Chocolate Quake (31 page)

“Oh, you’re just like that minister in 1865 who told his congregation not to worry; it was all over,” snapped Carolyn. “He got out faster than they did by going through the vestry.”

“Do you see me heading for the vestry?” Flamboise asked cheerfully. “It’s just a bit of movement along the fault.”

“Heywood or San Andreas?” Labadie asked.

Flamboise looked thoughtful, then said, “Beats me. You want me to call a friend at Stanford?”

“I’m such a wimp,” my wife said in a trembling voice as she edged off my lap. I let her go with some reluctance. Although I’m not a man for public displays of sexuality, I’d missed my wife this week.

“Nonsense, Carolyn,” said Labadie. “Enrico Caruso lost his voice during the 1906 earthquake and never came back here.”

“It
was
an earthquake?” She turned to Sam. “But you said—”

“And John Barrymore went on a monumental drunk,” said Sam. “You want a drink? How about some grappa?”

“Wonderful idea,” said Carolyn sarcastically, but now she was smiling. “Then when the big fire starts, I’ll combust spontaneously.”

I assured her, not for the first time, that grappa is not akin to diesel fuel.

“Since they haven’t got Desmond in custody,” said Flamboise casually, “I think you two better spend the night at our house. Paul’s mom’s gone so the other twin bed is empty, and Desmond might have a gun, other than the one he tried to palm off on his girlfriend.”

“Oh, no,” said Carolyn, “I am not going to wear the same clothes for another day. This is worse than the time they lost our luggage in Paris. We’ll have to go back to Vera’s.”

She was so upset that the other two men looked taken aback. I knew how much my wife objected to being unable to change her clothes at least once a day, but I did think the nervous outburst had more to do with the tremor we’d experienced than the clothing problem. When the busboy finally arrived to clean up our table and the waitress to offer fresh desserts, my wife said, “Absolutely not. This is the second time I’ve had a dessert jump off my plate. I’m not going to risk a third.”

“Fine,” said Flamboise. “I’ll take you two and Paul back to our place. Then you can give me the keys to the Sacramento Street apartment, and I’ll bring back whatever you want.”

“Then
you’ll
get shot,” Carolyn objected.

“Is there a backdoor?” he asked.

“Well, yes. It’s off the little side street and through the gate.”

“You got a key to it?”

She admitted that she did. And so it was arranged. Carolyn and I stayed the night in a rather fussy Victorian place that didn’t seem like Flamboise’s style at all, although I’ll admit the leather chairs and cognac in the den were to my liking and obviously to his. I wasn’t pleased to discover that the outfit he brought for her to wear the next day was that outrageous leather thing, but since the man was willing to creep around at night so we wouldn’t get shot by the murderer, I couldn’t very well complain, and Carolyn obviously loved it. Could that be some menopausal anomaly? Like men with their midlife crises, buying sports cars and chasing young women?

Once in the bedroom assigned to us, Carolyn donned a peculiar nightgown, evidently the property of Labadie’s Korean mother, and asked if she could sleep with me. I looked at the twin beds, calculated how much space there would be for each of us in one of them, and agreed with alacrity. Obviously, my wife had forgiven me for whatever sins I’d committed this week.

48

Chocolate Quake

 

W
hat a beautiful
morning it was when we awakened in Sam’s house. Jason and I showered—together—feeling very good-humored and pleased with each other, and dressed, I in my leathers, which I still loved, and Jason in a pair of slacks and a sport shirt Sam had chosen. Then we went down and had breakfast overlooking the soaring, terraced rock garden: scrambled eggs with hot sauce, flour tortillas, and Mexican sausage, made by Sam in our honor. Coupled with a piece of good news, it was an auspicious beginning. Sam had heard from Harry Yu. Charles Desmond had been picked up at an airport trying to use tickets that would have taken him ultimately to Rio de Janeiro. Instead he was being processed into the county jail. Maybe he’d meet Vera on the way out. “What about Jason’s mother?” I asked Sam.

“I assume they’ll release her in due time,” he replied.

“In
due time
?” I took out my cell phone and dialed, murmuring to Jason, “We have to remember to return this before we leave. Could I speak to Inspector Harry Yu, please?”

I waited. Then I said, when he came on the line, “This is Carolyn Blue. When does my mother-in-law get out of jail?” Jason was giving me that look of husbandly amusement, for which I could have kicked him. “We’ll come right down to pick her up if you’ll tell me when.”

Inspector Yu couldn’t say. There were formalities to go through. One of which was the interrogation of Charles Desmond. But she should be free today or tomorrow.

“We won’t be here tomorrow!” I exclaimed. “I’m going to complain to the . . . the District Attorney.”

He told me to “feel free,” but the DA was unlikely to be in his office on Saturday. He liked to play golf when he got the chance. Then Inspector Yu wished me a good day and hung up.

Of all the nerve! I got out my notebook and found Margaret Hanrahan’s home number, called her, and explained the problem. She, thank goodness, sympathized and said the least she could do for Vera, who had gone through a week in jail because of the Union Street Women’s Center, was to move the process along, grease the wheels of justice, as it were, as soon as she finished her breakfast. I suggested that it would be nice if my mother-in-law were released in time to attend the anniversary celebration. Margaret agreed that Vera’s presence would add immeasurably to the occasion.

