Only the street wasn’t empty any longer; the signal on Fifth had changed to green for the eastbound traffic.
He ran right out in front of an oncoming car.
He saw it too late to jump clear, and the driver saw him too late to brake or swerve. But before he and the machine joined forces, Hackman had just enough time to realize the full scope of what was happening — and to feel a sudden elation. In fact, he wished with his last wish that he’d thought of this himself. It was the crowning touch, the final fillip, the coup de grâce; it lent the death of Hackman, unlike the life of Hackman, a genuine originality.
Because the car that did him in was not just a car; it was a New York City taxi cab.
Otherwise known as a hack.
One of Those Cases
(A “Nameless Detective” Story)
It was one of those cases you take on when you’re on your uppers. You want to turn it down — it’s an old story, a sordid one, a sad one — but you know you can’t afford to. So you look into tear-filmed eyes, and you sigh, and you say yes.
Her name was Judith Paige. She was in her late twenties, attractive in a quiet, shy sort of way. She had pale blond hair, china-blue eyes, and the kind of translucent white skin that seems brittle and makes you think of opaque and finely blown glass. Until the previous year, she had lived in a small town in Idaho and had come to San Francisco “to search for some meaning in life.” Which probably meant that she had come looking for a husband.
And she’d found one, a salesman named Walter Paige. They had been married six weeks now, and it was something less than the idyllic union she had expected. It wasn’t that Paige abused her in any way, or was a drinker or a gambler; it was just that, in the past month, he’d taken to leaving her alone in the evenings. He told her it was business — he worked for a real estate firm out near the Cow Palace — and when she pressed him for details he grew short-tempered. He was working on a couple of large prospects, he said, that would set them up for the future.
She figured he was working on another woman.
Like I said; an old, sordid, sad story. And one of those cases.
She wanted me to follow him for a few days, either to confirm or deny her suspicions. That was all. You don’t need to prove adultery, or much of anything else, to obtain a divorce in the state of California these days, so I would not be required to — testify in any civil proceedings. It was just that she had to know, one way or the other — the tears starting then — and if she were right, she wanted to dissolve the marriage and go back to Idaho. She had a little money saved and could pay my standard rates; and she was sure I was honest and capable, which meant that she hoped I wouldn’t take advantage of her in any way.
I sat there behind my desk feeling old and tired and cynical. It was a nice day outside, and I had the window open a little; the breeze off the Bay was cool and fresh, but the air I was pulling into my lungs tasted sour somehow. I lit a cigarette. And then took one of the contract forms out of the bottom drawer and slid it over for her to examine.
When she had, without much interest, I drew it back and filled it out and had her sign it. Then I said, “All right, Mrs. Paige. What time does your husband come home from work?”
“Usually about six o’clock.”
“Does he use public transportation or drive?”
“He drives.”
“What kind of car?”
“A dark-blue VW.”
“License number?”
“It has one of those personalized plates. WALLY P.”
“Uh-huh. What time does he leave again when he goes out?”
“Right after supper,” Mrs. Paige said. “Seven-thirty or so.”
“He comes back at what time?”
“Around midnight.”
“How often does this happen?”
“Four or five times a week, lately.”
“Any particular nights?”
“No, not really.”
“Saturdays and Sundays?”
“Saturdays, sometimes. Not Sundays, though. He... he always spends that day with me.”
Never on Sunday, I thought sourly. I said, “Which real estate company does he work for?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t know. Walter is very closemouthed about his job.”
“He’s never told you where he works?”
“Well, he did once, but I can’t remember it. Is it important?”
“Probably not.” I put down the pencil I had been using to take notes. “I think I have everything I need for now, Mrs. Paige. I’ll be on the job tonight if your husband goes out.”
“You won’t let him know you’re following him, will you? I mean, if I’m wrong and he’s, well, just working, I wouldn’t want him to know what I’ve done.”
“I’ll be as careful as I can.”
“Thank you,” she said, and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and cleared her throat. “Will you call me as soon as you find out anything?”
“Right away.”
“I’ll give you a check. Will fifty dollars be all right?”
“Fine.”
I looked away while she made out the check, out through the window. Sunlight and bright blue sky softened the look of the ugly, crumbling buildings in the Tenderloin. Even the panhandlers and dope pushers seemed to be enjoying the weather; they were out in droves this afternoon.
A nice day for a lot of people, all right. But not for Judith Paige and not for me.
At seven o’clock I was sitting behind the wheel of my car, parked four buildings down and on the opposite side of the street from the stucco-fronted apartment house the Paiges lived in. The dark-blue VW with the WALLY P license plate was thirty feet away, facing in the same direction.
This was a fairly well-to-do neighborhood in the Parkside district; kids were out playing, husbands and wives were still arriving home from work. If you’re staked out in an area like that, you run a risk by sitting around in a parked car for any length of time. People get suspicious, and the next thing you know, you’ve got a couple of patrol cops pulling up and asking questions. But if you don’t stay more than an hour, and if you keep glancing at your watch and show signs of increasing annoyance, you can get away with it; the residents tend to think you’re waiting for somebody and leave you alone. I expected to be here less than an hour, so I wasn’t worried.
I went through the watch-checking-and-annoyance routine, smoked a couple of cigarettes and glanced through a 1949 issue of FBI Detective that I’d brought along to help pass the time. And at twenty of eight, Paige came out and walked straight to the VW. The sun had gone down by then, but there was still enough reddish twilight to let me see that he was a tall, slender guy dressed in a blue suit, with one of those toothbrush mustaches that looked from a distance like a caterpillar humped on his upper lip.
I started my car just as he swung out, and I let him have a half-block lead before I went after him. He drove without hurry, observing the speed limits. Whenever possible, I put another car between us — and on the four-lane streets-like Ocean Avenue, I used the lane opposite to the one he was in. You pick up ways and means like that over the years, but if you’re following a pro, or somebody alert to the possibility of a tail, there’s not much you can do; the subject will spot you nine times out of ten.
Paige was not expecting a tail, though, and I had no trouble staying with him. We picked up Highway 280 near the City College, followed it to where it connects with the Bayshore Freeway southbound. Fifteen minutes later, Paige exited in South San Francisco and went up Grand Avenue and finally turned into the parking lot of a big shopping center. He parked near a large cut-rate liquor store. I put my car into a slot in the next row, watched him get out and enter the liquor store. Five minutes later, he came back out with a bottle of some kind in a small paper sack and got back into his car. But he didn’t go anywhere — he just sat there.