By the time Runyon kicked free of the table and chair and reached the sidewalk outside, Big Dog was lumbering around the corner onto Twenty-second Street. A light rain was falling and the pavement was slick; Runyon had no trouble with his footing, but Big Dog was clumsy and at least half drunk and the soles on his new shoes were still smooth. He slipped cutting across the street, went down and skidded on hands and knees into the far curb. The fall and the time it took him to scramble up and get moving again allowed Runyon to halve the distance between them. The separation was less than thirty yards when Big Dog plunged into a one-way alley mid-block, went charging down its narrow length between close-packed rows of parked cars.
Runyon caught up to him halfway along, grabbed hold of the belt on his rain slicker and tried to yank him to a stop. Big Dog twisted free, stumbled sideways into a parked car, caromed off and wheeled to face him. His eyes were wild; taco juice and drool gave his wide-open mouth a bloody look. “Get away from me,” he yelled, “I ain’t goin’ to jail!”
Instead Runyon moved in on him. He ducked a flailing arm, jabbed stiffened knuckles into the soft fat under the bulging sternum. Would’ve followed that up with judo shots to the throat and neck, hurt him enough to subdue him, except that Big Dog’s new shoes slid again on the wet pavement and the belly blow connected only glancingly. It took away some but not all of his wind, left him enough strength and mobility to flail out again. Runyon tried to duck away, but he was in too close by then and vulnerable.
The big fist smacked him solidly on the left ear, sent him reeling into another of the cars. Its front bumper struck him mid-thigh, threw him up over the hood. He rolled down between that car and the one in front, banging his head. Both his vision and his faculties went out of whack; he was only dimly aware of hitting the pavement.
For a few seconds his head was full of ringing and roaring and he couldn’t move. His face was upturned; he felt nothing, then he felt the rain, then he was aware of pain — head, thigh, shoulder. And then his motor responses returned and he was clawing up the front of the car, onto his feet again. He backhanded his eyes clear, blinked them into focus as he came out limping from between the cars.
Big Dog was running again. Down at the end of the block, not looking back. Around the corner and gone.
Runyon let him go. He wasn’t hurt much, but he didn’t see any point in continuing the chase. The fact that Big Dog had run told him some of what he wanted to know. The rest he could find out by other means. Or the SFPD could. Wherever Big Dog went now, it wouldn’t be any place where he could hide for very long.
12
Jake Runyon
The Commerce was two stories of colorless wood and dirty windows piled atop a row of storefronts. The entrance was a single door set into a shallow alcove, the words COMMERCE HOTEL — ROOMS BY WEEK, MONTH painted on its glass panel. Alongside the latch was a button and a card that said you had to ring for admittance after 9 P.M.
Runyon walked by slowly without turning in. Across the street and down a short way was a bakery and coffee shop with a long front window; he went over there, bought a cup of tea, took it to one of the stools at a counter that ran along below the rain-spotted window. From there he had a reasonably unobstructed view of the hotel entrance.
He had come straight back here, so Big Dog hadn’t had time to get to the Commerce ahead of him. He might not come back at all, as scared as he was. Runyon gave it half an hour, nursing his tea; nobody went into the Commerce, nobody came out. He left the bakery’s warmth and crossed the street again.
A bell jangled when he opened the glass-paneled door of the hotel, jangled again as he shut it behind him. Postage-stamp lobby with nothing in it — no chairs or tables, no adornments of any kind. The front desk, if you could call it that, was an even smaller cubicle enclosed by a wood-and-glass partition. This was a neighborhood of cages within cages. One of hundreds in a nationwide network of urban zoos: some animals locked in, others allowed to roam free, and a tossup as to which group had the most dangerous predators.
Framed behind the glass of this cage was a woman perched on an office chair, the kind that you could crank to adjust the height. This one was up as high as it would go, so that her breasts seemed to be resting on the inside counter. She was something to look at in there, like an exotic and faintly repulsive creature on display. Indeterminate age, anywhere from thirty to fifty. Ropy black hair pulled back so tightly from her face that the skin looked stretched to the splitting point among temples and forehead. Tall, thin body, dead-white skin, blank eyes, too much lipstick and rouge. Bloodless, lifeless — a victim in a vampire movie. Junkie, probably. Smack or crystal meth. The long-sleeved shirt would be to cover the needle tracks on her arms.
“Yeah?” she said. Her mouth barely moved. The empty eyes didn’t move at all.
“What room is Big Dog in?”
“Who?”
Runyon described him, including the rain slicker and new shoes.
“Big Dog, hell,” she said. “Big prick. Not in.”
“I’ll wait for him.”
“No waiting here.”
“What’s his room number?”
“Guests only upstairs.”
“What name is he registered under?”
Blank stare.
“How long has he been staying here?”
Blank stare.
It was like trying to communicate with an animated corpse. Stoned? Those empty eyes said it was likely. He weighed options. Money was the obvious pry bar, but if he put a bill of any denomination into the tray in the glass partition, she was liable to make it disappear without giving him anything in return. Silent intimidation or threats wouldn’t get the job done, either. Her cage, her advantage.
“He’s in trouble, lady. Big trouble.”
Blank stare.
“A prick, you said. So why protect him?”
Blank stare.
“Be smart and protect yourself. You don’t want his kind of trouble to rub off on you.”
“Cop?”
“You could say that.”
“Badge.”
Waste of time showing her his temporary California license, but he did it anyway. Colleen had given him a leather holder for his Washington state license one birthday; he flipped it open, held it up near the glass.
“Bullshit,” she said.
“You think so?”
“Go away.”
Runyon said, “Murder.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Murder.”
“More bullshit.”
“Big Dog’s involved in a street killing. Cops are as interested in talking to him as I am. I’ll go call them, report that you’re shielding him, might be mixed up in the homicide yourself.”
Blank stare.
“If they don’t arrest you for that, there’s always a drug charge. Withdrawal in a jail cell’s no picnic, lady, if you don’t already know it. Sometimes they don’t pay any attention to your screams.”
He walked away on the last sentence — five steps to the door. He had his hand on the latch when she said, “Wait.”
Back to the cage. She hadn’t moved; her eyes and her expression were as blank as before. But her body language said he’d touched the right nerve.
“Well?”
“Nine,” she said. “Second floor.”
“What name?”
A blue-veined hand snaked out, flipped open a register. “Joe Smith.”
“Sure. How long’s he been here?”
“Few days.”
“Renting by the week?”