The Emerald Cat Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
The bartender poured a straight shot for Marvia and shot an inquiring look at Lindsey. He said, “I’ll have the same.”
Marvia grinned at him. “Well, you’ve decided to drink like a man.”
He lifted his glass, they clicked them together and each tossed back a shot.
The bar was full. The air was heavy with the odors of alcohol and food. Lindsey looked for the source of the latter and spotted a serving line. He asked Marvia if she was hungry and she said she wasn’t. Neither was Lindsey.
When the bartender refilled their shot glasses Lindsey held his at eye level. Observed through the amber fluid, the scene at the bar looked like a moment in a film noir, an odd sepia print. In his mind’s eye the drinkers were transformed into William Bendix, Lizabeth Scott, Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer. The bartender was Mercedes McCambridge.
He lowered the shot glass and shook his head to clear it of the image. He said, “I’m glad Tyrone’s all right. I still remember that old Volvo he upgraded for me. Sometimes I wish I still had it but I decided to sell it when I.S. sent me to Europe.”
Marvia’s eyes widened. “Europe?”
“Had to go to Italy. Nasty case. One of my colleagues was murdered.”
“In Italy?”
“Sorry. No. In New York. Of course the police in New York weren’t happy to have this insurance man from Colorado—I was working out of Denver—poking around their case. But there was some hanky-panky with corporate funds, and I wound up having to work on that angle. Wound up in Rome. That didn’t last long but Corporate got wind of it and I wound up back there for a few years. Capeesh Italiano?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Me neither. Not really, I picked up enough to take a taxi or order a meal. After a while I could even buy a pair of scarpe.”
Puzzled look.
“Shoes.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve forgotten most of it by now. Use it or lose it.” They were silent, surrounded by voices and activity. There were half a dozen TV’s playing. If you glanced around the saloon at one set after another you’d never guess what sport was in season. It seemed as if they all were.
Lindsey said, “What about your son?”
“Jamie’s made it. My mother would be happy, I think. He works at Pixar. Studied computer animation. He lived cartoons when he was a kid. Remember Jamie and his friend Hakeem?”
Lindsey said he did.
“I had a time keeping those kids out of trouble. Jamie smoked dope, stole a few things. Always pushing the envelope. Hakeem’s family were so strict, he couldn’t go to school without polishing his shoes and putting a knot in his tie.”
The bartender opened a bag of barbecued chips and filled a bowl with them. She put them down in front of Lindsey and Plum.
Lindsey said, “I remember.”
“They both made it, Hobart. For once in my life I think I did something right. They both made it. Jamie’s a manager at Pixar now. Hakeem runs a computer company in Oakland. They build systems to order and they do repairs. He and Jamie are talking about getting together and starting a company of their own. Jamie will do the creative work, Hakeem will be the tech man.”
She laughed. “I guess I did all right with Jamie. When his father dumped me the only thing I got out of him was a last name for my son. At least there was that. There was a time.…” Marvia downed her second drink, put her hand on Lindsey’s and said, “What about this case, Bart? What are you doing in Berkeley?”
“Same old thing. Nothing dramatic. Marvia, is this official? Are you on duty?”
“You mean the old, never drink on duty thing? That’s half a myth, you know. Undercover, developing a suspect, late at night in a saloon, and you tell the bartender, ‘I’ll have a right fresh glass of that thar sarsaparilla, ma’am.’ I don’t think so. But it just so happens that I’m officially off duty anyway.”
“Is that why you’re in civvies? I got a weird response from Strombeck when I asked about you. And from Dorothy Yamura, too.”
“Gordon Simmons was my friend’s husband. I have a little account where Angela works. We were acquaintances, then friends. When her husband was killed it broke her up.”
“I talked with her. She seems to be doing all right.”
“It’s been a year. BPD has a lot of other things on its plate, but I’m still working the Simmons case. Can we leave it at that?”
Lindsey shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m working on it too.”
“In a different way, Hobart. What are you really after?”
He felt sheepish. What was a copyright suit compared to a murder case? Still.… He explained it to Marvia. He concluded, “I think the answer is on that laptop.”
“I think we’ll crack this case from both angles if we find that computer,” Marvia agreed.
She offered him a ride back to his hotel in her battered Falcon. It didn’t run like an unrestored relic. When Lindsey commented on it Marvia said, “Protective coloration, Hobart. Tyrone’s magic. This is a Falcon on the outside but it’s a Vee-eight Mustang on the inside.”
At the Woodfin they exchanged cell phone numbers. “Strictly unofficial, Hobart. Anything official goes through Olaf Strombeck. He’s a good man. But keep me posted. I’ll do the same for you.”
Later in his hotel room, Lindsey turned on a late-night movie. He missed the opening credits but he recognized it anyway; he’d seen it half a dozen times. Rosalind Russell as Valerie Stanton, a Broadway comedienne with an itch to play Ibsen. Sydney Greenstreet as a middle-aged homicide detective. Massive, almost immobile, self-mocking, ironic, polite. And patient. Prodding, prodding, prodding. Ultimately invincible.
Somebody had been reading Rex Stout. Why Greenstreet’s character was Captain Danbury instead of Nero Wolfe was a greater mystery than who killed Gordon Simmons. Probably a copyright problem.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gordian House wasn’t a house at all. Not that Lindsey expected it to be one, but he’d looked forward to something more impressive than a dingy office suite on the sixth floor of an aging commercial building on Shattuck Avenue. The furnishings looked as if they hadn’t been changed since Ike was President. There was actually a Remington Standard on the receptionist’s desk and a half-height wooden room divider with a swinging door in it. The only thing missing was a PBX switchboard. They probably kept that in the storage closet, waiting for time to flow backward.
The receptionist looked as if she couldn’t decide whether she was an unreconstructed hippie chick or a frowsy housewife, but when Lindsey presented his card she buzzed him through to an inner office. That was no more modern and no less dingy than the outer chamber. There was only one desk in the room, a small sign reading Jack Burnside.
The shirtsleeved man behind the desk looked to be in his sixties with unkempt, graying hair and a bushy moustache to match. He stood up and removed a half-smoked cigar from his mouth. He snarled, “I hope you’re not from the god-damned tobacco police.”
Lindsey said, “No, no. Nothing like that.”
Was Burnside joking or was there really such a thing as the tobacco police in this town? Never mind. He presented his card. “I’m from International Surety. We carry your liability policy.”
“I know that, I know that.” Burnside transferred the cigar to his other hand and extended a callused paw to Lindsey. He gestured Lindsey to a battered wooden chair that must have come from a liquidation sale at a thrift shop in the process of going out of business.
“Look, I don’t know what