CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Dwight Claxton was the last one to get it. He had the dazed and confused look of a man who had smoked a little too much reefer right before hearing some bad news and the news, having been burdened, as it were, by the smoke, seemed to reach him incrementally. He was sitting on a bench next to Claymore and Cruz in the middle of the gallery, with his arms hooked over the back of the bench, with one leg propped up over the other, and his mouth open. His eyes were bloodshot and fixed on some point far above and beyond Frame Johnson’s head. That Frame had just revealed to the inquest that there had been an arrangement between the two of them involving the reward being offered for the arrest and conviction of the persons responsible for the attempted robbery of the armored vehicle and the murder of its guard seemed to have slipped right by him. Even after he realized that everyone in the room had paused to look at him he seemed more flattered by the attention than distressed. A small smile followed by a giggle broke across his features and he blushed and looked away like a schoolboy at his first dance completely unaware that each and every eye on him was more of a critical than friendly nature. Only when Cruz and Claymore scooted away from him in shock and disgust did he look just a wee bit anxious as though he may have breached some obscure rule of etiquette like, perhaps, passing wind during a coroner’s inquest. He stared at them both for a very long time and then realizing that he may have just missed some crucial point struggled with great determination to return what little there was left of his attention back to the man who at the moment was telling the world that he, Dwight Claxton, was a snitch.
"John Christmas had nothing to do with the robbery attempt," Frame Johnson said. "I know him. He would never do such a thing. His whereabouts at the time of the attempted robbery were public and known. The accusation was made anonymously to Lieutenant Donahue. I don’t know of anyone else in the San Francisco Police Department who took it seriously. Only the local media, and only then after it was leaked through Donahue’s office. Even after Christmas was officially cleared the rumors persisted in the papers. He was named almost daily as a suspect by "unidentified sources within the police department." I took that to mean by Lieutenant Donahue, himself, and/or his subordinates. The scandal was damaging our investigation and an insult to the Justice Department. I had reason to believe that there was a connection between the robbery attempt and the stolen car ring operating out of Oakley’s Garage. I wanted to make that connection and clear the air so that we could all get back to business. That’s when I contacted Dwight Claxton and offered him the reward money for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the actual assailants. Dwight Claxton was only too eager to agree. He told me he needed the money because he planned on moving to another state with his daughter."
And Mr. Claxton, the coroner inquired, cooperated with you in this matter?
Frame nodded and as he nodded he looked right at Dwight who was now leaning forward in his seat, over his elbows, with his fingers running through his beard.
"He gave me three names," Frame Johnson said. "Billy Leonard, Harry Head and Jim Crane."
"Shit."
The shit belonged to Dwight. He was craning his neck over the bench in front of him, bug-eyed, his face turning lighter shades of pale with each word Frame spoke. And staring right back at him was Maxie Gray, sitting in the front row, looking not so much surprised by this revelation of his client’s treachery, but downright gratified by it. When he finally caught Dwight’s eye he winked and gave him a thumbs-up.
Frame continued: "Claxton told me the three of them assaulted the armored vehicle. But evidently it didn’t work out as they planned. They couldn’t get the vehicle to stop and they ended up killing the guard. Afterwards, according to Claxton, they made several anonymous calls to Lieutenant Donahue’s office informing him that Doc—John Christmas—was a participant in the assault. They knew at that point that Christmas and I were friends and that we were working along the same lines. The idea was to embarrass me, and to embarrass the department. I don’t know why they chose Lieutenant Donahue’s office. You’d have to ask him…"
I looked at Donahue, sitting to my left, two rows away, and saw a grim faced man. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, his tongue pushed hard against his cheek, and like his old friend, Dwight, he was looking a bit pallid. Breakwood and Stillwell didn’t look any happier, in fact, they looked downright sad. Breakwood studied his hands, which gripped each other with white-knuckle intensity, while Stillwell cast furtive glances around the room, counting the eyes on him.
Frame continued: "Claxton only wanted to know one thing: was the reward being offered dead or alive. I wasn’t sure at the time. I called my superiors and let them explain the conditions of the reward to him. Apparently the fate of the suspects depended largely upon their attitudes at the time of their arrest. If there were sufficient enough evidence to support their guilt then Claxton would receive the reward money. He seemed glad to hear it; he told me he would be better off if the three of them could be killed while trying to escape. Or words to that effect."
