Huckleberry Fiend (20 page)

“What if he’s gay?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“A female visitor would be conspicuous.”

“Mcdonald, you don’t get this, do you? A disguise doesn’t make you invisible— it makes you look like someone other than you.”

“Yeah, well, what about me? I look like my own sweet self.”

He shrugged. “So don’t wear your suit in the lineup.”

“Could we get this show on the road?”

“Follow me.”

The living room was full of giant sofas and coffee tables, very contemporary, very decorated, fairly ordinary. But over the fireplace hung a Renoir. It was the focus of the room, which, for all its self-conscious with-it-ness, had been planned to show off the painting. A couple of pieces of furniture looked like very fine antiques. On one of the coffee tables was a collection of very beautiful— very old— glass objects. Everything was meticulously in place, every pillow patted to perfection. Booker wrinkled his nose. “Gorgeous painting, but this place is a museum, not an apartment.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

Off the living room was a library, which, so help me, was very nearly a carbon copy of Pamela Temby’s. I was certainly getting a glimpse of a subculture, and its denizens, for all their differences, had a lot of the same decorating ideas. Even crazy Tom Sawyer was definitely one of the gang. “Let’s hope,” said Booker, “he hasn’t got a safe.” Idly, he opened a large volume lying on a table. Inside was no book at all, but a hollow cavity, and inside that was the Huck Finn manuscript.

“I don’t believe it— you don’t put a thing like this in a thing like that!”

“I guess he doesn’t know— maybe he’s never been a professional burglar.”

“I just don’t get it— this guy is security conscious.”

“Listen, let’s worry about it later. Do you mind if we get out of here?”

“Let’s put it in the attaché case— got your gloves on?” Even through them, I could feel the tingle I always got when I touched that thing. Quickly, I loaded it up, and quickly we got out of there, using Booker’s little invention in reverse.

For some reason, I was more nervous than ever— what if Kittrell caught us coming out? By the time we made it to the sidewalk my palms were so sweaty, my hands so shaky, I dropped the attaché case. It flew open, a gust of wind catching five or six pages and flinging them about. A young woman in jeans leaped from a car double-parked in front of the building and raced after them. She gathered up two or three, I gathered up two or three, and Booker looked sour, no doubt cursing himself for ever teaming up with such a pathetic amateur. Sweetly, the woman returned the pages, not even wrinkled. When she was gone, Booker said, “Where’s your car?”

“In a lot. Where’s yours?”

“Didn’t bring it— you can never find parking in this neighborhood. Let’s find a bar.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m nervous about that car back there. Did you see who else was in it?”

“No. I assumed it was lovers kissing good night.”

“That woman was awfully quick.”

“Okay. So maybe someone is after us. What’s the point of going to a bar?”

“To split up, that’s all. We’ll go in the men’s room, put the manuscript in a manila envelope— I just happen to have one— then one of us stays there with it while the other one gets the car, carrying the attaché case. If that one gets mugged, we’ve still got the goods.”

“Brilliant plan except for one thing— you can’t go in any men’s room in that outfit.”

“Oh, right. Well, you can make the switch— stick the envelope in your shirt, then come out and give me the case. It’s better that way, anyway.”

We went into the Little City, and I followed orders. Coming out of the men’s room, I gave my compatriot the ticket for the parking lot, directions, and the case. While he was gone, I ordered a kir— a suitable drink for a stuffed shirt. In fifteen minutes, Booker picked me up.

“All clear?”

“No problem. Let’s go to my house and get that damned thing in the safe where it belongs.”

“Booker, listen, I’m running out of ideas. Sure, we’ve got the manuscript and we might even have the owner, but how’re we going to prove Kittrell killed Beverly? Which he must have done.”

“What do you mean ‘we,’ big fellow? You’re the detective.”

We were in the Broadway Tunnel, on the way to Russian Hill. Someone leaned on his horn, the way kids do in tunnels, and I turned around automatically, getting ready to curse him. The car we’d seen in front of Kittrell’s, or one a whole lot like it— a dark-colored Pontiac— was right behind us.

“Listen, I might be getting paranoid, and if I am, it’s all your fault. But look in your rear-view mirror.”

