Scenarios

through to me; I could not have turned her down now if there had been ten times the evidence there was. 'All right, Lucille, I'll see what I can do.'

It was drizzling when I got to the Hall of Justice. Some of the chill had gone out of the air, but the wind was stronger now. The clouds overhead looked black and swollen, ready to burst.

I parked my car on Bryant Street, went past the sycamores on the narrow front lawn, up the concrete steps and inside. The plainclothes detective division, General Works, was on the fourth floor; I took the elevator. Eberhardt had been promoted to lieutenant not too long ago and had his own private office now, but I caught myself glancing over toward his old desk. Force of habit; it had been a while since I'd visited him at the Hall.

He was in and willing to see me. When I entered his office he was shuffling through some reports and scowling. He was my age, pushing fifty, and he seemed to have been fashioned of an odd contrast of sharp angles and smooth, blunt planes: square forehead, sharp nose and chin, thick and blocky upper body, long legs and angular hands. Today he was wearing a brown suit that hadn't been pressed in a month; his tie was crooked; there was a collar button missing from his shirt. And he had a fat, purplish bruise over his left eye.

'All right,' he said, 'make it quick.'

'What happened to your eye?'

'I bumped into a doorknob.'

'Sure you did.'

'Yeah,' he said. 'You come here to pass the time of day, or was there something?'

'I'd like a favor, Eb.'

'Sure. And I'd like three weeks' vacation.'

'I want to look at an Officer's Felony Report.'

'Are you nuts? Get the hell out of here.'

The words didn't mean anything. He was always gruff and grumbly while he was working; and we'd been friends for more years than either of us cared to remember, ever since we went through the Police Academy together after World War II and then joined the force here in the city.

I said, 'There was a shooting last night. Two squad-car cops killed a man running away from the scene of a burglary in Glen Park.'

'So?'

'The victim was a friend of mine.'

He gave me a look. 'Since when do you have burglars for friends?'

'His name was Colly Babcock,' I said. 'He did two stretches in San Quentin, both for burglary; I helped send him up the first time. I also helped get him out on parole the second time and into a decent job.'

'Uh-huh. I remember the name. I also heard about the shooting last night. Too bad this pal of yours turned bad again, but then a lot of them do — as if you didn't know.'

I was silent.

'I get it,' Eberhardt said. 'You don't think so. That's why you're here.'

'Colly's wife doesn't think so. I guess maybe I don't either.'

'I can't let you look at any reports. And even if I could, it's not my department. Robbery'll be handling it. Internal Affairs, too.'

'You could pull some strings.'

'I could,' he said, 'but I won't. I'm up ‘to my ass in work. I just don't have the time.'

I got to my feet. 'Well, thanks anyway, Eb.' I went to the door, put my hand on the knob, but before I turned it he made a noise behind me. I turned.

'If things go all right,' he said, scowling at me, 'I'll be off duty in a couple of hours. If I happen to get down by Robbery on the way out, maybe I'll stop in. Maybe.'

'I'd appreciate it if you would.'

'Give me a call later on. At home.'

'Thanks, Eb.'

'Yeah,' he said. 'So what are you standing there for? Get the hell out of here and let me work.'

I found Tommy Belknap in a bar called Luigi's, out in the Mission District.

He was drinking whiskey at the long bar, leaning his head on his arms and staring at the wall. Two men in work clothes were drinking beer and eating sandwiches from lunch pails at the other end, and in the middle an old lady in a black shawl sipped red wine from a glass held with arthritic fingers. I sat on a stool next to Tommy and said hello.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes moving upward. His face was an anemic white, and his bald head shone with beaded perspiration. He had trouble focusing his eyes; he swiped at them with the back of one veined hand. He was pretty drunk. And I was pretty sure I knew why.

'Hey,' he said when he recognized me, 'have a drink, will you?'

'Not just now.'

He got his glass to his lips with shaky fingers, managed to drink without spilling any of the whiskey. 'Colly's dead,' he said.

'Yeah. I know.'

'They killed him last night,' Tommy said. 'They shot him in the back.'

'Take it easy, Tommy.'

'He was my friend.'

'He was my friend, too.'

'Colly was a nice guy. Lousy goddamn cops had no right to shoot him like that.'

'He was robbing a liquor store,' I said.

'Hell he was!' Tommy said. He swiveled on the stool and pushed a finger at my chest. 'Colly was straight, you hear that? Just like me. Ever since we both got out of Q.'

'You sure about that, Tommy?'

'Damn right I am.'

'Then who did do those burglaries in Glen Park?'

'How should I know?'

'Come on, you get around. You know people, you hear things. There must be something on the earie.'

'Nothing,' he said. 'Don't know.'

'Kids?' I said. 'Street punks?'

'Don't know.'

'But it wasn't Colly? You'd know if it was Colly?'

'Colly was straight,' Tommy said. 'And now he's dead.'

He put his head down on his arms again. The bartender came over; he was a fat man with a reddish handlebar mustache.

'You can't sleep in here, Tommy,' he said. 'You ain't even supposed to be in here while you're on parole.'

'Colly's dead,' Tommy said, and there were tears in his eyes.

'Let him alone,' I said to the bartender.

'I can't have him sleeping in here.'

I took out my wallet and put a five-dollar bill on the bar.

'Give him another drink,' I said, 'and then let him sleep it off in the back room. The rest of the money is for you.'

The bartender looked at me, looked at the fin, looked at Tommy. 'All right,' he said. 'What the hell.'

I went out into the rain.

D. E. O'Mira and Company, Wholesale Plumbing Supplies, was a big two-storied building that took up three- quarters of a block on Berry Street, out near China Basin. I parked in front and went inside. In the center of a good-sized office was a switchboard walled in glass, with a card taped to the front that said Information. A dark- haired girl wearing a set of headphones was sitting inside, and when I asked her if Mr. Templeton was in she said he was at a meeting uptown and wouldn't be back all day. Mr. Templeton was the office manager, the man I had spoken to about giving Colly Babcock a job when he was paroled from San Quentin.

Colly had worked in the warehouse, and his immediate supervisor was a man I had never met named Harlin. I