Well, I decided now, I wouldn’t let her keep me from having my glass of wine. Why should I feel bad about bringing liquor home when she’d only buy it anyway? I got up and crossed to the Albatross Superette.
Mr. Moe was deep in conversation with a customer. The other man, a tall Latino with swooping black moustaches, glanced at me.
“Ah, Miss McCone,” Mr. Moe said. “How are you tonight?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Have you met Mr. Clemente?” He nodded at his companion.
“I don’t believe so.”
“Mr. Herb Clemente is director of the Sunrise Blind Center. Miss Sharon McCone, from the building where the tragedy occurred, is a private detective.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The man called Clemente bowed in greeting. I half expected him to click his heels together.
“And I’m glad to meet you,” I said. “In fact, I’d like to thank you for what you did for Gus Antonio.”
He made a deprecating gesture. “De nada. The poor little man was completely helpless — more so than most of the residents of our Center. I merely made a phone call on his behalf.” He paused, frowning. “Of course, something will have to be done about his future. That was only a temporary solution. Should you have any suggestions, Miss McCone, I’d be happy to hear them.”
“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
I went down the aisle to the refrigerated cases and picked out a bottle of Grey Reisling. On the way back, I checked out the freezer. Egg rolls, stuffed cabbage, TV dinners, cauliflower, artichoke hearts, lima beans... I stopped, looking down at them, then plucked out a package and carried it with the wine to the cash register.
On the curb outside, I checked my watch. It was close to six o’clock, but I was reluctant to go back to my dirty, depressing apartment. A few doors down the block were the welcoming lights of the neighborhood tavern, Ellen T’s. I decided to stop off for a drink.
7
When I perched on the stool at the bar, Ellen T’s skinny husband, Stanley, poured me a glass of the house white, my usual.
“How’re you tonight?” he asked.
“Fair. You?”
“Surviving. Why’d you bring your own bottle along?” He gestured at the paper bag.
“I’m on my way back from a shopping trip, that’s all. Do you think I could get a roast beef sandwich?”
Stanley frowned. “Is that going to be your dinner?”
“Guess so.”
He shook his head. “Sharon, how many times have I told you that you’ve got to start eating better? You need fruit, green things... By the way, the roast beef sandwich comes with a tossed salad this week, no extra charge.”
I sighed. “Okay, Stanley, give me a salad too. But charge me for it, please.”
I loved this bar. Big, motherly Ellen made the world’s best sandwiches, and little Stanley dispensed sound, fatherly advice. Together they managed to preserve a bit of the fading tradition of the San Francisco neighborhood tavern.
While I ate, I looked around the room with the aid of the mirror over the bar. It was early, and there were only a couple of other people, men I didn’t know, lined up on the stools. A woman who lived in my building was reading at one of the center tables, and a fellow I’d often seen in the nearby Laundromat sat in the front window bay, working out solitary moves on the chessboard.
I had finished my dinner and started on another glass of wine when a voice spoke over my shoulder. “Sharon McCone! We meet again so soon!”
I swiveled to face Herb Clemente. “Considering you live only a few blocks away, that’s not surprising. You do live at the Center don’t you?”
“Yep. In what used to be the rectory. Makes me feel positively holy. How about having a drink with me?”
“I’d enjoy that.” Picking up my wineglass and grocery bag, I followed him to a corner table. Stanley arrived shortly with Clemente’s beer.
“Here’s to new friends.” Clemente raised his glass in a toast. “May they all be as pretty as you.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, humor and keen intelligence lighting up his dark eyes.
“You flatter me,” I said, “and I appreciate it.”
“Good. Tell me, are you as clever as you are pretty?”
“I like to think I’m reasonably bright. Why?”
“Because if you are, maybe you can come up with an idea about what to do with Gus Antonio.” He made a mock-sorrowful face. “I confess I’ve wracked my brain with very few results.”
“It’s not an easy question.” I considered. “Why not have him live at the Blind Center? Since he has to pick up and deliver Sebastian there every day, it might actually be more convenient.”
Clemente sipped his beer. “That’s a good idea, but unfortunately... it’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“We’re funded by a combination of state and federal grants. One of their conditions is that no one but the director and certain designated staff members live on the premises with the residents — we prefer to call them that rather than patients. We have one ‘illegal’ right now — the handyman who also drives our truck. I couldn’t risk another.”
“Why is the handyman there?”
“He skipped out on his wife, a move I can fully sympathize with. She’s a dreadful old woman. Anyway, he hasn’t gotten it together to find another place, and I’d just as soon he didn’t. It’s useful to have him on the grounds. But try to tell that to the bureaucrats who approve our grants.”
“Hmmm. That’s too bad. It would be ideal for Gus.”
“It would be more ideal if he could stay right where he is now. But he seems to think he can’t afford his dead wife’s apartment.”
“He’s probably right. It’s a one bedroom place; I have a studio, and even the rent for that is out of sight.”
“Well, I wish we could think of something.” Clemente set down his glass and signalled for another round. “Gus has done a damned good job helping Sebastian. He makes rounds with him every day but Sunday, and you could set your watch by him. I feel we should return the favor and help him now.”
“Is it really necessary to restock those racks every day?” I asked. “Surely you don’t sell that many brushes.”
Stanley set our drinks down, and Clemente dug in his pocket for change. “With display racks, you have to keep on top of the situation. A poorly stocked rack looks like hell and doesn’t attract customers.”
“Ah, yes.” I nodded. “I remember my days in the department store, folding and refolding layettes and baby blankets.”
Clemente frowned. “You used to sell baby clothes?”
“Not for long. I was in the management training program of a San Diego store. They required three months of actual selling experience before you were funnelled into your particular area of the operation. After the layettes, I went into security.”
“So that’s how you got into your line of work. You like it?”
“Department store security or private investigation?”
“Well, either.”
“I hated the department store after a while. We had to snoop around pretending to be shoppers, with these big purses equipped with walkie-talkies. You can’t imagine how sick you can get of looking through the same dresses every day. Anyway, when I’d saved enough money, I quit and went to college, at Berkeley. Afterwards, I joined one of the big detective agencies here in the city.”
“Your degree prepared you for that?”
“No. It was in sociology, and it made me damned near unemployable. My security background got me the job.”
“And you’re with that firm now?”