The Sourdough Wars Page 8

  Something else had other ideas. The quiet didn’t shatter exactly, but as we got closer to the old corrugated metal warehouse, we heard something chipping away at it. Little shuffling sounds, the sounds of things being moved about. Rather clumsily. The sounds were coming from the back of the building.

  “Wait here,” said Rob, and started trotting toward the noise. I was right behind him.

  As we rounded the corner, we saw a dark figure leap from a pile of stacked-up debris and take off away from us. One glance told the story; the debris—mostly boxes—was piled up under a window, which was clearly the target of an amateur burglar—who was even now disappearing around the opposite corner of the building.

  “Go back, Rob,” I hollered. “Head him off.”

  I figured that way we’d have the guy trapped—I’d be behind him and Rob could make it back to the front of the building before the intruder could. We’d have a finger-lickin’ good burglar sandwich. But Rob wouldn’t play. He kept on coming behind me, and passed me in about a second, so I turned and went back to head the guy off.

  Rob stopped a minute, apparently not knowing what to do, started to turn toward me, then changed his mind and started chasing the burglar again. I’m a slow runner, and Rob had just illustrated once again the sad fate of he who hesitates—the burglar was already running down the street by the time we got to the front of the building. We rounded our respective corners at about the same time, huffing, puffing, and feeling silly. At least in my case. I was also mad. We’d lost the burglar, and the way I looked at it, it was Rob’s fault. I’d had a perfect plan and he’d messed it up.

  But the fact that we’d lost the burglar didn’t stop us. We kept chasing him, all the way to the end of the block, then into a sort of never-never land where there were a lot of railroad tracks. And a train bearing down, fast. But not too fast for the burglar to get across in front of it. For a moment, Rob looked as if he might try it, too, but I grabbed him. I didn’t want him hesitating and waiting too long with a train coming at him.

  We didn’t speak for a moment, just tried to get our breath back while the train passed. Then Rob apparently had an idea. He couldn’t tell me about it because the train was making so much noise. He just grabbed my arm and mouthed, “Come on.” And led me back to the car.

  “Let’s wait,” he said finally. “Maybe he left his car around here. As soon as the train noise dies down, it’ll be completely quiet again and we can be pretty sure any car we hear is his.”

  I could see it was a good idea, but I wasn’t about to say so. “Okay,” I said grudgingly. “But I don’t see why you won’t listen to any of my ideas. He wouldn’t have gotten away if you had.”

  He put a hand on the back of my neck. “I was afraid you’d get hurt.”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  He rubbed my shoulder fairly convincingly. “Look. If I’d gone back to head him off and he’d had any sense, he’d just have stopped and waited for you to run into him. Then he’d have had a hostage.”

  “He didn’t have any sense. Nobody does when someone’s chasing them.”

  “Babe, I was just—” He stopped and listened. Sure enough, someone had just started a car up. Rob’s was already warmed up and ready to go, so we had a slight advantage—if we could find the other one. We slipped into Seventh Street with our lights off, and followed the noise. Then we saw it—on King Street, its lights just coming on. It took off.

  We were right behind it, lights still off. After a zig here and a zag there, it turned onto Third, going south, and Rob had to hit his lights to follow. Third is the main thoroughfare in the neighborhood and there’d be traffic. So there was no choice but to turn the lights on. But when the burglar saw us do it, he must have caught on to who we were, because he floored his accelerator. We hadn’t quite completed the turn yet, so the burglar’s car zoomed ahead—a piece of awful luck, because we might have gotten his license number if we’d been a little closer.

  But Rob wasn’t giving up yet. He hit the gas, too. Third is a long, long street, and it will take you straight to Hunters Point, San Francisco’s meanest ghetto, if you let it. I wasn’t thrilled at that prospect, but it beat losing the burglar—I wanted to get him if we had to cover the city like Steve McQueen in Bullitt.

