Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm) (2 page)

Next we went to the Sunset District, an area of moderately priced single-family homes where the middle-class residents take pride in their gardens and lawns. Wilkonson made more inquiries at the American Seed and Nursery Company, the Sunset Garden Supply, Blooming Dale's, and Mr. Tree. The replies also seemed to be in the negative.

He then looped around Twin Peaks and hit the large garden centers in the industrial Bayshore District. The clerks there were busier; he waylaid those he could and again seemed to receive no encouraging responses. As he left the last place, his shoulders had a distinctly dejected droop.

At a small nursery on Potrero Hill I tried to get close enough to listen to what he was asking; his eyes rested briefly on me, so I bought a bag of potting soil and retreated to my car.

At the Red Desert off Market Street, I shed my pea jacket and donned a paisley scarf before entering. Once inside I lurked among a group of tall, spiny, deformed cacti near the sales desk. Again I couldn't make out what Wilkonson was saying, but I left with a weird-looking succulent called a
Crassula cornuta
.

As I noted my latest purchase in my expense log, I wondered what the client would think when he saw my itemization. If he objected, I decided, I would give him the plants and soil.

After a few more stops the MG had begun to look like a combination rolling nursery and changing cabana. The baboon flower rode on the passenger seat; the bag of soil lay on the floor; on top of it sat the crassula, a six-pack of brussels sprout plants (someone had told me they grew well in San Francisco's cool fall months), a sack of tulip bulbs (to be planted no earlier than November), and two different kinds of fertilizer (fish emulsion and something optimistically labeled GROWS). The space behind the seats was littered with cast-off clothing: my pea jacket; my favorite green sweater; two scarves and a knit cap; and a white acrylic poncho made by the grandmother of a friend who had hated it and donated it to me as an inconspicuous and dowdy disguise. (The damned thing had caught fire once; it didn't even burn, just melted.) I was now down to a bleached cotton blouse, which was just as well because the day had gone warm and sunny—unpredictable, as fall afternoons usually are in the city.

What on earth am I doing with all this stuff? I thought, looking around at my purchases while stopped at a light on Divisadero. I'm not even good with plants. I destroy everything I lay hand to. Everything, an inner voice reminded me, except those wild blackberry vines in the backyard.
They're
out to destroy
you
!

At the next couple of nurseries I stayed in the car. After a stop on Union Street, we zipped along Van Ness toward Lombard, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Wilkonson was going back to his motel; my ill-advised horticultural shopping binge was over.

But he overshot Lombard, staying in the right-hand lane, and turned on Bay, heading toward the godawful Sunday afternoon traffic crush at the city's worst tourist trap— Fisherman's Wharf.

Cost Plus, I thought. Dear God, Cost Plus…

Cost Plus is a San Francisco institution. Every day it draws hordes of customers from every corner of the globe. They buy mass-produced brass elephants and teak salad sets; esoteric kitchen gadgetry and candles and incense; teas and caviar and rum cakes and wine—and plants, at the nursery outlet. The crowds at Cost Plus's various buildings in the Wharf area are always horrendous. Unlike most of the surrounding businesses, it provides its patrons with a parking lot; like most of the parking lots around here, it is perpetually full.

We inched along Bay to Columbus, where cross traffic jammed up in the intersection and blocked the flow for two changes of the light. Then Wilkonson made several turns, none without difficulty and two of them wrong for Cost Plus. I followed, my aggravation level rising. Cars executed strange and illegal maneuvers; strollers wandered outside the crosswalks, oblivious to danger; at Taylor a man blocked the street taking a picture of the cable car. I clutched the wheel harder and reminded myself that my dentist had recently warned me against grinding my teeth.

Wilkonson's Ranchero finally reached the entrance to the Cost Plus parking lot. He would have to make a left turn to enter, and the line of oncoming traffic was bumper-to-bumper.

I waited two cars behind him, wondering what he'd decide to do.

He put on the Ranchero's left-turn signal. The oncoming cars crawled by unheeding. He extended his arm from the window and gestured at the lot. A man in a Cadillac kept moving, looking determinedly ahead. Someone—in the car behind Wilkonson, I thought—beeped his horn.

