My Nick in Time

When I got back on Monday Zelda caught me up.

"Elliot says nothing remarkable about Thrupshot. He usually goes to Original Joe's for dinner, plays cards with a couple of his pals, all of them shipping guys. Nothing unusual. Elliot says no sign of anything extracurricular on the romance front."

I nodded. That fitted with everything I had seen myself.

"The bike messenger's a different issue though. Elliot thinks he's doing some drug carrying. Folks coming in and out of 858 Haight Street over the weekend. Nobody stays long, everyone leaves with something. They stick it in their jacket pockets or backpacks, look both ways before clearing."

"Thrupshot involved at all? Or is this guy just working on his own?"

"Elliot thinks more likely the latter."

"But you know what? Here's the interesting bit. Thrupshot's daughter, Daria? You said she drives a green MG? Elliot saw her car, or one like it, parked out front of 858 Haight last Saturday morning."

"Did he get a plate number?"

I looked at what Zelda had scribbled down. It was Daria's.

Looked like I needed to have a chat with the girl.

===

I made a few calls the next day about the bike guy. Jon Longstreet over at Aero knew just who I meant. It wasn't hard to imagine him making a face at the other end of the phone line.

"Short, scrawny guy? Acts like he's got ten cups of coffee in him? Eyes that dart around? Pilots a beat-up red cruiser?"

"Yep."

"Jimmy. Jimmy Phelan. Used to work for us, but we booted him for insubordination. He's plenty fast, and not just with his legs. He's an independent now. We used to handle Thrupshot's business, but when Jimmy left the big guy went with him. He in any trouble?"

"Naw, just curious. You bike guys are quite a crew. Plenty of characters."

"Tell me about it. Used to be easier maybe five, ten years ago, but there's plenty of young frontier type males coming to town these days without a dime in their pocket who think they can make a living pedaling two wheels around."

"Thanks Jon, catch up with you soon."

I called the Thrupshot place, got Daria on the phone. Explained Kira had hired me, wondered if I might stop by for a talk.

She told me she'd rather met me away from home. She picked a Jewish deli out on Geary, and we arranged for Wednesday just before noon.

It was the same long-haired woman I had seen before. She was willowy enough to weep for. Her skirt was shorter than my attention span. Her clear blue eyes were level. I wouldn't have called them warm.

"Mr. Mallet, good day."

She said this was her favorite place out in the Avenues. There was a giant barrel of pickles. A wicker basket of bagels. All kinds of food that did not look familiar. Not everyone spoke English.

"You should try the blintzes," she suggested. "Best I've had outside of New York."

We got some things from the deli case, and she led me to a table looking out over the street.

"So sounds like you know New York blintzes then. Spend much time there?"

"Not until Daddy remarried. I've gone with Kira a few times now."

"Do you get along okay? Not your mom after all."

"We're fine. It took a little bit of adjustment, on both our parts. Daddy's not the easiest person to live with sometime, but I think we've found some common ground."

She looked at me evenly. "I know Kira hired you. I'm not sure it is a good idea. You can ask what you want, but I'm not going to tell you much about Daddy."

I shrugged.

"My goal isn't to pry. Kira had asked me to find out what I could, I think she told you why."

"No, but I can guess. For the record Daddy has been great. We don't always get along, but he has been fine since Mom passed. I miss her but these things happen. Kira has been kind with me. She takes my side lots of times when dealing with Daddy. I don't have any complaints."

The way she said the last words made it pretty clear that she was done with that part, so I tried a different tack.

"So you're at Cal now right? Any plans for after? Your father got a place for you in the business lined up?"

Her eyes softened a bit and her laugh was liquid, like some High Sierra stream.

"Oh, I could work at Cunxmor easy enough. And I don't want to leave the city, too much good stuff going on. But no, my interests are more artistic. I've been making some custom jewelry, selling more as I've gotten better. I have a couple street artists who sell my stuff down at Fisherman's Wharf who do okay with my creations."

"You like this?" she asked, offering up her left hand, a ring on her middle finger.

It was good. A small red semi-precious stone, garnet maybe, with some engraved snakes holding it in place.

"Nice," I said, and I meant it. A little too pagan for my taste, maybe Art Deco or something, but if she actually made it, it wasn't a bad effort.

