The Gunfight at Oakley's Garage - new chapters

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Maxie Gray drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic until I lost him somewhere on Van Ness. But he was heading south, towards Market, so I figured he was either on his way to his office or to court. Because of Officer White's death last night I thought he might be in a hurry to get both his clients’ statements on the official record. I caught up with him at Sixth and Bryant. He was just turning into the narrow parking lot at the Kangaroo Court. I parked in front of the restaurant and watched him in my rearview mirror. He swaggered the block and a half to the Halls of Justice, greeting one person after another. He seemed to know everybody. He passed out cards like they were souvenirs, which I supposed to some they might have been. I only saw a few people throw them away.


Once inside he paused to field some questions from several reporters. Gray got along famously with the press, largely because he never cared what they reported about him. Good or bad, it made no difference. He just enjoyed seeing his name in print. Because, as he was once quoted, “Only the best get the press.” They hung on every word he said and he repeated every word he said twice just to make sure they got it right the first time. He spoke at length about the fatal—“unfortunately self-inflicted”—gunshot wound suffered by the late Officer White. He suggested that White was little more than a second rate shakedown artist whose once honorable reputation was merely the product of an embarrassed and overworked San Francisco Police Department's office of public relations. He accused White of conspiring with other law enforcement officers against innocent citizens. He stuck a thumb behind a lapel of his black Brioni suit and pointed a finger towards those stalwart members of the free press gathered before him and without hesitation named names:

"Deputy U.S. Marshall Frame Johnson," he recited as fervently as a sidewalk evangelist,

The reporters could hardly believe their ears. They rocked & rolled with Gray until it was time to get their stories filed. "When policemen break the law,” he gleefully pointed out, “there is no law."

Having made the news Gray shook off the reporters like flies and headed quickly to the elevators. I spied Darrell leaning against a wall, with a cup of coffee and his briefcase tucked under his arm. He was watching Gray and smirking and when he saw me he just shook his head. We exchanged smirks. I told him about locating Eve Claxton and he told me that he and Gray were going to meet with Judge Freedman, in her chambers, to discuss Eve and her father and his fitness to provide for her. We both paused to look at Gray who stood waiting by the elevators. He was shadow boxing and rapping some trash about outlaw-rebels, and all I could think of saying to Darrell was: "Good luck..."

I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in my jeep. I saw Eve twice. Both times with some biker-Madonna, as they conducted beer runs to the small corner market. The second time, on the way back, Eve carried the beer; two six packs shy one can. The Madonna punished that one herself, and when she was done she tossed the empty can high over her shoulder into the tail end of a pickup truck. It was cheering to see that young Eve was in the company of such a fine role model.

The woman appeared to be in her late teens, but she could have easily passed for thirty. She had that pale, anorexic look of the seriously doomed, and long raven black hair. Her hair was probably what she liked best about herself for it looked clean and well tended. She wore a sleeveless black tee shirt, tight black jeans, and a pair of black heavy metal platform combat boots. Her ear--the ear I could see--supported a bunch of earrings. A lot of them. The other ear was busy pressing a cellular phone into the crook of her neck. Her mouth was painted black and was in steady motion. There was something piercing her nose, something silver, which more or less complemented her collection of tattoos. One of the tattoos circled her throat. I wasn't sure If I wanted to get a closer look at it or not, so I downshifted to Eve. She looked pretty much as she did last night, wearing the same worn clothes, and looking a wee bit on the dejected side. But all things considered she seemed healthy enough for a seven year old child who had been led to believe, by her own father, that her mother had moved on to her just desserts. By the time they reached the front door the Madonna was already reaching for another beer.

By five Dwight showed up. A cab dropped him off in front of the house where his daughter was staying. He had a case of New York cut steaks with him, which he balanced on his shoulder as he stomped up the steps. The Madonna met him at the door and he spit his cigarette out of his mouth onto the porch and ground it out with the sole of his boot. I guess they were in love, or something, because of the way they kissed, in a rather sloppy, open-mouth, tongue-licking fashion, with a lot of panting and groping that took me back to my sophomore year in high school and some boy whose name I was more than willing to forget. Somethings should be done only in private and I was relieved when they reluctantly pulled away from each other and he handed her the case of steaks and patted her rump and sent her running, presumably, into the kitchen.

