The Clockwork Teddy (3 page)

Her jaw tightened when she saw how badly the poster was damaged. Leaning it against the table, she said, “Darn it, and I just put it up. Between the wind and the skateboarders, I really don’t know why I continue to do this event.”

“Probably because you’re one of the people who put this show on the map, Lauren. And a lot of these folks came here to get one of your bears.”

“I suppose.” She squinted at me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but do we know each other?”

“We met several times, back when my wife and I were just collectors. But it was years ago, and with the crowds that are always around your table, I wouldn’t expect you to remember me.” I extended my hand. “I’m Brad Lyon.”

Lauren released my hand and waggled a finger at me. “Wait, I remember. Your wife was interested in making teddy bears and you bought Black Beart.”

“What a memory,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

“But . . .” She looked down at my cane. “You . . .”

“I was hurt on the job when I was with the SFPD. Now Ashleigh and I are making teddy bears. In fact, we’re almost neighbors.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “Our table is back there.”

“Congratulations, but I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve stopped collecting.”

“Oh no, we always bring one or two bears back from shows. We’re addicted.”

“Good, because if you’ve got a second, I’d love to show you my new Age of A-bear-ius collection.” She pointed to the table where there stood a protest march’s worth of hippie-attired bears with long hair made from distressed yarn. “And you’re in luck; I give other artists a ten-percent discount.”

“Thanks for thinking of me, but I was just on my way somewhere. Maybe I’ll come back in a little while,” I said, hoping my tone didn’t betray my slight annoyance over her clumsy segue into trying to sell me a bear. “And about the sign; do you have some packing tape and—I don’t know—maybe a couple of pencils or something?”

“I think so. Why?”

“You might be able to jury-rig a splint to keep that corner relatively flat. It’s possible you could fix it enough to use the poster for the show.”

“That’s a great idea. Thanks.” Her eyes flicked in the direction of a woman who’d stopped to examine the Barbeary Coast Bears and I knew she was concerned about missing a potential customer.

“Well, I know you’re busy, so I’ll let you get back to work. It was a pleasure seeing you again. And thank you for being one of the people who infected us with the teddy bear-collecting virus.”

“My pleasure, and if I get the chance, I’ll try to come down and see your bears.” Lauren gave me a wan smile as she darted toward the table.

“Ash would be thrilled. Our sign says ‘Lyon’s Tigers and Bears,’ ” I said, suspecting that she hadn’t heard me.

I started toward city hall, but hadn’t gone much farther than ten yards when the guy in the bear costume reappeared from around a corner, tramping in my direction. Since I was still in Boy Scout mode, I decided to do another good deed and offer him an encouraging word or two. I stepped into his path as we approached each other and gave him a casual, friendly wave to indicate I wanted to speak to him. The guy obviously didn’t want to stop, but there wasn’t much room for him to maneuver with the crowds and he was obliged to slow down.

As he tried to sidestep around me, I put my hand on his arm and said, “I know you probably didn’t volunteer for this job, but we all appreciate what you’re doing. So, thank you and try to have a little fun. It might make the time go more quickly.”

The bear jerked his arm free from my grasp, and as he stomped past, a muffled male voice from behind the smiling bear’s face snapped, “Hey, bite me, you old fart.”

Although I’d turned forty-eight back in July, the fact is that I
do
look old enough to remember when Ronald Reagan was best known as Bonzo the Chimpanzee’s costar. Still, you don’t expect spite from a teddy bear. My surprise gave way to complete shock as the costumed man then barreled up to the Barbeary Bears space, shoved Lauren’s customer aside, grabbed one side of the aluminum folding-table and threw it into the air, sending the hippie and Gold Rush bears flying. Lauren fell backwards onto the grass and rolled to avoid the falling table, which slammed to the ground only inches from her legs. There were cries of alarm as the teddy bear fans tried to distance themselves from the rampaging mascot.