She had taken a dainty bite into her blintz, and a little of the soft filling had oozed out onto the side of her lips. When she retrieved it back into her mouth with a careless flick of her tongue my legs trembled.

"Tell me about this bike messenger guy that your father uses."

Her eyes got wary again. "Jimmie?"

"Yeah, do you know him very well?"

"I try not to have anything to do with Daddy's business. I know he likes Jimmie, and Jimmie does some delivering for the family besides just the business stuff. I think if Daddy asked him to swim to Alcatraz, Jimmie would do it."

"You know much about him otherwise?"

She shook her head. And parried the rest of my questions. Another dead end, and she wasn't squaring with me. If she wasn't my client's stepdaughter I might have gone at her straight, and a little more roughly, but there didn't seem to much point in that. And just the fact that the puzzle pieces had gotten more complicated told me something too.

We were able to talk more comfortably in a bit, me asking about her growing up, college studies, her life in the city. I didn't want it to end on a sour note.

I walked her to her car, the now familiar green MG.

====

I'd been mulling over the bank info I'd gotten from Sheila. Didn't make much sense. I gave Melli a ring.

"Melli, you said you didn't know anything about Thrupshot's money woes."

"I didn't and don't. You find something?"

I assumed, for the moment anyway, he was playing straight.

I told him, without naming my sources, about Thrupshot's money-moving scene.

"He's paid out twenty grand in the last month alone, the checks ranging from five hundred to a few thousand. Don't have the name of the destination, only the bank balance hiccups. All this is recent activity."

Melli's voice was level. "There could be a lot of ordinary explanations. Sometimes he has to make some contributions to the Longshoreman's union, among other things."

"This is his personal account, not Cunxmor's."

"Sure. Sometimes it's better if done that way. He can calm some heat while the anarchist leadership still gets to rant and rave in print. Everyone wins."

"No, I think something else is up. But I don't know what"

I didn't get any further with Melli, and it still didn't make sense.

Zelda sidled in to my office after my phone call.

"So what do you think?" Zelda's eyes arched upward. It was impossible not to notice the cleavage her pale blue blouse offered up that afternoon.

"The Thrupshot thing? It's an odd one, Zelda. I thought it first it was just a straightforward straying spouse affair, but there is zero evidence of that. There's some funny business going on in the family, and some money ambiguities, but I'm damned if I can make head or tail out of it."

"You mentioned this bike messenger? Jimmy? Any chance he has something to do with things?"

"Could be."

I paused. "I may have to pay him a visit."

===

When I knocked at the door at 858 Haight Street later that evening, Jimmie opened it. Just a hair.

"What do you want?" Black tee-shirt and jeans.

His eyes went up and down, everywhere but my own. He was five-six, maybe not even that. Arms skinny like a couple stalks of celery. He kept his hand on the door, open maybe a foot.

I flashed my badge at him and his eyes got wide.

"Can I ask you a couple questions?"

"You got a warrant? Not letting you in without one." He gave a quick glance behind him. The living room was off to my left, looked like he had a fancy sound system, a couple of speakers the size of steamer trunks off to each side of the room. His bike was leaned up against a wall to the right.

"No, no warrant, just want to talk."

He stood there, still holding the door.

"Hey punk, you rather we talk her in the doorway so the whole neighborhood can hear, or let me in like a decent guy?"

"No warrant?" he asked again.

"That's what I said."

"Okay." He let me in far enough to close the door but no further, just in the hallway there. Like most of these flats, it was long and narrow, the hallway went straight to the back, usually where the kitchen and bedrooms were. The front room had the three big bay windows common for the era.

"I got some business with customs," I told him. "I think you're a bike messenger, right?"

He nodded.

"Some of the cargo from the Drogisto that pulled in the other day. Someone said they saw you down there. Care to fill me in?"

His eyes moved back and forth in their sockets like two spectators at a ping-pong tournament.

"I am down to the dock lots of times. Plenty of deliveries."

"What sort? Who sends you?"

"Hey look, I don't have to tell you all of my clients. Don't think they'd like that."

Okay. I tried again.

"The ship is one of Cunxmor's. You do business with Thrupshot?"

"Sure, he's one of my best ones."

Okay, he confessed to having more than one. I could see him connecting dots in his head, and it wasn't hard to guess what his story would be.

"I hafta bring the ship's captain papers sometimes, various forms to fill out for the Port Authority."

