No, she wasn't Rhonda Wilson. She and her husband had bought the store from her back in the mid-seventies. Rhonda had moved to Nevada, but she wasn't sure she was still there. No, she didn't recall anything about the people up the street who'd been arrested by the FBI-she'd still been living in Texas then and had never even heard about the case. Anyone in the neighborhood who might remember? Well, there was old Cal. Cal had gotten busted up in an accident at the shipyards back in the early sixties. On good days he sat out on the sidewalk in his wheelchair and passed the time of day with whoever came by; on foggy days like this you could usually find him in the family Dodge that his wife kept parked at the curb
"Cal's a do-gooder," the woman added. "Writes letters, takes up things that're wrong in the neighborhood with the folks at city hall. People like him; even the junkies and the cops on the beat like him. That car? It hasn't been moved in years, that I know of. But it just sits there and the street cleaners go right around it and nobody ever gives it a ticket."
When I heard things like that, it restored my faith in a city that often struck me as increasingly cold and indifferent. I thanked the woman, bought a Hershey bar-the emergency chocolate supply in my purse was probably running low- and went out to see what Cal could tell me.
Twenty-Two
The faded maroon-and-white Dodge with swooping tailfins was parked three or four doors from the collective's last address. A pair of old men stood next to it, their arms propped on its roof, talking with someone inside. Both men were bundled in overcoats against the chill fog; one even wore a knitted cap with earflaps. I walked down there and loitered on the sidewalk behind them, waiting for them to conclude their conversation. It was about the possibility of the new downtown stadium to replace Candlestick Park. The men on the sidewalk were all for it; the man in the car-whom I couldn't as yet see-wasn't opposed to the idea, but he considered it evidence of the prevailing "two-faced attitude" at city hall.
"They tell you one thing during the campaign," he said in a gravelly voice, "and after you vote 'em in, you got something else entirely."
The man with the knitted cap said, "Well, why don't you just write a letter, Cal, let the mayor know what you think?"
"I might at that."
I was about to interrupt during the brief lull in the conversation, but the other man on the sidewalk stepped back a little, and the car's occupant saw me. "Move aside, boys," he said. "Here's a young lady come to see me. I got better things to do than shoot the breeze with a couple of old farts."
"You just too popular, Cal." The man in the knitted cap motioned for me to step up to the Dodge, and he and his companion turned away. "Catch you later," he added.
Old Cal was perhaps in his mid-sixties, with white hair and the kind of dark skin that has an almost purple tinge. His upper body was powerful, with heavily muscled shoulders and biceps; in contrast, his crippled legs, covered by a green plaid blanket and extending from the car so his feet rested on the curb, looked deflated. One glance into his lively eyes told me that the ability to walk was the only faculty this man was lacking;
He smiled in welcome and jerked his head toward the departing men. "That's what happens when a man retires," he said. "Ain't got no resources, neither a them. They'll sure as hell end up down to the Two A.M. Club and be shit-faced by a normal man's quitting time. Now, me-I ain't been able to work a day since sixty-three, but you can always find me here listenin' to what people got to say. Nighttimes, like as not I'm at my typewriter writin' letters, seein' things get done around here. Keeps a man going." He paused, shook his head. "Makes him talkative, too. Cal Hurley's the name. I take it you looking for me."
I shook his extended hand. "The lady at Rhonda's Superette told me where to find you."
He took the business card I held out and examined it with interest. "I like what I hear about you folks at All Souls. You don't put up with shit from city hall any more than I do. How's that fellow got shot last night? He gonna be okay?"
"… I don't know. He's in bad shape."
"Shame. You the lady collared the sniper. Picture of you in the Chron. Didn't do you justice, though."
I knew which picture he meant. Why the paper persisted in keeping that particular one on file…
I must have looked fairly depressed, because the lines around Cal Hurley's eyes crinkled in sympathy. He said, "Whyn't you get in the backseat there? You look like you could use to sit. Cold on the sidewalk."
I opened the rear door of the Dodge and climbed in behind him. The plush maroon upholstery smelled of cigar smoke.
Cal Hurley twisted slightly so he could look at me. "This about that business last night?"
"No, although it's related in a way." Briefly I filled him in on the background to my case. "That pink house four doors down"-I motioned at it-"was where the people lived when they were arrested. I wonder if you remember anything about them."
He didn't need to look to see which house I meant. "Funny thing, that was. I took note of those kids right off, on account of them not fitting in here."
"You mean because they were white?"
He nodded. "All except for the Indian. You Indian, too?"
"Some."
"Thought so. That offend you-me saying 'Indian' instead of 'Native American?"
I shrugged. "They're just labels, and I'm not much of a labeler."
He smiled his approval. "You know, seems like only a little while ago I was a Negro. Then I was black. Not real descriptive, since we mainly brown, but what the hell. Next thing I know, black's out and African-American's in. What a mouthful! Then the other day my grandson-he goes to college, knows about that stuff-he tells me that's out, now we're 'people of color."
"So I says to him, 'What is that? Back when I was your age we were colored people. The way things goin', pretty soon we gonna get to be niggers again.' The young man, he didn't find that funny."
I did, however, and I could tell my laughter pleased Cal Hurley. He'd probably been saving that story for a suitable audience. After a moment I turned serious, though. "About the kids in the pink house…?"
"I getting to that. Don't think I'm one of these old men that rambles. Just wanted to cheer you up some; you looked down in the mouth for a minute there. The thing about those kids not fitting in didn't so much have to do with being white as it did with coming from money. Kids, they can put on old clothes, hang out in a poor neighborhood, scrounge for garbage-and to me that's a filthy habit no matter how down-and-out you are-but they can't get rid of the look. Maybe their people weren't rich, but none a them except the Indian ever gone without in their lives. But they were quiet kids, didn't bother nobody, so folks around here let them alone."
"What did they do while they were living here?"
"Came and went. The fellow with the blond curly hair seemed to have some sort of real job; I had the feeling he didn't really live there, just hung out. A couple a others worked part-time. But mostly they stayed inside the flat. Doing what, I couldn't guess at the time."
"How many of them were there?"
"Hard to say. You'd see people for a while, then you wouldn't. But mainly it was the Indian, the blond girl, the blond boy, the little dark-haired girl, and the fellow with the scar."
Excitement pricked at me. This was the first time anyone had placed Tom Grant in the company of members of the collective. Cautiously I said, "Would you describe the one with the scar, please?"
"Handsome kid, except for this ragged red gouge on his left cheek. Dark hair. Tall. Older than the others by a few years, I'd say. You'd see him alone or with the little dark-haired girl. There was something about him… well, like he wasn't really part of things. Like the girl was his connection to the rest. When they'd walk down the street with the others, they'd stay apart. But when it was just the girl, she'd walk with her friends."