Mere seconds passed before the music struck. Wall shuddering loud, Satan-worshipping stuff. Apparently they were settling in for the evening. People started dropping by. Mostly single guys but some couples too, along with the occasional, desperate single woman. The entire street was beginning to look like a used motorcycle lot. I moved so some low-riders could have my spot--besides I didn't want to have to deal with them after they got out of their car. I drove slowly to check out the house and I caught a glimpse of little Eve, forlornly staring out the second floor window at the moon.

I had dinner with Darrell in his office on Twenty Fourth Street. It was Friday and it was party time in the Mission. It was night but you could hardly tell by the way the neighborhood was all lit up. We ate burritos and drank Mexican beer. Darrell positioned himself behind his desk, his feet up by the phone, while I took up most of the settee against the wall. We compared notes over the street-noise that infiltrated his offices, a wild combination of Latin music and cars and laughter. I told him about locating Eve, and later seeing Frank Donahue Jr. in the company of William Graham, Dwight Claxton and Maxie Gray at Gray's home in the Marina District. And he told me about his afternoon in court, behind closed doors, which he hoped he had spent productively making a case against Dwight Claxton's competence as a father and legal guardian.

While he had made some points in court, he had lost some too, for unfortunately Maxie Gray had been there also, warmed up by his impromptu press conference. Whereas, Darrell had described for the court in vivid detail the circumstances surrounding last night's tragedy, and the small but pivotal role Dwight Claxton had played in it, Gray had entered into the record selected accounts from this morning's paper, accounts that ostensibly appeared to be unbiased, but allowed for more than a little skepticism against the various law enforcement agencies involved. Whereas, Darrell entered into the court’s record the entirety of Mr. Claxton's criminal record, starting with his release from juvenile detention at age eighteen and his arrest for suspicion of car theft, Gray countered by pointing out that the charges of car theft were later dropped. He then endeavored to explain to the court that much of Dwight Claxton's so-called crimes were little more than the juvenile hijinks of a young and spirited boy. A boy who now as a young man was gainfully employed by a reputable automobile repair shop, a company--Gray asked the court to note--contracted by this very city to conduct the impounding of illegally parked cars.

A company, Darrell had observed, currently under investigation not only by the Federal Government but by the County and City of San Francisco for its suspected involvement in stolen cars.

An investigation, Gray parried, of questionable and dubious intent. One that appears to have been instigated by an ambitious and publicity seeking Federal Deputy whom would stop at nothing to advance his own career. A career that almost came to an end in a place called Skeleton Canyon on the border between the United States and Mexico.

An incident, Darrell pointed out in which Dwight Claxton's father, Newton Claxton, was killed while engaged in the illegal act of transporting stolen vehicles across the United States and Mexican borders.

An allegation, Gray stated in righteous indignation, that could never be substantiated by fact as Deputy Marshall Frame Johnson, in collusion with key elements within Mexican law enforcement, sought to obfuscate these charges through murder, the manufacturing of false evidence, and the complexities of international law.

Judge Freedman had listened to the two attorneys patiently, her chin supported thoughtfully by her hands, as her eyes darted from one to the other, following their argument as though it were a ball being swatted back and forth across a net, until the integrity of its direction no longer merited serious consideration and her only concern was in the cessation of its flight. Stifling a yawn she glanced down at the papers in front of her and came up with the child's name and, simply put, asked Maxie Gray about the present whereabouts of Eve Claxton and his ability to produce her forthwith before the court.

Maxie Gray stated for the record that the child in question, little Eve Claxton, was in good health and spirits, and enjoying the sort of childhood her mother, Ivy Claxton, was incapable, morally or financially, of providing for her.

Darrell, of course, objected.

