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bastard was supposed to wait for me at the show, but instead he took off in his goddamned Porsche with some blond. I let him have it, believe me I did, but he just walked out of there with her!" Her mouth trembled, and her eyes filled, washing out the anger.
"Oh, Charmaine." Collins held out an arm. "Come sit down and have some tea. That's how Larry operates. You should know by now."
She sat, elbows on the table, hair swinging forward to cover her face, and her tears.
So Larry French was the sleazy boyfriend van Dyne had mentioned. I should have known, from his treatment of Charmaine this morning. What an odd combination! Surely Charmaine could do better.
Collins poured tea into a fresh cup, making comforting sounds. I looked at my watch. There was half an hour before my seven o'clock appointment with Nick Dettman, but I decided I would walk over to his law offices to kill the time rather than intrude further upon Charmaine's distress.
----
----
CHAPTER 9
Contents - Prev / Next
At ten minutes to seven dusk had fallen. I had walked down Steiner and admired the old mansions around Alamo Square, but now I approached Haight Street, or more specifically the five-hundred block of Haight, known as "The Razor" because of its thriving drug trade.
My hand tightened on the strap of my shoulder bag, and I walked in the center of the sidewalk, out of reach of both the buildings and the parked cars. I was state qualified in firearms and owned two .38 revolvers. Unlike many in my profession, I liked guns and practiced regularly at a firing range. I did not usually carry one, however, because all too often a gun could intensify an already dangerous situation. In spite of that conviction, tonight I longed for its comforting weight in my bag.
Black men lounged against the iron grilles of the storefronts. They congregated in the middle of the sidewalk, talking, gesturing, making deals. I could tell the pushers because they carried bottles of soda pop. A detective on the narcotics detail had once explained to me that the heroin was packaged in toy balloons and distributed out of apartments that were changed every few days. The soda pop was a normal precaution for the street dealers. Should the law appear, they would swallow the balloons, washing them down with pop. The balloons, of course, could be recovered later.
I made my way toward Nick Dettman's storefront. I had decided not to bring my car to this area, where autos seemed to disappear as soon as they were parked, but now I regretted it. Lewd remarks followed me. An occasional hand reached out. I weaved, silently avoiding them. Soon the loiterers were behind, and I spotted the orange door Johnny Hart had described.
Large gold letters on the plate-glass windows said: NICK DETTMAN , ATTORNEY-AT-LAW . The room was brightly lit. I opened the door and stepped in.
A Formica counter ran across the front of the office, and sagging rattan furniture filled the waiting area. The rubber plant on the counter looked dusty and discontented. The place made All Souls seem on par with the plushest Financial District tax firm. I saw no one.
A deep voice said, "Come all the way in, please, and close the door. We have to conserve heat."
I did so and went around the counter.
The owner of the voice sat at a desk toward the rear. He leaned back in his swivel chair, hands clasped on his paunch, little feet barely touching the floor. I recognized his lined black features and receding hairline from old newspaper photographs.
"Hello, Mr. Dettman," I said.
"Miss McCone." He nodded. "Please have a seat."
I took the chair opposite him and looked around the room. Framed photographs of Africans that looked like they'd been clipped from
National Geographic
decorated the walls. There were shelves of unpainted plywood, piled with reference books and papers.
"Not an elegant establishment, but we do the best with what we have." Dettman's speech was educated, with only a trace of the ghetto.
"Since I work for
"Oh, Charmaine." Collins held out an arm. "Come sit down and have some tea. That's how Larry operates. You should know by now."
She sat, elbows on the table, hair swinging forward to cover her face, and her tears.
So Larry French was the sleazy boyfriend van Dyne had mentioned. I should have known, from his treatment of Charmaine this morning. What an odd combination! Surely Charmaine could do better.
Collins poured tea into a fresh cup, making comforting sounds. I looked at my watch. There was half an hour before my seven o'clock appointment with Nick Dettman, but I decided I would walk over to his law offices to kill the time rather than intrude further upon Charmaine's distress.
----
----
CHAPTER 9
Contents - Prev / Next
At ten minutes to seven dusk had fallen. I had walked down Steiner and admired the old mansions around Alamo Square, but now I approached Haight Street, or more specifically the five-hundred block of Haight, known as "The Razor" because of its thriving drug trade.
My hand tightened on the strap of my shoulder bag, and I walked in the center of the sidewalk, out of reach of both the buildings and the parked cars. I was state qualified in firearms and owned two .38 revolvers. Unlike many in my profession, I liked guns and practiced regularly at a firing range. I did not usually carry one, however, because all too often a gun could intensify an already dangerous situation. In spite of that conviction, tonight I longed for its comforting weight in my bag.
Black men lounged against the iron grilles of the storefronts. They congregated in the middle of the sidewalk, talking, gesturing, making deals. I could tell the pushers because they carried bottles of soda pop. A detective on the narcotics detail had once explained to me that the heroin was packaged in toy balloons and distributed out of apartments that were changed every few days. The soda pop was a normal precaution for the street dealers. Should the law appear, they would swallow the balloons, washing them down with pop. The balloons, of course, could be recovered later.
I made my way toward Nick Dettman's storefront. I had decided not to bring my car to this area, where autos seemed to disappear as soon as they were parked, but now I regretted it. Lewd remarks followed me. An occasional hand reached out. I weaved, silently avoiding them. Soon the loiterers were behind, and I spotted the orange door Johnny Hart had described.
Large gold letters on the plate-glass windows said: NICK DETTMAN , ATTORNEY-AT-LAW . The room was brightly lit. I opened the door and stepped in.
A Formica counter ran across the front of the office, and sagging rattan furniture filled the waiting area. The rubber plant on the counter looked dusty and discontented. The place made All Souls seem on par with the plushest Financial District tax firm. I saw no one.
A deep voice said, "Come all the way in, please, and close the door. We have to conserve heat."
I did so and went around the counter.
The owner of the voice sat at a desk toward the rear. He leaned back in his swivel chair, hands clasped on his paunch, little feet barely touching the floor. I recognized his lined black features and receding hairline from old newspaper photographs.
"Hello, Mr. Dettman," I said.
"Miss McCone." He nodded. "Please have a seat."
I took the chair opposite him and looked around the room. Framed photographs of Africans that looked like they'd been clipped from
National Geographic
decorated the walls. There were shelves of unpainted plywood, piled with reference books and papers.
"Not an elegant establishment, but we do the best with what we have." Dettman's speech was educated, with only a trace of the ghetto.
"Since I work for
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