Bones of the Barbary Coast (Cree Black Thrillers)

  Skobold fumbled as he worked to remove the jaw from the apparatus, nearly dropping it. His hands were shaking so hard it rattled when he set it down. He started to lift the cranium, then turned to look at the counter behind him and struck his forehead tragically with the palm of his hand, alarming Cree.

  "I forgot the craniophor," he explained.

  He started toward the back room but then caught himself. He looked devastated as he gazed down and stroked the narrow dome of the wolfman's forehead.

  "Oh, my little friend," he said sadly. "What have you begun?"

  18

  THE OASIS WAS in the Potrero district, a big cube of a building probably built around 1935 with decorative patterns of yellow bricks worked into the stucco to give it somebody's idea of a Middle Eastern look. Over the marquee were architectural flourishes intended to represent domes and minarets, and the theme continued inside in the murals and woodwork, fake marble, doorways cut into that heart-shape at the top. The Oasis had been built long before 9/11, back before Israel-Palestine and OPEC and Osama Bin Laden and all the crap, when the Arab world was just a faraway celluloid myth of sheiks with their harems, desert palaces in palm-shaded oases, dashing dark-skinned guys, veiled women with mesmerizing eyes. Back in Brooklyn when Bert was a kid and his mother had made him take lessons, the theme varied, but all ballrooms were basically the same. A ballroom had to have an exotic look and a name to go with: Xanadu, Avalon, Stardust, Taj Mahal. You could go to any of the ballrooms in San Francisco and they were about the same as the ones back east and still mostly the same as when Bert was a kid.

  Bert cranked around to retrieve his shoe bag from the backseat, turned again, and sat with it in his lap. He looked at the facade of the Oasis. Nobody was coming in yet, he was a little early. He didn't like to be the first to arrive. He lit a cigarette and thought about what he'd learned and tried to make some plans.

  He'd lied to Cree again. Why? I'm going dancing, he could have said. Wednesday nights, sometimes I go. Probably not your kind of scene, but you could come with if you want to have a laugh. Bunch of geriatrics like me and nerdy Pakistani kids, but, hey, at my age it's easier than confession or sex. And it's better than what'll happen tonight if I don't go.

  The world was too often without grace. It was the one failing he couldn't get over with age or forget with booze, the one loss besides Megan he couldn't forgive. But here, even if it was a fantasy of Araby that never was, there came a moment when the curling lines and dovetailed beats of sound and movement converged and at that instant you felt grace or embodied it or at least saw it across the room. On that alone, you could make it through another few days or weeks.

  You could make amends to your gods after you did something, or you could apologize for your sins in advance, like Cree warning him about putting her foot in her mouth. Not that either made any difference, but thinking about what he should do, what he wanted to do, he had to wonder which this was. For last night, or for what he might do later tonight.

  "Ray" with the scars. Cameron Raymond. He'd put it all together within five minutes after he'd left Cree. Horace used Temple Microimage, Bert had seen the lab logo on materials he'd reviewed. Back at his car, he'd called Temple, knowing it was after hours, and had gotten the expected voice-mail system and one of those messages, If you don't know the extension, enter the first three letters of your party's last name. He tapped in R-A-Y and sure enough, You have reached the voice mailbox of Cameron Raymond. I'm sorry I'm not available to take your call, but . . . Bert hadn't heard that voice in many years. It brought back the whole thing in an instant.

  Cameron Raymond. So that explained not only Horace's occasional mysterious uptightness over the years but the sudden spate of dog-morph e-mails. And probably the other stuff as well.

  Once he'd verified that Cameron Raymond did work for Temple, he'd called in for vehicle registration information and had gotten the basics, including a plate number for his burgundy Chrysler minivan, home phone number, and current address. He'd also requested a sheet review and as he waited for it to come in he'd driven to the address DMV had provided, down near the shipyards on the Bay waterfront. On the way he got the return fax and was surprised to see that aside from a couple of speeding tickets, Raymond had a clean sheet. Which didn't mean anything one way or the other except that Ray's juvie records had been sealed.

