Peter Corris - The Big Drop

‘How much d’you make at it?’

‘In a big week, three or four tours, I might make four hundred bucks. Wouldn’t average nearly that, though.’

I considered it. ‘It’s not a lot to break the law for. Besides, you’ve got the book published, it’s your baby. What else-the shop, women, drugs?’

He shook his head. ‘Store does okay like I said, nothing spectacular. I’m between women just now, leastways I hope I am. Nothing there.’ He swished beer in his glass and puffed smoke. ‘These are the only drugs I use.’

‘Why did you say you were embarrassed?’

‘I need help. I’d get laughed away if I went to any of the investigators in this city. Straight to the press. Somebody stole my Maltese Falcon-shit!’

‘The police?’

‘What crime? Fuckin’ bird’s worth maybe fifty dollars. Harassment? I’m not sure there is such a crime. Cops’ve got work to do, rackets to run, you know.’

‘Yeah. Politics?’

He fiddled with the fedora on the table; the band had a tiny feather in it and I was reminded of the hat my father always wore out of doors, hail, rain or shine. ‘I used to think Tom Hayden was a good guy,’ Swan said, ‘now I hear he’s spending a million bucks to prove he’s not a radical. That’s politics.’

I nodded. ‘I was going home but I guess I can stay awhile. You’re hiring me are you?’

He pulled his tour money out of the trench coat. What’re your rates?’

‘I get one hundred and twenty-five a day and expenses back home.’

He put the crumpled notes down in front of me. ‘Be more than that here. Let’s make it that per die m.’

I took the money. ‘I’ll look into it, give it a day or two. It’s not my territory, I don’t want to rip you off.’

He imitated my accent. ‘Fair enough.’

‘At least you didn’t call me digger.’ I forked out a ten. ‘Let’s do some more drinking.’

Swan had told me that he had two people working in his bookstore: a young woman named Maggie Bolton who worked part-time, and one Roger Milton-Smith who acted as manager when Swan was doing other things. I’m a nasty, suspicious character, if someone in trouble tells me his only associate is his mother I’ll take a look at Mom.

According to Swan, Bolton would be in the shop that afternoon, Sunday being quiet, and she would knock off at 8 p.m. It was after six when we finished drinking and I told him I’d go back to my hotel for a shower and start work at eight.

‘Doing what?’ He drained his glass and the waiter came to take away his fourth bottle of Bud.

‘Following Bolton,’ I said.

I was staying in a cheap hotel on Sutter Street because I figured that all I needed was the room. I had a small transistor radio, I could watch the fights on the TV in the lounge and I’ve never minded walking a few metres to the bathroom. I had a big jug of Taylor’s burgundy for companionship and I felt I was nicely set up for the few days I intended to spend in San Francisco seeing the sights.

It was a comfortable bed too, and I spent longer on it than I intended, so I was late getting to O’Farrell Street. I located the bookstore. Almost immediately its lights went off and a slim, redheaded woman stepped out. She gave the door a slam and a shake and set off down the street.

I followed her down Stockton and Fourth to the SPT Company depot. She was young and fit and she walked fast, passing a big bargain basement bookstore without a glance. Her mind wasn’t on books. Innocently, I stood behind her while she bought a ticket to Burlingame and I did the same.

The train ride was all right, as train rides go in the dark. I wished I’d brought The Hotel New Hampshire with me from my room. Maggie Bolton read, or looked at, a fashion magazine with pictures of hollow-cheeked models on the back and front covers. She was pretty hollow-cheeked herself come to think of it, with a long, lean shape. She looked at the magazine as if she was making comparisons between the models and herself. Fair enough. I wondered why she hadn’t taken a bus, which would have given me more to look at, and I found out why in Burlingame.

We got off the train, went through the gate and Bolton waited while a north-bound train pulled in. A tall blonde woman in a stylish pants suit got down and trotted forward on high heels. She and Bolton embraced on the sidewalk. They kissed and hung on for a bit and then started to walk arm in arm north along Rawlins road, talking animatedly. They stopped at a corner market and bought a jug of red wine and some french bread. I bought some bread too and some bananas and Sports Illustrated. Just short of the San Francisco city limits, the two women went into a modern apartment block. I looked up and saw a light go on three floors up that was probably theirs.

There was a pocket handkerchief sized park across from the apartments and I sat on a bench and ate half of the loaf and two bananas and read about John Elway of Stanford’s tough decision whether to play pro football or baseball. I had to squint to read, but I could see the lights in the apartment go out in one room, go on in another, dim there for a while and then go on as before.

The first visitor arrived a little after ten in a taxi. A small Latin went into the building and there was a little action with the lights up on the third. He came out about twenty minutes later. Then a Ford Bronco with all the trimmings parked just around the corner and two bulky middle-aged men went in. Two dim lights for almost an hour. I read a piece about Jim Thorpe. Traffic was light on the street, but when I saw a police car cruising up I sauntered over to a bin to drop the magazine. The cops went past and when I got back to my bench a black man in a white suit was sitting on it. The jacket of the suit was double-breasted and so was the vest. He had a pencil line moustache and very neat, short hair.

‘Nice night,’ he said. He pushed my paper bag so that half a loaf of french bread and two bananas fell on the ground.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It sure is.’

He grinned and made an ear trumpet with one hand. ‘What do I hear? This the kinda food you eat over in England?’

‘Yes. It sure is.’

‘My. And I thought it was fish an’ chee-ips.’

‘That’s the south.’

‘Why’re you watchin’ number twelve, man?’

I sketched something Beardsleyesque in the air. ‘Well, you know. Just trying to decide.’

He stood up. It struck me that he looked very like Sugar Ray Robinson in his prime. ‘Fish or cut bait.’ he said.

I cut bait, but I picked up my bread and bananas first.

Back at the hotel I finished the bread and the Irving book and had some burgundy to wash them down. Maggie Bolton was in love, gainfully employed and her Pimp’s suit cost ten times the value of the Maltese Falcon. It was hard to see either of them bothering.

In the morning I called Swan and gave him the news.

‘A whore?’, he said, ‘Maggie?’

‘If she’s a tall red head with legs.’

‘She is. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Can I come over and look around-where you kept the bird and all?’

‘Sure. Store’s not open till twelve.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Market research. People don’t buy mysteries in the morning. You can come up to my place, though. I live here. There’s a door in the alley.’

‘Milton-Smith around yet?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

The bookshop went in for Bogartiana, Christieana, Stoutiana and all the rest of it. The front window had a first edition of The Maltese Falcon in a glass case, surrounded by Hammett, Chandler and Mac-Donald paperbacks. Maybe 20 per cent of the window display was given over to science fiction books. I averted my eyes from them and went down the alley.