P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental (11 page)

Then Harold looked out the window and saw Anmol Singh’s ice-cream truck in front of the store. “Either a beer, or ice cream!”

I took the hint, threw the paperback into my satchel and started digging in my pockets for change. Harold and I walked out of the store and toward Anmol’s truck, which was stopped in traffic and blaring John Fogerty’s “Centerfield.” Anmol rang his bell and waved to us. Since traffic was so backed up from people trying to access the parking lots, I walked in the middle of the street and bought myself and Harold some ice-cream sandwiches, which were perfect for the warmer temperatures.

“So,” I asked Harold while peeling the wrapping from the ice-cream sandwich, “why would Mr. Buckner, who lives near everything Pacific Heights has to offer, spend so much time in this neighborhood?”

“Maybe he’s a baseball fan?” Harold offered.

“Doesn’t look like the type,” I said. “He didn’t even mention the Giants or Crespo in the Seagull’s Nest, and the place practically begs you to talk sports.”

“True.”

We walked in silence for the rest of the way, nibbling at our ice-cream sandwiches and just trying to stay near each other as we navigated the hordes of Giants fans trying to get into the ball park. I often forgot that Harold was almost seventy, so he moved a little more slowly than everyone else as well. But he certainly wasn’t past shoving someone back if they got a little too close.

Harold and I made it to the back of the ball park and strolled along the path that faced the bay. We gazed upon all the kayaks, rafts, and inflatable swimming pools in the water, all of their passengers waiting to catch a Clayton Crespo homer. One guy in a raft was dressed in a mascot costume for a local hot-dog chain, and he held up a sign that said, “I’LL GIVE YOU FREE HOT DOGS FOR LIFE, CLAYTON!” I laughed so hard that I almost forgot about Larry, pop psychology, the Buckners, and the diamonds in the lemonade.

Since we could hardly get a spot in the free viewing area, we stood at the edge of the bay, straining to listen to the announcer and figuring out what was going on from the reaction in the bay, as most of the rafters and kayakers had portable radios. Several innings passed, and it didn’t look so good for the Giants. The atmosphere was beery, crabby, and pugnacious. Teenagers began to hit each other at the chain-link fence in front of the viewing area, and police officers were starting to muscle people back out onto the promenade.

I heard my Crackberry ring from inside my satchel, and I considered not picking up. My hands were sticky with the ice-cream sandwich I’d just finished, and I was fixated on the game. The bases were loaded with players for the opposing team, and the Giants relief pitcher was blowing it for everyone.

But I believed that a good private detective was always available, and the Crackberry would not be denied, so I licked my fingers and pulled out the phone. I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was 415. I asked myself, “
What the hell kind of San Franciscan would be doing anything right now other than watching this game?
”

When I answered, the voice didn’t even wait for me to speak a word of greeting. “I need to see you,” a raspy male voice said. “I can help you with your case.”

“Which case?” I asked. The Buckner case was the most complex, but I had at least two wayward husbands, a child support case, and that head banging bassist’s neck-brace case simmering on the back burner.

“I need to see you now, Parker.” The voice started to crackle with interference. Whoever it was had a disguise. I heard the words, “Stolen goods. Meet me at Third and Brannan. 10 minutes.”

It could have been the necklace. It could have been any number of things. I was skeptical. “Hey, how will I be able to find you?” I asked.

The voice replied, “Wide and white.”

My next thought was that the voice didn’t sound like Mr. Buckner, but “wide and white” was a reasonably accurate description of him. I wasn’t carrying my pistol, which I used only when tailing someone, but I had to check it out. I turned to Harold and asked, “Do you want to be my bodyguard? I’ve been summoned to a secret meeting.”

“What do they want?” He was still working on his Ice-cream sandwich.

“I don’t know, but they want to see me at Third and Brannan.”

Harold dodged some fans who were trying to shove their way to the front. “I wouldn’t mind some fresh air. GO GIANTS!” he yelled as we pushed our way through the crowd and walked around the ball park toward Third Street.

When we returned to the Embarcadero, I noticed that the traffic had thinned out considerably. The Embarcadero itself was congested, but not too many people were turning onto Third Street between the bookstore and Rainbow Donuts, two businesses that were always desolate while the game was in progress. I had hoped more people would be out and about if I had any trouble.

