He could’ve been an old pal dropping by for a drink, but I didn’t think so. Forbes’s eagerness to get rid of me said it was something else; so did the fact that he’d spiffed himself up, not so much in the fashion of a man preparing to socialize as of a salesman looking to impress a customer. I wasn’t selling anything tonight, but maybe Danny Forbes was. Maybe I’d stumbled smack into a telltale piece of bad action.
Either way, the bottle of sour mash and the two glasses said they’d have at least one drink together. So I left the car quickly and hurried across Silliman and hugged shadows until I was close enough to the four-by-four to see that it was a Ford Bronco and to read the license plate. Then I hurried back to the car to write down the number and do some more waiting.
It was another ten minutes before they showed, both of them together. Forbes shut off the lights and lowered the garage door, and they got into the Bronco. If they ended up in a bar or nightclub or bowling alley, I’d have to retrench. But the tingly fleeing in my gut said I hadn’t misread either Danny Forbes or the situation.
I let the Bronco get under way to the east before I started the car; let it make a left-hand turn onto Harvard before I swung out after them. Highway 280 was where they were headed. They took the closest southbound entrance, and after that the tail was easy enough. A moderate flow of traffic helped, too. South to the Daly City exit, west on Highway 1 to Skyline Boulevard, south on Skyline to Westridge, right on Westridge to South Mayfair — and straight into the entrance drive of Mayfair Self-Storage. I rolled on past as the four-by-four stopped at the gate, traveled another block and turned around. They were inside, the gate closing behind them, as I passed the second time.
No point in trying to get in there or in waiting around here. I headed back to 280, back to the city and Silliman Street.
On the way I called directory assistance. Luck was still with me: there was a San Francisco listing for T. K. O’Hanlon, and the woman who answered my ring said he was in. His surprise gave way to happy rumblings when I told him why I was calling.
“I’m pretty sure Forbes is your thief,” I said. “I just followed him and another guy to Mayfair Self-Storage in Daly City. I could be wrong about this, but I think the other man is a potential buyer and the stolen liquor is stored in one of the Mayfair units.”
O’Hanlon said he’d be a son-of-a-bitch. “You won’t let me hire you, then you go and nail the bastard on your own. I don’t get it. How come?”
“I wasn’t trying to nail him. Just happened to pick the right time to go talk to him.”
“They still at this Mayfair Self-Storage, Forbes and the other guy?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know for how long. It may be an outright buy tonight, but if so I doubt it’ll be for every case he has stored. A better guess is that Forbes is showing off the contraband, negotiating a price for later pickup. The two of them went in the other one’s four-by-four from Forbes’s house, which means a return trip. Odds are they’d’ve taken two cars if more than a few cases were being sold and moved out tonight.”
“I’ll get hold of Nick,” O’Hanlon said. “We’ll meet you there in half an hour—”
“Too late by then. I’ve got a better idea.”
“The cops?”
“No, not yet. Not enough proof to bring in the law. I could be wrong — I wasn’t able to get inside the storage facility to verify that the liquor is there — and we don’t want to run the risk of a lawsuit.”
“So what’s your idea?”
“You and your brother meet me at Forbes’s house. It’s on Silliman Street off Highway 280, Portola district. Either we wait there for Forbes, or if he’s already back when you get there, we go right in and brace him. If he is dirty, that should crack him.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Two conditions, T. K. No rough stuff unless Forbes or the other man provokes it. And I get at least ten minutes alone with Forbes at the outset.”
“How come you and him alone?”
“Personal reasons. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” he agreed.
“You or your brother have a cell phone or car phone?”
“I got a cell phone I can bring along.”
“Okay. I’ll be at Forbes’s house long before you; I’m almost back there now. When you get off the freeway and into his neighborhood, call me and I’ll tell you where I am and what the situation is and we’ll take it from there.”
He agreed to that, too, and I told him my number and the location of Forbes’s house. He said then, “We owe you, pal, and the O’Hanlons always pay their debts. I’m not talking handshake, either.”
“The handshake’s enough. I don’t want your money, T. K. All I want are those ten minutes with Forbes.”
“You think he had something to do with Eberhardt killing himself? That it?”
“Could be,” I said. “One way or another I’m going to find out.”
I’d been parked for twenty minutes in the same place as before, in the No Parking zone on the corner of Gambier and Silliman, when the Ford Bronco showed up. Trip to look over the merchandise and negotiate a price, and maybe a small sale and pickup; there hadn’t been time for anything else. The four-by-four stood idling in front of Forbes’s house, its headlights blazing, for less than a minute. Then Forbes got out alone and the bald guy drove off.
I was tempted to go over there and brace Forbes then and there, get it done with. But I’d committed myself to O’Hanlon, and besides, the three of us — three big, hard guys — ganging up on the little bugger was bound to rattle him more than just me going at him alone. I stayed put, watched him unlock the garage door and disappear inside. A couple of minutes later, a light behind drawn blinds showed in one of the upstairs windows.
Another ten minutes, and the mobile phone buzzed. The O’Hanlons were a few blocks away. I told T. K. where I was and pretty soon a white Cadillac Eldorado turned off Silliman, drifted past me and to the curb at the first available space. I got out and went up to meet them where the three of us couldn’t be seen from Forbes’s house.
Nick O’Hanlon was several years younger than his brother, built along the same blocky lines and even bigger — six three and a solid two hundred and fifty pounds. He let T. K. do the talking. A man that large doesn’t need words to make his presence felt.
T. K. asked, “Both of ’em at the house?”
“Just Forbes.”
“Too bad.”
“If the other one did make a buy tonight, he won’t get away with anything. I’ve got his license number.” I passed over the sheet of paper from my notebook. “One question before we go over there, T. K.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“You told me five cases of Glenlivet and two of sour mash disappeared weekend before last. What brand of sour mash?”
“Jack Daniel’s.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” I took a couple of breaths to ease the tightness in my chest. “Okay, let’s do it.”
We trooped over there and up the front stairs, each of us walking quiet. I leaned on the doorbell. Ten seconds passed, and I leaned some more, and then Forbes’s voice came warily from inside, “Hey, lay off. Who is it?”
I nudged T. K. He said, “T. K. O’Hanlon. Need to talk to you, Danny boy. Open up.”
Forbes stalled for a little time, but he didn’t have much choice other than trying to run out the back way. He opted for a lame bluff instead; unlocked and opened the door wearing a puzzled smile. “Hey, T. K., what—” The rest of it got swallowed and the smile turned upside down when he saw the three of us standing there. His hand twitched on the inner knob, as if the thought of jamming the door shut had crossed his mind. But Nick O’Hanlon already had a shoulder against it and was crowding inside. T. K. and I followed, forcing Forbes back into a cluttered and sparsely furnished front parlor.