Backfire
Page 46
He would miss this place, home for nearly a year and a half now, especially his small apartment in San Rafael, just a block from the Mission San Rafael Arcángel. He’d visited the old church quite often, not to pray but to focus his mind. It was as quiet as a tomb in the dark of night, cool and peaceful, as if the spirits settled there knew their own worth, and kept order.
He considered what to do with the shovel. Not leave it in the trunk of his Jeep; that wouldn’t be smart. He would dump the shovel, but not around these grassy hills, and not in these woods. They were too close to Mickey in his tatty shroud. No, he’d dump it in some thick trees on his way back to San Rafael. Maybe a hiker would find the shovel and think it was good fortune.
He turned his face to the sky, felt the cool drizzle seam down his cheeks. Then he shook himself like a mongrel and trotted the quarter-mile back to his Jeep.
Clayton Street
San Francisco
Late Sunday morning
Boozer Gordon didn’t look so hot. The tiny black stitches on his chin running up his cheek to his ear looked like one-sided beard bristle. The bruises covering his face were now a faded purple, and both his eyes were still black. He was wearing an ancient green fleece bathrobe, and his big feet were in thick black socks. Boozer was very big. Savich had to look up at him.
“Yeah, what do you clowns want? It’s Sunday; you’re supposed to be in church or at least getting out the chips and salsa for the football games.”
Sherlock gave Boozer her patented sunny smile. Savich thought, We’ll see if your smile is as powerful as the blond ponytail.
“We’re not just any clowns,” Sherlock said, “we’re FBI clowns, and we labor every day to bring criminals to justice—what you see is your taxpayer dollars at work. We have some questions for you about a shooting that happened yesterday.” And she flipped out her creds. After a thorough study, Boozer looked at Savich. “You her bodyguard?”
“That’s right,” Savich said, and handed over his own creds.
“Just what I needed,” Boozer said, and sighed. “Federal cops on a Sunday, doesn’t that make my day. It will only get suckier if the Forty-niners lose.
“Listen, you’re wasting your time. I’m innocent of anything that’s happened in the past two days—look at me, I’ve been in the hospital. I got the crap beat out of me, not in the ring, but in a stupid bar. Four morons whaled on me. Don’t get me wrong, I coulda taken them if I didn’t have beer leaking out my ears.”
“Six sheets to the wind?”
“Yeah.” He smiled down at Sherlock. “Only lucky thing is I never get hangovers.”
Savich thought, You’re only twenty-three. You just wait.
Boozer stepped back and let Savich and Sherlock walk into a small hallway with a living room off to the right, a long, narrow room that, surprisingly, had a big window that gave a sliver of view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
The room, even more surprisingly, was neat, down to the Sunday Chronicle stacked beside a big black La-Z-Boy with a beautifully crocheted dark blue afghan hanging over the arm.
Boozer waved them to a pale green sofa with three colorful throw pillows set just so along the back cushions.
“Nice pillows,” Sherlock said.
“My mom,” Boozer said. “She comes by when I’m not here to water my plants, and she does stuff, like brings pillows and changes the sheets and dries out the towels.”
“The ivy looks good, too,” Savich said. “Sit down, Mr. Gordon. We need your help.”
Boozer’s look was disbelieving. “My help? I told you, I’ve been out of commission for the past two days. I’ve never shot anybody—well, I couldn’t have even tried if this happened in the past two days.” He eased himself down in his big chair and pushed up the footrest. He gently unfolded the afghan and pulled it over his legs and leaned his head back against the headrest.
Sherlock and Savich sat on the sofa, careful not to disturb the artful placement of the throw pillows.
Sherlock said, “You were in San Francisco General Hospital until noon Friday, isn’t that right, Mr. Gordon?”
His head came up and his eyes popped open. “Listen, I didn’t hurt anybody at the hospital, I was too out of it even to get pissed off at anyone, and, well, everybody was nice to me.”
