Contract Null & Void

Chapter Five

Aspirin. And coffee. Almost a way of life sometimes. And finally, at a bit after noon, last night’s fog started to lift for Amalia Poletti. The strike vote had been carried in the Executive Council, she’d gone out to celebrate, only to wake this morning with the phone ringing and an out-of-work bartender she’d felt sorry for somehow in her bed.

It had been Morris Brett on the phone to tell her Georgie Petrock had been gunned down in the street, gangster style, a few hours before. Brett had seemed wired, as if his early-morning call by the cops had somehow validated his vaunted insomnia.

Petrock dead. Which would make him a damned martyr.

Amalia sighed, drained the dregs of her cold coffee, and stood up behind her paper-strewn desk. She was a striking woman in her late 20s, full-bodied and voluptuous yet firm under her tight sweater and black slacks, with high cheekbones and a strong nose and almost fierce dark eyes.

Time for the membership strike vote, forgone now after Petrock’s death. But she needed a smoke first. She snatched a blue windbreaker from the back of her chair, went out and down a long hallway of plasterboard walls with tape showing under the paint, her shoes echoing on the dirty tile floor.

Local 3 was housed in an old two-story stucco rabbit warren of mismatched partitions and jerry-made offices. Outside it had a mission tile roof, doors painted black, windows stretching from floor level to the top of the second story. The exterior walls were plastered with signs: STRIKE THE ST. MARK; MABEL PONG FOR SUPERVISOR; NO JUSTICE, NO JEANS over a pair of jeans wearing a round circle with a diagonal red slash across it. It’d be good when they finally tore the place down.

Golden Gate Avenue was cool and windy, gray, clouds scudding overhead. Across the street was the old gorgeous YMCA — this being the Tenderloin, trash was blowing around its gracious two-story pillared portico. Amalia dragged deep on her cigarette in the shielded entryway from which she had emerged, went down the street holding her cigarette inside her cupped right hand against the wind.

When she turned the corner into Leavenworth it really hit her, streaming her wiry black hair out from her head, tearing at her inadequate windbreaker. San Francisco spring. Ugh. The wind brought tears to her eyes and the rolling roar of voices from the hiring hall.

Oh yes. Today the animals were on the prowl. She wondered for a fleeting moment if perhaps that was why Petrock had died. A martyr to the cause.

A killer hunk with a lithe, quick body and a hawk nose and sun-paled hair held the door of the hiring hall for her. She couldn’t know all the members of the local, but where had this guy been? Oh hell, probably married; all the gorgeous ones were.

The hiring windows along the left wall were closed, but below the brightly lit speakers’ platform at the far end were long folding tables set up for ballots to be taken and marked, then stuffed into cardboard boxes with slotted tops. The hall was jammed elbow-to-elbow with union members listening to the speaker just visible between intervening backlit heads.

Morrie Brett, usually stooped and nondescript, was now a lanky enraged crane flapping his wings and stabbing his head forward on his long neck to squawk phrases into the mike. He pushed his glasses with the side of his forefinger, speared the air with a burning cigarette.

“We’re gonna vote on Georgie’s motion to stroke those bastards at the St. Mark, but first I wanna tell you what this local has decided to do about Georgie’s murder!”

“Murder!” shouted several men in the audience in unison.

“Did I say murder?” His gray hair was in spikes, his eyes glittered behind their glasses. “I should of said assassination — because this looks like a paid operation to this union man!”

“Assassination!” shouted several voices.

“Who did it, Morrie?” shouted other voices.

“We’re offering a reward to find out — twenty-five K for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the cowardly bastards who assassinated him. Meanwhile, let’s vote for his strike so Georgie won’t have died in vain!”

As the rank-and-file members started shuffling forward, Amalia began to work her way back out of the crowd.

“Not going to vote?” asked a voice at her elbow.

It was the killer hunk who’d held the door for her earlier. He was again holding the door; his cool blue eyes would miss little of what they looked at. His knuckles were callused. Martial-arts guy? Probably; he looked it.

“I’ll have to help count ballots later, I’ll vote then. What about you?”

“I’m not a member.” Which explained why she had never seen him around the union hall. He added, “If you’re going to help count votes, you must be an officer or something.”

She pulled away from him. “Cop?”

“I would have thought they’d been here and gone already.”

