Contract Null & Void

Chapter Seven

As he and Kearny went through the heavy glass door of The Muscle Emporium on Montgomery and Bay, Stan Groner, gentleman whiner, groused, “Rush hour’s started and we’re further away from Graff than when we started. Then we had an address. Now—”

“You’re doing great,” said Kearny heartily.

To the right were seven treadmills with sweating bipeds in expensive workout clothes huffing and puffing upon them. To the left, seven stationary bicycles; more huffers and puffers. Beyond them, a dozen sets of stairs. All women on these, many reading newspapers, all wearing skintight workout clothes that showed churning steel glutes as they climbed endlessly to heaven.

Beyond, on pieces of oddly shaped chromed equipment, people were stretched and contorted like something Amnesty International might sponsor a letter-writing campaign about.

“You learned a lot of technique with that landlady, Stan. I’ll nose around, you ask the instructor where Eddie is.”

Kearny shambled over to a bronzed giant turning this way and that in front of one of the floor-length mirrors, staring at himself with mesmerized wonder. Kearny now looked seedy and disreputable, shirt open, tie askew, the slight sideways slither of something that lived under a rock. How did he do that?

Well, Stan could remake himself, too. He made his round pleasant face what he thought was tough and headed toward the instructor, who was wearing a tank top and black tights and black running shoes, standing in the front of the check-in desk with his arms crossed.

Trouble was, he looked like Bluto. His neck was six inches wider than his head, his shoulders were cantaloupes, his pectorals watermelons, his biceps grapefruits, his thighs oak trees. But Stan would not be intimidated by a sentient vegetable garden. He had learned a lot talking with the landlady, had seen what had worked for Kearny.

“So how much did Eddie Graff stiff you for?” he snarled.

The little head on top of the massive body inclined so slitted blue eyes could look at him. “We don’t like bill collectors in here, Jack. I think I’ll punch your lights out.”

Stan rushed outside to wait for Kearny, who was telling the mirror athlete in a low, scummy voice, “Eddie knicked me for a bundle on the daily double over to Golden Gate Field. I wanta pay off — it ain’t good, be late in my business, y’know what I mean? But the old broad at his place said he’d moved.”

“Talk to Uncle Harry, runs the U-Haul place on Pier Thirty-three. He rented Eddie a trailer to move his stuff.”

Trin Morales, having replaced the stolen Acura tires with other stolen Acura tires, was eating a fajita and drinking Tecate from the bottle in a little cantina on South Van Ness. Here all the faces were brown, here Spanish in many different flavors was spoken, here all signs were in Spanish, all goods and foodstuffs those that Latinos favored.

If Morales ever felt at home anywhere, it was in places like this. He could scan the faces, listen to the voices, could pick out Mexican, Salvadoran, Uruguayan, Guatemalan... This one had no green card, that one was also an illegal but with purchased documentation... It was why Trin was a good detective. He could see inside people’s minds to their emotional states.

It was just that he didn’t give a damn about those states.

Now, that girl of 14 just came in, she would have crossed the border at San Diego no more than three nights ago. He could see it in her frightened doe stance, the large dark liquid eyes never still, the big-sister’s dress that hung off her developing body. Yeah, well, he’d introduce her to the realities of life here in el Norte: she’d be in his bed by dark tonight, or on an INS deportation bus to the border by dark tomorrow.

Then an item on the Spanish-language newscast from the little blurry TV over the counter froze him in place.

There were no leads in the murder of labor union leader Georgi Petlaroc, shot down in gangster style on Post Street early that morning. Many Latinos were members of the Hotel and Restaurant Local 3 of which Petlaroc was president, and...

Georgi Petlaroc, who surely, through who knew how many cutouts, had to be the man paid Morales to scope out the Kiely mansion, had been shot down in Post Street just hours after Assemblyman Rick Kiely had asked Morales if he knew the man.

I crook my finger, you come running — comprende? Or maybe after tonight I won’t need you. We’ll see.

Maybe after tonight I won’t need you.