"BULLSHIT!" Dwight Claxton shot out of his seat and, pointing a pistol-like finger at Frame, nearly fell over the bench in front of him. "HE’S A LYING SON OF A BITCH!"
The proceedings came to an abrupt halt as Dwight took over the chambers, interjecting his keen and unique opinions concerning the finer points of jurisprudence, along with detailed instructions as to exactly what Deputy Marshal Frame Johnson could do with them. Except for the profanity he spoke with the eloquence of a man who had spent many long and arduous hours studying law in front of a TV set. It took nearly ten minutes to regain order. Claymore and Cruz made good use of that time by disappearing. A grinning Maxie Gray watched them go. Courtroom guards surrounded Dwight who was ordered to shut up and sit down. He finally did so, but only with great reluctance, and under threat of contempt, his arms crossed defiantly in front of him, and with the long face of a man who knew he was getting royally screwed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I almost felt sorry for poor Dwight, except that I knew better. As Gilda Montoya, the renowned bullfighter, put it: "You screw with the bull and maybe you see if you get the horn or not." It looked to me like Dwight was getting the horn. I could only wonder how the rest of the gang would take it once they learned he’d been playing both sides of the street. Maxie Gray loved it, though; the grin on his face brought back memories of Linda Blair in her best film, "The Exorcist," just before her head spun completely around on her shoulders. He patted Dwight on the back and told him that he’d catch him later, then tossed a kiss at me for good measure.
Dwight was nearly crying.
A week later Frame Johnson and his brothers, Homer and Pope, along with their friend, John H. Christmas, were cleared by the Coroner’s Inquest of any and all suspicions surrounding the events leading up to and during the gunfight at Oakley’s Garage. The Coroner ruled that the homicides of William Claxton and Tom and Frank McDonald were justifiable as they were not precipitated by felonious intent on the part of officers of the law, but occurred as these officers were attempting to perform their duties.
The Coroner noted: "that the deceased, from the very first inception of the encounter, were standing their ground and fighting back, giving and taking death with unflinching bravery."
The Coroner noted: "that the testimony of Dwight Claxton, that the tragedy was the result of a scheme on part of the Johnsons to assassinate him, fell short of being a sound theory, on account of the great fact, most prominent in this matter, to wit: that Dwight Claxton was not injured at all, and could have been killed first and easiest, if it had been the object of the attack to kill him."
The Coroner noted: "that considering all the testimony together, the office of the coroner was of the opinion that the weight of the evidence sustains and corroborates the testimony of U.S. Deputy Marshall Frame Johnson, that their demand for surrender was met by William Claxton and Frank McDonald drawing or making motions to draw their pistols. These were officers charged with the duty of arresting and disarming armed and determined men who were expert in the use of firearms, as quick as thought and as certain as death, and who had previously declared their intention not to be arrested or disarmed."
The Coroner noted: "that the inability of Lieutenant Donahue to disarm the men further sustained that opinion."
The Coroner noted: "In view of the controversies between the Johnsons and Claxtons and McDonalds, and in further view of the quarrel the night before the gunfight between Dwight Claxton and John H. Christmas, I am of the opinion that Marshal Homer Johnson, as the officer in charge, subsequently calling upon Frame Johnson, Pope Johnson and John H. Christmas to assist him in arresting and disarming the Claxtons and McDonalds—committed an injudicious and censurable act, and although he acted incautiously and without due circumspection, yet when we consider the conditions and spontaneity surrounding the incident; the lawlessness and disregard of human life exhibited by the men they sought to arrest; and consider the many threats made against the Johnson’s and John H. Christmas, I can attach no criminality to his unwise act."
