Flood Warning Read online

  “Remember, it’s more than two years old,” she said without pausing in her typing. “Your father doesn’t believe in discarding things prematurely.”

  “Um,” T.J. grunted, and carried the volume into his office. He let it fall a couple of inches to his desk with a satisfying thump and tried to do some research. Within moments, he knew the exercise was useless. There was no quick way to find out who inhabited the fourth floor at 230 California. He closed the cover with a disgusted flip of his hand. The quality of the light falling on his desk from the window behind him suggested that the situation was improving outside. He turned and noted that Bush Street was basking in a filtered glow that might even become sunlight. It had stopped raining. T.J. pulled out his watch. Time for lunch. Time to grab a bite, then ankle over to do some legwork on California Street. He made sure his vest was buttoned, grabbed his suit coat and hat, and stuffed his notebook into an inner pocket. T.J. left the directory behind for Agnes to retrieve.

  *

  Her eyes never leaving his face, Margaret Flood listened intently as Sam explained that he would be out of town for a few days. “I want to go to the lake this afternoon,” she said abruptly. “I love going to the lake.”

  Sam sighed. In her advancing senility, his wife often reverted to earlier, happier days in Chicago. “Not now, darling,” he said soothingly. “It’s time for your tea. Amy is going to make you a nice cup of tea.”

  “Can I have a biscuit, too?” Margaret asked, her bright, eager voice now sounding much younger than her seventy-three years.

  “Of course you can, dearie,” her cousin said, pushing the wheelchair toward the kitchen. Margaret and the chair were dwarfed by Amy’s tall, rawboned frame. Sam ran upstairs for his club bag, already packed with the essentials for a short trip. At the front door, he took Amy aside.

  “Two days, probably,” he said. “Then I’ll be back, then I’ll go across the bay for a couple more days.” Amy nodded her understanding and said goodbye. On the stoop, Sam pulled out his Hamilton. Just enough time to catch the five twenty-five serving all the little towns south of the peninsula. While bumping down Powell Street on the cable car, Sam wrestled with the rational decision he knew he had to make. Although Amy was willing to stay on at their Vallejo Street home, he knew Margaret would be in need soon of more professional help. The doctor had intimated that her condition was permanent, including the arthritis that kept her in a wheelchair on many days. Thus this trip to check out nursing homes.

  Later in the week, he’d take the ferry over to the East Bay and investigate a few more places. Cost was a factor. Although he had got out of the market before the crash — thanks to Solly’s uncanny foresight — the money he’d made wouldn’t last forever. Revenue from Flood and Flood was sporadic at best, although the office had managed to stay in the black most months. If he moved Meg down past the peninsula, he would be able to visit her with minimal expense, thanks to his Southern Pacific retiree’s pass. Taking the ferry was another matter, however. Those fares, added to transportation on the other side, could add up. Even when that new bridge opened, there’d be tolls to pay. Of course, the nursing home fees would also be a major factor.

  Watching the tilted architecture of downtown Powell Street jolt by, Sam admitted to himself that something had to be done for his wife, no matter what the cost.

  Chapter 5

  Pulling out his notebook, T.J. stood in front of the lobby directory and made a list of the companies on the fourth floor. The listings were alphabetical rather than by floor, so it was a slow process.

  “Help you?” asked an ancient gnome who appeared to be the elevator operator.

  “I’m doing fine, thanks,” T.J. said, snapping his notebook shut. “Fourth floor please.”

  After stepping out at his destination, he pretended to consult his list until the gnome closed the elevator doors and it began whining its way downward. T.J. looked around him. To his left were two tall windows overlooking California Street. Across from the elevator was a small alcove, occupied by a ratty looking sofa and two upholstered chairs. To T.J.’s right, the corridor stretched toward a shadowy conclusion. It was perhaps five feet wide. Dim light bulbs hanging from the high ceiling gave minimal illumination. The walls were either frosted glass or solid partitions painted a faded brown. There were doors every twenty-five feet or so, and most of them were blank.

