"I know. I'm sorry. You are the owner of the Anvil, are you not?"
"If you know that, then you should have known not to call me until after one my time."
"I regret disturbing you, but we're investigating a murder and I think you can help us."
"Huh?" A note of interest crept into the heavy voice.
"We found a body which we've finally identified as Michael Huckstep."
"Good!"
"I beg your pardon."
"Good, I'm glad somebody killed that son of a bitch. I've wanted to do it myself. How'd he get it?" Frank Kenton, wide awake now, was eager for details.
"Three shots at close range to the chest with a .357 Magnum."
"Ha, he must have looked like a blown tire."
"Actually, he looked worse than that. He'd been out in the woods in the July heat for at least three days. Anything you can tell me, anything at all, might help us apprehend the killer."
"Shit, lady, I think you should give the killer a medal."
"Mr. Kenton, I've got a job to do. Maybe he deserved this, maybe he didn't. That's not mine to judge."
"He deserved it all right. I'll tell you why. He used to bartend for me. Mike had that look. Big broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight little buns. Good strong face and he'd let his beard go a few days. He was perfect for the Anvil. Think of him as gorgeous rough trade."
Cynthia knew that "rough trade" was a term originated by homosexuals that had passed into heterosexual parlance. It meant someone out of the class system, someone with the whiff of an outlaw, like a Hell's Angel. The term had devolved to mean anyone with whom one slept who was of a lower class than oneself. However, Cynthia assumed that Mike Huckstep was the real deal.
"Is the Anvil a straight or gay bar?"
"Gay."
"Was Mike gay?"
"No. I didn't know that, or I wouldn't have hired him. At first I didn't notice anything. He was good at his job, good with people. He flirted with the customers, made a haul in tips."
"You mean you didn't notice that he wasn't gay?"
"Lady, it was worse than that. He brought in his girlfriend, this flat-chested chick named Malibu. Where in the hell he found her, I'll never know. Anyway, he convinced me to let her help out here. Now, I'll never put a chick behind the bar. That's where we need action. But she fit in, worked hard, so I put her at the door. She could screen customers and handle admission."
"You charge for the bar?"
"On weekends. Always have a live band on weekends."
"Did they steal from you?"
"Not a penny. No, what they did was this. Mike would pick out someone rich. Actually, I think Malibu did the grunt work. Nobody took her seriously. Just another fruit fly, you know what I mean?"
Cynthia understood the term for a woman who hung around gay men. "I know."
"So she'd ask questions, cruise by people's houses if she could track down an address or if they gave it to Mike. Then Mike would trick with the rich guy and Malibu would take pictures."
"Like a threesome?"
"No," he bellowed, "she hid and took pictures and then they'd shake the poor sucker down."
"I thought San Francisco was a mecca for gay America."
"If you work in the financial district, it's not any more of a mecca than Des Moines. And some of the older men—well, they have a different outlook. They have a lot of fear, even here."
"So what happened?"
"One of my regulars, a good man, old San Francisco family, member of the Bohemian Club, wife, kids, the whole nine yards, Mike and Malibu nailed him. He shot himself in the head. A couple of friends told me they suspected maybe Mike was behind it. I finally put the pieces together. He got wind of it, or she did. He never came back to work. I haven't seen him since the day after George Jarvis killed himself, January 28,1989."
"What about her?"
"Haven't seen her either."
"Were they married?'
"I don't know. They certainly deserved each other."
"One other question, Mr. Kenton, and I can't thank you enough for your help. Did they deal?"
Frank paused to light a cigarette. "Deputy Cooper, back in the seventies and eighties everyone dealt. Your own mother dealt drugs." He laughed. "Okay, maybe not your mother."
"I see."
"Now, can I ask you a favor?"
"You can try."
"If you've got a photograph of that rotten scumbag, you send it out here to me. I know a lot of people who will want to see Mike dead."
"It's pretty gruesome, Mr. Kenton."
"So was what he did. Send me the pictures."
"Well___Thank you again, Mr. Kenton."
"Next time call after one." He hung up the phone.
Cynthia drummed her fingers on the tabletop. There was no shortage of people who wanted to kill Mike Huckstep. But would they follow him here after years had elapsed? What did Huckstep do between 1989 and now? Was Malibu with him? Where was she?
She called the San Francisco Police Department and spoke to the officer in charge of community liaison. He promised to cooperate. He knew the Anvil, knew Kenton. He'd put someone on the case to ask questions of anyone who might remember Huckstep. It wouldn't be his first priority, but he wouldn't forget.
Then she called the LAPD again. She had asked them to go over to Huckstep's apartment. Yolanda Delgreco was the officer in charge.
"Find anything?" Coop asked when Yolanda picked up the line.
"Funny you should call. I just got back. It's been crazy here. Anyway, I'm sorry I'm late. Place was cleaned out. Even the refrigerator was cleaned out. He wasn't planning on coming back."
"Did the landlord or neighbors know anything about him?"
"His landlord said he didn't work. Had a girlfriend. She dumped him. Huckstep told him he lived off his investments, so I ran a check through the banks. No bank account. No credit cards. Whatever he did was cash and carry."
"Or he had the money laundered."
"Yeah, I thought of diat too. When my money's laundered it's because I forgot to clean out my pockets before putting my stuff in the washing machine." Yolanda laughed.
"Hey, thanks a lot. If you ever come to Virginia, stop by. We've got some good women in the department. It will take a while longer here than there probably, but we're working on it."
"Thanks. If I do find myself in Virginia, I'll visit. You have many murders there?"
Cynthia said, "No, it's pretty quiet that way."
"If anything turns up on Mike Huckstep, I'll buzz." Cynthia hung up the phone. Most of her job on a case like this was footwork, research, asking a lot of questions. Over time and with a bit of luck a pattern usually emerged. So far, no pattern.
18
At seven-thirty in the morning the mercury hovered at a refreshing 63 degrees. Harry intended to jog to work, which took twenty minutes and gave Mrs. Murphy and Tucker exercise too. But she fell behind in her farm chores and hopped in the truck instead. The animals climbed in with her.
"Ready, steady, go." She cut on the ignition. The Superman-blue truck chugged a moment, coughed, and then turned over. "Better let it run a minute or two."
Mrs. Murphy's golden, intelligent eyes were merry. "Mother, it's not the battery that's the problem. This truck is tired."
"Yeah, we need reliable transportation, "Tucker carped.
Harry hummed, then pushed in the clutch, popped it in first, and rolled down the driveway. She reached for the knob on the radio. A country music station blared.
"I hate that stuff. "The. cat slapped at the knob, making the reception fuzzy.
"Threepoints. "Tucker encouraged her.
The tiger's paw shot out again and she moved the dial even more.
"Bless our nations leaders in this time of moral peril, give them the courage to root out the evil of Satanism masquerading as liberalism, and lest we—"
"Gross." Murphy blasted the radio. "Humans are weird beyond belief."
The strains of a popular tune greeted her kitty ears.