GunFight At Oakley's Garage - The Ambush of Pope Johnson

CHAPTER FIFTY

The flowers piled at the door to my office were just a touch on the wilted side. Their perfume lingered in the hall like romantic road-kill. They had lain there for at least seven days, a dozen boxes of one dozen American beauties each. They must have cost someone a pretty penny. But whoever he was he didn’t bother to sign any of the cards. I couldn’t think of anyone who liked me that much in San Francisco and they weren’t from Jack—now that I thought about it I couldn’t remember ever receiving any flowers from him—and the disturbing part was that the cards that came with the flowers were all sympathy cards. I added that fact up with the mysterious stranger who had stopped by to see me while I was away and came up with some good reasons to be nervous.

After such a welcome I can’t say I was too happy about entering my office without a gun in my hand. I stood in the door for a long time expecting the worse. The worse being a surprise party thrown in my honor by a dozen or so bikers. When I was certain there was no one inside I switched on the lights. Everything was as I had left it and, leaving the American beauties outside in the hall, I shut and locked the door behind me.

I scooped up the mail from the floor and went through it at my desk. Right on top was a letter from Maxie Gray informing me that I was about to be sued, along with the Johnson’s and Doc Christmas, by one Dwight Claxton. The postmark was the same day as the attempted assassination of Homer Johnson. I spent the next half-hour calling the various florists who had supplied the flowers and found out that they all had been ordered on that same date. Not one of the two dozen florists could identify the purchaser by name or description. Four of them remembered seeing a cowboy hat, three of them a motorcycle, and one of them that the bike the purchaser rode in on may have been a Harley Davidson.

I called Frame Johnson and left a detailed voicemail for him. I called Doc Christmas and spoke with his wife, Kate. My initial impression was that she probably only cursed in her native tongue. I was wrong about that. The gist of what I interpreted was that she didn’t really know where the fuck Doc was—only that he was either playing cards somewhere or with that son-of-a-bitch Johnson. But, yes, she would let him know that I had called. She said so just before she slammed the phone down on me.

I spent the next fifteen minutes cleaning and loading my smaller Colt Detective thirty-eight. The one I planned on carrying, from now on, in my purse.

At twelve-thirty Doc Christmas called. He was coughing when I picked up the phone. A blood curdling cough, which was definitely not getting any better.

"Got your message," he managed finally. "It took a while as I have not yet mastered Kate’s foreign tongue."

"You should work on that," I said. "She probably has a lot to say."

Doc laughed. "That’s what she keeps telling me. So how was Costa Rica?"

"I think I fell in love with it."

"Then you should have stayed there."

"I’m thinking about going back."

"This might be an excellent time; it’s promises to be a cold winter."

"I felt a chill this morning," I said. "Just as I got to my office. So tell me about Homer."

"Homer is in stable condition," Doc said. "Except for his right arm which I do not believe will be improving anytime soon. At the moment he’s convalescing in a safe house somewhere up in the wine country. Frame has almost the entire clan up there. Except for his brothers, James and Pope. He even has Michelle up there."

"Michelle Hammer?"

"Yes, her."

"How does she like it?"

"She likes Frame. She likes him more than the rest of his family. And they, of course, prefer Frame’s wife to her. It’s not a particularly close little group at this point. The women are holding Frame responsible for Homer’s injuries. But families can be cruel. I suppose he’s easier to deal with than the boys down at Oakley’s Garage."

"And how are they doing?"

"I guess they’re doing their best to keep up with us. It would seem that they all have a little too much free time on their hands. Frame is working diligently on correcting that—I wish him the best of luck."

"Do you think he’ll need it?"

