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  ‘Not like football players holding up a fist.’

  ‘Yeah, no rallying the troops. But that doesn’t mean anything. Really. They’ll be fine.’

  ‘Pretty picture.’

  Picture. Illusion; not reality. I swallowed hard. ‘Leo, it’s the best I can do. Renzo …’ And then I lost it. And Leo, weak as he was, held me while I sobbed on his shoulder. ‘Lila …’ I said, stepping back. ‘I knew she was frightened. ‘The man … I saw him … once, twice. Maybe if I—’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I nodded. He was saying the same thing as ‘pretty picture,’ imaginary states I was creating to comfort myself in a situation where I didn’t – couldn’t – know what was real. Where I didn’t want to see a bad picture, couldn’t balance on the mushy footing of uncertainty. ‘Not knowing is the highest,’ someone said. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he quoted that now. But his face looked no more composed than mine and I had the feeling that he too was balancing on ground that had suddenly lost its solidity.

  I waited, desperate for him to return to being something I could hang onto. Even though, as he said, as Suzuki-roshi had said years ago, as I knew, things change.

  In a moment, he said, ‘Help me downstairs.’ He didn’t mention that yesterday it would have been Renzo who wrapped his arm around his back and eased him down the stairs.

  ‘Leo, you don’t have to—’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘The police—’

  ‘Not for them.’

  ‘What did the doctor say? Has he been here to see you this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Darcy! I know what I’m doing.’

  I had the feeling he was reassuring himself. His eyes shifted in the way of one making a decision. I could have pressed him, but in this moment he seemed to me not a Zen master but a standard-issue stubborn man, like my dad, or one of my brothers who was going to lift this box or boulder and that was just that.

  He was making an effort to walk steadily as we lurched down step after step. His body felt so insubstantial against my arm and shoulder, and the gamey smell of sickness came and went. In the hall he paused, his breath thick, nodding at the patrol officer who must have followed me when I ran in here. I gave silent thanks to SFPD for this consideration of waiting down here.

  For a moment, I thought Leo would realize that he wasn’t so much walking as draping himself over me. Then I was sure he would pull together every bit of strength, square his shoulders and walk out into the courtyard. What he did was make his way through the madrone doors with me helping him, just as he was. A few people half-gasped. The last time they’d seen him was before he was attacked, before the hospital, the days in bed. Only Hudson Poulsson had been with him when he looked worse than this. Even the detective tacitly acknowledged the situation. He waited while Leo spoke a few words to each of the morning zazen people, telling them he’d moved into the ‘don’t worry about’ category, that Buddhism did not insulate us from life, au contraire, and ending by assuring them I was on the way to the hospital and I’d have news of Renzo and Lila this evening. Leo even caught Westcoff’s eye and said, ‘As long as you’re going to be pestering her, drive her to the hospital.’

  ‘No,’ I snapped. ‘Not necessary. Your car’s not far.’

  ‘Let him drive you.’

  I nodded, appreciating Leo’s concern, and hoping I wasn’t about to leave the safe frying pan of my own driving and leap into the fire with Westcoff. The reporter had none of that hesitation. His face brightened. He might as well have decorated his forehead with neon-flashing captive interrogee.

  The detective passed me on to an assistant, suitable for a witness who had witnessed nothing. Westcoff kept his distance as if holding behind his back a box of chocolate clues he didn’t want to share. Or maybe he had other, unrelated reasons for keeping distant from authority. Whatever, as soon as we cleared the courtyard he scurried behind the sidewalk onlookers and then angled back to his car. When he drove up he’d have had the whole curb at his command. Now, the little car was wedged between two patrol cars and flashers from a van sent odd patterns of light onto the windshield. Voices were shouting over each other like a word-ball fight.

  I’d barely slid in and shut the door when he had the engine on and was demanding, ‘So, what do you make of this?’

  ‘Renzo?’

  ‘Went to save the girl. Got waylaid?’

  ‘It’s so Renzo.’ I sighed. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Of course. What kind of reporter would he have been to overlook a source like Renzo?