Maybe tonight the guys I already hired will get Petlaroc.

They had. The Trin knew it. Knew it.

Knowledge meant power; and power meant profit. How could he profit from this knowledge? He would have to be careful, he would have to be sly, because there was mortal danger here — the powerful politician already had hired hit men to kill the powerful union leader. But there was a hell of a lot of money to be had here, too, if he played it right.

Trin Morales paid up and went out into South Van Ness, the just-pubescent illegal Latina temporarily spared his attentions.

The stubbed-off Embarcadero Freeway was gone, courtesy of the Loma Prieta earthquake. But gone even before the quake was most of the shipping business that had made San Francisco’s Embarcadero famous from the gold rush days until well after World War II. Most of it had crossed the bay to the busy Oakland waterfront, more of it had migrated north to Seattle, much of it south to San Pedro and San Diego, and some of it even — post-NAFTA — further south to Mexico ports.

In its place had come gentrification: upscale restaurants, high-rise condos and apartment buildings, cobbled roadways, shrubbery and chrome and glass and bay views, even a palm-lined esplanade. The Port Authority was more than happy to lease space in the huge, shadowy, empty, echoing piers north of the Bay Bridge to small businesses that could pay rent.

Uncle Harry’s U-Haul faced the Embarcadero and Telegraph Hill from Pier 33. Through dusty interior windows Kearny could see five huddled U-Haul trailers in the dimness of the empty pier. In the office was a desk with an old IBM Selectric on it and a blond secretary behind it typing an invoice. No computers for Uncle Harry. Beyond her was a closed inner office.

Plink. A long pause. Plink. Another pause. Plink.

She did what passed for cogitation with her. “Two s’s in Mississippi, right?”

“Four,” said Kearny. “We need the current address of one of your clients.”

She jerked the invoice from the Selectric and crumpled it into a ball she threw into a wastebasket beside her desk; to the basket was clipped a black miniature backboard with a black rim and a white net and the legend HERO HOOPS. When the paper went through the net, the backboard gave a throaty roar of electronic crowd approval and several seconds of loud clapping.

“Hey, that’s terrific!” exclaimed Stan the Man.

Kearny looked at Groner as if he had just regressed to a six-year-old wearing short pants. The blonde was ratcheting a fresh invoice into her typewriter.

“Guy we’re looking for is named Eddie Graff,” said Kearny.

“Only Uncle Harry knows stuff like that.” Plink. A long pause. Plink. Another pause. Plink. The longest pause. More cogitation. She was using up a year’s worth of thoughtful expressions here. “He’s not in.”

“We’ll wait.”

“One p in Mississippi, right?”

“Two.”

She jerked out the new invoice and crumpled it up and threw it. A hook shot this time. The crowd cheered. Fans clapped. She ratcheted in a new invoice form. Plink. A long pause. Plink. Another pause. Plink.

Kearny found a chair and sat down. Were he Uncle Harry, he would be bald and have ulcers the size of dinner plates by now.

Stan was wondering if he could practice Hero Hoops while they waited. He really did need to sharpen up the old game.

“I guess I was just off my game,” said Giselle savagely.

The recreation room was old-fashioned, with long drapes in graceful folds, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the miniature golf course where she had lost miserably. There were mounted heads on the walls, a billiards table, a Ping-Pong table, a wet bar, and a beautifully polished folding games table of various hardwoods intricately inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

Paul’s wife came in. Giselle had been looking forward to meeting the woman who had managed to possess, at least serially and perhaps concurrently, both principal players in a half-billion-dollar electronics business. She expected Demi Moore’s lush body, Sigourney Weaver’s icy intellect, Sandra Bullock’s innocent facial beauty hiding inner complexities.

She got Red Ridinghood on the way to Grandma’s house, Cinderella without her slipper, Little Bo-peep before the sheep got lost. This was Bernardine’s femme fatale?

Inga was slight and slim, with an almost wistful porcelain cameo face. Big blue eyes, a hint of smile lines at the corners of a small mouth, long taffy-blond hair parted in the middle with one heavy roll falling in front of her shoulders, the other behind.

