Rottweiler bites. Administered by the Rottweiler that lived in the cab of a certain long-haul truck-trailer rig.
Don Nordstrom. The broken ribs and cracked jawbone and bruises courtesy of the boots of Nordstrom, the man who drove the long-haul truck-trailer rig the Rottweiler lived in. And who, in his spare time, played the musical saw.
Sawdust Lounge. Listening to Nordstrom play, befriending him in the parking lot, getting drunk with him afterward — but having no luck at all in finding out where he was hiding the long-haul truck-trailer rig on the eighteen huge 11x24.5 tires for which DKA had a REPO ON SIGHT order.
O’B had even, now he remembered, had a nightmare about stealing those tires. In the middle of the repossession the hulking Nordstrom and his even more hulking Rottweiler had appeared, and O’B had awakened yelling Mayday! Better take an oblique approach when he finally did spot them.
Later for the tires. Right now, he needed coffee and aspirin, then had to go to Tony d’Angelo’s DKA home office on Harris Street for any new assignments faxed in overnight.
Chapter Five
Aspirin. And coffee. Almost a way of life sometimes. And finally, at a bit after noon, last night’s fog started to lift for Amalia Poletti. The strike vote had been carried in the Executive Council, she’d gone out to celebrate, only to wake this morning with the phone ringing and an out-of-work bartender she’d felt sorry for somehow in her bed.
It had been Morris Brett on the phone to tell her Georgie Petrock had been gunned down in the street, gangster style, a few hours before. Brett had seemed wired, as if his early-morning call by the cops had somehow validated his vaunted insomnia.
Petrock dead. Which would make him a damned martyr.
Amalia sighed, drained the dregs of her cold coffee, and stood up behind her paper-strewn desk. She was a striking woman in her late 20s, full-bodied and voluptuous yet firm under her tight sweater and black slacks, with high cheekbones and a strong nose and almost fierce dark eyes.
Time for the membership strike vote, forgone now after Petrock’s death. But she needed a smoke first. She snatched a blue windbreaker from the back of her chair, went out and down a long hallway of plasterboard walls with tape showing under the paint, her shoes echoing on the dirty tile floor.
Local 3 was housed in an old two-story stucco rabbit warren of mismatched partitions and jerry-made offices. Outside it had a mission tile roof, doors painted black, windows stretching from floor level to the top of the second story. The exterior walls were plastered with signs: STRIKE THE ST. MARK; MABEL PONG FOR SUPERVISOR; NO JUSTICE, NO JEANS over a pair of jeans wearing a round circle with a diagonal red slash across it. It’d be good when they finally tore the place down.
Golden Gate Avenue was cool and windy, gray, clouds scudding overhead. Across the street was the old gorgeous YMCA — this being the Tenderloin, trash was blowing around its gracious two-story pillared portico. Amalia dragged deep on her cigarette in the shielded entryway from which she had emerged, went down the street holding her cigarette inside her cupped right hand against the wind.
When she turned the corner into Leavenworth it really hit her, streaming her wiry black hair out from her head, tearing at her inadequate windbreaker. San Francisco spring. Ugh. The wind brought tears to her eyes and the rolling roar of voices from the hiring hall.
Oh yes. Today the animals were on the prowl. She wondered for a fleeting moment if perhaps that was why Petrock had died. A martyr to the cause.
A killer hunk with a lithe, quick body and a hawk nose and sun-paled hair held the door of the hiring hall for her. She couldn’t know all the members of the local, but where had this guy been? Oh hell, probably married; all the gorgeous ones were.
The hiring windows along the left wall were closed, but below the brightly lit speakers’ platform at the far end were long folding tables set up for ballots to be taken and marked, then stuffed into cardboard boxes with slotted tops. The hall was jammed elbow-to-elbow with union members listening to the speaker just visible between intervening backlit heads.
Morrie Brett, usually stooped and nondescript, was now a lanky enraged crane flapping his wings and stabbing his head forward on his long neck to squawk phrases into the mike. He pushed his glasses with the side of his forefinger, speared the air with a burning cigarette.
“We’re gonna vote on Georgie’s motion to stroke those bastards at the St. Mark, but first I wanna tell you what this local has decided to do about Georgie’s murder!”
“Murder!” shouted several men in the audience in unison.
“Did I say murder?” His gray hair was in spikes, his eyes glittered behind their glasses. “I should of said assassination — because this looks like a paid operation to this union man!”
“Assassination!” shouted several voices.
“Who did it, Morrie?” shouted other voices.
“We’re offering a reward to find out — twenty-five K for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the cowardly bastards who assassinated him. Meanwhile, let’s vote for his strike so Georgie won’t have died in vain!”
As the rank-and-file members started shuffling forward, Amalia began to work her way back out of the crowd.
“Not going to vote?” asked a voice at her elbow.
It was the killer hunk who’d held the door for her earlier. He was again holding the door; his cool blue eyes would miss little of what they looked at. His knuckles were callused. Martial-arts guy? Probably; he looked it.
“I’ll have to help count ballots later, I’ll vote then. What about you?”
“I’m not a member.” Which explained why she had never seen him around the union hall. He added, “If you’re going to help count votes, you must be an officer or something.”
She pulled away from him. “Cop?”
“I would have thought they’d been here and gone already.”
“I slept in this morning. They’ll be back. So. Not a cop.” Out on Leavenworth, she stopped dead. “Press?”
“Private citizen. Looking for a friend.” He had a dynamite smile, too. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee, lunch, something like that?”
“I’m not it.”
“What?”
“Your friend.”
“Well, maybe you can help me find the guy who is.” What the hell. He was awful damned good-looking.
Ballard originally had held the door for this sexy-looking Italian woman because she was just that — a sexy-looking Italian woman. Reflex action. He’d followed her back out because of the expressions playing across her face while listening to the tall geeky guy give his go union! speech to the rank and file.
Now, in this narrow Market Street coffee shop with red vinyl and chrome fixtures that catered to hurried business lunchers, he set down his coffee cup with a distressed face.
“God, I’m sorry I asked you here. This coffee...”
Amalia had to give a snort of laughter. “I wouldn’t notice, not after the swill we drink at union headquarters.”
She leaned forward and fixed him with what were awful damned nice brown eyes. Nice but sharp. Not hostile, just wary and clever. He had an idea she was maybe smarter than he was. Like Giselle. Who always graciously insisted there were different kinds of intelligence, that’s all. But Ballard knew.
“Want to buy me a hamburger?” Amalia asked.
“No way.” To her surprised expression he laughed, said, “Bacon cheeseburger and fries or nothing.”