The Love-Haight Case Files by Donald J. Bingle Jean Rabe

between them, but I ain’t never been fat. I goes in there ’cause people toss cans in when they walk by on the sidewalk. They think the gap is good for garbage. So I went in there, picking up cans last night. Had me a flashlight that worked.”
    “Go on.”
    “I saw the Buick pull up out on Haight and park in front of my crack. Didn’t park very well, neither, too far out. But I knew they’d be gone before a cop could write them a ticket. It had that look, you know, of being in a hurry.”
    “Go on.”
    “That rusted to shit Buick had the back window down when it circled the last time, and I saw a monster-thing inside. Looked a little bit like the devil, all black and red and with ears so pointed like that. First I thought it was some client of that attorney. I seen those types, not the devil types but other monster-things, go in that office. I don’t like them, OTs. Not a bit. But when that Buick kept going around the block, I knew it was for something no good.”
    “How so?”
    “It had that look about it, you know, both the car and the devil thing, a cruising for trouble look and an in a hurry look. On that last pass, I saw the guy what was driving. He’d leaned over the seat and was talking to the devil thing. And then after they’d parked out front of my aluminum crack, I saw him even better, just before he pulled up his hood and got out of the car. You live in this neighborhood, this city long enough, you can read people at a look, you know? He was Latin, and a ganger. Had tats on his neck, the prison kind, they don’t look as good as the ones you get professional. I could’ve smelled ’em they got any closer. They was right there in front of the building crack where I was looking with my flashlight. That attorney should’ve known better than to invite them in, a ganger and an OT. Someone pulls up a hood, that’s trouble. I heard that attorney invite them in. It’s his own damn fault he got killed.”
    Dagger found himself sadly agreeing with her. A big city like this, you had to be on guard. San Francisco was an impossible distance from Mayberry.
    “Describe this man, Sadie, as close as you can, the tattoos. The one with the hood.”
    “For a twenty I will.”
    “No money.”
    “A ten then. It’ll cost you a ten.”
    “No.” Dagger’s eyes narrowed and he tossed her a thick shrink-wrapped pack of jerky. He set his lips in a thin line, a practiced expression meant to unnerve his target. Sadie was tough, but after a few moments of stare-down, she shrugged and started talking again.
    She provided a surprisingly detailed description, down to the lightning bolt scar on the man’s cheek, and a tattoo on his neck—though she couldn’t quite see the entire design. It was enough, the symbol of a dangerous man. And Dagger knew where to find the sort.
    “Saw him good ’cause he was under a streetlight. Didn’t need to shine my flashlight on him. ’Sides, I’d turned it off. Didn’t want him to see me. He had that look, you know.”
    “Did you tell the police about this?”
    She crossed her arms and sucked in her lower lip, giving a shake of her head and glancing away. “Don’t mind cops, I don’t. But I don’t like them OTs. Them OTs eat us.”
    Dagger raised an eyebrow.
    “Us, people without paperwork, people who ain’t got an address. Who misses people without an address? Who looks out for us? And, besides, that devil thing, it gave me the creeps. Not going to tell the cops about that, I’m not. Besides, they only talked to Jerry, the cops.” She gave a nod to the homeless fellow closest nearby. “Jerry’ll talk to anybody. Talks a lot, but the words don’t mean much.”
    Dagger waited, listening to bottle flies that buzzed against a trashcan on the opposite side of the alley. There was a swarm of them, and the afternoon sun cut down between buildings and heated the metal can and whatever food scraps had been tossed inside that were apparently beyond even the homeless people’s