Goodey's Last Stand: A Hard Boiled Mystery (Joe Goodey) (5 page)

The young cop had left my car in the parking lot, but I cut through a tall, thin alley toward Sam’s Cafe. Then I remembered that Sam’s was a cop hangout, and I was no longer a cop. I took a random right and after about a block was in front of something called Ricardo’s Place. The windows looked as if they’d been used for the bottom of a racing pigeon cage.

There was nobody behind the bar. That didn’t bother me, and I slipped into a booth in front of the least-dirty window and slid the contents of the file folder out on the slightly sticky table. I was admiring the private operative’s license when a voice came out over the bar like a rusty laser beam. “The public library is three blocks over, mate.”

“Thanks,” I said, looking up at a
knobbly, bald Scandinavian head stuck to a long, thin body in a worn-out T-shirt. Tattoos which were vivid on the arms blurred as they disappeared into the T-shirt “If you’re Ricardo, you can bring me a double Margarita, easy on the salt.”

“We’ve got only three drinks in this joint,” the man said. “Whiskey, whiskey, and beer. In that order.”

“That suits me,” I said. “In that order. Do you have table service, or is the waitress on strike?”

He brought me a double whiskey and a beer chaser. I paid him, and he did a disappearing trick into the shadows near the bar.

Tucking away my ticket to romance, adventure and poverty, I turned to two of the last documents which would concern themselves with Tina D’Oro. The autopsy report was straightforward in the extreme. The subject had expired due to an excessive loss of blood, which in turn was caused by an undisclosed pointed but not-very-sharp instrument. She’d been dead about twenty-four hours when she was found. She was likely to be dead for a long time. The autopsy report didn’t actually say that, but I like to interpret whenever I can.

Johnny Maher’s report was a little more convoluted. Leaving out the professional jargon that passes for erudition in the police force, Maher’s version was that Tina hadn’t turned up for her gig on Thursday night. This was greeted with a certain amount of dismay, the culture lovers being lined up three deep in front of the bar. Somehow a substitute was found to take Tina’s place in the show if not in the hearts of the suckers.

Meanwhile, somebody went upstairs and did the doorknob-shaking routine at Tina’s apartment. But no answer. The matter was dropped until after the last tourist had been pried from the bar, and The Jungle slammed its doors. Then somebody named Miss Irma Springler—that must be my Irma, I thought—came in looking for Tina. Seems they had a date of some kind. The club manager, Mr. Sherman Bums, told her that Tina hadn’t come in for work that evening. Hadn’t been seen at all that day, in fact.

Miss
Springler got a bit upset. So much so that she went upstairs and started belting Tina’s door. Still no answer. Then Miss Springler insisted that somebody find a key for Tina’s door and open it. She had a premonition, she said, that something terrible had happened to Tina. A key was found, the door was opened, and there was Tina, still in what was supposed to be a costume, lying in the middle of her living room on an expensive orange rug which had soaked up a whole lot of blood.

The coppers were called, who tugged on Johnny Maher’s chain. In his professional opinion there’d been little struggle. Whoever had done it had been known to the victim and hadn’t been in her apart
ment long. Clues to date: none.

This was not exactly the kind of detection likely to get a man promoted, but then Johnny didn’t mention the little red diary he’d found, flicked through, and pocketed. Johnny may not have been the best detective in the world, but he had an eye for the main chance. And he’d be going all out to make sure he wound this one up the right way. With His Honor nowhere in sight. There were higher rungs on Maher’s ladder than sergeant.

I closed the file, tipped back the rest of the whiskey, and washed it down with the beer. When I left, Ricardo didn’t come out to say goodbye, but that was okay by me. I can’t take sentimental scenes, and my suit couldn’t stand any tear stains. We both knew what we meant to each other.

Walking back to the police parking lot, I decided to go home. Then I remembered that I didn’t have a home. I decided to go there anyway. Pulling my car out of th
e lot, I headed for North Beach.

