Scorpio Rising

  Crowe flipped through the rest of the yearbook, skimming the faculty grad sections, lingering over each group photo of the athletic teams, activity clubs and miscellaneous associations that complemented academic life on any campus. He found Stockwell’s photo in two – the Berkeley Sailing Club and the Karate Club.

  Crowe was chagrined to admit he hadn’t anticipated this other side of the banker. Jeb had come across as a bit of a limp wrist and Crowe had difficulty reconciling his impression with a picture of Stockwell in a karate outfit. He noted, however, that Jeb wore a yellow belt, one of the lowest grades. Most of the other two dozen students wore orange or green belts, although a few wore blue and brown belts. The instructor, a Japanese man of indeterminate age, predictably wore a black belt.

  Crowe opened the 1993 yearbook and found the group photo for the Karate Club. Stockwell was there again, still wearing a yellow belt. The guy next to him was the same person standing beside him in the 1994 group photo. Crowe placed the two photos side by side. The other guy, Dave Munson, was also blond but his hair was much longer and he had a mustache. Crowe noticed Munson had an orange belt in 1993 but a green belt in 1994, so he’d moved up a grade in the intervening year.

  Crowe opened the 1992 yearbook and examined that year’s Karate Club photo. Stockwell wasn’t in the picture. Maybe that was the year he’d worked at Illinois Central, before attending Berkeley. But Munson was there, this time in a yellow belt.

  Crowe scanned the rest of the group. The instructor, Ken Ataka, appeared in all of the photos. A few other students appeared in all three photos too. Of the two brown belts in 1994, one was a woman – Carrie Woods – tall and slim with short dark hair. She’d had an orange belt in 1992, a blue belt in 1993 and a brown belt in 1994, which meant that somewhere in ’92-93, she’d moved up two grades. Stockwell could have learned a thing or two from her, Crowe thought.

  He refocused his attention on Stockwell and Munson side-by-side in the ’93 and ’94 photos. Were they friends? Crowe studied the ’94 picture. The photo had caught Munson with gaze turned, not toward the camera, but toward Stockwell. It wasn’t much but it gave Crowe the feeling they knew each other outside the club.

  He returned to the 1994 photo of the Berkeley Sailing Club. No more than a dozen members but there among them, again at Stockwell’s side, was a smiling Dave Munson. Crowe checked the club photos for ’92 and ’93. Stockwell and Munson appeared in neither.

  Crowe returned to the 1994 MBA grad section and scanned the faces for Munson but couldn’t find him. He went through the other faculties and found Munson had graduated with a Fine Arts degree. While looking for Munson, he also spotted the woman from the karate club, Carrie Woods, who’d graduated with a degree in Journalism.

  Crowe carried the three yearbooks back to the reference hall and photocopied every page on which Stockwell had appeared. He then went back to the Japanese librarian at the reference desk.

  “Do you have an alumni directory?”

  “There’s a computer room just inside the north entrance. You can use any of the terminals to access our intranet.”

