detectives thanked me for my professional opinion, they kindly pointed out to me that under the circumstances it was entirely unnecessary, as it would be the Medical Examiner who would determine the exact cause of Ringold’s death. At the moment they were a little more interested in my professional relationship with Frame Johnson and his colleague, John H. Christmas. When and where I last saw them, what we may or may not have discussed, and if I planned on seeing them again. It was exhausting work. Each question was loaded and the only way I could get through them was by telling the truth. Fortunately I didn’t know enough of it to get caught in any lies. Darrell handled the tricky ones. He was a good lawyer and he could see them coming. And I was very happy he was there.
It was two days before I heard from Eugene that Ringold’s death had been ruled as suicide. Not that everyone believed it. When it hit the papers the rumor mill ground it up into fine dust and blew it into the wind. Within hours everybody South of Market and in the Mission had an opinion on who really had killed him. Half a dozen names came up, some I knew, others I didn’t. More than a few believed Frame had done it. Probably with Doc’s help. It was pretty simple if you traced Ringold’s last ride from my apartment to Ocean Beach and into the park, it was easy to see that I had been the bait.
I almost believed it myself; I almost wanted to. I liked thinking, however briefly, that the two of them had come to my rescue. But I also didn’t want to believe it, especially after Maxie Gray started fielding the questions surrounding Ringold’s sudden and unexpected demise.
Maxie Gray, of course, called it murder, plain and simple, and the ruling of suicide a cover-up. Cops, for Christ’s sake—didn’t anybody read the papers? From New York to Los Angeles to the Bay Area, the majority of cops in this country were simply out of control. They were helping to turn this great nation into some third world shithole. In the past four months alone there had been two gunfights and at least three unsolved murders linked directly to U.S. Deputy Marshall Frame Johnson, his partner-in-crime, Doc Christmas, and their hired hand, Katy O’Shea. And, as everyone in the goddamned City knows, Ms. O’Shea is the only daughter of the late and infamous Detective Devlin O’Shea—Detective Renegade himself— and goddaughter to his former partner, the legendary Inspector Eugene Cipriani. Was there truly anything more to be said?
Maxie Gray smiled for the cameras; flashbulbs went off and his slightly pudgy features were frozen on film and video and smeared across papers and small screens across the state. But unfortunately for the learned counsel, Frame and Doc were able to prove beyond any reasonable doubt, even to the most insipid of conspiracy buffs, that they were nowhere near the scene of Ringold’s last moments on earth, and eventually the allegations, for the most part, simply faded away. It was a pity though that the body of William Graham was never unearthed.
Or that Junior never quite broke under the Internal Affairs investigation into his relationship with Oakley’s Garage, and through association, with Maxie Gray. Eugene never spoke of it to me—since I wasn’t a cop I was outside the loop—although, by inference, I had a good idea of what those relationships were. But ultimately to the relief of all concerned, Junior quietly turned in his badge and weapon the day before the investigation officially came to a close and retired to civilian life.
Four months later Billy Claymore was killed in a late night gunfight in the Mission District. Apparently he’d been drinking most of the day and decided he could no longer tolerate the wit or humor of the bartender, one Frank Leslie, at his favorite watering hole. According to the papers there was an altercation between the two of them over an unpaid tab and Claymore was asked to leave. Close to last call he was seen lurking outside the place, with a pistol, and heard muttering threats against the bartender. At approximately two-thirty A.M. the story gets a little murky. Cops are called, a complaint is lodged, but before the police get there, Claymore is dead. Shot and killed by Leslie. A number of witnesses back Leslie’s claim that the shot he fired was in self-defense; a few others suggest otherwise. Not that it matters—Leslie is released the following day on his own recognizance; the shooting is later ruled as justifiable homicide.
Jon Ringold’s funeral was a small affair. And it was one I thought wise not to attend. A lawyer representing his family made the arrangements, and on a Saturday morning he was buried in the shade of an old oak tree, in a cemetery just outside San Jose. Not very many people showed up to see him off, Nellie, of course, a few bikers, one or two drinking companions, the aforementioned lawyer, and Evelyn Claxton. Nellie and Evelyn were perhaps the only two people there genuinely in mourning. Nellie, who was there simply through the kindness of her heart, kept discreetly to the back. Evelyn, on the other hand, sobbed violently throughout the service, and, in an obviously drunken state, referred continuously and loudly to her former lover, the deceased, as "a hunk a hunk of burning love" and to herself as "his bitch." As Ringold’s coffin was finally lowered into it’s vault, she either jumped or fell in after it. No one was quite certain. But she seemed to think she had been pushed and after she managed to climb out she accused the Ringold family lawyer of this unkind act. And when he, of course, denied it, she knocked out three of his front teeth with the roll of dimes concealed in her fist.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
After Evelyn Claxton passed out her oldest son drove her home. That was the second to the last time I would ever hear of Dwight Claxton. The car he drove his mother home in from Jon Ringold’s funeral was a Mercedes Benz SUV. It was brand spanking new and painted a fire engine red so bright you had to wear sunglasses just to look at it. And according to the officers who pulled him over the vehicle was, legally speaking, in perfect working order, even if it didn’t quite belong to him. The registration was in the name of his attorney, Maxie Gray. Good son that Dwight was he dropped his mother off at her home in Daly City. On the front yard to be exact—only a few feet from the gaping pit—where the bereaved woman apparently spent most of the evening, sleeping off her drunk. This much is known, because several of her neighbors saw her there and took pains not to disturb her. But once she did wake up, she of course started quite a ruckus, the magnitude of which, as her neighbors well knew by now, could only be contained by the local police.
