Trick of Light Page 12

  I jog back down Corridor C, past the closed storage areas and cages. The freight elevator's gone. A quick glance up and down the shaft: I spot it on the ground floor. I push the call button, but the machinery doesn't respond.

  "Joel!"

  I call out, then listen as my voice echoes through the building. No answer. I call out again, louder: "Joel! Joel!"

  The place is windowless; there's no way I can peer out to see if he's gone back to the car. Suddenly I hear male voices coming from below and the crackle of field radios. It must be the Fish and Wildlife raiders, acting on their tip.

  Joel would want to cover the raid, which will entail explanations to the raiders. He's well known, won a Pulitzer, knows the right law enforcement names. Though I have an old press pass, I'm no longer an employed journalist. Without him I'm afraid to show myself. So where is he? If he's around, he can't help but hear the men.

  The elevator's starting up. I can't just stand here like an idiot. I glance at the fire stairs. Up or down? With the raiders on their way, I head instinctively for the top.

  No sign of Joel on the fourth floor. I hear the elevator stop at three, and the raiders pile out. I finally find Joel on five, sitting on the top step, glasses off, head in his arms, looking dazed.

  I rush to him. "You okay?" There's a faint yet cloyingly sweet aroma in the air.

  He nods. "I got clobbered, coldcocked." He grins, amused by the archaic word. "You know, like in one of the old private-eye novels." He shakes his head, then winks.

  He tells me that when I was busy taking pictures, he heard the elevator start to move. Figuring it could only be controlled by remote from the cellar or the top of the shaft, he decided to take a look. At the third-floor gate, when he saw the elevator was on five, he decided to take the fire stairs to the roof. By the time he reached five, smelled some kind of sweet scent, the elevator had started down again. He immediately went to the fifth-floor gate. From there he saw a man standing in the elevator. Actually, all he could see was the guy's shoulders and the top of his head. He yelled down, "Hey! You!" hoping the man would look up. The man did, but just at that moment someone smacked Joel on the side of the head.

  "I went down," he tells me. "I remember crumpling slowly. I believe I actually saw stars. I think I was out for maybe a minute. When I came to, there was no one around. I've been sitting here since, trying to clear my brain." He sniffs. "Do you smell something or am I nuts?"

  "Yeah, some kind of perfume."

  "Reminds me of Chinatown," he says. "I don't know why."

  I'm worried he may have a concussion. He says he's had concussions before and they felt much worse. I help him to stand. He wobbles at first, then regains his legs.

  "I'm okay," he says. "Let's go down, see what's going on."

  On the stairs he tells me that just before he was hit he caught a quick glimpse of the guy in the elevator.

  "He looked short, but that could've been the foreshortening effect, since he was descending and I was looking at him from above. He had Asian features, but they looked phony—like they were frozen on his face, a frozen grin. I think he was wearing some kind of mask, the cheap plastic kind they sell in Chinatown. So . . . Chinatown mask, phony Chinese-waiter accent—fits together, doesn't it?"

  "Meaning he's not really Asian?"

  "Meaning maybe that's what he wants me to think."

  "So he is Asian."

  Joel shrugs. "Works either way. Anyway, I learned something tonight—he's got a strong-arm guy watches his back."

  Joel adjusts his granny glasses, employs his fingers to comb his goatee, then leads the way down. He recognizes the first person we encounter: Donald Buxton, chief enforcement officer in the San Francisco office of the Fish and Wildlife Service. While they trade information on their respective tips, I photograph the F&W animal control officers, assisted by personnel from the San Francisco Zoo, as they haul out crates and cages. The animals will be kept at the zoo pending disposition of the assets of Tan-Hing Enterprises.

  Returning to Joel, I hear Buxton describe Tan-Hing as a shell company, based in Taiwan, specializing in the importation of rare tropical fish. In fact, F&W has long suspected the firm of dealing in black-market wildlife. Buxton received his tip just an hour ago via the F&W hotline. The anonymous informant used a fake-sounding Chinese accent.

  Seven A.M.: As Joel and I depart Alameda Street, my eyes begin to smart. The sunlight this morning is shattering. It's going to be another brilliant San Francisco day. At my insistence we go immediately to St. Francis Memorial so Sasha can check on Joel's injury.

