Peter Maravelis - San Francisco Noir

I leaned as close as I could without invading his personal space, as my ears adjusted to his volume.

“Do you even know what gout is?” Eyeball snapped, cranky.

I wanted to chill his wig as quickly as possible, so I jumped right in: “No, I don’t, but it sounds bad. Can I get you anything for it?”

Yes, I did want to soften him, but I was sincere about getting him some meds if he needed them. That’s just how Mother raised me.

“Thank you, very kind of you to offer,” came out from under Eyeball’s hair. “Either my liver is producing more uric acid than I can excrete urinarily, or I have more uric acid in my bloodstream than my kidneys can filter. Apparently, the uric acid has crystallized in my feet, and it feels like Satan is punishing me for my sins by shoving white-hot knitting needles into my big toes.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I empathized with my feminine side.

“How’s Chinese Willy?” Eyeball grunted as he stuffed an entire dumpling into his mouth and swallowed it whole like a snake sucking down an egg.

“He’s fat and happy. So, listen, I’m looking for someone, she’s-”

“The Snow Leopard,” he said without missing a beat.

“Eyeball, you never cease to amaze me, how did you know that?” I was actually flabbergasted, although in retrospect I should’ve seen it coming.

“There was some nastiness at Felipe’s, no? Several brutes bought the farm at the hands of a coupla very talented individuals, one of whom is the Snow Leopard. The police are quite interested, by the way, so if you know anyone who might’ve been involved, I would advise them to lay low.” Insinuation oozed out from under that hair so hard you’d’ve had to be in a coma not to feel it.

“Thanks, Eyeball, I appreciate your concern. If I run into any such individuals, I’ll pass on that valuable information. So, where do I find her?” I tried not to betray too much of the ill and all-consuming lust madness that burned in me. I’m afraid I was not quite successful.

“You don’t,” he snorted matter-of-fact.

“No, you don’t understand, I have some unfinished business with her, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and-”

“This is not a person you want to find.” Eyeball said it like he was telling me without question that the earth is round and revolves around the sun.

“No, I do, I really do, see-”

“I don’t feel comfortable dispensing this particular information,” he said, as he wiped his mouth with his stain-besotted sleeve, “as I’m quite sure it will be extremely hazardous to your health.”

“Do you know where she is?” I asked.

“What kinda question is that?” Eyeball came over all insulted: “Of course I know where she is. I know where everyone is. What I’m saying is that I do not want to be responsible for the shitstorm that will rain down upon you.”

I got very serious now, and tried to find Eyeball’s eyes in all that hairy chaos. “Look, I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do, but I don’t care what a dangerous psychopath she is, I have got to get ahold of her. I’ll be responsible for the consequences. Trust me, I need this.”

Nothing came out of him. More dim sum went in.

“How much?” I persisted.

“Not for sale,” he insisted.

“Everything’s for sale.” I was the dog with a bone that wouldn’t let go.

“You can’t afford it,” Eyeball mumbled.

“How much, Eyeball, seriously.”

“Five grand,” he said, knowing I’d never come across.

I felt like the star of my own movie as I reached inside my secret pocket, extracted the five Large, and handed them to the stunned Eyeball, who had no choice but to say: “Over the tarot joint on O’Farrell, she owns the building, lives on the top floor.”

With a five-grand spring in my step, I headed happily to the Snow Leopard’s pad. I was really looking forward to breaking into her place. I was born blessed. Ever since I was a kid, there was no place I couldn’t break into when I put my mind to it. As a child I was always sneaking into people’s houses when they weren’t home. I loved being inside their lives. Snooping through their drawers. Rifling around in the back of their closet where they hide everything they didn’t want anyone to find. I was always drawn to the unmentionables. And I loved seeing one of these pillar-of-society types walking around town like they’re the head of the Committee for Moral Decency, and knowing that they have dirty magazines full of schoolgirls and Great Danes at home just waiting in their closets.

So when I walked up to the tarot joint on O’Farrell, I was thinking: Cake . It was almost 1:00 in the morning, so there was still quite a bit of street action. Stumpy Charlie and Tripod, his three-legged dog, teetered by. That chick I saw before with the tattoos stumbled by, she’d clearly found a fix and was happily self-medicated. Well, maybe not happily. A behemoth with a three-foot orange mohawk and chains connecting various parts of his anatomy like they were holding him together stopped in front of me, looked me right in the eye, and said with malicious intent: “What the fuck are you starin’ at?”

I love these guys that get themselves decked out in some outrageous Halloween-looking costume so everybody has to stare at them, and then when you stare at them, they want to rearrange your face. The begging-for-a-fight boys.

But me, I just could not have cared less, particularly not tonight. So I smiled easy-as-you-please and said: “I was just admiring your hair, my man.”

Because I was so easy with it, all the piss and vinegar drained right out of him, and he said, “Oh, uh…thanks…”

Then he clomped off to find someone weaker and more feeble to smack around.

There was a door next to the tarot joint that led into her building. Too obvious. The building next door was clearly the way to go, so I skeleton-keyed in lickety spilt, shot up two flights of stairs, out the back window at the landing, and grabbing a drainpipe, I swung around so I landed on the Snow Leopard’s roof, quiet as a love-monkey making a house call. I hopped down onto the fire escape and leaned way out so I could see inside the window of the Snow Leopard. Sadly, drawn drapes stopped me from staring into her lair.

A nobody’s-home vibe radiated through the walls and I could barely stand it, so close to being inside her cave, sniffing around her unmentionables, uncovering her underbelly, unearthing the sweet secrets that make the Snow Leopard tick. One foot on the fire escape railing, the other on her sill, I jimmied my handmade fenestrator in, guided the lock to the disengaged position, slid the window up, and slithered in like an oiled snake.

Surveying the place with my penlight, I couldn’t quite wrap my eyes around it. It was as elusive as she was. One huge room, the whole floor of the building. I could see what was probably the front door, around 150 feet away. Only the moon through two skylights provided light, and that came and went as nightclouds drifted by. Another door on the west wall. Closed. One more door on the east wall. Closed. In the back corner, one giant bed with four posts was covered in carved cats chasing each other up and down. Fur blankets piled high. No chairs. No table. No kitchen. No garbage can. No TV. No computer. No, wait. Next to the bed, growing up the wall, was a ten-foot bookcase with a ladder next to it. And what, pray tell, does the Snow Leopard read? my mind wondered to itself. You can tell everything about a person by their library. Or lack thereof. The Jungle Book. The Cat in the Hat. How the Leopard Got His Spots. Why Cats Paint. Taming the Tiger Within. How Large Cats Kill. The Leopard Hunts in Darkness. I smiled.

Inside one door: bathroom. Or rather a shell of a bathroom. A toilet. A standing sink. A claw-foot tub. A bar of soap. No beauty products. No medicine cabinet. No medicine. It’s like she was not quite human.