How to Host a Killer Party (6 page)

Elbowing my way through the crowd, I got close enough to recognize the woman from her frequent photos in the
San Francisco Chronicle
: Xtreme Siouxie, aka Susan Steinhardt. She’d been featured several times over the years for her off-the-wall protesting tactics. A self-described “Earthist” from the quasi-terrorist school of environmental protection, she’d been cited for incinerating SMOKEY BEAR signs (“Hypocritical!”), vandalizing animal spay clinics (“Oppressive!”), and disrupting political events (“Tyrannical!”), all while wearing extreme costumes—a singed bear outfit, a dog in jailhouse stripes, and a shroud made out of an American flag. Hence the nickname.

At the moment, she was sporting her latest protesting getup, which I realized upon closer look was a nude body-suit covered with glued-on blisters, sores, scars, and fake blood, and accented with streaks of greenish ooze. She’d accessorized with large rubber cockroaches in her hair and plastic decayed-looking “Bubba” teeth in her mouth. Shoe-less, she hadn’t seen a pedicure, perhaps ever.

Not a good look for this usually attractive young woman.

The crowd stood gawking at her, drinks in hand, appetizers midbite. A few began to whisper, a few laughed, and a few just shook their heads. I nodded to Raj, his top lip curled back in horror, his fake mustache long gone. He rushed forward, reached up, and with the help of a couple of other party guests—including Brad Matthews, the Crime Scene Cleaner—seized Siouxie by the arm. She twisted violently in Brad’s grip as he pulled her down and tried to cover her with the discarded trench coat.

Unfortunately, she didn’t go quietly into that good night. As the mini-posse escorted her outside, I heard her scream, “Clean up the toxic waste on Treasure Island, Mayor Greedy! You’re murdering innocent wildlife!”

A hefty, mustachioed older man channeling Hercule Poirot marched over and clapped a hand on the mayor’s shoulder. “Forget it, Mayor. She’s just a nutcase. Treasure Island was and will always be a monument to our military, not some tie-dyed, weed-infested, hippy hangout.”

“Admiral Stadelhofer, this isn’t really the time—” Chloe tried to interrupt before the pompous man could launch full speed into his personal agenda, but she was cut off by another man dressed as a clichéd American Indian in fringed leather pants, wristbands, and a headdress. Only his shirt was out of place—a T-shirt that read in scrawled letters “Indians Welcome” above a sign saying UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY. It was a carbon copy of the actual sign that greeted tourists as they arrived at Alcatraz.

“No, it isn’t, Stad,” the Indian said. “Besides, no one wants the island to become a reminder of all the contaminated waste the military left behind there, especially not the mayor. That land belongs to us.” He pounded his chest with a fist.

“And by ‘us,’” said Sherlock Holmes, aka Lucas “Spaz” Cruz, the Treasure Island film producer, “you mean you, don’t you, Dakota? So you can build more casinos and bring more tourists to our island? And just how is that going to preserve the place?”

The Indian named Dakota whirled around. “Better to benefit my people than one greedy moviemaker who continues to stereotype people like us.”

“Stereotype you?” Spaz laughed. “Look at your outfit! It’s ridiculous—”

The mayor held up his hands before the verbal sparring turned into a physical fight. “Enough! Gentlemen, please! Look, Eugene, Dakota, Spaz, I’ll make my decision about the island soon, but right now I’ve got other things on my mind—like making sure my fiancée is all right. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”

Ever the politician, the mayor thanked the guests for coming and “for contributing to . . . uh, a good cause. Please enjoy yourselves, everyone. You paid good money for this.” With that, he gave a kingly wave and left the cellblock, Chloe shadowing him out the door. Poor girl. She had her hands full. I wouldn’t have wanted to be in her shoes—even if they were Juicy Couture. I had my own problems.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Delicia whispered, her thin dark eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.

I shrugged. That was all I needed. A police raid on my big party. “I guess so. But let’s at least wait until we hear back from the ferry captain. Unless you want to report the premature death of an event planner’s career. Besides, Raj has his staff on it. Let’s give him a chance to find out what he can.”