  The car Westcoff was inching back and forth between patrol cars was a little green Fiat the color of Mom’s Formica kitchen table. ‘I pictured you driving something with balled tires and fenders from the junk yard.’

  ‘So’d my ex.’ He grunted, lugging the wheel all the way back left. ‘She took the condo. Much as we owed, it’s almost a straight deal. You know the assailant?’

  Huh? It took me a moment to realize he’d switched topics without taking a new breath. The early morning was catching up with me. Ditto the lack of coffee. I yearned to rest my head against the window and let Westcoff jolt the car back and forth in silence. I said, ‘You mean the guy who attacked Lila? The thug in the dark suit? I’ve seen him, or a close likeness of him, outside the zendo a couple times. Lila was scared.’

  ‘Why didn’t you—’

  ‘Save her?’ I snapped.

  ‘A little defensive, assistant to the abbot?’

  ‘Like you save everyone in danger! Save the baby or get the video?’

  ‘I’m not a Buddhist.’

  Yeah, right! I was way too tired to deal with this. ‘Or a fair debater. Look, this is a constant issue for us. Homeless people sleep in the courtyard. Should we shoo them, call the police or let them in to sleep inside in the hall where it’s warm?’

  ‘Do the right thing?’

  ‘There is no right thing! That’s the point! What’s right today isn’t tomorrow. What should we have done for Lila – ask if the guy was following her? If he’s dangerous? If she’s sure? Demand she tell us in her iffy English? Tentative as she is, we’d probably never have seen her again.’ I made myself stop and take a breath. ‘It’s not that we don’t care. It’s just not that easy.’

  ‘That your abbot’s philosophy?’

  Did this guy never give up? ‘Garson-roshi gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. He’d even talk to you.’

  Westcoff laughed a little.

  ‘When they bow, the Hindus mean, “I salute the divine within you.” As a Buddhist, Leo really believes in giving people the chance to be …’

  ‘Better than their crappy selves?’

  I nodded and let it go, then watched as he made two more passes at the patrol car bumper ahead. If he’d had the kind of vehicle I’d pictured for him he could have rammed it over the bumper, but a shiny new possession is a burden. This one didn’t even have a ‘used’ smell. There were no crumpled take-out bags, not so much as an old newspaper. When he cleared the hurdle and eased through the mess of vehicles and made it to the corner, I said, ‘You’ve been digging around – do you know where Lila works?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. The Tink Pitty. Get it, play on letters?’

  ‘I live here; I’ve seen the sign.’

  ‘It is to the old established strip clubs what strip clubs are to the symphony. Even their poles are dirty, not that the clientele cares.’

  ‘Clientele?’

  ‘Seedy old guys. Sleaze tourists.’

  ‘Poor Lila.’

  ‘Poor lots of girls. I’ve done a lot on trafficking – drugs and human—’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘They’re not always separate. Look, drug smuggler spots a fresh face, gives her a little coke to carry on a plane back to the States. If she makes it through customs it’s hers, and then it’s a matter of time before she’s his.’

  ‘And if she’s caught?’ />
  ‘No trail to him. Business write off.’ He shrugged. ‘What I’m saying is you could have done more for this girl.’

  ‘So could you!’

  He swung the little coupe hard left, flinging me into the door. Very mature! I didn’t say that. I took another long breath, rubbed my fingers against my jeans legs to shift my attention, then said, ‘So, you made a big point of telling me you’re the only one who cares about Leo’s attack besides me. That was twenty-four hours ago. What you have discovered since?’

  ‘The thug – why would he come at your abbot?’

  ‘That’s your discovery – a question? Great sleuthing.’ It was still too dark to be sure but odds were his jaw tightened and there might have been a little flush across embarrassed cheeks. ‘What makes you think – assume – the thug today is the same guy?’

  ‘Two attacks, same place, less than a week,’ he said, pulling into the next lane in front of a truck. ‘At the site of the pimp fight six weeks ago.’

  The pimp fight! So that’s how our Zen Center came to Westcoff’s notice. But I didn’t let myself get sidetracked.