7

Retrieving the extra key from a crack under a ledge on the front porch, I climbed the stairs to my front door and opened it. Somehow it never occurred to me to knock. The living room was empty. I figured that the Bible banger was out saving souls, and I was heading for the bathroom when something in the bedroom caught my eye. Not to sound too much like one of the three bears, but someone was sleeping in my bed. And it wasn’t Goldilocks.

But it was a girl. Automatically tiptoeing, I moved through the bedroom doorway and stood looking down at the sleeper. She was Chinese, with skin like polished silk. A shiny black rope of hair lay coiled over her left shoulder. In my big bed she looked about nine years old, but her face was infinitely older and worn. She had black pouches like bruises under her eyes, and the skin over the minuscule bridge of her turtle nose was drawn so tight it was the non-color of
old ivory. One arm like a not particularly sturdy stick of rigatoni lay palm up on top of the covers. An ugly blue-black swollen vein in the crook of her arm told me something about the way she got her kicks. It was like seeing a two-year-old kid with a fifth of gin.

Just as I was waxing moralistic and wondering what the hell my subtenant was up to, something small but compact attached itself to my back, and a pair of hard little hands began trying to put a crimp
in my windpipe. I’m easygoing and slow to anger, but this was getting annoying. So I put an elbow where it would do the most good and heard a rewarding “oomph” from the jockey on my back. The hands let loose, and my friend hit the floor behind me with a crash. I turned around and was about to step on the face of a midget in a flashy silk jacket when Gabriel Fong came through the door with both arms full of groceries and an alarmed expression on his face.

“Mickey!” he shouted. This wasn’t me, so it must have been the kid crab-walking backward to get out from under my foot. It seemed impolite to stomp him in front of company, so I backed off and let Mickey get to his feet. He wasn’t a midget after all, just a Chinese kid of maybe sixteen. The jacket indicated that he belonged to some sort of gang.

Fong found a place to unload the groceries and came back from the kitchen. But it wasn’t the same Fong I’d met yesterday. The woolly blue suit and knitted tie were gone. In their place was a pair of beautifully faded Levis, a matching jacket and a bright yellow T- shirt.

Even his hair was different. The missionary cut had been replaced by something spiky and random, as if he’d combed his hair with a Turkish towel. He was still too clean-cut to look scruffy, but he looked like a Bible student’s version of hip, and you had to give him credit for trying. The only sign of his calling was a small silver cross dangling on a chain outside his T-shirt.

Fong opened his mouth to say something, but the kid beat him to it: “He broke in, Gabe,” Mickey said. “He was after Fsui-tang. I had to jump him. He—”

“
It’s okay, Mickey,” Fong said soothingly. “This is Mr. Goodey. He’s a friend of mine. In fact, this is his apartment. Why don’t you go in and sit with Fsui-tang for a while? Mr. Goodey and I want to have a talk.”

Mickey slunk toward the bedroom, giving me unclean looks, and closed the door firmly behind him. He knew who belonged in my apartment.

Fong walked into the kitchen—my kitchen—and put the percolator over a gas burner. “You’ll have some coffee?” he called over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” I said, sitting down on my couch and picking up a Chinese magazine from the old coffee table some nut had made by encrusting a door with seashells, buttons, bits of glass, and other rubbish.

Fong came out of the kitchen with two cups of coffee. “It’s quite a surprise to see you back so soon, Mr. Goodey.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “You’re a bit of a surprise yourself.” He laughed shyly and looked down at his clothes.

“Oh,” he said, “these are my work clothes.”

“I thought you were a theology student, not a cowboy,” I said, but he didn’t look like a cowboy, either, despite the high-heeled, tooled leather boots he was wearing.

“I am, Mr. Goodey,” he said. “I am. But the biggest part of my ministry is here in the streets of North Beach.” He hunched himself a little closer to me and took a tight grip on his coffee cup. I was in for a lecture. So I took a deep swig of coffee and leaned back.

“You see, Mr.
Goodey,” he started, “I—”

“Call me Joe,” I said. “It’s a lot less syllables.”