  It was dark on the industrial streets, not many lights in the buildings, a disproportionate number of streetlights burned out. The homeless encampments along the dead-end streets, tents and tarp shelters and abandoned cars, were shadowy but full of furtive movement. Raymond's address turned out to be the office and warehouse of what had once been Dimension Intermodal, according to a sign still on the side of the building.

  He drove slowly as he looked the place over. It looked abandoned: a half-block-long building, probably built in the 1920s, with tall windows, truck loading bays along the right side, a steel-plate human-sized door on the left. On the east, the building faced an empty lot surrounded by a ten-foot wire fence with barbed wire at the top. A sliding mesh gate, wide enough to admit a semitrailer rig, appeared to be the only access from street to lot.

  No sign of a Chrysler minivan at the moment. Bert considered whether Raymond might park inside, coming in through the roll-up doors facing the lot, but after looking at the amount of vegetation and trash along the gate decided it hadn't been used in years. So Raymond probably parked in front, using the man door. In which case, he was probably not home at the moment.

  Bert bumped over some rail tracks, came to the end of the street, pulled a U, and stopped where he could observe the property from the bay side. Just to the south was the channel of Islais Creek, dominated by a huge gantry, badly rusted, intended to lift containers on and off ships. No signs of current activity anywhere. Maybe Ray didn't live here at all and it was a dummy address. Still, Bert slouched low in his seat as he drove back past.

  He had driven back toward the Oasis, thinking. He'd always distrusted coincidences, and here were several that put his neck hairs up. One was that Cameron "Ray" Raymond had chosen a career as a radiologist or specialized imaging technician or whatever he was. Obviously he did path or forensic work, since he worked for Temple and did jobs for Horace. The choice of career suggested a lot about Raymond's proclivities. Plus, a job at Temple would involve networking with others in the field, putting Raymond in a position to know what was going on at other path labs in the Bay area. With his computer skills, he could probably get access to inside information on homicides. Possibly even to distort findings or records.

  Coincidence? Bert didn't think so.

  Then there was Cameron Raymond talking to Cree Black down at City Hall plaza. In a metropolitan area of two million people, his running into the woman who was doing investigative work on a case, the wolfman, which Raymond was doing imaging work on for Horace. Cree Black who was the niece, sort of, of Bert Marchetti. Bert Marchetti with whom Cameron Raymond had something of a significant history. It didn't wash.

  Bert felt the blood come up in his face. The effrontery of it! He hadn't even rinsed the poison out of his blood from last night, and here he was, the anger welling up again. Part of him wanted to go straight back to Raymond's place to do something about it. But the guy wasn't home.

  Maybe later, he promised himself.

  Bert paid seven dollars to the old woman in the Oasis ticket booth, then went into the dance hall. He found a chair, opened his shoe bag, and took out the suede-soled shoes. People were just starting to arrive, groups coming in noisily, solos much quieter. Tonight was smooth dancing only. The Oasis reserved Fridays and Saturdays for Latin, disco, or rock and roll because that was what drew the bigger crowds and brought in the real money. A typical Wednesday drew only about twenty or thirty people, max. Even with the staff and the DJ, it could seem a little sparse. The smooth-dance crowd was different from the Latin and fast-swing bunch, generally older people like himself who couldn't cut athletic moves anymore or who, like Be
rt, used the dancing to try to calm down, not crank up.

  Actually, the makeup of the dance crowd was not so different than when he was a kid. You had a lot of old ladies and very few old men, same as back then only "old" now meant Bert's own age. You had the nerds, there had always been nerds, only nowadays they were mostly Japanese or Pakistani kids over here to attend UC Berkeley or USF and trying to have a social life by taking ballroom lessons. They were usually in love with their female instructors and followed their movements with mournful puppy-dog eyes. Then you had the teachers from the dance school at the Oasis and a few from other studios around town, younger men and women, sharp dressers, many of them into competitive dancing. If you made your living teaching ballroom, you had to show up at these things to give the event some drama and excitement, keep your students convinced it had enough moxie to keep them paying you for lessons. Usually the night began with a short refresher on the steps, after which the teachers' main job was to give moral support and to matchmake the wallflowers who would otherwise be afraid to set foot on the floor.