Just as Harold and I crossed the Embarcadero and approached the Rainbow Donuts, a cheer rose up from the audience.

In front of the Rainbow Donuts, I could hear the “Centerfield” song yet again. Harold began humming. I looked behind me and saw Anmol Singh’s ice-cream truck hanging a right from Embarcadero to Third.

Only Anmol Singh’s ice-cream truck didn’t stop turning. Harold was busy peering through the donut-shop window to see if there were any crullers worth his time right as the ice-cream truck took a sharp turn and headed straight for us.

I screamed, “Anmol!” But when I looked into the windows, I saw a man with a black pantyhose leg over his head instead of a turban. It definitely wasn’t Anmol. Given the bad driving, I started to wonder if Mr. Buckner was behind the wheel. Then the ice-cream truck screeched and got hung up on the curb, which gave me the time to evaluate the driver’s shape. He was small, not chubby like Mr. Buckner.

The ice-cream truck broke free of the curb. Grabbing Harold by the arm, I threw both of us to the sidewalk and just started rolling. Harold’s Ice-cream sandwich went flying. The two of us rolled together several feet while the ice-cream truck plowed right through the glass windows of the Rainbow Donuts.

I heard screaming, Harold’s confused grunts, and the chorus of “Centerfield.” I smelled burnt donuts. Then I heard footsteps racing past me and saw a small, dark figure darting toward Third and Brannan.

I hugged Harold. I asked, “Are you all right?”

“My butt hurts!” he said. “Oof. But I’m okay. Did someone just try to kill you?”

“Yes! Yes they did! Son of a bitch!” My adrenaline rushed, and I was furious that the driver had time to take off. If the driver had just a few more seconds, Harold and I would have been squashed.

Police officers who had been on duty for the game rushed over, and I pointed them after where the driver ran off to.

And then I saw poor Anmol, who had run up just in time to see someone drive his beloved truck into the Rainbow Donuts. “My truck! My truck!” He clung to the truck’s bumper and started crying. The officer tried to take his story, which was almost entirely made up of sobs.

I stood upright and helped Harold sit down on the steps of the pub just past the Rainbow Donuts. I rubbed his knees and ankles to make sure he felt them. Other than a sore behind, Harold seemed okay. So I went over and hugged Anmol, who finally let go of the truck’s bumper and cried into my shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “We’ll get this guy. Did you see him?”

Anmol shook his head and pulled back a bit. “No. He had a cap pulled over his face.”

“Is there anything at all you remember? Just tell it in the order it happened.”

Anmol closed his eyes. “No one was around. Crespo was on deck, and the man with a cap walked up. He didn’t say anything. He just pointed at an ice-cream sandwich. I thought he was drunk like everyone else. He sure smelled of something fermented. And then he went for the turban.”

“No!” I gasped. “Oh, honey …”

“Yes!” Anmol declared, patting the top of his head to make sure his turban was on right. “That went too far. So I started punching him, and then he shoved me and went through the truck window. We fought, and he pushed me out the back.”

“Did you hear his voice at all?” I asked. “What about his clothes? His height?”

“Nothing extraordinary. He said nothing, he was short, and he was wearing a Giants cap, a Giants jersey, and jeans.”

I scratched my head. A short man who smelled like booze, fancied ice-cream sandwiches, and wore Giants gear described most of the people at the ball park that day. I said, “Anmol, that may not be much to go on, but I will find the guy who trashed your truck. I consider this personal.”

“Thank you,” Anmol said. “I put all my money in that truck. The sound system, everything …” He started tearing up again.

As Anmol cried, I got angry. I didn’t like it when people messed with me. I didn’t like it when people messed with my friends. And I
really
didn’t like it when people messed with my neighborhood.

CHAPTER 15

THE SECRET WEAPON

A
FTER THE ICE-CREAM-TRUCK INCIDENT,
H
AROLD
and I rested at home. Harold had an ice pack for each knee and sat on a bag of frozen tater tots to soothe his behind. I drank several beers to quell my shaking.

After a while, I went to my apartment upstairs and tried to go to sleep, but a rampaging ice-cream truck barreled through my dreams. So I picked up Dr. Redburn’s book and looked at the image on the back flap. Dr. Redburn was younger than I expected, mid-40s tops. He was handsome, with black hair, even blacker eyes, angular features and a strong jaw. He didn’t seem as cuddly as the pop psychologists who appeared on television.

