Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (2 page)

Suits, as we came to call him, was a frequent fixture at the big old house on Durant Avenue that I shared with a fluctuating
group of other students, including Hank Zahn and his now wife Anne-Marie Altman. He’d suddenly appear on the doorstep, just
in from southern California or the East Coast or the Midwest, and we’d find ourselves providing him with food and drink and
a place to crash. In return Suits would hand out samples of whatever he was currently selling and regale us with tales of
events on campuses in such far-flung places as Boston, Ann Arbor, Boulder, and Austin. Then he’d go about his business, scurrying
around Berkeley in his hunched, furtive way, suitcase in hand. One day he’d simply be gone, giving no forewarning and offering
no explanation.

As Suits came toward me now, I wondered what he had in that briefcase. And I had a suspicion that I was going to find out
fairly soon.

“Lookin’ good, Sherry-O,” he said, setting the case on the coffee table and holding out his arms for a hug.

Sherry-O! I couldn’t believe I used to let him call me that. Smiling weakly, I stepped into his embrace. My body felt stiff
and wooden; I extricated myself quickly.

Suits’s thin lips still held a smile, but now it was … sarcastic? No, ironic. Why?

He said, “Read in the
Examiner
about you opening your own firm. Good going.”

A reporter friend had done a long profile of me for last Sunday’s business section. “Thanks,” I said. “Please, sit down.”

Suits shot his cuff and looked at his watch again. A Rolex all right. “Can’t. I’ve got a meeting downtown in twenty-four minutes,
so I’ll cut to the reason I’m here. I want to hire you.”

“To do what?”

“We’ll have to talk about that later. I spent damn near half an hour waiting for you.”

The remark reminded me of his less-than-endearing habit of making criticisms at inopportune moments. Social graces were not
within the realm of his talents. “You could have called for an appointment,” I said tartly.

“Uh-uh. Given our history, it was better to just show up.”

“Our history?”

“Well, I did dump you.”

“You
what
?”

He seemed startled by my response. Then he glanced around as if he was afraid someone might be eavesdropping. “You know, after
that Halloween party. I slunk out of town the next morning. Felt guilty about it for years, but that’s the way it had to be.
I wasn’t ready to settle down, not then.”

“Halloween party? Oh …” Now I remembered what he was talking about, but his revisionist version of “our” history struck me
as truly remarkable.

One wine- and dope-saturated night in the late seventies I’d lost all reason and allowed Suits to crawl into my bed. The next
morning I woke horrified at what I’d done and relieved to find him gone. On his subsequent visit to campus I avoided him,
and within six months I’d fallen in love—or so I thought at the time—and moved in with my new boyfriend. The disgraceful episode
with Suits was relegated to the corner of my mind reserved for extreme lapses in judgment, and eventually forgotten.

Apparently not so for him, though—the man who had “dumped” me and “slunk out of town” in order to avoid further romantic entanglement!

He was watching me anxiously, no doubt hoping for absolution. I felt a nasty urge to set the record straight, but quickly
suppressed it. No need to rehash an ancient and irreconcilable difference of opinion. No need to bruise his male pride at
this late date. Besides, the man was here to hire me.

“Well,” I said after pretending to give his words serious consideration, “you probably saved us both a lot of grief by leaving
town. God knows, I wasn’t ready to settle down then, either. Never have been.”

He nodded, obviously relieved. “So what do you say, Sherry-O? Will you take on an old friend as a client?”

“Suits, I need to know more about the case before I can say.”

He glanced at his watch again. “Later, okay? We’ll talk later.”

“When?”

“Two o’clock.” He reached into his inside pocket, took out a business card, and handed it to me. “The address where I’m living
is on the back. You be on time.” Then he moved toward the door, glancing from side to side, shoulders hunched, in an odd scampering
gait that was vintage Suitcase.

I looked at the card. The embossed side said “Intervention Management, Inc., T. J. Gordon, President” and gave an address
on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. On the other side he’d scribbled a local address in a very pricey new condominium
complex on the Embarcadero in the South Beach district.

So what did this mean? Had Suitcase Gordon become a legitimate businessman? Or had he simply perfected one of his many scams?