After this last minor quarrel with the law Evelyn Claxton sold her home and dropped out of sight. I am not sure what happened to her next, or to most of her children. They may have finally just got going while the going was good. Or they may have just gone straight, hopefully finding comfort in the simple pleasure of a trouble free world. But I had my doubts. And never for a moment did I even consider the remote possibility that her oldest and stupidest son might have settled down into a life of honest labor.
Almost two years later a Christmas card from the former Mrs. Dwight Claxton confirmed my suspicions. It was one of those cards where the cover is a photograph. This one featured Ivy, a slightly taller Eve, and Ivy’s new husband, the marine she introduced me to way back when. The three of them were huddled together in front of a Christmas tree, Ivy and her husband sitting on either side of little Eve, with their arms wrapped tightly around her, as the flash from the camera froze their eyes in an unearthly reddish glow. A nondenominational salutation was printed in red, white, and blue across the top of the card. Season’s Greetings, it read, from the Sparks. They looked just like any other happy and relatively well-adjusted American family. Only the sweet, brief note inside betrayed the violent past I had helped them escape.
It was a simply written message, in Ivy’s own hand, informing me that Dwight Claxton was very much dead. That he had died while committing armed robbery in a small town in northern Arizona. Apparently his intended victim had been armed and instead of handing over her valuables chose to fight back. Dwight had been shot once, through the heart, and was dead before he hit the ground. His pistol, unfired, was still firmly gripped in his right hand, and his final expression, locked in death, was one of great surprise and horror. He went "absolutely bug-eyed", according to his victim, a sixty-seven year old widow, when she calmly pulled her .357 Magnum on him and, as her late husband had so diligently instructed her, squeezed-not-yanked its hair-trigger.
I read the note twice before I placed it on the mantle with the other two Christmas cards I received that year. I can’t say it cheered me up, but I did feel relieved. Like I could finally see the first true light of day after a long and dread filled night. It was worth cracking open a better bottle of wine.
Of course there were the rumors that Frame Johnson was behind Dwight’s death. I presumed these predictable allegations came straight from Maxie Gray, whose path still crossed mine from time to time, usually at the Hall of Justice or the Kangaroo Court. Maxie was good at rumors, especially where the health of William Graham was concerned. Since I last saw Graham, the day Frame Johnson ended his life with two rounds from a ten gage shotgun, there had to have been at least twenty or thirty sightings of the late car thief. I supposed this had something to do with the contents of Graham’s safety deposit box. But my guess was that Maxie had that one covered by now. I’m sure that with so many cameo appearances one of them had to have taken place at Graham’s bank.
On rare occasions Maxie would call me or send me email, usually after having a few too many drinks, and would, of all things, ask me out on dates. On my birthdays he took to sending me roses, a dozen American beauties, as he claimed they complemented my red hair and pale Irish charm. He left longwinded messages assuring me of his sincerity, innocence, and integrity, while distancing himself from his clientele by citing the tenet of presumed innocence and the right of all to a sound legal defense. He promised me evenings of fun and romance and even, depending upon the quantity of liquor consumed, ecstasy. There was no doubt in my mind that he was completely and utterly bananas and more than once I threatened him with a sexual harassment suit, which each time sent him reeling hopelessly to Eugene, who offered him no sympathy whatsoever. And I never did stop carrying a pistol.
Frame Johnson came and went through the papers. After the gunfight at Oakley’s Garage he became something of a celebrity. Or perhaps something more of a legend. There was even talk of book and film rights, and references in gossip columns as to which flavor of the week was interested in portraying him on the big screen. Nowhere did I see my name mentioned and I have to admit I felt all the poorer for it. And while nothing came of these speculations, he remained newsworthy. I was able to follow what was left of his career through the back pages, from here to Colorado, to San Diego, even once to Alaska, where he opened a tavern of sorts. He was said to have worked as a private investigator on a freelance basis for some of the larger companies, but he never again worked for any professional law enforcement agency. But apparently he did marry his young dancer. At least that was the rumor.
I heard from Doc only once more, on a Sunday morning in late October, four or five months after I’d last saw him. He sounded like he was calling from the bottom of the ocean and at first I thought it was a bad connection. But what I thought was static wasn’t—he just couldn’t breath much anymore, and his voice, weakened by disease and liquor never rose above a whisper.
"They won’t let me drink anymore," he managed to get out. "My doctor claims it will kill me."
Instead of laughing he coughed; after he coughed he had to fight for air.
"The same with cigarettes."
"Sounds like your kind of hell," I said.
Which he said it was.
"Only worse: they actually believe they’re helping me. But Katherine brings me what I need, thank God. It finally occurred to her tender Hungarian sensibilities that I am actually dying…"
And die Doc did, two weeks later. Katherine called me that night and told me, her accent thick and neutral. He just couldn’t breath anymore. He went in and out of a coma, when he was conscious he was delirious. She asked for a priest to administer last rites—although Doc was very much not a religious person, she was raised Catholic and thought it better in this matter to err on the side of the angels. As the priest was finishing up Doc suddenly came to and arched an eyebrow at the clerical collar.
"May I please have a drink?" His voice was less than a whisper, barely more than a thought. "Whiskey."
Katherine poured him one, a half-pint, and held the tumbler to his lips. He swallowed every last drop of it. "It was the first drink that ever did him any good," she said bitterly.
And then Doc gazed down at the end of his bed, to his feet, which were bare and pointing towards the ceiling, and smiled wearily.
