From Berkeley with Love Read Free

yourself Steven Wainer round here. I know you’re not him. I’m looking for the real Wainer.”
    “What’s it worth to you?” he murmured and took a hefty swallow from the bottle.
    “It’s worth my not calling the cops and Social Security on you, dude,” I said.
    He looked morosely at the tabletop. “Can’t tell you much.” He held the beer bottle against his forehead. “I bought his social and birth certificate from this junkie broad six years ago. Cost me five grand.” He shook his head and sipped from the bottle. “Guess I can write that off now that you’ve found me out.”
    “I don’t give a rat’s ass about you. Far as I’m concerned, you can go on impersonating Wainer as long as you feel like it.” I flicked a cigarette out of my pack and lit up. “Who was the chick you bought his ID from?”
    He shrugged. “She was half-crazy. Total hophead. I don’t remember her name.”
    I whipped out the photograph I’d gotten from Linda and pointed at Tammy. “That her?”
    Bigfoot squinted at the picture. “Spare a cig?” he asked. I rolled my eyes but handed him one. What was it with everyone bumming smokes off me today? Last time I passed a mirror I didn’t look like the Marlboro man.
    He looked up from the photograph and let a round of smoke waft out through his nose. “Hard to say. She was so screwed up. Maybe, maybe not.”
    “Name of Tammy?”
    His eyes lit up. “Yeah, that sounds familiar,” he said. “Tammy. Probably wasted the five grand on smack or something.” He took the photo again. “Know what? I think it is her. Who knew she was once so cute? Same nose and hairline. I’m pretty sure.”
    I thanked him, waved good-bye to Sally and left the joint. Why had Bigfoot needed a new identity? Illegal immigrant? Felon? Deadbeat dad? What did I care? I hadn’t been hired to find out. At the next pay phone I dialed Linda Cramer’s number. I wanted to get her OK for a trip to Berkeley. After all, I was burning through the retainer pretty quickly.
    Linda had no problem with it. She was going to tell Mayer as well. He’d already called her to ask if I’d gotten anywhere yet.
    I spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening driving north. Yeah, I could’ve flown, but I always get sick on planes.
    Just after 11 PM I arrived in Berkeley and checked into the Travelodge on University. An all-night diner next door served decent coffee. I had a few cups, adding shots from the brandy bottle I kept in the duffel bag for emergencies, and smoked a handful of cigarettes, thinking through the case. If Tammy had sold Wainer’s identity to Bigfoot, Wainer was probably dead. That left Tammy as the most likely suspect. But according to Linda, she was hardly bright enough to pull it off; and Bigfoot had said she was half-crazy from heroin. The pieces didn’t fit together. I decided to take a little drive over to Tammy’s place, just to see if inspiration might strike.
    Eighteen ninety-seven Haycraft was a multi-unit apartment complex in the seedier part of town. The outer door stood ajar. In the hallway, a couple of homeless had set up camp. The place reeked of urine, smoke, sweat, and some strong perfume, indefinable but strangely familiar. It took a moment before my mind connected the dots, but then I knew where I’d smelled that scent before. I sprang up the stairs, looking out for apartment C . On the first landing was a small hallway with three doors leading off it. The first had a large black A spray-painted on it. A brighter shade of paint on the next one suggested that a B had once been attached to it. The third door wasn’t marked at all. Now I’m no math whiz, but I know my alphabet. The scent had become stronger. I pulled my gun and knocked on the nameless door. No one answered.
    “Open up,” I yelled, banging the door with the butt of my gun. Door A opened and a geezer with no teeth in his mouth looked out. I told him to mind his own business and threw my weight against the