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The Acid Diary

Dan Spencer

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

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* * * * *

The Acid Diary

* * * * *

A Day in the Life

Victim has a dismembered arm, said the dispatcher. The lead detective gulped the last of his coffee, tossed the styrofoam cup out the window, and affixed the blue bubble to the Coronet's dashboard. His partner put the car in gear, hit the siren, and off they sped.

The doorway sleepers scattered along Haight Street dozed through the police siren. August's fog submerged the neighborhood in gray. By midday, when sunlight normally burns away the gloom, crowds would flood the neighborhood. Hippies and tourists and runaways and curiosity seekers and drug dealers and reporters and bikers and cops. They all descended on the Haight Ashbury to trip through the Summer of Love. But at eight a.m. on a Monday, traffic and pedestrians were sparse, so the cop car passed only one homeless teenage speed freak as it zipped straight through.

The unmarked vehicle turned south from Haight onto Cole and pulled up near four SFPD squad cars double-parked in front of a low-rent apartment building at the corner of Frederick. The siren died. The two homicide detectives, both in bland overcoats and fedoras, men as drab as the fog, clambered out of the Dodge Coronet. They trudged into the premises through an open glass door and climbed stairs to a second-story flat. Voices and footsteps echoed off the barren hallway walls.

Two uniformed cops stood in the narrow hallway interviewing a sleepy-eyed, half-clad neighbor in an adjoining apartment. His long hair and thick beard couldn't disguise his youth. The young man's pupils looked permanently dilated.

"No, man, I didn't hear a thing. He's a real quiet guy. Keeps to himself."

"You know his name?"

"Not sure."

Across the hall, four more officers stood inside the crime scene apartment. A police photographer's flashbulbs popped away. An investigator dusted surfaces for fingerprints. The detectives entered and scanned the four-room flat: a walk-in kitchen with aged appliances; a bathroom the size of a janitor's closet; a furniture-free living room where throw pillows covered a dirty carpet. The aroma of incense permeated the flat, a common scent in the Haight. Beyond the living room, the photographer snapped pictures in a claustrophobic bedroom. The detectives slipped inside.

A white male body lay on a frameless mattress. His blue eyes bulged with shock, and his thin lips were parted as if he'd released a final gasp or prayer. His left arm was severed beneath the elbow, exposing jagged edges of the radius and ulna. Blood from the stump had pooled onto the mattress, spattered one wall, and mottled the deceased man's untrimmed beard and shaggy brunette hair. His purple and yellow tie-dyed shirt was soaked in blood, as were his tattered jeans. Only his navy pea coat, which hung from the doorknob, was unstained.

"Helluva way to start the week," the lead detective said.

His partner pulled a pen from his pocket, flipped open a notepad, and began jotting details. "Name?"

"John Doe," a uniformed officer answered. "No ID. Can't even find a piece of mail with his name on it."

"Odd."

"Not for around here, sir."

"Who called it in?"

"An anonymous tip."

"Who responded?"

"Me and my partner. A downstairs tenant let us in. We found the apartment door unlocked. No one in sight. None of the neighbors heard a thing."

"Well, somebody around here must know who he is."

"We're canvassing."

"Get the landlord."

"We're trying to reach him."

"Any signs of forced entry?"

"No, sir. Have a look."

The apartment door had a pristine deadbolt above the handle. The lock showed no signs of tampering.

"So he knew his attacker and let him in."

"Unless the attacker had his own key and let himself in."

"Where's the arm?"

"Can't find it. No blood trail."

"Search the neighborhood. Garbage cans, trash bins, dumpsters, everything."

Two uniformed officers left the apartment. The photographer snapped one final photo, collected his equipment, and departed. The investigators continued dusting. The lead detective removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He used it to protect his hand as he touched and moved the dead left leg. Rigor mortis made the limb stiff. Then the detectives stared at the floor. Blood splattered the hardwood in some places yet was absent in other areas.

"No footprints. But the attacker had to be standing here, and the victim fell backward onto the bed. Looks like he might've raised his arm in defense and caught a blade."

"Somebody cleaned up. See the blood swirls on the floor? Could be from a mop or towels."

The lead detective crossed to the officer dusting for prints. "Whatta we got?"

"Nothing. This place was wiped down."

The two uniformed officers returned with a third cop. "Detectives, this is Officer Delahanty. He works the beat here."

Delahanty stepped forward, broad shoulders scraping the doorframe as he entered. He was guided into the crime scene bedroom.

"We need an ID."

The beat cop nodded. "Known on the street as Tom Tom. A local drug dealer. No priors, no arrests."

"He deals but hasn't been arrested?"

"It's the Haight, sir," Delahanty said with a shrug. "The Narco boys prob'ly know more."

"Thanks," the lead detective said as he escorted the officer out. Then he pulled aside another uniformed cop. "Contact Narcotics. Tell them to get somebody over here who works Haight Street."

The partner inspected a tiny bedside table covered in a tie-dyed cotton cloth. Resting on the table were nickels and pennies, a roach clip, an ashtray recently emptied, a ballpoint pen, chewing gum in wrappers, and a wristwatch. The watch had no inscription. He lifted the tablecloth and discovered a combination safe. The handle wouldn't budge.

"Probably stored his drugs and cash in there," the lead detective said. "We'll need to have it opened. And let's get a toxicology report."

