Gone, No Forwarding

Nine

When Heslip and Ballard had departed, Kearny said, “I had a session with Wayne Hawkley this morning.”

Tranquillini made a disapproving face. “That’s one very slippery dude, Dan.”

“I wanted to see whether he was behind the State’s move.”

“Is he?”

“He says not.”

Kearny related his conversation with Hawkley, omitting all reference to blowing the whistle on Flip Fazzino to the attorney — and thus to the organized-crime people for whom he fronted. He did tell of the letter Hawkley had mentioned. This bothered Tranquillini.

“If the state produces that letter at the hearing on Monday, with Kathy’s signature on it, and the letter states that she took the money on trust rather than as payment, we’re in big trouble,” said the attorney. “Their position then will be that Pivarski gave Kathy a copy of the letter, and she destroyed it. Or you did.” He slammed a fisted hand against the open palm of his other hand. “Dammit, we need whoever else was in the office that day.” He fixed snapping black eyes on Kearny. “You’re sure Hawkley doesn’t plan to be there Monday? Or Franks or Pivarski?”

“That’s what the man says.”

Tranquillini, scowling, started to pace the porch as if it were his office, his head lowered and thrust slightly forward, his hands clasped behind his back. Like Napoleon on St. Helena, thought Giselle. She wondered if it was a pose common to short men.

Tranquillini stopped abruptly. “It’s damn risky, but I want you to call Johnny Delaney and ask him what Greenly said up at the Licensing Bureau about DKA paying off Pivarski and Franks, his attorney.”

“Dangerous?” asked Giselle.

“Delaney tried to feed me a ration of crap about it being a routine disciplinary procedure, but he’s the best trial lawyer the state attorney general’s office has. What we have going for us is that Johnny is pretty straight, and he knows I can get damn mean.” He was stating a fact, not boasting. “If they’ve got that letter with Kathy’s signature on it, they’re going to crucify us at the hearing. If Delaney says go, pay Pivarski off before they get us in front of that referee on Monday.”

“That sounds like the solution to everything!” Giselle exclaimed.

“Then why ain’t I laughing?” Tranquillini demanded morosely.

“Delaney,” said the big Irishman into the phone.

“How’s tricks, Johnny?”

“Hey, Dan!” Sunshine was in Delaney’s voice. “I’m glad you called.” He shook three Turns onto his blotter from his desk-drawer bottle. He and his wife had eaten Italian the night before — that was it, of course. “I had a chat with Tom Greenly.”

“And?” Kearny’s voice was tense.

Delaney crunched Turns silently between his teeth. “He says off the record that restitution before the hearing would make a material difference in the State’s pursuit of the revocation action.”

“Hey, that sounds great! Many thanks, Johnny.”

“Part of the job.” Delaney smothered a belch.

“How’s the boy’s Kawasaki running?”

“Like a dream.” He turned his head from the phone toward the empty doorway of his office and said, in a half-irritated voice, “What is it? I told you I didn’t want...” He let it trail off, then after a moment he said, “Oh,” and turned back to the phone. “Dan, I’ve got a call from Sacramento on the other line.”

“Sure, Johnny. And thanks again. See you Monday.” Kearny chuckled. “In court.”

Delaney hung up and gave a tremendous racking belch. He popped three more Turns, checked his watch and got his coat to head for Rocca’s for one quick one even though it was only 11:38 A.M.

Dan Kearny stabbed the off button of his phone recorder after hearing the conversation through for the third time. He frowned and chewed his lower lip. No. No slightest sound of the secretary’s voice in the background announcing Delaney’s Sacramento call. No sound of the door opening or closing.

So Delaney had been faking the other call. Whenever anyone started faking things, especially an attorney, watch out. But Hec felt that letter with Kathy’s signature, unless they could suggest it was not genuine through the testimony of whoever else had been in the office that day, put them in an untenable position. They had to go with the hope that Delaney was dealing in good faith. He punched Giselle’s extension on the phone — until a few days ago, Kathy Onoda’s extension. Hell, don’t let’s start that again, he thought.

To Giselle he said, “Draw a check for Pivarski on the DKA general account — not the trust account — in the sum of...”

Meanwhile, Heslip and Ballard had just returned with a couple of soggy footlongs from the Doggy Diner up on Van Ness. There was a call waiting for Heslip from DKA’s police informant who had been checking out the lead furnished by the wrong Jeffrey L. Simson: the right Jeffrey L. Simon had picked up so many parking violations that a warrant was out for him.

