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a legal-services plan, I understand that necessity."
"Yes, All Souls. A good group. I presume you know Hank Zahn."
"He's my boss, as much as anyone there is. Our organizational structure is loose, to say the least."
"Do tell him hello for me the next time you see him."
I nodded. Not only would I do that, but I would also pump Hank for details about Dettman.
Dettman unclasped his hands and slipped one finger under his striped tie, which was looped over but not knotted at the neck. Rhythmically he flapped it up and down, regarding me in silence.
"Mr. Dettman," I said after a moment, "you asked to see me. I assume you do have something to say."
"In good time." He continued to flap the tie. "Let me start with a few questions."
"Such as?"
"Who are you working for?"
"I don't have to tell you that."
"But it would make our conversation so much easier." The words were slow, measured. Instinctively I glanced over my shoulder.
"No, Miss McCone, we're quite alone."
I smiled, covering my nervousness. "Good. I like my discussions to be kept private. As to your questions, you already know who I'm working for. There's no reason Johnny Hart wouldn't have told you. He hurried me through his restaurant so fast this noon that I didn't see you there, though."
It was a good guess, and it drew a thin smile from Dettman.
"So let's get down to business," I went on. "Why did you ask me here?"
The corners of his mouth turned down. He stopped flapping the tie, and his hand crept forward to his littered desk. I tensed, imagined a gun, then almost laughed when he pulled a Fig Newton from a cookie box resting there. He popped it whole into his mouth and chewed, cheeks puffed out.
Around the cookie, he said, "You're a forceful young woman, Miss McCone."
"In my business, one has to be. And, speaking of business, may I once again suggest we get down to it."
His hand strayed toward the cookie box, but he restrained it and laced his fingers over his paunch. "All right, Miss McCone," he said, "we'll begin with some background about this part of the city."
"The Western Addition, you mean?"
He shrugged. "Western Addition, Hayes Valley, Fillmore, call it what you will. Every mapmaker has a different label for it, and boundaries overlap. Let's go into its history.
"The Western Addition was a prime residential area in the eighteen seventies and eighties, when the fine old homes your friend Wintringham is so fond of were built. Many of them survived the earthquake of oh-six because the boundary line where they dynamited to stop the fire's spread was Van Ness Avenue, several blocks east of here. In fact, for a while after the 'quake, Fillmore Street was a major shopping area for the entire city."
"Interesting, but I don't see the relevance."
He unclasped his hands and began flapping the tie again. "Let me continue. During World War Two, the shipyard business flourished in San Francisco. Southern blacks flocked to this area by the thousands to find work. The old homes were broken up into flats, and the ghetto you see today was under way."
"So what Wintringham is doing should be a welcome change."
Dettman shook his head. "What do you know about our local population shifts, Miss McCone?"
"There's been an exodus from the city. The middle class, especially families with children, have fled to the suburbs. It's left us with the poor on one hand, the rich on the other, and a lot of single people somewhere in between who, like myself, prefer urban life."
"Your information is out of date."
"How so?"
"Recently there's been a return to the city, mainly by middle-class whites who couldn't take the suburbs. There's also been an influx of gays, who are well off as a rule because most gay households have two wage earners and no children. These people are moving into areas like the Western Addition, buying up old homes, and restoring them."
I remembered Johnny Hart's similar comments to Hank and me last night. "And they're displacing the blacks who have
"Yes, All Souls. A good group. I presume you know Hank Zahn."
"He's my boss, as much as anyone there is. Our organizational structure is loose, to say the least."
"Do tell him hello for me the next time you see him."
I nodded. Not only would I do that, but I would also pump Hank for details about Dettman.
Dettman unclasped his hands and slipped one finger under his striped tie, which was looped over but not knotted at the neck. Rhythmically he flapped it up and down, regarding me in silence.
"Mr. Dettman," I said after a moment, "you asked to see me. I assume you do have something to say."
"In good time." He continued to flap the tie. "Let me start with a few questions."
"Such as?"
"Who are you working for?"
"I don't have to tell you that."
"But it would make our conversation so much easier." The words were slow, measured. Instinctively I glanced over my shoulder.
"No, Miss McCone, we're quite alone."
I smiled, covering my nervousness. "Good. I like my discussions to be kept private. As to your questions, you already know who I'm working for. There's no reason Johnny Hart wouldn't have told you. He hurried me through his restaurant so fast this noon that I didn't see you there, though."
It was a good guess, and it drew a thin smile from Dettman.
"So let's get down to business," I went on. "Why did you ask me here?"
The corners of his mouth turned down. He stopped flapping the tie, and his hand crept forward to his littered desk. I tensed, imagined a gun, then almost laughed when he pulled a Fig Newton from a cookie box resting there. He popped it whole into his mouth and chewed, cheeks puffed out.
Around the cookie, he said, "You're a forceful young woman, Miss McCone."
"In my business, one has to be. And, speaking of business, may I once again suggest we get down to it."
His hand strayed toward the cookie box, but he restrained it and laced his fingers over his paunch. "All right, Miss McCone," he said, "we'll begin with some background about this part of the city."
"The Western Addition, you mean?"
He shrugged. "Western Addition, Hayes Valley, Fillmore, call it what you will. Every mapmaker has a different label for it, and boundaries overlap. Let's go into its history.
"The Western Addition was a prime residential area in the eighteen seventies and eighties, when the fine old homes your friend Wintringham is so fond of were built. Many of them survived the earthquake of oh-six because the boundary line where they dynamited to stop the fire's spread was Van Ness Avenue, several blocks east of here. In fact, for a while after the 'quake, Fillmore Street was a major shopping area for the entire city."
"Interesting, but I don't see the relevance."
He unclasped his hands and began flapping the tie again. "Let me continue. During World War Two, the shipyard business flourished in San Francisco. Southern blacks flocked to this area by the thousands to find work. The old homes were broken up into flats, and the ghetto you see today was under way."
"So what Wintringham is doing should be a welcome change."
Dettman shook his head. "What do you know about our local population shifts, Miss McCone?"
"There's been an exodus from the city. The middle class, especially families with children, have fled to the suburbs. It's left us with the poor on one hand, the rich on the other, and a lot of single people somewhere in between who, like myself, prefer urban life."
"Your information is out of date."
"How so?"
"Recently there's been a return to the city, mainly by middle-class whites who couldn't take the suburbs. There's also been an influx of gays, who are well off as a rule because most gay households have two wage earners and no children. These people are moving into areas like the Western Addition, buying up old homes, and restoring them."
I remembered Johnny Hart's similar comments to Hank and me last night. "And they're displacing the blacks who have
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