“Who gives a shit?” he bellowed, and took a shot at me.
I went around the corner to the street as two more shots tore up brickwork. The street was empty. The sun was setting behind a row of apartment buildings across the street. I hurried across that street and tried to leap the small metal fence of the first building. I settled for scrambling over. I moved to the side of the apartment building and ducked into a concrete-paved walk to the back of the building. From the darkness I looked back across the street at the station entrance. A spurt of four cops came out, all with guns in their hands. Sunset and Preston were two of the cops. They started to fan out. Preston went left, mumbling to himself. Sunset went right into the sunset. Cop Three crossed the street, and Cop Four looked as if he were heading straight at me.
I turned, moved slowly around the building in the darkness till I hit the backyard and the lawn. The back fence was a little higher than the front. I ran across the lawn and went over that fence as if I were in spring training in Arizona, and then I was on my way.
I had a dog to find and I knew where to look.
11
I found a Plymouth with the back door open about four blocks from the police station. I got in, locked the door, and curled up on the floor. Maybe the search would pass me by. I needed some sleep. I needed something to eat. I needed to think.
My car was probably still parked in front of Lorna’s apartment building if the cops hadn’t taken it in. I could have found a cab or hopped a bus if I had money, but I didn’t have money. The cops had my money, my wallet, my pencil, my notebook, my old man’s watch, and my keys in a paper bag. I curled up and closed my eyes. I can’t say I slept. I discovered one thing. A man with a bad back shouldn’t spend the night on the floor of a Plymouth.
When I thought the first light of dawn was promising to hit the street, I crawled out of the car and looked around. The street was empty.
I slouched into an alley heading south, looking up at the sky every few seconds to watch for the first sure signs of dawn. I must have been tired but I didn’t feel it. I must have been tired, because I didn’t hear the patrol car turn into the alley behind me. I was moving along close to the fences and garages on the right. The beam of the car’s headlights bounced in front of me, catching an early morning cat who stared, eyes glowing for a second, and then ran off. I ducked into a yard and crouched down behind a bush.
The patrol car came slowly, so I knew they hadn’t seen me. A small spotlight scanned yards and garbage cans.
The cops in the car didn’t have the heart for hard looking. They were probably at the end of a shift and tired or just starting a shift and not yet fully awake. I knew the feeling. I’d gone through it as a beat cop back in Glendale. The car bounced slowly past me, pausing for an instant to scan the yard and bushes. The beam caught my face momentarily. I closed my eyes and they passed on. I stayed crouching while the car rumbled past, and then I got up. I was about to continue on my way when the headlights of the cop car sent twin white probes down the alley again. They had turned around and were moving slowly back. I was next to a garage. I tried the door. It was locked, but it was a lock that should have been ashamed of itself. In the gray light of dawn, I found a rusty nail. Now I could hear voices from the returning cop car. I used the nail to open the garage door and threw the nail away.
There were two windows in the garage, both covered with curtains. I closed the garage door behind me and made my way to one of the windows, following the gray light that seeped through the dirty curtains. I banged my ankle against something hard and felt the skin break under my pants. The patrol car had stopped just outside the garage. I could hear the engine. I could hear the voices as the cops got out.
“Right there, by those bushes,” came a voice.
“So why didn’t you say so when we came past?” came a rasping complaint.
“I … I just wasn’t sure, and you were talking,” the first voice said.
A flashlight beam scanned the curtains of the garage and footsteps moved across the grass.
“Well,” sighed the raspy cop.
I held my breath and waited. And then they stopped, and one of them started to try the door.
“Maybe I just …” he began.
“Maybe you just,” the raspy voice agreed. “Let’s get over to Mel’s and have something to eat.”
The car doors closed and the engine hummed away, but I didn’t move for a few seconds. I pushed back the curtain and found myself looking into the eyes of an alley cat who was perched on the ledge outside. San Francisco was filled with cats. I’d have to tell Dash about this.
Then I turned around. This was not the simple one-car garage of a happy family with a mom and pop and a couple of fat kids. The place was full of bicycles and parts of bicycles. Tires and wheels hung from hooks on the ceiling. Biking helmets and handlebars were mounted on one wall like a hunter’s antler trophies. A table in one corner was lined with cans of paint. Either Santa Claus lived here or I’d stumbled on a stolen bicycle shop.
My heart soared like a bird. I could be a self-righteous thief. I could steal a bike and feel like MacArthur liberating stolen property and giving it to a deserving peasant, me. I picked the nearest bike, a man’s bike with a bad paint job. I didn’t have time to go quietly through the pile. It would have to do. I found a dirty white painter’s cap with the word ZOSH printed across the brow in nail polish or something else red, and plunked it on my head.
I wheeled the bike to the door, opened the door, and went outside. Dawn was coming fast. I could see light from the sun. I looked into the alley. No cop car. I looked back at the house behind the garage and something caught my eye. A man was standing in the second-floor window looking out at me. He was big, bearded, and naked, and he did not like what he saw. He threw open the window as I ran the bike into the alley and jumped on.
“You goddamn thief,” the man hissed, but he didn’t yell, which confirmed my belief that this bike and the others weren’t kosher. The man wasn’t shouting for help or running after me with a gun. The man was a thief, and he was taking his losses rather than draw attention to himself and his vocation.
I was pumping like crazy just in case the man in the window decided not to take his loss easily. I sailed into the street and felt a gentle push of wind off the ocean. It was a cool morning, but I took off my shirt as I rode and stuffed it under the handlebars. An overaged morning biker, head down, racing against a stopwatch in his mind.
I decided to stick to side streets. People were getting up and out of their houses and apartments. Kids were slouching bleary-eyed out to the curb to catch school buses. A truck inched past me and the guy inside hurled a bundle of San Francisco
I don’t know what time I hit downtown. I had no watch. I biked straight up the street, head down, pumping as hard as I could, not looking right or left. I asked an old black woman with a shopping bag how to get to the Trocadero Hotel. I found it at the bottom of a hill right next to a cable car turnaround. A couple of men and a woman were pushing a cable car to point it back up the hill.
I parked the bike against a tree. There was a good chance the bike would be stolen, but the bike was accustomed to that by now. I shoved the Zosh hat in my back pocket and put my shirt back on. It was a wrinkled mess. I looked at myself in the window of a drugstore. I was a mess of wild hair, sticking straight up from wearing the cap, and bristly gray hair on my face from not shaving. What the hell. I walked into the lobby of the Trocadero Hotel as the cable car clanged behind me to let people know it was ready to roll.
The hotel was small, the lobby narrow. A skinny old man in a dark suit was standing behind the counter drinking a cup of coffee and going through a stack of cards. He looked up at me and stopped.
“Miss Tenatti’s room,” I said.
He didn’t move.
“It’s been a tough night,” I said, reaching over to shake his hand. “I can see you recognize me. We’ve been shooting down by the wharf.”
“I …” the old man began.
“Buster Crabbe,” I said, showing my profile. “Haven’t had time to get out of costume.”
“I don’t …” the old man said, looking around for help.
