The McCone Files (8 page)

He looked back at me. His eyes were a pale blue, washed out—and worried, “The people here at the station speak highly of you.” He said after a moment.

“I hope so. They–especially Mr. Del Boccio—know me well.” Especially Don; we'd been lovers for more than six months now.

“When they told me they had a bodyguard lined up, all they said was that you were a first-rate investigator. If I was rude earlier because I was surprised by your being a woman, I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I assume by first-rate, one of the things they mean is that you are discreet.”

“I don't talk about my cases, if that's what you want to know.”

He nodded. “All right, I'm going to entrust you with some information. It's not common knowledge, and you're not to pass it on, gossip about it your friends—”

Kabalka was beginning to annoy me. “Get on with it, Mr. Kabalka. Or find yourself another bodyguard.” Not easy to do, when the performers needed to arrive at the pavilion in about three hours.

His face reddened, and he started to retort, but bit back the words. He looked at his fingers, still laced together and pressing against one another in a feverish rhythm. “All right, Once again I apologize. In my profession you get used to dealing with such scumbags that you lose perspective—”

“You were about to tell me…?”

He looked up, squared his shoulders as if he were about to deliver a state secret to an enemy agent. “All right. There is reason why my clients require special security precautions at the Diablo Valley Pavilion. They—Gary Fitzgerald and John Tilby—are originally from Contra Costa County.”

“What? I thought they were British.”

“Yes, of course you did. And so does almost everyone else. It's part of the mystique, the selling power.”

“I don't understand.”

“When I discovered the young men in the early seventies, they were performing in a cheap club in San Bernardino, in the valley east of L.A. They were cousins, fresh off the farm—the ranch, in their case. Tilby's father was a dairy rancher in the Contra Costa hills, near Clayton; he raised both boys—Gary's parents had died. When old Tilby died, the ranch was sold and the boys ran off to seek fortune and fame. Old story. And they'd found the glitter doesn't come easy. Another old story. But when I spotted them in that club, I could see they were good. Damned good. So I took them on and made them stars.”

“The oldest story of all.”

“Perhaps. But now and then it does come true.”

“Why the British background?”

“It was the early seventies. The mystique still surrounded such singing groups as the Rolling Stones and the Beatles. What could be better than a British clown act with aristocratic origins? Besides they were already doing the British bit in their act when I discovered them, and it worked.”

I nodded, amused by the machinations of show business. “So you're afraid someone who once knew them might get too close out at the pavilion tonight and recognize them?”

“Yes.”

“Don't you think it's a long shot—after all these years?”

“They left here in sixty-nine. People don't change all that much in sixteen years.”

That depended, but I wasn't about to debate the point with him. “But what about makeup? Won't that disguise them?” Fitzgerald and Tilby wore traditional clown white-face.

“They can't apply the makeup until they're about to go on—in other circumstances, it might be possible to put it on earlier, but not in this heat.”

I nodded. It all made sense. But why did I feel there was something Kabalka wasn't telling me about his need for an armed guard? Perhaps it was the way his eyes had once again shifted from mine to the posters on the walls. Perhaps it was the nervous pressing of his laced fingers. Or maybe it was only that sixth sense that sometimes worked for me, what I called a detective's instinct and others—usually men—labeled woman's intuition.

“All right, Mr. Kabalka, “I said, “I'll take the job.”

I checked in with Don to find out when I should be back at the studios, then went home to change clothing. We would arrive at the pavilion around four; the show—an early one because of its appeal for children—would begin at six. And I was certain that the high temperatures—sure to have topped 100 in the Diablo Valley—would not drop until long after dark. Chambray pants and an abbreviated tank top, with my suede jacket to put on in case of a late evening chill were all I would need. That, and my .38 special, tucked in the outer compartment of my leather shoulder bag.

By three o'clock I was back at the KSUN studios. Don met me in the lobby and ushered me to the lounge where Kabalka, Gary Fitzgerald, and John Tilby waited.