I alternated between reading and peeking at the back flap, staring at him like his photo would talk back. He seemed like the key to the puzzle. The necklace disappeared in his office. I started investigating the necklace, and then Harold and I nearly get flattened by an ice-cream truck. It wouldn’t hurt for me to get an appointment with Dr. Redburn.

The easiest way for me to make an appointment was to call the office. Or so I thought. I placed an exploratory phone call that morning, at 9:00 am. A snippy male receptionist told me that the doctor was so booked he wasn’t admitting any more patients.

The receptionist’s tone made me feel stupid for even asking. “How was I supposed to know?” I asked.

“Dr. Redburn is a professional,” the receptionist told me. “He doesn’t just take people in off the street.”

I hung up on him. I didn’t need him, anyway. I decided to turn to my secret weapon—my mom. She would launch me into the tight-knit social realm in which the Buckners and Dr. Redburn orbited. And she owed me since she brought me Sabrina in the first place. I thought that Mom would like being more involved. She was always game for something new and was a fun accomplice.

I hopped into Cherry 2000 and drove to Seacliff. Whenever I visited Mom, who resided on a higher plane in more ways than one, I imagined I was a lost marble who tumbled down a hill and who wound up in the little bowl that was South Park.

I parked Cherry 2000 a few blocks away, behind a landscaping truck. Mom’s neighbors tended to grouse over Cherry 2000 and her paint job, but I felt that, if Cherry 2000 had a personality, she’d much rather hang out with a truck from Lopez Landscaping instead of a snotty Bentley.

I strolled up to the gate and punched in the code that would announce me to Mom’s staff. Esperanza, the maid, buzzed open the gate, and I marveled yet again at my mom’s creamy confection of a house. The mansion looked like a sprawling, one-story wedding cake. Since Mom didn’t do stairs after falling down a set when she lived on Cape Cod, the house flowed out rather than up.

Esperanza was already at the front door by the time I walked up the winding driveway. “Your mama says to bring you in. She just finished with Hands.” “Hands” was Esperanza’s attempt to say “Hans,” who was Mom’s fitness instructor.

Mom could not exist without Hans. If he weren’t around, she would probably be in a hospital somewhere. Hans was a massage therapist by trade, but he also developed special exercises for Mom that she could do without acquiring another cast.

I followed Esperanza toward the east wing of the house, past the sitting room’s heavenly view of the Bay. Mom was in the salon, where Esperanza had left a pitcher of cold, sweet tea, a treat Mom always made available for my visits.

Mom rose from a chair, did air-kisses, and raved about what Hans had done for strengthening her core. I didn’t understand a word she said about yoga or pilates or any of the latest exercise trends. Running around after allegedly shady individuals gave me more than enough exercise.

After sitting down again, Mom flapped her hands wildly. “Oh! Oh! I am so sorry for sending Sabrina your way! I had no idea she was so nuts. I have something for you. Consider it an apology!” She whipped out a shopping bag.

Although I preferred jeans and corduroy jackets, I never complained at the prospect of designer clothes, especially ones that might work as disguises. Mom tossed me the shopping bag, and I pulled out a hot-pink jogging suit. The bold shade nearly blinded me. Pulling it out and twisting it around, I saw that the suit pants had the word “JUICY” stitched into the backside.

I just had to ask, “But what if your butt is dry?”

Mom giggled, “I certainly hope it is! I knew you’d get a kick out of it! No one would recognize you in it.”

I put the jogging suit back in the bag, poured myself some tea, and crossed to the window to savor Mom’s view of the bay. “Thank you,” I said. “And you shouldn’t feel so guilty about Sabrina. At least her case is interesting.”

“Oh, so she gave you some details?” Mom asked. “She was so hysterical, she wouldn’t tell me anything other than that one of her maids is missing. The way she cried, you’d think that woman never had a maid quit on her! Look, I love Esperanza, and I would be heartbroken if she vanished, absolutely heartbroken. But I wouldn’t be paying a detective to find her.”

“I wish more women did that, actually. I’d make a lot more money,” I laughed.