The detectives probed the rest of the apartment. The only natural light came from two windowed light wells, common in San Francisco architecture, that provided banal views of the adjacent building just four feet away. The kitchen was tidy. Cups, dishes, silverware, and utensils were neatly stored and stacked in cupboards. The refrigerator contained bottles of beer, sodas, bread, cheese, lunchmeat, and condiments, most of which looked fresh. The living room had no television or furniture. No books or bookshelves. Recent copies of the Oracle, the hippie newspaper distributed on Haight Street, lay in a corner of the floor. A stereo and large speakers dominated the room. Sixty record albums fit neatly into a wooden crate. Rolling papers and ashtrays lay nearby with remnants of joints. The throw pillows on the floor generally matched and were organized in a rectangular pattern. Amidst the pillows was a bongo drum. A lava lamp offered vague illumination. Unlit, mostly melted candles lay scattered around the room like dandelions on a lawn. Two posters were tacked onto the wall, the only decorations. Both were psychedelic prints advertising rock shows at the Fillmore featuring Big Brother and the Holding Company and the Grateful Dead. Not only were furnishings sparse, everything was tidy. The living room carpet needed vacuuming and cleaning, but that was the only sign of slovenliness. Jackets hung on hangers and two pair of boots sat upright in a hall closet. No piles of dirty clothes; three pair of underwear, socks, and T-shirts lay in a hamper in the bedroom closet. The place seemed barely lived in.

"Awfully clean for a pusher."

"In here," the partner said. In the phone booth sized bathroom, he pointed to a cabinet beneath the sink where a box of tampons rested. "A woman lived here."

"No signs of her now."

"I don't know. Some of these hippie girls… They travel with nothing more than the clothes on their backs."

Boots echoed through the stairway. The detectives met two men at the door. Both wore their hair long, dressed in blue jeans with matching jeans jackets, and sported mustaches. One flashed a San Francisco Police badge and said, "Narcotics. You called?"

The detectives led them into the bedroom. "What can you tell us about him?"

"Tom Howard," the narcotics agent said. "He's a local dealer who sells— Christ, they took his arm."

"They wanted the briefcase," the second Narco agent said.

"Briefcase?"

"He walked the streets with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist."

One of the uniformed officers poked his head in the room. "Excuse me, detectives, we've got somebody out here from the Feds."

The four men stared at one another. "Did you call them?"

The narcotics officers shook their heads.

The men converged in the living room where they found a middle-aged undercover agent in a leather coat and porkpie hat. He flashed his credentials. The Narco agent extended a hand.

"Hey, Dickie. What's up?"

Once the uniformed cops were out of earshot, the Federal agent whispered, "You guys might want to hold off on this investigation."

The lead detective and his partner looked askance at one another. "Oh yeah? Why?"

The federal agent scratched at the back of his neck. "Just pull back. You'll see."

"It's our jurisdiction."

"I know, but…"

The Narcotics officers shrugged, dismissed themselves, and left the apartment. The federal agent removed his porkpie hat and entered the bedroom. He winced when he eyed the body.

"So what's the story?" the lead detective asked.

"I can't really say."

"Off the record, then."

The bald man shook his head.

"Are you Feds involved?"

The agent shuffled his feet and fingered his pork pie hat.

"Hey, if you expect us to back off, you'd better cough up a damn good reason."

The federal agent rubbed his bald pate and whispered, "You didn't hear this from me, okay? But rumor has it your dead guy was CIA."

The homicide detectives glanced at one another with alarm.

Moments later, two somber men in dark trench coats – one with black-framed glasses and the other with a pencil-thin mustache – entered the premises flashing Federal IDs. They approached the homicide detectives. The taller of the two said, "My name's King. This is Menard. We'll take it from here."

---

Up the trail he climbed with Gina struggling to follow. When he reached the crest, he sat atop a jutting rock and caught his breath. Directly below the sheer cliff was the most stunning sight he'd ever viewed. Sunshine blazed on colorful houses nestled along the verdant hillside. Mediterranean water gently lapped against the beach. A mild breeze swept away all clouds. The Italian coastal town below was a fairy tale setting. He hoped the grandeur would cheer him up, but Evan still felt blue.

Gina huffed and puffed and perched on the boulder beside him. Light perspiration on her copper skin glistened in the sunlight. She arched an arm around his shoulder, tried to catch her breath, and asked, "Worth the climb?"

"It's gorgeous," Evan replied. "Kinda reminds me of your home in Santa Barbara."

"Hmm, yeah, I guess. Maybe that's why Daddy comes back here every year."

They sat in silence and absorbed the picturesque view. Their breathing leveled off. She ran a hand through his blonde hair and rested her head on his shoulder. He slipped an arm around her slender waist.

"Thank you," Evan said.

"For what?"

"For the best summer of my life."

Gina recognized the hint of heartbreak in his voice. She tried to stare into his squinting green eyes. "You're not mad at me?"

Evan shrugged. "You're obeying your father. I guess I understand that."

She rested her head on his shoulder again. "You know I love you."

He didn't reply. Instead, he stared down at the beachfront and burned the radiant view into his memory. Once they returned to the States, he would never see Bonassola again. Gina's parents would never invite him back. That wasn't what he'd originally envisioned. He'd tied his future to her family, and his plans usually came to fruition. He was the golden child of his cursed clan. The young hero climbing toward Valhalla. The all-American with sterling prospects. But recent events derailed his goals, and cynicism subdued him.

