Goodbye Natalie

Chapter Nineteen: Caution in the Wind

     Fallon awoke rested and refreshed after a good night’s sleep. The sun reflected brilliantly off the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, she was pleased they had gotten a room with such a wonderful view. The extravagance would be short-lived however. Fallon Dawn Hunter was a prudent, conservative Midwestern girl, and even though Vivian Valentine had been more than generous with her fee to finance the search for her missing son, Fallon wouldn’t waste money needlessly for temporary living arrangements. Cheaper rooms were plentiful in San Francisco and she’d find one before the day was done.

      She and Kwan dressed as warmly as possible with the limited clothing they had brought and found a cozy coffee shop nearby to have a quick breakfast. While Joanie studied a map of the city, Fallon got a newspaper and checked out hotel advertisements. There were a few close by. They ate warm croissants and drank thick, strong coffee and planned the day’s itinerary. The first order of business was to head for Macy’s and buy a couple of lined raincoats and comfortable, water-resistant footwear. The change in climate from L.A. to the bay area was extreme and Fallon considered the purchases essential and a good investment.

     Next, they located a couple of the hotels listed in the paper and decided on a single with a private bath and small fridge. It had a street view of Polk and Powell and Kwan liked being able to watch the cable cars and bustle of the city from the window. It was only seventy-five dollars a week, Fallon paid two weeks in advance. While Kwan would use the car and transfer their belongings from the Day’s Inn, Fallon’s next stop was the Wells Fargo Bank main branch on Market Street. She deposited Vivian’s check and opened a temporary account, asking the assistant manager to call the Beverly Hills branch on which the check was drawn to verify sufficient funds, thereby insuring the account was immediately activated. With a pad of temporary checks, a few hundred in cash in hand, new coat and shoes and a reasonably livable home base, Fallon felt the morning had been relatively productive. She planned on spending the afternoon tracing the leads Vivian Valentine had provided, in hopes of getting a lead on where Frankie might be. On the way back to the hotel it turned dark and gloomy, the wind had picked up and the skies threatened trouble. She passed a storefront pawnshop and noticed a little black and white portable TV in the window. With some minor negotiating she was able to leave with the TV, a two-burner hotplate, and some random pans and utensils for forty-dollars.

     Back at the hotel she stopped off at the front desk and asked the clerk if he might know where MCM O’Farrel Street was, Jake Barnes’ forwarding address from the Hollywood mail drop. He didn’t, but took the information down and said he’d check with the postman when he delivered the mail, which should be any minute, he advised. Kwan was already back with the suitcases and the two busied themselves unpacking and tidying up the dusty room. Fallon plugged the little TV in and adjusted the rabbit ears, it worked! Kwan boiled some water and made tea, they sipped the warm liquid and took a breather. Kwan pointed out where the car was parked from the front window and Fallon forced herself to leave the now comfortable little room and head back out into the weather before the parking meter expired.

     On the way out, the desk clerk stopped her. ”Miss Hunter! I checked with the mailman on that address you asked about. He said MCM O’Farrel Street might be Magic Carpet Massage Parlor. It’s in the seven-hundred block, that’s one block over and two blocks up.” He pointed west, away from the city.

     Fallon asked. ”Massage? Like a health club?”

     The clerk smiled knowingly. ”No ma’am, massage parlor...” He raised his eyebrows as if to insinuate something she might, or should understand. She wasn’t getting it, there was no sign of recognition on Fallon’s face and he immediately made her as a tourist.

     ”Oriental massage Miss Hunter...” Still no recognition. ”It’s a whorehouse.” The clerk said matter-of-factly.

     Fallon blanched momentarily, she was taken aback by the clerk’s revelation and directness. ”Oh, I see.” She said.

     The clerk’s curiosity was peaked. ”Miss Hunter, of course it’s none of my business, but if you don’t mind me asking…” He didn’t wait for an answer. ”It doesn’t seem right, I mean, a nice clean-looking girl like yourself...you aren’t looking for work are you? Or maybe it’s your lady friend?”

