Trophies And Dead Things

Twenty-Two

The faded maroon-and-white Dodge with swooping tailfins was parked three or four doors from the collective's last address. A pair of old men stood next to it, their arms propped on its roof, talking with someone inside. Both men were bundled in overcoats against the chill fog; one even wore a knitted cap with earflaps. I walked down there and loitered on the sidewalk behind them, waiting for them to conclude their conversation. It was about the possibility of the new downtown stadium to replace Candlestick Park. The men on the sidewalk were all for it; the man in the car-whom I couldn't as yet see-wasn't opposed to the idea, but he considered it evidence of the prevailing "two-faced attitude" at city hall.

"They tell you one thing during the campaign," he said in a gravelly voice, "and after you vote 'em in, you got something else entirely."

The man with the knitted cap said, "Well, why don't you just write a letter, Cal, let the mayor know what you think?"

"I might at that."

I was about to interrupt during the brief lull in the conversation, but the other man on the sidewalk stepped back a little, and the car's occupant saw me. "Move aside, boys," he said. "Here's a young lady come to see me. I got better things to do than shoot the breeze with a couple of old farts."

"You just too popular, Cal." The man in the knitted cap motioned for me to step up to the Dodge, and he and his companion turned away. "Catch you later," he added.

Old Cal was perhaps in his mid-sixties, with white hair and the kind of dark skin that has an almost purple tinge. His upper body was powerful, with heavily muscled shoulders and biceps; in contrast, his crippled legs, covered by a green plaid blanket and extending from the car so his feet rested on the curb, looked deflated. One glance into his lively eyes told me that the ability to walk was the only faculty this man was lacking;

He smiled in welcome and jerked his head toward the departing men. "That's what happens when a man retires," he said. "Ain't got no resources, neither a them. They'll sure as hell end up down to the Two A.M. Club and be shit-faced by a normal man's quitting time. Now, me-I ain't been able to work a day since sixty-three, but you can always find me here listenin' to what people got to say. Nighttimes, like as not I'm at my typewriter writin' letters, seein' things get done around here. Keeps a man going." He paused, shook his head. "Makes him talkative, too. Cal Hurley's the name. I take it you looking for me."

I shook his extended hand. "The lady at Rhonda's Superette told me where to find you."

He took the business card I held out and examined it with interest. "I like what I hear about you folks at All Souls. You don't put up with shit from city hall any more than I do. How's that fellow got shot last night? He gonna be okay?"

"… I don't know. He's in bad shape."

"Shame. You the lady collared the sniper. Picture of you in the Chron. Didn't do you justice, though."

I knew which picture he meant. Why the paper persisted in keeping that particular one on file…

I must have looked fairly depressed, because the lines around Cal Hurley's eyes crinkled in sympathy. He said, "Whyn't you get in the backseat there? You look like you could use to sit. Cold on the sidewalk."

I opened the rear door of the Dodge and climbed in behind him. The plush maroon upholstery smelled of cigar smoke.

Cal Hurley twisted slightly so he could look at me. "This about that business last night?"

"No, although it's related in a way." Briefly I filled him in on the background to my case. "That pink house four doors down"-I motioned at it-"was where the people lived when they were arrested. I wonder if you remember anything about them."

He didn't need to look to see which house I meant. "Funny thing, that was. I took note of those kids right off, on account of them not fitting in here."

"You mean because they were white?"

He nodded. "All except for the Indian. You Indian, too?"

"Some."

"Thought so. That offend you-me saying 'Indian' instead of 'Native American?"

I shrugged. "They're just labels, and I'm not much of a labeler."

He smiled his approval. "You know, seems like only a little while ago I was a Negro. Then I was black. Not real descriptive, since we mainly brown, but what the hell. Next thing I know, black's out and African-American's in. What a mouthful! Then the other day my grandson-he goes to college, knows about that stuff-he tells me that's out, now we're 'people of color."

"So I says to him, 'What is that? Back when I was your age we were colored people. The way things goin', pretty soon we gonna get to be niggers again.' The young man, he didn't find that funny."