From over the line came the sound of ice in a full glass and just beyond that some sweet nothings whispered in Hungarian. Doc stifled a cough with a drink. "I am deadly certain," he cautioned almost sadly, "that if there is any one prerequisite for a happy life in this world it is luck. I believe nothing else could be more essential to one’s wellbeing. But I fear that I am running low on that quality myself and that poor Frame has stretched his beyond belief."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

I spent that evening playing pool and talking about wrongful deaths at a place called Hatch’s out in the West Portal area. Just the three of us: Frame Johnson, his brother Pope, and me. We were there because it had a regulation-size table and it was well out of the way. It was Pope’s first game since the bullet he took at Oakley’s Garage and he was the best player among us. I couldn’t say how good Frame was because he seemed fairly distracted. And I wasn’t very good at all, especially on a table that size, but both Frame and Pope encouraged my efforts and didn’t laugh at my mistakes.

This was Pope’s hangout, where he practiced pool. There were two other tables, one occupied by a group of college kids, and the other empty. It was around ten and the crowd had thinned out. Pope said this was the best time to get in a few games. Between now and closing. He had no idea how Hatch made a living, considering that, as often as not, the place shut down a little after twelve. It was just a cozy little neighborhood place.

Frame, when he wasn’t playing, kept his back towards the wall, and his eyes on the front door. After awhile I did the same. Pope was a little more cavalier in spite of the fact that his older brother had been gunned down twelve days earlier. Nobody knew about Hatch’s except for him and the people who lived out here and who dropped by for a drink or a game after work. And Doc, of course, who, preferring poker and alcohol and bad company—and not necessarily in that order—over the more wholesome virtues of pool, made only rare and occasional appearances. Usually when money was to be made wagering on certain private games that were held at Hatch’s once or twice a year.

But pool was a digression I didn’t care to follow. I was still thinking about the roses rotting outside my office door. Frame advised me to leave town for a few days while he attempted to sort things out. Pope smiled and said the kindest thing: "You’re a beautiful women, Ms. O’Shea, maybe the flowers were actually from an anonymous admirer."

I thought not, but thanked him just the same.

Frame said: "I can have someone keep an eye on you. For awhile. Maybe watch your apartment and your office. But who knows how long this might last? The department’s not too happy with the direction this is taking. We were supposed to have this wrapped up months ago."

Pope chalked his cue, leaned across the long side of the table and banked a striped ball off the far end and into the opposite corner pocket. The ball cracked solidly inside the pocket against another ball. He winced and rubbed his shoulder, where he’d been wounded two months earlier. "Goddamn Claxtons," he muttered to himself. "The whole bunch of them. My shoulder might never get better."

I said to Frame: "but sooner or later I’ll just be on my own."

Frame said: "I know the feeling. It would seem that my future here is limited. I’ve heard tell that I could be asked to resign within the next month or at the least transferred to the hinterlands."

Pope stood up from the table and studied his brother. "Not yet," he said. "I thought the idea was to settle down here. And take over. Make some money. All of us, together; Isn’t that what you were talking about?"

"That was talk," Frame said, "and I believe it was my good friend, Derek Flynn, who was doing most of the talking."

"I always thought he was full of shit," Pope said, as he stepped back to study his game. He rested the cue on his right shoulder, like a rifle, and moved around to the other side of the table to consider his next shot. The lamp overhead shadowed his features and captured his reflection in the small window, behind him, against the wall. He squatted to eye level and peered over the rail at the cue ball and the striped ball beyond it, resting just above the side pocket. For a moment I thought I saw something in the window. Something ghostly, hovering against the glass, a pair of eyes without a face. I was just looking again when Pope stood back up and blocked my view of the window.

Well," Frame said dryly, "Derek is in that business…"

"Pope-" I started to say.

Pope glanced at up at me from over his cue, a smile rising easily from his mouth, just as the first shot was fired from behind him through the window. I don’t know if I heard the explosion of the gun or the shattering of the window first, but it was over before I was aware of what had just so terribly happened and already belonged to my memory as I was still struggling to accept the fact of it. I saw the exit wound as it occurred. The hole the size of my fist punched out of Pope’s chest, the pained and shocked look in his face as he collapsed across the table, his hands useless against the sudden loss of blood.