I reviewed his unaltered mannerisms and appearance. Discounted the expensive suit, briefcase, and Rolex. Decided he couldn’t
possibly be legitimate. No legitimate person would act
that
furtive.

* * *

I pocketed Suits’s card and went upstairs. The phone-company woman was still installing, the new furniture hadn’t yet arrived,
and my nephew, Mick Savage, lay flat on his stomach on my office floor doing something to one of the electrical sockets. He
looked over his shoulder when he heard me come in and grimaced.

“Wiring must’ve been put in about the time Noah’s Ark sailed,” he complained.

I eyed him nervously. “Did you shut off the power?”

“Do I look like an idiot?”

“I won’t answer that.” In truth, my sister Charlene’s eldest could look vacuous upon occasion, but I took that to be typical
of many seventeen-year-olds and assumed he’d outgrow it. He was a big kid: sandy blond like his mother; stocky like his father,
country-music star Ricky Savage; and he had the same easy, outgoing disposition as both his parents.

Mick had been sent from Pacific Palisades to San Francisco for the month because I needed someone to teach me how to use my
computer. In that department my nephew was a genius—had, in fact, been suspended from school during his senior year for getting
into the board of education’s mainframe and selling teachers’ confidential evaluations of students to the highest bidders.
The night before she put him on the northbound plane, Charlene had confided over the phone that she was worried about her
son: first there’d been the time he ran away to San Francisco at the holidays and I’d had to spend my Christmas Eve scouring
the city for him; then there was the business of him changing his preferred version of his given name six times in the past
three years; and, of course, there was the disgraceful hacker episode. Since graduation, Charlene said, Mick had been drifting
and directionless; he refused to discuss his future plans. Perhaps I could counsel him while he was with me? At least persuade
him to give college a try? I said I’d see what I could do.

Unfortunately, Charlene and Ricky were going to be very unhappy with the results of Mick’s visit.

I went over to my desk and picked up my mail. Nothing but bills and a large manila envelope. I slit it open and pulled out
a thick booklet: “P.I. & Security Mail-Order Catalog, The One-Stop Shopping Source for Your Investigation Business.” On the
front was a silhouette of a guy in a trench coat; the note attached to it began, “Dear Mr. Savage, Thank you for your interest
…”

I looked at the address label on the envelope, realized I’d mistakenly opened Mick’s mail, and sighed.

During the past couple of weeks, Mick had made up his mind he wanted to become a private investigator. Why, of all possible
professions, he’d chosen mine remained unclear to me, particularly since he hadn’t seen me do any actual investigating since
he’d been here. But he’d decided, and if I couldn’t defuse the idea, I was definitely going to be on my sister’s blacklist.

First I’d pointed out that he was too young to be licensed. He’d said he would stay on and work for me, learning the trade
until he was of age. Then I told him I couldn’t afford to pay both him and the assistant I planned to hire. He said he’d accept
room and board at my house in lieu of a salary. I insisted that I liked living alone. He said I wouldn’t even know he was
there. I declared the plan unworkable. He pouted. Since our latest discussion he’d become silent and secretive, but I gathered
his studies were moving forward: yesterday I’d found several volumes—including
Advanced Lock Picking
and
Getaway: Driving Techniques for Escape and Evasion
—hidden under the guest room bed. Given Mick’s past interest in extralegal activity, those two titles made me distinctly uneasy.

Yes, Charlene and Ricky were going to be
extremely
unhappy with Aunt Sharon’s effect on their son. In fact, if Mick persisted in this plan, my sister would kill me.

Mick finished with the socket and stood up, dusting off the front of his jeans and work shirt. He saw the catalog in my hands
and started guiltily.

“So what’re you going to order from this one?” I asked, paging through the offerings.
“The Hacker’s Handbook? Money for Nothing: Rip-Offs, Cons, and Swindles?
Or how about
Counterfeit ID Made Easy?”

“You opened my mail.”

“In error.” I handed the catalog to him.

He pushed out his lips in a fair imitation of a bulldog. “Yeah, sure, in error. You’re in such an uproar about me wanting
to become a P.I. that you’ve probably tapped the phone.”