Gina nibbled at his ear and repeated, "I love you, Evan Dunne."

"Then run away with me," he said.

She buried her nose in his neck and moaned. "Oh, honey, you know I can't. Daddy would have a conniption fit if I—"

"Come with me to Denmark," he said as he stared at the scenic view below. "I read they don't extradite draft dodgers."

She pulled back and stared at him with surprise. "You're not thinking of…? Oh, Evan."

He turned to her with squinty eyes. "You said you didn't want me to get killed. You cried about it."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she whined. The lissome girl slumped onto his lap and lay there for several minutes. As sunshine burned more freckles onto his pasty skin, he gazed at the magnificent coastline below. The Mediterranean wind and the distant lapping of waves on the shore filled their wordless void. If not for the surrounding splendor, Evan would have drowned in pessimism. As it was, he vacillated between serenity and gloom. The past three months in Italy had been idyllic. Until the marriage proposal. That turned everything sour.

While still resting her head in his lap, Gina muttered, "Maybe we can elope when you get back from Vietnam."

Evan doubted she would wait for him. Declining his proposal at her father's insistence meant she wasn't serious about him. Worse still, he wondered if he would survive the war. But he didn't speak his fears. Instead, he whispered, "Yeah."

Hand in hand, they climbed back down the trail in melancholy silence.

When they returned to the house on the cliff, Mrs. DiGiacomo awaited them on a lounge chair on the veranda. Gina's mother wore a floppy brimmed sunhat and a flowery bikini that exposed too much of her middle-aged flab. A cigarette dangled between her fingers. She rose from her comfortable chair and poured lemonade into ice-filled glasses. "Thirsty, kids?"

"Where's Daddy?" Gina asked as she took a hit from her mother's cigarette.

"Business," Mrs. DiGiacomo said. "Oh, Evan. A telegram came for you." She waddled indoors and snatched an envelope from a table. "They said it was sent about a week ago, but nobody recognized your name, so they didn't know where to deliver it, and nobody knew you were visiting with us. Something like that. I couldn't really understand the delivery boy."

Evan tore open the envelope and stared at the contents. He raised an eyebrow and said, "I need to make a long distance call, please."

"What is it now?" Gina asked.

"I'm not sure. I'll have to call home and find out."

Mrs. DiGiacomo guided him to the kitchen where he could make the call in privacy and spoke Italian to the operator who put him through to the United States. Gina and her mother then retired to the veranda to sip lemonade, smoke cigarettes, and sunbathe.

"How are his spirits?" Mrs. DiGiacomo asked.

"Blah," Gina said after exhaling a smoke ring. "He's getting on my nerves."

"Your father's right. He's beneath you."

Mother and daughter donned sunglasses, stretched out on lounge chairs, flicked their cigarettes into ashtrays, and let the blazing rays sear their caramel complexions, even though darker skin tones seemed impossible. Evan was of no concern to them. All problems were disregarded for sun worship.

Moments later, Evan appeared on the sunny veranda. The women removed their Raybans and squinted at his ashen face.

"Everything okay?" Gina asked.

"I need to return to San Francisco as soon as possible."

"What's wrong?"

"My brother was murdered."

I Just Wasn't Made for These Times

Fog suited his mood. With summer's end, the fog usually crept back into the Pacific. Autumn brought flawless California sunshine with only occasional clouds that had lost their way, but now the gray blanket lingered over San Francisco. From the backseat of the cab he could barely make out the red and white communications tower, the sentry that stood atop Twin Peaks. The familiar briny scent of the bay evoked memories of the Mediterranean coast, and that made him sad. Italy and Gina's dazzling body were two things he would lust after but probably never experience again. He tried to shut out those cruel thoughts. The cab wound its way from the airport along the city's back routes, up and over steep hills, and through familiar neighborhoods. The driver sped along as if he suspected his passenger was in a rush to get home. Not so. Homecoming held no joy for Evan Dunne.

His heart ached with memories of Bonassola, the yacht, the water skiing that he failed so miserably at, the veal piccata, the sunshine that burned his pale Irish skin, Gina's sexy complexion that turned chestnut brown with exposure to the rays, and making love in mysterious places throughout the huge house. Then his daydream gave way to sad reality. Returning to San Francisco should have consoled Evan, yet even that didn't fill his spiritual hollow.

The cab sped up Eureka Street and screeched to a stop. Evan stepped out of the taxi, grabbed his two hard suitcases from the trunk, and paid the driver. Then he stood before the aging Victorian house, his childhood home.

As the cab sped away, a man in a crisp khaki Army uniform marched down the street toward him. Evan did a double take and recognized his neighbor Harry Perryman. He cut quite a figure, which was odd since he had grown up a doughy lad. Evan marveled at his old classmate's chiseled appearance.

"Look at you, Harry," Evan said.

"Hey, Evan," Harry said as he extended a hand and shook with a firm grip. "Sorry about your brother."

"Thank you." Evan bowed his head and changed the subject. "Headed overseas?"

"Just finished basic. I ship out for the Philippines next week." Harry pointed to the luggage that sat on the sidewalk at Evan's feet. "Where've you been?"

"Italy. My girlfriend's parents have a place."

"Must be nice. So you came back for the funeral?"