I did, however, and I could tell my laughter pleased Cal Hurley. He'd probably been saving that story for a suitable audience. After a moment I turned serious, though. "About the kids in the pink house…?"

"I getting to that. Don't think I'm one of these old men that rambles. Just wanted to cheer you up some; you looked down in the mouth for a minute there. The thing about those kids not fitting in didn't so much have to do with being white as it did with coming from money. Kids, they can put on old clothes, hang out in a poor neighborhood, scrounge for garbage-and to me that's a filthy habit no matter how down-and-out you are-but they can't get rid of the look. Maybe their people weren't rich, but none a them except the Indian ever gone without in their lives. But they were quiet kids, didn't bother nobody, so folks around here let them alone."

"What did they do while they were living here?"

"Came and went. The fellow with the blond curly hair seemed to have some sort of real job; I had the feeling he didn't really live there, just hung out. A couple a others worked part-time. But mostly they stayed inside the flat. Doing what, I couldn't guess at the time."

"How many of them were there?"

"Hard to say. You'd see people for a while, then you wouldn't. But mainly it was the Indian, the blond girl, the blond boy, the little dark-haired girl, and the fellow with the scar."

Excitement pricked at me. This was the first time anyone had placed Tom Grant in the company of members of the collective. Cautiously I said, "Would you describe the one with the scar, please?"

"Handsome kid, except for this ragged red gouge on his left cheek. Dark hair. Tall. Older than the others by a few years, I'd say. You'd see him alone or with the little dark-haired girl. There was something about him… well, like he wasn't really part of things. Like the girl was his connection to the rest. When they'd walk down the street with the others, they'd stay apart. But when it was just the girl, she'd walk with her friends."

Interesting, that dynamic, I thought. "Was the man with the scar there at the time the three were arrested?"

"Yeah. Afterward, too."

"What about the blond-haired boy?"

"Oh, he was gone by then. Months before."

"But the man with the scar stayed on after the arrests?"

"Well, not exactly. They raided the place, you know. The feds, they came in there and took all sorts of stuff away. And the man with the scar was with them."

"What? Was he handcuffed?"

"Not that I could see. If they arrested him, they must of let him go later. That flat was sealed up all through the trial, but when they took the seal off, he was living there again. And after she got done testifying against her friends, the little dark-haired girl stayed with him for a while. Then she was gone, and the next thing I knew, end of the month a family moved in."

"So when was the last time you actually saw the man with the scar?"

He considered. "Well, a day or two after the little dark-haired girl left."

I leaned back against the cigar-musty upholstery, revising quite a few of my preconceptions. And putting together some things that hadn't made sense or hadn't seemed important before. But I didn't want to jump to conclusions; I needed proof.

I asked, "If I brought you pictures of those people, could you identify them?"

"Think so. The older I get, the sharper I am on things that happened a long time ago. Damn, I wish I could say the same for what's going on day to day."

"I don't think you're doing so badly. I'll see if I can get hold of some pictures, and as soon as I do, I'll check back with you. Meantime, if you think of anything else, call me, please."

After I got out of the car, Cal Hurley smiled at me and extended his hand. "I'll do that," he said. "And you stop back anytime. I'll be here, that's one thing you can count on."

All Souls was as quiet and deserted as if it were a sleepy Sunday afternoon. No clients or media people waited in the parlor; Ted's desk was vacant. I went past it and stuck my head into Rae's office. Empty. I frowned, checked my watch. Four thirty-seven, too early for everyone to have gone home. Then I heard a murmur of voices in the kitchen. I hurried back there, feeling what I told myself was an unreasonable foreboding.

The scene in the kitchen reminded me of wakes I'd attended. Rae, Ted, and Jack sat around the table, faces somber, drinks in hand. Ted clasped Ralph the cat as if he were a security blanket. Alice, subdued for once, perched on the windowsill. I set my bag and briefcase on the counter and leaned against it, braced for bad news.

"There you are," Jack said, a little too heartily. For once he didn't cast a lustful glance at my legs or cleavage. Jack was recovering from a divorce and for some reason had made me the object of his yearnings. If he wasn't ogling me, something terrible must have happened.

"What's going on here?" I asked, my voice matching his for false cheer. "You guys starting the Friday happy hour early?"