"Don't they have those already?"

"No, sometimes it has to be the owner who fills out the first part."

He was right, but I had seen him retrieving a package, not delivering forms. I let it go.

"You work for yourself?"

He nodded.

"How come you don't work for one of the regular outfits? Let someone else do the booking, paperwork, headaches, all of that?"

"It's a pain in the butt. All those rules. They want you to play legal, they get annoyed if you don't stop at stop signs, get tickets and everything. Someone always chewing on your ass. Nope, I did that already. I'm on my own now."

We talked for a few more minutes, he wasn't relaxing any, and I figured it was best if I seemed satisfied and didn't do the full-court press thing.

"Thanks for your time," I said.

As I got in my car I saw the curtains on the bay windows get pulled shut. Probably shook him up more than I thought.

====

Zelda was already at the office later that week on Friday when I pulled in at nine.

"Got a call from Mrs. Thrupshot."

She gave me a slightly annoyed look.

"She said Mr. Thrupshot is away for the weekend on business. She'd like to check in with you on progress."

"Sounds good. Does she want to stop in today?"

"No, she'd like to meet you for dinner. Seven o'clock, here's the address."

It was one of the quieter venues in North Beach. Nice old-timey Italian vibe, small tables in the back, the gnocchi always excellent.

"What did you tell her?"

"That you'd be there, what else?"

"You jealous, kitten? You shouldn't be."

Zelda gave her best impression of a pout.

"You haven't taken me out to North Beach in ages."

"That's true. How about Monday?"

Zelda indeed was a distraction at work, an essential distraction. I couldn't do without her. Both her intelligence and insight, and her level thinking. She'd helped figure out more than one of these things. And she was good with a gun.

I gave her a squeeze, loved the way her hair smelled, fresh and clean.

I think her smile meant everything was okay.

I went down to the waterfront for a quick cruise before heading to North Beach. It was one of those brilliant Fall evenings when it would have taken a heart of stone not to fall in love with the city. Whitecaps out on the bay, high clouds in a blue sky, air warm and sultry.

Kira had beat me to the restaurant and was sitting with a glass of wine at a back table.

A smooth blue dress clung to her hips the way some bill collectors had once stuck to me.

"Good evening, Dick. Thanks for coming."

I wish I wasn't the sort of fellow who looked down into cleavage. One more button undone and I could have dropped my wallet down in there. Maybe she'd spill some spaghetti sauce later, and I could help her clean up.

"Kira, good to see you."

We chatted about local matters until our pasta arrived. I could tell she wanted to get to business.

"So what have you found, Dick?"

"Not much, to tell you the truth, Kira. He's a busy man, in fact I've never seen him go straight home after leaving the office."

"I am quite aware of that." She rolled her eyes.

"But his routine isn't that different from many other downtown businessmen. Usually goes to North Beach, sometimes the Mark, sometimes a place or two on Russian Hill. Always guys, the folks you might expect him to congregate with."

She sipped her wine.

"He ever go south of the slot?"

I shook my head. "No, always north of Market. I haven't even seen him go down to the piers, even when he's got a big ship coming in."

"Really about the only odd part I've seen is the way he uses one of his bicycle couriers."

She raised her eyebrows? "Oh?"

"Yeah, there's one guy, Jimmy Phelan by name. Maverick, doesn't work for one of the regular companies. He stops by Jared's office a few times a week. I sometimes see him take a delivery package personally from your man."

Her eyes initially showed some surprise, but that had cleared by the time I finished.

"Ah yes, Jimmie. Jared has used him for some time now. Nothing remarkable there."

"Well, maybe as far as Cunxmor is concerned, but this fellow seems to have his fingers in more than one pot."

"Not surprising, I am sure Jared is not his only client."

I thought about mentioning more of my thoughts, but since I didn't have much evidence, I kept quiet and we discussed other matters. She seemed relieved that there didn't seem to be any rival for her affections.

"I'll keep watch, but in the last few weeks I haven't seen anything that you ought to be worried about."

"Excellent." She smiled. "Opera season is just about to begin, I'll feel better when the newspaper photos on Opening Night show us arm in arm without me having any reservations."