She was wearing a Mother Hubbard, subtle rosebud against heather; all that was missing was a big sunbonnet.

“Hi, Ing,” said Paul offhandedly. He waved at Giselle, went Bogart in The Big Sleep. “This is the lady private eye who’s gonna keep us all safe, sweetheart. Name of Doghouse Reilly.”

“Doghouse Reilly? I don’t get it,” said Inga.

“Giselle Marc,” said Giselle rather hurriedly.

She stuck out her hand and Inga took it. A soft and tentative handshake like that of a little girl uncomfortable among the grown-ups.

“I’m Inga. You sure are tall.”

“She didn’t mean to be,” crowed Paul, continuing his Bogart takeoff. “Let’s play Trivial Pursuit.”

Trivial Pursuit? Another pet hate. Giselle said, “Your mother and Mr. Warren should be here momentarily.” Why so negative after getting the bodyguard job? Maybe because she hadn’t expected to be guarding the body of a bogus Bogart.

Paul, setting up the game on a folding card table, told Inga, “Pick a category.”

“Um... Entertainment.” Ken and Bernardine came in as she read off the card in her little-girl’s voice, “What was the last line of the 1941 John Huston film classic The Maltese Falcon?”

Giselle silently mouthed “Trivial Pursuit” to Ken’s look of puzzlement.

“Hnuh?”

“No fair!” exclaimed Paul waspishly. “She never would have gotten it without your help!”

“I don’t get it,” said Inga.

“Tea is served in the drawing room, madam,” a maid said stiffly to Bernardine from the doorway.

By a Mad Hatter, no doubt.

It was an old Russian Hill apartment house in the 900 block of Greenwich below Jones, faced with weathered cedar shingles once stained brown. Stan was in a sort of panic: mid-rush hour and he hadn’t phoned his wife to say he’d be late. Now he couldn’t: Dan might think he was a wimp who had to report in.

Kearny pushed the button marked MANAGER, they were buzzed in, went down the off-white hallway. A whip-slim bright-eyed desperately gay man popped out of Apartment 101. He wore a shirt open to the navel and skintight black toreador pants. His feet, long and bony and bare, had prehensile-looking toes.

The bright light faded from his eyes when he saw Kearny’s stolid bulk filling his doorway.

“Oh. What can I do for you?”

“Eddie Graff.”

“Handsome, isn’t he?” Speculation livened his face. “Are you telling me he’s... but of course not! He has that plain little mouse of a girlfriend, thinks nobody notices her sneaking up to his apartment. But...” He gave a light little laugh. “The Shadow knows!”

“Does the Shadow know if he’s home now?”

“You’re no fun at all! Go knock on his door and find out for yourself. You look butch enough to handle it.”

Kearny climbed to the second floor with Stan puffing along behind. The door of 237 was opened by a nice-looking husky guy with black curly hair and long soulful eyelashes that didn’t make his face any less tough. He was wearing a black T-shirt that showed his weight lifter’s definition and read EAT RIGHT, LIVE WELL, DIE ANYWAY. His eyes got thoughtful taking in the two men on his doorstep.

“Peter Pan downstairs send you up?”

“Karen,” said Kearny.

“Karen hired herself a private eye?” He laughed, started to shut the door. “Tell her I have enough life insurance.”

Kearny’s foot was in it. Just to be saying something, he rumbled, “How about the plain little mouse of a girlfriend? You couldn’t really call Karen that.”

Graff’s face changed, became almost ugly, without laughter. “Okay, pal, that’s enough.” He jerked a thumb at the hallway behind them. “Out.”

For the second time in this apartment house, a door was shut almost in Kearny’s face. He chuckled and turned away. Stan caught up with him at the head of the stairs. Whining.

“Dan, what do I tell Karen Marshall?”

“His address.”

“I mean about the girlfriend.”

“Nothing.” Kearny stopped so abruptly on the stair landing that Groner almost ran into him. “Like you said, Stan, whatever this is about, it isn’t a record collection.”