"Something like that." Ted stood and handed Ralph to me. "You look like you could use a drink." He went toward the cupboard where the glasses were kept.

I took the last empty chair, setting the cat on my lap. He tucked his tail around his front paws and stared solemnly at me. I turned him around so I wouldn't have to undergo his yellow-eyed scrutiny. "What's going on?" I repeated in a more urgent tone.

Ted returned with a glass of white wine and handed it to me. "Hank had additional surgery this afternoon. He started bleeding internally again, so they had to go in and tie off some blood vessels. None of us could work, so we decided to knock off early."

I froze, glass halfway to my lips. "Will he be-"

Rae said, "Anne-Marie called a little while ago. He's in recovery, holding his own."

I set the glass down on the table and pressed my hands against Ralph's round sides, so hard he grunted. "What does that mean-holding his own?"

It was a stupid question; no one bothered to answer me.

Did I imagine it, or was there a tension in the room that hadn't been there when I entered? I looked around the table, saw in the others' guarded expressions that they didn't know quite how to deal with me. To them I was not the same person they thought they'd known before last night. Rae had seen my face just before I'd started up the hill after the sniper; Jack and Ted had arrived with the police and found me straddling his supine body, gun pressed to his skull. I doubted any of them would ever fully reconcile their prior conceptions of me with the near-murderous stranger they'd seen. And while time would somewhat dull the memory, it would always be there, always set me a little apart from them.

The realization filled me with sadness. I squeezed Ralph harder, and this time he let out a tiny mew! of protest. "Sorry," I whispered, and handed him back to Ted. Suddenly I needed to be out of there, to be alone. I got up, grabbed my bag and briefcase, and fled into the hall. Behind me Rae said, "Let her go. She'll be okay."

But footsteps followed me. I turned and saw Ted, still clutching the cat. "Shar-"

"What now?"

He blinked, recoiling from the harshness in my voice. "I only wanted to tell you there's an envelope for you on my desk."

"Oh. Oh, thanks, Ted."

Without a word he went back into the kitchen.

The sadness came on more strongly. As I went down the hall my sight blurred from tears. Angrily I brushed them away, got the manila envelope from Ted's desk, and took it up to my office. It contained the copy of the report Wolf had promised me. I sat down at the desk and began to read.

Wolf appeared to have consulted the same published resources as I had, plus interviewed a number of people who had known Jenny Ruhl. The most fruitful of these talks was with a woman who was Ruhl's roommate during their freshman year at Berkeley. Although their lives took off in very different directions after those first semesters, the two remained close. The woman confirmed that Andy Wrightman was the father of Ruhl's child. He was, she said, a campus hanger-on who was auditing the course Ruhl was taking on the origins of the Vietnam war when they met; they lived together a year or so before Ruhl became pregnant. When she told him about the expected child, Wrightman disappeared from Berkeley. But he returned to Jenny before she moved from the East Bay to San Francisco, and after the trial, when Ruhl's friend contacted her to see if there was any way she could help out, Ruhl and Wrightman were living in the flat on Page Street.

I read the report twice, the second time trying to guess what Jess Goodhue's reaction to it had been. Then I reviewed my contacts with the anchorwoman, eventually focusing on the telephone conversation we'd had late on the afternoon that she'd picked up the report. I'd told her that I thought Tom Grant figured in my case more than he would admit; said one of the other heirs had been startled by my description of Grant; said he'd said something about Grant being the "right man."

But by then Goodhue had known it was a name-Wrightman. The name of her father. And Grant was someone she'd met, had interviewed and found "charming"

Then I thought of the conversation I'd had with Grant the next morning. We'd set our meeting for nine that evening because he'd scheduled a client dinner and then an appointment for "an interview." When Angela Curtis had told me he'd sent her out to the movies because he didn't want her around the house, I'd assumed the interview was with a prospective employee, possibly a replacement for Curtis. But media people also scheduled interviews. And when I'd tried to call Goodhue before I'd left for Grant's, she'd supposedly been in her dressing room, where no one ever bothered her.

It was time, I thought, to have a frank talk with Jess Goodhue.