She kissed him again, this time full on the lips. Much older.
Hm. Maybe these whiskers arent so bad, after all. He took her face in his hands. This time he was the one kissing her, long and deeply, with no thought of where they were or where they were going. Cathy felt herself sliding back against the seat, into a space that was inescapable and infinitely safe.
Someone behind them hooted: Way to go, Gramps!
Reluctantly, they pulled apart. Through the flickering shadows of the bus, Cathy could see the twinkle in Victors eyes, the gleam of a wry smile.
She smiled back and whispered, Way to go, Gramps.
The posters with Victor Hollands face were plastered all over the bus station.
Polowski couldnt help a snort of irritation as he gazed at that unflattering visage of what he knew in his gut was an innocent man. A damn witchhunt, thats what thisd turned into. If Holland wasnt already scared enough, this public stalking would surely send him diving for cover, beyond the reach of those who could help him. Polowski only hoped itd also be beyond the reach of those with less benign intentions.
With all these posters staring him in the face, Holland wouldve been a fool to stroll through this bus depot. Still, Polowski had an instinct about these things, a sense of how people behaved when they were desperate. If he were in Hollands shoes, a killer on his trail and a woman companion to worry about, he knew what hed do-get the hell out of San Francisco. A plane was unlikely. According to Jack Zuckerman, Holland was operating on a thin wallet. A credit card wouldve been out of the question. That also knocked out a rental car. What was left? It was either hitchhike or take the bus.
Polowski was betting on the bus.
His last piece of info supported that hunch. The tap on Zuckermans phone had picked up a call from Cathy Weaver. Shed arranged some sort of drop-off at a site Polowski couldnt identify at first. Hed spent a frustrating hour asking around the office, trying to locate someone whod not only seen Zuckermans forgettable film, Cretinoid, but could also pinpoint where the last scene was filmed. The Mission District, some movie nut file clerk had finally told him. Yeah, she was sure of it. The monster came up through the manhole cover right at the corner of Fifth and Mission and slurped down a derelict or two just before the hero smashed him with a crated piano. Polowski hadnt stayed to hear the rest; hed made a run for his car.
By that time, it was too late. Holland and the woman were gone, and Zuckerman had vanished. Polowski found himself cruising down Mission, his doors locked, his windows rolled up, wondering when the local police were going to clean up the damn streets.
Thats when he remembered the bus depot was only a few blocks away.
Now, standing among the tired and slack-jawed travelers at the bus station, he was beginning to think hed wasted his time. All those wanted posters staring him in the face. And there was a cop standing over by the coffee machine, taking furtive sips from a foam cup.
Polowski strolled over to the cop. FBI, he said, flashing his badge.
The cop-he was scarcely more than a boy-instantly straightened. Patrolman OHanley, sir.
Seeing much action?
Uh-you mean today?
Yeah. Here.
No, sir. OHanley sighed. Pretty much a bust. I mean, I could be out on patrol. Instead they got me hanging around here eyeballing faces.
Surveillance?
Yes, sir. He nodded at the poster of Holland. That guy. Everyones hot to find him. They say hes a spy.
Do they, now? Polowski took a lazy glance around the room. Seen anyone around here who looks like him?
Not a one. I been watching every minute.
Polowski didnt doubt it. OHanley was the kind of kid who, if you asked him to, would scrub the Captains boots with a toothbrush. Hed do a good job of it, too.
Obviously Holland hadnt come through here. Polowski turned to leave. Then another thought came to mind, and he turned back to OHanley. The suspect may be traveling with a woman, he said. He pulled out a photo of Cathy Weaver, one Jack Zuckerman had been persuaded to donate to the FBI. Have you seen her come through here?
OHanley frowned. Gee. She sure does look like Naw. That cant be her.
Who?
Well, there was this woman in here bout an hour ago. Kind of a down and outer. Some little brat ran smack into her. I sortve brushed her off and sent her on her way. She looked a lot like this gal, only in a lot worse shape.
Was she traveling alone?
She had an old guy with her. Her pop, I think.
Suddenly Polowski was all ears. That instinct again-it was telling him something. What did this old man look like?
Real old. Maybe seventy. Had this bushy beard, lot of white hair.
How tall?
Pretty tall. Over six feet OHanleys voice trailed off as his gaze focused on the wanted poster. Victor Holland was six foot three. OHanleys face went white. Oh, God
Was it him?
II cant be sure-
Come on, come on!
I just dont know Wait. The woman, she dropped a makeup case! I turned it in at that window there-
It took only a flash of an FBI badge for the clerk in Lost and Found to hand over the case. The instant Polowski opened the thing, he knew hed hit pay dirt. It was filled with theatrical makeup supplies. Stenciled inside the lid was: Property of Jack Zuckerman Productions.
He slammed the lid shut. Where did they go? he snapped at OHanley.
They-uh, they boarded a bus right over there. That gate. Around seven oclock.
