The Gunfight at Oakley's Garage - Sushi and Maxi Gray

CHAPTER TWENTY

The morning edition laid the groundwork. There were items scattered here and there in the gossip columns that were straight from Derek Flynn's desk, all about the Johnson brothers and their dedication to law enforcement and their fondness for San Francisco and the Bay Area. They were tough and handsome and upwardly mobile. One brother, Pope, was already an officer in good standing with the San Francisco Police department. A fourth brother, Terry, owned a quaint little establishment in the Mission District. A good old fashioned neighborhood tavern, a place where you could stop by after work for a cold one and catch up with the local gossip. Frame was a respected United States Deputy Marshal, recently transferred to the Bay Area from the Southwest, and his older brother, Homer, was a Sheriff with the County. They all thought of San Francisco as their home. And while the brothers brooked no political aspirations, their names had already been mentioned in conjunction with certain offices, come election.


The attempted armored car robbery, in which a security guard was murdered, appeared only once, on page eight. The pending investigation revealed no concrete leads; one individual had been questioned by the police, however, but not held, as he was not considered at this time to be a suspect. His name was withheld to protect his privacy. Lieutenant Frank Donahue stated that his men were working around the clock to establish the identities of the perpetrators responsible for the attempted robbery and the death of the security guard. He expressed confidence in his investigation and promised a swift resolution. He fully intended on sending a clear message to all wrongdoers that crime in San Francisco would net them only sorrow.

The rest of the news was old, so I skipped it, and cruised over to the Mission. I parked down the street from Dwight's home away from home and watched Eve bird watch from the second floor window. There were mostly just pigeons perched on the telephone poles and wires and a few ravens, but there were some parrots too, nesting in a palm tree, squawking wordlessly. They were funny birds to watch, in the open like that, and Eve enjoyed their company. Her face lit up like Christmas and she opened the window and asked them if they wanted any crackers. Some of the pigeons lifted into the air but resettled as they determined there was no real threat. A minute later the motorcycle Madonna appeared from behind Eve and pulled her back inside and shut the window. I wasn't sure if it was yelling I heard or not, but again the pigeons started into the air, but this time they glided to the telephone wires across the street.

I stuck around for another half-hour before I felt certain Eve wasn't going anywhere soon. She was due to make an appearance in court on the following Tuesday. While I believed Dwight had no intention of following through with the court's request, I felt confident that whatever action he himself did take would be perpetrated at the last moment. If that meant leaving the city, and possibly even the state, then he would do so at his convenience. He was just that kind of guy. Hopefully by then, I would have Eve well out of his grasp.

I had lunch at the counter by the window at Nellie's place. Oakley's Garage looked closed to me. The flowers left by the police in the street were wilting like a bad memory. Nellie refilled my cup with coffee and glanced out the window. She told me that few of the boys had been around for the past day or so.

"Not so you'd notice," She said. "No tow trucks, that's for sure."

"I guess business is slow," I said.

She shrugged. "They're just spooked. Things are happening a little too quickly around here. Shootings, dead cops, undercover agents; they're just cooling their heels."

"Or relocating."

"If we’re lucky."

At twelve thirty the afternoon edition was delivered. A truck pulled up outside and the driver filled the stand. I bought a paper and scanned it as I finished my coffee. There was a long-standing rivalry between the morning and the afternoon papers. Each paper blasted the other routinely, except for Sundays when they were published together as one. However, about the only way you could tell them apart were by the politicians each endorsed, and even on Sunday that could be tricky. This afternoon's edition clearly disapproved of Frame Johnson and his brothers. Very likely they actually disapproved of Derek Flynn and his political machinations, but it was the Johnson's they were attacking. And they hit them from all sides: as officers of the law who were to be suspected simply because they worked for the Federal or local governments; as gunslingers who, as rumored, went off halfcocked in Mexico a little over a year ago, where they were more or less responsible for the deaths of a half dozen American citizens under some very unusual circumstances; as politically ambitious newcomers, with uncomfortably close ties to the mayor, who cared little for the city they so clearly wanted to influence; and finally as a clan whose closest associate was a suspect in the attempted robbery of the armored car south of Market, during which a guard assigned to the car was murdered in cold blood.