“All right, Joe,” he said. “And you call me Gabe.” I promised with my eyes, and he went on. “You see, for the first time the Chinese population of San Francisco is faced with a serious problem—what you might call a generation gap. Chinese families have traditionally been very close, very patriarchal. And the children have, quite happily, I think, remained subordinate to their parents until they were old enough to start their own families. Chinese juvenile delinquents were almost unheard of.”

What he said made sense. In fifteen years on the force I’d seen very few Chinese lads in trouble, and I’d never arrested one myself. “But,” I said, to get him started again.

“But recently,” he said, “the youth of Chinatown seem to have changed. They seem to have lost respect for their parents and the old ways. They’re breaking away from the family, going out on their own, and getting into all kinds of trouble: crime, drugs, exploitation by adults.”

“Just like white kids, eh?” I said.

He grinned shyly. “Yes, just like white kids. But my mission, Mr.—Joe, is to see if I can help the ones who will let me.”

“Like little Lotus Bud there in my bed?” I asked.

“Yes. Fsui-tang. That’s all I know about her—her name. But it’s obvious that somebody’s been using her very badly. Mickey brought her to me last night. I met him down on Grant Avenue last week, but he told me what to do with myself in no uncertain terms. I didn’t want to push it too hard, so I left him alone. But last night the bell rang, and there he was—with Fsui-tang. He brought her in only after I promised that there’d be no police, no doctor, no anybody. I’d appreciate it, Joe, if you’d promise not to tell anybody that you saw her here.”

“That’s easy,” I said. “I’
m rarely asked if I’ve seen a teenaged Chinese dope fiend. What’s wrong with her, anyway? I mean, besides the bad habit of sticking needles in her arm?”

“Nothing,
so far as I can tell,” Fong said. “I’m no doctor, but I think she’s just exhausted. She’s been asleep most of the time since Mickey brought her here. We’ll have to see after she wakes up.”

“How do you know he’s not her pimp?” I asked, “
and has just brought her around here for a nice rest?”

“I don’t,” he said, but I could see that the idea hurt him. “Even if that’s so, it’s what I’m here for—to help girls like her and boys like Mickey.”

“Good luck,” I said. “But if you turn your back, don’t be surprised to find a knife in it.”

Fong didn’t say anything, just looked sad at my cynicism. “And,” I said, “
there’s another small problem. As you may have noticed, I seem to be back. My plans for the next six months have changed somewhat. But, in spite of this, I do remember signing Lum Kee’s subletting contract, which I am positive is watertight, not to say hermetically sealed. Nonetheless—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think of holding you to that, Joe,” Fong said with a big smile. “It wouldn’t be a Christian thing to do.” I could have argued with that statement, but I was too relieved not to find myself homeless.

“However,” Fong went on, “you can understand that I need a place to stay too.” He looked hopeful. “Do you think it’s possible, Joe, that we could share the apartment while I’m at the Bible College?”

“You mean you, me and these
underaged bandits you drag off the street?” I asked.

“Sometimes, maybe,” he said. “But I don’t plan to turn this into a boarding house for delinquents as a regular thing. When
Fsui-tang is stronger, I’ll have to find someplace for her to live.”

“Where? And how soon?”

“I haven’t any idea,” he said. He gave me that hopeful smile again. “But in the meantime, do you think you could use the smaller bedroom? I noticed that there’s an old single bed in there. Mickey and Lee could help me set it up, and—”

“Lee? Who the hell is Lee?”

“A friend of Mickey’s from Grant Avenue,” Fong said. “He spells Mickey in taking care of Fsui-tang.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The small room will be fine for me. I expect to be pretty busy for a while and might not be using it all that much any
way.”

“That’s great,” he said with relief. “If it’s okay with you, we’ll split the rent fifty-fifty. I was a bit worried about paying the whole $225 myself anyway.”

“Two twenty-five,” I said. “Do you mean that old bastard is trying to charge you two hundred and twenty-five bucks a month for this joint? His own nephew?”