  We very nearly did. Third Street has traffic lights on it, and I guess the burglar decided he couldn’t take the chance of hitting a red one. He turned right soon, into the neighborhood at the bottom of Potrero Hill. This is much like the area around China Basin, all warehouses and railroad tracks. There were a million streets, and who knew where any of them led?

  The burglar, apparently. He whizzed in and out, around and about, like a rat in a maze he’s used to. We weren’t used to it, but we had a rat to follow and we were doing pretty well when we heard a siren.

  I looked behind us but couldn’t see a cop. Rob turned off his lights again and kept his eyes on the rat. Why he thought going dark was going to help I don’t know. The futility of the whole thing suddenly came home to me.

  “Rob,” I said.

  No answer.

  “Let’s give up.”

  Still no answer. Just a tighter set to the lips. I sat back. Oh well, it was only halfhearted on my part anyway. I still wanted to catch the burglar in the worst way, and my blood was still full of adrenaline. If he wanted to be macho, I’d go along with it. We were careening around on a corner on two wheels when I caught sight of a black-and-white—only a couple of blocks behind us.

  Rob apparently saw it about the same time. “Omigod,” he said, and gunned it again. We’d been going about sixty, a lot faster than was safe, and I hate to think how much worse it suddenly got. We needed to keep going straight for a while, because we certainly couldn’t turn any corners, but the trouble was, we couldn’t go straight. In that neighborhood, you can run into things if you don’t turn corners. So Rob did, somehow or other. My fingers hurt from clutching the door handle and my teeth hurt from clenching them.

  The couple of turns we had to take weren’t a bit smooth. In fact, we went up on the sidewalk both times and would have hit bus-stop signs, parking meters, buildings, or small children if there’d been any to hit.

  I figured Rob was pretty scared and I knew I was. It had finally come home to me that we were doing about ninety on city streets and a car full of cops was chasing us. I was a lawyer and had my professional standing to think of. Not to mention my mother. I started pleading: “Rob, honey, we can’t do this. My mom’ll kill me.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Don’t tell me to shut up. Let me out of this car right now.”

  Instead he turned back onto Third and once again gunned it. Now we were going about a hundred and ten. He hit the horn and cars started falling all over themselves to get out of the way. If we didn’t get in a fatal crash, my mother really was going to kill me, but the truth of the matter was, it was fun. Really a lot of fun.

  I said, “Wheeeeee!” and Rob laughed.

  “Hang in there, kid,” he said.

  I was hanging and he was laughing and we were generally having the times of our lives when we heard the crash. I looked around and saw the cop car stopped, spun around at an intersection, its back end crumpled. Another car was stopped there, too, and there was broken glass all over the street. Suddenly it wasn’t fun anymore.

  Rob turned off Third quickly and stopped as soon as he could. He was shaking. I felt awful. We’d done an unbelievably stupid thing and somebody might have gotten hurt on account of it. At the very least, there was property damage. Rob said, “Think they got our license number?”

  “I don’t see how they could have. They were never close enough.”

  “So if we turn on the lights, we’re just an ordinary white Toyota with two respectable citizens in it. ‘Yes, Officer, we did see a crazy driver with his lights off. He went that away.’ ”

  “I don’t think it’s funny anymore.”

  “Hey. Neither do I. But we can either give ourselves up or w
e can think of a way out of this.”

  I didn’t say anything. Rob flipped on his lights and turned onto Army Street, heading west toward the freeway. There were lots of other cars here, some of them white Toyotas. Probably this was the most sensible course. Rob had broken about a million traffic laws, had caused an accident, and might be in any amount of trouble if we turned ourselves in. On the other hand, I was an officer of the court. I myself had been an accomplice to his crimes, and now I was condoning further law breaking. What kind of hypocrite was I?

  Suddenly I remembered how I met Rob. It was during distressing events that occurred after I agreed to help out a friend by playing the piano in a bordello. Sometimes I had lousy judgment; that was one of them, and so was this. I’d not only been Rob’s accomplice, but had also enjoyed that stupid chase. If I didn’t learn to curb my impulses, I was going to get disbarred.

  Disbarred? Help!