     Fallon Dawn’s face turned red at the brazen suggestion. She quickly recovered from the brief embarrassment and locked eyes with the clerk. He had a slight build, greasy hair and a slightly off-center left eye. She determined by the pale complexion and unkempt appearance that he led a secluded life; he probably got his entertainment via television, porn movies and fantasizing about the hotel guest’s private lives. She scanned the tiny office area behind the desk, protected by wire caging on all sides. It reminded her of a second-rate zoo monkey cage and she felt a twinge of sympathy for the little man. The back wall was mail slots, one per room. Another wall held a makeshift shelf with a beat-up TV, not unlike the one Fallon had just bought. The volume was turned low on a daytime soap opera. She made a mental note to pick up a couple of sturdy bolt locks and a screwdriver.

     She wanted to clear the air and get the clerk straight, right from the start. She didn’t want him thinking he could say anything, or take advantage of a couple of apparent newcomers to the city. She utilized a technique that she had learned from one of Alan’s detective manuals. She maintained penetrating eye contact and spoke authoritatively.

     ”You been there?” She asked the clerk.

     ”Wha...where?” The clerk was surprised by Fallon’s stern demeanor.

     ”Magic Carpet Massage Parlor...have you been there? Have you used their services?” Fallon grilled the clerk, taking control of the interaction.

     The clerk hesitated, unsettled by Fallon’s unexpected assertiveness. He answered honestly. ”No, can’t say as I have.” Fallon continued the eye contact but said nothing. The clerk felt the need to continue, to explain further. ”The massage parlors are mainly for the tourists. They’re gonna get you for at least a couple of hundred. I mean...it’s good service, but you can get the same without the frills for twenty bucks on the street.” It was obvious from the clerk’s attitude that he understood that he had badly misjudged Fallon, he was clearly apologetic. ”I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to infer...”

     ”Don’t worry about it.” Fallon broke in. She pulled a twenty out of her purse and slid it across the desk. ”Thanks for the lead on the address. Do you mind doing me a favor?”

     ”I’d be glad to.” The clerk said.

     ”Keep an eye on my friend while I’m out, make sure she’s not bothered, can you do that?” Fallon asked politely.

     ”It’s done.” Said the clerk.

     Fallon gave an affirming nod and walked off briskly. She was pleasantly surprised the simple technique had worked so well. She’d gained control of the situation and acquired a confidante instead of an adversary. It had worked on a simple desk clerk, she wondered how it might fare out in the real world.

     When Fallon stepped outside she immediately noticed that the sky was dark and heavy and the temperature had dropped several degrees. Strangers on the street with collars turned up, hats pulled down, scarves wrapped tight and umbrellas at the ready, passed by silently with purpose, intent on arriving at their anonymous destinations before the cloudburst. Amidst the throngs on the sidewalk, Fallon suddenly felt alone and small. She wanted to run back inside and hide under the covers, safe from the frigid wind and cold glances of the nameless faces. Doubt swirled within her like the discarded bits of paper that littered the streets. She ignored it, or tried to...the way a frightened child tries to pretend they’re not scared of the dark, too big to admit they are afraid to look under the bed or in the closet for the monsters that dwell there...the ones that somehow stay with you, even when you’re grown and know better.

     By the time she made it to the car a hard drizzle had begun, her hands shook as she wrestled with the car keys. The raindrops wet her face and her lips trembled from the cold. She cranked the ignition and switched on the heat and defroster. As she waited for the engine to warm, she gripped the steering wheel tightly and pressed her head against it. She fought off the feelings that she knew from experience would bring the tears. People were counting on her damn it! There wasn’t time or room in her life for the old insecurities and self-pity...and most of all...fear. Vivian Valentine had believed in her enough to pay good money to find her son, and she had some solid leads to follow. Burl Barnes had confidence enough to leave her in charge of the office and was counting on her to locate his nephew, Jake. She had been competent enough to discover his forwarding address at least, and now it was only a couple of blocks away. She was the one who had put it together that Jake Barnes might have something to do with Alan Rassmussen’s murder, and even after being threatened by his killer she had stayed on course in order to do the right thing. And she’d had enough guts to pull the trigger, actually shoot a man in order to save Joanie Kwan from who knows what fate. She recalled Kwan telling her jokingly that since she had saved her life, she was now responsible for her...and not so kiddingly, asking Fallon for reassurance, when they were going onto Vivian’s yacht, that she wouldn’t let her drown. Fallon had promised that she wouldn’t let that happen, that she’d save her...that she’d be there.