There was more about the suspect on the inside page. They gave his name and a brief history. It read like a tabloid. John Christmas hailed from Georgia and could trace his roots all the way back to the late seventeenth century. He had studied dentistry at one of the more prestigious schools in the North but while serving as an intern he contracted a rare and incurable form of tuberculosis from one of his patients. He moved west for the drier climate, living on a stipend from his family and various other forms of employment, eventually, as his illness worsened, becoming a private investigator. His general reputation at this time was largely of a disagreeable nature, a gambler with alcoholic tendencies and known underworld contacts. Few seemed to enjoy his company. One of those few was Frame Johnson, a U.S. Deputy Marshal. They became acquainted during an investigation Johnson was conducting. Their paths crisscrossed throughout the Southwest, and it was rumored in certain circles that Christmas was a paid informant. There had been several shootings in the wake of these rumors and while men had indeed been killed Christmas had never been indicted let alone convicted on any felony charges.

Nellie sighed from over my shoulder. She wiped her hands on her apron and took a closer look at the paper. "Mr. Christmas is no criminal," she stated unequivocally. "He is one of the few gentleman left in San Francisco."


"A rare thing," I said.


"Especially around here," she said.

"Generation X," I said.

"These kids, they have no idea," she said.

"What about Ringold?" I asked because I saw him standing across the street, in front of Oakley's, carrying a large bag of dog food over one shoulder, and contemplating the display of flowers. "What do you think is on his mind?"

"Clearing out." Nellie leaned over my shoulder and stole a glimpse of the gloomy figure through the window. "He was in here this morning for breakfast. He started talking about his home--growing up in San Jose. He says he's through with San Francisco; he'd like to go back to school, and finish his degree."

"In what?"

"Theology. His Ph.D. He wants to be a teacher."


I looked at him again. He was unlocking the gate and the pit bull was running up to him. He squatted on his heels and embraced the fierce little creature, patting its head and scratching its back. They looked like quite a pair, master and best friend. Both armed and dangerous--his pistol bulged through the back of his jacket. For some reason he didn't strike me as the scholarly type.

"You're kidding," I said.

"That's what he told me," Nellie said.


"And how did our theologian wind up in the stolen car business?"

"Bad luck had a lot to do with it, I'm sure."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Bad luck and criminal instinct. They go hand in hand.

Five minutes later William Graham pulled up on his motorcycle. He parked on the sidewalk in front of Glide's Photography Studio and skipped up the two steps to the front door and rang the bell. Mr. Glide, a middle aged man of medium height, and dressed in a blue work shirt and jeans, answered the door and the two talked for a minute. The entire time Graham kept stealing glances over Glide's shoulder into the studio. When the minute was up they shook hands and Graham left for the garage; Glide watched after him, an uneasy look on his face, then stepped back inside and shut the door.

By the time he entered Oakley's Graham was grinning evilly and rubbing his hands together like he just got the better of some orphan or widow. When the pitbull ran up to him he kicked it. Ringold came out of the garage when he heard the dog yelp. He was carrying a bottle of Tequila and by way of greeting he passed it to Graham. They stood in the middle of the lot drinking and talking, both of them eyeing the photography studio next door. At one point Graham made a pistol out of his thumb and fingers and after pointing it towards the studio pulled the trigger. He blew the smoke away between drinks.

They left together a few minutes later. The pit bull followed them to the gate, keeping a boots' distance from Graham. He watched them leave on the motorcycle, Ringold on back, without a helmet, and with his bottle of tequila concealed inside his jacket. The tough little guy stood there looking after them, perhaps catching one or the other's scent in the wake of their departure, his head cocking one way, then the other. Eventually he grew bored and turned on his short powerful legs and made his rounds. He went from one corner of the lot to the next, sniffing here and there, occasionally marking his territory beneath a lifted leg. Finally he located the most perfect spot to keep an eye on things: curled up in the shade of some old and rusting vehicle, with his heavy jaws resting on his forepaws.