Frame was already in motion as the second bullet hit the wall just over his head. He had his pistol in his hand and he was returning fire at the window. The brass shells ejected from his Colt flew through the air like shooting stars. He kicked open a side-door and charged into the night. There was more shooting and the roar of a high powered engine and wheels squealing. Through the front window I caught a glimpse of some muscle car tear-assing down the street and Frame running after it with his pistol in his hands and his face contorted by all the pain and anger in the world. And that was all I saw of it as I found myself standing over Pope and holding his bloody hands in my own.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

It turned into a night filled with police. An endless night divided by sirens and questions. Everybody was there. Even Junior and his underlings, Breakwood and Stillwell. There was a senior deputy marshal there, too. The one named Dodge who interviewed me after Officer White was killed. He stood by Frame who stood as on guard over his younger brother’s body. The two them grim and formidable figures. I sat at a small table close to the entrance and sipped the vodka someone had so thoughtfully left behind and watched. Occasionally I was asked to give my version of the murder as it took place. But mostly I watched.

Junior worked hard at avoiding Frame. And me, too, for that matter. He busied himself with supervising the crime scene. Our eyes met once and he looked quickly away; his eyes met Frame’s every time he looked in Frame’s direction, and each time he flinched. Breakwood and Stillwell interviewed Hatch and his patrons. The three detectives stayed in the front of the bar, delegating their duties to the uniformed officers.

Nobody saw anything. Except for me. And I didn’t see a damned thing until it was too late. I told the same thing to three different cops nine different times. And each time they wrote it down. Finally I told them they should ask Maxie Gray for the facts but I could tell by the question marks in their eyes that they didn’t know what I was talking about.

Later, paramedics carried Pope out on a stretcher, a sheet covering him from head to toe. Frame walked behind them, holding Pope’s hand. Blood soaked through the front of his suit, glistening in the harsh light of the bar. He looked very much to me like a different man then. Like someone who had made up his mind about something very difficult and having made up his mind was now committed to seeing it through. The ghostly pallor of his face only made his blue eyes look colder and more piercing and when he turned them against Junior Junior couldn’t help but take one giant step backwards; as did Breakwood; as did Stillwell.

"Donahue, we’ll talk about this tomorrow," he stated unequivocally, and then turned on his heel and followed his brother’s corpse out the door.

Junior didn’t say a word until after Frame was long gone and then it looked to me like he counted to thirty just to be on the safe side. "If he comes anywhere near me tomorrow," he said to his subordinates, "Arrest him."

"Arrest him?" Breakwood asked. "He’s a Goddamned federal marshal—his brother’s just been murdered."

"Fuck him and fuck his brother," Junior said. "I don’t want him near me."

"No problemo," Stillwell said. "I’ll be happy to set him back. You just know he’s going to be a pain in the ass over this."


The three of them were huddled together right in front of me, whispering like half-witted conspirators. Junior had a hand each on their shoulders, mentor and protégés. It took them almost five minutes to realize I was sitting at the table right behind them. Long enough to cheer me up. Breakwood saw me first. His attention was drawn slowly over his shoulder, as though through some uncanny ability he was able to sense the presence of a seasoned and practiced eavesdropper. When our eyes finally met and he took on that ‘oh shit’ look I smiled at him like the true Irish American redhead I am and winked. He almost returned my smile with one of his own but by then it dawned on him who exactly I was.

"Could you speak a little louder?" I asked. "I’m not sure I heard everything."

"Goddamnit," he said.

"Godamnit," Stillwell said angrily when he saw whom his partner was talking to.

"Goddamnit," Junior whined when his gaze followed that of his boys to me. "Katy, what the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"I’m a witness," I said.

Stillwell took exception to that and leaned across the table, supporting his weight with his hands, until his face was right in mine. His breath was warmed over gin laced with an assertive suggestion of tobacco. "You didn’t see shit," he said. "Not a goddamned thing."

