The Pandora Directive

Chapter Eleven

The brown-paper wrapper was nondescript. He could have come from any of a thousand supply stores in the Bay Area. I examined the lettering on the package. Malloy had used a a black felt-tip marker. There was nothing unusual or useful in the writing. I went over the wrapper with a magnifying glass, but found nothing distinctive. The only thing left to check was the postmark. It had been lasered on with a meter gun. The mailing cost was $14.90. The date displayed in the centre of the postmark circle was April 12th, 2043. Three days ago. Around the inside of the circle, it read City of San Francisco. I hoped that the package would have been sent from a more localised source.

I flipped on my computer and ran a check on post offices in the city. There were 59 of them. I wasn’t going to get anywhere this rate. The postmark had a code under the eagle symbol: PB METER 38874121. Tracing the meter number to the correct post office would at least give me a starting point. Unfortunately, with 59 locations to check, I didn’t have enough time to investigate every one.

I lit a smoke and tried to come up with a clever solution. nothing occurred to me until I looked toward the floor and saw an envelope lying face-up in the mess. I dropped to my knees, the cigarette dangling from the corner of my mouth. Crawling slowly across the floor, I examined every postmarked if envelope I could find, searching for one with a PB METER code of 38874121.

Most of the envelopes were junk mail, tattooed with a bulk mail bar code. At last, I found a letter with the correct meter code. It was from a former client. As luck would have it, he hadn’t put his return address on the envelope — it was no help. I kept searching. I’d almost reached the end of the room when I finally found another letter with a matching postmark. It was a bill from a storage unit I’d rented a few years back, in the Mission District.

A hundred years ago, in Sam Spade’s San Francisco, the Mission District was a rough part of town. 50 years ago, God-fearing folk stayed out of the area unless they were armed to the teeth. Now, even the police had stopped visiting. I landed my speeder at the TLC Storage warehouse. A teenage punk was working the counter, in the loosest sense of the word. I reintroduced myself to Ahmad, the gold toothed proprietor, he was in an office behind the counter area. After politely enquiring as to the price of various storage units, I casually asked where I would find the nearest post office. Eager-to-please a prospective renter, Ahmad gave me directions, as well as a price list, a calendar, and a hearty handshake.

The Post Office was in the buffer zone that surrounded the neighbourhood. Hookers, pimps, and pushers were going about their business, but less colourful types were also out and about. The area around the USPS building was primarily residential, though there was a neighbourhood market and a couple of flesh shops.

I noticed an apparently paraplegic black man seated by the front door to the Post Office. “Evening.”

“You got that right. Can you spare a fin?”

I ignored the request momentarily and pulled out my pack of cigarettes. The man’s eyes drifted toward the smokes.

“You want one of these?”

The man nodded and held out his hand. I handed him one, took one for myself, then did the honours. He held the baby lucky as if it were the stem of a crystal wine glass. Then he inhaled deeply. I waited for the smoke to come back out; it didn’t. I squatted down beside him.

“You spend a lot of time here?”

“Why? You want the spot?”

I didn’t think I looked that bad. Hell, I had a tie on. “No, I was just wondering if you’d been here most of the time during the past three days.”

The man took another one-way track of his cigarette. “Well, let me think. I get so busy, I lose track of the days… yeah, I’ve been here for at least three days.”

I pulled a twenty out of my pocket and fondled it discreetly. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. Came here three or four days ago and mailed some packages. You think you’d remember his face?”

The man looked at the bill I was holding. “For twenty bucks, I can remember anything you want.”

“Look, I’ll give you the cash even if you don’t recognise my friend’s face. I just need to know if he came by here.” I showed him the picture of Malloy. His face brightened up.

“Sure, I’ve seen this guy. Old man. Moved real slow. Left me a ten-spot.”

“Do you remember, did he come on the bus, or in a speeder?”

“No, I remember him ‘cause I know most everyone in the vicinity. He caught my eye on account that I haven’t seen him before. He was walking.”

Which way did he come from?”

The man pointed. “Came from there, and that’s the way he went when he left.”

“Great. One last question. You know of any boarding houses in the area?”

“What kind you looking for?”

“Oh… something half-decent, but not too pricey. A fairly safe place, where I could lie low for awhile. Preferably in the direction my friend came from.”

The man considered for a minute. “Go up Valencia Street. They got three or four places like that up around there. Maybe a quarter mile, half mile from here.”

I thanked him and left him another smoke for later, along with the double sawbuck. He seemed much obliged.

My gut told me that Malloy was close. It was a great area for anyone who didn’t want to be found. I parked my speeder on the corner of Valencia and 20th streets and proceeded to canvass the dark street on foot. A quarter mile made a huge difference. Most of the houses along Rose Street were old but cared for. There were no blatantly visible signs of illegal activity. Everyone I saw seemed concerned only with coming or going as quickly as possible.

The street was full of boarding houses. I realised I had no plan of action. A one-man stake out would be practically impossible, since I didn’t know which boarding-house Malloy was in and wasn’t even sure I was on the right block. The only way I was going to find my man was through old fashioned pavement pounding.

The typical boarding house has a sitting room, where typical boarders gather to read, watch TV, and get to know the surrogate family members. It’s one of the two characteristics that elevate boarding houses a notch above residential hotels. The other, of course, is good home-cooked meals. Damn, I was hungry again.