But so did Judge Freedman, who ordered Maxie Gray to produce the child for examination by the court. Freedman noted that the court's sincere concern for the welfare of the child outweighed further consideration of the desires or needs of the parents. She hoped that once the mental and physical wellbeing of the child was established the court might arrive at some Solomon-like decision in the near future that would correspond with the best desires of the concerned parties. However, she doubted it. The good judge ventured that the wisest choice, indeed perhaps the only choice, might lie in the removal of the child completely from her current environment. As painful and difficult as this prospect might be for the child it certainly seemed to the court at this juncture to be the lesser of evils.

What caught Darrell off-guard, however, was his adversary's calm and almost gleeful response. Gray made no demonstrations of righteous indignation or feigned sorrow, he merely exchanged a cool sidelong glance with his colleague, which he punctuated with an all too knowing wink, before he turned the preponderance of his charm against the court, and declared that the best interests of the child, little Eve Claxton, were all in this world that mattered to his client, Dwight Claxton, the girl's father. And it was exactly at that moment when Darrell understood implicitly in what had been left unsaid between wink and charm that neither attorney Gray nor his client possessed any intention whatsoever of surrendering the child to either court or mother.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

That's when I first started thinking about kidnapping Eve. The law, as a rule, was devised to protect the honest. Often it appeared ineffectual against the criminal element. While Dwight may have failed within the academic world of his elementary years, he undoubtedly had excelled in his post-graduate studies while attending Reform School. He would feel certain that the Judge Freedman's law would extend not much father than her bench. And his daughter, Eve, could be lost to system with a simple change of address - a child like Eve was born to be sacrificed.

I didn't have to spell it out for Ivy Claxton either. She called me right after she heard from Darrell. She knew Dwight and she knew Gray and she knew they were capable of anything. If the going got tough then there was a good chance Dwight might just get going. He could be a car thief anywhere; it was a self-contained career. All you needed was night and a parking lot. Where her daughter was concerned Ivy was one shrewd cookie and before I knew it we were plotting a kidnapping right over the phone. And not once did we use a single incriminating word. It almost felt good, except for the scary parts.

I ran with those parts the next morning. Up through the Presidio to the bridge then down Lincoln to Sea Cliff and along the cliffs to Sutro Baths. Just about five miles. By the time I reached home I wasn't sure if I would be able to go through with it. Even with Ivy Claxton’s help imprisonment loomed large at the far end of kidnapping. After all, Eve wasn't my kid. And there was the rub: sometimes all you have to do is just cross somebody's path to be responsible for him or for her for the rest of your goddamned life. I told myself that lots of kids run away from home in America, and for lots of good reasons. And they come to San Francisco, either searching for the things they weren't getting at home or getting away from what they were getting. Usually it just gets worse. Instead of warmth and stability they find pimps and drugs and sex and all those good, lethal things that only the very young and hopeless can believe might offer them solace. But what scared me as much as jail, however, was that Eve already lived in San Francisco, and she had nowhere else to run to.

When I reached my office the phone was ringing. I didn't do anything to stop it. Finally the answering machine kicked in and I stopped worrying about it altogether. I climbed behind my desk and tried not to think too much about any of the Claxtons. I looked through my mail and paid some bills and balanced my checkbook. None of which took very long. During my break I thumbed through the morning paper. The news was mostly the same. MUNI wasn't working and the mayor was blaming the public. I read an article about an attempted robbery of an armored vehicle somewhere in the Mission. Three armed men forced it to stop at on a deserted street late last night. They ordered the guards inside to come out but the driver stepped on the gas and sped off, but not before the robbers opened fire, killing one of the guards. Wild West stuff. None of the guards could describe the assailants, as the assailants were wearing ski masks. There were no other witnesses. The victim had been riding shotgun. A high caliber bullet, which according to the story was probably a .357 or .44 Magnum, went right through the protective glass. The victim's name was being withheld pending notification of his family.

At noon Junior's girlfriend knocked on the door.