  "Nasty bruise," Sasha says after examining Joel in the ER. "Until we're sure there's no concussion I don't want you to drive."

  Joel, finally admitting to an awful headache, phones ice-goddess Kirstin, who taxis to the hospital to drive him home. When they drop me off on Russian Hill, Joel pats my hand.

  "Exciting morning, right, kiddo?"

  "Yeah . . . exciting," I agree. "What do you think's coming next?"

  "Whatever." He peers at me. "Something bothering you?"

  I think about that. There is something. "Ever hear of a sex-gun scene?" I ask.

  "Sex-and-guns? Don't believe I have. Why? What're you onto?"

  "Nothing, just curious."

  He gives me his look that tells me he doesn't believe me.

  "Sure . . . curious," he says.

  I'm sitting in the Wongs' attic room, my first visit here in a week It's Wednesday, eleven-thirty P.M. Though I don't expect to see any action tonight, I've come anyway, as if drawn by an invisible wire.

  As expected, all is dark and quiet across the way. There's no moonlight, the sky's particularly black, and there's a heavy, thick, damp fog—rare here in the Mission—which tonight envelopes the entire city, clinging to every roof and cornice, creating droplets that catch in window screens and roll softly down panes of glass like tears.

  The Wongs retired hours ago. As usual when I arrived we shared soft drinks and fruit, then together we climbed the stairs, they to their bedroom on the second floor, me to the attic. Though we communicate using only the most simplistic gestures, I've come to like them a lot: Grace with her warm friendly smile, Mr. Wong with that sweet faraway look in his eyes that makes me thinks he spends much of his time recollecting their silent early life in China.

  Twelve-thirty A.M: awakening suddenly from a dreamless sleep, I immediately look across Cypress Alley. No action. The windows are dark. Then I hear it, the growling varoom!varoom! of the motorcyclist-enforcer. Impossible to tell where he is or how far away. I go to the window, open it a crack, listen to the growl as it fades.

  I shrug. It's just the friendly neighborhood hit-and-run guy making his nightly rounds of intimidation. Then, suddenly, the growl comes at me again, louder this time, quickly growing into a roar. He's charging full speed down Cypress, just as he did the other night. A bearer of thunder, he passes beneath the window, squeals a turn at the end of the block, then storms back. This time he stops directly in front of the green door, backfiring his engine.

  He knows I'm here. Someone in the neighborhood reported me. He's sitting in front taunting me: Come out, girl—if you dare.

  My brain tells me to stay where I am. But I'm angry. The man now mocking me probably killed Maddy. Most likely his intentions toward me are equally murderous. So . . . do I just sit here quivering with fear? No, I don't think so. No!

  I kneel on the floor beneath the window, call Kremezi on my cell phone.

  "The motorcycle guy—he's here! Now! Popping his pipes! Listen!" I hold the phone up to the window. "Hear that? He's yours for the taking."

  A long pause before Kremezi speaks. "Let me get this straight, Ms. Farrow. You're in the Mission inside somebody's house and the man you think killed your friend is on a motorcycle outside behaving in a threatening manner?"

  "That's about it."

  "So, if I leave now, what makes you think he'll stick around?"

  "I'll keep him here, distract hi
m."

  "Jesus, don't do that! I'll be right over. Stay where you are."

  "What if he leaves?"

  "Then he leaves—which'll give us a chance to have a little heart-to-heart about civilians who get carried away with themselves, how risky that is and how it screws up the criminal justice system."

  "Oh, I get it, Kremezi—there may be a killer over here but it's my behavior that troubles you."

  "Still got that chip on your shoulder, I see."

  I punch the power switch and cut him off.

  I'm furious. The neighbor lookout turned me in to the drug dealers, the killer's downstairs and the cops don't care. For that matter maybe Kremezi's corrupt. Kind of hard to believe he investigated Maddy's hit-and-run and never heard about dealers on the block. But what riles me most is the schoolyard-bully arrogance of the enforcer making roaring noises down there like a bull snorting and pawing the ground before a charge. The whole neighborhood can hear him, and he doesn't care. He knows he owns the territory.