"She saw enough," Deputy Marshal Dodge said.

He leaned against the wall beside me, his arms folded across his huge chest. I don’t think he was much taller or wider than anyone else in the general vicinity but he did seem to be a hell of a lot tougher. Stillwell looked up at him from the table and clearly didn’t care much for the odds. Neither did Breakwood. Or Junior who immediately downshifted, and smiled smoothly like we were all just the best of old friends.


"It’s been a long and terrible night," he said, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Nerves are frayed. There’s been a great deal of shooting as of late. I was just going to thank Katy for performing her civic duty and let her go home."

Dodge nodded. His smile wasn’t nearly as smooth as Junior’s. In fact he wasn’t smiling at all. "That’s what it sounded like. I was just going to see she got there." When he glanced down at me the smile was all in his eyes and very real. "Miss O’Shea," he said gently, "when you’re ready."

I stood up and collected my things. The gravity of the night’s events dragged at my feet and sleep suddenly seemed a precious and distant commodity. I slung my purse over my shoulder and pointed myself toward the door. And Stillwell was standing right in my way. He was the only man I knew who had to look up to look down his nose at another person. There didn’t seem to be a way around him and I didn’t really think I was strong enough to go through him. I was glad I didn’t have to, with the back of his hand Dodge brushed him away like the little prick he was, and suddenly the way was clear. Our eyes met briefly as the startled Stillwell found himself rubbing his face two feet away from where he’d just been standing a blinding second before and there was nothing friendly in those eyes at all. But I was too tired to be worried about what he was thinking and, besides, we were already enemies.


CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

We drove around until Dodge was certain we weren’t being followed. That took about an hour and a good part of the city. Ours was the only vehicle on most of the streets. We didn’t talk much; I was just too sick and tired and Dodge was all business. He kept one eye on the road and one on the rear view mirror and didn’t drive for more than three blocks without turning. I was born in this city and I saw neighborhoods I never knew existed.

After meandering through St. James Wood we cut across Portola, back into West Portal, and up some dark street that hooked up with Forest Hills. The street climbed a small hill filled with houses and veered to the right and down again and eventually circled back up the hill. We pulled up in front of an old pueblo-style house that sat on the inside corner. A front yard filled with cactus surrounded the house. In the dark the cacti took dark and ominous forms. Dodge turned off the lights but left the engine running. We sat there for ten minutes. Dodge timed the wait on his watch. When no other car appeared from behind we pulled out, with the lights off, and crept up the hill, making several right turns until we had crossed over into the inner Sunset District. I could tell it was the Sunset by the fog.

Dodge drove with the lights off, all the way to the park. He drove like he was used to driving in the dark. We cruised past the Academy of Sciences and the De Young Museum and turned right on John F. Kennedy Drive and then turned left onto Eighth Avenue. At Geary he turned his lights back on and at Arguello, only a stop away from my office, he made an illegal left turn and with his eyes on the rearview mirror drove up Arguello and into the Presidio.

It was about as late as late could get before it got early. The only other traffic in the Presidio was a runner I recognized from my neighborhood. Some guy with glasses and a mustache. I saw him most mornings, and sometimes, usually on the weekends, I saw him with his wife. They ran as much as I did. But I didn’t know them. From the passenger window I caught glimpses of the city, emerald in the first light, and then it was gone as we turned deeper into the Presidio and gradually made our way out to the east gate and into the heavy traffic and morning lights on Lombard Street.

Dodge found his way through an alley off Filmore to the back entrance of a motel on Lombard. A room had already been reserved for me. Coffee and pastries sat on the dresser. Two other deputy marshals were inside waiting for us. A man and a woman. Dodge made perfunctorily introductions and I forgot their names almost as soon as I heard them. They were dressed casually in jeans, t-shirts and jackets and looked as though they had just been awakened in the middle of the night. They were both there to protect me and had the room next to mine. After getting my keys the woman was to go to my apartment, make arrangements for my cat to be taken care of, and gather up a change of clothing and the few necessities I would probably need later. Both were professionally friendly and went about their business in a dutiful manner. Dodge told me to get some sleep if I could and that he would be back that afternoon, at which time we were to discuss my options.