She knocked and opened the door and stuck her blond head inside and looked at me and smiled. I told her to come in and she closed the door behind her and told me her name was Michele Hammer and that she had called earlier and left a message about meeting with me. She was about twenty-five and looked like she was born on a beach in Southern California. She was wearing a tan silk suit, a white silk tee shirt, and a pair of thick-soled Doc Martens. She had the powerful and graceful build of a ballerina and enough blond hair and blues eyes for three women. One look at her told me Junior was way in over his head.
And when she told me it wasn't Junior she wanted to talk about I wasn't in the least surprised.

"We're just friends," she said with enough cheerfulness to ruin his life, "but we're not involved or anything like that."

"I figured as much," I said.

She laughed and shook some blond hair. "Frank hates you."

"We're old friends."

"No, I mean he hates you. When he saw you yesterday morning he went berserk. He said you were following him and that you were out to destroy his career. Something having to do with your father."

"My father's dead and I'm sure Junior is quite capable of destroying his own career."

Michele nodded thoughtfully. She followed the nod with an awkward pause.

When I had enough of the awkwardness, I said: "So, tell me, did you drop by to discuss Junior's career or did you have another matter on your mind?"

"I wanted to ask you about Frame Johnson."

It was my turn to laugh. But my hair wasn't long or thick enough to shake. "This is going to kill Junior," I said. "Because he hates Johnson too."

"Do you know him?"

"I've heard about him," I shrugged. "Our paths crossed once or twice last week. He's a Federal Marshal. He also has some brothers here. They're all in law enforcement."

"Is he married?"

"I wouldn't know," I said. "Now it's my turn."

She looked at me cautiously. Her eyes were like a pair of cool blue calculators. "OK," She said.

"Maxie Gray. You and Junior were at his place in the Marina yesterday morning. What was that about?"

"I don't think it was about anything. Frank and Maxie are friends. That's all. And those other guys I've only seen once before."

I reminded her where she saw them: "Two nights ago. On Allen Street. Frame Johnson had William Graham by the collar and his gun pointed at Dwight Claxton. Those were the same guys who dropped by Gray's yesterday morning while you and Junior were there."

"Just as we were leaving."

"Junior looked liked he was in hurry."

"He was. Because of those guys. He is a policeman after all."

"And Maxie Gray is their lawyer."

The calculus didn't take her very long. Her eyes rolled up, towards the ceiling and her tongue went into her cheek. A moment later they were back in place. "Where does Frame Johnson fit in?" She asked me very calmly.

"I believe he plans on putting them all in jail."

"And Junior?"

She said Junior instead of Frank. I figured she was already distancing herself. I shrugged. "It depends," I said.

"On what?"

"On how stupid he is."

She left after that and I watched her from the window. She stood on the curb and when she raised her hand three cabs immediately pulled up in front of her. I never had that kind of luck in my life, but I supposed it really didn't have much to do with luck. She laughed and played eeny-meeny-miny-moe with her index finger then chose the cab nearest her. This was how bad it was: the driver almost hurt himself as he lept from his cab and hurried around the back to open the door for her. By the time they got to where she was going he'd be leaving her the tip. And poor, clueless Junior would never even know what hit him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The attempted robbery of the armored car and the killing of its guard were big news. I read about it in the morning and afternoon papers, I heard about it over the radio in my jeep, and I watched it that evening on television. It was a good old-fashioned American crime: three or four bad guys, disguised by ski masks, armed with shotguns and semiautomatic pistols, aiming for the big time: a late night caper, well planned, and executed with precision, except for the driver of the armored car who stepped on the gas and the gangster who fired his pistol and killed the guard in the front passenger seat. Ironically, the victim had been the designated driver but feeling ill he had turned the driving over to a fellow guard. No one was certain if the killing was intentional or not. The general consensus was that the bandit had fired his weapon at the vehicle in hopes of stopping it, or out of frustration, or, as simply as not, accidentally.

The amount of cash the robbers failed to steal was close to one hundred thousand dollars. The money belonged to a large discount store that sold everything from groceries to major household appliances. They had been robbed once before and apparently they were now in the habit of transporting their profits to their bank at different times of the day and week as to avoid criminal monitoring. The word on the street was that it was an inside job. This word came from a handful of professional snitches and was taken neither by the police lightly nor as fact.

