Death in the Haight

A
DUTTON
GUILT
EDGED
MYSTERY

Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First published, August 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Ronald Tierney

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

ISBN 978-1-10161004-6

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE

San Francisco is second only to New York City as the most densely populated major city in the United States. It is a magnet for immigrants, many of whom find neighborhoods that mirror their homeland. The Mission is an area that hosts a community largely made up of families with strong roots in Mexico as well as countries in Central and South America. San Francisco's Chinatown is the oldest and one of the largest of its kind in the country. The city also hosts Japantown and the newer Little Saigon. North Beach, also but less popularly called Little Italy, is legendary not only for its Italian flavor but also for being the birthplace of the Beat Generation. There are dozens of other fascinating neighborhoods, wealthy and poor, some on hilltops and others in valleys, some remote and some easily accessible. Nearly all of these neighborhoods offer a rich backdrop for mystery.

Haight-Ashbury, eight blocks downhill from where I live, is another celebrated neighborhood. It is known internationally as the place where the “Summer of Love” kicked off the 1960s and where the young, marijuana-smoking, free-love kids known as hippies gathered.

The neighborhood remains, though today it is called simply the Haight. It also remains a melting pot—now a mix of tourists, trendy city natives, and artists as well as lost and runaway children. And while much has changed since the days of flower power and love beads, the scent of pot still lingers.

When Dutton announced its revival of Guilt Edged Mysteries, the publisher indicated they were looking for a new take on an old format. What they wanted was only retro in the sense of being as short, fast, and tough as the stories were in the days of Mickey Spillane. Yet they wanted something fresh and contemporary.

With
Death in the Haight
, private eye Noah Lang and his appropriately eclectic group of associates operate on today's Haight Street in today's San Francisco.

I am honored to be part of Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries and hope that the reader feels I've at least come close to the standard set by the original contributors.

 

Ronald Tierney

www.ronaldtierney.com

Blog:
LifeDeathandFog.blogspot.com

Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries

www.duttonguiltedged.com

 

The Haight, as city residents call the neighborhood, was the scene of the “Summer of Love” and the birthplace of the hippies. After a few years of love, celebration, and peace, the neighborhood went sour. Violence and crime came when hard drugs replaced pot and LSD. Haight became desolate, and its inhabitants walked the street with soulless eyes. It has since recovered. It is part neighborhood retail, part shoe shop central, part trendy restaurants and bars, but most of all part Hippie Museum and therefore a tourist destination. It is also still home to the displaced.

Noah Lang remembered those days, and he noted as he walked the street that time did heal most wounds. While it clearly showed the remnants of its past, Haight Street was vibrant again, at least in a commercial way, serving its residents while catering to visitors reliving their pasts or tourists trying to glimpse back into a damned or glorified era. However, one thing remained the same: The lost and those merely on the road continued to gather in the Haight. That included the runaways.

There are two parks in the Haight. Buena Vista rises from the street, a huge hill covered by trees and brush. Many homeless folks sleep up there in the evening. On the far end of Haight Street is the vast Golden Gate Park, so vast there are playgrounds, a football stadium, racquetball and tennis courts, windmills, museums, bocce ball courts, a carousel, playgrounds, woods, several lakes and gardens, horse stables, an arboretum, a Japanese tea garden, soccer and polo fields, and long stretches of lawn, not to mention a herd of buffalo. It is easy to get lost in the park. And many do. Intentionally.

So it was a long morning and afternoon for Noah Lang, who carried with him a couple of photographs of a runaway or kidnapped fifteen-year-old Michael Vanderveer from Michigan. Lang asked store owners—especially at the natural food stores, T-shirt and head shops, and cannabis clubs—if they'd seen the wholesome-looking kid. He tried to get them to imagine that face after a time no longer in a mother's care. Nothing. A young Asian woman in a shop that sold Tibetan goods gave the photo a good, long look before shaking her head. She said “maybe.”

Deciding to skip the fashion shoe shops, of which there were many, he slipped into the Alembic, a kind of hole-in-the-wall bar that was much more than a hole-in-the-wall bar. After a Beer Battered Rockfish Sandwich and a rum, port, and ale drink called Perfect Storm, he stepped out, eyes squinting, into the sunlight and renewed his mission.

Lang targeted those people—young mostly—who appeared to live on the streets. Though the only genuine hippies left were old enough to collect Social Security, he was confident the kids, many of them looking like they were auditioning for a role in a remake of a
Mad Max
movie, were the most likely to cross paths with young Vanderveer. They typically had a hard look, cloaked in dinginess. Boys, girls, dogs, living off the grid and on the edge. Rather than consider Lang's questions, they wrangled for a donation. Lang obliged, hoping to reap a bit of appreciation. It didn't work.