“Yeah, you’re paranoid— it’s the way you get in this business. But I’ll tell you something— somebody’s on our tail.”

“I knew this was too easy.”

“Actually,” said Booker, “it’s kind of a novelty. In my entire extensive life of crime, I’ve never had a tail before.”

“Well, what do you think we should do?”

“We could go to the nearest police station, but I’m not really dressed for it. What would you say to a high-speed chase?”

“I think I’d prefer the police station.”

“Okay. As a last resort. But first let’s try to lose ’em.” It was amazing how calm I was. We were just two guys in a Toyota driving through the Broadway Tunnel. Maybe the other car wasn’t really following us at all. No need to get excited yet.

Out of the tunnel, Booker continued driving normally to Van Ness, where he turned right, going north. It was a busy street, with lots of lanes to weave in and out of. We proceeded to do that, going quite a bit faster than was safe, and causing consternation among our fellow drivers. The other car did the same. There could be no doubt it was after us. “Hang onto your hat,” said Booker.

“I’m hanging.”

He screeched around the corner at Bay, but it was no good. The Pontiac was with us. Right onto Laguna, then another right onto Marina Boulevard. “Oh, God, I don’t think I should have done this— we’ll never lose ’em here.”

“Why don’t we just go across the bridge? Then we’ll have all of Marin County to disappear in.”

“I want them off my tail
now
.”

He turned left on Fillmore, right on Beach, left on Mallorca, right on Alhambra, left on Avila, weaving through the melodiously named streets of the quiet Marina District. But there were hardly any cars around— just us and the Pontiac. The Marina felt entirely too vulnerable. My palms were sweating like drink glasses. “Help,” said Booker. “Back to civilization.”

“The bridge?”

“You talked me into it.”

He got on Chestnut, which would lead to Richardson, then to Doyle Drive and across the Golden Gate Bridge.

But the Pontiac got tough on Richardson. We were in the right lane, they were on our left, and they started pushing. It was dark, but I could see them. They looked like Hell’s Angels— big, nasty, wearing leather jackets and helmets. Something was funny about their faces.

Their car pulled up ahead, forcing Booker to turn right onto Lyon, which was less than a block long at that point, dead-ending at the Palace of Fine Arts. There was a possible escape route— onto Bay, but it was one-way the wrong way and a car was coming. The Pontiac kept even with us, so we couldn’t turn left. We’d been effectively forced off the road. Booker screeched to a halt at the curb, narrowly missing a utility pole. Automatically, each of us opened his door and started running, me gripping the empty attaché case.

We were on the grounds of the Palace of Fine Arts, one of the oddest buildings in the continental United States. It’s neither a palace nor, as the name implies, an art museum, though lately it’s housed a science museum. It was designed by Bernard Maybeck, for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition of 1915, to resemble a Roman ruin, and subsequently allowed to crumble into a real ruin. However, a civic-minded philanthropist, with the help of the citizens of the city and state, had seen to its restoration and now it once again only
resembled
a ruin. There are two parts of it— the skinny, crescent-shaped building that encloses the science museum and a theater, and the gaudy, bubble-shaped open rotunda that serves no purpose whatsoever. The whole thing is painted the faded ochre of Rome, and its grounds include a lovely lagoon, replete with waterfowl.

In the daytime, it’s a charming curiosity; at night, especially a summer night when the fog is in, it’s rather magnificently spooky. It gave me what Huck would have called the fantods.

I’d brought the attaché case because that’s where the thugs thought the manuscript was. I had some vague idea of distracting them with it but it wasn’t until I’d been running mindlessly awhile, past column after towering, spectral column, that it occurred to me to throw it in the lagoon. I’d better do it soon, though— someone was padding behind me.

Chancing a quick glimpse, I saw it was Booker, barefoot, with his skirt bunched up around his thighs. A lumbering hulk was gaining on him, and so was the woman who’d helped me gather the papers. I kept running, through the rotunda, out the other side, turning towards the lagoon. It was close— good. I looked around again— another good. Booker was in no trouble now; even with his skirt, he was putting distance between himself and his pursuers.

The only trouble was, two more were coming straight at me— obviously they’d driven to the far end of the building and run around it to head us off. One was tall and skinny, the other bulky, and now I saw what was wrong with their faces. They wore stocking masks.