  In Bert's age bracket, the dancers were 90 percent women whose husbands had died off and who were secretly hoping for a geriatric romance to arise from a night of dancing. Except that it never worked out that way Mostly they danced with each other, or with some punk who was wishing he was dancing with Britney Spears instead and who couldn't move for beans anyway

  Being a decent dancer and older, Bert was in high demand, to the extent that the competition for his attentions could get a little nasty. He made a point of spreading himself around, seldom dancing with the same old bat twice.

  He wasn't immune to the jolt that came with dancing with one of the young female teachers. The feel of a supple waist under his hand, the way a young woman's breasts swayed as she moved, the splay of pretty hair under the lights, the flash of white teeth, it still got to him. The good ones knew to smile and wore red lipstick and eyeliner that made their faces dramatic, and their enjoyment of dancing was contagious. No, he was not immune, and there were old guys who kept up with dancing just for that.

  But for him it was the grace. It was the taste of grace you got when the music started and the lights changed and created an illusory world of dash and romance. It was an antidote for the crap that was 99 percent of everything else and for the toxified feeling he felt after a night like last night. He did a little dancing most nights at home, but the house was too small. Here at the Oasis was a freedom that came only with a half acre of polished yellow boards and the slight give of a sprung dance floor. Even the old ladies gave off a spark once they got going, and Bert knew he did, too. And that was worth the awkwardness of coming here without a partner, witnessing the embarrassment of the beginners, fending off widows who wanted to make exclusive claims.

  He tied his shoes carefully and for a while just sat and took in the varnished boards, the high ceilings, the decor. He tried to put Cameron Raymond out of his mind, determined not to give him that. You couldn't let him bend your head out of shape, that's exactly what he wanted.

  On the far side of the room, a couple of instructors were showing some moves to a group of students. More people were coming in now. He felt the usual pang of being a single, over here on the folding chairs, and wondered if Cree would come dancing if he asked her. She was fit, graceful, she could no doubt be good if she learned the steps. He'd start her with a waltz, the basic box step, work out from there. She'd have to wear a different skirt, though, something with a flare, not the tapered kind she'd had on tonight.

  She had looked lovely tonight, a sweet kid. And of course he'd screwed up again, going off on Megan, then feeling pissed at her for dragging it out of him and so turning it around on her, probing her about her dead husband when what the hell did he know about her grief, her way of handling or not handling it? Nobody can really understand another person's pain. But he had definitely found the nerve. Her face had said it all. Another fuck-up with Cree.

  "Mr. Marchetti, how nice to see you! I wondered if you would be here tonight."

  Bert looked over to see one of the regulars coming his way. She wore a blue-gray dress and a paste-diamond necklace, and her gray hair was wrapped against her head and held with glitter-crusted clips. Mrs. Helen Aldritch, maybe five years older than Bert, husband long dead, a pleasant age-wrinkled face, cords in her neck, liver-spotted bony hands. She had her purse in one hand and her shoe bag in the other, and she gestured at the seat next to him.

  "Mind if I join you?"

  "It would be my pleasure." Bert tried to smile. "You look stunning tonight, Mrs. Aldritch."

  Mrs. Aldritch sat with a grateful sigh and began changing her shoes.

  "Don't worry, I know I'll have to share you," she said. "I won't be greedy. But you have to save me from at least a few of these boys. They dance like robots! Zombies! It's a wonder they ever get married and have children, you wouldn't think they'd know how to accomplish the necessary. Of course, that's what people always say about the English, and they seem to have managed, haven't they?"

  "Nature provides, I guess," Bert told her.

  Eventually the music started. The MC worked the lights so that beams of purple and turquoise angled in the room. They began with a waltz. Mrs. Aldritch was tall enough that they were a good fit, and though her back and hands were hard as hickory she was surprisingly spry. They whirled with the music, other couples spinning nearby.