At my office there was only one message. It was from Maxie Gray. He thought we should talk. He left his number and asked me to contact him. He wanted to clear up any misunderstandings I may have concerning him or his clients. I dialed his number and spoke with his receptionist. She told me he was out and transferred my call to his secretary. His secretary knew my name. Mr. Gray was in court but he did want to see me. Since it was getting late in the day she asked me if I could meet Mr. Gray at a Sushi bar on Fillmore, at around seven this evening. I knew the place and said I would be there.

Gray was sitting at the far corner of the bar with his back to the wall. He smiled when he saw me. He was wearing his cowboy hat, a leather motorcycle jacket, and a pair of custom-made shark skin boots. His hair was gray and long and hung loose from beneath his hat over his shoulders. One of the chefs placed a cup and a small carafe of saki in front of me, then a tray with a dash of wasabe and ginger and a damp towel for my hands. The saki was warm and delicious and made me feel better about meeting with Gray. He ordered all sorts of things I would never eat; I stuck mostly with the California rolls and miso soup. We talked as we ate. Mostly small talk about San Francisco politics and mutual friends. We knew quite a few of the same people, including Frank Donahue Junior and Frank’s current girlfriend, Ms. Hammer.

It turned out Gray, Junior, and I were all native San Franciscans. Ms. Hammer, of course, was from Los Angeles. But she was really beside the point; that is, unless she and Junior got serious which was something Gray thought highly unlikely.

"Not his type," Gray said.

"How can you tell?" I asked, not because I doubted it, but because I was interested in a second opinion.

Gray smiled knowingly. "Because she’s too much woman for him. That’s why. Michelle would turn him into a stalker in no time." He snapped his fingers and the chef brought him another sea urchin wrapped in seaweed, which he dipped in wasabe and swallowed whole and washed down with a large dose of saki. "Besides," he said. "Sooner or later Michelle is going to want to settle down with someone with a little more maturity."

I didn’t have to ask whom he had in mind for that role; he was almost drooling as it was. However, since I knew she was interested in somebody else I thought it wise to change the subject. "But you didn’t really ask to meet me so we could discuss Ms. Hammer’s future happiness, did you?"

"No, Ms. O’Shea, I didn’t. It has come to my attention that our paths have crossed twice in the past week. First you turn up as a near witness to the accidental death of Officer White, and then you’re spotted in the park across the street from my home. Since you’re a private investigator I can only imagine that these encounters are somewhat less than coincidental. Lieutenant Donahue feels that he’s the one you’re following. Personally I don’t believe that to be the case, at least not initially. However, just to put the lieutenant’s mind at ease I thought I should explain to you exactly why he was at my house."

"So tell me, why was Junior at your house?"

"Lieutenant Donahue was there on official police business, concerning the accidental death of Officer White. He was questioning me about a client of mine. Unfortunately, his questions would have compromised the relationship I have with my client, therefore I was unable to supply him with the answers he wanted."

"I saw two other men arrive at your place that morning. I recognized them from Oakley’s Garage. The night Officer White was killed."

"I’m under the impression he shot himself."

"Whatever," I said.

Gray’s eyes darkened briefly, but only briefly. A second later he was smiling.

"One of them was William Graham, I presume he’s the client Junior was questioning you about?"

"That’s privileged," Gray said.

"Regardless, when Graham showed up Junior took off, with his girlfriend. That’s when he made me. He was in a hurry. Why didn’t you meet with him at your office?"


"Convenience."

"And why was Ms. Hammer there?"

"Junior, as you call him, was showing off."

That was just about Junior’s speed, showing off the chick. I checked Gray out over my saki checking me out. His eyes were rude, his mouth an unpleasant smile. He was nodding almost imperceptibly, trying to get me to believe him. But as goofy as Junior was I couldn’t see him being at Gray’s house, bimbo in tow, on police business, and leaving like he had, upon Graham and Claxton’s appearance, in one great hurry unless his visit was somewhat less than official.

Gray touched my shoulder, asked me if I cared for more sushi or saki?

I told him no.

