Approaching the rental car counters, I chose the one staffed by the youngest, least-experienced-looking clerk. She accepted my identification and credit card without a question. Fifteen minutes later I headed for the Port of Alameda in a green Toyota.
Alameda is an island a stone’s throw west of Oakland. I rumbled through the tube under the Bay and onto a main strip lined with fast food stands that served the Naval Air Station. Following Mr. Hood’s directions, I drove toward the waterfront.
A line of left-turning semi’s indicated the access road for Circle Wharf and Warehouse. I waited at the security gate between two hulking, puffing trucks that made me feel like a bug about to be squashed. A guard in a green windbreaker and hardhat directed me to a parking space in front of the Administration Building.
As I locked my car, I looked around for police cars, a habit I had developed to a fine art in the last couple of hours. I hoped fervently that Mr. Hood didn’t have a radio in his office or, if he did, that he hadn’t been listening to the news. After we talked, I should be able to bargain with the law.
Mr. Hood was an imposing gentleman with an iron-gray crewcut and a lean, weathered face. As he admitted me to his office and settled me on a leather couch, his manner was cordial, but wary. He sat down behind his desk and regarded me thoughtfully.
“One of the reasons I agreed to see you,” he said, “was because I’ve never gotten a look at a female private eye before.”
“So now that you have, what do you think?”
“You’d never know, to see you on the street. You look like you could be someone’s very efficient secretary. Are you efficient?”
“In my way.”
“Are you tough?”
“Pretty tough.”
“Know judo? Know how to slap thugs around?”
I couldn’t tell if he was baiting me or honestly curious. “I’ve used judo. As for thugs — I’d rather slap them in jail.”
He gave a hoarse, barking laugh. “I like that. You’re all right.” His eyes sobered. “So what’s this about my missing gin?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve discovered where it is.”
“And what do you want from me? Money?”
“No. Information.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want me to hire you? Or pay you to tell me where it is?”
“No. And I can’t be positive what I’ve discovered is yours until you give me some details.”
“And then?”
“Then, if it is your missing shipment, I’ll tip the FBI. I believe they’re the agency that has jurisdiction over this crime.”
He nodded, pinching the bridge of his broad nose. Finally he asked, “What’s in it for you?”
“I plan to use the discovery to bargain myself out of a tight spot.”
“And it wouldn’t do me any good to ask what kind of tight spot.”
“Right. Of course,” I added, “should you or your insurance company see fit to reward me after the recovery of the cargo, I’ll leave my card. That way, you’ll know where to send the check.”
Again, he laughed. “I like your style. Okay, what do you want to know?”
“First, how did the thieves get two full containers out of here in the first place? Your security looks pretty tight.”
“It’s tight. It’s tight twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And when a ship’s working, it’s even tighter. They got those containers out of here the simplest way possible: by presenting what looked like a bona fide delivery order from the steamship line.”
“What’s a delivery order?”
“Facsimile of the bill of lading. It’s our signal from the steamship line that all charges have been paid and the cargo’s ready to roll. Take that fellow.” He gestured at the window. Down by the security shack, the driver of a red semi cab was presenting a paper to the guard in the hardhat.
“That fellow,” Hood went on, “will show his delivery order to our clerk. If we have the Customs release and the papers are in order, he’ll hook up the container and haul it away.”
“And, in the case we’re talking about, the delivery order only looked genuine.”
“Right.”
“How’d they fake it?”
He shrugged. “Ladings are customarily made up as ditto masters by the shipper or his forwarder. They’re sent to the steamship line, where the appropriate documents are run off. Anybody at any point along the line can run off extra copies of whatever document he wants.”
“Surely it would be easy to find out who did it.”
“It should be, but we’re dealing with extremely clever people. That delivery order was a damned good fake, and the so-called truckers who showed up for the cargo were as cool as they come. It wasn’t until the real drivers arrived a few hours later that we realized what had happened. By then, the gin was long gone.”
All the way to India Basin, I thought. By day, it was a congested industrial area where no one would notice a couple of extra semi’s.
“Okay,” I said, “if I were to stumble across a lot of Tanqueray gin in an unlikely place, what would I look for to make sure it was this particular shipment?”
He leaned forward. “I believe you do know something.”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“Where is this unlikely place?”
I shook my head in the negative.
Hood’s hand moved toward the phone. “I could call the FBI and let them get it out of you.”
“But you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have no guarantee I’d cooperate. I could claim I was merely speculating about coming across the gin. And then where would you be?” Inwardly, I willed him to take his hand away from that phone.
“No place.” He stood. “Okay, lady, like I said, I like your style. I’ll give you a try. Let’s play it your way.”
“Good. Is there any way to distinguish the shipment?”
“Yes. If the gin had been intended for only one consignee, we’d be out of luck. Fortunately, this was a CFS shipment. That means that cargo for several different consignees was loaded together. To distinguish among them, the cases bear different shipping marks.”
I felt a flash of excitement and reached for the notebook where I’d copied the markings from the cases of gin in the Blind Center storeroom. “Shipping marks are pretty distinctive, aren’t they?”
“Generally. They can be the entire address of the consignee or abbreviations.” Hood hit an intercom and said, “Mary, get me the file on the Tanqueray theft, will you?” He met the secretary at the door and turned, flipping through a manila folder. Standing over me, he read, “Amco, Oakland, PO 1732. Mean anything?”
“No.”
“Brothers Wholesale Liquors, San Francisco, PO XX-349-765.”
“No.”
“Sales Liquor Distributing, Oakland, PO 7786-52-B.”
“That’s it.”
“What?”
“It’s your gin, all right.”
Hood shut the folder and went back around his desk. He sat, drumming his fingers on the blotter. “Okay, lady, what now?”
“Like I said, I’ll tip the FBI.”
He motioned at his phone.
“No, I’ll call from somewhere else. I need to do some bargaining first.”
“You’re free to bargain from here.”
“No, I do better in private.” I stood up, taking out one of my cards. Setting it in front of him, I said, “Remember, that’s where to send my check.”
21
The phone booth across the street from Circle Wharf and Warehouse was hot and steamy. I propped the door open with my foot while I waited for Greg to come on the line.
“Sharon! It’s about time.” He sounded like he was gritting his teeth. “You’d better have something good to tell me.”