"That and my induction notice."

"You got drafted? But I thought you were two-S. Loyola, right?"

Evan nodded. "This would've been my senior year, but… well, money is tight and I got the offer to go to Italy, so I didn't register for college this semester. That voided my deferment. And before you could say Vietnam, my draft notice came in the mail." Evan eyed Harry's uniform. "So what's it like?"

"All I know so far is basic training. Fort Ord is rough. But you'll fly through without a bruise, knowing you."

"How are things here in the old neighborhood?" Evan asked.

"Different," Harry said with a shrug. "Too many longhairs, if you ask me. When we graduated, you never heard the word hippie. Now they print it in bold letters on the cover of Time magazine. I don't know what to make of it." Harry realized his faux pas and added, "Sorry, no disrespect to Patrick."

"No problem," Evan said. They both bowed their heads, and Evan changed the subject again. "How's the Kraut?"

"Haven't seen much of him or the guys," Harry said. "I sorta lost touch."

Evan nodded. "Same here."

"Well, gotta go. My condolences to your mom." Harry shook his hand again, which seemed to Evan more formal than old school chums needed to be. Then the soldier marched on and turned the street corner. Evan wondered if he would look as sharp and confident after he entered the service. He doubted it. Ambivalence about the war made him shudder.

Dolores greeted Evan at the front door with a hug. His sister's strawberry blonde hair had grown halfway down her back and was frizzier than he recalled. A peasant dress hung from her full hips, a madras top covered her plump torso, and black-rimmed glasses perched on her button nose. She was nineteen now, he realized. Although her face looked more mature than when he'd last seen his kid sister, freckles still stood out.

"Welcome home," Dolores said.

"Hey, Dolo. Where's Mom?"

Alice Dunne wiped wet hands on her apron as she strode out of the kitchen. With moist eyes and a lump in her throat, she held out inviting arms to her son. She examined his angular face and soft green eyes, and then pecked him on the cheek. She whimpered when they hugged and clung tight even when Evan tried to pull away.

"God, Mom, I haven't gone off to war yet."

"Come, sit down, honey," Alice said in her croaky voice.

Evan abandoned his luggage beside the front door as she guided him to the living room. The plush chair and ottoman awaited him - his deceased father's throne, the family seat of honor. Evan sunk into the soft cushion and propped his legs onto the stool. He removed a pack of menthol cigarettes from his shirt pocket, dug out a fresh one, and lit up. The smoke gave relief as it slid down his throat.

"You look good, Mom," he lied.

In the months since he departed for Europe, Alice had aged a full decade. Crow's feet filled her face and pointed toward bloodshot eyes. Age spots marred her hands. Her mother hips seemed even wider, and varicose veins formed spider webs on her chunky legs. Gray streaks made her red hair the color of pale wheat. So aged in appearance, yet she was only fifty. Fate had not only stolen her mate and now her oldest child, it had also robbed her health and wellbeing.

"I've made chicken and dumplings for dinner," she said.

"My favorite," Evan said.

A quick look around the room proved that nothing had changed. All furniture still faced the black-and-white television. The TV rabbit ears were splayed at an odd angle with tin foil over the tips for better reception. Framed photos of family members Evan had never met still adorned the wallpapered walls, as did the Dunne family's Irish coat of arms and the framed San Francisco Chronicle article about Evan's teenage heroism. He still squirmed at the goofy photo of himself in his Eagle Scout uniform. He wished they hadn't printed that in the paper. Elsewhere in the room, the wooden coffee table displayed the same cup rings and scratches. The only noticeable difference was a layer of dust that Evan knew his mother would never normally permit. But with normality a thing of the past, only a cruel person would point out minor lapses in housekeeping.

Alice sat on the sofa, the springs squeaking as her bottom hit the cushion. Dolores sat cross-legged on the floor despite the carpet being in need of vacuuming.

"How was the flight?" Dolores asked.

"Long. Too many connections and layovers. So, when's the ceremony?"

"A week from Friday," Dolores said. "Sandy agreed to wait until you came home. We've rented a boat."

"Spreading his ashes on the bay, for God's sake." Evan shook his head, exhaled a plume of smoke, and stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray.

"I know," Alice said. She, too, shook her head with melancholy. "If your father were alive…"

"Patrick wanted cremation," Dolores said. "We have to respect that."

"Still," Evan said, "no church service?"

"Sandy's Methodist," Dolores said, as if that explained everything.

Then Evan asked, "So where's this draft notice?"

Alice rose from the sofa and crossed to the old rolltop desk in the adjoining room. She dug through a drawer and returned with an envelope. "I wouldn't have opened it, you know, except it says it's from the Selective Service. I would never go through your mail."

"Don't worry about it, Mom." Evan removed the thin sheet of paper from the envelope. The wording was concise and impersonal. Selective Service System, it read, Order to Report for Induction. The President of the United States. What a joke, he thought. As if LBJ had personally selected him. Greetings, it read. You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States. The date listed was October 7, 1967 at 7:00 am. Evan shook his head with disappointment. In only nine days, the U.S. military would possess his life. His stomach gurgled at the thought of it. Evan stuffed the notice back into the envelope.

"When's dinner?" he asked, even though he wasn't the least bit hungry.

---

"How do you like working at the Castro Theater?" Evan asked as he shoveled dumplings into his mouth. Dolores sat at her seat across the table, and Alice was in her customary chair. Everyone sat in the same spots since childhood, while two empty places at the table left memories of their diminished family.