I signaled to Rocco to cut the ball-and-chain cake, told Delicia to serve the chocolate birds and handcuffs, and asked Berkeley to pour the gourmet coffees.

Raj appeared moments later, holding his walkie in one hand and cell phone in the other. “The ferry company is not responding to my calls, but one of the captains was saying that a boat was returning to the city. He was also giving me this.”

Raj held up what was left of Ikea’s fur wrap. “He found it at the dock, after the ferry was leaving. It’s appearing she was on the ferry. Case solved, perhaps?” he said, in keeping with his Clouseau character.

I nodded, taking the damp wrap from his hand. “Thanks, Raj. Good work.”

As the guests headed for the waiting trams to take them to the ferries, I took a last sip of leftover champagne. Then, together with my crew, I packed up the decorations and supplies, leaving only a few crumbs and some spilled bubbly for the park’s janitorial staff to clean up.

Where was a crime scene cleaner when you needed one? I mused, boarding the last ferry. This party had certainly been a mess, but it would take more than a mop to clean up after. As the boat left the dock, I gazed back at Alcatraz, once again bleak, moody, and blanketed in fog, and thought about all that had happened. My first big event had been a colossal disaster. The bride had bolted. The groom had been left at the altar. A few of the party guests had made their own scenes.

And lest I forget, the police wanted to talk with me about the death of my primary competitor.

Before I could list more, the boat hit a swell, and I spent the rest of the trip back to the city heaving champagne over the side.

 

The next morning, with a massive headache, dry throat, and upset stomach, I rolled out of bed and headed for the tiny kitchenette in my one-bedroom, one-story condo. My rental was one of dozens of remodeled former military housing units on this four-hundred-acre man-made island poised between San Francisco and Oakland.

I’d learned from my mother, somewhat of a San Francisco historian along with her other talents, that the island had been constructed from fill dirt washed down from the Sierras. The name, Treasure Island, came from the hope that some of that mother lode dirt still held flakes of gold. While TI may not hold the lure and promise of gold, it has a rich history for such a small plot of land.

I made myself a recuperative latte, took three Tylenol, and stepped out onto my back porch. Inhaling the salt air, I sipped the soothing drink and gazed at the city skyline from my safe harbor. That view of the orange Golden Gate Bridge, Coit Tower, and Transamerica building was only part of the reason I loved living here, in spite of the fact that the island will no doubt sink into the bay if there’s another major earthquake. Liquefaction was one of the risks of using fill dirt.

The island was originally planned as an airport for Pan Am’s Pacific Rim service—the first of its kind—and during the thirties was home to the glamorous
China Clipper
sea-plane. Pan Am only employed male stewards back then, but my grandmother Constance managed to get hired as a nurse aboard the grand ship, and I used to hear tales of her adventures on the “flying boat.” What I would have given to have taken a round-trip back then, but today the ticket would cost twenty-five thousand dollars.

At the end of the thirties, the island served as the site for the Golden Gate International Exposition—the World’s Fair—and featured such one-of-a-kind amusements as Billy Rose’s Aquacade starring Esther Williams and Johnny Weissmuller, and Sally Rand’s Nude Ranch along Gay Way. What an exciting time that must have been.

When the navy took over in preparation for World War II, Treasure Island was closed to the public. By the time it reopened in 1997, a few of the Art Deco buildings remained, but sadly the beautiful gardens, fountains, and statues were gone, leaving behind decaying military buildings and a desolate landscape. And the original Pan Am aircraft hangars now house soundstages for film producers like CeeGee Studio. While the island has been designated a historical landmark, it’s still a source of continuing arguments over plans for the future.

Luckily for me nothing would be decided until the Environmental Protection Agency cleared the way, which could take years. When the navy vacated the place, it left behind earth and groundwater contaminated with asbestos, plutonium, radium, and other toxic chemicals. I suppose I risked developing cancer, but at least I could keep my home and office for the time being.