“I slept in this morning. They’ll be back. So. Not a cop.” Out on Leavenworth, she stopped dead. “Press?”

“Private citizen. Looking for a friend.” He had a dynamite smile, too. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee, lunch, something like that?”

“I’m not it.”

“What?”

“Your friend.”

“Well, maybe you can help me find the guy who is.” What the hell. He was awful damned good-looking.

Ballard originally had held the door for this sexy-looking Italian woman because she was just that — a sexy-looking Italian woman. Reflex action. He’d followed her back out because of the expressions playing across her face while listening to the tall geeky guy give his go union! speech to the rank and file.

Now, in this narrow Market Street coffee shop with red vinyl and chrome fixtures that catered to hurried business lunchers, he set down his coffee cup with a distressed face.

“God, I’m sorry I asked you here. This coffee...”

Amalia had to give a snort of laughter. “I wouldn’t notice, not after the swill we drink at union headquarters.”

She leaned forward and fixed him with what were awful damned nice brown eyes. Nice but sharp. Not hostile, just wary and clever. He had an idea she was maybe smarter than he was. Like Giselle. Who always graciously insisted there were different kinds of intelligence, that’s all. But Ballard knew.

“Want to buy me a hamburger?” Amalia asked.

“No way.” To her surprised expression he laughed, said, “Bacon cheeseburger and fries or nothing.”

Dan Kearny was taking Stan Groner, president of California Citizens Bank’s Consumer Loan Division, to lunch at the crowded, lively II Fornaio on Battery Street a few blocks from Stan’s Cal-Cit executive offices at One Embarcadero Center. Groner was a bright-eyed, warm-faced 42, dressed banker conservative out of preference rather than to meet a dress code.

“So why the free lunch, Dan?” he grinned. “Haven’t we been sending enough chattel mortgage assignments DKA’s way?”

“You’d know the percentage, Stan, not me.”

The receptionist took them to a table in the narrow back dining room. Over the noise of the crowd they ordered Calistoga, a sign of the times, decided on II Fornaio salads and crispy-crusted sausage and cheese pizzas. Stan leaned forward.

“Actually, I wouldn’t, Dan. I can’t keep track of my own department because I get so much overflow from the people in Trust these days. Take this Bernardine Rochemont thing...”

That was exactly what Dan Kearny wanted to take, in fact it was the reason he’d offered to buy lunch. Stan was going on.

“...glad you called, because I was wondering just what it is Bernardine wants you guys to do...”

Over their salads, Kearny told him of his conversation with Giselle in short, succinct sentences.

“I hope you said yes, Dan. They’re monstrous clients of the bank, and if I keep old Bernardine happy...”

“Giselle’s handling it,” said Kearny airily.

“I didn’t know about the Rochemonts’ car getting shot up.” Stan shook his head. “It’s getting scary out there.”

“Then don’t you think you should be looking ahead?”

Both men looked up. A quietly attractive woman wearing glasses and a business suit and carrying a briefcase was standing beside their table, her hand out to be shaken.

“Karen Marshall. I play tennis with your wife.”

“Oh, sure! Uh...” Stan was taking her hand and trying awkwardly to stand up, but she quickly pulled out one of the other chairs and sat down. “Uh, er, Karen Marshall, Dan Kearny.”

“Pleasure,” said Kearny.

She had a long slender hand of surprising strength. She laughed at his expression, said, “The dreaded tennis grip.”

Stan began, “Would you like something to...” but she cut him off instantly.

“I can only stay a minute.” She brushed springy brown hair back from eyes coolly beautiful behind the glasses, said to Kearny, “I sell life insurance to high-profile corporate executives, and Stan and I were chatting about it at the Deighton party, not that he should remember. I was about to get engaged to Eddie and we were talking about security...”

Stan bumbled, “Uh, oh, sure, uh, Eddie... Eddie...”

“Graff. Eddie Graff. Well, we had a fight and he moved out with just about everything I own — including my collection of old 78s that are worth a lot of money...” She was talking faster and faster, her voice rising. “I told Barbara about it and she said I should talk with you and maybe you could tell me what to do and your office said you were having lunch here.”

Stan, who had been making noises of suitable shock and dismay, now patted her hand and said, “Now, Karen, it’s all right, I’ll have someone look into it. Everything will work out all right. Here, have some water.”