  Traversing slowly along the corridor, T.J. checked the legends still inscribed on the frosted upper half of some doors. ‘Wallace Fenton, Accountant,’ was the first, near the elevator. Then came ‘J. Shatsky, Office Supplies.’ Further down the hallway were ‘W. Chow, Import and Export,’ and ‘Henry Kagle & Sons, Consultants.’ Consulting about what, T.J. thought. All were on his list. The rest of the doors were blank. Wherever the overhead lighting permitted, T.J. could see faint outlines of former occupants still lingering on the glass.

  Down at the end, where a narrow, dusty window gave a hazy perspective of the alley below, was one final tenant, ‘Central City Distribution Service.’ Distribution of what? Like the consulting firm, T.J. thought, Central City didn’t offer much information to the casual passerby. Also, it hadn’t been listed in the lobby. He made a note.

  Well, what next? He had spotted no big, fat clue pointing to the office where The Greek and Benny the Bundle presumably met. Guess I could open a few doors, ask some vague questions about unnamed visitors, T.J. told himself. Even check some of the allegedly empty offices. He tried the door to Central City. It was locked. Turning back down the corridor, he heard the sound of a doorknob turning. Out of the office that had to belong to Wallace Fenton, popped the upper half of a male body. He was almost as short as the elevator operator, with thinning, sandy hair pasted over his skull and wearing pince-nez glasses. T.J. realized this was the first indication of human occupation on the fourth floor. Up to now he had heard no sounds of business being conducted. No sound of typing, no murmurs of conversation, no closing of doors. No telephones ringing.

  The man popped back into his office and softly closed his door. T.J. decided to try some of the others and started with the door leading to the Kagle consulting company’s inner sanctum. It was locked. He was about to try one of the empty offices when he caught a slight sound behind him. Before he could turn, he was violently spun around to find Pat leering down at him. Pat placed his forearm under T.J.’s chin and slowly dragged him up the wall until their faces were parallel.

  “Well, well, if it ain’t Mr. Private Detecative,” Pat drawled. “Whatcha doin’ up here, gumshoe? Trying to find Benny’s stash?” With Pat’s arm firmly lodged against his throat, T.J. was finding it hard to breathe, let alone answer. He thought of kicking the vice cop somewhere in the vicinity of the shins, but doubted he’d notice.

  “Let him down, partner,” came Mike’s voice from down the corridor. “Let Mr. Flood go.”

  Abruptly, Pat removed his arm and T.J. dropped to the floor. He staggered, but didn’t fall. Somehow it was important that he not go to his knees with this pair as witnesses. “That’s assault, you big gorilla,” he croaked. “I’m not some punk you can push around.”

  “Whatcha gonna do about it, mister detecative?” Pat taunted him. “Complain? Resist arrest? Whatcha think of my fuzzy brains, now?”

  “Now, now, let’s all try to be civilized about this,” Mike said. “Pat does tend to get a little enthusiastic now and then and we apologize. Don’t we, Pat?” He poked his partner in the ribs but Pat just leered. “He apologizes,” Mike said.

  T.J. found himself being propelled steadily down the corridor toward the elevator. “What we’d like to know, offhand, Mr. Flood, is exactly what you are doing up here on the fourth floor,” Mike continued. “Something to do with dear, departed Benny the Bundle, or are you at liberty to discuss the matter? Because, you see, you may be interfering with police business.”

  T.J. considered telling both of them to go to hell. That, he assumed, would lead to a variety of responses. They could do as he wished —
and a fat chance that was. They could take him over to the Hall of Justice for a more meaningful interrogation, they could beat him up right here or simply drop him down the elevator shaft.

  “I was looking for J. Shatsky Office Supplies,” he said finally, remembering one of the names in his notebook. “They seem to have moved.”

  “Indeed they have,” Mike said. “So perhaps you’d better look for your, uh, supplies elsewhere. Some place a little more healthier.” By this time, they were standing in front of the elevator. Mike pressed the down button. Standing with the two King Kongs on either side of him, T.J. felt more than a little hemmed in. It was actually a relief to step into the confined space of the elevator.

  “Down, my good man,” T.J. said with a feeble attempt at humor as the doors closed on the two impassive cops. However, there was nothing funny about the episode, he told himself. Moreover, he didn’t like being manhandled by a walking mountain. You’ll get yours, warning or no warning, T.J. promised Pat under his breath.

