Finally Harry called it quits. While they typed up reports back at the office, he said, “What do you say to taking Lien out for a change? I’ll call her, and you make reservations for three somewhere.”
Garreth shook his head. “Tonight you have her to yourself. I’m going to grab a quick bite somewhere and fall into bed early.”
“You sure?” Harry whipped his report out of the typewriter and signed it after a fast proofread.
“Go home to your wife.”
Harry waved on his way out.
Garreth kept typing. Some time later Evelyn Kolb came in and picked up her tea thermos. “Did you get your teletype from Denver? I think Leyva put it under something on your desk.”
“Under?” Under, for God’s sake. It could have vanished forever.
But he found it under the bodega murder book…a description of Mossman’s jewelry. A man’s gold Rolex with functions doing everything but answering the telephone; a plain gold man’s wedding band, size 8 inscribed: B.A. to G.M. 9-4-73.
Next week was their wedding anniversary. What a hell of a present.
The last item caught his interest even more than the Rolex…a sterling silver pendant two inches long, shaped in the outline of a fish with the Greek word for fish inside the outline. Was that enough silver to bother stealing?
Maybe the killer just disliked Christian symbols. Faye and Centrello looked at cults in the Adair murder.
The teletype went on to report that Mossman’s wife knew of no enemies, just business rivals. Of course, that would have to be checked out. For now he typed up the jewelry descriptions for a flier to distribute to the pawnshops, then finished his reports.
2
“No more. Bu yao,” Garreth said to the waitress who extended the coffeepot toward his half-empty cup.
Instead of catching a quick bite, he had come to his favorite Chinese place, Huong’s. A hole-in-the-wall greasy chopsticks eatery up an alley off Grant Avenue that served some of the best fried rice and egg rolls in San Francisco. Marti had loved the food, too. For Huong’s, they learned to use chopsticks and ignored the greasy smoke that seeped out of the kitchen, covering the walls and Chinese signs on them with a coat of dingy gray. And they had Lien teach them enough Chinese to order, and tease the waitress.
With a nod and a smile, the girl turned away.
He drained the cup and stood, reaching for the check with one hand and into his pocket for the tip with the other. At the cash register he paid the withered little old woman almost hidden from sight by the machine. “Delicious, as always, Mrs. Huong.”
She smiled in return, bobbing her head. “Come back again, Inspector.”
“Count on it.”
Outside, he walked down the steep alley to Grant Avenue and stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by passing evening throngs of tourists and the bright kaleidoscope of shop windows and neon signs with their Chinese pictographs. Rather than go home, maybe he should turn over a few rocks in Wink O’Hare’s neighborhood. This was about the time of day the little vermin was most likely to stick his head out of his hole. On the other hand, just a few blocks up the hill, Grant Avenue intersected with Columbus Avenue and Broadway in the beginning of North Beach’s bright-lights section, and somewhere among the bars and clubs sang a tall red-haired woman who might or might not be involved in murder.
He stared up the hill, weighing the choices. Finding Wink should have priority — he still had the gun he had presumably used to shoot the bodega’s owner — but evening in North Beach frankly appealed to Garreth far more than Wink’s turf. He had his sources keeping eyes and ears open, and as long as he was on his own time anyway…
He turned uphill.
Chinatown gave way to blocks of glittering, garish signs proclaiming the presence of countless clubs. Barkers paced the sidewalks, calling to passersby in a raucous chorus…beckoning, wheedling, leering, each promising the ultimate in exotic entertainment inside his club. Garreth absorbed it all, color and noise, as he threaded his way through the crowd…also keeping alert for unnecessary bumps against him and fingers in his pockets. He spotted some familiar faces…about the time they recognized him, too, and swiftly faded into the crowd.
He hailed a barker he had met on previous occasions. “How’s business, Sammy?”
“All over legal age, Inspector,” Sammy replied quickly. “Come on in and see the show, folks! All live action with the most gorgeous girls in San Francisco!”
“Any redheads, Sammy?”
Sammy eyed him. “Sure. Anything you want.”
“Maybe a very tall redhead, say five ten, with green eyes?”
The barker’s eyes narrowed. “This redhead got a name? Hey, mister!” he called to a passing couple. “Your timing is perfect. The show is about to start. Bring the little lady in and warm up together. What do you want her for, Mikaelian?”
“A date, Sammy. What else? Who do you know with that description? She sings in the area.”
Sammy laughed. “Are you kidding? We’ve got more showgirl redheads than the stores have Barbie dolls. Come on in and see the show, folks! Real adult entertainment, live on our stage! Our girls have curves in places most girls don’t have places, and they’ll show you every one!”
“I need names, Sammy,” Garreth said patiently.
Sammy sighed, not patiently. “Names. Who knows names? Try the Cul-de-Sac across the street. There’s a red-haired singer I seen there. And maybe in the Pussywillow, too. Now, will you move on, man? You’re spoiling my rhythm.”
Grinning, Garreth moved across the street into the Cul-de-Sac. Yes, a barmaid said when he ordered a rum and Coke, they had a red-haired singer. She came on after the dancer.
He sat down at the bar, which ran around the edge of the stage. A nearly-naked blonde dragged an enormous cushion out onto the stage and proceeded to writhe on it in simulated ecstasy. In the midst of her throes, she rolled over, saw Garreth watching her with amusement, and said in a bored monotone, “Hi, honey. And what’s your day been like?”
“About like yours, unfortunately, hours wasted grinding away at thin air,” he replied.
A fleeting grin crossed the blonde’s face.
The singer appeared presently. Garreth left. The redhead’s hair color was bottle-bred brass and she looked old enough to have sung on the Barbary Coast itself.
He talked to barkers on down the street, collecting a notebook full of possibilities, but checking them out, he found women with the wrong color of red, wrong height, and wrong age. In two hours he checked over a dozen clubs with no success and stood on the sidewalk outside of the last with an ache working its way up from his feet. He looked around, seeking inspiration.
“Hi, baby. All alone?” a husky voice asked behind him.
Garreth turned. A woman in her thirties with elaborately curled dark hair arched a plucked, painted eyebrow at him. “Hi, Velvet,” he said. Her real name, he knew from busting her when he worked Patrol, was Catherine Bukato, but on the street and with the johns, she always went by Velvet. “How’s your daughter?”
Velvet smiled. “Almost twelve and more beautiful every day. My mother sends me pictures of her regularly. I may even go home to see her this winter. You up here working or playing tonight?”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
Velvet hitched the shoulder strap of her handbag higher. “You’re playing my song, baby.”
“The woman I want is red-haired, young, and very tall. Taller than I am. She sings somewhere around here. Would you happen to know anyone like that?”
Velvet’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I tell you what. My feet are killing me. Why don’t you play like a john who has to work up his courage? Buy me a drink where I can sit down for a while and I’ll think on it.”
Garreth smiled. “Pick somewhere.”