"Damn," he said. "This is funny…"
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
At one-thirty we paid our bill and left the Kangaroo Court. Junior looked like he was going to be a no-show. Not that anybody was surprised. His superiors weren’t really interested in serving Frame Johnson a warrant; they just wanted him out of town and the sooner the better. But I had a queasy feeling that Maxie Gray had engineered this morning’s events. And as though to prove it, fifteen bikers followed us outside. They swarmed around us and down the front steps and mounted their Harley’s. In the sunlight they looked a lot worse: like thugs who had had way too much to drink, and who at any moment could turn mob-ugly. Doc lit a cigarette and considered them with his customary open contempt. And it occurred to me in an unsettling sort of way that he might have had a little too much to drink himself. Frame as usual was rock steady, and he moved automatically to a position in front of and facing me, with his back towards the parking lot and the bikes. I was just going to suggest to him that we go back inside when an unmarked police car pulled up on the street in front.
I could see Junior sitting shotgun, watching us through the side window. Breakwood was driving; he kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the street in front of him. The scary thing was that I could see Junior was thinking. He had that look about him, like he was burning more calories than usual. He looked at the three of us, then he looked at the fifteen bikers, and he looked like he liked what he saw. His grin broke though the window; he was laughing when he climbed out of the car.
"Here comes your warrant," I said.
Frame turned around. "You think he has enough witnesses?"
"They would appear to be sufficient in number," Doc said.
We watched Junior wind his way through the bikes. The bikers watched him too. I guess this was what everyone was waiting for. He was wearing a trench coat and beneath that a dark gray suit. I could make out the outline of his weapon under his coat. Clenched in his hand was the warrant. His hushpuppies led him right to us. None of us made room for him and he was forced to stop at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t care much for the disadvantage in height, but he wasn’t about to let that temper his arrogance.
"Johnson!" He said in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the parking lot.
Frame acknowledged him with a disinterested glance. It was suddenly very quiet. Junior placed his left foot on the step in front of him and started up, but one look from Frame’s cold blues eyes stopped him. Whatever resolve Junior had possessed just mere seconds ago vanished. He was no longer laughing and his smile dropped off his face. Anger replaced them, but when Frame didn’t blink he took a giant step backwards. Behind him bikers snickered; one of them muttered, ‘Shit…’
Junior tried again from about two and a half feet away. He lowered his voice until it was heavy enough to throw. "Johnson," he said, shaking the warrant in the air. "I want to see you. Right now."
The right-now part got to Frame. I could see it in his face, the way his eyes narrowed into thin weapons. In one sure movement he stepped down the second and third steps until he was standing nose to nose with Junior. It was a neat trick he had, of getting larger until he literally appeared to loom over Junior like some dark and irresistible force.
"One of these days," Frame said, "you’re going to see me once too often."
Junior looked like he believed him. It was almost difficult to watch. You could see the egg all over his face—as Frame rudely shouldered past him. Doc nudged me and whispered that now might just be the right moment to get going. I tried not looking at Junior but he made it impossible not to; he just stood there in a sad funk, the warrant clenched uselessly in his fist, and his face set in humiliation. But it was Doc, of course, who probably made Junior feel worse by saluting him jauntily with his index finger and complimenting him on what a remarkable job he’d done of keeping the peace under such adverse conditions.
There was some laughter from among the bikers, and even a smattering of applause. Doc took me by my hand and hurried me across the lot after Frame as around us the Harleys erupted into life. They were more than loud, they were brutal and intrusive—and they scared me. I remembered how I felt the night bikers roared past my bedroom window: powerless—even with a pistol clutched in my hands. Then they started moving, slowly at first, at least a dozen of them, their chrome engines reflecting sun, as their riders struggled to balance them as they gained momentum. They seemed somehow more like ancient beasts than machines, belonging to some forgotten and violent race, and for a moment it struck me as odd that none of them actually possessed wings. It took only seconds for them to surround the three of us completely in the parking lot. Exhaust and noise and the leers of the bikers thickened the air. I stood between Doc and Frame, both of whom at least appeared to be calm; Doc broke out his flask and lit another cigarette.
"Well," he muttered, "They certainly have a flair for the dramatic."
They circled us for a mad minute. It was almost dizzying. I collected myself by ignoring them and fastening my attention to the two men standing on the steps in front of the Kangaroo Court: Maxie Gray and Jon Ringold. They were, of course, enjoying the show. Gray taking it all in, his eyes sparkling, his smile wide and filled with teeth, while the attention of his partner in crime, Ringold, was focused exclusively on me. It gave me the heebie-jeebies just looking at him. He was neither frowning nor smiling, but just watching me, with his head tilted to one side, with all the cold and detached interest of a child watching an insect suffocating in a jar.
When Eugene showed up in an unmarked car, followed by two squad cars, the bikers roared off, one after another, in a thin line, out of the parking lot and up Sixth Street. Eugene watched their departure from his car. The squad cars then pulled into the parking lot, the cops eyeballing the three of us coolly. Gray and Ringold watched from the entrance to the Kangaroo Court; Gray clapping his hands together in applause, shouting "Bravo," oblivious to Frame’s cold stare, while Ringold leaned lazily against the building, smoking. Junior and Breakwood were, of course, long gone. In all the commotion I hadn’t even seen them leave. It was almost like they had never been there.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
The two squad cars patrolled the interior of the parking lot. One of them parked in back, between a dumpster and the rear entrance, and the other right in front of the restaurant. They came with two cops each, but they didn’t get out; they just took things in through their sunglasses. One of the officers was a woman—she was Asian American and wore the same perfunctory expression as the men, one of general disinterest, while not allowing anything to slip by unobserved. The four of them looked tougher than all of the bikers put together.
Gray and Ringold looked just like satisfied customers. They were on their second or third drinks, and as I watched they dispatched a waitress to bring them another round. Now with the bikers gone, what was left of the Kangaroo’s afternoon clientele, ten or fifteen people, had joined them outside to see what was happening. A few of them were on cell phones; I recognized them as reporters for the morning edition. Gray played the master of ceremonies, gesturing wildly with his arms, as he gave a blow by blow account of how the three of us, Frame, Doc, and myself, had deliberately provoked a dozen or so members of some cut-throat motorcycle organization into a weird confrontation. A crazy thing to do, no doubt, but then the three of us were crazy. It was in all the papers. We were the thugs—well, two thugs and one definitely crazy ‘broad’—who had shot up the Valley of the Moon just yesterday morning.