No one remembered seeing the boy. After a long excursion in Golden Gate Park and an exhausting hike up the paths to the top of Buena Vista, Lang called his office to say he was taking the rest of the day off. A cold beer and an afternoon nap were what he was looking for. Even for Lang, who swam three times a week and who was in good shape for a man hovering in his forties, the climb up Buena Vista was a workout. Unfortunately the workout yielded nothing. Those willing to talk to him had nothing to say.

Afterward, it was a short trek home from the northern edge of the park. Buddha was by the door. This was the slight, sleek brown Burmese cat's habit. Once the greeting was done, each would go about his respective business. The cat, whom Lang had inherited, having promised his dying sister he would watch over him, usually climbed up the ladder to the loft living space that had once been a dry cleaners. Lang went to the refrigerator for a beer—a chilled dark ale on a cold day or a frigid, dry Japanese beer on a hot one.

Lang called his friend and client, who was also the executive director of a nonprofit specializing in lost kids.

“No luck,” Lang told him, picking up the sound of Coltrane behind Chastain B. West's voice. “Not a bite.”

“They're all long shots,” West said. “I don't think the city is as much of a magnet for runaways as it used to be.”

“Lot of them out there. Maybe they know where they're going. I'll keep my eyes open, check out the Civic Center and the library tomorrow unless business picks up.” It was a hint for Chastain to offer him a job if there was one.

“Things are all screwed up, you know, with the investigation of the drug lab. The public defender's office is making life difficult for the DA, and nothing is shaking out at the moment. I'll let you know.”

Chastain was a defense attorney, and as such he was often called in to help the public defender when the office was especially overloaded, which it nearly always was. Lang admired his friend. Chastain probably did more work
pro bono
for the poor and exploited than he did for those willing to pay him good money. He lived a good life, but not necessarily
the
good life. Lang, on the other hand, would have to admit he simply wanted life to be good. He consoled himself. He had given a little today.

The second sip of ice-cold Asahi was as good as the first. He'd have to be careful. He didn't want the rest of the afternoon to slip into a dull waste prompted by a little too much alcohol too soon. He had planned on cold slices of rotisserie chicken from Costco, with potato salad and baked beans along with his own private screening of both the Harvey Keitel and the Nicolas Cage movie versions of
Bad Lieutenant
.

 * * * 

After dinner, he watched the early evening news, then watched Harvey Keitel become the bad lieutenant on his flat-screen TV. Before the movie was over, Lang had slipped into slumberland. He was awakened by a heavy-handed knock on his front door.

There was very little light in his room, and his brain was sluggish. However, the knock, ridiculously loud, was one he couldn't ignore. Still, he hadn't ordered anything to be delivered. Very few people knew where he lived, and none of them would just drop by. That was how he lived and how he wanted it. He stood, tried to get his bearings. He wanted to make sure he was thinking straight. The knocking continued as he climbed up the ladder to the loft, pausing to give Buddha a scratch behind the ears.

“You expecting anyone?”

Buddha was silent, as Buddha often was.

Lang slipped his hand under the pillow of the bed to extract the light, olive-green SIG 220 he had taken from a killer. Back down on the floor, he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, in back, beneath his shirt. He opened the door slightly.

“You deaf, asshole?”

Under the light above the door was the hard, plump face of Inspector Stern.

“Just not expecting inconsiderate guests this evening,” Lang said. “Where's your better half?” Lang asked, hoping that Stern wasn't out without his keeper.

“Here,” Rose said. He had been hidden by the stouter partner, whose suit was at least two sizes too small, whose shirt was too tight at the neck, giving the impression of someone whose head was about to explode.

“You got two choices, Lang. Let us in or come downtown.”

Lang stepped out of the way.

“Can't this wait until tomorrow?”

“Anyone in here with you?” Stern said, coming in, looking around. “Turn on a fucking light, wouldja.”

“Stern's afraid of the dark,” Rose said, sitting down on the arm of the sofa, his back to the TV screen mounted on the wall. “He's afraid of me, sometimes.”

“Shut up, Denzel,” Stern said.

“Humor him,” Rose said in a comedic tone, but he meant it.

Lang turned on a couple of the lamps.

“You're one weird guy,” Stern said, looking around. “Why don't you have a home like everybody else? You gotta live in a dry cleaners. You don't do anything the way regular people do things.”

“You're here because I'm not a regular guy?” Lang asked.

“We don't care if you're regular. We don't even want to know,” Rose said.

“What's up?” Lang asked. This wouldn't turn out well.

“You been asking around about the Vanderveer kid,” Stern said.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Stern asked.

