Wyatt Hunt 02 Treasure Hunt Page 2

  Mickey, though, had not only stayed on with Hunt, he’d given up his more lucrative daily work in the cab business, quit most of his cooking classes, and taken over his sister’s position at the front desk. He did this because Wyatt Hunt was not just a good boss. Hunt had literally saved the lives of both Mickey and Tamara when they’d been children.

  So Mickey wasn’t going to abandon Hunt. He’d stick it out until the job dried up and blew away. Or until it resurrected itself. Either way, Mickey was on board for the duration. He was still young, just twenty-seven. His own plans—to become a chef and open a world-class restaurant—could wait, since, like most American men his age, he was going to live forever.

  Mickey the dutiful had, of course, called from the Marina three hours ago at the minute he’d realized he was going to be late for work, and had told the answering machine some of the story, but he’d of necessity left out a lot of it.

  His discovery of the body had stolen the thunder from the demonstration. As soon as he’d run over and contacted one of the policemen on the scene, the television vans and a good portion of the crowd had swarmed to the other end of the lagoon to see the corpse in the water.

  Now he let himself in to the Hunt Club’s two- room office. A chair scraped in the back, and Wyatt Hunt appeared in the adjoining door on his right, just beyond the receptionist’s desk. Tall and casually buffed, Hunt was dressed in slacks, a blue shirt, and darker blue tie. His sport coat, Mickey knew, would be hanging over his chair in his office in the back. “Just in time,” Hunt said.

  “For what? Tell me we’ve got some work.”

  “I’ll play your silly game. We’ve got some work.”

  Mickey pumped a fist. “All right. You going out?”

  “I am.”

  “Where to?”

  “Lunch at Le Central.”

  Mickey whistled. Le Central was a white-tablecloth French restaurant down around the corner on Bush Street. This potentially meant that Wyatt had scored some deep-pockets client who would be footing the bill. “Who’s the client?” Mickey asked.

  “Ah, the client. What client?”

  “The one we’re talking about.”

  “I’m afraid there is no client.”

  “So where’s the work coming from?”

  “What work?”

  “The work you just said we had.”

  Hunt leaned against Mickey’s desk and shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, truth be told, we don’t have any work.”

  “But—”

  “Hey. You told me to tell you we had some work, so I played along.

  In fact, though, I’m afraid we don’t have any paying work.” He turned a palm up. “At this stage, we’d better be able to joke about it, don’t you think? And the good news is that I’m really going to have lunch at Le Central and was waiting for you. You eaten yet?”

  “Not today. Other days, though, I have.”

  Hunt broke a grin. “Good for you. So I won’t have to teach you how.” He looked around the small space with a wistful air, as though he might not see it again. “Let’s lock up and get ourselves on the outside of some grub.”

  Le Central had a notice on its daily-updated blackboard informing its patrons that its famous and delicious cassoulet had been cooking now for 12,345 consecutive days. In spite of that, both Wyatt and Mickey agreed that it was too warm a day for the rib-sticking beans, duck, sausage, and lamb casserole, and instead both ordered the poulet frites—half a roasted chicken with fries. As an afterthought, Wyatt also ordered a bottle of white wine, by no means a common occurrence at lunchtime. When Mickey raised his eyebrows in surprise, he said, “Special occasion. You mind?”

  “Not if you don’t mind me falling asleep at the desk this afternoon,” Mickey said. “But if you’re okay with that, I’ll force down a glass or two.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “What’s the special occasion?”

  “Well, let’s wait for the wine. Meanwhile, tell me about this morning. You actually discovered the body?”

  Mickey launched into a truncated version of the day’s events. The dead man, according to identification in his wallet, was Dominic Como, a prominent civic activist who’d gone missing about four days before. Even more startling, and depressing, from Mickey’s perspective, was the fact that his grandfather, Jim Parr, had worked for Como as his personal driver. The dead man had been one of Jim’s personal heroes. So now, if and when he went home tonight, Mickey would be sharing his one-bedroom, nine-hundred-square-foot walkup with a grieving grandfather and a train wreck of a sister.