And here we were on the loose again.
"Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?" Maxie asked rhetorically.
Ringold nodded, watching Eugene, who had pulled himself out of his car and was now strolling leisurely, with his hands in his coat pockets, in my direction. "It certainly does, counselor," he said.
Eugene looked a lot like my Godfather right then. A little bit pissed, a little bit disappointed. He took in the three of us and shook his head ruefully. Gray watched all this with keen interest. Ringold tossed the butt of his cigarette onto the asphalt: Eugene walked right over it. He stopped in front of me.
"Wasn’t yesterday enough?" He asked the three of us, but his eyes were on me alone. Frame nodded towards Gray and Ringold and said loudly: "Why don’t you ask them?"
Gray smirked. "Go ahead," he bellowed from the steps. "Why don’t you ask us?"
"I would," Eugene said without looking back over his shoulder. "But I’d like an honest answer."
Ringold laughed and lit another cigarette. When our eyes met, he winked. The only way I could take it was as a threat.
"Oh, I think I can supply you with one," Gray said.
"Think again," Eugene said.
Gray arched his eyebrows and, for the benefit of his small audience, raised his hands, palms up, shoulder high, as though to say, what can you expect from an over-the-hill, underpaid, soon to be retired cop? He killed his drink and left its remains with the waitress, then, in full lawyer mode, moseyed on down the steps and across the lot. When he reached us, he insouciantly tapped Eugene on his shoulder.
"Cipriani, is this honest enough?" he orated: "You’re obviously using your rank and position within the San Francisco Police Department to protect individuals who are the prime suspects in an ongoing criminal investigation. Your actions here today, as in the past, reflect poorly on the department you represent, and undermine the confidence that the citizens of this community have in their police force. You’re a disgrace to your badge, and your presence here makes a mockery of the oath you swore to obey."
Eugene turned and looked at Gray for a long moment and then he laughed. When he was through laughing he took Gray’s shoulders in his hands and squeezed them firmly. A slight grimace of pain crossed the counselor’s face; when he tried to shake off Eugene’s hands he couldn’t.
"Evelyn Claxton," Eugene said quietly.
Gray stopped struggling against Eugene’s grip. "What about her?"
"She’s not quite as dumb as her son is."
"Which one?"
"Any of them. But I was thinking particularly about Dwight."
Gray nodded thoughtfully. "Dwight is special," he said.
Eugene nodded too; a moment later they were both nodding.
"So what has the bitch told you now?" Gray asked, after casting a single sidelong glance over his shoulder at the bitch’s boyfriend, Ringold, who, out of hearing, in turn signaled him with a thumb’s up.
"Apparently," Eugene said, "your partner in crime, William Graham—a.k.a. Curley Bill—didn’t trust you quite as much as you trusted him."
Gray almost smiled. "Our relationship isn’t based on trust," he said. "It’s purely professional—Lawyer, client/client, lawyer."
"Then you don’t believe he was killed yesterday morning?"
"No."
Eugene stared at Gray for a long time. Long enough to make him blink. When Eugene finally spoke he spoke so softly that Frame and Doc and I had to lean into their conversation to hear it. "Evelyn Claxton said Graham was killed yesterday morning and buried in some canyon out by Bolinas. But I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that…"
"He was here just an hour ago."
"And I bet he bought drinks for everybody."
"He’s the generous kind."
"That’s what Officer White thought of him."
"Officer who?"
"The cop he murdered."
Gray shook his head. "I believe that was ruled as an accident," he said.
"Were you aware that Graham taped every conversation he had with you? He also kept detailed records of his car theft business. Who stole what when; models, makes, how they were moved out of the country, and where. It was quite an operation; no wonder the Feds screwed it up. My understanding is that your name stands out rather prominently. Under profit sharing."
Gray shrugged. His eyes tallied up points. He shook his head wearily. "Cipriani, let me put this in a way you might be able to understand: there’s not a goddamned thing you can get from Evelyn Claxton that you’ll ever be able to use in court. It’s just that simple."
"Nothing’s that simple," Eugene said. "If you don’t believe me you can ask Lieutenant Donahue."
"Ask him what?"
"Ask him what Internal Affairs is going to ask him this afternoon. Why his name appears right below yours in Graham’s ledgers."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
That’s when I decided to stick around. I didn’t think I could pass up the opportunity at seeing Junior in the hot seat. And I did feel fairly certain he’d want me to be there. Besides, this time of year it would be freezing in New Mexico and Colorado anyway. And I already had a bad job; it seemed doubtful that whatever Frame managed to come up with would be much of an improvement. I just started keeping a pistol with me at all times, even while I was sleeping. A small thirty-eight tucked beneath my pillow.
And Eugene, bless his heart, had squad cars patrolling my neighborhood about once every hour. I don’t know what it cost him; when I brought it up he just told me that the boys were doing it out of respect for my father. I can’t say if I believed him or not, so I let it go. If they helped keep the bogies away at night then I supposed I could live with it.
I didn’t see Frame before he and Michelle left. According to Doc, Frame went south to San Bernardino to see his family for a few days; Michelle would meet him a week later in Santa Fe. Things were sort of touchy there in San Berdoo. Frame’s wife was very well thought of among the Johnson clan, more so than Michelle, who they considered to be little more than an opportunist, which was ironic considering that Frame was currently unemployed and in most rings politically unnecessary. Perhaps, in time, their feelings towards the poor girl would change, perhaps not. Doc shrugged and drowned his cough with vodka.