Their informant was a black cop in Accident Prevention whom Bart had developed after their previous contact, a mean old Dutchman named Waterreus, had gone up on Department charges and had hastily retired. He said, when Heslip picked up, “This is Malcolm X.”

“Soul, brother.”

“Your boy Simson got tagged eleven times on the 3800 and 3900 blocks of Twenty-fourth Street, daytime on the meters there, over the past four months.”

“Latest when?”

“Ten days ago.” He reeled off the addresses and times of the tickets, as well as the make and license of Simson’s car. Heslip wrote it all down and went next door to give Ballard the information.

“But no way of knowing which shop or store or restaurant he’s been visiting.”

“I wonder, visiting,” said Heslip. “Look at the times on those tickets.”

“I see what you mean. All of them before noon.”

“Like a guy being a little slow getting up in the morning.”

“I’ll go looking tonight,” said Ballard.

“And I’ll go looking for a pimp name of Johnny Mack Brown.”

“Or black, as the case may be.”

Heslip chuckled. “At least we know the Mack part is right.”

When Ballard rang the bell, the door was opened by a sloppy white girl with bell-bottoms and an embroidered vest over a man’s blue work shirt. She had round cowlike eyes. An infant was balanced on one hip. “His name is Journey,” she said. “Milf s at work if—”

“I left a business card a day or two ago...”

“In the mail box. Yeah.” She was barefoot, and when she rubbed one bare sole against the inside of the other leg, it made a dusty mark on the pantleg. The bell-bottoms were frayed from being walked on. “We figured, since we didn’t know you, it wasn’t for us.”

“Sure.” Ballard gestured. “Why Journey?”

“Because he’s a trip!” she exclaimed.

“I’m trying to get hold of a former tenant. Jeff Simson?”

“The fruiter. Yeah.” She rolled bovine eyes. “We hadda repaint the bedroom. Him and his roommate had it painted purple.” She thought for a moment. “We feel fruiters, it’s sorta like some sorta perversion, y’know? Me’n Milf, we’re into Jesus. Jesus an’ CB.”

“Jesus and CB. I like it. Who collects the rent?”

“Green Realty over on Mission.”

It was just a block away, so Ballard walked over. The realty office was on the ground floor of a shabby office building where the upper floors were vacant. Bagged wine bottles decorated two corners of the entryway. Inside, the realty was small and crowded and smelled slightly like a store that sold religious articles.

The Chicano woman behind the desk was striking, her heavy body encased in black, her face serene but her eyes alive and snapping, her utterly black hair brushed with the gray of years at the temples. She had lightly accented English with a liquid vowel roll which gave Ballard a twinge of memory about Maria Navarro. Or whoever the hell she was now that she was married.

“We’re trying to get in touch with a former tenant at one of your rental properties on Twenty-fourth Street, a man named Jeffrey L. Simson.”

“He now lives out on Forty-third Avenue off Balboa,” she said instantly, without looking anything up.

“Has someone else been around asking?” Ballard said.

She shook her head, then suddenly crossed herself. “No. It is that one he roomed with. That Ferdinand Diamond. That one, he is damned, God have mercy on me for saying it.”

Ballard nodded. Diamond would be useful as a lead toward Simson. “The address for Simson out in the Avenues is no good.”

“Diamond is not that other one’s real name. It is because he wears a diamond in his nose, like a woman from Asia. And he wears a robe as Asian women wear, also.” She paused. “Damned.”

“You have a forwarding on him?” asked Ballard.

She gave him an address in the 3900 block of Twenty-fourth Street. Again, just a few block away. Right on the money, he thought. It was in that area Simson’s car had been piling up the parking tickets. Looked like Ferdie and Jeffy’d had a lover’s spat, had busted up their act, but now had moved back in together again.

The house was an old Victorian, a Queen Anne which had been converted into rental units. This part of Noe Valley had come intensely alive in the past few years as young hip people had come crowding in, opening restaurants, shops, clothing and book stores. It had the best weather in the Mission District, which had the best weather in the city.

Ballard found the chunky, tough-faced owner in the basement cleaning out trash.

“Diamond? Apartment five, second floor. Won’t get him until tonight, though. He works in some Polk Street leather shop.”

“How about his roommate? Jeff Simson?”

“Queen Ferdinand ain’t got a roommate. Just enough guys passing through his place to start a men’s room. Try tonight. After midnight.”