  The waiter appeared with their wine. Hunt tasted it, pronounced it fine, and then waited for their glasses to be filled before he lifted his. “Here’s to new beginnings.”

  “New beginnings,” Mickey repeated. He hesitated, his glass poised in front of his mouth. “Why does that sound ominous?”

  Hunt put down his untouched wine. “I’ve pretty much decided to close up the shop. Let you move on to your chef’s career.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be all right. Probably just hook up with one of the other outfits in town. Either that, or get a real job someplace. All these computer and marketing skills I’ve gotten good at ought to be worth something to somebody, I figure. Maybe a start-up.”

  “But you don’t want to do that.”

  “Well, sometimes you don’t get to do what you want. You, for example, don’t really want to be a receptionist and gofer.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a lot younger than you is one reason.”

  Hunt almost chuckled. “Forty-five isn’t exactly one foot in the grave, Mick. People have been known to start over at that age. Goethe wrote Faust when he was eighty, so maybe there’s still some hope for me.”

  “That’s not it. It’s not just the age. You love what you do.”

  “I sure as hell don’t love sitting around the office waiting for the phone to ring.”

  “But when there’s work . . .”

  “Granted. It’s a good gig. I’m not arguing. I like it a lot when it’s working.” He lifted his hands an inch off the table. “But you know what it’s been like. I don’t see how it’s going to turn around. So I thought I’d give you a few weeks’ notice—I’ll keep you on the exorbitant payroll until I shut the doors for good, but I thought you deserved to know as soon as I made up my mind, and I pretty much have.”

  “Pretty much, or definitely?”

  “Well, pretty definitely, unless something drastic happens. And I also wanted to tell you how much I’ve appreciated what you’ve done for me over these past months. But I can’t ask you to hold on any longer when I don’t really see any future in it.”

  Mickey finally noticed his wineglass. He picked it up and drank off a good swallow. “So what’s the timeline?”

  “Well, the lease for the office goes another two months from now and I’ve got to give a month’s notice. So I guess it’s formal in about thirty days, give or take.”

  “Unless something comes up to turn things around.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath, Mick. I really don’t see what could make a difference at this point.”

  Something jangled near Mickey’s head and he swatted at the offending noise that had jarred him so violently from his afternoon sleep. The phone hit the floor in front of his desk and the receiver bounced across the hardwood.

  Mickey jumped up out of his chair, yelling, “Coming. Sorry. Just a second.” He came around the desk, grabbed the receiver, and, breathing heavily, managed to say he was sorry again before he realized where he was and said, “Hunt Club. Mickey speaking.”

  A man’s voice. “Everything all right there?”

  “Yeah. I just knocked the phone onto the floor. How can I help you?”

  “You’re Mickey, you said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, hold on a minute. I’ve got somebody who wants to talk to you.”<
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  Mickey waited, then heard his grandfather’s voice. “Hey, Mick, is that you?”

  “Jim?”

  “Yeah. Me.”

  “What’s up? How you doin’?”

  “Well . . . a little fucked up.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The Shamrock.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Good. I’m good. But I’m going to need a lift home here pretty soon.”

  Mickey looked at his watch and let out a sigh. “Jim, it’s only four o’clock. I’m at work at least another hour.”

  “I don’t think Mose would let me drink for another hour.”

  “Who’s Mose?”

  “Bartender here. S’good guy.” Slurring.

  “How about you just have water or something? Would he serve you water?”

  “I don’t drink water. The things fish do in water. You don’t want to know. Maybe he’d give me one more drink?” Sounding like he was making the suggestion to someone in front of him. “Maybe not, though. No.” Back to Mickey. “He’s shaking his head. Hold on just a second. Here he is again. Tell him I’ll drink slow.”