Not everybody was happy with the findings of the Coroner’s Office. The papers were evenly split between the morning and afternoon editions, the morning outraged by this latest travesty of justice and the afternoon pleased by justice served. The various factions within the city were divided accordingly, depending upon their general views on the police, gun control, tobacco, abortion, anarchy and MUNI. The mayor took the side of law and order, but there were those who were uncertain as to which side he was referring to, while his nemesis, Derek Flynn, took the side of San Francisco and Frame Johnson, but not necessarily in that order. Lieutenant Donahue was pushing hard for a grand jury investigation into the gunfight, rumor had it that he and his father were pulling every string they had, in an attempt, no doubt, to salvage what was left of Junior’s career. And Maxie Gray headed for court, where he filed a civil suit the very next day against Homer, Frame and Pope Johnson, and John H. Christmas for the wrongful deaths of William Claxton and Tom and Frank McDonald.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The grand jury came to the same conclusions as those of the coroner’s inquest. Frame Johnson, his brothers, Homer and Pope, and his friend, Doc Christmas, were once again officially, if not altogether in the eyes of the general public, cleared of any criminal misconduct. After a week or so the papers moved on to next and best tragedies, the latest serial killer, the latest ongoing war in the third world. Although Frame Johnson was no longer being mentioned as a viable political candidate elections were coming up. True to his word, Derek Flynn offered himself as the one candidate likely to defeat the incumbent mayor next fall. I figured he had about the same chances as anyone else, which was virtually zip, but then, as Derek reminded me repeatedly, a lot can go wrong between now and then. I told him to keep that in mind. After a while I started to breathe easier again.
Oakley’s Garage was closed down and the property put up for sale. Nellie felt better about that. The boys were gone, at least from the neighborhood. No more Dwight or William Graham or Cruz or Claymore, although she did continue to harbor a soft spot for John Ringold. It was just the company he kept, she insisted; he was always such a gentleman in her presence. I didn’t argue with her, I just didn’t want to see any of them ever again. And for a while I believed I wouldn’t.
I saw Ivy Claxton one last time before she went south. She stopped by one morning in early December just as I was unlocking the front door to my office. She was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and sunglasses and a smile twice as big as mine. Eve was with her, clinging fiercely to her mother’s hand, and looking at me with large nervous eyes, as though she was expecting the shooting to start all over again. I smiled at her but she looked away and I couldn’t tell if she remembered me or not. Ivy’s marine was there too, but he waited outside in the hall, standing guard, I supposed, but looking too young and clean cut to be menacing. Ivy thanked me again. A lot. More than I could stand, actually. Then she handed me a thick plain envelope stuffed with hundred dollar bills and told me that she hoped it was all there. I counted nearly three thousand dollars and did the math in my head. I wasn’t sure but I thought she might have overpaid me. She told me to shut up; she could never pay me enough. Besides, she reminded me, it was Dwight’s money anyway. And then they were gone, the three of them. I watched them drive off in a small foreign car from my office window, the marine behind the wheel, Ivy waving at me from the passenger window and Eve, in the backseat, looking up at me as though she couldn’t quite figure out where she had seen me before.
Towards the middle of December I made a quick trip down to Costa Rica to see an old friend. His name was Jack Monroe. We spent fourteen days together catching up on old times. He owned a small place on the beach that catered to older North American journalists who were burned out on the usual Central American themes. They spent most of their time at the bar rehashing old wars and drinking and complaining to Jack about all the younger tourists who were suddenly showing up and crowding them out. Jack was more philosophical about it, the cold war was over, and personally he was a little tired of journalists and spooks masquerading as journalists and journalists masquerading as spooks and the constant analysis and interpretations and paranoia that came with any truly newsworthy item. Besides he had found himself, as of late, enjoying more and more the company of attractive and charming redheads, especially redheads from San Francisco who were well versed in the fine art of peeping over transoms.
I liked Costa Rica; I liked it a lot. I liked Jack Monroe a lot too. And his place on the beach and the sound of the surf and the sun most of all. It was all very romantic, I could have stayed there forever and, believe me, I considered it seriously each time Jack brought the subject up. But the truth was I was afraid to stay, because I believed that eventually the vacation would end and with it the romance. Although that wasn’t what I saw in Jack’s eyes; he wasn’t afraid of anything—and maybe that’s what really scared me.
"I don’t know why the hell you would want to go back to the city," he said one morning towards the end of my stay. "All that cold and fog. Even when I was a kid I hated it."
"That’s why you came here," I said.
"That’s right," he said. "And it didn’t take me very long to get used to it."
"I don’t know if I could."
Jack stood over the bed looking at me; the sunlight bouncing off his glasses concealed his eyes. I lay there watching him think, glad that I couldn’t read his mind. A warm breeze drifted in through the open window, outside in the inlet a small sailboat buoyed lazily, the water blue and still. He was a handsome man, I thought, probably too handsome for me. Tan and healthy, with a full head of hair, that like his body, for a man in his late forties, had yet to recede, and a smile that was as warm and pleasant as this Latin breeze. After the moment passed he dropped a newspaper beside me on the bed, a copy of the San Francisco morning edition.