Wilkonson might be from the country, but he understood city driving. He ignored the beep and just sat there. Finally there was a break in traffic. The Ranchero inched forward. A camper with Illinois plates speeded up and tried to cut it off. Both Wilkonson and the camper's driver slammed on their brakes.

Sometimes when you're tailing a person—surreptitiously privy to his or her every movement for a long period of time— you develop a certain empathy. It's as if you begin to read the subject's thoughts: no matter how far you are from him, no matter how obstructed your visibility, at a given crucial moment you have a flash of warning about what he's going to do.

A flash came to me now. And Wilkonson did it.

He had stopped the Ranchero only inches from the camper's front bumper. They were close, but the Ranchero had the edge. Wilkonson extended his left arm out the window in that time-honored middle-fingered salute. Then he wrenched the steering wheel and drew in front of the camper, nearly ramming a car parked at the curb. He slammed into reverse, barely missing the VW that had been behind him. When he completed the U-turn, he raced the vehicle down the other side of the street, fishtailing wildly, tires screaming.

As he roared past me, I caught a glimpse of his face. It was purpled, viciously twisted—one of the most frightening pictures of murderous rage I had ever seen.

Today's weird jaunt through the city had come about because, late Friday afternoon, Jack Stuart—the newest attorney at All Souls—had asked me to take on the weekend tail job for one of his clients. The job, Jack said, had nothing to do with any legal work he was handling for the man; he was merely arranging it as a favor. But All Souls makes a practice of extending investigative services to steady clients, so I agreed. I had no definite plans for Sunday, seldom had any weekend plans at all these days; the job would fill up otherwise empty hours and, besides, I would be paid overtime.

At four that afternoon I drove to the South of Market District to meet with Jack's client, Rudy Goldring. Goldring was a custom shirtmaker, and the offices of his firm, Goldring Clothiers, were located on Stillman Street, a one-block alley in the shadow of the 1-80 freeway and not far from Moscone Center. The narrow street was lined with cars on both sides, most of them in defiance of NO PARKING signs, and many with two wheels pulled up on the pavement. I squeezed the MG in between a new Toyota and a beat-up van and went looking for Goldring's number. The buildings were an odd mixture of old postwar warehouses and factories and Italianate Victorians; Goldring Clothiers occupied the bottom floor of one of the Victorians, a sprucely painted blue one near the corner.

A bearded derelict in threadbare army fatigues sat in the middle of the marble steps drinking a Colt .45. When I started up to the door, he jumped to his feet. I tensed but kept going. He stepped in front of me.

"May I help you, ma'am?" He had a bad body odor and his breath was rank with beer, but he spoke with great formality.

"What?"

"Who are you here to see?"

"Um, Mr. Rudy Goldring."

"Come this way, please." He led me to the door and opened it with all the correctness of an English butler.

"Uh, thank you."

"You're welcome, I'm sure." He pulled the door shut behind me.

I shook my head, thinking,
Only in San Francisco
, then looked around. I was standing at the beginning of a long hall carpeted in pearl gray with darker gray walls. Several doors opened on either side of the hallway, and I could hear the sounds of voices and a telephone ringing. There was no one in sight, so I knocked on the frame of the first door.

A man's voice called for me to come in, and I entered what had once been a Victorian parlor. It was also carpeted and painted in cool shades of gray, and its walls were hung with framed reproductions of mechanical drawings of cable cars. Its fireplace appeared to be in working order and on its mantel sat a trailing philodendron in a shiny brass pot. The rest of the room was in chaos: shirts of various colors and styles hung from long hooks extending out from the walls; boxes and mailing cartons spilled onto the floor from the shelves and chairs; there was an ironing board in the window bay; the big mahogany desk was piled with what looked like invoices and purchase orders, some of which had also fallen to the floor.

The man behind the desk must have been in his sixties. He had a full head of the type of curly white hair whose highlights make it look yellow. His face was deeply lined—by good humor, I thought. His eyes were the palest of blues, his dark suit and white shirt correct enough for a diplomatic reception, and when he stood, I found he did not quite measure up to my own five foot six.