She paid for both of us, insisting that she cover business expenses. We got to the street and walked side by side to her car. Her chest moved magnificently, swaying like the Golden Gate Bridge in a rhythmic breeze. She had stayed close to me on the way, when we stopped to look over Washington Square she actually put her head on my shoulder. Felt good but funny, but not the laugh kind. After all, she had hired me on suspicion of her own husband's infidelity.

Her car was a nice little number, a bronze-colored two-seater Mercedes. Leather seats, looked mighty comfortable.

She held my hand before hopping in, and little tremors went up my arm.

"Thanks so much, Dick. I am grateful for your attention."

"My pleasure. I'll be sure to let you know if anything turns up."

"I am almost tempted to invite you back to the house, but it wouldn't do for anyone to see you visit."

I shrugged. If she were serious, there were other ways, but I was going to let her make the move, not me.

I watched her pull out into traffic and head up Broadway. I imagined her car's German stick shift, what her soft hand might feel like on its smooth hard knob. I shook my head and made my way home. At least with Jared gone for the weekend, there wouldn't be any work until Monday.

===

The next Monday afternoon at the office I got on the phone with Kevin "the Rat" Rizzo, down at homicide.

He was my main contact down at the precinct office, a good cop. We'd both been in the war, both in the Philippines, although we didn't meet there. We didn't have a conventional relationship, but we both loved the City and didn't like any bad things happening to it. I respected his backbone, and he could sometimes take advantage of my unofficial status. We were generally good for each other.

"Hey Rat, it's Dick. Any chance I can buy you a drink tonight after you're off?"

"It's gonna be late, Dick, eight at the earliest. You got some business?"

"Sort of, mostly just want to pick your brain."

"How about the Mark?" I suggested. "Whenever you pull in. If you're late that's fine, I'll just be another glass or two into the night."

Rat sighed. "Good enough, although whenever you want to just 'pick my brains' then difficulties seem just around the corner. I'll see you then."

The bar at the Mark was pretty empty, the fog had pulled in and nobody but a couple hotel patrons were there, staring at the ceiling or gazing out the windows.

I'd had my second bourbon and ginger when he pulled up to the table and waved for a whiskey.

"So what do you want to know?" he said after the first pull on his glass.

"Jared Thrupshot."

"Union again? I wouldn't expect you to have any skin in that game."

"No, nothing like that. His shipping empire, you know of any troubles with that? Any sort of illegal stuff going on? He's getting more and more traffic from Mexico and central America these days. In the last month alone two from Mexico, one each from Costa Rica and El Salvador. You must know folks down in customs, any difficulties?"

Rat wasn't aware of any troubles. He said Thrupshot had a decent reputation, and that international shipping was complicated.

"There's always guys with different angles, their own interests. And you're talking about ship crews that pull into port, hard to keep track of all of them, and it's the big stuff you worry about, not the little."

"You see the Chronicle this morning?" I asked. Rat pulled out his copy.

"Take a look in the arts and society section. There's pictures of the Opera Opening night from yesterday." I pointed out the one of Thrupshot in his tux and Kira in some satiny gown with a V-front down to her sternum.

Rat whistled. "Whoa, this is your little family adventure? Dangerous territory, Dick." He stared for a couple moments.

"You know anything about her, Rat?"

He shook his head. "Nope, out of my league. And long as the Thrupshots don't go around killing anyone, not my department anyway."

I didn't find out any more. Rat called it an early night, thanked me for picking up the check. "It was past your turn anyway," he said, and I drove home, thinking all the way.

===

Monday afternoon I parked down by the piers. Thrupshot had another ship come in that morning, from Mexico.

I stayed for a couple hours in my car, a newspaper on the steering wheel in case anyone noticed me hanging around. I was just about to make my way back to Thrupshot's office for the evening patrol when I saw the bike guy swoop in from the direction of the wharf.

Like before, Jimmie got through the gate to Pier Thirty, not sure what credentials he used to get past the keeper, and he came out with another package about the size of a shoe-box.

Off he went, and I turned the ignition switch and followed.

He didn't go up Market this time, but crossed Mission, then down to Howard and hung a right.

It wasn't too hard to keep up with him, he was faster in most places, but the blocks south of the slot are long enough I could make up the difference on the long bits. He swung up an alley past Eighth street and disappeared.

I quickly parked and got out to take a look.

It was one of a hundred different one-lane alleys in this part of town, pretty run down, with the occasional warehouse garage door. Liquor stores bookended the corners.