She drank his water, looked apologetic and embarrassed at the same time. “I feel so silly, I don’t know why I went into all that. What I really hoped to do was go over your insurance program with you. There have been some changes that would really affect Barbara and your daughter, God forbid anything should happen to you.” She checked her watch. “Oh God, I’m late!” She was on her feet, put a slip of paper on the table with her business card clipped to it. “Stan, here’s where Eddie moved to — he’s no longer there, but... Oh, thank you, thank you. Call me when you find him, and give my love to Barbara.”

And she was gone. The waitress set down their pizzas, expertly cut them into eight slices, departed to get more fizzy water. Groner smiled weakly.

“I never know how to say...” He stopped, gazing at Kearny. “I have an idea!” he exclaimed happily. His face glowed with discovery. “How about—”

“DKA doesn’t do record collections,” said Kearny.

“Hell, Dan, she really doesn’t want her record collection back. She wants Eddie back.”

“DKA doesn’t do reconciliations, either.”

“But Dan, she’s a friend of Barbara’s! I’ve got to—”

“You — not me. Barbara’s your wife.” He stifled his thoughts on wives. “We’re skip-tracers and repomen and—”

“Well, this is skip-tracing. I’ll pay full load on time and mileage, just like the bank.”

“Tell you what, Stan, we finish our pizza and then go track down this Eddie Graff together. Won’t cost you a dime. Do you good to get out into the field, see how the other half lives. We take the afternoon off, call it a mental, what do you say?”

“A mental?”

“A mental health day. Don’t you bankers know anything? Come on, we’ll nab him before rush hour.”

“Okay, Larry, enough of the small talk, off with your clothes.” Amalia chuckled and dipped her last french fry into a glop of ketchup on her plate. “Who’s your missing friend?”

“A guy named Jacques Daniel Marenne.”

“Sure — Danny. Sweet little Frenchman. But he’s not—”

“Sweet? Fiesty little Frenchman.”

“But he’s not missing. I just saw him...” She ran down.

“Yeah,” said Ballard, “Friday. That’s how long it’s been since his partner saw him. And this is Tuesday.”

“That’s right, he’s got a bar out in the Avenues, doesn’t he?” Her voice got slightly snide. “With some woman—”

“Beverly Daniels. They worked together, she as a waitress, he as a bartender — at the Mark, as a matter of fact. They got together because of the name coincidence. Daniel... Daniels. Bev says he’s mixed up in union politics.”

“So you came down to see if we’d Jimmy Hoffa’d him.” She was just making noise while she considered the fact that Danny had missed the strike vote in the Executive Council meeting last night. “But hell, Larry, just because Petrock was killed... A lot of people wanted him out of the way — not just union people. Just about everybody he knew.”

“Including his wife, maybe?”

“No wife.”

“You, then. I was watching your face while the birdman was doing his mating dance in there. You didn’t like old Georgie.”

“I’ve never made any secret of it. I was president of the local until Petrock beat me out last election. Now I’m just an organizer for the International. I agreed with him on the strike vote, but I also happened to think he was a crude, nasty, mean, underhanded, dishonest son of a bitch. Which I suppose will make me a suspect when the police get around to asking me questions. Want to buy me a piece of pie?”

“Lemon meringue?”

“You smooth-talking devil, you. So you think maybe there was some hanky-pank at the union that made Danny disappear?”

Ballard shrugged. “I don’t really think so, no, but with the guy you call Petrock dead, and Danny missing, I’d be damned lax at my job not to ask somebody in the local about him.”

“And you chose lucky me.” The waitress brought them lemon meringue pie. “Danny’s a member of the Executive Council, but he didn’t show for the strike vote last night.”

“Was that typical of him?”

“No. He’s a solid union guy.”

“Which way would he have voted?”

“Against the strike — I think. But with Danny you can never be sure. He sees things in a sort of... Gallic way.”

She forked her pie. Unlike the coffee, it was excellent.

“Did his not being there make any difference?”

“Without him we had a four-four tie; Petrock, as president, got to vote the tiebreaker.”

“So Danny not being there meant the strike vote went through. And making Petrock a martyr assured the vote would pass with the membership, too.” Ballard leaned forward and smiled sweetly. “So tell me, Amalia, what would make you murder someone in the local?”