I didn’t argue with him because I was in shock. I didn’t realize that until later, when it wore off, and I started feeling bad about everything, as though I was somehow responsible for Pope’s murder. Until then I just went with the flow and took the cup of coffee the deputy handed me and sat on the edge of the bed, too tired to sleep and too dumb even to watch TV. But being a true blue American I switched it on and soaked up as much as I could anyway.

I watched the news on three channels. It was all about Pope Johnson. Junior was interviewed. His two stooges stood behind him. He stated the facts, as he knew them, in a clear and concise manner. When, where, and how. He stated that there were no reliable witnesses, he stated that he didn’t necessarily believe that the murder was connected to the gunfight at Oakley’s Garage. Or to the shooting of Homer Johnson several weeks ago. It was premature to make any assumptions; the Johnson’s had many enemies. As a professional policeman he preferred to concentrate on the facts. Unfortunately there just weren’t very many of them at this point in time. He seemed awfully optimistic for a cop who didn’t seem to have much faith in his own investigation.

I don’t remember sleeping. Although I tried, I was too wired. I kept replaying Pope’s final moments in my head. There was nothing I could do but hold his hands. After a short eternity Frame appeared at my side and took his bother’s hands from mine. From a world of hurt Pope smiled at him. "You’re the one," he said through his own blood. I backed away until I was against a wall, only vaguely aware of the other people there in that horror filled place, some getting out, others just standing there, pretty much as I was, stunned and helpless. I remembered that someone was crying hysterically. Her cries reached me as though through a deep pool of water. Then I saw Frame leaning across the pool table and gently take Pope into his arms and Pope whispering something into Frame’s ear. I do not know what Pope had to say to his brother. A moment later a shudder ran the length of his body and he heaved the last of his breath. Frame held him for what seemed a long time before gently laying him back down, across the pool table. At some point I found a place to sit down, in front of a table covered with unfinished drinks. I sat there searching in vain for something to say or do until the police arrived.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

It was Maxie Gray live from San Francisco. He was being interviewed in front of his home in the Marina District. He was dressed in a dark three-piece bankers suit and an appropriately black hat. He looked and talked like some good old boy running for state treasurer. He even held his hat—a ten gallon Stetson—over his heart. The young man interviewing him was either impartial or stupid. I couldn’t tell which. Neither could Maxie; he dismissed each silly question the young reporter posed with one of his own and each one had to do with the supposed guilt of United States Deputy Marshal Frame Johnson.

I listened to him from the edge of the bed. It was late in the afternoon and I was growing tired of motel life. Coffee and a shower helped a little, but I still felt dazed from last night and groggy from the lack of sleep. Maxie was working the tube like he would a jury— he was just summing up his case when Deputy Marshal Dodge knocked on the door. Frame was with him and after they entered the room Frame stood in front of the TV watching Maxie attempting to ruin what was left of his good name.

Dodge turned off the set.

"For crying out loud," he said, as he pulled the chair out from the small desk and sat down, facing me. He was wearing a dark Irish tweed coat and darker slacks and smelled of Old Spice and strong coffee. "The one thing I’ve learned in this business is that you should never ever watch the news. Especially if you’re in it."

"It’s not news," Frame said, "it’s Gray."

"It’s Gray," Dodge said, "and Gray is trying to incite a riot."

"A lynch mob," I said, "is what he’s trying to incite."

"Whatever," Dodge said. "Listen. I’ve talked with Inspector Cipriani about the situation."

"Eugene?" I asked.

"Your Godfather."

"I wish you hadn’t," I said. "He worries too much."

Dodge ignored me. "He has access to a place where you’ll be safe for the time being."