Meanwhile, the costumed attacker snatched up Lauren’s metal cashbox from the ground and tucked it under his left arm, which I supposed now made him a
rob-bear
. But there wasn’t time to dream up any more wretched puns, because the guy pivoted and began running back the way he’d come from—in my direction. That was when I made my first mistake: I decided that I was too hemmed in by innocent folks to risk clobbering the robber with my cane, so instead I tried to make an open-field tackle, which would have been a challenge even if I’d possessed two good legs. I dove for his fuzzy midsection, but as he rumbled past, the bear gave me a crushing straight-arm to the face, worthy of legendary NFL running back Jim Brown. The blow knocked me backwards and my cane went flying as I crashed onto the grass. By the time I rolled over and shook the stars from my vision, I could only watch as the bear ran toward West Napa Street and disappeared from sight.

The shouting and atmosphere of panic didn’t diminish much, even after the crook was gone. There were repeated shouts for someone to call 911, strident voices demanding to know what had happened, and several kids sobbing with terror. Meanwhile, I was helped to my feet and someone handed me my cane as I assured everyone that I was fine and didn’t need medical attention.

Suddenly, Ash was there. She hugged me tightly while saying in a frightened and slightly annoyed voice, “I
knew
I’d find you here. Are you all right?”

“Fine but pissed. I had a shot at tackling the guy, but he got away.”

“What guy?”

“The dude in the bear suit. He just trashed Lauren Vandenbosch’s display table and then Two-Elevened her,” I replied, using the California penal code section for robbery. “I wonder how she’s doing.”

We wove our way through the milling crowd and I received yet another disagreeable surprise. A visibly trembling Lauren stood next to the wrecked table, clutching a teddy bear to her chest and listening in fearful silence to one of my least favorite people in the world.

Two

Ash saw my jaw tighten. “What’s wrong?”

“Scumbag at twelve o’clock . . . or any other time of day or night for that matter,” I said quietly.

“You know him?”

“Yep. That’s Merv the Perv Bronsey, the vice squad’s king of kinks. I thought I smelled manure.”

“That creepy detective you reported to Internal Affairs?”

“Several times. And in what alternate universe would you expect to find
him
at a teddy bear show?”

“Lauren doesn’t exactly look thrilled to be talking to him.”

“No woman ever is.”

“Let’s go a little closer.” Ash pulled on my hand.

The most charitable thing I could say about Bronsey was that he was too lazy to pursue the more arduous forms of police corruption. He might not accept bribes, but he would spend hours conducting “business inspections” of nude bars, and often seized hardcore porn magazines from adult book-shops under the pretext of examining them for pictures of runaway girls. Having someone like Bronsey in the SFPD vice enforcement bureau was sort of like putting Michael Vick in charge of a dog shelter. But the sad fact is cop work is like any other profession. There are two roads to career advancement: One is to work hard and the other is to become a human remora and attach yourself to the back of a sharklike boss, which—big surprise, considering he was a natural born suck-up—was the path Bronsey had chosen.

As we neared, we could hear that Bronsey sounded tickled as he said, “Like I said, it’s a damn shame about this . . . random destruction. I’d really hate to see it happen again, but you never can tell.”

“I told you, I don’t know where Kyle is,” Lauren sniffled.

“Not that it’s in any way connected with this tragedy . . .” He flashed a toothy smile. Tall and beefy with long salt-and-pepper hair worn in a ponytail, Bronsey was dressed in a shabby pastel-colored suit and T-shirt ensemble that had gone out of style with
Miami Vice
. “But, wrong answer, lady. And maybe you’d better think about how terrible it would be if some crazy bear came to your house tonight.”

“You know, that sounds an awful lot like a threat, Merv.” I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but I’ve always hated bullies, especially if they’re backing their play with a cop’s badge.

Surprised, Bronsey pivoted, pulled his mirrored sunglasses down to look at me, and chuckled. “Well, if it ain’t limpy Lyon, my favorite snitch. How’s life as a cripple?”

“Not bad, since, unlike yours, my disability is just physical.”

He ignored me to focus on Ashleigh. “And this must be your wife. Always wanted to meet her.” He leered at Ash and said, “Seems to me that a fine-looking woman like you could do better than this gimp.”

My hand tightened around my cane, but before I could do anything Ash gave him a contemptuous smile and said, “Stick to smut books, Merv. I’ve heard you wouldn’t know what to do with a real woman.”

Bronsey’s cheeks flushed and his eyes narrowed with anger. “Someone needs to teach you some respect.”