“That’s what he said. Why?”

“Because the rent of this apartment is $130 a month. That’s why. No more. That makes your share $65, plus gas and electricity. And phone. You just give me the $65, and I’ll take care of your revered uncle.”

“That’ll be just fine with me,” said Fong. “It really was deplorable of Uncle
Lum to raise the rent on me.”

“Deplorable is not the word I would have used. But you just leave Shylock to me. I’ll sort him out.”

Time was passing, and I wasn’t any closer to starting to find out who had punctured Tina D’Oro. I didn’t think I’d find out in this nest of tiny Chinese delinquents, so I told Fong I’d see him around and left the apartment There was somebody named Irma—Miss Irma Springler—who, I thought, might be interesting to have a talk with.

I came down the front steps, intending to walk over to Broadway and Columbus. I pointed my nose in that direction, but as I was passing
Lum Kee’s shop, I heard a loud hissing noise. I knew it wasn’t me, so I looked in through the doorway. There was the old crook himself lurking in the shadows and sounding like a leaking gas main.

“
Sssssss
, Mr. Goodey,” he said, making a beckoning motion. “One moment, please. Come in, come in.”

He hadn’t called me Mr.
Goodey since he’d decided I wasn’t needed anymore, and I’d decided I still liked the apartment. “What do you want, you old bandit?” I asked, walking into the shop. Lum Kee was standing behind the counter, wringing his hands like the mother in
East Lynne.
He was obviously suffering great mental pain, I was pleased to see.

“Mr.
Goodey, Mr. Goodey,” he moaned, “I’m so glad to see you back. You must help me. That nephew of mine.”

“What about him?” I asked, prolonging the torture.

“He’s trying to ruin me,” the old fraud crooned, “filling my lovely apartment with the dregs of Grant Avenue. Drug addicts, prostitutes, gangsters. You must help me get him out. I’ll do anything you say. I’ll even reduce your rent if only you’ll help me.”

“How much will you cut my rent if I give Fong the bum’s rush?” I wanted to find out just how anxious
Lum was.

His bright little eyes clouded over with cunning. I could almost hear the figures brushing past one another as they tumbled through his head.

“If it will help,” I said, “I’ll wait while you go get your abacus.” He didn’t even hear me. The magic subject of money had wafted him to a different, higher plane. But he was coming back again, and he fixed me with an eager look.

“Ten dollars a month,” he said as if he were offering me the Kohinoor diamond, gift wrapped. “I’ll cut your rent to $120 a month if you persuade my nephew to move somewhere else. That’s a very good deal, Mr.
Goodey. An apartment like that—those marvelous views—is worth at least—”

“Two twenty-five?” I asked. “Do you think that would be a fair rent to charge, say, someone from out of town, someone from across the sea who didn’t know what a rotten little fleabag like that was worth? Let’s say a not-so-distant relative who’d come to San Francisco to become a man of God.”

Lum Kee’s mouth went hard. He knew I had tumbled his little con. He didn’t say anything, just crossed his flabby old arms across his ink-stained black vest and stared at me.

“Honestly,
Lum Kee,” I said, “I could understand you trying to cheat me, not only an infidel dog but a copper. But to try to do your own sister Pansy’s youngest boy, that really shocks me.”

“One fifteen,” he said, cutting through my bullshit in the only lan
guage he trusted, “and I’ll paint the whole apartment for you. That’s my bottom offer.”

“Don’t tempt me to tell you what to do with your bottom offer,
Lum Kee,” I said. “The kid stays, and you get the same old $130 a month. If he wants to raise turkeys up there, it’s okay by me. I’ll take that extra ninety-five bucks you charged him out of next month’s rent, and if you think you can get any place waving that phony contract around, go ahead and try it.”

I left him leaning against his counter, making a mouth like a broken piggy bank, and started walking downhill toward Broadway. I didn’t expect
Lum to accept defeat gracefully, but he’d be quiet for a while, thinking up a counterattack. God knows what he’d come up with next. Maybe a typhoid epidemic.