  Well . . . I know a few things about schoolyard bullies, had to deal with them a lot when I was a kid. I was the girl who always blinked when she went outside, the one who wore dark glasses in class, the one who couldn't see colors. "Hey, Kay—your socks don't match!" "Kay wears dark glasses—she thinks she's a star!" I was different and got taunted for it. Not enough to cry about, but still, it hurt. Dad told me: "Hold your head high, darlin'. Don't let them get to you." And as for bullies: "Stand up to a bully, nine times out of ten he'll back down. Bullies are cowards underneath."

  Is the enforcer-killer downstairs a coward? I've no doubt of it. Why does he wear that big black visor? For safety or because he's afraid of being seen? So . . . is there a way to see him, short of ripping the visor off his face? There is, and I've got just the tools to do it with.

  Rapidly I unscrew Maddy's Pentax from her tripod, load it with a fresh roll of 120 film, then remove the strobe from my Contax and attach it to the Pentax. No automatic flash control on Maddy's camera; it will fire hot as I want. I set it for full, start toward the door, pause. The camera's great, but I'll feel better with a backup weapon. I glance around, don't see anything useful, until my eyes fall on Maddy's array of photochemicals . I pick up her STOP bottle filled with undiluted acetic acid and stick it in my pocket.

  On my way downstairs I hear a roar, the sound of the enforcer riding off in a cloud of soot. No matter, I'll wait in the alley for him to reappear or until Kremezi shows.

  I pause outside the Wongs' open bedroom. Both appear to be asleep. Though I'm sorry they're deaf, I'm pleased they aren't bothered by the racket. It would not make me happy to bring disturbance into their lives.

  Outside, as expected, the enforcer is gone, though, due to the thick night fog, the odor, of his exhaust still hangs heavy in the air. It's chilly. I pull up my collar. The big 6x7 Pentax weighs a ton.

  I can hear him now, perhaps two or three blocks away, roaring through the empty streets. The alleys too, I'm sure, the ones with the lovely botanical names which I explored with Sasha.

  Yes, he's out there patrolling the neighborhood, intimidating the citizenry . . . which gives me a little time to scope out my environment. I find the niche where I hid from him last week. It's just the right size for me, an excellent place of concealment; a man or a larger woman couldn't squeeze in. I also note a beat-up VW camper parked in a carport across the alley. If chased out of my niche, I can dodge in there. If I slip into the space in front of the vehicle, he won't be able to reach me on his motorcycle. There's also a row of four garbage cans two doors down. I examine them; three are empty. I can roll the barrels into the alley as obstructions or fling their tops. Worst case, I can retreat back inside the Wongs'.

  He's closer now. I can hear him on South Van Ness, ripping along the pavement. A screech of tires as he rounds the corner, then a roar as he zooms along Twenty-fifth. Another squeal as he turns into Capp. He's circling. In a few seconds he'll make the turn on Twenty-fourth. Then he'll come at me.

  I step into my niche, hold Maddy's Pentax to my chest.

  Varoom!varoom! He's backfiring at the end of Cypress, ready to make his charge.

  Waiting for him, I'm pleased I'm no longer shaking, rather am tranquil and receptive as in aikido class. I drill my legs into the ground, then await the arrival of the demon.

  Varoom!varoom! He's coming now, roaring toward me. I hear the throb of his engine, the explosions of his exhaust. With him too comes a wave of heat, as if he's pushing the fog before him. Noting that he and his machine are one, I will myself to merge with Maddy's camera.

  When he emerges clearly from the fog he's but fifty feet away. It's then that I step out, face him, root myself, scorn his attack and blast him twice with my strobe. Whap!whap!

  The brilliant light burns through his visor, stings his eyes. Mine too, for the reflection saturates my rods, temporarily shutting down my sight. No matter, I know just what to do. At the last moment, like a matador, I gracefully step aside, while he, unable to break the momentum of his charge, plows past.

  Some achromats (I'm one) will retain an afterimage after a sudden burst of light. With my eyes shut I replay the moment his big black helmet exploded before my strobe. It was then that I caught a glimpse of the surprise on the lean, goateed face within. It's this image of his shock that I retain. Having stripped him of his mask, I feel my confidence soar.