As for Doc, well he was leaving too. There was a pulmonary specialist in Colorado his wife, Katherine, insisted he see. Not that it would do him any good. He knew enough to know when to let the pot ride—but she, despite her temper and vile vocabulary, still clung to the hope that his health might somehow be salvaged. "She was obviously in denial," he explained, "but if it would make her feel better..."
We bid farewell over lunch at Nellie’s place, where we first met, across the street from Oakley’s Garage. He looked worse, if that were possible—what weight he carried was hunched over his cane and his features were so pale as to be translucent, and glistened sickly with cold sweat. He ate little; a bite was all, before he pushed his plate away, and concentrated on his drinking. But his wit was in tact and his eyes still sparkled as they darted through the window and across the street to the now vacant garage.
"My only regret," Doc said, his flask in hand, "is that I neglected to kill Dwight Claxton when the opportunity presented itself."
"Hopefully, you’ll be able to live with it," I said.
He smiled warmly at me. "Well, Katy O’Shea," he said, "I suppose I must. At least for a little while longer."
Lunch was on Nellie. She cried when we left, dabbing her eyes with the ends of her apron. She admonished Doc to keep in touch; he told her that he couldn’t imagine her being so unlucky.
Outside we paused to button our coats against the cold wind that swept in from the bay. Doc wrapped a scarf round his thin neck and adjusted his hat over his eyes. There was no sun, only a heavy gray covering the city like a blanket, muting sound and color and with them the senses. A cab pulled up and I held the rear door open as Doc slid into the backseat. He clutched his cane between his legs and lay his flask on the seat beside him. The effort left him breathless and perspiring. He coughed blood into his handkerchief and then took a deep breath, oblivious to the driver watching him in the rearview mirror. But a moment later he was smiling cheerfully again, and grasped my hand firmly in his.
"Katy O’Shea," he exclaimed suddenly, "I will miss you very much!"
I almost started crying myself, but instead just squeezed his hand in both of mine.
"We’ll miss each other," I said.
"For a time perhaps," he said. "Or until you regain your reason. Whichever comes first. In the meantime, you shouldn’t worry. I think the current state of affairs here will return to normal once Frame and I are history. Believe me, you have friends in this city. And none of them wants you hurt."
And that was the last time I ever saw him.
Afterwards, standing there in front of Nellie’s Place, I felt very alone, and very unprotected, like I’d just lost my only friends. And I supposed that was true enough. Driving home I thought about gunfights. And why I wasn’t getting out too. The only reason I could think of had to do with money. I was very near broke and I didn’t feel like I could borrow anymore. As it stood, if I didn’t get another client in the next few days I would be doing temp work downtown. Not a prospect I enjoyed. But there was another client, one just waiting for me to return their call, and with a check to prove it. A family planning center wanted me to find out who was sending them oddly worded if not altogether threatening letters to their clinic. The police, after a preliminary investigation, didn’t believe the letters fit the anti-choice terrorist profile, and recommended that the clinic upgrade their security system. They did as the police suggested and then they hired me as a consultant. My job was to run down the author of the crank letters. I personally doubted how effective I could be in resolving this matter for them, but I agreed to give it a try.
I celebrated my new job by staying home alone, just me, and my cat, and a bottle of wine. I disconnected the phone and kept the lights low. I watched some TV, an old noir film starring Kirk Douglas and Robert Mitchum, and then the news. Sky lay beside me on the couch purring as I rubbed his ears. The best thing about the news was the weather and it wasn’t all that good from where I sat. A heavy fog had drifted in from the ocean and it was like living under water. Cold and windy water, with the wind rattling my windows and the cold air thick and wet, so that I couldn’t be exactly sure when I first heard the motorcycle, only that it was there now, its engine roaring angrily, on the avenue just below my window.
I knew whose bike it was even before I looked. By now it had become a familiar piece of machinery to me. Just like its owner.
Both rider and bike were silhouetted eerily by the light of its own headlamp that failing to cut through the fog splashed back over them. And even then it was as though they had only partially emerged from the depths, for all I could see of Ringold was his face and the cigarette dangling from his mouth and his gloved hands high up on the handlebars and a single leg propping up the heavy machine. He was of course looking right at me when I slanted the blinds to peer out at him. I don’t know why I even bothered getting up.
We stared at each for some time. Whatever his thoughts were I didn’t think I liked them. The crazy part was that after he was through stalking me for the night he’d probably conduct a routine security check on Nellie to make sure she was safe and sound in her own sweet home. He was just that kind of guy. The terrible thing was that this was only the beginning, it could last indefinitely, right up to the moment when he decided to kill me.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
I felt only marginally better when an unmarked police car suddenly appeared from around the corner on Lake Street, its single red light flashing and its high powered beams enveloping Ringold and his machine in a halo of light. Ringold looked lazily over his shoulder at the car and removing the cigarette from his mouth tossed it contemptuously onto the street. I counted half a dozen of my neighbors watching from behind their windows or cracked front doors. Neither Ringold nor cop made a move; they just sat there in the middle of the street eyeballing each other. This went on for a long and tense moment. I thought it might end in some sort of altercation, that it somehow must, and then Ringold, glancing once more in the direction of my window, aimed a finger at me like a pistol with one hand as he pulled back on the throttle with his other and slowly drifted away.
He turned right on California Street and accelerated. The sound of his engine tore violently through the night. The cops observed his departure from their car. Although I couldn’t make out their features, I could see that there were two of them. The one riding shotgun was smoking, and the one behind the wheel was on the radio. A moment later they pulled away too, turning right, as Ringold had, onto California, but silently, with their flashing red light all but lost within the fog.
