The trouble was that the possible embezzler lived in the East Bay. Heslip had merely been assigned to check out Griffin’s San Francisco work address, which was a parking garage down on First Street. Which, of course, would be closed for the night by this time. Tomorrow for Mr. Griffin.
Six
Joyce Leonard Tiger.
The Fell Street address was just beyond Central, on the other side of the Park Panhandle from the decayed Haight-Ashbury where the love-children syndrome had ended in muggings, murders, bad trips, and addiction. № 1972 Cadillac Coupe de Ville with the subject’s license number in the area, a black neighborhood even though the subject was listed as being white.
Sitting in the car, Ballard read over the single report — Heslip had gotten the case only two days before.
Per Mrs. Shirley Jackson, landlady at 1600 Fell Street, the subject had skipped out the previous Wednesday owing nearly four hundred dollars in back rent. Real name: Joyce Leonard. But she had been living common-law with a black named Tiger. Mrs. Jackson didn’t know if Tiger was a first, last, middle, nick, or assumed name. Tiger would leave in the early evening with the subject, then the subject would come back alone with a man, and keep coming back alone with a steady stream of men who stayed between fifteen minutes and an hour each. When the stream stopped, Tiger would return.
The Mary Magdalene lay, as old-time field agents like O’Bannon would call it.
Heslip also had checked with the subject’s listed work address, Bethlehem Steel’s Accounts Receivable office at Third and Illinois. Subject terminated “for cause” (unspecified) on 12/15 of last year. Merry Christmas.
The only other given information (facts listed on the case sheet when it came to the field man) was that she had a mother named Thelma Barnes in Stockton.
Ballard checked the names above the mailboxes in the gaudy vestibule of the cheap new building. No Leonard. No Tiger. His watch said 10:42. He rang the Mgr bell.
Mrs. Shirley Jackson was a bride or her husband had been at sea for a long time. She sat on the arm of his chair during the entire interview, squirming slightly under his explicit sexual caresses. All three of them — she, her husband, and her husband’s hands — seemed totally indifferent to Ballard’s presence.
“Like I told the other gentleman from your company, she just up and moved out in the afternoon. When she knew I wouldn’t be here.”
“Cadillac, huh?” said Mr. Jackson suddenly. He was a lean sad-faced black man whose long skinny fingers roamed his wife’s body like electricity. “That woman went through more cars — like to went through a car a week, something on that order. I remember two Fords, two Mercurys, then she had a Dodge. Now a Cadillac.”
“I had to help her up the stairs last month,” said the wife. She was small and round and cute and shiny as black patent leather, with remarkably dainty feet and hands and a roll of flesh under her breasts that was irresistible to those busy hands. “She’d been in a fight with Tiger, had lost two front teeth.”
“Did the men stop coming after that?” asked Ballard.
“Only for a day or two.”
“Even without them teeth she was a fine-looking woman.” Jackson’s hands pinched. “Yassuh, fine-looking woman. Few bumps and bruises don’t...” He ran down, then volunteered suddenly, “Sheeit, she was always pretty beat-up-looking anyway. Her an’ Tiger used to bust up each other an’ the furniture till they’d pass out, most nights.”
“Anyone see her move out?” asked Ballard, writing on the gold carbon of Heslip’s report.
“The Blodgetts,” said Jackson promptly. “Folks in 3-A. Said it was a big red moving van, too big for the little bit of furniture they had wasn’t broke. Black driver ’bout Mack-truck size, according to Miz Blodgett.”
“You didn’t say nothing about that to me,” said Mrs. Jackson. Her tone of voice gave the busy fingers pause.
“I disremembered, honey.”
“If I thought you and that Mrs. Blodgett—”
“Could that have been San Francisco Van and Moving?” asked Ballard. They were just across Stanyan from Park Emergency where Bart had first been taken, he knew, which put them in the neighborhood. And they had red trucks.
“Hey, could be at that,” beamed Mr. Jackson, who seemed to welcome the interruption.
The case sheet, folded in thirds, went above Ballard’s visor. S.F. Van was a good lead for the next day, but Joyce Leonard Tiger was dead for tonight.
Harold J. Willets.
Ballard parked at the curb by the Safeway on Seventh Avenue. Behind him, on the corner of Fulton, light spilled from the big Chevron Station, but Seventh itself was totally still and quite dark. Eleven o’clock on a week night in the Avenues was always dead.
Harold J. Willets, boy racist. The last case Heslip had worked before he had gotten it.
Nice if this would be it, end it right here. Of course, he couldn’t be sure unless Willets broke down and confessed or something, but on the other hand, a man who has beaten someone over the head is liable to exhibit nervousness under questioning, especially if head-beating isn’t his normal profession. Willets’ was driving a bread truck.
Even so, Ballard sat in the car for a few moments with a sort of empty feeling in his stomach. But it was the routine which saved you. You did what you always did. And hell, he was just over twenty-five, weighed 184, took a size-forty-four jacket. A good left end in high school, handball now on free evenings, abalone-diving up the coast on weekends. Able to take care of himself physically.
But then he would have said the same thing and more about Bart Heslip — until last night. He grunted, and got out of the car.
It was anticlimactic. Willets wasn’t home.
But lights were on next door, and five minutes of conversation there just about took care of Harold Willets. He’d spent two hours at their house the night before, 12:15 to 2:15, telling about the black son of a bitch who’d come and taken his car. The neighbors had told him they couldn’t do that, and today Harry had gone to see an attorney.
“They can do that,” said Ballard flatly.
“How do you know?”
“I’m one of they.”
Which left only five possibles on his list.
Fred Chambers.
Heslip’s reports showed that the subject could be found six nights a week at The Freaks, playing in a hot rock band called Assault and Battery. Was he kidding? Awfully damned appropriate for a cat who had slugged the client’s man down in Bakersfield and then had boosted the Buick right out of the bank storage lot after it had been repo’d.
On three different nights Heslip had tailed the subject from The Freaks. Once Chambers had taken a cab, twice had ridden with friends, to three different addresses which subsequent investigation had shown were not his own. Heslip had not spoken to him, since the client’s orders were explicit: Repossess on sight. Do not attempt personal contact.
He could be it, all right. See Bart recover the Buick, follow him, attack him, then take back the Buick and the case sheets to disguise the fact that the car had been repo’d in the first place. Think Bart was dead; try to make manslaughter look like an accident.
Ballard drove out Balboa to Tenth Avenue, then cut over to Clement. He turned right, went by The Freaks and on down to Ninth, over to Geary, up to Eleventh, past Clement to California, back down to Ninth, over to Clement, back up to Tenth. The classic search pattern, usually carried in reports as cruised the area, could not spot unit.
Only this time, when coming back up Clement, he saw a white 1971 Buick Skylark in the white zone in front of The Jolly Coachmen, directly across from The Freaks. It hadn’t been there five minutes earlier. License, 331 KLZ. Jackpot. Fred Chambers’ car.