"His house up in Tahoe?"

"No," Frame said. "Donahue knows about that; he’s been a guest there."

I had to let that sink in. That Junior knew about Eugene’s house immediately eliminated it as a place I might be safe. I’d known Junior all my life and although we had never gotten along I had never really believed that he could be instrumental in hurting me. I still didn’t believe it. But I did believe poor Junior was no match for the circumstances or individuals surrounding him. He’d already proven that much at Oakley’s Garage.

"It’s somewhere else," Dodge said. "Only the Inspector, Frame and myself know its location."

"And if you told me then you’d have to kill me, right?"

"Something like that," Dodge said.

"I’m not doing it," I said. "I can’t. I don’t want to. It’s ridiculous."

"It’s too dangerous right now for any other alternative," Frame said. "If it matters, I’m getting out, too."

I looked at him. He stood with his back to the television set, his shoulders slumped, his hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking like he’d aged a lifetime since I last saw him last night. Like me, he looked like he’d gone too long without sleep. But unlike me, he looked like he’d just lost his younger brother to a sudden and cowardly act of violence.

"What do you mean you’re getting out?"

"Frame’s taking a leave of absence," Dodge said a little too quickly.

"I’m to be reassigned somewhere," Frame recited slowly. "Somewhere no one’s ever heard of before. But what I’m actually going to do is resign from the department. I’m going to take my brother home, to our parents. I don’t think I can handle this stuff anymore."

"Yeah, maybe you can handle being a security guard for a while," Dodge said. "Or something like that, maybe work for insurance like your pal, Christmas?"

"Sounds about right," Frame said bitterly. "Security. Sure. Guarding some pawnshop in small town USA. I think that’s just about my speed."

I was starting to feel very alone.

Frame looked at me and said: "Christmas will be around for awhile. He likes it here. He’ll know how to reach me."

I said: "Thanks."

Dodge sighed and studied the backs of his hands resting on his knees. He chewed on his lower lip and exchanged a glance with Frame. Whatever passed between them caused Frame to nod his assent. When Dodge looked back at me he looked uneasy about what he was going to say.

"Detective Stillwell was arrested this morning," he said in a voice so low it seemed a whisper. "For receiving stolen goods. He had a shit load of brand new car parts, stereos, and tires stored at his home in Foster City, along with a safety deposit box full of money and methamphetamine, not to mention a rather large and bizarre collection of pornography. Apparently, Stillwell is some kind of party animal. Internal Affairs picked him up this morning; they’re questioning him now. They’ve had him under investigation for some time."

"Among others," Frame said. "Not that I want to mention any names."


"Then don’t!" Dodge warned him. "This is strictly confidential."

"Yeah, except for his lawyer," Frame said.

"And who would that be?" I asked.


CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

"Maxie Gray can’t help him," Dodge said. "They have him on tape, they have the stolen property, they have the money, and they have the speed. He’s not going anywhere for one hell of a long time. Even after he turns states evidence he’ll have to spend at least ten years hard time before he’s eligible for parole."

I’m sure it looked good on paper but personally I wasn’t altogether convinced. My natural inclination was to agree with Frame’s assessment of the situation. He looked from Dodge to me as he shook his head sadly.

"If Maxie Gray can get that little rat-bastard out on bail," he said, "then Maxie Gray can help him."

And Maxie did help him.

Maxie had his client enjoying his constitutional rights by the end of that working day. Stillwell was out on the streets and whining like crazy—he was, of course, innocent of all charges. On advice of counsel he admitted to the local representatives of our esteemed media that while the evidence that had been painstakingly compiled against him might indeed, at first glance, seem convincing, it was in fact entirely prefabricated by certain elements within the law enforcement community. Fellow officers of the law, men and women he had once completely trusted—and even admired—had turned against him in their haste to camouflage their own felonious misdeeds. He would not mention any names, but it should be clear to every law-abiding citizen in The City that the recent rise in crime could be immediately traced to the U.S. Marshals Office.