  Westcoff was hunched over the wheel as if he was in a bumper car park. Unlike Hudson Poulsson, three days ago, Westcoff was taking a maze of city streets, weaving left when he could, going against rush hour traffic. I had my feet braced on the floorboards. ‘Why,’ he said, doing a quick right–left check, ‘would the thug attack your abbot? Let’s assume he did. Assume he had a reason.’

  ‘Maybe he resented Lila having a safe place to go.’

  ‘And the abbot for offering it to her?’

  ‘Leo didn’t offer it directly to her. It’s not like we sent flyers. Not like our sittings are at convenient times—’

  ‘They were for her.’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘But close enough in his mind.’

  Point taken. ‘I don’t think,’ I said more slowly, ‘that she ever spoke to Leo. She drank coffee at Renzo’s— Omigod, do you think he was really after Renzo? That’s Lila wasn’t the target at all?’

  Westcoff shot onto Van Ness Avenue, inches behind the bumper of a truck. At the corner he swung right, then left. I stopped looking. I felt like the thug’s motives were bouncing around in the car and I couldn’t grab hold of them as we swayed from corner to corner.

  ‘Suppose,’ Westcoff said, ‘our thug was set on putting fear into Renzo. Suppose he grabbed Lila to lead him to Renzo—’

  ‘He wouldn’t need her for that. Everybody knows where Renzo is. The thug could have walked into the cafe any time after seven a.m. He could have waited till Renzo closed up at night.’

  ‘OK, suppose … suppose … it was spur of the moment.’

  ‘OK. But it’s Lila he attacked. People saw him attacking her and then Renzo running to help her. Because she screamed.’ I held up a hand, not that he was in a position to see. ‘When she screamed, Renzo and Tully were in the cafe. So he wasn’t after them. He attacked Lila, because … because he was jealous, or … he figured he owned her, or … she owed him. Whatever.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Maybe he resented having such a lousy job. Rotten hours, miserable pay. Sometimes a grudge is all a guy’s got and he’s not about to let go, because, Westcoff, it’s all he’s got.’ His Buddha. If you meet the Buddha in the road … But I definitely was not going into that analogy with Westcoff.

  I’d had the safety discussion with Leo, more restrainedly, questioning how far we trust before we take measures, but I sure wasn’t going to bring that up with Westcoff. I might as well wade in with John. ‘You still haven’t mentioned a single thing you’ve uncovered. Or have you been spending your days at the beach?’ I sat back against the righteousness of my position and waited.

  ‘There’s got to be a connection,’ he said, as much to himself as to me.

  ‘No, there doesn’t. But it’d make a much bigger story, right?’ I almost felt bad when I said it. In the clearer light of morning I could see that this time I had pierced him. ‘Westcoff, just why is this such a big deal for you?’

  ‘Hey, I’m a journalist.’

  ‘But why this story?’

  A U-drive van veered out from the cross street. I braced. Westcoff shot left. He pulled back into his lane, but the whole maneuver reminded me how much I hated driving with amateurs. As for him, I had the feeling he was using my relieved silence as a shield. He was nearly to SF General when he said, ‘I’m a journalist. When I was a kid I dreamed of being a reporter, breaking the big stories, beating out the competition, ripping the cover off graft, corruption and the world of evil. When I got hired by the Chronicle, I was in heaven. You want to know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because your local paper is where stories get dug up.’ He looked momentarily abashed, like either he’d exposed too much or he just wanted to edit that last statement. ‘Before a story goes national, it’s a local reporter who spots it, who digs, and who keeps digging. We’re the ones who know the players, the angles, the history, the city. Our city.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Financially we’re on the edge all the time. By the time we run a national story it’s all over the Web. You remember: Breaking! Breaking! Read all about it! Extra! Well that’s not possible any more in a local paper. Plus ad revenue is in the toilet. Everything’s tight. And …’

  I finished for him. ‘It’s reporters who get laid off.’

  ‘Yeah, with nowhere to go. You survive by spotting stories before anyone else, having better sources, by knowing your city.’ He pulled up by a loading zone, got out and shut the door carefully.