Sherlock said, “That’s good to know. I’m nice, too. Now, Mr. Gordon, we need you to think back. You’re lying in your room on Friday, you’re by yourself. You’ve got some nice pain meds working, and you’re feeling pretty good, right?”
He considered what to do with the shovel. Not leave it in the trunk of his Jeep; that wouldn’t be smart. He would dump the shovel, but not around these grassy hills, and not in these woods. They were too close to Mickey in his tatty shroud. No, he’d dump it in some thick trees on his way back to San Rafael. Maybe a hiker would find the shovel and think it was good fortune.
He turned his face to the sky, felt the cool drizzle seam down his cheeks. Then he shook himself like a mongrel and trotted the quarter-mile back to his Jeep.
Clayton Street
San Francisco
Late Sunday morning
Boozer Gordon didn’t look so hot. The tiny black stitches on his chin running up his cheek to his ear looked like one-sided beard bristle. The bruises covering his face were now a faded purple, and both his eyes were still black. He was wearing an ancient green fleece bathrobe, and his big feet were in thick black socks. Boozer was very big. Savich had to look up at him.
“Yeah, what do you clowns want? It’s Sunday; you’re supposed to be in church or at least getting out the chips and salsa for the football games.”
Sherlock gave Boozer her patented sunny smile. Savich thought, We’ll see if your smile is as powerful as the blond ponytail.
“We’re not just any clowns,” Sherlock said, “we’re FBI clowns, and we labor every day to bring criminals to justice—what you see is your taxpayer dollars at work. We have some questions for you about a shooting that happened yesterday.” And she flipped out her creds. After a thorough study, Boozer looked at Savich. “You her bodyguard?”
“That’s right,” Savich said, and handed over his own creds.
“Just what I needed,” Boozer said, and sighed. “Federal cops on a Sunday, doesn’t that make my day. It will only get suckier if the Forty-niners lose.
“Listen, you’re wasting your time. I’m innocent of anything that’s happened in the past two days—look at me, I’ve been in the hospital. I got the crap beat out of me, not in the ring, but in a stupid bar. Four morons whaled on me. Don’t get me wrong, I coulda taken them if I didn’t have beer leaking out my ears.”
“Six sheets to the wind?”
“Yeah.” He smiled down at Sherlock. “Only lucky thing is I never get hangovers.”
Savich thought, You’re only twenty-three. You just wait.
Boozer stepped back and let Savich and Sherlock walk into a small hallway with a living room off to the right, a long, narrow room that, surprisingly, had a big window that gave a sliver of view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
The room, even more surprisingly, was neat, down to the Sunday Chronicle stacked beside a big black La-Z-Boy with a beautifully crocheted dark blue afghan hanging over the arm.
Boozer waved them to a pale green sofa with three colorful throw pillows set just so along the back cushions.
“Nice pillows,” Sherlock said.
“My mom,” Boozer said. “She comes by when I’m not here to water my plants, and she does stuff, like brings pillows and changes the sheets and dries out the towels.”
“The ivy looks good, too,” Savich said. “Sit down, Mr. Gordon. We need your help.”
Boozer’s look was disbelieving. “My help? I told you, I’ve been out of commission for the past two days. I’ve never shot anybody—well, I couldn’t have even tried if this happened in the past two days.” He eased himself down in his big chair and pushed up the footrest. He gently unfolded the afghan and pulled it over his legs and leaned his head back against the headrest.
Sherlock and Savich sat on the sofa, careful not to disturb the artful placement of the throw pillows.
Sherlock said, “You were in San Francisco General Hospital until noon Friday, isn’t that right, Mr. Gordon?”
His head came up and his eyes popped open. “Listen, I didn’t hurt anybody at the hospital, I was too out of it even to get pissed off at anyone, and, well, everybody was nice to me.”
Sherlock said, “That’s good to know. I’m nice, too. Now, Mr. Gordon, we need you to think back. You’re lying in your room on Friday, you’re by yourself. You’ve got some nice pain meds working, and you’re feeling pretty good, right?”
