P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental (25 page)

Mr. Buckner unleashed a theatrical sob. “Poor thing!” Then he paused a moment. “I need to get those pictures. When can we meet?”

“I have the photos with me. I can get them to you, but I don’t want to go to Pacific Heights. I don’t want to run into your wife. She might figure out that I’m working for both of you,” I lied.

“Of course,” Mr. Buckner said.

“So, I’d like to keep our meeting close to my neighborhood this time. Can we get together at the Gold Rush BBQ tomorrow? Before the game might be a good time. No one will notice you there.”

Silence came from his end. What was he thinking? Was he happy that he might be able to institutionalize his wife and get his mitts on her money? Was he disappointed that I didn’t say anything about a missing necklace?

When Mr. Buckner finally said, “I’ll be there,” his voice was completely flat.

CHAPTER 34

DRAGNET

A
T 12:05 THE NEXT DAY,
a distracted Mr. Buckner practically threw the car keys into Jamal’s hands. He was late to his fake meeting with me because of slow traffic on the Embarcadero. I was watching from my vantage point at the outdoor patio tables in front of the Townsend Delicatessen. I was undercover as a jogging yuppie doing a set of interminably long stretches before my workout. I had on Mom’s present of the yuppie tracksuit with the word “JUICY” emblazoned on my backside, and a pair of powder-blue Pumas graced my feet. A blonde wig, a Giants ball cap and shades finished off the disguise. Little did passers-by know this yuppie jogger had a pistol in her pocket.

I’d spent all night preparing for the moment of Mr. Buckner’s arrival at the Gold Coast BBQ. By noon the next day, I had called on everyone I trusted to pull the dragnet good and tight around Fake Jorge, and I’d start making Mr. Buckner sweat even more, too. I had Jamal at Gold Rush BBQ, Shane at the Echo Chamber in Potrero Hill, Wayne hanging out by the Gold Rush BBQ valet parking lot, and Larry protecting Mom, Dad and Harold up in Sausalito. I also hoped that Muriel would turn up where Shane was, at the Echo Chamber, but I had a little less control over that.

I congratulated myself on the creative touch that might get Shane and Muriel, if not back together, at least reconciled. And maybe, just maybe that would lead to an opening gig for the Marquee Idols at the South of the Slot, but I wasn’t going to push it. I called both Shane and Muriel and told them the same story—I was hoping to bring in a possible informant and needed to grill him in a safe place, and I just wanted some backup.

Only I didn’t tell either Shane or Muriel that the other one would be there. I told them to arrive at the practice space at the same time, and I’d see what happened. If the episode turned out to be a disaster, I figured it wasn’t a loss. Either Shane’s blood would be on the floor, which would terrify Fake Jorge into telling everything he knew, or the two would be all lovey-dovey and off in a corner somewhere while I did my work.

When Wayne got home the night before and I filled him in, he said he was honored to participate in one of my adventures. He even promised that he’d dress up. I said all I wanted in return was for him to be completely sober and to bring Westy. “You want Westy? What for?”

“I’m gonna need a lot of room,” I replied. “We’re going to be tying up a greasy hog.”

“Hooray!” he replied.

As for Larry, his primary duty was to keep Mom and Dad from killing each other. His second duty was to keep my mother entertained and off the phone. Then his third duty was to call the cops and the
San Francisco Chronicle
if I didn’t call him by the end of the Giants game.

My plan unfolded as soon as Jamal had Mr. Buckner’s keys and was behind the wheel of his Beamer. I started jogging up Brannan so I could meet Jamal on Brannan and Second.

Jamal turned the corner and nearly missed me. I had to flag him down, and when I hopped in the car, he exclaimed, “You don’t look like yourself!”

“Yeah, I don’t feel like myself, either. Okay—off to the Barbary!”

Jamal made his way toward downtown, trying to dodge groups of conventioneers in their badges by the Moscone Center. At a stoplight past the Bay Bridge, he pulled off the Gold Rush BBQ windbreaker. He had a crisp white shirt on underneath. He wasn’t exactly dressed like a chauffeur, and a limo service would faint at the sight of his neck tattoo, but his look would do in a pinch.

I pulled out my Crackberry and dialed up the Barbary’s front desk. I spoke in a heavy German accent that I practiced after watching Wayne’s set of Fassbinder DVDs, which he was watching stoned the night before. When someone picked up, I turned on the charm, “
Hallo. Ich mus
-”

“Huh, lady?”