  Crowe went downstairs to the computer room and found a free terminal. After a few minutes he navigated his way through the intranet and found the alumni directory. He spread the photocopies of the Karate Club beside the keyboard and went to work.

  ~~~

  An hour later Crowe walked back down Telegraph to his rental car. The sidewalks had sprouted dozens of street vendors selling T-shirts, CDs, jewelry and tourist mementos. Crowe added money to the parking meter and headed uphill, looking for the address he’d copied from the alumni directory.

  A three-storey white brick apartment building near Dwight and College had seen better days. Bikes chained to the second- and third-floor balconies overlooked the street. From an open window came the sound of Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit and on the breeze was the distinctive scent of marijuana, possibly a glaucoma sufferer just having a morning eye-opener, although the odds weren’t likely.

  In the foyer was a directory with two dozen bell buttons, less than half of them labeled with names. Crowe deciphered the scrawl below the superintendent’s bell. Jorgé Bocasucra. Crowe rang the bell three times before he was buzzed in. He followed a sign down a flight of poorly-lit stairs to a basement office that reeked of body odor.

  A man in his mid-fifties, grizzled and overweight in a T-shirt, sat behind a cluttered desk. Salsa music played from a radio atop a filing cabinet. The man looked up from a folded racing sheet upon which he’d been marking his favorites for the day at Santa Anita. He swallowed something he’d been eating and sipped from a can of Tecate the size of an artillery shell.

  “No vacancy,” he said.

  “I’m not looking for an apartment.”

  “I don’t need no paintin’, plumbin’ or pest control either.”

  “How about interior decorating?” Crowe’s gaze wandered across the cluttered desk, the stacks of cardboard boxes in the corner, the basement window with a view of untrimmed weeds outside.

  “Whattya want?”

  Crowe laid the photocopy of the 1994 Berkeley Karate Club on the desk. He tapped his finger on Dave Munson’s face. “This guy used to live here.”

  Bocasucra peered at the photo, then up at Crowe. “What’s the deal?”

  “That’s between me and Mr. Munson.”

  “Loan collection,” Bocasucra guessed.

  Crowe shrugged.

  Bocasucra took another sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He doesn’t live here no more.”

  “When did he move out?”

  Bocasucra scratched his ear. “Shit, I dunno. Maybe five, seven years ago.”

  “Ever see him with this other guy?” Crowe pointed to Stockwell in the picture.

  “Sure. They shared an apartment. Two-bedroom, top floor.”

  “When was this?”

  “Maybe ten years ago, give or take. They was both going to college here.”

  “But when Stockwell moved on, Munson stayed on?”

  “Till I kicked him out.”

  “Why was that?”

  Bocasucra scowled. “A dozen fuckin’ reasons. Too many wild parties, for one. He had an electric guitar, an amp the size of a fuckin’ coffin, you could hear it from down here. I’d get so many tenant complaints, come midnight I’d have to throw the switch on his power. Decent musician but no respect for workin’ people. Aside from that he was dealin’ weed and I didn’t like his faggy face. That enough reasons?”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “He was okay,” Bocasucra shrugged. “Always paid the rent on time. Responsible type, y’know, future businessman and all. While he was here it was okay but after he moved out it was all fuckin’ downhill.”

  “You see anyone else here that hung out with Stockwell?” Crowe showed him all of the photocopies from the yearbooks.

  “Her I remember.” Bocasucra jammed a fat finger down on Carrie Woods in the 1994 Karate Club photo. “She used to come around a lot. I could never figure which of them she was doin’. Shit, maybe both, for all I know. College kids, they’re like fuckin’ rabbits, any time day or night …” He made a flacka-flacka sound with his two wet palms pumping together.

  “You got a forwarding address for Munson somewhere here…” Crowe nodded toward the boxes leaning in the corner, “in your filing system?”

  “You asked me five years ago I mighta said yes. You think I give a rat’s ass where he is today?”

  “I hesitate to question your memory but might it be stimulated by the sight of Ulysses Grant?”

  “Who?”

  Crowe took a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket.

  Bocasucra licked his lips. “Maybe.”

  “How specific is your recall?”

  Bocasucra frowned. “I never had a real address. All I remember was, he was livin’ on a houseboat in Sausalito.”

  “That’s a little vague for my needs.” Crowe folded the bill in h
is hand, ready to pocket it.

  “Wait, wait, it’s all comin’ back to me now. He was gettin’ welfare for a while and I think he was afraid someone was gonna steal his checks. So he was gettin’ his mail forwarded to a place that rents airplanes.”

  “Airplanes?”

  “Yeah, Sausalito Air Charter, somethin’ like that.” Bocasucra held out his hand.

  Crowe gave him the money. “You want a bit of advice?”

  “Get a shave and take a shower?” Bocasucra glowered. “Tell me something I haven’t heard.”

  “Today at Santa Anita, is there a horse with a Japanese name running?”

  Bocasucra ran his finger down the race lineups. “Suzuki Sue, filly in the fourth, four-to-one.”

  Crowe nodded. Synchronicity was in play. Japanese breakfast in the hotel. The Japanese librarian at Berkeley. The karate instructor, Ken Ataka. And now Suzuki Sue in the fourth, a number associated with foreigners.

  “You want to do something productive with that fifty, there you go.”

  “No shit?” Bocasucra licked his lips again. “Whattya got, inside knowledge?”

  “You could say that.” Crowe placed his two hands together, bowed from the waist and said, “Sayonara.”

  Chapter 57

  Sausalito, California

  Back in the car Crowe studied the rental agency map. He took I-580 West through Richmond and its waterfront oil depots and across the bridge toward San Rafael. He took the exit for Marin City and Sausalito. After turning onto Bridge Boulevard he saw a dock with a floatplane at the water’s edge.