  But the first man’s voice came back on. “This is Moses McGuire. You know where the Shamrock is? Maybe you want to get down here and pick up your old man. I don’t know if I want to let him out of here by himself in the condition he’s in.”

  “He’s my grandfather,” Mickey said.

  “Whatever.” McGuire lowered his voice. “Look, if he wouldn’t have remembered your number just now, I would have had to call a cab, but he said he didn’t want to take a cab, so I asked him how’d he feel about the cops, and I sure as hell don’t want to do that. Meanwhile, I got a business to run. He’s eighty-sixed here and you need to come down and get him right now. How old is he?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Seventy-four, I think, somewhere in there.”

  “That’s too old for the drunk tank. You’ve got to come get him.”

  Swearing to himself, by now completely awake, Mickey said, “All right. Put him on again, would you?” And then, after a short pause, “Jim. God damn it. I’m going to call Tam first. You just wait. Maybe she’ll beat me there and can walk you home.”

  “She’s not home.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. She went out.”

  “Well, I’ll try her anyway. Meanwhile, you wait. Just sit there and have a club soda. Fish avoid club soda like the plague. The bubbles make ’em fart.”

  Twenty minutes later, after double-parking around the corner, Mickey pushed his way through the door of the Little Shamrock, Jim’s local hangout.

  One of the oldest bars in the city, founded in 1893, the Little Shamrock started out very narrow up by the front door. A couple of large picture windows facing Lincoln Boulevard let in some natural light. A bar with a dozen or so stools ran down the left side of the room, and on the right, in front, an eclectic selection of memorabilia, including an antique bicycle, black-and-white photos, old election posters, and a grandfather clock that had stopped during the Great Earthquake of 1906 hung on the wall. Halfway back, the place opened up slightly to accommodate dart players and a jukebox, and in the very back, under the faux Tiffany lamps, the room took on the look of a dilapidated old living room, with a couple of sagging couches facing a cluster of overstuffed easy chairs.

  Jim Parr sat at the far end of the crowded bar with an empty glass in front of him. Maybe the bartender had coaxed him into something nonalcoholic after all. Jim was staring at the television set. His cheeks were wet. Excusing his way through the press, Mickey got back next to him and put a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder, gathering him in a half hug. He kissed him on the top of his cue-ball head. “Hey.”

  Jim leaned into him for a second, then pulled away, grabbed the bar napkin, and wiped at his eyes. “How’d you get here so fast?”

  “I ignored the speed limit. And I’m double-parked. You think you can walk?”

  “ ’Course. I could walk home if I needed to.”

  “Well, luckily you don’t need to. You paid up here?”

  “Paid as I went. Only way to live.”

  “So I’ve heard. Like a million times. Okay. Let’s go.”

  The old man got his feet onto the floor and straightened up, leaning into Mickey. The bartender saw what was happening and gave Mickey an approving nod. He mouthed a silent thank-you.

  Parr managed to keep upright as the two of them negotiated their way out of the bar and out onto the sidewalk. It was still a clear, warm day, and the sun was in their eyes as they made their way to the car. After Mickey poured Parr into the front seat, he went around and got in.

  “This about Dominic Como?” he asked.

  His grandfather, head back against the seat with his eyes closed, turned toward Mickey and another tear broke. “I loved that guy,” he said.

  Mickey facilitated his parking around the city by the judicious use of a handicap placard that he kept in his glove compartment and that he could put onto his dashboard whenever he needed it. His grandfather had given him this surprisingly valuable little blue item. In theory, only handicapped individuals had access to them, and there was nothing handicapped about Jim Parr.

  And there had been nothing handicapped about Dominic Como, either, for that matter.

  But Como nevertheless had always possessed a handicapped card for those special occasions when nothing else would do. When Parr had retired eight years ago, Como gave him one as a present. Como could get things that other people didn’t seem to have access to. It had been one of his talents, and access to those things was one of the perks of Parr’s old job.