I learned about the snitches from my Godfather, Eugene, over lunch at the Kangaroo Court. He had the table in the back corner of the dining room, with the afternoon paper folded neatly in front of him. It was late and the lunch rush was over. Most of the tables were empty and only a few diehards were left. I recognized a bail bonds man at one table, and at another, a private detective. They both nodded at me and the detective raised his drink. A client of theirs sat at the bar, alone, drinking beer and eating nuts by the fistful. A football game filled the big screen in the lounge; and from the Wurlitzer came the disembodied voice of Frank Sinatra crooning cheerfully about having done it his way. I was fifteen minutes late by Eugene's watch and he punished me with an impatient eye that took me back to high school. He handed me a menu and told me to hurry. I ordered a salad and ice tea; he had a club sandwich and a refill of coffee. We talked about the attempted robbery.

Eugene pointed at the front-page story with his finger. There was a picture of the armored vehicle and a smaller picture of the guard who had been killed. "There's a few things I do not like about this," he said. "Katy, are you listening to me."

I looked up from the picture and met his gaze. A cool, level gaze that was all business and that usually came equipped with either a lecture or a warning or, just as likely, both. "All ears," I said. "What are they?"

"The first two are paid informants. They checked in with us right after the robbery. Like clockwork. They all had hot tips on who and why and where. They mentioned a name you mentioned last time we spoke-"

"What name?"

"Doc Christmas."

"Christmas," I said. "Frame Johnson's pal. In what context did his name come up?"

"As one of the attempted robbers," Eugene said. "The one who killed the guard. His name was what caught my interest. There aren't too many like it. I overheard the detective take it from his informant. I stuck my nose into it."

"And what did you smell?"

"Christmas has had a few brushes with the law. He's some sort of private operative, like yourself. He has a license to carry a weapon. He has a reputation he could do without and he's been connected with the Johnson clan on and off for the past several years. This connection is one based ostensibly on friendship, but it's not doing the Johnson's much good. They're in law enforcement. Their entire family. Their old man is a judge down in San Bernardino. And Christmas is a loose cannon."

"He's also sick," I said. "TB or something. And he drinks too much. I doubt if he's in good enough shape to be robbing armored vehicles."

"But it wasn't robbed, Katy," Eugene said. "It got away."

I flashed-back two nights ago on Christmas disarming Billy Claxton: his own pistol appearing like magic in his hand. On further consideration he struck me as being fairly competent individual. But would he have participated in such a large-scale robbery? I supposed anything was possible. Still I didn't like thinking of him as a bad guy. "I presume he has an alibi?"

"He claims he was playing poker at some card-house in Burlingame and that there's at least a dozen people who can testify to his being there. They all know him. He's a regular. They're being checked out right now, as we speak."

"Who's doing the questioning?"

"A couple of young detectives under Frank Donahue, Junior."

I laughed. "Junior, You're kidding me?"

Eugene smiled bitterly. "Do I ever kid?"

"Only on my birthday."

"That's coming up soon, isn't it?"

"Soon enough."

"You can wait until then. But in the meantime young Frank is pretty upset."

"He should be."

We stopped talking for the waitress. She placed our orders in front of us and poured more coffee for Eugene. He watched her walk away. When she entered the kitchen he leaned across the table towards me. "Frank claims you've been following him," he said in a low voice.

"He's mistaken," I said. "I was following some other people. Dwight Claxton and William Graham."

"And they led you to Frank?"

"They led me to Maxie Gray's home in the Marina. Junior was just leaving, with his girlfriend, this blonde bombshell. That's when he saw me."

"Maxie Gray's house?" Eugene sighed wearily and pushed the plate with his sandwich on it away. He took his coffee in both hands and pressed it to his lips. He was thinking like a cop. And he didn't like what he was thinking. He ran it around his head twice before he looked back at me. "Donahue could have had a dozen reasons for being there."

"Here's two: Junior led the investigation into the elder Claxton's car theft business and came up with zip. And Gray is the younger Claxton's lawyer."

"Like I said, Katy, Donahue could have had a dozen reasons for meeting with Gray."