     Fallon pulled a cigarette from her purse and popped in the dashboard lighter. Her little Colt .25 lay secure and neat between the make-up kit and wallet. She shook the dampness from her wavy hair and inhaled the tobacco smoke deeply. The heater began to fill the car with warmth and she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Alan’s old hat shaded her eyes and the stiff raincoat made her appear larger and more sophisticated than she felt. Fallon tilted the brim of the Fedora back and studied her face closely. Slight, dark circles framed her eyes and tiny creases etched the corners. The old familiar bright optimism had been replaced with a hardened determinateness.

     The damp air made her hair thick and wild. The person in the rearview mirror looking back was older, wiser, stronger than the one Fallon was familiar with. She’d made her way from the Kansas cornfields to the gritty streets of L.A., and now to the rainy intrigue of San Francisco on nothing but wit and instinct, and now that same instinct was telling her to trust the woman in the mirror. She could do that. She slammed the car in gear and pulled into traffic. She didn’t notice the navy blue Monte Carlo shadowing her every move.

     Two blocks up and one over to O’Farrel, Fallon drove slowly and scanned the rows of brick, glass and mortar buildings for Magic Carpet Massage Parlor. At the intersection she spied a garish neon sign with a nude woman in stiletto heels floating on a flying carpet, boasting ”OPEN 24 HRS”. O’Farrel is a one-way street heading towards downtown, Fallon was a half a block east of Magic Carpet and being honked at by impatient drivers. For convenience she decided to drive on to Geary Boulevard and head out of the city to check on one of Vivian’s leads first. On the return trip she would stop off at the massage parlor and see if she could find out anything on Jake Barnes. She took notice of the exact location of Magic Carpet and potential parking spots.

     Twenty minutes out on Geary, city congestion gave way to residential neighborhoods and wider streets. Fast-food drive-thru’s and the occasional mini-mall dotted the roadside. The rain had increased to a steady downpour and Fallon had to drive carefully while searching for the address Vivian had given her. Finally, a stucco, two-story office building appeared through the mist with the correct address. Heartline Productions had it’s own small parking lot and Fallon ran from the car to the front door using a newspaper as cover. The imposing glass door was locked tight, she peered in to the lobby and saw a security guard behind a large desk, sipping coffee and reading a magazine. She tapped on the heavy glass lightly and he alertly approached while inwardly assessing the soggy visitor. Apparently, she posed no threat, he unlocked the door and invited her in.

     ”May I help you ma’am?” The guard asked.

     Fallon gathered herself and spoke. ”I’m looking for Mr. Dearing. I’m...” She hesitated. ”...a friend of Vivian Valentine.”

     The guard sized up Fallon’s request. Apparently, Vivian Valentine’s name held some weight here. ”Ms. Valentine sent you?” The guard asked.

      “Yes.” Fallon said. ”I’m sorry, I should have called for an appointment I suppose… is he available by any chance?”

     ”No ma’am, he’s on a shoot.” Said the guard.

     ”A shoot? Like a movie?” Fallon asked.

     ”Sort of, not exactly. Heartline does a variety of projects; commercials, videos, TV and film pick-ups.” The guard said.

      ”Pick-ups? What’s that?” Asked Fallon.

     ”Say like a show or movie needs a piece shot in the bay area, or maybe they just need a shot of the city or the bridge or something simple. Instead of sending a whole crew up here from L.A., they just call us and we get the shot for them. They’re over in the east bay today, doing a pick-up for some cop show.” The guard explained.

     ”When will Mr. Dearing be available?” Fallon asked.

     ”I’m not sure, that shoot has an open end schedule, it could go for days.” Said the guard.

     ”Is it possible to catch him on the set?” Fallon asked.

     The guard thought and scratched his head. ”A friend of Ms. Valentine you say?”

     Fallon saw he needed some encouragement. ”Actually, we yachted this past weekend to Catalina.” She offered.

     ”You been on the Scarlet?” The guard wondered aloud.