“Mick—”

“I don’t see what’s the big deal about it.”

“I’ve told you, it’s a tough business. Tough to break into, too.”

“Well, yeah, maybe for you, being a woman way back then.”

Way back during the Dark Ages. God, there were times when Mick could make me feel
old
! “That’s right. But the training—for anybody, even now—is less than thrilling. You work as a security guard the way I did
before and during college and hope management’ll pick you out of the rank and file, or you sit in a cubicle running endless
computer traces, or you go out on auto repos—”

“So? You stuck with it and got your license.”

“Only because I couldn’t find any other job after getting a B.A. in sociology. Only because I got lucky and ended up with
a boss who was willing to train and promote me.”

“Well,
I
got lucky when Mom and Dad sent me up here to help you.”

“It’s not the same, Michael.”

“Mick.”

“Sorry.”

“Why isn’t it the same?”

“Because …” I hunted for an explanation. “Because you have advantages and prospects that I didn’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like wealthy parents who are willing to pay your way through college.” There, Charlene, I though, I’ve talked to him about
higher education.

Mick rolled his eyes. “Don’t start, Aunt Shar.”

The title “aunt” was one of the things that made me feel old. I figured if he could change his name all those times and expect
me to remember which was current, I could insist he break himself of a lifelong habit. “Sharon or Shar,” I said firmly. “Forget
the ‘aunt.’”

He frowned. “Uh, okay.”

From outside I heard the rumble of a truck’s engine. I went to the window, looked down, and saw the van from Breuner’s. “The
furniture’s here,” I told him, glad for the interruption. “You want to go down and direct them?”

He went to the door, the one-stop shopping source clutched protectively in both hands. “You know,” he said, “if you don’t
want me working for you, I’ll have to go for it on my own. I have a plan.”

“What plan?”

He shook his head, grinned evilly at me, and disappeared around the doorjamb. I sighed in resignation.

Oh, yes, my sister was going to
kill
me.

During the 1840s Gold Rush, San Francisco’s South Beach was called Happy Valley, and to this day the name applies. Of course,
only ghosts of the newly rich miners and their fancy ladies remain; gone too are most of the sailors and longshoremen who
used to work the waterfront there; many light industrial firms fled the high rents in the early 1980s. But now the abandoned
warehouses and factories are making way for luxurious residential complexes; the crumbling old piers are being reclaimed for
non-maritime use; there’s a new marina, and an upscale restaurant seems to open every week. Even the big quake of 1989 did
South Beach a favor by damaging the unsightly Embarcadero Freeway to its north; when the structure was finally razed, the
long-forgotten bay views stunned us all. There’s an abundance of attractions in this present-day Happy Valley.

So which of them, I wondered, had drawn Suitcase Gordon?

His condominium complex, Bay Vista, was eight stories of dark red brick whose style reprised that of the nineteenth century.
A sign advertising that units were still available boasted of individual terraces facing the waterfront, a health club, two
pools, tennis courts, a deli, a grocery store, concierge services, sheltered parking, and a twenty-four-hour doorman. Unfortunately,
it was impossible to approach the complex from the Embarcadero because of a thirty-foot-wide open trench where the roadbed
was being expanded. I had to go around the block and park behind the building, then cross a vacant lot full of rubble and
idle earthmoving equipment.

A doorman was on duty as advertised, but he acted surly until I asked for Mr. Gordon; then he became respectful to the point
of fawning. A high-speed elevator—semiprivate, serving only two units—took me to the top floor, where Suits waited impatiently
in his doorway. He hustled me inside through a spacious foyer to an enormous room with a glass wall overlooking the terrace.
At one end was a marble fireplace, at the other a mirrored wet bar; and in the exact center of the pegged hardwood floor,
on an Indian rug that looked as though it had been bought at Cost Plus, stood a cluttered card table and two folding chairs.
Three steel file cabinets and a stand holding a phone and fax machine were lined up along the wall perpendicular to the bar.
And that was it.

“Nice furnishings,” I said.

Suits frowned, then shrugged. “I meant to buy some, but I never got around to it.”