"This is what you’re going back to," he said and pointed a finger at the paper. "On the front page, at the bottom."
I unfolded the paper and glanced at the article. A cold dread crept over me. Jack turned and left the bedroom and started down the hall towards the kitchen singing some reggae song over his shoulder in a Caribbean accent: "You don’t have to love me, you only have to stay…"
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
When Jack was gone I read the article. Word by word. Reading it didn’t make me feel any better. It was good old-fashioned bad news and I was sorry that Jack had been the one to give it to me. I read it three times, then once more for the road: U.S. Deputy Marshal Homer Johnson had been gunned down on the streets of San Francisco. Out in the Sunset District, near his home, around ten P.M. Two men with ten-gauge shotguns stepped out of the darkness and opened up on him from the middle of the street as he was leaving his vehicle. They shot him twice. The weird thing was that he wasn’t even knocked down, he just kept walking right up to the corner bar where he asked if he could use the phone and then dialed 911.
The funny thing was that Homer Johnson had survived. Apparently his overcoat saved his life, a heavy wool coat that he was wearing over his suit. That and the distance between him and the shooters. They had left just enough of a margin for error. His left side had absorbed most of the impact, and while no vital organs had been damaged, it looked like he would probably be losing his left arm. The paper stated that he was listed as being in serious condition, but the paper was several days old.
Eugene told me pretty much the same story over the phone. "The sheriff’s condition is now listed as stable," he said. "And he’s keeping the arm, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to be much good to him. Still, he’s an awfully lucky man."
There were no witnesses, of course, other than the victim, and he didn’t remember seeing much at all. A couple of shadows approaching him out of the corner of his vision. Blasts of blinding light followed immediately by the impact. He remembered not hearing the sound of the weapons, but he remembered hearing the two assholes as they ran from the crime scene. Both of them were laughing; both of them were wearing cowboy boots. One of them dropped his hat. A cowboy hat. He didn’t really see them; he wouldn’t be able to identify either of them. Except by their laughter. And that he would never forget. However, by then, the pain was getting to him and he remembered there was a bar at the corner, where he called for help.
Eugene told me to stay in Costa Rica for awhile. Until this was all cleared up. He told me he would send me some money and that I could stay there for as long as I wanted.
I could smell things cooking. Plantains, beans, and coffee. An all Central American breakfast. I glanced down the hallway and saw Jack leaning against the kitchen door, looking at me, a wooden spoon in his hand. Doubt clouded his features, as though he could tell exactly what I was thinking. I told Eugene that I wasn’t sure if I could get used to all this good weather, that I still had a business back home. He told me that the weather down there wasn’t always good, that sometimes, even in paradise, it rains, and that whatever business I had could wait. The important thing was that I should stay away from San Francisco.
We ate quietly on the small patio. It was still early and it was warm. The sun was behind us and threw our shadows towards the empty beach. By afternoon the sun would be perfect and the beach full of people and umbrellas. After breakfast we talked about what was happening in San Francisco. I told Jack that I had nothing to fear, after all my role in the affair had been a minor one.
Jack didn’t buy it. He counted the reasons on his fingers. "You went after the guy’s daughter and you got her. You were on the opposing side of the gunfight, during which his brother was killed. And you testified against him at the inquest. Now you’re telling me there’s no reason for him to feel any bitterness towards you?"
I shrugged like it was nothing. "I’m sure Dwight has other things to worry about at this point than little old me."
Jack shook his head. "Guys like Dwight aren’t smart enough to worry about other things. They only worry about getting even. And I would wager that includes little old you."
I shook my head. "Sooner or later," I said, "I have to go home. I have a business to manage. I have a life there."
Jack leaned towards me, across the table, and folded his hands together. "Listen," he said, "you’re welcome to stay here. For as long as you want. You can take a leave of absence, you might even find you have a life down here. Hell, I could certainly use the company."
I sat back and took in the beach. It was as pretty as a postcard, dotted by palm trees and a few thatched huts where you could purchase a chair and umbrella and enjoy a cool tropical drink. Clouds drifted lazily across a light blue sky, while below, a parachute glided behind a speedboat over the water, its occupant dangling from beneath its canopy. Jack poured more coffee and we exchanged smiles from across the table as I pondered a life spent with him in paradise. Temptation caressed my imagination, but the truth was that paradise was one more thing that scared me, for it was a state where sooner or later you were always forced to leave.