Stillwell was asked if he was referring to the Johnson brothers. Again he reiterated that he would not mention any names at this time, but it was at least obvious to him that the Johnson’s were deeply involved in any number of illicit activities. One brother badly wounded, another slain. They were obviously involved in what could only amount to a gang war. And The City was not only the battlefield—it was the prize. Why else would Frame Johnson be interested in political office, but for the acquisition of power—a power he would undoubtedly misuse? And why else would good, honest cops, such as Stillwell himself, be suddenly confronted with such patently false and malicious charges?

And so it went.

I learned most of this from the ten o’clock news at the safe house I had been relocated to in the wine country. It was a small stone two-story bungalow overlooking a vineyard. I had the room upstairs and a view of a thousand acres of grapes divided by a dirt road that led to the highway. The deputy marshals assigned to protect me had the two rooms downstairs. We shared the house like new and unfamiliar roommates. They were the same couple I met in San Francisco. I knew their names now, Jane and Allen, and I had the distinct impression that they were a lot closer to each other than they wanted me to be aware of. They were too comfortable with each other to be merely partners and possessed that quiet, almost uncanny ability to communicate with each other without any overt physical signs or unnecessary speech. After the first fifteen minutes together we came to an unspoken agreement. I would leave them alone if they left me alone. That seemed to work for at least the first day.

I spent most of that first afternoon trying to get through a science fiction novel I found in a box under the bed. I didn’t get very far because I kept thinking about where I was and how long this safekeeping stuff could last. Forever crossed my mind. So did a few other things, like a new name and plastic surgery. Sooner or later I would be forced out into the real world. A world of bikers and vengeance, where I would have to settle-down and start minding my own business.

All because I helped a young mother get her child back.

And I didn’t even like children.

I answered the phone on the first ring. When Eugene asked me how I was, I, of course, told him the truth.

"Katy, it’s your attitude," Eugene explained in his usual no nonsense I’m right-and-you-know-it manner. "That’s the one thing you have some control over in your life. How you react to things."

I had to digest that before I could change the subject. It took about a minute. Finally I asked my Godfather about Stillwell.

"The latest," I said. "Do you guys even know where he is?"

And, of course, Eugene told me the truth. "Nobody knows where he is. He shook surveillance as soon as he reached Union square."

"I take it he just didn’t go home."

"His wife can’t remember the last time she saw him. He told her he was on stakeout. He’s been telling her that for years."

"And Maxie hasn’t seen him?"

Eugene grunted. "Who knows?"

"What about junior? How’s he taking all of this? One of his finest caught with his hand in the cookie jar?"

There was a pause on Eugene’s side of the phone. I could tell he was upset about the whole thing. He loved being a cop; he loved the department. Just the thought that one of his boys in blue could be bad was enough to make him physically ill. And he, of all people, had been my old man’s partner.

"Lieutenant Donahue is not in the best of shape," he said wearily. "This, of course, reflects upon his command, especially after his role in that shootout at that garage down there south of Market. He’s scrambling to salvage what’s left of his career."

I forced myself not to gloat. It wasn’t that easy. Whatever Junior was into he was into it deep. "And Frame Johnson?"

"I wouldn’t know."

"But what have you heard?"

Eugene wasn’t a gossip by nature and I could tell he was uneasy discussing police affairs with me. But I was no outsider: I was his Goddaughter, the daughter of his late great partner, and because of that alone I deserved something of his trust.

"He’s made arrangements to ship his brother’s body down to his people’s home in San Bernardino, this evening, by train, out of Oakland. After that he’s to be reassigned. I’m not sure where, Missouri, maybe, somewhere in the south. He’s made it very clear that he’s through with San Francisco. That’s good for him, I guess, and his family. What’s left of it."

"I hope so," I said.

"Who knows, Katy,’ my Godfather said, "maybe it’s good for everybody."