I loosened all the light bulbs and slept on the couch that night, if you could call it sleeping. What light there was fell from the streetlights outside through the seams of the venetian blinds, casting ominous shadows across the living room. The avenue where I lived, squeezed in between California and Lake, was very noisy. I listened to the sound of traffic, and voices, and music all night long. Instead of counting sheep I spent hours wondering how long the cops would keep an eye on me, how long before my Godfather retired. Each time I heard footsteps outside I reached for the pistol beside me. At some point I fell asleep. I know this to be true, because I remember waking. It was just light and Sky was crouched on my chest, grinning Cheshire-like at me beneath two dilated eyes. We stared at each other until I realized why I had awakened. Someone was leaning on my doorbell. It was a terrible noise, more a shrill buzzing than a bell, made worse by last night’s wine. I figured if I didn’t answer it, then whoever it was might just go away. But that’s now life works at six in the morning.
That someone was Eugene. I don’t know how long he had been there and I never got the chance to find out. By the time I reached the door he was pounding on it and shouting my name. I tried shouting back but I couldn’t find my voice; the wine, a gift from an admirer, had been that bad. But when I undid the bolt latch the pounding and the shouting stopped and when I opened the door Eugene pushed me inside and closed and locked the door behind him.
"Were you here all night?" He asked urgently. He looked past me into my apartment. "Were you here alone?"
He was worried about something, I didn’t know what, but as far as I was concerned it was too early for the third degree. "It’s none of your business," I said.
"I’m serious, Katy" he said.
"So am I."
He let it go. He looked me over. He shook his head sadly. In the living room he saw the blankets and pillow on the couch, the empty wine bottle on the coffee table, and the pistol on the floor. He pointed at the weapon.
"Has that been fired recently?"
I looked at it stupidly and shrugged. "No."
"Hell," he said. "And you’ve been here all night?"
"What happened?" I asked.
"A jogger found Jon Ringold’s body this morning. Out in Golden Gate Park."
I sat down on the couch and held my head in my hands. This time the buzzing came from inside, but it was just as loud, and just as lethal.
"You should have some coffee," Eugene said. He was kneeling over my pistol, examining it—just like a cop. He hooked a pen through the trigger guard and lifted it up for a better look, sniffing its short barrel. "He was shot in the head."
I got up. "But not with that," I said. "It’s too small."
Eugene gave me a quizzical look as though I might just be his prime suspect. He followed me, with my pistol still dangling from his pen, into the kitchen where I ground coffee and made a pot of espresso. He laid the pistol on the counter and put his pen back in his pocket.
"Was he that scary? What kind of weapon would you have recommended?"
"For Ringold? Something bigger, a forty-five."
"It was something bigger. Maybe a forty-five."
I served the espresso at the small table in my dining room. I put too much cream and sugar in mine; Eugene watched disapprovingly. He took his black, with just a teaspoon of sugar.
"It looks like suicide," he said, watching me over his cup, which I resented.
"I don’t believe it," I said, ignoring his gaze. "He stopped by here last night."
"I know."
"A squad car chased him away."
"They followed him out to Ocean Highway. They let him go at the Cliff House. His motorcycle was parked on Kennedy Drive. The jogger found his body slumped against an oak tree near Stow Lake. Around five-thirty a.m. He was shot once in the head. A pistol, a forty-five, was found an arms length away. It looks like it was his. They also found an empty bottle of bourbon next to him. They estimate the time of death at around three or three thirty this morning."
"I was here," I said. "On the couch."
"And your pals haven’t been around either, I suppose?"
I looked at him. The coffee was just kicking in. "My pals?"
"Johnson and Christmas."
"I believe they were both asked to leave town; I believe Johnson left the day before yesterday and Christmas yesterday. You should be able to confirm that." At least I hoped he could.
Eugene looked at me. We refilled our cups. I added just a little more sugar than I had to.
"Funny thing about Ringold," he said. "He wasn’t wearing any shoes. There was a pair of expensive boots hanging from his motorcycle. Cowboy boots, fancy ones, must have cost him a thousand dollars. But, as cold as it was, he was barefoot, except for some rags he had wrapped around his feet."
"Was he that drunk?"
"Maybe. There were a couple of other things too."
"Such as?"
"His holster, one of those small things, fits on the belt behind the back—it was upside down. But then if he was drunk…"
"Sure," I said. "If he was that drunk…"
"But that’s not what spooked me."
"So what spooked you?"
"A piece of his scalp was missing."
I didn’t say anything. We sat there for a moment contemplating the scalping of Jon Ringold in Golden Gate Park. Neither of us needed any more espresso for that one. I put the cups and pot in the sink; Eugene stood up, and looked at his watch.
"Why don’t you get ready?" he suggested.
"Do I have to?"
He nodded. "Any reason at this point you shouldn’t be a suspect?"
Since I couldn’t think of one I shrugged it off.
"And call your lawyer, what’s his name?"
"Darrell."
"Call Darrell and have him meet us downtown. This will probably take most of the day."
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
It did take most of the day. And a lot of coffee. I didn’t know the cops who conducted the interrogation, nor had I ever seen them before. They were in their early forties and tough looking and not very interested in playing games. I got the feeling they had reached the stage where they were relying more on the wisdom of their experience rather than on the enthusiasm of their ebbing youth. Darrell sat at the table with me and they accepted him, more or less, as they would any lawyer, with some reluctance and a great deal of suspicion. Eugene, of course, wasn’t there, due to the obvious conflict of interest. But I felt certain that he was just behind the mirror, inside the observation room, listening to every word I said and trying to figure how much of it was the truth. He knew I was my father’s daughter. And from what I understand, my father could tell one hell of a lie when he had to.