I told Jack I would have to think about it. The look on his face told me that he knew I was through thinking. He was probably right. We spent the next three days making love. Once or twice we went out. Once to go swimming and once for paella at some little known Spanish restaurant run by a German who loved Flamenco. We didn’t talk much. I remember drinking too much wine that last night, but in spite of my feelings for him I made no promises, and on the fourth morning I kissed him goodbye and took a cab to the airport by myself.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
La Nina, El Nino’s little sister, followed me home. A cold wind riddled the night and I thought I might freeze to death in the back seat of the shuttle. I sat there shivering in the linen jacket I had purchased just for the trip, staring at my reflection in the window. Outside, thousands of lights flashed by all the way up Nineteenth Avenue, broken up only by the park and the last stretch through the Richmond District towards the Mac Arthur Tunnel, the Golden Gate Bridge and beyond. Instead of counting lights I counted mistakes. All of them mine. I wondered about what I might have sacrificed back there in Costa Rica and what I might expect from that offering.
In the back of my head I could hear an all too familiar voice: so you’re just like your old man: you dumped a guy you loved just because you were more afraid of him than of being killed: that’s exactly what your father would have done.
And what’d that get him?
I saw my lips forming the words in the window. "It got him good," I said softly.
At home I changed the subject. I took a long hot bath and soaked away the jet lag between Costa Rica and San Francisco and started thinking about Homer Johnson. There was a lot of news to catch up on. A County Sheriff assaulted in the Sunset District by men with shotguns. Everybody had to know who did it. Even Junior must have had his suspicions. Names popped up in my head like weasels: Dwight Claxton, William Graham, John Ringold, Dick Claymore and Raymond Cruz. Events played back sequentially. Starting off with Dwight’s father, Newton, along with key members of his gang, killed by Federales in Skeleton Canyon, then Officer White killed in the street in front of Oakley’s Garage, then the gunfight, and now this. Suddenly I realized I was living in a war zone.
The following morning I tried calling Frame Johnson from my apartment, but he was out. I left a message on his voicemail offering my condolences to his brother, Homer, and any assistance he might need in the near future. I thought about calling Doc Christmas, but he didn’t strike me as an early riser. I put off calling Eugene until I was ready for a lecture. I did a quick six mile run through the Presideo, showered, and had a small breakfast of cereal, then went downstairs and got my cat back from my one good neighbor.
My neighbor’s name is Louise and she too is a cat lover. She’s got three of her own and we take turns looking after them whenever one of us is away. She’s a few years older than I am and from Boston and is employed at a family planning center in the Western Addition. She was just getting ready for work when I knocked on her door. I gathered Sky in my arms and thanked her for taking care of him. We made plans for lunch, at Green’s, out by Fort Mason for Thursday. I was just leaving when she told me about the man who stopped by to see me.
"A tall man," Louise said. "and very good looking. He didn’t leave his name, he said he was in a hurry. He just asked if you were around, he wanted to say hello."
"Tall and good looking?" I asked. I already didn’t like the sound of it. "How good looking?"
Louise laughed. "He had long dark hair and a mustache. He was wearing a suit, and a cowboy hat, of all things. His hair was kind of curly. He said the two of you were acquainted and since he was in the neighborhood he stopped by. That’s all. He was very friendly, he seemed very nice."
"What did you tell him?"
"That you were on vacation in Costa Rica. He thought that was really funny. He said Costa Rica was probably the best place for you to be right now, especially after all that trouble you got yourself into south of Market."
I did a police lineup in my head and asked William Graham to take one step forward. He did so grinning, in boots and suit and hat. "He was probably right about that," I said.
Louise shook her head sadly at the thought of the gunfight. "I don’t know how you can do your kind of work."
"Me neither." And just to be certain I asked her: "What kind of bike was this guy riding?"
Without hesitation Louise said: "A big one. A Harley Davidson."
I had one more question for Louise, even though I was confident what the answer would be. "What day did he stop by?"
Louise wasn’t certain at this point, but she did remember writing it down somewhere. I followed her into her kitchen and there it was on her calendar. She pointed a finger at the date.
"Does that help?" She asked.
"Unfortunately," I said.
Louise looked puzzled; but I shrugged it off. I didn’t see any reason to tell her it was the same day Homer Johnson was shot.
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