  *

  Humbert Twait was short, round and definitely not jolly. His waistcoat, with the buttons straining courageously to hold the center, encased a protruding belly that had introduced itself to many a banquet table. Twait’s face was porcine, punctuated by two corpulent lips that had forgotten how to smile. It was the week after Sam had returned to duty, and Twait’s basilisk eyes regarded the elder Flood from behind folds of flesh as he offered him his business card.

  The card proclaimed that Humbert L. Twait, Esq. was president of an entity called Superior Cartage & Dray, with an address on Townsend Street. “And I gather you haul goods from the docks to various parts of the city,” Sam said. “Which, I deduce, is why you wish to consult with Flood and Flood.”

  “Not strictly in my capacity as a businessman, no,” Twait said, his voice conveying a weary edge of condescension. “I am here on behalf of the San Francisco Industrial Association.” He shifted uncomfortably and various parts of his visible anatomy quivered. Although Sam’s office chairs were larger and more comfortable than those of his son, Twait evidently found his too confining. “You are doubtless aware of the situation on the waterfront at this time.”

  “Only what I read in the papers.”

  “Yes, well, the press is a little shrill, perhaps, in leaping to conclusions. I do wish the publishers, in their capacity as members of the Association, would recognize that rabble-rousing is not in their best interests. May I give you some background?”

  “By all means,” Sam said. Then, he thought, Mr. Humbert L. Twait, Esq. might perhaps reveal why his Association chose Flood and Flood, and what they wanted him and T.J. to do.

  Once again, Twait shifted uneasily in his chair. By now, he was perched ominously on its edge. The better, Sam guessed, to make room for those ample buttocks. He waited for the center of gravity to shift, propelling Twait headfirst to the floor. The chair held its ground, however, although Sam kept a wary eye on any indication the rear legs were about to become airborne. It was all very distracting.

  “Last October, the longshoremen struck the Matson Navigation Company,” Twait said, “They had formed a new union, a Red union, called the International Longshoremen’s Association. The union they had, the Longshoremen’s Association, wasn’t good enough for them. The agitators and the Commie socialists got hold of the working class and filled their heads with poppycock about workers’ rights.”

  “But wasn’t that settled?” Sam asked. He recalled reading something about it.

  “Yes, it was smoothed over, but they started talking strike again in March and now the whole waterfront is shut down, as you most certainly know. And the situation promises to get even uglier. Their leader is a Communist agitator named Harry Bridges. He’s not even an American. He’s a damn Australian immigrant and he’s convinced our good American boys they deserve a dollar an hour. One dollar an hour! That’s thirty, forty bucks a week if they work normal hours. Not only that, he wants control of the hiring hall. There’ll be Commies running all over the docks if the companies can’t hire who works there.”

  Sam waited for the punch line. It had to come pretty soon, or Mr. Humbert Twait would be reminded that Flood and Flood was a busy agency and he had other matters to attend to.

  Twait must have sensed Sam’s impatience, because he abruptly came to the point. “There’s going to be a general strike any day now,” he said. “The Industrial Association is sure of it. Bridges is agitating for it. He’s getting panicky, because the shippers won’t give in to his demands. But a general strike will shut the whole city down.”

  “You’re not asking Flood and Flood to somehow stop this strike.” Sam’s flat statement didn’t betray how ridiculous he thought such a notion was.

  “Of course not. What we want you to do is investigate Harry Bridges. Find out who he is, where he comes from, his Communist affiliation. He may even be in the country illegally, which would solve everything if we could prove that. But the Association feels that it can get the public on its side — and the dockworkers — if we can prove he’s a Red trying to subvert the American way.”

  “What if Flood and Flood can’t find anything? Bridges may not be a Communist. He may be a clean, upstanding citizen with no warts on him. And even if he is a Red, maybe your smear job won’t work.”

  “Don’t worry, our so-called ‘smear job’ will work. The publishers don’t want a general strike either. It would be bad for circulation. If you can’t find anything out, well, we’ll deal with that when the time comes. I’m sure if you dig deep enough, the dirt is there. The Association is willing to give you a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar retainer to try.”