“My mama always said that respect is earned, and you never give it to gutter trash,” said Ash, anger causing her usually dormant Virginia mountain accent to emerge.

“Your mama—”

I stepped between Ash and Bronsey. “Don’t go there, Merv. Not unless you want to fight both of us. And do you really want to make things any worse for yourself?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This woman was just the victim of a robbery and the only thing you can think to do is threaten her? That’s egregious misconduct, even for you. I want your supervisor out here right now.”

Bronsey squared his shoulders and sneered, “I don’t work for the PD anymore. I’ve got my own private investigation agency.” He glared at me, then his gaze shifted to something in the distance behind us. He turned to Lauren and snapped, “We aren’t done. I’ll see you very soon.”

Bronsey turned, paused briefly to kick one of the fallen teddy bears from his path, and then walked quickly across the grass toward First Street. I looked over to see the reason for his unexpected retreat: Two Sonoma cops were threading their way through the crowds toward us. By the time they arrived, Bronsey was lost to sight.

I turned to Lauren. “I saw you fall. Are you okay?”

“I wasn’t hurt. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, but you
were
robbed.”

“It was just a little money and none of my bears were stolen.” Lauren brushed a stray ringlet of brunette hair from her eyes. “Still, thanks for your help with Bronsey.”

“Oh, I think seeing the other cops scared him off more than anything I did. What was he harassing you about, anyway?”

“It’s all a huge misunderstanding, but thanks for asking.” Lauren stooped to pick up the table. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk about it.

Once the Sonoma officers learned that a robbery had occurred, the younger one began looking for witnesses while the senior cop spoke to Lauren. I waited, knowing they’d also want to interview me. Realizing it might be a few minutes before I was free, I suggested to Ash that she return to our unguarded table. You don’t usually worry about theft at a bear show, but considering what had just happened, there was no point in tempting fate. Ash grudgingly agreed, but even though I promised to join her the moment I was finished, she looked worried.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She took my hand. “Brad, honey, you’ve got your homicide inspector face on, which almost always means trouble.”

“That obvious, huh?” I hung my head for a second. “Sorry, but it just infuriates me that Bronsey seemed connected to the robbery, and then just stood there smirking at us.”

“He probably was, but that’s for the local police to prove.”

“And she’s hiding something.” I inclined my head in Lauren’s direction.

“That may be true, but she’s probably uncomfortable talking about her problem with an almost total stranger.”

“Oh, as if
that’s
a valid reason for not sharing a potentially embarrassing secret,” I said in mock exasperation, and then sighed. “You’re right, honey, and I’m sorry for sliding into cop mode. I promise that all I’m going to do is give a statement and then I’ll come right back to our table.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” She kissed me on the cheek and headed back down the grassy walkway.

Meanwhile, I moved a little closer to Lauren, who was telling the cop about the robbery. I couldn’t really blame the officer for trying to suppress a smile when she learned that the robbery suspect was a guy dressed in a furry brown bear suit. Even for California, that was pretty surreal.

What was even stranger, though, was that Lauren never said a word about her subsequent menacing encounter with Bronsey. That just didn’t make any sense, since the ex-vice cop had clearly implied he knew something about the robbery. Probably, Bronsey had threatened to ratchet up the abuse if Lauren reported him to the police. But remembering how she’d rebuffed my earlier question, I also had to wonder if Lauren was trying to avoid saying anything that would lead to questions about Kyle—whoever
he
was—and why Bronsey was after him.

When it came time for me to talk to the officer, Lauren gazed at me with what I was uncomfortably aware were imploring hazel eyes. Obviously, she was hoping I’d corroborate her abridged version of how the robbery went down; an unreasonable expectation, however, considering that I was not only a retired detective, but I’d been knocked on my butt by someone who was presumably Bronsey’s coconspirator. Lauren’s head drooped as I began talking about Merv the Perv.

The cop frowned. “How do you know this guy is ex-SFPD?”

“I used to work there.”

“You Eight-Thirty-Two?”

No, she wasn’t asking my age or how many glazed doughnut holes I had for breakfast. Few people know that section 832 of the California penal code is the definition for a peace officer, so Golden State cops use the numbers as a verbal secret handshake. I nodded and said, “I worked homicide, but now I’m retired.”