The two clowns were about my age—a little over thirty. Their British accents might once have been a put-on, but they sounded as natural now as if they'd been born and raised in London. Gary Fitzgerald was tall and lanky, with some straight dark hair, angular features that stopped just short of being homely, and a direct way of meeting one's eye. John Tilby was shorter, sandy haired—the type we used to refer to in high school as “cute.” His shy demeanor was in sharp contrast to his cousin's straightforward greeting and handshake. They didn't really seem like relatives, but then neither do I in comparison to my four siblings and numerous cousins. All of them resemble one another—typical Scotch-Irish towheads—but I have inherited all the characteristics of our one-eighth Shoshone Indian blood. And none of us are similar in personality or outlook, save for the fact we care a great deal about one another.

Wayne Kabalka hovered in the background while the introductions were made. The first thing he said to me was, “Did you bring your gun?”

“Yes, I did. Everything's under control.”

Kabalka wrung his hands together as if he only wished it were true. Then he said, “Do you have a car, Ms. McCone?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest we take both yours and mine. I have to swing by the hotel and pick up my wife and John's girlfriend.”

“All right. I have room for one passenger in mine. Don, what about you? How are you getting out there?”

“I'm going in the Wonder Bus.”

I rolled my eyes. The wonder bus was a KSUN publicity ploy—a former school bus painted in rainbow hues and emblazoned with the station call letters. It traveled to all KSUN-sponsored events, plus to anything else where management deemed its presence might be beneficial. As far as I was concerned, it was the most outrageous in a panoply of the station's efforts at self-promotion, and I took every opportunity to expound that viewpoint to Don. Surprisingly Don—a quiet classical musician who hated rock-and roll and the notoriety that went with being a D.J.—never cringed at riding the Wonder Bus. If anything, he took almost a perverse pleasure in the motorized monstrosity.

Secretly, I had shameful desire to hitch a ride on the Wonder Bus myself.

Wayne Kabalka looked somewhat puzzled at Don's statement. “Wonder Bus?” he said to himself. Then, “Well, if everyone's ready, let's go.”

I turned to Don and smiled in a superior fashion. “Enjoy your ride.”

We trooped out into the parking lot. Heat shimmered off the concrete paving. Kabalka pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Is it always this hot here in September?”

“This is the month we have our true summer in the city, but no, this is unusual.” I went over and placed my bag carefully behind the driver's seat of my MG convertible.

When John Tilby saw the car, his eyes brightened; he came over to it running a hand along one of its battle-scarred flanks as if it were a brand new Porsche. “I used to have one of these.”

“I'll bet it was in better shape than this one.”

“Not really.” A shadow passed over his face and he continued to caress the car in spite of the fact that the metal must be burning hot to the touch.

“Look,” I said, “if you want to drive it out to the pavilion, I wouldn't mind being a passenger for a change.”

He hesitated, then said wistfully, “That's nice of you, but I can't…I don't drive. But I'd like to ride along—”

“John!” Kabalka voice was impatient behind us. “Come on, we're keeping Corinne and Nicole waiting.”

Tilby gave the car a last longing glance, then shrugged. “I guess I'd better ride out with Wayne and the girls.” He turned and walked off to Kabalka's new-looking Seville that was parked at the other side of the lot.

Gary Fitzgerald appeared next to me, a small canvas bag in one hand, garment bag in the other. “I guess you're stuck with me,” he said, smiling easily.

“That's not such a bad deal.”

He glanced back at Tilby and Kabalka, who were climbing into the Cadillac. “Wayne's right to make John go with him. Nicole would be jealous if she saw him with another woman.” His tone was slightly resentful. Of Nicole? I wondered. Perhaps the girlfriend had caused dissension between the cousins.

“Corinne is Wayne's wife?” I asked as we got into the MG.

“Yes. You'll meet both of them at the performance; they're never very far away.” Again I heard the undertone of annoyance.

We got onto the freeway and crossed the Bay Bridge. Commuter traffic out of the city was already getting heavy; people left their offices early on hot Fridays in September. I wheeled the little car in and out from lane to lane, bypassing trucks and A.C. Transit buses. Fitzgerald didn't speak. I glanced at him a couple of times to see if my maneuvering bothered him, but he sat slumped against the door, his almost-homely features shadowed with thought. Pre-performance nerves, possibly.