His smile wore thin. "Then listen to me," he said. "The only other person watching my house goes by the name of Johnson. They’re supposed to be cops--but the fact is they’re criminals. Renegades. They murdered some law-abiding citizens of this country down in Mexico. I’m representing the bereaved and plan on exposing those murdering bastards for the cold-blooded killers that they are. I intend on getting them off the streets for a good long time."

"I suspect that’s exactly how the Johnson’s feel about you and your clients."

"I suspect you’re right, We’ll just have to see who gets there first. But you’re a cute chick-"

"A cute chick?"

"You know what I mean. And that’s why I don’t want you getting hurt because you’re hanging out with the wrong kind of people. The Johnson’s wouldn’t think of employing you unless you were expendable."

"And if I’m not employed by them?"

"In that case, Ms. O’Shea, we are wasting our precious time." He pushed his tray away and then wiped his mouth and hands with a small wet towel. He looked at his watch, then at me. "We should forget we even had this conversation, walk up the street, and have a nightcap. Who knows we might even become fast friends."

"I’ve already got a cat," I said.


"Well, then," Gray said. "Why don’t you just tell that cat what I just told you."

"You mean," I asked. "The part about how you’re going to take care of the Johnson’s?"

"Yeah, that the part," Gray said. "Even if it kills them."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Bikers roared like death through my dreams and cut short a good night's sleep. It was late, well past two AM and when I opened my eyes I could see my cat, Sky, standing on the chair next to my bedroom window looking down at the street. His eyes glowed eerily in the moonlight, and his tail twitched nervously. For a moment I didn’t know what had awakened me, then I recognized the high-pitched whine of motorcycles tearing through the avenues. There were at least two of them, and by their sound, heading west, towards Land’s End.

I lay there in bed listening to their reverberations fade into the night. They reached the outer Richmond District in seconds and then they really opened up, and even from three miles away I could hear them screaming down Ocean Highway until there was nothing left to hear but the memory of them ruining my sleep.

Sky looked at me from the window, then jumped onto the bed and curled up beside me. I stroked his ears and replaced the sound of motorcycles with his purring which was almost as loud. I was almost asleep when the phone started ringing. It rang four times, stopping short of the answering machine. Then it started ringing again. The third time it started ringing I got up and unplugged the damn thing. On the way back to bed I stopped in the large hall closet and retrieved my Lady-Smith from the bottom of the laundry hamper. I made sure it was loaded and pulled back the slide and chambered a round. I concealed it beneath the extra pillow on my bed. I don’t know if I slept any better with it there or not, but I gave it a shot anyway.

In the morning I awoke to the sound of power-saws and AM radio. Oldies but goodies. Guys were remodeling the house across the street, from the bottom up. They had been at it for almost a year and getting nowhere. It looked like a job security to me. I drank coffee and listened to the saw and thought about motorcycles and lost sleep. When they started hammering I thought about Maxie Gray.

I thought about him again when I reached my office. Two motorcycles were parked in front on Geary Boulevard. They were huge, chrome-plated things that must have weighed a ton each, and, I hate to use this word because I really don’t know what it means, chopped, so that the gas tank dipped down towards the lowered seat. The gas tanks alone were works of art, immaculately airbrushed with images pulled from the back pages of underground comics. One was of some sort of overly buxom Viking sword wielding Goddess with lots of blond hair and pouting lips; and the other was the good old American standby, molten flames swept back as though by wind. I didn’t have to read the factory logo to know these were Harley Davidson’s, I had seen enough Roger Corman movies to understand that much.

Their owners weren’t around. I figured coincidence and didn’t believe it for a minute. The small courtyard to the building was clear, but my office was two flights up at the end of a usually dark corridor. Did I think Maxie Gray wanted me hurt? No, but maybe scared. Scared enough to make me drop out of the running. I skipped going inside for the moment and instead dropped in at Svetlana’s old fashioned, pre-revolutionary Russian diner. Svetlana didn’t particularly like me, but she served me coffee anyway. In the old country they had a name for girls like me. Bad girl, except in Russian it sounds a lot worse. Her son, Serge, who looked a hell of a lot like Kruschev, but younger and with more hair, was in the kitchen at the stove, cooking stroganoff. There were some other Russians in there too, three young guys, all beefed up, huddling around a small table. They looked tough and criminal. I could tell Svetlana didn’t care much for them by the way she stared at them. When she poured my coffee she muttered something under her breath in her native tongue that sounded a lot like the word, trash. But the guys who caught my attention were at the table in the back, Cruz and Claymore.