  A sign on the roof of a Quonset hut read Marin Air Charter. Along with a commercial outlet offering boat repair, it occupied a spit of land jutting into Richardson Bay. There were marinas on either side of it and more docks further east along the shore.

  Crowe entered the office, little more than a desk, three chairs, a soft drink vending machine and a huge map of Marin County covering one wall. He walked through a door into a workshop where he saw a cluttered workbench, a pair of pontoons lying on the floor and cases of engine oil stacked against a wall. The smell of aviation fuel, hydraulic fluids and cleaning solvents brought back memories. He went through a back door and onto a dock where a man in khaki coveralls sat astraddle the rear fuselage of a Cessna 180, using a screwdriver to secure an aerial behind the cabin.

  “Good morning,” Crowe greeted the man.

  The man looked at his watch. “You’re early. Didn’t we say noon?”

  “Sorry, I’m not who you think I am. I’m looking for a friend of mine used to get his mail forwarded here, name of Dave Munson?”

  “Dave, sure.” The man dismounted from the fuselage, alighting on the starboard pontoon. “But he’s long gone from these parts.”

  “Know where I can find him?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “When he was getting his mail sent here, do you know where he was living?”

  The man pointed toward a marina out along the spit. “See that low-lying piece of flotsam with the satellite dish on the cabin, the one that’s never been painted?”

  “When’d you see him last?”

  “Couple of years now.” The man squinted at Crowe. “Why? He in some kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know. Is he the type?”

  “Not around me, he wasn’t.”

  Crowe drove out to the end of the spit. A motley fleet of water craft was moored at the docks – sailboats, cabin cruisers and houseboats. The houseboat the man had pointed out was moored to a piling whose crown was stained white with seagull droppings. As Crowe approached he heard an electric guitar, a funk riff being played over and over again.

  He crossed a gangway from dock to deck. The houseboat was about fifty feet long with a low cabin and a peeling foredeck that sported a tired-looking set of PVC patio furniture and a furled patio umbrella. A ship’s bell was mounted on the corner of the cabin roof. Crowe seized the lanyard and gave it a good shake. Down below, the guitar paused.

  “Come in, for Christ’s sake,” said a voice from below deck. “It’s not like the hatch is locked.”

  Crowe descended a few steps into the cabin. The place was a clutter – bench seats scattered with clothes, newspapers and magazines, a TV, a sound system and a great assortment of musical gear. Standing in the middle of it with a sunburst Gibson Les Paul guitar slung over his shoulders was a guy wearing only a pair of jeans.

  “Hi. My name’s Axel.”

  “Waylon.” The guy, whose long black hair was tied in a pony tail, suddenly cut loose with a muted repeat of the funk riff Crowe had heard on arrival. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Dave Munson.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m a friend of a friend.”

  “Yeah? Who’s the friend?”

  “Jeb Stockwell in New York.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “They used to be roomies in Berkeley.”

  Waylon got a canny look in his eye, like it suddenly made sense. “He owe the guy money?”

  “Not that I know. Does he have outstanding debts?”

  “When he moved out a few years ago he owed me three months’ rent. If you’re looking to collect, take a number.”

  “Know where I can find him?”

  “Nope.”

  They stared at each other. Waylon broke eye contact, picked up a pack of Winstons and shook out a cigarette. He lit up and lowered himself onto a bench seat.

  Crowe nodded at the guitar Waylon cradled in his lap. “That’s a real Les Paul.”

  “Yep.”

  Crowe extended a hand. “You mind?”

  Waylon shrugged and handed him the guitar. Crowe sat on the amp and held out his hand for the guitar pick. Waylon dropped it into his open palm.

  Crowe played a slow blues riff, Catfish Blues by Muddy Waters, and adjusted the tone control before he cut loose with the lead riff from John Mayall’s Little Girl. He let the last note ring and fade away, and handed the guitar back to its owner.

  Waylon let out a huge whoosh of cigarette smoke. “That’s pretty sweet.” He leaned the guitar against the bench seat and looked at Crowe with a newfound sense of appreciation. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

  “Self-taught.”

  “Good for you.” Waylon offered the pack of Winstons. “You want a smoke?”

  “No thanks. When’d you last see Dave?”

  “He in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not a cop. I just want to talk to him about a gig.”

  “A gig.” Waylon gave him a doubtful look.

  Crowe held his gaze. Waylon dropped his eyes and reached for an ashtray into which he flicked some ash. Waylon took a long pull on his cigarette, let smoke trickle out his mouth as he spoke again.

  “Funny thing. Yesterday he dropped in out of the blue and gave me the fifteen hundred he owed me. Said he was sorry to have made me wait so long but he just came into some money and he wanted to square things. We had a beer and a smoke and caught up on old times.”

  “What’s he up to these days?”

  “Shacked up with some sugar daddy in one of those gated communities near China Camp. Day he showed up he was driving a Porsche.”

  “Dave’s gay?”

  “More like AC/DC,” Waylon shrugged. “Maybe he was always that way but I think it was something he picked up in the joint.”

  “He did time? For what?”

  “He was dealing a little weed and one of his customers rolled on him. It was chicken shit, more’n a dozen years ago.”

  “You got an address or a phone number for Dave?”

  “Yeah. He invited me to come over for a jam next week.” Waylon moved to a cluttered desk, found a scrap of paper and handed it to Crowe, who jotted down the particulars. “Your friend Jeb’s not gonna whack him or anything like that, is he?”

  “Don’t be silly. He just wants to talk.”

  “That gig you mentioned? You need a guitarist,
keep me in mind, right? I could blow Dave off the stage any day.”

  Waylon launched into a heavy-metal power riff as Crowe climbed the stairs to the deck.