  He turns now, disoriented, reeling on his machine. Seems I blinded him as well. The moment he faces me I strobe him again, then run into the carport across the alley, on my way flinging a garbage can into his path.

  He's raging. Making his machine growl loud, he charges after me into the carport, there tries to nudge me with his front wheel as I cower behind the fender of the camper. We're close now. For the first time I notice his clothing. Like some kind of self-dramatizing ninja, he's dressed totally in black. Though we're barely two feet apart, he can't reach me. Still, I can smell his sweat, the oil on his gloves, can hear him pant, feel the bursting fury behind his mask.

  Whap! I strobe him for the fourth time. Immediately he rips his helmet off. We stare at one another. His eyes show the blank malice of a reptile, like one of those creatures I photographed at Tan-Hing. I give him back the cool stare of an aikido warrior, then raise the Pentax to take another shot.

  Too late. There's a knife in his hand. He leans forward from his seat, grabs my camera, cuts the strap and rips it away. The pain's horrific, as though a hot wire just lashed my neck. While he heaves the Pentax at the garage wall, I pull out my bottle of STOP. As the camera shatters against the concrete, I twist off the cap, then fling the acid at his face.

  Time slows. The moment is prolonged. I can actually see the liquid as it moves through the air, see the fear in his eyes as he realizes it's too late for him to duck. The acid moves toward him. He squeezes shut his eyes. Time speeds up. The liquid hits. He turns and screams.

  I rush out of the carport, his shrieks and the roar of his machine splitting the air. Acetic acid is not like lye, it won't burn out his retinas, but it will sting badly and temporarily take away his sight. Figuring I've rendered him harmless, I'm surprised when he backs out on his machine, lines it up against me again, guns his engine preparing to charge at full speed.

  I face him straight on. One of his eyes is shut, the other squints. He shows me the mean wily snarl of a killer. He holds up the knife, flourishes it at me and grins. I've no doubt now that he killed Maddy and intends to kill me too.

  Strangely, I feel no fear of him, just curiosity as to which technique I should apply. I may as well be on the mat at Marina Aikido rather than standing here in a Mission district alley facing an armed opponent. He's the attacker, the uke, I'm the nage. The question for me now is how best to neutralize his intent. A strategy comes quickly to mind: control the center.

  He's unstable on his machine, can barely see and, the worse for him, burning up with rage. He holds his knife in his fist and thus must steer one-handed.

 
; I've practiced defending against a wooden tanto many times.

  Don't be afraid of the steel. When you disarm him, think of it as wood.

  He charges. Again time seems to slow. The situation is clear. I go on automatic, start my sequence, find a rhythm that blends with his attack. A moment before he's upon me I turn aside, simultaneously grasping the wrist of his knife hand. While his motorcycle spins out of control, I continue to turn, twisting his wrist, pulling him off the machine, forcing him to the ground. The knife clatters to the pavement. The motorcycle smashes against the wall ahead. Completing my circle, I apply more pressure to his wrist. The motorcycle, still twisting, bursts into flames. I force his wrist back till I feel it snap, then go limp. Again he screams. The flames leap. I cut him across his neck with the side of my hand. Then, still turning, I step away from him, leaving him on the pavement as the pool of burning gasoline begins to spread. By the time I retreat to the opposite side of the alley, he's on fire, jerking spasmodically like a robot gone haywire.

  I glance at my watch. The entire fight, from his first charge to his defeat, lasted less than forty seconds.

  Kremezi, arrives, then a fire truck and an ambulance. The enforcer is still alive, but burns cover much of his body. The medics cart him off. Kremezi drives me down to the Hall of Justice to make my statement.

  From here, after relating the encounter in broad strokes, I phone Dad at home. Horrified by my story, he says he'll be right down. Kremezi leaves me alone for a while. When he returns he tells me the enforcer has been identified and, according to the doctors who've examined him, there's a bare twenty percent chance he'll pull through.

  "Julio Sanchez. Did two terms at Pelican Bay. One very bad dude, Ms. Farrow. Hit-and-run's the least of what he's done. I've no doubt he'd have killed you if he could. Lucky for you he crashed."