world.
“Bad dream?” Saul asked me.
It was a dream, but everything in it had happened more than twenty years before. It was real. That German boy had died and there wasn’t a thing either one of us could do to stop it.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just a dream.”
“I guess I should tell you a little about this guy Lee,” Saul said. “He’s not known to the public at large but in certain circles he’s the most renowned private detective in the world.”
“The world?”
“Yes sir. He does work in Europe and South America and Asia too.”
I noticed that he didn’t mention Africa. People rarely did when talking about the world in those days.
“Yes sir,” Saul Lynx said again. “He has entree to every law en-forcement facility and many government offices. He’s a connois-seur of fine wines, women, and food. Speaks Chinese, both Mandarin and Cantonese, Spanish, French, and English, which means that he can converse with at least one person in almost every town, village, or hamlet in the world. He’s extremely well 3 7
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read. He thinks that he is the better of every, and any, man regardless of race or rank. And that means that his racism includes the whole human race.”
“Sounds like a doozy,” I said. “What’s he look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? I thought that you’d done work for him before.”
“I have. But I never met him face-to-face. You see, Bobby Lee doesn’t like to sully himself with operatives. He has this woman named Maya Adamant who represents him to most clients and to almost all the PIs that do his legwork. She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. He spends most of his time hidden away in his mansion on Nob Hill.”
“Have you ever talked to him, in Chinese or otherwise?” I asked.
Saul shook his head.
“Have you seen his picture?”
“No.”
“How do you even know that this man exists?”
“I’ve met people who’ve met him — clients mainly. Some of them liked to talk about his talents and eccentricities.”
“You should meet with a man you work for,” I said.
“People work for Heinz Foods and Ford Motor Company and never meet them,” Saul argued.
“But they employ thousands. This dude is a small shop. He needs to at least say hello.”
“What difference would that make, Easy?” Saul asked.
“How can you work for a man don’t even have the courtesy to come out from his office and nod at you?”
“I received an envelope yesterday morning with twenty-five hundred dollars in it,” he said. “I get a thousand dollars just to 3 8
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deliver you your money and take a drive up to Frisco. Sometimes I work two weeks and don’t make half that.”
“Money isn’t everything, Saul.”
“It is when your daughter is at death’s door and only money can buy her back.”
I could see that Saul regretted his words as soon as they came out of his mouth. But I didn’t say anything. He was right. I didn’t have the luxury of criticizing that white man. Who cared if I ever met him? All I needed was his long green.
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7
Abeautiful day in San Francisco is the most beautiful day on earth. The sky is blue and white, Michelangelo at his best, and the air is so crystal clear it makes you feel that you can see more detail than you ever have before. The houses are wooden and white with bay windows. There was no trash in the street and the people, at least back then, were as friendly as the citizens of some country town.
If I hadn’t had Feather, and that enameled pin, on my mind I would have enjoyed our trip through the city.
On Lower Lombard we passed a peculiar couple walking down the street. The man wore faded red velvet pants with an open sheepskin vest that only partially covered his naked chest.
His long brown hair cascaded down upon broad, thin shoulders.
The woman next to him wore a loose, floral-patterned dress with nothing underneath. She had light brown hair with a dozen yel-4 0
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low flowers twined into her irregular braids. The two were walking, barefoot and slow, as if they had nowhere to be on that Thursday afternoon.
“Hippies,” Saul said.
“Is that what they look like?” I asked, amazed. “What do they do?”
“As little as possible. They smoke marijuana and live a dozen to a room, they call ’em crash pads. And they