When the chilling fog finally reached my toes, I returned to my warm home and sat down at the small oak table that divided the kitchen from the living area. I’d filled the place with garage sale furniture and decorated the walls with posters publicizing
The Maltese Falcon
,
Birdman of Alcatraz
,
Vertigo
, and other movies set in San Francisco. Although my place was small, it was cozy, and the clutter of party supplies, discarded clothing, half-eaten snacks, latte mugs, and even cat hair just made it even homier.

I took a life-sustaining sip of coffee, then courageously scanned the
San Francisco Chronicle
for an obituary featuring last night’s fiasco. With only an hour before my scheduled meeting with Detective Melvin at the San Francisco Hall of Justice, I wanted to get in a skate around the island and a hot shower before I faced his interrogation.

I checked the headlines to make sure the city hadn’t been attacked by terrorists, sunk into the ocean, or destroyed by another earthquake. The city was still safe. That was the good news. Oddly, there was no mention of Andrea Sax.

The bad news was the lead story on the society page. I reluctantly began reading the review of my first—and no doubt last—big event.

Oh my God, I’m doomed
, I thought, as I threw the paper down without finishing the overwritten tabloidesque story. Changing out of my baggy cat-decorated pajamas and into my baggy, multipocketed safari shorts and “Killers” T-shirt, I grabbed my Rollerblades and headed for the bike path that skirted the island.

No matter how upset or depressed I was, skating around Treasure Island and taking in the breathtaking vista on a clear day calmed me better than any drug. I loved skating by the exposition halls, the clipper ship hangars, and the old navy buildings, trying to imagine what life was like during those colorful times.

Seagulls and sandpipers hovered and dove overhead as I skated from Mariner Drive along Perimeter Road, past decrepit military barracks, abandoned fair pavilions, colorful Windsurfers, and bobbing yachts, toward the rusted, dangling RESTRICTED ENTRY sign. A glimpse of Alcatraz brought me back to last night’s fiasco, and I thought about the special interest groups at the party, fighting over the island’s future. They all seemed to be trying to sway the mayor to their sides.

Admiral Stadelhofer’s agenda to turn the island into a military monument, Dakota Hunter’s plan to make it an Indian gambling site, and Xtreme Siouxie’s plan to preserve it as a natural habitat were just the tip of the iceberg. I’d heard talk of turning the place into an amusement park, a high-rise housing development, and an exclusive resort—all of which threatened to alter the beauty and serenity of this unique piece of primo real estate.

So far only the radical environmentalists had managed to keep redevelopment at bay by insisting there were toxic contaminants from the former naval shipyard. Until that mess was cleaned up, nothing else could proceed. And in my opinion, the longer it took, the better—or I’d soon find myself homeless again.

This morning the fog had been swept away early by the bay breeze, which whipped my short hair and tickled my fair skin. I spotted house sparrows and hummingbirds among the windswept cypress and palm trees, as well as harbor seals and pelicans that made their homes in the salt marshes and mudflats. Rounding the point opposite Alcatraz Island, I recognized Duncan Grant, a self-described geocaching gamer. Duncan set up treasure hunts for hidden caches on the island using the Global Positioning System. His GPS hunts had become so popular, he planned to expand to the entire Bay Area.

The twentysomething young man with a headful of red curls and a face covered in freckles appeared to be rummaging through a pile of jagged rocks near the water’s edge along Avenue of the Palms. He had on his favorite thread-bare T-shirt that sported the words “Cache In/Trash Out,” along with mandatory skater shorts and green, high-top Nike Dunks, sans laces.

Duncan had taken up squatting residence in one of the empty offices in my building where he kept much of his equipment. He talked of nothing but geocaching, and we’d been discussing collaborating on a fund-raising party featuring some of the historic sites on the island. He’d explained that players would rent inexpensive GPS devices and receive a sheet of quadrants that would lead them on the hunt. At each location they’d search for a hidden “cache” filled with little treasures, everything from baseball caps and small stuffed animals to rubber snakes and cartoon underwear. Players were allowed to take one of the treasures, but had to leave a treasure in its place for future geocachers. The idea was to find all the quadrants, retrieve treasures, and return to home base to share their finds.