Polowski glanced up at the departure schedule. At seven oclock, the number fourteen had departed for Palo Alto.
It took him ten minutes to get hold of the Palo Alto depot manager, another five minutes to convince the man this wasnt just another Prince-Albert-in-the-can phone call.
The number fourteen from San Francisco? came the answer. Arrived twenty minutes ago.
What about the passengers? pressed Polowski. You see any of em still around?
The manager only laughed. Hey, man. If you had a choice, would you hang around a stinking bus station?
Muttering an oath, Polowski hung up.
Sir? It was OHanley. He looked sick. I messed up, didnt I? I let him walk right past me. I cant believe-
Forget it.
But-
Polowski headed for the exit. Youre just a rookie, he called over his shoulder. Chalk it up to experience.
Should I call this in?
Ill take care of it. Im headed there, anyway.
Where?
Polowski shoved open the station door. Palo Alto.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The front door was answered by an elderly oriental woman whose command of English was limited.
Mrs. Lum? Remember me? Victor Holland. I used to know your son.
Yes, yes!
Is he here?
Yes. Her gaze shifted to Cathy now, as though the woman didnt want her second visitor to feel left out of the conversation.
I need to see him, said Victor. Is Milo here?
Milo? At last here was a word she seemed to know. She turned and called out loudly in Chinese.
Somewhere a door squealed open and footsteps stamped up the stairs. A fortyish oriental man in blue jeans and chambray shirt came to the front door. He was a dumpling of a fellow, and he brought with him the vague odor of chemicals, something sharp and acidic. He was wiping his hands on a rag.
What can I do for you? he asked.
Victor grinned. Milo Lum! Are you still skulking around in your mothers basement?
Excuse me? Milo inquired politely. Am I supposed to know you, sir?
Dont recognize an old horn player from the Out of Tuners?
Milo stared in disbelief. Gershwin? That cant be you?
Yeah, I know, Victor said with a laugh. The years havent been kind.
I didnt want to say anything, but
I wont take it personally. Since- Victor peeled off his false beard -the face isnt all mine.
Milo gazed down at the lump of fake whispers, hanging like a dead animal in Victors grasp. Then he stared up at Victors jaw, still blotchy with spirit gum. This is some kind of joke on old Milo, right? He stuck his head out the door, glancing past Victor at the sidewalk. And the other guys are hiding out there somewhere, waiting to yell surprise! Arent they? Some big practical joke.
I wish it were a joke, said Victor.
Milo instantly caught the undertone of urgency in Victors voice. He looked at Cathy, then back at Victor. Nodding, he stepped aside. Come in, Gersh. Sounds like I have some catching up to do.
Over a late supper of duck noodle soup and jasmine tea, Milo heard the story. He said little; he seemed more intent on slurping down the last of his noodles. Only when the ever-smiling Mrs. Lum had bowed good-night and creaked off to bed did Milo offer his comment.
When you get in trouble, man, you sure as hell do it right.
Astute as always, Milo, sighed Victor.
Too bad we cant say the same for the cops, Milo snorted. If theyd just bothered to ask around, they wouldve learned youre harmless. Far as I know, youre guilty of only one serious crime.
Cathy looked up, startled. What crime?
Assaulting the ears of victims unlucky enough to hear his saxophone.
This from a piccolo player who practises with earplugs, observed Victor.
Thats to drown out extraneous noise.
Yeah. Mainly your own.
Cathy grinned. Im beginning to understand why you called yourselves the Out of Tuners.
Just some healthy self-deprecating humor, said Milo. Something we needed after we failed to make the Stanford band. Milo rose, shoving away from the kitchen table. Well, come on. Lets see whats on that mysterious roll of film.
He led them along the hall and down a rickety set of steps to the basement. The chemical tang of the air, the row of trays lined up on a stainless-steel countertop and the slow drip, drip of water from the faucet told Cathy she was standing in an enormous darkroom. Tacked on the walls was a jumble of photos. Faces, mostly, apparently snapped around the world. Here and there she spotted a newsworthy shot: soldiers storming an airport, protestors unfurling a banner.
Is this your job, Milo? she asked.
I wish, said Milo, agitating the developing canister. No, I just work in the ol family business.
Which is?
Shoes. Italian, Brazilian, leather, alligator, you name it, we import it. He cocked his head at the photos. Thats how I get my exotic faces. Shoe-buying trips. Im an expert on the female arch.
For that, said Victor, he spent four years at Stanford.
Why not? Good a place as any to study the fine feet of the fair sex. A timer rang. Milo poured out the developer, removed the roll of film, and hung it up to dry. Actually, he said, squinting at the negatives, it was my dads dying request. He wanted a son with a Stanford degree. I wanted four years of nonstop partying. We both got our wishes. He paused and gazed off wistfully at his photos. Too bad I cant say the same of the years since then.