My primary contribution to the interrogation was in repeating over and over for them what they already seemed to know—that the late John Ringold had parked himself on his bike in the middle of the street directly below my apartment and then split once the cops showed up. After I last saw him I went to bed—and yes, I was alone all night, and no, there was no way I could verify it. And that early this morning I had heard from an extremely reliable source that Ringold’s body had been discovered in the park, with a bullet in his head. And that I had also heard from that same reliable source that his death might have been by his own hand. After all, when Ringold wasn’t committing felonies or threatening women, he was prone towards melancholia, having suffered uniquely from an unhappy childhood.
While the detectives thanked me for my professional opinion, they kindly pointed out to me that under the circumstances it was entirely unnecessary, as it would be the Medical Examiner who would determine the exact cause of Ringold’s death. At the moment they were a little more interested in my professional relationship with Frame Johnson and his colleague, John H. Christmas. When and where I last saw them, what we may or may not have discussed, and if I planned on seeing them again. It was exhausting work. Each question was loaded and the only way I could get through them was by telling the truth. Fortunately I didn’t know enough of it to get caught in any lies. Darrell handled the tricky ones. He was a good lawyer and he could see them coming. And I was very happy he was there.
It was two days before I heard from Eugene that Ringold’s death had been ruled as suicide. Not that everyone believed it. When it hit the papers the rumor mill ground it up into fine dust and blew it into the wind. Within hours everybody South of Market and in the Mission had an opinion on who really had killed him. Half a dozen names came up, some I knew, others I didn’t. More than a few believed Frame had done it. Probably with Doc’s help. It was pretty simple if you traced Ringold’s last ride from my apartment to Ocean Beach and into the park, it was easy to see that I had been the bait.
I almost believed it myself; I almost wanted to. I liked thinking, however briefly, that the two of them had come to my rescue. But I also didn’t want to believe it, especially after Maxie Gray started fielding the questions surrounding Ringold’s sudden and unexpected demise.
Maxie Gray, of course, called it murder, plain and simple, and the ruling of suicide a cover-up. Cops, for Christ’s sake—didn’t anybody read the papers? From New York to Los Angeles to the Bay Area, the majority of cops in this country were simply out of control. They were helping to turn this great nation into some third world shithole. In the past four months alone there had been two gunfights and at least three unsolved murders linked directly to U.S. Deputy Marshall Frame Johnson, his partner-in-crime, Doc Christmas, and their hired hand, Katy O’Shea. And, as everyone in the goddamned City knows, Ms. O’Shea is the only daughter of the late and infamous Detective Devlin O’Shea—Detective Renegade himself— and goddaughter to his former partner, the legendary Inspector Eugene Cipriani. Was there truly anything more to be said?
Maxie Gray smiled for the cameras; flashbulbs went off and his slightly pudgy features were frozen on film and video and smeared across papers and small screens across the state. But unfortunately for the learned counsel, Frame and Doc were able to prove beyond any reasonable doubt, even to the most insipid of conspiracy buffs, that they were nowhere near the scene of Ringold’s last moments on earth, and eventually the allegations, for the most part, simply faded away. It was a pity though that the body of William Graham was never unearthed.
Or that Junior never quite broke under the Internal Affairs investigation into his relationship with Oakley’s Garage, and through association, with Maxie Gray. Eugene never spoke of it to me—since I wasn’t a cop I was outside the loop—although, by inference, I had a good idea of what those relationships were. But ultimately to the relief of all concerned, Junior quietly turned in his badge and weapon the day before the investigation officially came to a close and retired to civilian life.
Four months later Billy Claymore was killed in a late night gunfight in the Mission District. Apparently he’d been drinking most of the day and decided he could no longer tolerate the wit or humor of the bartender, one Frank Leslie, at his favorite watering hole. According to the papers there was an altercation between the two of them over an unpaid tab and Claymore was asked to leave. Close to last call he was seen lurking outside the place, with a pistol, and heard muttering threats against the bartender. At approximately two-thirty A.M. the story gets a little murky. Cops are called, a complaint is lodged, but before the police get there, Claymore is dead. Shot and killed by Leslie. A number of witnesses back Leslie’s claim that the shot he fired was in self-defense; a few others suggest otherwise. Not that it matters—Leslie is released the following day on his own recognizance; the shooting is later ruled as justifiable homicide.
Jon Ringold’s funeral was a small affair. And it was one I thought wise not to attend. A lawyer representing his family made the arrangements, and on a Saturday morning he was buried in the shade of an old oak tree, in a cemetery just outside San Jose. Not very many people showed up to see him off, Nellie, of course, a few bikers, one or two drinking companions, the aforementioned lawyer, and Evelyn Claxton. Nellie and Evelyn were perhaps the only two people there genuinely in mourning. Nellie, who was there simply through the kindness of her heart, kept discreetly to the back. Evelyn, on the other hand, sobbed violently throughout the service, and, in an obviously drunken state, referred continuously and loudly to her former lover, the deceased, as "a hunk a hunk of burning love" and to herself as "his bitch." As Ringold’s coffin was finally lowered into it’s vault, she either jumped or fell in after it. No one was quite certain. But she seemed to think she had been pushed and after she managed to climb out she accused the Ringold family lawyer of this unkind act. And when he, of course, denied it, she knocked out three of his front teeth with the roll of dimes concealed in her fist.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
After Evelyn Claxton passed out her oldest son drove her home. That was the second to the last time I would ever hear of Dwight Claxton. The car he drove his mother home in from Jon Ringold’s funeral was a Mercedes Benz SUV. It was brand spanking new and painted a fire engine red so bright you had to wear sunglasses just to look at it. And according to the officers who pulled him over the vehicle was, legally speaking, in perfect working order, even if it didn’t quite belong to him. The registration was in the name of his attorney, Maxie Gray. Good son that Dwight was he dropped his mother off at her home in Daly City. On the front yard to be exact—only a few feet from the gaping pit—where the bereaved woman apparently spent most of the evening, sleeping off her drunk. This much is known, because several of her neighbors saw her there and took pains not to disturb her. But once she did wake up, she of course started quite a ruckus, the magnitude of which, as her neighbors well knew by now, could only be contained by the local police.