It was now or never. I gave the case a mighty heave into the murky water. Without a second’s hesitation, the tall skinny guy went in after it. The bulky one with him was running straight at me, intent on blocking. I was close enough to shore that I was going in if I couldn’t withstand the block. I might be able to, of course, or I might be able to sidestep it, but under the circumstances it just wasn’t worth taking the chance. “Stop,” I shouted. “I’ve got the manuscript.”

The skinny guy was coming up toward land now, holding the case aloft and shaking his head. Something flashed in the bulky one’s hand— a knife. He stopped running at me and started to circle.

By now, Booker’d caught up and was standing helplessly, holding his skirt up and looking ridiculous. His two pursuers were with us too, and panting.

“Hand it over,” said the woman. Her companion held another knife. The one in the water was advancing like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

I started to unbutton my vest. “Stop,” said the woman. “Put your hands over your head.”

All of a sudden I remembered something and started to laugh. “But I can’t,” I said, gasping.

“Shut up!”

I had a true fit of the giggles— nerves, no doubt. “I can’t.”

She kicked me in the shin. “Shut up, dammit!”

She started to give me a pat search, and it tickled. I kept laughing. I could easily have grabbed her and held her hostage— the two others weren’t going to stab me as long as I held her tight against me— but I’d lost all control.

She made the search superficial, only covering the major pockets, as she’d instantly determined the whereabouts of the manuscript. But I guess she still didn’t dare let me unbutton my shirt— there might be a gun in there with it— so she started to do it herself. “Mmmm, Baby,” I said. “Don’t stop there.” I’d turned silly and there was seemingly no stopping me. But she whacked me across the face and that did it. Now I was mad— as mad as I’d been silly before. And she was just a slight little thing. I grabbed her and held her against me, holding her arms so tight she couldn’t even flail about. She kicked me in the shin, and that made me mad enough to kick her back. “Ouch!” she squeaked, as if she hadn’t been an outlaw very long and didn’t yet know the ropes.

I looked around at her compatriots, very pleased with myself, but there had been a development. The tableau, in my second’s inattention, had completely changed. One of the hulks now had Booker in some sort of nasty neck-hold and his knife at Booker’s ear, ready to slice. “Paul,” said Booker, “I hate to see you treat a lady like that.”

I let her go. “I guess I forgot myself.” She kicked me once more, for good measure. The hulk with Booker, hearing his voice, ripped off his wig and flung it on the ground.

“Now give me the manuscript,” said the woman. “Try anything funny and your friend’s a one-eared jack.”

“The cheaper the crook,” I said, “the gaudier the patter.”

“Give it to me!”

“Okay, okay. Just say what you want— everything’s cool.” Quickly, I fished the manila envelope from its warm nest against my chest. She took it, stepped back to examine it and said, “Good.”

Then she took the knife from the lug who wasn’t holding Booker, took Booker from the other one, and said, “Okay. Get him.”

She meant me, I presumed. The other three closed in. I had no place to run and even if I had, it would have meant painful plastic surgery for my young friend. Anyway, none of the three was holding a knife now. Maybe they’d just knock me around a little.

But what they did, rather more clumsily than I’d have thought of three big galoots, was toss me in the lagoon. I was still lamenting the wreck of my only suit when Booker splashed in a couple of feet away.

He came up cursing. “Damn! My last pair of pantyhose!”

The gang of four and their black Pontiac were long gone by the time we got back to the car. Booker was sulky. It hurt his professional pride when things went wrong. Searching, no doubt, for faults in whoever was handy, he said, “Mcdonald, will you tell me one thing?”

“Anything.”

“What the hell struck you funny back there?”

I started laughing again. “Well, there’s this scene in
Roughing It
where Mark Twain gets robbed.” I was guffawing so hard I could hardly tell it. “The bad guys say, ‘Hand out your money!’ So he goes to get it out of his pocket and they say, ‘Put up your hands. Don’t go for a weapon!’ And he does, so they say, ‘Are you going to hand over the money or not?’ And he goes to his pocket and they say—”

He looked disgusted.

“Well, it’s great. It goes on about three pages.”