  Chapter 6

  T.J. Flood swung his feet up on his desk and perused the memo he had carefully crafted in longhand. He had paid unusual attention to his penmanship because he didn’t want Agnes Wilkins to misspell any of the names.

  One of them was Przybslaw Piszek. This was the real name of Pat the vice detective. Following the confrontation at 230 California, T.J. had called an old acquaintance over at the Hall of Justice. They were just friends now, but at one time they had been quite close. Then she found somebody else, T.J. got married and they parted amicably. Beryl worked in personnel, so it was no problem chasing down the origins of Pat and Mike. Naturally, Piszek’s unpronounceable first name had been Americanized and he was now “Pat” to everybody. He was also known as ‘Dipstick’ — a sarcastic approximation of Piszek. However, T.J. didn’t put that in the memo. No use shocking Agnes. Mike’s legal handle was now Michael Wales. He had started out as a Polish immigrant baby named Miroslaw Walesa, but dropped the ‘a’ when he grew up and changed his first name.

  When Pat and Mike were in the uniform division, they were in great demand during Prohibition. The Coast Guard and the Customs Service made liberal use of their size and strength when the time came to smash open cases of illegal liquor. Shortly after the Volstead Act was repealed, the pair turned up in vice. Beryl did not know why, although the scuttlebutt had hinted at wheels within wheels in the upper echelons.

  The memo didn’t mention T.J.’s trip to the fourth floor. He had decided to keep Pat and Mike’s little game to himself for the time being. He swung his feet down and was about to take the memo out to Agnes when his phone rang. “Mr. Sam would like you to join him in his office,” she said.

  T.J. paused to drop his memo on Agnes’s desk. “For the Turk Street file,” he said, favoring her with a wink. Then T.J. gave one sharp rap on the boss man’s door, entered and flopped down in one of the client’s chairs. Warily, he inspected Twait, who acknowledged his arrival with a nod.

  “My name is Twait,” he said with the superior smile of someone who knows more than you think he does. “You must be Thomas Jefferson Flood, the other half of this partnership. You are named after a great president, who was dedicated to truth and justice. Your father, on the other hand, is named after Samuel Adams, one of the principals of the Boston Tea Party and a great American rebel. From what my advi
sors tell me, young Mr. Flood, you lean toward revolutionary ardor far more than your father.”

  Sam held up his hand to forestall any retort from T.J. “Mr. Twait is here on behalf of the Industrial Association,” he said. “The matter under discussion is of some delicacy, so naturally they looked into our background before approaching us.”

  “Indeed we did,” Twait said. “You are a small agency, we know, but that is exactly what we require. Someone who can work with discretion and subtlety. The Flood agency has been highly recommended in that regard.” California Risk and Casualty, Sam thought. He remembered handling a very delicate investigation for the insurance company a few months ago, as well as having several useful contacts from his Southern Pacific days. He exchanged a glance with T.J.

  “So what is this matter of such delicacy and secrecy?” the younger Flood demanded.

  “The Association wants us to find out whether Harry Bridges, the waterfront union leader, is a Communist. Mr. Twait thinks that if we can prove that, the labor situation can be controlled.”

  “What kind of proof do you want?” T.J. asked Twait. “Documents? a letter from the Central Committee in Moscow? a membership card? a photograph of Bridges kissing Joe Stalin’s ass? Or will you accept mere rumor?”

  “Something in writing would be desirable,” Twait said. “We are convinced this man is a Red and there must be records of some sort. If we can’t expose him as the menace he is, he will shut down this city.” A checkbook had appeared in Twait’s hand. T.J. wondered what fold of flesh had harbored it. “I have a check here for two-hundred-and-fifty dollars. A good-faith retainer. But you don’t have much time. A crisis is imminent.”

  Sam reached over his desk and appropriated the check. “Flood and Flood will take the case,” he said. “This sum will cover about ten days of our time. Any operating expenses will be extra, of course. I will give you a receipt and a standard agreement will be drawn up.” He reached for the phone to call Agnes.