They saw me before I saw them. Cruz grinned cruelly, like a cat at a canary caught in the open. But Claymore just looked me up and down and back again, almost indifferently, through a pair of dull brown eyes. He seemed to be smiling, but then again he didn’t. His lips were a fine line that could go either way. He scared me a lot more than Cruz did and Cruz was the larger of the two.

"Hey, look, dude," Cruz said a little too loudly for anyone’s good. "It’s that private-eye we’ve been hearing about. The one who caused all that trouble down in Hillsborough last year, what’s her name?"

The line on Claymore’s face actually turned into a smile, but not one you could like.

"Katy," Claymore drawled. "Katy O’Shea."

"And she’s a dick?"

"No dude, she’s a redhead."

"Katy," Cruz asked. "Are you Irish or Catholic?"

The Russians were watching now—the guys at the table. They looked at Cruz and Claymore then at the object of their scorn, me. And they grinned. Svetlana looked at me without sympathy—like I deserved whatever I got—and Serge turned his back to the dining area and started washing dishes.

"But the question is," Cruz asked. "Is she a working dick?"

Claymore laughed. So did one of the Russians, the one I guess who could speak English. I didn’t like where this was headed so I passed on the coffee and left two dollars on the counter, which Svetlana swept up in a tight fist. When I reached the door Cruz and Claymore were right behind me.

"Let me get the door," Cruz said, pushing past me and through the door. "We’ll just walk you out. Where you’re going, to your office?"

I ignored them both and picked up my step. But they fell right in behind me, their cowboy boots clumping like hooves. I went straight towards Arguello. Five more blocks and there was a police station on Sixth Avenue. But they didn’t follow me that far. They slowed down at the first liquor store we came to and let me go with a few catcalls. I darted into the first open door and stood watch. Sure enough the two assholes reemerged with a six-pack of beer and moseyed on back towards their bikes. They laughed the whole way, tossing empties into the courtyard of the building where my office was. They hung out long enough to finish the beer and then they started up their bikes and let the engines idle on high long enough to disturb the peace and then they took off, like bats out of hell, west on Geary, towards the ocean.

I approached my place of work with caution. But that turned out to be unnecessary. The corridor was well lit for a change, mostly by the light that fell through the open door from my office. There were three other businesses on my floor, a travel agency, a psychic, and a cut-rate therapist of some sort or another who rumor had it specialized in disgruntled postal workers. The only sound came from behind the psychic’s door, and that was pure seventy’s disco, driving, wild and mad. From my door I surveyed the damage. I supposed it didn’t amount to much, but it pissed me off anyway. The trashcan was knocked over and emptied. The drawers to my desk had been left open and the loose change in the top drawer stolen. My filing cabinets had been rifled and their contents scattered on the floor. One of the assholes had even used my lipstick to print an obscenity on my bathroom mirror and then tossed the lipstick into the toilet.

On top of everything else the telephone started ringing. It was the one thing in the office that had been left untouched. And when the answering machine kicked in I knew whom the voice belonged to before he even said a word.

"Katy, Maxie Gray here. I just wanted to tell you that I enjoyed your company last night and thought that maybe-"

I picked up the phone. "I already got your message," I yelled at him. Gray laughed. His laugh sounded like gravel in a paper bag. "Message?" he asked innocently. "What message was that?"

I hung up on him and almost called the police before I thought better of it. I took off my coat and hung it up in the closest and then went to work. It took me three hours to clean up the mess. I was tired from lack of sleep and upset from the intrusions and cleaning up just made me feel worse. At one point I felt like crying and then I did. Afterwards I called a locksmith and spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for him to arrive. I had a deadbolt installed and the lock in the door replaced. By the time the locksmith was gone it was just about five. Even though I was exhausted and probably more than a little scared I found some solace in a clean office. I rested behind my desk for another half-hour before I realized exactly how angry I was.