  So parking wasn’t its usual awful and automatic hassle. Today Mickey pulled up into a spot by the emergency entrance to the UC Medical Center, only a couple of blocks from their apartment. By this time, Jim was snoring.

  Fifteen minutes later, the old man was in his bed, still dressed except for his shoes, and with the covers pulled up around him. Mickey closed the bedroom door and, sweating from having basically carried Jim up to the second floor where they lived, he took a dispirited glance around the cluttered living room: Tamara’s Murphy bed pulled down from the wall and unmade. Newspapers from several days scattered around. Coffee mugs on just about every flat surface.

  He straightened up, and when he’d finished, he opened the door to his own bedroom, essentially a large closet with a window facing the wall of the apartment behind them. Here was his bed, a board-and-cinder-block bookcase, a small dresser/desk combo unit, a few prints on the walls.

  But he didn’t go into his room. Dead in his tracks, he stopped in its doorway. No wonder he fled from this place as often as he could.

  This was no way to live.

  The death of Dominic Como, now confirmed as a murder, led off the five o’clock news. The cause, as Mickey had suspected, was not drowning, but rather someone had hit him with a blunt object on the back of the head. Como had already been missing for four days by the time he was found partially submerged in the lagoon at the Palace of Fine Arts by . . .

  Mickey, sitting in front of his television, came forward in mild shock as his own image appeared on the screen as part of the big story of the day. He had talked to several reporters that morning at the scene, of course, but never really believed that they’d run with any of the footage of him, since his own role in the larger story was at best only a footnote. But there he was on TV, describing how he’d come upon the body. He thought this was pretty cool in spite of how young he looked, and how disheveled, which he suddenly realized was what sleeping out under trees could do to you.

  But when they identified Mickey as “an associate with the Hunt Club, a private investigating firm,” it occurred to him that maybe his unshaven mug and slept-in clothing weren’t the best advertisements in the world. That realization brought him up short—the idea that he might actually be a liability of some kind for Wyatt’s business. Maybe while he was cleaning up his apartment and his physical
surroundings, he thought it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to work on his own hygiene and appearance.

  But then his image left the screen and Channel Four’s perky anchorwoman was going on with more about the crime and the victim. Because of his grandfather’s longstanding job as Como’s driver, Mickey knew a lot about him, but he hadn’t ever really focused on the breadth of his charitable work. Now he learned that Como had either founded or sat on the boards of no fewer than six major charities in San Francisco—the Sunset Youth Project (of which he was executive director), Braceros Unidos, the Mission Street Coalition, the Rainbow Workshops, the Sanctuary House for Battered Women, and Halfway Home.

  The police investigation was continuing, but so far there were no suspects.

  3

  Cleanly shaven and showered, in slacks, a button-down dress shirt under a Mountain Hardware jacket, and tennis shoes, Mickey walked down to Golden Gate Park, then, in another quarter mile or so, found himself at the de Young Museum.

  Off to his right loomed one of his favorite recent additions to the city’s landscape. Adjacent to the museum, a strange- looking tower thrust itself nine stories up into the now-darkening sky. The exterior of the tower looked to be made of metallic panels—copper?—into which the builder had punched various imperfections, from bumps to indentations to holes. More unexpectedly, especially upon the first viewing, the tower twisted as it went up. What started as a rectangle at the base shifted as it rose until at the top it was a gravity-defying parallelogram. From the top—an enclosed viewing platform—Mickey had been pleased to recognize that the bottom of the tower was aligned with the east-west grid of the park, while the top’s orientation was turned to match the grid of the city’s downtown streets.

  Inside now, he stopped a minute to listen to the jazz quintet playing in the lobby—a Friday-night tradition—then took the elevators up to the top. No charge. He’d been up here no fewer than forty times, and every time the place worked its magic on him. The windows were huge, both wide and tall, and through them the entire city revealed itself beneath and all around him. And since, because of the tower’s twisting nature, it wasn’t really obvious that there actually was a physical building under him, it always felt like he was floating.