lines dotted with blackbirds, subdividing a bright, hazy sky, the slight fog reflecting light into the room. My face was bright on one side with the other in shadow, an expression of scattered and nervous concentration on my face. My hand was tense, holding a teal pen with Bayshore Metals written on the side. I did some work for a welder at Bayshore and had a ton of their pens floating around my house. The bottom right corner was dated 1/1/96.
The air conditioner rattled, a yo-yoing, pinging sound from deep in the building, as a similar noise went off inside me.
New Year’s Day, last year. I remembered that night. I’d been working on a big project for a historical fiction novelist and was past deadline; the writer wanted everything before Christmas. I didn’t go out on New Year’s Eve, spent the whole night in my house cranking away, and was rushing to get the package put together and ready to mail first thing in the morning. I remember how stupid I felt when I realized that the post office is closed on New Year’s Day.
This was another fucking snapshot of my life.
I had to find that girl Ashley.
* * *
I hoped Dalton was done with Sharkskin and I could at least get that number off him and see what kind of damage I could do with it. I still had some pretty good connections at Pac Bell and didn’t want to walk out with nothing.
I was surprised to see that Serena still wasn’t back, but the door to Dalton’s office was slightly ajar. I gave it a hard knuckle rap, just in case.
No response.
“Mr. Dalton?” Still nothing. I gave the door a kick with my foot and it swung open partway; I ducked my head in and found the office empty. “Mr. Dalton?” I pushed the door the rest of the way and stepped in. There was a faint scent lingering in the air, and I rubbed my fingers together and took a whiff, realizing that I was only smelling a trace of the gun range on my hand. Then I looked over the desk and I wasn’t so sure. I could see what looked like the top of Dalton’s blond head.
I took another step forward and there he was, tipped back behind the desk, his feet hung up on the edge of his overturned chair, his arms akimbo, and his head askew in a pool of crimson blood. There was a very neat hole right between his eyes, surrounded by a dark, discoloring flash of powder burn. That sound I’d heard wasn’t the air conditioner—it was a pistol fired with a supressor.
My heart was in my throat and my feet were out of the office before my brain knew what hit it. It was only the second dead body I’d ever seen, and Dalton with a bullet in his brain was a far cry from my grandmother laid out in a casket embalmed and waiting for the embrace of the worms. I choked my breakfast back where it belonged and stood there a moment in front of Serena’s empty area, my thoughts racing.
Ashley, missing; Dalton knew something; fifty thousand dollars. Bells went off. Fifty thousand dollars wants this girl found. That’s a lot of dough, even in today’s dot-com roller coaster. That’s got to be the tip of the iceberg—McCaffrey would never cut me a square deal.
Every two-bit gumshoe from every dime-store novel I’d ever read was jaywalking through my mind. My next thought—to call the cops—was crushed underfoot like a cigarette burned down to the filter and tasting of fiberglass. Get out, Crane, just get out. Red exit sign—back of the gallery.
I hotfooted it and found the exit and the typical Do not open—alarm will sound notice. I kicked the bar across the door. No alarm. Fuck it, that’s retrofitting for you, they can’t remember everything. Bright afternoon light, a short trash-can alley. I jumped the chain-link fence and found myself on Minna, and walked calmly around the block to Delores. I found the 101 as quick as I could and headed south.
4
I always did my best thinking driving across the causeway at Brisbane. I would look to my left, feel the wind across my face, and imagine that the South Bay was mine. It was refreshing, the city grit and dirt blowing out of my hair, the bay glorious and blue with white peaks, safe passage to my little chunk of sanity.
None of it added up. Some ditzy twenty-one-year-old artist chick disappears and is suddenly worth fifty grand. McCaffrey hires me—a guy who hates him. The girl likes to paint me, yet I’ve never sat for a portrait. I get lucky and find her in an art show. Thin-lipped gallery owner knows nothing—or isn’t talking—and five minutes later gets dead. No doubt Sharkskin did it, but who the hell was he? And why would anyone want harmless old Dalton dead?
Then the big question hit me: why didn’t Sharkskin clip me?
Hold on, Crane, this is reality and you’re no shamus. Get a grip and quit thinking like any of this has anything to do with you. Wrong place, wrong time. Lucky you got out before the cops started sniffing.
* * *
When I came in the phone was already ringing. I let it ring, thinking the voice mail would get it, before I remembered that I discontinued that service. The phone was still ringing, ten rings and counting; had to be McCaffrey. Better play this one like a private dick—close to the vest.
“Hello?”
“Itchy! Glad I caught ya!” McCaffrey, of course, doing his faux-cheery bit.
“Just getting in.”
“I don’t have another number for you, Itchy. You still don’t have a cell phone?”
“Never needed one.”
“Well, I didn’t hear from you this morning. Does that mean you got my check?”
“Yeah, I got it. Hasn’t cleared yet, though. Jury’s still out on you.”
“It’ll clear, it’ll clear. So, how’s it going up there? You all right?”
He sounded fishy, fishier than usual. “Yeah, it’s all right.”
Pause the size of Yosemite.
“Find out anything so far?”
“Nothing to speak of. You got anything else for me or what?”
“Wish I did, pal.”
“Well, as much as I’d love to chat with you, McCaffrey, I have an assignment to work on.”
I hung up on him. Then I poured myself a drink. Dead bodies and all, seemed like the right thing to do.
I flipped idly through my mail as I sipped. Unpaid bills, disconnection notices, the usual drivel. Then, a robin’s egg–blue envelope, lettered evenly bottom to top: Don’t open this in your house. It was written over and over again, forming a pattern, the words disappearing when seen from arm’s length, my printed name and address clearly legible over the top. It was addressed to me in even, simple, slightly effeminate cursive handwriting, no girlie curlicues or rounded dots, postmarked from San Francisco two days earlier. I took a stiff pull of my drink. The whole racket was beginning to give me the creeps.
I put on a sweater, grabbed a fresh pack of cigarettes and the blue letter. I walked up my street and around the corner and up to Sign Hill Park. If you’ve ever driven from SFO International Airport to San Francisco proper, you’ve seen the big hill off the 101 emblazoned with the words, SOUTH SAN FRANCISCO, THE INDUSTRIAL CITY. It’s a block from my house,