  ~~~

  San Rafael

  Using Google Maps on his phone, Crowe found San Pedro Road and the gated community of Marin Bay Park. Another car was entering the estate just as he arrived and Crowe followed it through the open gate. He drove up the hill and parked his rental on the street. A yellow Porsche and an old Nissan occupied the driveway. He rang the doorbell. The door opened to reveal a barefoot guy in aquamarine pajama pants and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. His blond hair was swept back on a skull that seemed smaller than average.

  “Dave Munson?”

  “Yeah. Waylon just called to say someone was looking for me. Who’re you?” Beneath a neatly-trimmed mustache, his teeth bore a nicotine tint. On his breath, however, Crowe could smell he’d been smoking something other than cigarettes.

  “I’m a friend of Jeb Stockwell.”

  Munson looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. His already wide pupils cranked open another f-stop and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Too stunned or witless to respond, he stared dumbly at Crowe.

  Crowe unfolded the photocopies from his back pocket and showed him the group photo of the 1994 Berkeley Karate Club. As Munson stared at it, Crowe saw the veins in his temple pulse at an abnormal rate.

  Munson thrust the page back at Crowe as if it were on fire. “Sorry, don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “You should cut back on the dope, Dave, because it’s really affecting your memory. Didn’t you share an apartment with Stockwell in Berkeley?”

  “What the hell is it to you?”

  “Been in touch with Jeb recently?”

  “None of your business. And if you don’t get off my property, I’ll call the cops.”

  “So this is your place? I thought it belonged to someone else.”

  Munson said nothing more but he looked like someone who’d said too much already. He took a step back and raised his hands in a threatening gesture, the sum total of which signaled his confusion as to whether he should fight or flee.

  Crowe didn’t budge. He was curious to see how long this posturing would last.

  “You see these hands?” Munson said. “I killed a guy once.”

  Crowe looked at Munson’s hands. He had the spatulate fingers of an athlete or musician but a delicate thumb, so he lacked the drive to become truly proficient at anything. Crowe looked into Munson’s eyes where he saw radiant lines of gold in his washed-out blue irises and red specks in the white of his eyes. This was someone whose prana, or life force, had been sapped by addiction to drugs and sex.