From Berkeley with Love (2 page)

When the door finally opened, I stumbled into a dark, putrid cave. A crooked billiards table stood against the far wall, laden with unwashed beer mugs. Two guys sitting at the bar turned around to examine the new arrival. A middle-aged barmaid, badly made up but extremely well stacked, was chewing gum and smoking at the same time. I walked towards the counter.

“What can I getcha?” the broad asked, popping a bubble.

I sat on the stool next to the two guys. My direct neighbor matched the little punk’s impressionistic description perfectly. He was huge, muscular, and had a lot of hair—on his head, on his face, on his bare forearms, on the backs of his hands and fingers. But judging from the photograph in my coat pocket, there was no way this could be Wainer.

I ordered a Bud and waited while she put a lukewarm bottle in front of me.

“I’m looking for Steven Wainer,” I said.

“I didn’t know you had friends,” the woman said to Bigfoot.

“You’re Wainer?” I asked the hairy dude.

He grunted what seemed like a yes and half-turned to face me. The other guy fumbled some bills from his pocket, slapped them on the counter and swaggered to the door. He must’ve known what was going to happen.

“Used to live in Berkeley?” I asked. “15 Basilone Alley?”

The hulk got up. He towered over me. No mean feat, considering that I measure a little over six feet myself. “So what?” he asked in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

I shook my head. “Don’t give me that crap. You don’t look one bit like Wainer.”

He was faster than I’d expected. I didn’t even have a chance to move before he had me by the throat and hurled my two hundred and twenty pounds onto the billiards table. My head slammed into the mugs, and I had to blink hard to shoo all those colorful little stars away. Bigfoot was halfway to the exit. I jumped off the table, ignoring the stabbing pain in my ribs, and went for his legs. When he hit the floor, it felt like a medium-sized earthquake. He lay very still. I scrambled up and put my right hand inside my coat, ready to pull the Glock.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the barmaid said. She pointed a large revolver at my chest. “If he’s dead, I’m calling the cops.”

Bigfoot sighed, shook his head and propped himself up on his elbows. “Forget the cops, Sally. I’m fine.” He staggered to his feet and swayed slightly for a moment.

“I have a mind to call ’em anyway,” said Sally. “Look at the mess you’ve made.” She motioned to the billiards table. “Who’s gonna clean that up, huh? And you’re not leaving without paying your tab, Steve. In full, this time.”

“Lemme take care of that,” I said. “How much does he owe?”

She squinted at me, quizzically. “Sum total, including the times he bilked me? Fifty bucks minimum.”

“If you let me get my wallet out without shooting me, I’ll reimburse you. Plus twenty dollars for the mess. That sound fair?”

Sally pursed her lips. “Fair enough. No tricks though.” She held the revolver with both hands.

Bigfoot was breathing heavily and rubbing his temples. I reached into my pocket, very slowly, and fingered out my money clip. His eyes bulged as I took three twenties and a tenner and handed them over to Sally. I’d bill them to Linda Cramer.

“Why don’t you throw in another drink for my giant friend here,” I said to Sally. She nodded and put the gun away. I motioned to Bigfoot to join me at a table in the corner, opposite the bar.

“What the hell you want?”

I waited a moment while Sally brought his beer. When she’d gone, I said, “Listen up. I don’t give a shit if you call yourself Steven Wainer round here. I know you’re not him. I’m looking for the real Wainer.”

“What’s it worth to you?” he murmured and took a hefty swallow from the bottle.

“It’s worth my not calling the cops and Social Security on you, dude,” I said.

He looked morosely at the tabletop. “Can’t tell you much.” He held the beer bottle against his forehead. “I bought his social and birth certificate from this junkie broad six years ago. Cost me five grand.” He shook his head and sipped from the bottle. “Guess I can write that off now that you’ve found me out.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about you. Far as I’m concerned, you can go on impersonating Wainer as long as you feel like it.” I flicked a cigarette out of my pack and lit up. “Who was the chick you bought his ID from?”

He shrugged. “She was half-crazy. Total hophead. I don’t remember her name.”

I whipped out the photograph I’d gotten from Linda and pointed at Tammy. “That her?”

Bigfoot squinted at the picture. “Spare a cig?” he asked. I rolled my eyes but handed him one. What was it with everyone bumming smokes off me today? Last time I passed a mirror I didn’t look like the Marlboro man.

He looked up from the photograph and let a round of smoke waft out through his nose. “Hard to say. She was so screwed up. Maybe, maybe not.”

“Name of Tammy?”

His eyes lit up. “Yeah, that sounds familiar,” he said. “Tammy. Probably wasted the five grand on smack or something.” He took the photo again. “Know what? I think it is her. Who knew she was once so cute? Same nose and hairline. I’m pretty sure.”

I thanked him, waved good-bye to Sally and left the joint. Why had Bigfoot needed a new identity? Illegal immigrant? Felon? Deadbeat dad? What did I care? I hadn’t been hired to find out. At the next pay phone I dialed Linda Cramer’s number. I wanted to get her OK for a trip to Berkeley. After all, I was burning through the retainer pretty quickly.