  Tonight Bert wasn't sure he could let go. He couldn't seem to shake any of it. Cameron Raymond, Cameron Raymond, there was something else he should remember about Cameron Raymond, but he fished in his memory and couldn't catch it. In the brief moments when he was able to put it out of his mind, his thoughts went to the rest of his working day. A couple of cases kept coming back at him. A court appearance coming up for the homicide of a Mexican nanny, apparently by her employer. And a teenager, son of a wealthy family, shot dead for reasons that Bert didn't understand yet, a whole sad drama. He knew he wouldn't clear that one before the end.

  Then there were the older files he'd been reading and the taunting e-mails that he now knew came from Cameron Raymond. He'd dug up another case today, three years old and going nowhere, where the vie had been slashed, his face mutilated. Johnny Miller, the lead inspector on it, had treated it as a drug dealer's message hit, but to Bert's eye the drug connection had never been firmly established. And psychologically, the focus on the face was another piece that might point to Cameron Raymond.

  Mrs. Aldritch misinterpreted his detachment. "I know I'm an old dried-up piece of jerky. Not like dancing with lovely Miss Escobar."

  They were swinging around in the wake of Tina Escobar, an especially gorgeous instructor, and her competition partner who was gay but handsome as Valentino. Tina waltzed with all the grace imaginable, right out of a Vienna daydream, but she also trailed a sultry, sexual smoke behind her. She wore a blouse that left her shoulders and upper back bare, and the play of the gentle muscles in her back, the smooth plumped softness of her chest below her collarbones, the way the lights played in her dark hair, it all spoke straight to a man's soul.

  Bert looked at the gray face in front of him, the carefully rouged cheeks, Mrs. Aldritch's old eyes intent in their wrinkles, and felt a tug inside. He could almost cry. They turned for a promenade, and when they came back face-to-face, he said, "It's nothing like that. I just got a lot on my mind tonight."

  "Such as?"

  "Oh, my job. That stuff."

  "And what is your job, Mr. Marchetti?"

  "I'm with the San Francisco Police."

  "How exciting! Doing what, if I may ask. Tell all," she demanded gaily. She wasn't prying, she was doing a wifely thing, urging him to get it off his chest so he could loosen up and have a good time.

  An underarm turn and she was facing him again. "Trust me," Bert said, "you don't want to know." All the awful feelings came boiling up, he didn't know if he could keep doing this tonight.

  Mrs. Aldritch was leaning elegantly away, smiling, eyes b
lissfully half-closed like she was having the time of her life, but Bert could tell she was hurt. She was doing everything right, being witty and kind and elegant and drawing him out and she'd heard his refusal to unburden as another proof of his dissatisfaction with her. In fact, Bert realized, she was really leading without seeming to, she was covering for his inattention, making it work despite him.

  The thought made him angry and ashamed. Nothing with Cameron Raymond tonight, he decided. There was a lot to think about, he should put his ducks in order first. He'd determine the next move when he knew more. Anything tonight would be precipitous.

  Making the decision helped. He'd take control here. He'd think it through. And when he was ready, he'd do whatever he felt was right. Count on that, Cameron.

  They had come in near Tina Escobar again, flashing dark eyes, red lips, blouse forever sliding off the pale shoulders. Bert caught her scent as they followed in her wake.

  When they'd spun away again, Bert leaned close to Mrs. Aldritch's ear. "She's a very pretty girl," he whispered. "But you are a much better dancer. You have the spark. The grace. That's something no one can teach you."

  She didn't believe him at first. But he worked on it, he caught her eye, he let the music come into his lungs and his heartbeat, grimly he let himself catch the pleasure of whirling over the big floor. His feet found it, and soon they were locked together in one gesture, perfectly synchronized, and it was all grace and lightness, space and spin.

  "Perfect," Bert whispered, complimenting her turn. A moment later he said it again, "Perfect."

  After a while she saw he meant it, and she took on a glow that made him feel better about himself and for a while banished everything without grace, all the blood and darkness, past and to come, from his thoughts.