"It's okay," Dolores said. "We sell popcorn and candy and soda for, like, an hour before showtime. Then we just stand around until the next showing. The pay's not that great. I'm looking for something else."

Evan tried to ease into a discussion of Patrick. "How are Andy and Matt?"

"Confused," Alice said. Creases formed in her brow, and a faraway look clouded her eyes. "Would you care for a beer, sweetie?"

He did. He could've guzzled a six-pack. He wanted to get and stay drunk. But that wouldn't suit any purpose. "Maybe later."

A lengthy silence followed. Alice and Dolores had finished eating, and Evan chewed the last dumpling before setting down his fork. Then he sighed with satisfaction. After three years of college chow and despite a summer of linguini vongole, his mother's cooking still tasted best.

"Let's retire to the living room," Alice said. Evan took the seat of honor and stretched his legs onto the ottoman. Everyone avoided the number one topic as if discussing it would further curse the family. A tiny rivulet slid down Alice's cheek and she spoke in a cracking voice. "I wish you weren't leaving so soon."

Evan bowed his head. "Me, too, Mom."

"I hope you don't… I mean, I hope you come back without…" Alice's voice quivered and quit. She wiped tears, even as more escaped. Then she rose from the sofa. "I need to clean up the kitchen."

"No, Mom, leave it," Dolores said.

"You two talk," Alice said as she staggered out of the room. "Catch up with your brother."

"Mom!"

Too late, Alice was already out of the room. Dolores rose to join her. Evan reached out to his sister.

"Let her go."

Dolores flashed a frown at him and whispered, "She's not going to clean the kitchen. She'd going to have some remedy."

Evan's heart sank. He knew the code word meant booze. While Dolores stormed off to prevent her mother from soaking her grief in bourbon, Evan stayed in his father's chair. Woe the Dunne family, he thought. How had so many calamities befallen them so quickly? Neil Dunne was a good provider and a respected firefighter. His sudden death in 1963 opened a chasm that swallowed his wife Alice. Surely, the mysterious and grisly murder of her eldest child buried her deeper into that fissure. Evan couldn't bear the thought of his kindly mother numbing her pain with booze, but he couldn't blame her for it, either. Escaping from reality seemed the most natural thing to do.

Dolores returned moments later and flopped onto the sofa with a look of disgust.

"She locked herself in the bathroom. I think she's been drinking since noon."

"Leave her be."

"You won't be saying that after you find her passed out in the back yard."

Evan blinked. "She's done that?"

"While hanging laundry. I had to ask Mr. Martino to help me drag her into the house. So embarrassing. She has a boy deliver bourbon from the package store. Whenever I find it, I dump it down the drain. But she hides the stuff everywhere."

Not wanting to hear any more disturbing news about his mother, he changed the subject. "How's Sandy?"

Dolores sighed, ran her hands through her frizzy hair, and adjusted the glasses on her nose. "Coping. She's pretty out of it. She caught him dealing drugs on Haight Street, y'know. In broad daylight."

"I can't fathom that. I mean, Patrick was straighter than straight."

"People change."

"Not that drastically."

"He got into some heavy stuff. And now he's gone… Sandy's barely keeping her sanity, but she has to for her kids."

"What about you? How are you doing?"

Dolores gave him a weary look and shook her head. That said it all. She had always been mature beyond her years, but now she appeared haggard.

"How are you and Mom fixed for cash?"

"She says not to worry. I guess with Dad's pension and Social Security… I don't know how, but we're staying out of the poorhouse."

"How's my car running?"

"I haven't driven it since you left. With all the shit hitting the fan around here…" Her face sagged, and a tear escaped down her cheek. A rockslide of troubles had fallen on Dolores, and Evan pitied his kid sister.

Alice appeared in the doorway. She teetered in place and averted Evan's direct gaze. "Would you mind, honey, if I went to bed and saw you in the morning? I'm just so exhausted."

"Sure, Mom. See you tomorrow." As Alice trudged upstairs to her bedroom, Evan whispered to his sister. "She's not well."

Dolores narrowed her eyes in disdain. "It's a martyr act. She blames herself for Patrick. I'll find her loaded and she'll say things like, 'I don't deserve God's forgiveness.' Or 'Christ himself would have me stoned for my sins.' At first, I laughed. I mean, that's such a goofy thing to say. But then it made me angry. Like Patrick's death is all about her. 'Oh, if only he had told us the truth, boo hoo hoo.' What bullshit."

Dolores's venom towards their mother surprised him. Each word carried a snake hiss of resentment. She could be cutting and sarcastic about anyone, but rarely was his sister so acrimonious. It pained him.

"Has Mom had company?"

"Aunt Helena was here for a weekend, but she had to go back to Nevada. With her bad arthritis, the fog was killing her. Sandy brings the boys by, but Mom is so depressed that Sandy doesn't stay long. Uncle Stu calls all the time. Mrs. Martino came from next door twice, but the only company Mom really keeps is with Johnnie Walker."

Evan let out a sad sigh.

"I don't know what else to do for her," Dolores said. "She never seems to shake it off. I mean, I understand. There are moments when I feel like smacking myself for having a laugh or a smile when I know I should be mourning Patrick. But we have to move on, right? Like with Dad. She was the one who told us to keep on living. That was the best way to honor him. Well, Patrick is gone and his killer is already in prison. At some point you…" She rose from the sofa. "Let's talk outside. I need a smoke."