Linda had no problem with it. She was going to tell Mayer as well. He’d already called her to ask if I’d gotten anywhere yet.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening driving north. Yeah, I could’ve flown, but I always get sick on planes.

Just after 11 PM I arrived in Berkeley and checked into the Travelodge on University. An all-night diner next door served decent coffee. I had a few cups, adding shots from the brandy bottle I kept in the duffel bag for emergencies, and smoked a handful of cigarettes, thinking through the case. If Tammy had sold Wainer’s identity to Bigfoot, Wainer was probably dead. That left Tammy as the most likely suspect. But according to Linda, she was hardly bright enough to pull it off; and Bigfoot had said she was half-crazy from heroin. The pieces didn’t fit together. I decided to take a little drive over to Tammy’s place, just to see if inspiration might strike.

Eighteen ninety-seven Haycraft was a multi-unit apartment complex in the seedier part of town. The outer door stood ajar. In the hallway, a couple of homeless had set up camp. The place reeked of urine, smoke, sweat, and some strong perfume, indefinable but strangely familiar. It took a moment before my mind connected the dots, but then I knew where I’d smelled that scent before. I sprang up the stairs, looking out for apartment
C
. On the first landing was a small hallway with three doors leading off it. The first had a large black
A
spray-painted on it. A brighter shade of paint on the next one suggested that a
B
had once been attached to it. The third door wasn’t marked at all. Now I’m no math whiz, but I know my alphabet. The scent had become stronger. I pulled my gun and knocked on the nameless door. No one answered.

“Open up,” I yelled, banging the door with the butt of my gun. Door
A
opened and a geezer with no teeth in his mouth looked out. I told him to mind his own business and threw my weight against the flimsy plywood door. It splintered and gave way. I tumbled into a dimly lit room. In the far-right corner stood a simple metal cot. The woman in it looked like she was eighty, but it was Tammy Zelter all right. The source of the abominable odor sat on a stool beside the bed: Dr. Ron Mayer, syringe in hand.

“Drop it!” I pointed the Glock at him.

“You son of a bitch,” he said, squinting. The woman showed no reaction.

“What’d you do to her?”

“Nothing yet. You interrupted me.” He held up the syringe and let a little liquid squirt out the top. “You’re good, Keirstad, you know that? I should’ve put up more resistance when Linda wanted to hire a private dick.” He shook his head. “It was such a neat plan. She totally bought Wainer as the blackmailer.”

“Did you know he was dead?”

“Did I know?” He laughed. “Man, I killed him myself and had Tammy sell his docs. He threatened me. Me!”

“All right,” I said, holding him in check with my gun. “Time to drop that syringe, Mayer. Put it down.”

“What if I don’t? You gonna shoot me?”

“I wouldn’t take the risk if I were you. I won’t let you hurt this woman.”

“As if it would matter to her.” He sneered. “She’s lost everything. She used to be beautiful, you know. Naive, but beautiful. Wainer messed her up. Now look at her. She’s lost her looks, she’s lost her sex appeal, she’s lost her mind—I’d be doing her a favor, don’t you think?”

He dropped the syringe on the floor and, smiling nonchalantly, thrust both hands in the pockets of his jacket. It took me a split second to notice the movement in the right pocket. As I dived to the floor, I saw the muzzle flash tear through the fabric of his coat. Before I hit the ground, my index finger pulled the Glock’s trigger twice. I landed on my right arm, the impact knocking the gun from my hand and flinging it across the room. Mayer stood motionless, hands still in his pockets, gazing into infinity with a puzzled expression in his eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, he fell straight onto his face. I crawled over to him and felt for a pulse. I didn’t get one. The room was completely silent now, except for Tammy’s wheezing breath.

* * *

When I waved my gun at him, the geezer in apartment
A
kindly let me have some privacy while I used his phone. I called Linda Cramer first. This was no occasion for lengthy explanations; but I gave her the number of an acquaintance who might be able to retrieve certain photographs from Mayer’s house before the cops showed up. Next I dialed 9-1-1.

* * *

A month or so later, in a hotel room in Baltimore, Patty O’Connor said to me, “I don’t get it. What was Mayer’s problem?”

I kissed the nape of her neck. “Turned out, the mob was on his ass. Gambling debts.”

Her naked breasts swung fetchingly as she reached for the cigarettes on the nightstand. “All right, I understand he beat you to Berkeley by taking a plane. But why did he want to kill that poor woman?”

“Linda had told him how I’d eliminated Wainer as a suspect. To save his scheme, he had to try and make Tammy look like the blackmailer. Given her condition, the only way to pull that off was to make her disappear.”

“To think that he almost succeeded.” Patty shuddered and snuggled up against me.

I took a long drag from her cigarette and sucked the smoke down into my lungs. “Fat chance. I had him pegged from the start,” I lied.

END