  “We shouldn’t have done that,” I said.

  “You were the one who said, ‘Wheeee!’ ”

  I sighed. There was just no point in arguing, because I couldn’t win—I was as guilty as he was and I knew it. I put my hand on his knee. “Sorry, pussycat,” I said, “But, maybe, you know, out of respect for my job and everything, do you think we could stay within the law from now on?”

  He smiled and held my hand for a minute. “I think we should try, anyway.”

  “Good. I want to go to bed. Could we do that next?”

  “Second to next.”

  “Huh?”

  “What would you do if you were a burglar who was interrupted on his rounds and being pursued by a car full of good guys when suddenly the police started chasing the good guys?”

  “Aha! Go back and burgle away.”

  Rob turned onto the freeway. “So let’s see if we get another crack at him.”

  I guess I should have said we should call the police and let them take care of it. But half an hour ago, I’d wanted to catch that burglar in the worst way, and now the feeling was coming back. I decided not to think about the cops anymore. Rob was driving the car; I’d just let him drive it.

  Once again, we parked down the street and sneaked up on fog feet. It was quiet in front of the warehouse, or almost quiet. I thought I heard a faint thumping, and shushed Rob. He didn’t hear it.

  We’d started to go around the back when he stopped and shushed me. We stood there, silent for a long time, until both of us were sure. It was very faint, but there was a thumping coming from inside the building. An erratic thumping that wasn’t coming from machinery unless it was badly malfunctioning.

  “Let’s call the police,” I said.

  Rob nodded.

  But as we walked back to the front of the warehouse, I couldn’t resist trying to get a look inside. There were some first-floor windows, but they were dark. I looked in them anyway, getting no reward for my trouble. Then I tried the door. It opened. Just like that, nothing to it. The thumping got loud and another sound joined it—something along the lines of “mmmmmf.”

  I groped along the wall for a light switch, found it, and had the place ablaze by the time Rob came in. We were in a foyer, and there was a small room to the right. The noise seemed to be coming from there. Rob pulled me back and insisted on going first—to put it another way, he tried to elbow me out of the way. I elbowed back, and we ended up squeezing through the door together, which was probably a hilarious spectacle. But the guy on the floor was in no mood for a laugh riot.

  He was a mild-looking middle-aged chap wearing glasses and the uniform of a security guard. He was tied up and gagged, still kicking the floor, and making that erratic thumping noise.

  We introduced ourselves while we untied him, to save him being frightened. When he could, he said his name was Larson—Larson Jones—and asked for a drink of water, which Rob got for him from a bathroom down the hall.

  Larson rubbed his head when we asked what happened. “Not sure,” he said. “Somebody slugged me from behind.”

  “In here? How’d they get in?”

  He shook his head and then stopped, apparently not caring much for the way it felt. “I was outside. I make rounds every half hour.”

  “So somebody slugged you and dragged you in.”

  “I guess so. The door was locked, but the key’s in my bunch.” He held up the keys and started separating them. “Was. I guess he took it with him.” He sighed. “I guess he got what he wanted.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “He probably wanted the sourdough starter. We caught him trying to break in a back window and he ran away.”

  Larson brightened. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  He smiled outright. “I’ll bet the sumbitch didn’t get it then.” He walked out of the room and motioned for us to follow. We took an elevator to the second floor, and when we got out, we were facing a vault-like door with a combination lock on it. “The freezer’s in there,” said Larson. “We just had this new lock put on.” He patted it. “I couldn’t tell him the combination, because he had me knocked out cold. So he painted himself into a corner.” Larson laughed long and hard as he opened the door.

  The room we entered was so cold it froze the hair in your nostrils. “Maybe you folks better wait out here,” said Larson, but we were having none of it. We followed him through the freezer to the Martinelli chest and watched him open it. It was empty.