After grabbing a can of beer from the refrigerator, Evan joined Dolores outdoors on the front stoop. The temperature had dipped. Evan dug an old jacket from the hallway closet. Dolores was already halfway through a filtered cigarette when he sat beside her.

He accepted a cigarette from her pack and a light. "All this business with the biker… I'm unclear. Did he confess or not?"

"It's so freaky." Dolores took another long pull on her cigarette before beginning the tale. "The highway patrol found the guy in the car staring out at the beach. He was tripping his brains out and mistook the cops for giant seagulls, they said. They ran the license plate and discovered it was Patrick's stolen car. Then they found his bloody arm in the back seat."

"Patrick's arm was just lying there in the open?"

"No, inside a briefcase. I went with Sandy to the Hall of Justice for the sentencing. Mom stayed home and got drunk. I wish I had, too. Anyway, the biker made a confession to the court. An allocution. Part of his plea agreement. He said he didn't remember killing Patrick, said he barely knew him, and he had been tripping for, like, three days straight before they arrested him. But since he was in a stolen car with a dead arm in the back seat, he said, 'I musta done something bad.' Those were his actual words. The bastard kills my brother, carries his arm around like it's a leg of lamb, and says, 'Duh, I musta done something bad.' No shit, biker asshole." She flicked her cigarette into the air and watched it land in a sidewalk collection of other discarded butts from previous smoking jags.

"The man barely knew Patrick," Evan asked, "yet he killed him and chopped off his arm? Are things that screwed up in the Haight?"

Dolores stole a sip from the can of beer before answering. "I've been over there about once a week since last spring. It's a pretty groovy scene. Crowded as hell, but it never felt that dangerous. On the other hand, Patrick was into some heavy stuff. He used a phony name. Sandy got a call saying Tom Howard had been murdered and they needed her to identify the body. And she said, Who's that? Then somebody corrected the cops and told them he was Patrick Dunne. Turns out he used the fake name so nobody would know he was pushing drugs."

"Does Mom know all this?"

She nodded. "Couldn't hide it from her."

At that moment, a teenage brunette strolled up to the house. Like Dolores, she wore a peasant skirt and a jeans jacket. A cigarette dangled between her fingers. She waved hello to Dolores.

"Oh, Carlotta," Dolores said. "This is my brother, Evan." She flushed and turned to him. "Sorry, I forgot I was supposed to go out tonight."

"We're going to the Avalon Ballroom," Carlotta said with a smile and a wave. "Wanna join us?"

Evan frowned. He'd never heard of it. "A ballroom?"

"Quicksilver Messenger Service are there tonight," Carlotta said.

That made no sense to Evan, and it showed in his blank stare.

"The Avalon is a rock club," Dolores explained. "Quicksilver is a band."

"I'll stay here and look after Mom," Evan said. He stubbed out his butt on the sole of his shoe and flicked the remainder onto the sidewalk.

Dolores stared at her feet and said to her friend, "I better stay, too."

"Oh, honey," Carlotta said, "you've been so down in the dumps. And you promised."

Dolores crooked a thumb at her brother. "He's only home for a few days before he goes into the Army."

Carlotta's face fell as if she had just announced his death sentence. Evan turned his gaze but appreciated the sympathy.

"Don't stay home on my account," he said. "I won't be up much longer anyhow. Jet lag, you know. So go ahead. Have a good time."

Still, Dolores sat motionless with eyes to the ground. She bit her lip. Evan rested a hand on her shoulder. "You deserve it, Dolo."

Her lips trembled and her eyes watered. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"You bet."

Evan sat on the cement steps and drank the rest of the beer as the girls wandered off into the night. He grinned and waved as they departed, belying anguish for his little sister. Until that moment, he hadn't considered the burdens she carried. Tending to their drunken mother and dealing with their brother's murder while holding down a minimum-wage job… Dolores deserved more than just one night of fun. He felt guilty for having spent months away on a hedonistic holiday when he was needed at home.

He entered the house and crept upstairs to his mother's bedroom. The door was ajar. Evan peeked in the darkened room and spotted his mother dressed in a bathrobe and curled up in a fetal position atop the blankets. The sound of gentle snoring convinced him not to bother her. He then tiptoed down the hall.

His bedroom was unchanged from when he left for college years earlier, except that clothes weren't strewn on the floor and the bed was made. The space seemed tinier. Despite the room's claustrophobic feel, Evan looked forward to sleeping in his own bed. He stretched and yawned and pulled summer clothes out of his suitcases and placed them in drawers. They wouldn't be needed where he was going.

A neat stack of mail rested on his wooden desk. His mother respected his privacy and left it all unopened. At the bottom of the pile he found a dozen copies of Boys' Life. He smirked and shook his head. Why did Mom continue his subscription? He hadn't read the magazine since he left the Boy Scouts. Other mail was junk not worth saving, let alone opening.

A small package rested amongst the mail, however. It measured the size of a slender Bible. Crumpled brown paper was wrapped around the contents. Cellophane tape covered the entirety. It was addressed to Evan Dunne at the Eureka Street house, but no return address was added. A haphazard mosaic of first-class stamps covered the wrapper, more than enough to pay the postage and applied in haste. Evan ripped into the wrapping, which required his pocketknife to tear off. Four layers of brown paper covered the contents.

