Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!) by Michaela Thompson Page B

Eight guy, Kenneth MacDonald, and Larry wrote a story about it?”
    “Hey, that’s right. Ken hasn’t worked since. Spends all his time boozing out on Union Street, when he’s not down here demanding a retraction.”
    “Do you think he’d know anything? Since he and Richard are both involved with this Jane Malone?”
    “I think a better question is whether Ken has
ever
known anything, including the time of day. You’re right, though. Maybe I’d better talk to him. OK, now—”
    “Why don’t I talk to him?” My jaw was tensing up. I had started this investigation, after all. I wasn’t in the mood to let Andrew steamroll me with his flashy journalism technique and twenty-five-year-old enthusiasm.
    “Dynamite.” Competition, apparently, was not uppermost in Andrew’s mind. “He hangs out at the Golden Raintree, on Union Street. In fact, after you see him why don’t you come by here, and we’ll compare notes. But first, see if these other names mean anything to you.”
    None of them did, and in half an hour I was engrossed in the search for a parking place near Union Street— a quest that could easily last hours, or even years. Crawling for the fifth or sixth time down boutique-lined blocks where handmade leather clothing, overpriced kitchenware, and heavily refurbished antiques were displayed with the maximum possible chic, I began to wonder if Andrew hadn’t tricked me into insisting I must have this assignment. I finally found a semi-legal space on a side street only seven blocks away and joined the honeymooners from Chicago and Kiwanians from Des Moines on the sidewalk.
    In common with Union Street itself, the Golden Raintree aspired to class but was a little too flashy to achieve it. It was the perfect backdrop, in fact, for Ken MacDonald. A stylized, many-branched tree was painted in gold on the front window. The interior decoration consisted of mirrors, stained glass, dark wood, and enough ferns to outfit twenty forest glades.
    Although the place was crowded, I spotted Ken immediately. He was sitting at a table near the window, staring at the drink in front of him. His profile seemed to have disintegrated even more in the short time since I last saw him, and his head was tilted toward his chest, creating a double chin. I walked over and said, “You’re Ken MacDonald, aren’t you?”
    He didn’t get up, in fact barely looked up, but unsteadily held out his hand. “Channel Eight.”
    “My name is Maggie. We met at the
People’s Times
the other day.”
    “That crummy rag.” He continued to contemplate his drink.
    I could see that no engraved invitations would be issued. I pulled out a chair and sat down. “I understand Larry Hawkins wrote a story about you.”
    For reply, Ken got out a cigarette and lit it, exhaling smoke in a long sigh. “It was my image,” he said.
    “What?”
    “My image. You know. Clean, rock-solid, upright, intellectual. All that.” He drank. “That’s how Larry did me in.”
    Ken apparently lived to recount his problems with Larry. Fine. When he got to the appropriate point in the story, I’d drop in a question about Richard. I didn’t intend to listen without a drink, though. Signaling a waiter, I ordered a Bloody Mary. By the time it arrived, Ken was getting querulous. “Other guys can get away with all kinds of things,” he complained. “Not me. I had to get stuck with an upright image.”
    “The story about you wasn’t a lie, then?”
    Ken was warming to the subject. “I’ll tell you something, lady. There are lies and there are lies. Yeah, I spent two weeks at Tahoe in that cabin. I don’t deny it.”
    “But then—”
    He held up his hand. “Let me finish. That place was offered to me by a guy named Nick Fulton. Hell, I guess he may have mentioned it in passing, but I wasn’t really aware that he worked for Basic Development. He used to hang out in here, matter of fact.” Ken glanced around as if he dared Nick Fulton to come in and belly-up to