“I am sorry.
Sprechen Sie Deutsch
?”

“
Sprechen Sie wha
?”

I pretended to struggle with my words. “I am here now for a meeting, and I need help with my luggage. Uh, bellhop?”

“You stayin’ here, lady?”

“This is the Hotel Barbary, ja?”

“Uh, ja. You want someone to meet you out front?”

“Please, yes. Send Antonio. I know him. I like him. Tell him I will have a blue BMW named Bucky. Five minutes.
Das ist ser gut. Danke schoen
.”

Jamal stalled a little bit before turning right off Market and down Fourth Street so we would time everything correctly.

Poor Fake Jorge was a sitting duck. He was in front of the Hotel Barbary, and he looked bored. I knew he wouldn’t be bored for long. He would be mighty surprised to see a Beamer with “Bucky” plates and no Bucky inside.

To taunt Fake Jorge, I asked Jamal to pull up a little bit past him. Fake Jorge’s head swiveled once he saw the BMW and the “BUCKY” plate. His mouth opened a little, and he smiled. I was thrilled. That look on his face just cemented the tie between him and Mr. Buckner.

Fake Jorge ran up to the car. “Mr. Buckner! I knew you’d come back! I’ll do better next time! I’ll get her next time, boss!”

Then I leapt out with the element of surprise. “
Hallo!
” I waved at Fake Jorge, who looked from me to the car.

“Shit,” Fake Jorge said.

And then I boldly stepped in front of him, grabbed his face with both hands, and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

A kid walking past gawked and said, “Daaaamn!”

I held Fake Jorge there for a good thirty seconds until I knew his brains were thoroughly scrambled. The other bellhops suspected nothing, and one yelled, “You go, Antonio!”

I pulled Fake Jorge toward the car, and then I shoved my right hand into the jogging suit pocket, aiming my pistol squarely at his stomach. I wrapped my left hand behind his head, as if pulling him close to whisper a sweet nothing. “You gonna get me now? Looks like I got you.”

Fake Jorge tried to shake me off, but he was a tough little bugger, and I shoved the pistol right between two of his ribs. “It’s gonna hurt more if you don’t move it!”

Jamal had already left the drivers’ seat and walked around the car to open the door. He was perfect at playing the part of a patient limo driver indulging a wealthy tourist’s penchant for having sex with bellhops. When some people stopped to stare, he even yelled, “What the hell
you
lookin’ at? Never seen people fuckin’ before?”

I muscled Fake Jorge into the car by his head and threw myself on top of his body. He was flailing wildly by this point, chattering in a mix of Spanish and English, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t calling me sweetheart. I gave him another poke in the ribs. “And that’s for the chloroform!” I tried to slap some duct tape over his mouth, but he kept screaming.

Jamal took off for the parking lot the Gold Rush BBQ valets used. He regularly twisted his head back to see what was going on and tried to send a backhand or two in Fake Jorge’s direction. I was reading Fake Jorge the riot act. “Okay, if you feel mouthy, what’s going on with Buckner? How do you know him? What do you do for him? Did he give you that credit card? I’ll go easy on you if you stop screaming and talk.”

Fake Jorge stopped screaming, but he spat at me and missed, so I kept yelling. “Are you Jorge? Who are YOU? Who is Jorge Vazquez? Ya know, the real Jorge Vazquez doesn’t appreciate your using his credit card!” The Fake Jorge tried to tear at my hair in response, and my wig came off, but I reared back and aimed the gun squarely between his eyes.

I wouldn’t have shot him, but Fake Jorge didn’t know that. I’d never shot anybody, but I had to admit that I was tempted when it came to Fake Jorge.

The mere suggestion of being shot made Fake Jorge freeze. Fake Jorge or whoever he was wasn’t the type to take a bullet for the team, but he still wasn’t talking.

“What’s the plan?” I shouted. He didn’t answer, so I hit him in the jaw and duct taped his mouth, if only to stop the yelling.

“Remind me never to piss you off,” Jamal said.

Then Jamal pulled into the valet parking lot, where Wayne was waiting with his Westy. Wayne was so excited to be part of the action that he threw on a fake mustache and sunglasses. Jamal, Wayne, the Fake Jorge, and I would have made a motley crew to anyone driving past. One guy looked like—and was—an ex-con from Hunter’s Point. The other looked like the bastard offspring of Mark Twain and an acid casualty. The woman was a yuppie chick who was straddling a frightened, short Latino.