"And all legitimate?"

Eugene pushed himself back in his chair, away from the table. He removed his billfold from his wallet and placed two twenties on the table, then stood up. "Every single one of them legitimate," he said. "You've known Frank all your life. He always wanted to be a cop. Like his dad. It's in his family. Just like you. Do you really believe he's sold out to Maxie Gray?"

"If he's a cop like his dad," I said.

"His dad has more friends in the department than your dad ever had on his best day. Don't forget that. The rumor alone that Frank's gone bad could ruin his career. If you're wrong and he is indeed walking the straight and narrow you'll be finished in this town. I'll keep my eye on him but there has to be something more before this goes to Internal Affairs. No coincidences, no innuendoes, no hunches, do you understand?"

"Hey," I said. "It was Junior who was at Gray's home. I was just the one watching."

"I know," Eugene said sadly. "That's why I lost my appetite."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nellie told me I could probably find John Christmas at the Clover Club. It was one of the last great Irish bars left in the Mission District. It was a place where the local politico's met for drinks and to wile away the hours planning their next campaigns or reliving their old ones. It was a small dark, smoke-filled place and I could never tell if it was a well accepted establishment within the community or not, for it was more like a private club than a neighborhood retreat, and its members were choosy about whom they accepted within their ranks. Most of those who dropped by were quietly rejected and of those rejected who chose to stay anyway were sooner than later forced out, usually under a barrage of rude suggestions, insults and the rare but well-intended threat. Not even the mayor, whose campaign manager owned the table in the far corner of the room next to the fireplace, dared to stop in for a cold one. For if he ever did, he knew well in advance that he would be asked to partake in a friendly game of darts, a game in which his own features, in particular, his own wide shit-eating grin, gracing the board at the far back of the establishment, represented the bulls-eye.

I knew more than a few of the regulars and the ones I didn't know knew me. I had my full fifteen minutes of fame over a year ago and I could tell by the way more than a few of these reprobates glanced at me when I walked in that they believed I should either be in jail or holding elected office. But the owner, a tough old Irishman, who was known only by his surname, Clooney, and who had once, decades ago, duked it out with my father in the alley out back over some obscure point of honor now lost completely to a memory devoted solely to the glory of the fight itself, harbored a fondness for me that bordered somewhere between warped nostalgia and the dangerously lecherous, and it was he who welcomed me, as soon as I walked in, with a rebel shout straight out of Belfast, a sentimental hug, and a pat on my ass worthy of a major lawsuit.

Clooney poured a half-pint of his finest single malt Scotch and set it in front of me and swore an oath on his mother's grave that my money would never be any “fucking good in any establishment under his proprietorship” This brought a few guffaws from the regulars who thought such generosity on his part could only be utterly wasted on the likes of me since I was merely a woman and only made an obligatory appearance at best once a year. In spite of the majority opinion, I accepted his offer graciously, and we touched glasses, but there was more Scotch than I could possibly drink at one sitting, especially on an empty stomach, and after a few reminiscences the old man quietly commandeered what I had left untouched with a friendly wink and nod and rejoined his buddies at the end of the bar.

I felt a little more at ease with a pint of ale and sat with my back against the bar and took my time counting heads. Christmas was there all right, at a table in the back, playing liars dice with a woman. I recognized her as the woman I had seen with him the morning after Officer White had been killed. She was matching him drink for drink and holding her own with the dice and when she laughed, which she did frequently, I heard an accent that I took to be of Eastern European origin. She was attractive but in a hard way and her eyes floated about the room as though on the watch for trouble, but I couldn't tell if it was because she was interested in avoiding it or finding it. When Christmas saw me he grinned and nodded and the woman followed his nod in my direction and eyed me coolly. They exchanged a few brief words and when she looked my way again she was almost smiling.