     ”The Thank You Scarlet?” Fallon answered. ”Oh yes, it’s very nice.”

     That seemed to calm the guard’s trepidation, he wrote out directions and explained while Fallon listened attentively. She thanked him warmly and headed for the door. As she pushed out into the windy cold, she turned back.

     ”By the way, do you happen to know Frankie?” She asked.

     The guard looked up blankly. ”Frankie?”

     ”Vivian’s son, Frankie Valentine.” Said Fallon.

     He hesitated, then answered. ”I knew she had a son, I didn’t know his name is Frankie.”

     Fallon rummaged in her purse and pulled out Frankie’s picture. She crossed to the desk and showed it to the guard. ”This is Frankie. Have you seen him around by any chance?” Fallon studied the guard’s reaction.

     ”No ma’am.” He said.

     ”Alright then, thank you again.” Fallon said as she left.

     ”Yes ma’am.” The guard went back to his magazine.

     As Fallon drove back towards the city, she thought over the conversation with the guard. He knew the boat’s name, he seemed familiar with Vivian Valentine, at least by name and reputation, yet, he didn’t know Frankie’s name. She filed that tidbit away and lit another cigarette.

     She followed the directions provided by the guard and soon found herself on the huge bridge that traversed the east bay. She took the first turnoff as directed and headed south, exiting on Wharf Road. The rain had let up but the clouds hung low from above like an overloaded canopy, ready to give way at the slightest encouragement. The wind was strong and steady and whipped at the car dangerously, whistling its ominous tune like a gunfighter waiting calmly in the dirt street, confident of it’s lethal power.

     Fallon cautiously drove down Wharf Road, right up to the water. What appeared to be abandoned warehouses lined the wharf area and wet gravel tore away from her car tires, crackling softly as she pulled to a halt. Perplexed, she checked the written directions and looked around for any sign of a film or TV crew. There was no one to be seen, the only sound was the wind. The old familiar fears tickled the back of Fallon’s neck, as she shivered slightly. By all indications, she was completely alone on the wharf, yet, something told her not to believe that. A slow moving image passed, just outside of her vision to the right. She jerked her head to catch a glimpse, but it had passed. Was it the water in the bay, simply rising and falling that caught her attention? No, wait... the rearview mirror. A car had probably passed back on the road, but why so slowly? Like a shark eyeing its prey, readying for attack. Fallon lit a cigarette and shook the silliness from her head.

     “That’s all I need, my imagination to get the better of me.” She laughed at herself. She cracked the window to allow the smoke to clear and off to the left, clear as daylight, a gunshot rang out. Then, it was quiet again. And the wind renewed its vengeful attack.

     Fallon sat frozen to the car seat. Her eyes were wide as she strained to hear anything beyond that infernal wind. Like a fiendish demon, it taunted her. Quiet for a moment, then returning with renewed vigor. Every fiber in her told her to turn the key, back out of the gravel driveway and get back on the main road. Get out of the area as fast as she could. It was the absolute, only sensible thing to do.

     She swallowed hard, the next time the wind let up, she popped the car door open, and stepped cautiously across the rocks toward the warehouses. She poised her little Colt pistol ahead of her, but felt as naked as newborn mouse. Each step was torture, the rocks beneath her feet betraying her presence with their ear shattering announcement of her approach. The tormenting breeze gailed all around her again, delightfully toying with her long hair, brushing it across her face and into her eyes. Fallon caught a handful and held it from blinding her. There was absolutely no reason to take another step; to go on would be foolhardy and potentially perilous. Still, Fallon was fighting the fear, trusting her instincts, making up for all those times when she lay cowering under the blanket, not standing up when it was called for. The only way to conquer fear is repeated acts of courage. She stepped forward.

     She neared the corner of the warehouse, on the other side would be the answers she sought, or danger she would walk head-on into. The adrenaline surged through her like electricity through power lines. Every sense was poised to the edge and fear and hesitation were lost to curiosity and blind purpose. Maybe Fallon was overcompensating for earlier cowardice, failing to heed the warnings that swirled around her in the foreboding wind. She unlocked the safety on the Colt and took a peek around the corner of the building.

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