on and got off when it got to Stanyan Street, where the park ended. He had ridden east for the entire length of Golden Gate Park. He was now across the street from Kezar Stadium, just at the edge of the panhandle. It was bustling with activity as the groundskeepers prepared it for a Forty-Niners game the next day. He bought a paper, crossed over to the park, and sat down on a bench. The trip had taken twenty minutes. He was surrounded by a myriad of trees, some of which had no leaves, and there were spacious areas of lawn in between them and a childrenâs playground full of toddlers and their mothers, as it was a Saturday. The tots had on their bright jackets of different colors, with caps and mittens to match.
He sat there for more than a half hour before Blanche streaked past him almost in a trance; her blondish brown hair was damp with perspiration, her cheeks flushed, and her nose red, like a clownâs. He found her more beautiful than ever. Samuel thought she had the grace of a gazelle loping along on the African plain. Not that heâd ever been to Africa, or ever would be, but he liked the metaphor. He would find an opportunity to say it to Blanche, if he could summon up the courage.
When she reached the corner of Stanyan and Haight, she halted, waiting for the traffic light to change. She kept running in place but stopped long enough to touch her toes. He thought better of running over to greet her, as it would be embarrassing for him to explain his speedy arrival. It was better not to discuss it. When the light changed, Blanche trotted across the street and started to walk cheerfully down Haight Street, the Haight-Ashbury Districtâs main drag. It was then just another San Francisco neighborhood. The Hippies, who would transform it, hadnât yet arrived.
Samuel waited until she passed Bettyâs Diner. Then he got up and went there and sat in a booth looking out on the street through the plate-glass window. He smoked several cigarettes and was reading the paper, drinking his third cup of coffee, when he was startled by a âBoo!â and the tap on the shoulder. It was Blanche, full of smiles and energy.
âYou must be a fast walker,â she commented.
âNothing to it. Would you like something to eat?â
âThank you. Iâll have a carrot and a glass of orange juice.â
Samuel called the waitress and gave her the order.
She smiled slightly. âWe donât serve carrots here.â
âWhy not?â asked Blanche.
âAsk the owner.â
âOkay, Iâll have orange juice.â
âAnything else?â
âIâll have another cup of coffee,â said Samuel.
They talked about this and that. Samuel felt that something had advanced between them, even though with Blanche he couldnât be sureâshe had the innocence and enthusiasm of a golden retriever.
6
Samuel Starts Digging
E VEN THOUGH Melba kept steering him in the right direction, Samuel took his own time to start his investigation into the death of Reginald Rockwood. She was right, he decided. Those tuxes were too expensive. He must have gotten a lot of money from somewhere. But where? As he pondered the problem and weighed his options, he concluded that a broke ad salesman didnât have many.
Then he remembered Charles Perkins. Heâd gone to Stanford with him before Samuel dropped out when he parents were murdered. Perkins was a fellow Midwesterner who now worked at the U.S. attorneyâs office as a lawyer prosecuting federal crimes. Samuel helped him through a couple of very difficult literature courses in their second year, and he was sure Charles would remember the debt even after so many years.
He made an appointment and went to the lawyerâs office in the Federal Building on Seventh Street.
Charles met him at the door. He had yellowish skin and a head of limp hair the color of straw. He parted it on one side, but he always had a greasy clump in his eyes.
He sat there for more than a half hour before Blanche streaked past him almost in a trance; her blondish brown hair was damp with perspiration, her cheeks flushed, and her nose red, like a clownâs. He found her more beautiful than ever. Samuel thought she had the grace of a gazelle loping along on the African plain. Not that heâd ever been to Africa, or ever would be, but he liked the metaphor. He would find an opportunity to say it to Blanche, if he could summon up the courage.
When she reached the corner of Stanyan and Haight, she halted, waiting for the traffic light to change. She kept running in place but stopped long enough to touch her toes. He thought better of running over to greet her, as it would be embarrassing for him to explain his speedy arrival. It was better not to discuss it. When the light changed, Blanche trotted across the street and started to walk cheerfully down Haight Street, the Haight-Ashbury Districtâs main drag. It was then just another San Francisco neighborhood. The Hippies, who would transform it, hadnât yet arrived.
Samuel waited until she passed Bettyâs Diner. Then he got up and went there and sat in a booth looking out on the street through the plate-glass window. He smoked several cigarettes and was reading the paper, drinking his third cup of coffee, when he was startled by a âBoo!â and the tap on the shoulder. It was Blanche, full of smiles and energy.
âYou must be a fast walker,â she commented.
âNothing to it. Would you like something to eat?â
âThank you. Iâll have a carrot and a glass of orange juice.â
Samuel called the waitress and gave her the order.
She smiled slightly. âWe donât serve carrots here.â
âWhy not?â asked Blanche.
âAsk the owner.â
âOkay, Iâll have orange juice.â
âAnything else?â
âIâll have another cup of coffee,â said Samuel.
They talked about this and that. Samuel felt that something had advanced between them, even though with Blanche he couldnât be sureâshe had the innocence and enthusiasm of a golden retriever.
6
Samuel Starts Digging
E VEN THOUGH Melba kept steering him in the right direction, Samuel took his own time to start his investigation into the death of Reginald Rockwood. She was right, he decided. Those tuxes were too expensive. He must have gotten a lot of money from somewhere. But where? As he pondered the problem and weighed his options, he concluded that a broke ad salesman didnât have many.
Then he remembered Charles Perkins. Heâd gone to Stanford with him before Samuel dropped out when he parents were murdered. Perkins was a fellow Midwesterner who now worked at the U.S. attorneyâs office as a lawyer prosecuting federal crimes. Samuel helped him through a couple of very difficult literature courses in their second year, and he was sure Charles would remember the debt even after so many years.
He made an appointment and went to the lawyerâs office in the Federal Building on Seventh Street.
Charles met him at the door. He had yellowish skin and a head of limp hair the color of straw. He parted it on one side, but he always had a greasy clump in his eyes.
Similar Books