I spotted Frame Johnson and two of his brothers at the table nearest the fireplace. Derek Flynn's table. Derek was there, too, along with a pitcher of beer and a healthy number of empty shot glasses. Frame and Homer were drinking coffee, but the younger Johnson, Pope, was tossing back quite a bit of whiskey and appeared to be enjoying himself. Derek was scribbling on a napkin and paying for the drinks, both of which I took to be bad signs. I only knew him by reputation and it was quite a reputation. He had engineered the last two successful mayoral campaigns. Apparently he was a great campaigner but he suffered from an inability to sustain any professional or personal relationship. It was said that the only people he truly liked were the people he ran for office. But as soon as they were in office he invariably turned against them. He had turned against the previous mayor and ran another successful campaign against him, and only recently he had turned against the incumbent mayor, and the word was he was looking for a new candidate.

I didn't see Frame Johnson as being a likely candidate for that office. He wasn't particularly well known as of yet and what publicity he was earning was currently being spun by Maxie Gray. There were of course other offices and appointments. And when John Christmas joined me at the bar he gleefully informed me that the Johnson brothers were indeed an ambitious lot and they were currently busy sizing up the brass ring. The brass ring being at the moment the Sheriff's department. Either Frame or Homer would be more than happy there as a start.

"As a start?" I asked.

"Good solid position," Christmas said. "Socially acceptable. One might expect a great deal from such a position. After all, San Francisco is a small town and like all small towns, provincial. Certain types can carve out a future here, with a little luck."

"What about you?"

Christmas coughed and doused the cough with a double vodka. "This fog is killing me; I don't think I could live here much longer."

I looked at him and he looked worse than when I first met him. His skin was clammy, almost translucent. He hardly looked like someone suspected of an attempted armored car heist. Yet there was the telltale bulge of the weapon he carried under his arm, and through the opening of his sports coat I glimpsed the pearl handles and quick polish of nickel. When he saw me looking he laughed.

"I'll tell you what I told the local gendarmes, my dear." Christmas finished his drink and placed it gently on the bar, seconds later Clooney refilled it and added it to Derek Flynn's tab. "I am, of course, completely innocent of any wrong doing."

"As I might have suspected," I said.

"It's a plot," he explained, motioning with his fresh drink towards the brothers Johnson. "To assassinate what little there is left of my good character and destroy the hopes and dreams of my friends."

"And who's behind this plot?"

"And that would depend upon who exactly it is you've been following as of late: Dwight Claxton or yours truly."

"Yesterday morning Dwight Claxton led me to Maxie Gray's home in the Marina District. William Graham drove. Lieutenant Frank Donahue Junior was already there, with his girlfriend."

"Ms. Hammer?"

"Yes," I said. "You know her?"

"We met earlier this evening," he said. "Here. Over drinks. Apparently she just happened to be in the neighborhood. A lovely and talented young woman, it would seem she is an auxiliary member of the San Francisco ballet."

"And she seems to like your friend, Johnson, quite a bit."

Christmas cast a friendly eye towards his friend, and gestured with his free hand, palm up. "That of course could, somewhat, complicate Frame's political schemes."

"You mean if Frank Donahue objects?”

"I was thinking more of Frame's wife."

"He's married?"

"He's political," Christmas said. "Unfortunately it’s an unhappy arrangement, nonetheless, the woman in question does wear a ring."

"And where do you stand, politically speaking?"

"I am not yet registered to vote here in San Francisco, but I do seem to be spoken for, by that smart Hungarian angel over there." He pointed the index finger of his glass-hand towards the woman waiting for him at his table. She was practicing sleight of hand with a deck of cards, making them appear and disappear at her fingertips. "I even possess a certain--albeit--vague recollection of having once exchanged vows. God only knows where, but on some hilltop at dawn, no less. For better or for worse, I have chosen not to examine this memory too closely for fear of being profoundly disappointed. Such is the fragile nature of political alliances."

"Which brings us back to Frank Donahue."

"The police detective you saw leaving Maxie Gray's home in the Marina?"

"Michele Hammer's boyfriend."

"Yes, what about him?"

"He's the guy who's investigating you for attempted robbery."

Christmas shrugged, finished his drink, and dabbed his lips with a napkin. "So I've heard tell."

"How thick is he with Gray?"

"By thick do you mean as in thieves?"

"Sure."

"Thick enough."