According to plan, Jamal promptly changed back into his Gold Coast BBQ windbreaker and headed off like he didn’t know us. I took a deep breath. Jamal didn’t get caught by his boss, and I owed him. All he had to do was get the car and give it to Mr. Buckner when he left the restaurant.

That left Wayne and me. Wayne was a fantastic guitar player, and he was plenty generous with his food and his drugs, but he’d never followed me on a job before. Watching me subdue the Fake Jorge and tie a blindfold around his head, Wayne said, “Wow, you’re pretty good at that,” he said.

I sighed. I needed to get the Fake Jorge out of the backseat of Mr. Buckner’s BMW and in the back of that Westy before anyone noticed what was going on. San Francisco was forgiving, but it wasn’t
that
forgiving. “Can you help me tie him up?”

At least Wayne was eager. He clapped his hands together with glee. He threw a rope around Fake Jorge’s arms and started looping and knotting. I dragged Fake Jorge out by his torso while Wayne wrapped his arms around Fake Jorge’s feet and tried to lift them, but Fake Jorge started kicking. I hissed, “Don’t you dare,” and prodded him with the gun. “Duct tape everything that’s moving,” I told Wayne.

Wayne managed to corral the squirmy Fake Jorge the second time around. As we toted him lengthwise to the Westy’s open side door, Wayne exclaimed, “This is fun! It really is like tying up a hog!”

“Wait. You really tied up a hog?” I asked.

Wayne laughed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, ma’am.”

Then we tossed Fake Jorge through the Westy’s side entrance and used Wayne’s surprise hog-tying skills to truss him up.

CHAPTER 35

I RESPECT YOU PEOPLE

W
AYNE DROVE THE
W
ESTY AROUND
in circles to get Fake Jorge confused, and then he headed over to Potrero Hill and the Echo Chamber. The building was so far out and the bands practicing there would be so loud that hardly anyone would notice we were dragging a trussed human being inside and forcing information out of him.

I heard powerful rock music throbbing from outside as Wayne and I threw open the Westy doors and dragged out the Fake Jorge. I had his feet, and Wayne had his head. We had to drop him on purpose twice to get him to settle down.

We passed the lead singer of Black Ice, who was trying out some martial arts movements in the parking lot. That was part of his schtick, that and humping the front amplifiers. He stared at us for a while until I said, “Bad drugs!” and nodded down at Fake Jorge.

“Oh. Right on.” Then he went back to slicing his hands through the air.

I muttered under my breath, “You must be giving him the good shit, Wayne!”

Wayne giggled. “It pays to make friends.”

Wayne and I kept dragging Fake Jorge through the building until we reached our space. According to plan, we stretched Fake Jorge out and held him as still as possible when we went past the Echo Chamber’s security cameras, which were stationed to make sure strangers weren’t trying to lift band equipment. If anyone asked, all the Marquee Idols plus Muriel were to say one of our friends did indeed encounter some bad drugs, an entirely plausible story that had unfolded many a time at the rehearsal facility.

Once we made it inside, I dropped Fake Jorge’s bound feet while Wayne straddled him and kept him still. I unlocked the door to our rented space, opened it and stared into darkness. I wondered where Shane and Muriel were as I flicked on the light, but I wasn’t wondering for long. The two were up against the wall, doing what is often done in a bed.

Wayne gasped—for good reason, as Shane’s bottom was bare. “My eyes! My eyes!”

I winced. I assumed my plan would go badly and Muriel would beat the living hell out of Shane at worst, or there would be a mild thaw in relations at best. I didn’t expect the reunion of Muriel and Shane to look like a National Geographic program on the behavior of human beings in mating season.

“A-hem!” I announced. “We have a visitor! Remember?”

The thrusting came to a halt. Muriel took a short breath and yelled, “Can’t anyone get any privacy around here?”

Sensing an opportunity, Fake Jorge thrashed about, pushing his legs out against me and butting his head against Wayne, so we pulled him back into the hallway. “No,” I told her. “But, uh, thanks … you guys … for helping me out. This is awkward, and I hate to interrupt, but we’re having some trouble reining this person in!”

Shane was muttering, but Muriel was calm, as if she didn’t care who saw her in flagrante delicto. “Okay,” she said. “You guys mind looking away a moment?”

Fake Jorge began twisting around, but Wayne and I obliged as Shane and Muriel disconnected from each other.