Paul asked if all the staffers at the center would be present for the event. I was sure they would. Sam asked if he and Paul were invited. I said if they weren’t, they could consider themselves invited by me. Paul suggested that they might have a nice surprise for me and then offered us a ride to Vera’s apartment, since the apprehension of Charles Desmond made it safe to go there. Desmond hadn’t had another gun, as it happened, but that was beside the point now. Jason and I did have a lovely night in the brass bed upstairs.

We also had a lovely morning. We packed and successfully took buses to the phone rental store and to the Legion of Honor so that Jason could see the Henry Moore show. I passed on all the artistic and biographical information that Nora Hollis had given me. Then we took a cab to the Swan Oyster Depot, where Jason feasted on a wide variety of oysters, and I had a lovely salmon plate and chatted with one of the brothers. From there, it being quarter to two, we took a cab to the center and arrived as the Women of Color, carrying placards, caught Marina and Eric Timberlite stepping out of a limousine. Bertha Harley and her indignant protesters be sieged the Timberlites with sad stories about single mothers and elderly ladies who were going to be homeless because of the greedy machinations of Timberlite Ventures, Inc.

The director and her husband were completely surrounded and unable to get away until Mr. Timatovich rushed down the steps to rescue his employer. I heard her say to him, “Oh, thank you, my dear man. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re to be fired. I shall see that you remain our security guard as long as I’m the director here.” Mr. Timatovich tried to help her up the stairs, but her angry husband was pulling her toward the limousine, and he prevailed over her objections by slipping Mr. Timatovich a twenty-dollar bill.

The upshot was that Marina didn’t get to make her director’s speech launching the celebration, but Nora Farraday Hollis was happy to take over and welcomed everyone to “this auspicious occasion.” One of her remarks involved the debt the center owed to Sam Flamboise and me for our efforts in finding the murderer of “dear, dreadfully missed Denise Faulk.” We received a round of applause, and Mr. Valetti stood up to sing, joined by a black contralto and the gospel choir, who sang in English and added some unusual flourishes to the gypsy scene in
Il Trovatore.
Then the pot stickers were served.

Grandmother Yu, who was there with Ginger, really knows how to make a pot sticker. I had two, not to mention burritos made by Jesusita Gomez, who attended with her children and wanted to know where her savior, Vera, was. I said that I hoped to hear soon that she had been released from jail. “Horse’s ass cops,” Jesusita muttered and went off to talk to Dr. Tagalong.

While we were sampling sushi, fried chicken and col lard greens, Philippine delicacies I couldn’t identify but liked a lot, and Ethiopian
injerra
with red hot dips, while I was introducing Jason to people I had met, including a rather glum but clean Martina L. King, Paul and Sam wandered over with a tall, handsome man. “This is Porter,” said Paul. “He’s a friend of ours.”

Jason and I greeted Porter and recommended the Dragon Rolls, which weren’t as good as those at Ebisu, but Jason didn’t know the difference, and I was just happy to see them again. Even if they didn’t have the salmon roe spine spikes, they did have wonderful carrot stick antennae sticking out the front. It was truly a shame to eat such works of art.

“Porter would like to meet your friend Kara Meyerhof, Carolyn,” said Sam.

“Oh, my goodness. Aren’t you a dear?” I gave him a hug and rushed off the find Kara. The fellow was tall enough, although I was afraid his shoulders weren’t as wide as hers, but he seemed quite amiable, so maybe he wouldn’t mind. I located her chatting with Dr. Tagalong and Grandmother Yu about the new Tai Chi class. “Kara, friends of mine have brought along a nice man for you to meet. His name is Porter, and he’s very tall.” Kara actually blushed with excitement and hurried after me.

I didn’t know why Sam and Paul seemed so amused because Kara and Porter got along famously. I heard him suggest that they go out for dinner after the celebration. I’m ashamed to say I was eavesdropping—until a small band of people led by a priest burst through the gate and began to harangue the happy crowd.

“For shame,” said the priest. “Urging a good Catholic girl to have herself sterilized.” He had spotted Dr. Tagalong and was heading her way. For a wonder, the doctor, who had seemed so proud of Jesusita’s tubal ligation, if that’s what the fuss was about, turned pale. “You have led this young woman into grievous sin and endangered your own soul!” he shouted, his voice gaining volume. Poor Jesusita, who had been happily munching a tamale, burst into tears. Then her two children began to cry as well.

I considered his actions not just tactless, but unnecessarily cruel, and I was tempted to tell him the story of Dr. Scott, who was deported from San Francisco to New Orleans by his Union-sympathizing parishioners during the Civil War because he persisted in preaching favorably about the Southern cause. Dr. Scott had been taken directly from the church service to a waiting steamer on the docks for bringing the wrong message to a hostile audience, just as this priest—

“And who are you, Father, to tell any woman what she can do with her own body?” It was my mother-in-law. She’d just walked out of the kitchen with Margaret Hanrahan. “Until you’ve brought a child into the world, a child you don’t want—”

“I love my children,” said Jesusita defensively. She gathered them up in her arms. “I just don’t want any more.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Vera. “You can’t support any more.” She turned to the priest. “Have you chased down the fathers and insisted that they support these two children? Did you come to Jesusita’s rescue when she was thrown in jail because of the crimes of one of those fathers? Did you insist that he marry her and support the children by honest labor? Of course your didn’t.”

The priest looked disconcerted. He tried to gather himself together, but my mother-in-law was not finished with him. “You, Father, are a trespasser here, where we
care
about the fate of women and the well-being of their children. This is private property, sir. If you don’t leave immediately, we will have you arrested for trespassing.”