The sergeant pulled the radio free and called for backup.
Murakawa reached the truck. Two guys pushed in front of him. “Hey, cop, this food’s ours!”
He glanced at the cans. “Enjoy,” he said, “we’re just watching.”
But he was wrong about that. Within minutes we were breaking up fights. The sergeant was calling for more backup. By six o’clock the food was gone, the park was a mess, and we had two men in custody and one in the emergency room.
At six-thirteen I cut the engine in front of Sam Johnson’s construction site. No lights were visible from the house. Big surprise there. I made my way over the rubble and banged on the door. There was a hole where the bell used to be. In half a minute I banged again. Footsteps? Or was that just the wind? Behind the house eucalyptus trees waved their spindly leaves like finger bones from a dangling skeleton.
“Po-lice! Open up, Sam.”
He didn’t.
I could picture him holed up across town in some buddy’s room overlooking People’s Park, hefting a beer in a return salute and laughing. Still, I made my way down the cement steps of Tamalpais Walk. A rusted pipe railing ran shakily beside them. In the dusky light, moist leaves blended into the stained cement. Earthquakes and ground settling had thrown the flights of stairs forward, threatening to slide the unwary foot off each step. It was not a descent for the nervous.
To my right Johnson’s house loomed large, dark, ragged. I shone my light underneath it. “Sam, you in there?”
“Who wants to know?” he demanded.
“Police. Come here.”
Another time he would have told me what I could do with my order. Now he trotted out from under the house and stood opposite me inside the hurricane fence, looking for all the world like a brown-haired, buttoned-down kind of guy with no concern but working on his house. His yellow oxford cloth shirt was rolled to the elbow, his forearms streaked with dirt, a smudgy line across his forehead. Sam Johnson was as befouled as I’d ever seen him.
“Okay, Sam, let’s talk about this afternoon.”
“This afternoon? You want to hear about the two by eights I’m cutting? Or the cement guy I contacted to come Monday noon? Or—”
“Skip it. Who’s your nudist?”
“Officer,” he said, less smugly, more angrily than I would have expected, “I wasn’t at the diving woman’s press conference. But I heard about it. She got off easy.”
“Is that a threat, Johnson?”
“Nah, nothing’s ever a threat, is it? But if she takes it as a warning, she’s wise. Tell her—you’ll be reporting to her …”
I wouldn’t, but I didn’t feel obligated to explain that to Johnson.
“ I wasn’t at the park today. What happened today, I didn’t do it.” He paused, that puckish grin of his teasing me from behind the empty metal diamonds of the fence. “You don’t create an itch then expect a guy not to scratch it—tell her that.”
“Spoken like a teenager in heat.” I sighed. “Sam, I really expected better of you.”
“Tell her,” he snapped in a voice that turned his grin hollow. He turned and strolled out of sight.
I climbed back up the slimy steps, avoiding the rusty pipe railing, thinking of what Sam Johnson could have done to Bryn had he chosen to. And pondering his uncharacteristic message. Boorish wasn’t his style. Sam Johnson was not Howard, but they were both star performers. On the protests he created, he’d given himself near perfect style points. And his threatening comment had wiped out all today’s style. Why would he …
I was getting into the car, repeating: “You don’t create an itch then expect a guy not to scratch it,” when I remembered my last encounter with a nudist. The nudist. I couldn’t swear he was the same one, but how many bald nudists could there be in Berkeley? The last time, my nudist had run up Rose Street, then down through the underbrush, through the poison oak !
I smiled. Howard wouldn’t give it a ten, but
Murakawa reached the truck. Two guys pushed in front of him. “Hey, cop, this food’s ours!”
He glanced at the cans. “Enjoy,” he said, “we’re just watching.”
But he was wrong about that. Within minutes we were breaking up fights. The sergeant was calling for more backup. By six o’clock the food was gone, the park was a mess, and we had two men in custody and one in the emergency room.
At six-thirteen I cut the engine in front of Sam Johnson’s construction site. No lights were visible from the house. Big surprise there. I made my way over the rubble and banged on the door. There was a hole where the bell used to be. In half a minute I banged again. Footsteps? Or was that just the wind? Behind the house eucalyptus trees waved their spindly leaves like finger bones from a dangling skeleton.
“Po-lice! Open up, Sam.”
He didn’t.
I could picture him holed up across town in some buddy’s room overlooking People’s Park, hefting a beer in a return salute and laughing. Still, I made my way down the cement steps of Tamalpais Walk. A rusted pipe railing ran shakily beside them. In the dusky light, moist leaves blended into the stained cement. Earthquakes and ground settling had thrown the flights of stairs forward, threatening to slide the unwary foot off each step. It was not a descent for the nervous.
To my right Johnson’s house loomed large, dark, ragged. I shone my light underneath it. “Sam, you in there?”
“Who wants to know?” he demanded.
“Police. Come here.”
Another time he would have told me what I could do with my order. Now he trotted out from under the house and stood opposite me inside the hurricane fence, looking for all the world like a brown-haired, buttoned-down kind of guy with no concern but working on his house. His yellow oxford cloth shirt was rolled to the elbow, his forearms streaked with dirt, a smudgy line across his forehead. Sam Johnson was as befouled as I’d ever seen him.
“Okay, Sam, let’s talk about this afternoon.”
“This afternoon? You want to hear about the two by eights I’m cutting? Or the cement guy I contacted to come Monday noon? Or—”
“Skip it. Who’s your nudist?”
“Officer,” he said, less smugly, more angrily than I would have expected, “I wasn’t at the diving woman’s press conference. But I heard about it. She got off easy.”
“Is that a threat, Johnson?”
“Nah, nothing’s ever a threat, is it? But if she takes it as a warning, she’s wise. Tell her—you’ll be reporting to her …”
I wouldn’t, but I didn’t feel obligated to explain that to Johnson.
“ I wasn’t at the park today. What happened today, I didn’t do it.” He paused, that puckish grin of his teasing me from behind the empty metal diamonds of the fence. “You don’t create an itch then expect a guy not to scratch it—tell her that.”
“Spoken like a teenager in heat.” I sighed. “Sam, I really expected better of you.”
“Tell her,” he snapped in a voice that turned his grin hollow. He turned and strolled out of sight.
I climbed back up the slimy steps, avoiding the rusty pipe railing, thinking of what Sam Johnson could have done to Bryn had he chosen to. And pondering his uncharacteristic message. Boorish wasn’t his style. Sam Johnson was not Howard, but they were both star performers. On the protests he created, he’d given himself near perfect style points. And his threatening comment had wiped out all today’s style. Why would he …
I was getting into the car, repeating: “You don’t create an itch then expect a guy not to scratch it,” when I remembered my last encounter with a nudist. The nudist. I couldn’t swear he was the same one, but how many bald nudists could there be in Berkeley? The last time, my nudist had run up Rose Street, then down through the underbrush, through the poison oak !
I smiled. Howard wouldn’t give it a ten, but
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