  He was halfway to the Emergency entrance when I caught up. ‘OK, show me how a reporter gets information … about Renzo. Get me more than the standard “Wait.”’

  ‘In surgery,’ he said ten minutes later, ‘you’re going to be here a while. Waiting.’ Fingers to forehead, he gave me a salute and almost made it to the door before circling back. ‘Call me,’ he said more hesitantly. ‘I’ll come drive you home.’

  I smiled. ‘Won’t be necessary. When word gets out that Renzo’s in Emergency, this place will standing room only. I’ll have six offers of rides from my family alone.’

  ‘Call me anyway.’

  ‘Business or concern?’

  ‘Both.’ He started toward the doors again.

  ‘Hey, Westcoff, you still haven’t told me one thing you learned since Leo’s attack.’

  His brown eyes sashayed back and forth. He might as well have been doing the Truth or Lie Two-step. Which would he choose? I decided, as Leo would, to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘You cannot repeat this.’

  ‘Good opener.’ Did the man really have something? Something he would not have told me if I hadn’t badgered him three times?

  ‘A third grader could break into your abbot’s car.’

  ‘You broke into Leo’s car!’

  ‘Hey, don’t look like I stole his mother’s ashes. It’s just a car.’

  ‘Like his wallet, his toothbrush. His!’

  ‘Hey, I thought you Buddhists were against attachment.’

  ‘We’re against— Oh, skip it. So, what you’re saying is you’ve been on this for three days and all you’ve done is commit a petty crime?’

  ‘Yeah, probably. Almost certainly. I checked the car out. Papers in the back, just Buddhist stuff. And then I went through the glove box.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He has a Fastrak.’

  ‘That’s it? You broke into Leo’s car and found that he has the same gadget as nearly every other driver in California?’

  ‘I already knew he had a Fastrak. He used it twice on the Golden Gate last month, and on the Bay Bridge before that.’

  ‘You broke into his car to check on the Fastrak you already knew he had? This is what journalism has sunk to?’

  ‘It’s what journalism has deduced. What were those trips?’

  ‘Golden Gate? He gave a lecture at Green Gulch once. The other ti
me we went to Point Reyes. The Bay Bridge trips I don’t know—’

  ‘Let me enlighten you then. You Buddhists like to be enlightened, right?’

  The man was driving me crazy.

  ‘One trip every month. Last Wednesday. Mean anything now?’

  ‘No. But—’

  ‘Don’t bother. Here’s what a journalist does, one with honed hunches and good sources and a few favors to call in.’

  ‘Like your Fastrak source?’

  ‘Nah, for that I just used the info in the glove box. Lesson: the glove box is not a safe deposit box. Don’t put all your papers there. On the computer I am now Leo Garson of Pacific Avenue. As such I can track my record. If I had crossed the Bay Bridge or the Golden Gate every Wednesday I would know it. But I – Leo Garson, who normally uses his Fastrak, and who travels somewhere every fourth Wednesday, does not use it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, why not?’ Moron! But he didn’t say that aloud.

  ‘Maybe he took the BART train, or the bus. Maybe he drove with a friend. What’s your point?’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  I turned to him, waited till I had his full attention. ‘Answer me one question.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘How come you’re so caught up in this? No, wait. A Zen master is assaulted, but not fatally injured. By the next day, you’re there. Why? You don’t know Leo. You’re not interested in Zen. Maybe this will turn out to be a big story for you, but, Westcoff, what made you think so?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Don’t answer me this and I will never tell you another thing.’

  ‘OK, OK. This city is in the thick of trafficking. Leo Garson’s the kingpin.’

  SIXTEEN

  Leo, a kingpin! ‘Yeah, right. He’s also a race car driver and sings with The Dandy Warhols.’

  Westcoff was in my face, here in the San Francisco General Hospital Emergency Department waiting room. Behind him, weary folk of both sexes and various ages sat up on their chairs. The whole thing was like a replay of three days ago when Leo was in surgery and his assailant came wheeling through into the hospital innards then went poof. I was not about to give ground. I leaned forward and said the only reasonable thing. ‘Fuck off!’