From the bridge, I took Highway 24 east toward Walnut Creek. We passed through the outskirts of Oakland, smog-hazed and sprawling—the ugly duckling of the Bay Area. Sophisticates from San Francisco scorned Oakland, repeating Gertrude Stein's overused phrase. “There is no there there,” but lately there'd been a current of unease in their mockery. Oakland's thriving port had stolen much of the shipping business from her sister city across the Bay; her politics were alive and spirited; and on the site of former slums, sleek new buildings had been put up. Oakland was at last shedding her pinfeathers, and it made many of my fellow San Franciscans nervous.

From there we began the long ascent through the Berkeley Hills to the Caldecott Tunnel. The MG's aged engine strained as we passed lumbering trucks and slower cars, and when we reached the tunnel—three tunnels, actually, two of them now open to accommodate the eastbound commuter rush—I shot into the fast lane. At the top of the grade midway through the tunnel, I shifted into neutral to give the engine a rest. Arid heat assailed us as we emerged; the temperature in San Francisco had been nothing compared to this.

The freeway continued to descend, past brown sun-baked hills covered with live oak and eucalyptus. Then houses began to appear, tucked back among the trees. The air was scented with dry leaves and grass and dust. Fire danger, I thought. One spark and those houses become tinderboxes.

The town of Orinda appeared on the right. On the left, in the center of the freeway, a BART train was pulling out of the station. I accelerated and tried to outrace it, giving up when my speedometer hit eighty and waving at some school kids who were watching from the train. Then I dropped back to sixty and glanced at Fitzgerald, suddenly embarrassed by my childish display. He was sitting up straighter and grinning.

I said, “The temptation was overwhelming.”

“I know the impulse.”

Feeling more comfortable now that he seemed willing to talk, I said, “Did Mr. Kabalka tell you that he let me in on where you're really from?

For a moment he looked startled, than nodded.

“Is this the first time you've been back here in Contra Costa County?”

“Yes.”

“You'll find it changed.”

“I guess so.”

“Mainly there are more people. Place like Walnut Creek and Concord have grown by leaps and bounds in the last ten years.”

The county stretched east from the ridge of hills we'd just passed through toward Mount Diablo, a nearly 4,000-foot peak which had been developed into a 15,000-acre state park. On the north side of the county was the Carquinez Strait and its oil refineries, Suisun Bay, and the San Joaquin River which separated Contra Costa from Sacramento County and the rest of the Delta. The city of Richmond and environs, to the west, were also part of the county, and their inclusion had always struck me as odd. Besides being geographically separated by the expanse of the Tilden Regional Park and San Pablo Reservoir, the mostly black industrial city was culturally light years away from the rest of the suburban, upwardly mobile county. With the exception of a few towns like Pittsburgh or Antioch, this was affluent, fast-developing land; I supposed one day even those north-county backwaters would fall victim to expensive residential tracts and shopping centers full of upscale boutiques.

When Fitzgerald didn't comment, I said, “Does it look different to you?”

“Not really.”

“Wait till we get to Walnut Creek. The area around the BART station is all high-rise now. They're predicting it will become an urban center that will rival San Francisco.”

He grunted in disapproval.

“About the only thing they've managed to preserve out here is the area around Mount Diablo. I suppose you know it from when you were a kid.”

“Yes.”

“I went hiking in the park last spring, during wildflower season. It was really beautiful that time of year. They say if you climb high enough you can see thirty-five counties from the mountain.”

“This pavilion,” Fitzgerald said, “is part of the state park?”

For a moment I was surprised, then realized that the pavilion hadn't been in existence in 1969, when he'd left home. “No, but near it. The land around it is relatively unspoiled. Horses and cattle ranches, mostly. They built it about eight years ago, after the Concord Pavilion became such a success. I guess that's one index of how this part of the Bay Area has grown, that it can support two concert pavilions.”