Bill Pronzini: The Bughouse Affair

“You and your silly rules about client confidentiality. At least tell me this: is there any danger in what you’re doing?”

“No, none.”

“Are you sure? You know how I worry about you.”

“Yes. But needlessly.”

“I wish I could be certain of that. It’s such a dangerous profession you’ve chosen.…”

Sabina said quickly, to forestall any painful reminder of what had happened to Stephen, “No more dangerous than crossing a busy street. Or devouring that veal chop you ordered.”

Callie sighed. “Not to mention the chocoloate torte I’m considering for dessert.”

After she and Callie parted outside the restaurant, Sabina hailed a cab that carried her down Van Ness Avenue and south on Haight Street. The journey was a lengthy one, passing through sparsely settled areas of the city, and all unbidden she found herself thinking about John instead of Stephen. No doubt because of Callie’s none-too-subtle matchmaking … and yet, her thoughts seemed to turn to her partner more and more often lately, at odd moments, in spite of her vow to keep their relationship strictly professional.

He had left the office grumbling because of her refusal to tell him with whom she was having lunch, and because she had also refused an invitation to dinner at Marchand’s French restaurant. Sabina, a practical woman, had thus far turned down nearly all of John’s frequent invitations. Mixing business with even the simplest of pleasures was a precarious proposition; it could imperil their partnership, an arrangement with which she was quite happy as it stood.

Another reason she spurned his advances was that she was unsure of what motivated them. Plain seduction? She had no interest in a dalliance with her partner or any other man. A more serious infatuation? As she had often told Callie, she was unwilling to enter into another committed relationship-especially one with John of all possible swains-while the lost love of her life remained bright in her memory. Whatever poor John’s intentions, he was simply out of luck.

Sometimes working with him tried her patience, and not only because of his persistence in trying to obtain her favors. His preening self-esteem, though often justified, could be exasperating. Yet she knew him well enough to understand that it was more a facade than his true nature, masking an easily bruised ego and a deep-seated fear of failure. Of course, he would never admit to being either vulnerable or insecure. Or to the fact that she was his equal as a detective. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

Yet John also had many good qualities: courage, compassion, sensitivity, kindness, a surprising gentleness at times. And she had to admit that she did not find him unattractive. Quite the opposite, in fact …

The Chutes Amusement Park, on Haight Street near the southern edge of Golden Gate Park, had only been open a short while and was still drawing large daily crowds. Its most prominent feature was a three-hundred-foot-long Shoot-the-Chutes: a double trestle track that rose seventy feet into the air. Passengers would ascend to a room at the top of the slides, where they would board boats for a swift descent to an artificial lake at the bottom. Sabina craned her neck to look up at the towering tracks, saw the boats descending, heard the mock terrified screams and shouts of the patrons. She had heard that the ride was quite thrilling-or frightening, according to one’s perspective. She herself would enjoy trying it.

In addition to the water slide, the park contained a scenic railway that chugged merrily throughout its acreage; a mirrored, colorful merry-go-round with a huge brass ring; various carnival-like establishments-fortune-tellers, marksmanship booths, ring tosses, and other games of chance-and a refreshment stand offering hot dogs, sandwiches, and lemonade. Vendors with carts moved among the crowd, dispensing popcorn and cotton candy. A giant scale defied men to test their strength-“hit it hard enough with a wooden mallet to make the bell at the top ring,” the barker in charge intoned, “and win a goldfish for your lady.” Sabina suspected trickery: a man built like a wrestler accompanied by a homely woman missed the mark, but another as thin as a slat accompanied by a dark-haired beauty came away with two fish.

Ackerman had told Sabina she would find his manager, Lester Sweeney, in the office beyond the ticket booth. She crossed the street, holding up her flowered skirt so the hem wouldn’t get dusty, and asked at the booth for Mr. Sweeney. The man collecting admissions motioned her inside and through a door behind him.

Sweeney sat behind a desk that seemed too large for the cramped space, adding a column of figures. He was a big man, possibly in his late forties, with thinning red hair and a complexion that spoke of a fondness for strong drink. When at first he looked up at Sabina, his reddened eyes, surrounded by pouched flesh, gleamed in appreciation. To forestall any unseemly remarks she quickly presented her card, and watched the gleam fade.

“I didn’t know they’d be sending a woman,” he said. “Mr. Ackerman told me it would be one of the owners of the agency.”

“I am one of the owners.”

He looked at the card again. “Well, well. These days … well. Please sit down, Mrs. Carpenter.”

“Thank you.” Sabina sat on the single wooden chair sandwiched between the desk and the wall.

“You’ll pardon me if I expressed reservations,” Sweeney said. “You look so, ah, refined-”

“As do many of your patrons, from what I’ve observed. One of the advantages for a woman in my profession is to be able to blend in. And few would expect a detective to be female.”

“True,” he admitted, “true.”

“To business, then. These pocket-picking incidents have occurred over the past two weeks?”

“Yes. Five in all, primarily in the afternoon. Word has begun to spread, as I’m sure Mr. Ackerman told you, and we’re bound to lose customers.”

“You spoke with the known victims?”

“Those who reported the incidents, yes. There may have been others who didn’t.”

“And none was able to describe the thief?”

“Other than that she’s a woman who disguises herself in different costumes, no. Nor have our security guards been able to find any trace of her after the incidents.”

“Were the victims all of the same sex?”

He nodded. “All men.”

“Did they have anything in common? Such as age, type of dress?”

Sweeney frowned while he cudgeled his memory. The frown had an alarming effect on his face, making it look like something that had softened and spread after being left out in the direct sun. In a moment he shook his head. “Various ages, various types of dress. Picked at random, I should think.”

“Possibly. Do you have their names and addresses?”

“Somewhere here.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk, found the list, and handed it to her. Sabina read it through, then tucked it into her reticule and rose from the chair. “You’ll begin your investigation immediately, Mrs. Carpenter?”

“Yes. I’ll notify you as soon as I have anything to report.”

SABINA

John’s vast storehouse of knowledge of San Francisco’s underworld had helped Sabina familiarize herself with most of the city’s female dips and cutpurses. Fanny Spigott, dubbed “Queen of the Pickpockets,” who with her husband, Joe, “King of the Pickpockets,” had not long ago audaciously-and unsuccessfully-plotted to steal the two-thousand-pound statue of Venus de Milo from the Louvre Museum in Paris; Lily Hamlin (“Fainting Lily”), whose ploy was to pretend to pass out in the arms of her victims; Jane O’Leary (“Weeping Jane”), who lured her marks by enlisting them in the hunt for her “missing” six-year-old, then lifted their valuables while hugging them when the precocious and well-trained child accomplice was found; Myra McCoy, who claimed to have the slickest reach in town; and “Lovely Lena,” true name unknown, a blonde so bedazzling that it was said she blinded her male victims. Unfortunately, none of these, nor any others of their sorority, was working the Chutes today.