A book.

No dust jacket. No pictures or words on the all-black cover. Nothing printed on the spine. When he flipped open the book, a lined piece of notepaper and a business card fell out. He grabbed them from the floor, sat on the edge of the bed next to the bedside lamp, and read the handwritten note.

MOM! Put this down right now! Don't touch it!

Dolo or Evan, if you're reading this it means something happened to me and I wasn't able to come home to get it myself. If I'm in jail, give the book to my lawyer. If I disappear, give it to Carl Burnblad. His card is inside. Don't involve Mom or Sandy. I'll explain later.

Patrick

Curiosity made his skin prickle. Here was his brother calling out from the grave. Whereas he'd been sleepy from jet lag moments earlier, Evan jolted awake with an adrenaline rush. He flipped to the first page and began reading.

December 25, 1966

A new diary for Christmas. I wonder why the boys chose this gift. Sandy probably suggested it. Makes me a bit suspicious. Is she trying to spy on me? Can't say for sure. Maybe I'm getting too paranoid. Seems innocent enough. Besides, I thought about writing down notes in the event I need to cover my ass. My assignment is knotty, and I'll need to protect myself as best I can. I'll just have to keep the diary out of Sandy's mitts.

As I write this, she is in the living room listening to the Beach Boys on the stereo, my Christmas gift to her. I hear the song Don't Worry, Baby, which echoes what I've said for years. Although I've always told Sandy not to fret, I lately find myself concerned and agitated. Can't help thinking bad things are on the horizon.

The boys deserve a happy Christmas. I've been distant during the past few months, literally and figuratively, but I'm home now and making every effort to focus on family during the holidays. Sandy insisted on it. She's right. I've got to pull myself together for the kids' sake. Be a dad, she said, not a cigar-store Indian. Don't just sit there staring at them with stoned eyes. Absolutely right. Gotta stay clean for a while. Don't touch the merchandise.

Today, we played a board game together for the first time in ages. Sandy wouldn't let the boys win. I thought it was a bit cruel, but she said losing prepares them for the cold truth of life. As if she knows what that is. Since the experiments at Lemoore and now this operation, I've shed all naiveté about truth. Reality shifts. It's subjective, malleable, easily distorted. It can hide in plain sight. It can be bent to meet needs. If she thinks winning or losing is predicated on truth, she's just a gullible little girl.

Enough cynicism. It's Christmas.

December 30, 1966

All quiet on the street today. Not many sales. Too much rain. Most kids probably went home for the holidays. Good. They should all go home. I overheard someone at the Drogstore talking about a free concert with free acid on Christmas Eve. Owsley, no doubt. None of the other dealers would give their stash away, not even for Christmas. Who's sponsoring him? He gets the raw materials somewhere. Where does his bankroll come from? Can't be from the bands. From what I understand, he supports them, not vice versa. Somebody must be backing Owsley. Can't shake the notion that he works for our side.

December 31, 1966

Another year over. Maybe the next one will be better. I doubt it. Somebody said Walt Disney died recently. I mentioned that to GH. He laughed and said old Walt was about to miss out on the real Fantasia. I figured he meant tripping, but he said, Keep reading the papers. You'll see. Riots, protests, anti-war. Given the souring of the national mood, I'd say GH's pessimism is on target. Feels like this country is teetering on a precipice. Once we plunge over the edge, just a matter of time now, we'll long for Disney's innocent world.

January 1, 1967

Poster said, Bring whale meat. More Digger street theater nonsense, I presumed. So I checked it out, a big happening on the Panhandle. Bunch of bands: the Dead, Big Brother, etc. Somebody handed me a beer, no charge. Tried to sell my wares, but one of the Diggers pressured me into giving away the stuff for free. They always want shit for free. Free food, free love, free music. So what's the event? He tells me the Hell's Angels are throwing the party for the Diggers as a thank you for springing them from jail. Christ, just what the Haight Ashbury needs, getting in bed with the bikers. Pretty soon they'll invite the Black Panthers to move in from across the bay, and then we'll have a regular hootenanny on the street. Hell, send in the Klan, too, why don't you.

The Diggers. I really can't fathom their angle. They're not political as far as I can tell. They don't protest the war. Never heard or read about them blasting the Man. No anger or vitriol. They just dress up in weird puppet heads and stop traffic or make people pass through a picture frame in order to get a free meal of bland soup and stale bread. Can't call it anarchy because they're non-destructive. It's all just street theater. And to what end? They get off on creating public nuisances, but what does it amount to? Do they really expect to change the world with their stunts?

Wrote about them in my weekly report. If there's anticipation of violence and anarchy, I'm not sure the Diggers will be instigators. They'll pull pranks and act out psychedelic trips for some esoteric purpose that even they can't explain, but the result will be more satire than unrest. They're strictly a phenomenon of the Haight. Not a national group like SDS or the Mobe. Not even a traveling gang like Kesey's Merry Pranksters. The Diggers remain in the Haight. No aspirations beyond this neighborhood, as far as I can tell. Plus they have no apparent leader. Ask a Digger who's in charge and he'll respond, You are. An amorphous group of like-minded acidheads with no discernible agenda. I don't think they're any legitimate threat. Not now, anyway, but in the long term, who knows? Worth keeping tabs on, I suppose.