He extended a hand and said, "You must be Miss McCone."

I clasped his long bony fingers. "And you're Mr. Goldring."

"Yes. Please sit down."

I looked where he indicated and saw a chair that was half-buried under shirts and boxes.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He moved around me, almost scampering, and gathered everything up. "We're starting to ship our Christmas orders, and things get out of hand." For a moment he stood, at a loss as to where to put his burden, then dumped it on the ironing board. Most of it promptly fell off. Rudy Goldring threw up his hands in mock despair and went back to his desk. "Please," he said again, motioning at the now empty chair.

I sat, and he ensconced himself in his desk chair. It was a big padded one and it dwarfed him. I said, "Do you do all your shipping from these offices?"

"Most of it goes from the factory down the street. Maybe you saw it—the tan building on the corner?"

I hadn't, but I nodded.

"It's the merchandise for the stores that goes out from there. Not really custom work, just better-than-average ready-to-wear. Every state in the Union we're into now, and the volume grows every year. A man's going to spend the kind of money he has to pay for shirts today, he wants quality. But this"—he motioned around the room—"is my custom trade. Old customers. Good customers. I like to give them personalized service. We inspect each shirt here, iron it, pin it, pack it nice. Some of these men have been coming to me for more than thirty years now. They expect good personal treatment, and they get it."

"Do you have a retail outlet here in town?"

He smiled, his face wrinkling deeply, and spread out his hands. "This is it. A man wants to be fitted or look at samples, he comes here. We got a nice room in the back, we offer coffee or a drink. The fitting is part of the experience of getting a really good shirt."

"How much does a custom shirt cost?"

"Anywhere from sixty to two hundred dollars, depending. But for that you get a lot of shirt. We take sixteen different measurements, take into account the collar height as well as its size. Maybe you got a husband you want to give a custom shirt for Christmas?"

"No, I don't."

"A nice-looking woman like you? A boyfriend, then?"

I hadn't, not at the moment, but it didn't trouble me to admit it—usually. I shook my head, smiling.

"Ah well, by Christmas you might. Then you remember me. We'll fix him up with something nice."

"I'll remember. But now we'd better get down to business. Jack Stuart tells me you want someone followed this Sunday."

At the mention of business the smile slid off Rudy Gold-ring's lips and his eyes clouded. He picked up a letter opener from the mess on the desk and held it between his hands, turning it over and over with the tips of his bony fingers. After a moment he said, "Yes. Man by the name of Frank Wilkonson. He checks into the Kingsway Motel on Lombard Street late every Saturday night. Leaves on Sunday morning. Usually he goes back to the motel after dinnertime Sunday evening, stays till one or two in the morning. I want to know where he goes and what he does."

"On Sunday, you mean."

"Monday morning, too. Everything until he gets on the 101 freeway going south out of town."

I waited, but Goldring didn't volunteer any more information. His formerly animated face was flaccid and drained; he looked years older than when I'd come in.

Finally I said, "Why?"

"What's that?"

"Why do you want to find out what he does?"

Momentarily he looked dismayed. "Do you have to know that?"

"It would help. The more I know about a subject and the client's reasons for requesting surveillance, the better a job I can do."

"Oh. Well, I got a picture." He rummaged on the desk again and came up with a color snapshot. I took it from his outstretched hand.

It was a poor snap, trimmed to wallet size—taken outdoors, somewhere where there were oak-dotted hills in the background. The man had a narrow tanned face, sharp features, and wispy dull brown hair. He wore an open-necked plaid shirt and seemed to be leaning against the rail of a fence.

"Can't you tell that from the picture?"

"No."

"Well… I guess they're blue."

"His height? Weight?"

"He's tall. Thin."

"That's as much as you can tell me?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"How does he typically dress?"

"Well, he works on a ranch. I'd say casually, like in the picture."

"Not a good customer for your kind of shirts, then?" I smiled, hoping to get him to relax.

He remained serious. "No."

His sudden reserve and the lack of detail about Frank Wilkonson were beginning to irritate me. I said, "I assume he drives a car."

"An old Ford Ranchero. Green." He consulted a scrap of paper. "License number SDK 080."