“As a favor to a friend who has an organization that looks for lost kids.”

“Who hired you?” It was Rose's turn to ask.

“No one. I'm not getting paid. Like I said, it was a favor. I had some time . . .”

“I never pictured you as a Boy Scout,” Stern said.

“Good. I was never a Boy Scout.”

“I wasn't either,” Rose said.

“'Cause you were in a gang,” Stern said.

“All these stereotypes. Because I'm black doesn't mean I was in a gang.”

“Were you in a gang?” Stern asked.

“Am I under arrest?” Rose asked.

“What's your interest in the kid?” Lang asked.

“I ask the questions,” Stern said.

Lang was trying to make sure the pair wouldn't get a good look at his backside. In San Francisco, carrying a gun was worse than having a kidnap victim in your closet.

“Why are you here, Officer?”

“That opens up all sorts of metaphysical questions,” Rose said.

“Who do I talk to about your saintly volunteer efforts?” Stern asked, completely ignoring Rose now.

“Could be we're nothing more than a spot on someone else's DNA,” Rose said, his mind somewhere not in the room.

“Chastain B. West,” Lang said.

“The defense attorney?” Stern acted as if he had just swallowed cod-liver oil. He shook his head, disgusted.

Lang nodded. “Is that it? Can you go now?”

“Maybe we're only here because you think we're here. And when we're not, we don't even exist,” Rose said.

“I'll hold onto that pleasant thought,” Lang said, surprised and happy that they were, in fact, heading for the door. He put his popcorn and movies about bad cops on hold for the moment—not difficult to do after his exchange with Stern. It was important to get in touch with his friend before the police did.

“Chaz, you're going to get a call or a visit from the police,” Lang told him after the two cops were out the door and he had punched in the code on his cell.

“Tell me.”

“They were questioning me about Vanderveer.”

“Why?”

“They wouldn't say. But they are homicide inspectors.”

“So it's connected to a death,” West said.

“The kid could have been killed, or they believe the kid killed someone, or maybe he saw someone else kill someone. But there's got to be a murder in the middle of it.”

“Next of kin to someone who died?”

“They wouldn't send two homicide cops for that.”

“Right. Whatever it is, the boy dropped in our lap. He's our responsibility.”

“Ours?” Lang asked.

“Can you find out more?” Chastain asked, ignoring Lang's feeble attempt to free himself from commitment.

“You stand a better chance of getting something out of Rose and Stern than I do,” Lang said. “They don't particularly like me.”

“I suspect they're not too fond of me either,” West said. “Stern and I go way back. He's not a strong believer in people having defense attorneys.”

“No trouble in the boy's home?” Lang asked, remembering that neither of the two photographs indicated a troubled soul, which of course meant absolutely nothing.

“They say not. But sometimes parents are the last to know. They believe he was abducted. The Michigan police believe he's a runaway or something. Maybe I can call his mother and see if she's learned anything new.”

“You'll not tell her about the police visit?” Lang hoped he wouldn't.

“No. Not until we know more. So let's know more. We can put you on the clock.”

“When you start getting paid, you can start paying me.”

As Lang popped the corn and set up the second
Bad Lieutenant
, his mind stayed on the Vanderveer kid. The photo showed a blond, blue-eyed innocent. Whatever had happened to the kid, Lang doubted that was the look he had now.

 * * * 

It was very late when Lang climbed the wooden ladder to his loft bed. He liked both movies and was surprised at the performance of Nicolas Cage. The actor had developed a character-telling walk, listing to the side like a sinking ship, which of course he was. Cage showed the conflict within the bad lieutenant's psyche. How much bad can be justified in order to do good? It was a question better asked of elected representatives. Then again, he thought, cops and private investigators weren't immune to the conflict.

He put the SIG 220 back under the pillow. Doing so was as much of a habit as making sure the door was locked and the lights were out. In the darkness he felt the presence of Buddha, who would sit at the edge of the loft, looking out at the space below as if he were a sentry.

From movies to dreams, he thought. He allowed his mind to riff on Rose's comments on existence and nonexistence. He drifted off quickly.

 * * * 

Out of coffee, Lang threw on some clothes, changed Buddha's water, dropped some dry food into the bowl, and headed toward Central Perc, the little coffeehouse on Central Avenue and Hayes Street. From there it was a short walk down to the park, where he spent many a morning watching people run, or walk their dogs, or ride their bikes into work.

At eight a.m., after parking his battered old Mercedes sedan in the alley behind, he entered the old former industrial building that housed Paladino and Lang Investigations. There, having had his coffee supplied in silence, he spoke to his first human of the day, the gender-shifting, always surprising Thanh.