Death Notes

sense.
     

58
     
    I waited until Dickie was deep into his next set, then quietly slipped out and headed into the Bay view, a wounded part of the city ripped apart by gangs and violence and poverty, a reality of San Francisco the tourists will never see.
    Dickie’s place was on Armstrong, off Third, above a dry-cleaning shop. Not exactly high rent, and Dickie didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to worry a whole lot about security, which was a good thing since the only tools I had with me were my trusty picks.
    The bulk of the street traffic ran down Third, which was mostly shabby shop fronts and boarded-up buildings. It was one o’clock in the morning, but you couldn’t tell by the number of cars rolling down Third. Armstrong was quiet, though, and even though it was mostly residential dotted with some commercial buildings, it was dark. That’s how I wanted it.
    I parked down the block, then headed toward Dickie’s place, toward the darkest end of the street. Instead of the usual excitement I always feel before a break-in, I felt bothered and rushed. Dickie’s performance wouldn’t go past two, which meant I had less than an hour. Mostly, I was worried because I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I was just hoping I’d know it when I saw it.
    I passed a string of trashed parked cars and dodged the empty cans and bottles scattered along the sidewalk. As I neared his apartment, my unease grew. Any other time, I’d abort the mission if I felt this uneasy. But Dickie’s tunes kept playing through my head, urging me on. I kept thinking about the music and the murder and Match. And Sharon.
    When a set of headlights pulled around the comer, I barely had time to duck behind a van that reeked of gasoline. For a couple of seconds, the street was flooded with light. I glanced around and right away, I wished I hadn’t.
    The night - the dark - had been kinder to the neighborhood. Faded, chipped paint on the houses, mountains of trash in the yards, mangled toys abandoned by the sad children who lived inside these homes. A white cat skittered across somebody’s drive, then ducked behind a fence and vanished like a fleeing angel. It all jumped out at me under the glare of headlights as the car raced by, then turned the corner onto Third.
    I took a step out from behind the van, then heard voices and crouched back down again, trying not to breathe the gassy fumes. The voices got louder.
    ‘Darla, you are a bitch! ’
    ‘Eat dirt, Tyrone! And don’t you ever lay a hand on me again, you hear?’
    They kept trading insults and demands until Tyrone shouted his parting words: ‘I ain’t comin’ back, you whore. Believe it!’
    A door slammed, an engine started up half a block away. Headlights, the engine revved, then the car, tires squealing, raced down to Third, then squealed again as it turned and disappeared.
    In the sudden silence, a woman sobbed. Already, I knew how their story was going to end: Frank and Johnny, Bayview style.
    I stood across the street from Dickie’s place. Light edged the drawn curtains upstairs as they had earlier. Dickie must have left a lamp on. The lights shone from the house next door, too. I could hear a radio or television droning from an open window somewhere.
    Dickie’s other neighbor was a big, solid brick commercial building. The sign over its door said john and sons and, whatever kind of business it was, it looked pretty well locked up for the night.
    As long as the radio neighbor stayed entertained listening to all the crackpots calling in their opinions to the host, I wouldn’t need to worry about making too much noise once I got inside.
    I crossed the street and walked quickly past the front door of the dry-cleaning shop to a smaller door at the comer of the building.
    From a short glance at the dry-cleaners, it looked wired for security - a cheap, homemade-type job with sensor tape around the windows and exposed wires everywhere, visible from the exterior. There was probably a pressure-sensitive mat inside the front and back doors that anybody with an IQ over two would step over. And the alarm box over the front door probably went off about once a week with false alarms. If I had the time, I’d play around with it just for kicks, maybe even jazz it up for them just for the challenge, but Dickie’s place upstairs beckoned.
    I rang the bell again and waited, like I had earlier. The lock was a Harvard. They always turn counterclockwise. I rang again, just to make