After this last minor quarrel with the law Evelyn Claxton sold her home and dropped out of sight. I am not sure what happened to her next, or to most of her children. They may have finally just got going while the going was good. Or they may have just gone straight, hopefully finding comfort in the simple pleasure of a trouble free world. But I had my doubts. And never for a moment did I even consider the remote possibility that her oldest and stupidest son might have settled down into a life of honest labor.
Almost two years later a Christmas card from the former Mrs. Dwight Claxton confirmed my suspicions. It was one of those cards where the cover is a photograph. This one featured Ivy, a slightly taller Eve, and Ivy’s new husband, the marine she introduced me to way back when. The three of them were huddled together in front of a Christmas tree, Ivy and her husband sitting on either side of little Eve, with their arms wrapped tightly around her, as the flash from the camera froze their eyes in an unearthly reddish glow. A nondenominational salutation was printed in red, white, and blue across the top of the card. Season’s Greetings, it read, from the Sparks. They looked just like any other happy and relatively well-adjusted American family. Only the sweet, brief note inside betrayed the violent past I had helped them escape.
It was a simply written message, in Ivy’s own hand, informing me that Dwight Claxton was very much dead. That he had died while committing armed robbery in a small town in northern Arizona. Apparently his intended victim had been armed and instead of handing over her valuables chose to fight back. Dwight had been shot once, through the heart, and was dead before he hit the ground. His pistol, unfired, was still firmly gripped in his right hand, and his final expression, locked in death, was one of great surprise and horror. He went "absolutely bug-eyed", according to his victim, a sixty-seven year old widow, when she calmly pulled her .357 Magnum on him and, as her late husband had so diligently instructed her, squeezed-not-yanked its hair-trigger.
I read the note twice before I placed it on the mantle with the other two Christmas cards I received that year. I can’t say it cheered me up, but I did feel relieved. Like I could finally see the first true light of day after a long and dread filled night. It was worth cracking open a better bottle of wine.
Of course there were the rumors that Frame Johnson was behind Dwight’s death. I presumed these predictable allegations came straight from Maxie Gray, whose path still crossed mine from time to time, usually at the Hall of Justice or the Kangaroo Court. Maxie was good at rumors, especially where the health of William Graham was concerned. Since I last saw Graham, the day Frame Johnson ended his life with two rounds from a ten gage shotgun, there had to have been at least twenty or thirty sightings of the late car thief. I supposed this had something to do with the contents of Graham’s safety deposit box. But my guess was that Maxie had that one covered by now. I’m sure that with so many cameo appearances one of them had to have taken place at Graham’s bank.
On rare occasions Maxie would call me or send me email, usually after having a few too many drinks, and would, of all things, ask me out on dates. On my birthdays he took to sending me roses, a dozen American beauties, as he claimed they complemented my red hair and pale Irish charm. He left longwinded messages assuring me of his sincerity, innocence, and integrity, while distancing himself from his clientele by citing the tenet of presumed innocence and the right of all to a sound legal defense. He promised me evenings of fun and romance and even, depending upon the quantity of liquor consumed, ecstasy. There was no doubt in my mind that he was completely and utterly bananas and more than once I threatened him with a sexual harassment suit, which each time sent him reeling hopelessly to Eugene, who offered him no sympathy whatsoever. And I never did stop carrying a pistol.
Frame Johnson came and went through the papers. After the gunfight at Oakley’s Garage he became something of a celebrity. Or perhaps something more of a legend. There was even talk of book and film rights, and references in gossip columns as to which flavor of the week was interested in portraying him on the big screen. Nowhere did I see my name mentioned and I have to admit I felt all the poorer for it. And while nothing came of these speculations, he remained newsworthy. I was able to follow what was left of his career through the back pages, from here to Colorado, to San Diego, even once to Alaska, where he opened a tavern of sorts. He was said to have worked as a private investigator on a freelance basis for some of the larger companies, but he never again worked for any professional law enforcement agency. But apparently he did marry his young dancer. At least that was the rumor.
I heard from Doc only once more, on a Sunday morning in late October, four or five months after I’d last saw him. He sounded like he was calling from the bottom of the ocean and at first I thought it was a bad connection. But what I thought was static wasn’t—he just couldn’t breath much anymore, and his voice, weakened by disease and liquor never rose above a whisper.
"They won’t let me drink anymore," he managed to get out. "My doctor claims it will kill me."
Instead of laughing he coughed; after he coughed he had to fight for air.
"The same with cigarettes."
"Sounds like your kind of hell," I said.
Which he said it was.
"Only worse: they actually believe they’re helping me. But Katherine brings me what I need, thank God. It finally occurred to her tender Hungarian sensibilities that I am actually dying…"
And die Doc did, two weeks later. Katherine called me that night and told me, her accent thick and neutral. He just couldn’t breath anymore. He went in and out of a coma, when he was conscious he was delirious. She asked for a priest to administer last rites—although Doc was very much not a religious person, she was raised Catholic and thought it better in this matter to err on the side of the angels. As the priest was finishing up Doc suddenly came to and arched an eyebrow at the clerical collar.
"May I please have a drink?" His voice was less than a whisper, barely more than a thought. "Whiskey."
Katherine poured him one, a half-pint, and held the tumbler to his lips. He swallowed every last drop of it. "It was the first drink that ever did him any good," she said bitterly.
And then Doc gazed down at the end of his bed, to his feet, which were bare and pointing towards the ceiling, and smiled wearily.
"Damn," he said. "This is funny…"