It was a slow and exhausting process. At each boarding-house, I entered the sitting room with an air of confidence and nonchalance that none but the most sceptical would question. The sitting rooms were generally located on the ground floor, near the front door. There were, however, exceptions, and I occasionally found myself walking into the odd bedroom or broom closet.

By and large, though, my canvassing went smoothly. In nearly every sitting room, I was able to identify a talker, a lonely looking man or woman, usually older, who was eager to chat. I would start the conversational ball rolling with a comment on the weather, then sit back and listen politely. Once I’d opened the floodgates, I’d casually bring up the subject of the boarding house and ask about the current tenants. If I wasn’t careful, I’d unleash a torrent of gossip, guesses as to a certain borders seamy past, and a detailed description of the floozy Mr So and So had in his room the other night.

After a few minutes, I’d casually produce a photo of Malloy and ask if the talker had seen him or knew if he was staying at the house. The talker would stare intently at picture, hem and haw, then say no, I don’t think so, but he certainly reminds me of my Uncle Somebody or Other, who blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The most difficult part of the process was politely extracting myself.

I visited at least a dozen boarding houses over a three hour period. My next stop was a palace called the Garden House. Opening the door released the smell of baking chocolate-chip cookies. The light inside was warm and friendly. It reminded me of Grandma’s house. Inside, a small, round woman was walking down the hallway, her huge serving tray piled high with large, chewy looking cookies, straight from the oven.

“Hello, there. What can I do for you?”

The warm smell of fresh cookies was killing me. I removed my fedora and smiled down at the plump little lady. “This is a wonderful place. Do you run it?”

“Yes, I do, thank you. Are you looking for a room?”

My eyes were glued to the cookies. “Maybe. Are cookies included in the rent?”

The little woman smiled. “Please, help yourself.”

I picked a fat one from the pile. It was a gooey, chocolatey piece of heaven. As I took a bite, my eyes rolled back into my head, and I was forced to steady myself. The sugar rush was overwhelming.

The plump lady nodded her head, as though this was the usual reaction to her cookies. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to take these to the guests. I’ll be right back.”

I finished the cookie and licked my fingers like a dog.

The woman returned quickly. “So, what can I help you with?”

I tried to look deeply concerned. “It’s my Uncle Thomas. We lost him last week.”

The woman’s face crinkled. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, I mean we lost him … as in… we can’t find him.”

The plump landlady seemed relieved.

“He’s getting on in years, and he’s not all there, if you know what I mean. He lives alone and, every now and again, he just takes off. Sometimes he gets away for weeks before we find him and bring him home.”

I pulled out the photograph of Malloy and handed it to her. “This is Uncle Thomas. A friend of mine saw him around this neighbourhood, so I’m checking out all boarding houses in the area.”

The woman looked up at me, then back at the photo. She seemed uncertain. “You say this is your Uncle Thomas?”

I nodded. We’re all worried sick about him.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure this is the man who moved in last week, but he said his name was Todd. Todd Mallory.”

I smiled reassuringly. “Like I said, he’s only got the one oar left to row with. It’s his… Murphy-Barr Syndrome.”

“My goodness… he seemed so lucid, so friendly.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Yes, it’s a strange illness. He usually appears normal. The only symptoms are an uncontrollable urge to relocate and, of course, compulsive lying. When Uncle Thomas has a relapse, it’s like pulling teeth to get a straight answer out of him.”

The landlady handed the photo back to me and shook her head sadly. “It must be quite a trial for you.”

“Well, I know that respecting and caring for her elders is old-fashioned, but it’s a responsibility I take very seriously.”

The woman took my hand and patted it gently, tears in her eyes. “I wish you were my nephew.”

“I wish you were my aunt. My real aunt buys her cookies at the grocery store.”

She released my hand and turned, motioning for me to follow her up the stairs. I now had absolutely no doubt that I would eventually burn in hell. We climbed the stairs and walked to the end of the hallway. Reaching the last door on the right, the landlady turned and knocked. She waited a few moments and knocked again, but Malloy/Mallory didn’t appear to be in.

“He must have gone out. If you like, I can let you in the room to wait for him. Or you can come downstairs and wait there. I made plenty of cookies.”

The thought of more cookies made me hesitate, but I had work to do. “I’ll wait up here. That way I can surprise him when he gets back.”

The woman unlocked the door and opened it for me. “If you need anything, you just let me know, OK?”

“I will. Thanks for your help. Everyone will be so relieved when Uncle Thomas is back home, safe and sound.”

She closed the door behind me. The room was cosy, with only a small, but comfortable looking bed, a roll-top desk, and a dresser. I decided to pass the time by searching the room. The roll-top desk was unlocked and chock — full of papers. I searched everything but found only one thing of interest: a notebook full of strange symbols. It didn’t look useful, so I left it where I found it. Then I turned to the dresser. I immediately discovered something that was either very significant or completely meaningless: all of Malloy’s socks were black. Other than that, I found nothing interesting.

I glanced around. There didn’t seem to be anything left to search. The bed covers were thrown up over the bed. I pulled them back to reveal a pair of rumpled trousers. Just for fun, I looked through the pockets. From the front left pocket, I removed a folded piece of pink paper. Opening it up, I saw that it was a receipt from a local realty firm for a one month lease of storage property. An address was written at the top of the page: 54 Front Street. Down by the docks — mostly old, condemned buildings. I knew where Malloy was.