  That seemed to disconcert Larson. He reacted by turning on us and pulling his gun. “All right, let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”

  As ordered, we preceded Larson out of the room, all the time trying to talk sense to him. “Larson, think for a minute. We didn’t take the starter or we wouldn’t be here. We untied you, we scared the burglar away, we’re just nice Rebecca and nice Rob—we’ve even got IDs and everything. We wouldn’t hurt a fly, honest.”

  But it was no good. Larson was freaked out good and proper. He didn’t have the thief, but he did have a couple of witnesses. Or something. And as long as he was pointing the gun, he was in control. So he kept pointing it.

  He got us downstairs and kept the gun on us while he used the phone in his office to call the cops. And then he still kept pointing it.

  Rob looked at his watch and sighed. “Larson,” he said, “remember how I told you I was a reporter? Well, I’ve got about half an hour to get this story in the paper. Do you think, while we’re waiting, I could maybe use your phone?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “But what harm would it do? Really, when you think about it?”

  “I ain’t sure you’re a reporter.”

  Rob started to reach in his breast pocket, where he kept his wallet. Larson raised the gun. “Hold it!”

  “Hey, I was just going to show you my press card.”

  “You sit still. Right there.” Larson waved the gun at the place where Rob should sit.

  But Rob didn’t sit. “Listen, Larson, old buddy, I know you’ve been through a scary experience and everything. I’m sorry you got bonked on the head and all, but I’ve got to phone my story in, and this is false imprisonment. You’ve got no right to hold us like this and I’m seeing my lawyer, Ms. Schwartz, about it right now.”

  I nodded solemnly. “That’s right, Larson. I’m afraid you’ll have to let us go.”

  “The police can let you go if they want to. I’m holding you till they get here.”

  Rob said, “I’m going now, Larson.” He started backing out of the room, hands up like a bit player in a western.

  I was horrified, and spoke before I thought. “Rob, don’t!” Larson turned to look at me for a split second, and Rob turned around and started running. He was out the door and going for his car before Larson recovered, and then Larson was standing in the door, arm raised and taking aim.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rob was a jerk for running out at a time like that, but he was my man and he was in hip-deep trouble. Before Larson knew what hit him, I was on his back like a monkey on a junkie’s. He slammed into the left side of
the doorsill just as the gun went off, and I made a grab for it. I might have got it, too, if I hadn’t been sneaking a sidewise glance to see whether my sweetie was alive or dead.

  Alive! Alive and nearly safe in his car.

  I didn’t get the gun, but the sight of Rob on his pegs was enough to give me courage to go on. I tried a karate chop on Larson’s forearm, but it didn’t seem to have much effect. He just looked at me, apparently trying to figure out what species I was.

  Hell! Homo sapiens female, that was what. So I didn’t know karate. Big deal. I could pull hair with the best of them. Right away, I started on that, and also I got Larson’s glasses off and crunching under my feet, which I liked quite a lot, and I thought maybe a kick in the shin would be nice for a follow-up. But suddenly Larson remembered he was bigger than I was and had a gun. He grabbed my hair-pulling arm just as I was delivering the kick, so I had to give up on his head and torso. But I still had my legs.

  I got ready for another kick, but I never got to give it. That schmuck—you’re not going to believe this—kicked me first. Me, Rebecca Schwartz. A lady.

  So of course there was nothing to do but nail him again, and I still had one free hand. But so did he, and it had a gun in it. Which he smacked up against my face.

  I dropped like a rose petal. Not like a lead weight or a rock. Like a petal. I just sort of floated in the breeze until the nice warm ground came up underneath, all supportive and cozy.

  Now, Larson, he dropped more like a rock. Right to his knees. He set the gun down and started shaking me. “Miss Schwartz! Wake up! Miss Schwartz, are you all right? I’m not a violent man, really. I don’t know what got into me. Please, Miss Schwartz, don’t be dead.”

  I wasn’t even unconscious, but I was going to let the big schlemiel suffer awhile. So I kept my eyes closed. It was a little like having that childhood revenge everyone dreams about—the one in which you die and then they’re sorry. I just lay there with my cheek throbbing, listening to Larson, and it was music to my ears. It was soon joined by the sound of a siren.