I call my parents. They don’t answer. I leave a message: “Hey there. Give me a call. I’m around all day.”
I glance at the mystery letter on my computer. I call up a map of the intersection of Hayes and Buchanan. The intersection marks one of the few low-income projects left in ever-gentrifying San Francisco. Could this be related to some story I’ve worked on? If so, what could that possibly have to do with Grandma?
I look around my apartment, still decorated with post-college decor, and consider Vince’s insinuations about my caregiving and maturity. If I had a nicer recliner, would I know what to do? Or is it the other way around: if I knew how to handle adult situations, would I already have a better recliner?
I want to get to Grandma but I think she’s safe with Vince on the case. Besides, Magnolia Manor, as a full- service retirement community, steps up security as residents get less able to care for themselves. I swallow a mouthful of coffee and then sludgy oatmeal, then spend a few harried minutes blogging tidbits essential to the proper functioning of democracy. I write a Medblog post about a company that has announced plans to clone the Governor’s dog as a way to promote science in the state. I joke that someone has already cloned the Governor’s budget, given that our state debt recently doubled.
I scour the Net to see if there is anything else I can rip off or riff on. The day’s big story is that hackers have breached the Pentagon’s computer security system. The papers haven’t yet reported what information was taken. But unless they stole secret documents revealing that the Joint Chiefs of Staff all got Botox, it’s not paying my bills.
And still no indictments in the Porta Potti case. I’ve managed three Medblog posts about the deleterious impact of fecal particles in the air and water and can’t see how I can eke out another without an actual news peg.
I slap shut the laptop, scoot to my bedroom, and grab a clean T-shirt. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and brush my teeth. Back in the front room, I grab a sweatshirt and computer, stuff both into backpack, sling the albatross over my shoulder, and hit the street.
Last night, I’d parked my ailing and aged Toyota 4Runner right out in front of my flat. It felt like great parking karma, but I now see the error of my ways. Pinned under a wiper is a $45 ticket. I can see it is limp and damp, having absorbed condensation from the windshield. Maybe I can eke out another feces-related blog post after all.
Then I hear the voice.
“You people prefer potted plants on balconies. But you don’t have a balcony.”
I turn around to see a man standing at the entrance to the alley that runs between my flat and the one next to it.
“Good morning, Nat.”
It is G.I. Chuck, Pauline’s creepy venture capitalist. He wears a knee-length brown leather overcoat, hands stuffed in his pockets. It’s not that cold out so he looks somewhere in the middle of the continuum of overly fashionable to absurd. At least today he’s wearing real shoes.
“Potted plant?”
“Didn’t Deep Throat contact Woodward and Bernstein with a plant?”
I don’t bother to correct the error in his plot summary of
“How did you find my house? And, for that matter, why?”
“Your address is on the business card you gave me.”
“So is my phone number,” I say.
He clears his throat. “That’s what I’m here about — about your phone number.” He frowns. “You mentioned someone anonymous has been calling you. You asked me to check into it.”
“I did. Why?”
He answers my question with a question. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
Chapter 8
Chuck stands at the edge of the alley. He’s waiting for me to walk to him, which is the natural order of things in Silicon Valley. Everyone walks to the venture capitalists, hoping for the validation, insight, or a check that will change their lives.
I walk over.
“I’d have put out an azalea on my balcony as a signal but the few plants I’ve ever owned have died of benign neglect,” I say. No smile. He’s totally missed my
“So, Nat, you have some enemies. I’m not against having enemies. In fact, I find it very centering.”
“Are
“No. Allies. Absolutely. Colleagues.”
“But you’ve got some enemies?”
“Yes, but evidently you do too,” he says.
He makes a show of pulling his hand from his right pocket and withdrawing a yellow Post-it. On it is scrawled a phone number. He holds it out and asks me if I recognize it.
It’s in the 415 area code, local. But the rest of the number doesn’t look familiar. I shake my head.
“It’s a central switchboard for the San Francisco Police Department,” he says.
“Okay.”
“The call to your phone yesterday at six twelve p.m. came from there.”
“From the cops?”
“Bingo.”
I shake off a moment of wonder to stay focused. The park shooter was a cop?
“You can see why I decided to show up in person to tell you.”
“Respectfully, not really. I don’t.”
“Because if you’ve ticked off the cops, then they’re monitoring your phones.”
“Tell me again how you found out about this?”
Chuck’s eyes briefly divert from mine. “A reporter never reveals his sources. Why should I?”
I sigh.
“You’re skeptical,” he says. “A journalist should be. I’m highly connected through military channels. You’ll have to trust that.”
“I appreciate your work on my behalf, and I guess I’m surprised by it.”
“Oh, c’mon Idle!”
“What?”
“You’re working on a great story, right? Something involving the cops? This could be a big coup for Medblog.”
I nearly laugh. I’ve sold Chuck a steroid version of journalism, or at least stoked his own sensational view of the trade, and now he’s running with it. I feel my skepticism about him meld into something else; he’s displaying an endearing enthusiasm — is this the zeal of a soldier turned entrepreneur up for a challenge and a fight? And why not? He doesn’t know that Grandma Lane and I almost got shot; he thinks we’re playing a harmless game of cops and journalists.
Or maybe I’m being played by him. But why?
I think about the rash of Porta Potti fires. Has the absurd evolved into the serious? My stories have not just embarrassed the cops but also, obviously, could cost a few pranksters their jobs and the department critical funding. The State Attorney General, a Democrat planning to run for governor next year who wants to prove her law-and-order mettle to the conservative voting base, has launched a full-throated investigation. Hoping to make points with voters looking for creative ways to cut government spending, she says cops who set fires under the color of uniform should cost their departments discretionary state funds. The chief’s job is in play.
“I can’t imagine anyone in the police department would want me dead over a Porta Potti.”