January 2, 1967

GH read my report and gave me his take on the Diggers. He thinks they're a bunch of dangerous radicals. They tip the applecart, for sure. But dangerous? He didn't back down. Listen to their agenda, he said. Possession is wrong. Everything should be free. Everyone owns everything. Food is free because it's yours. They operate a free store with secondhand clothes, no money exchanged, because ownership is bullshit in their minds. I asked, Where's the harm in that? He's seen them burn money. GH says when rioting breaks out the Diggers will steal anything and everything. They pose a clear and present danger, he says. Told him if he wants to add his opinion to my report before I send it off to TSS, that's okay with me. Naturally, he already did without asking, the prick.

January 4, 1967

Rumor on the street of a big event in the park on the Saturday after next. They're calling it a Human Be-In. Some political speakers, some bands, maybe Timothy Leary. Sent off warning to SG. Asked how he'd like us to proceed. The police know. Permits were filed with the city. Thousands of people anticipated. Supposed to be a peaceful love-in. Even so, GH smells trouble. A big crowd event like that is exactly what our covert operation was designed to tackle.

Shapes of Things

Ten-thirty a.m. by Evan's standards was late. Despite jet lag, he had stayed awake reading the entire diary until past three, so he forgave himself for oversleeping. The information he'd read haunted him. Patrick had indeed been into some heavy stuff, as Dolo said. She had no idea how heavy.

Addressing the package to Evan was an odd action designed, it seemed, to keep the secret diary hidden in plain sight. Patrick must have mailed the book with the notion of retrieving it long before Evan's return from Italy, but he was murdered before he could fetch the package. Or so Evan surmised. The diary gave vague answers.

Evan grabbed the princess phone in the hall and carried it into his bedroom. The cord was just long enough to reach inside his door. He sat on the floor and focused on the business card in his hand. Carl Burnblad, Associated Press. He lifted the phone receiver to dial the number. But he heard a voice on the line. Alice was having a conversation. Evan hung up. The information was too explosive for his mother to overhear. That made calling from home problematic. Safer to reach the reporter from a public pay phone, he thought.

After a quick shave and shower, Evan bounded downstairs. His mother was no longer tying up the line. Instead, Dolores sat on the sofa and jabbered away on the telephone. Alice sat at the kitchen table with the morning edition of the Examiner. Reading glasses hung from her nose. She erased entries in the crossword puzzle and tried again. A stack of pancakes rested on the table beside a bottle of maple syrup and grilled sausages.

"Where are my car keys, Mom?"

"Hanging on the key rack. Breakfast is cold, but I can reheat it."

Evan snatched his old key ring from the rack near the back door. Then he grabbed a pancake and two sausages and rolled them into pigs-in-a-blanket.

"I have to meet someone," he lied. He pecked his mother on the back of the head and kept moving.

Outside, Evan lifted the garage door and inspected his kelly green 1962 Plymouth Valiant Signet 200. Sunlight exposed the car's disuse. Cobwebs ran from the side rear view mirror to the driver's window. Dust covered the hood, roof, and trunk. Animal footprints tracked through the dust, probably those of a neighbor's cat. The tires looked soft. Uncle Stu helped him buy it from the city impound, a real steal. The key turned in the ignition to no avail. The battery was dead. The interior light didn't even come on. The Plymouth needed a jump. He slumped in the driver's seat with disappointment.

Alice appeared outside the garage, arms folded across her chest. Lines creased her face to spell out her guilt. "I'm sorry, dear. I should've…"

"Don't worry about it, Mom. I'll take the train."

"Where are you going? Let me give you money for a cab." Before she could scamper inside, he stopped her.

"No, Mom. I'll be fine."

Evan ambled down the street without looking back and lit up a cigarette. The smoke felt good as it glided down his throat. He walked several blocks to the busy corner of Market and Castro. Phone booths lined the sidewalk outside the bank. He pulled out Burnblad's business card, pumped coins into a machine, and dialed the reporter's long-distance number. A woman answered.

"Hello, how may I direct your call?"

"Carl Burnblad, please."

"This is his answering service. Would you like to leave a message?"

Unprepared, he fumbled, "Oh, uh, yes. My name is Evan Dunne."

"Message, please?"

"Tell him this is regarding my brother, Patrick Dunne." He wondered what else he should say and whether that scant message would suffice, but he also didn't know how much private information to entrust to the answering service operator.

"Telephone number, please?"

Evan hesitated. The only number at his disposal was his family's home phone, and he was reluctant to give it out. Doing so might involve his mother.

"Where can Mr. Burnblad reach you, sir?"

"Please tell him I'll call back." He hung up.

Evan pocketed the business card and walked away. Later in the day, he could call again. Next time, to save long-distance charges and to make sure he spoke to Burnblad instead of an answering service, he would call person-to-person.

When he marched back into his mother's house, he found her seated on the sofa watching a TV game show. She hid a small bottle underneath a throw pillow. Evan saw it but said nothing.

"Back already?" she said.

"I rescheduled."

"Who did you say you went to see?"

"Just an old pal."

"Tim Leiber called."

"Yeah? How's the Kraut?"

"He heard you were back in town and wants you to meet him tonight. I wrote it down." She handed over a slip of paper on which she'd written the address of a bar on Market Street. "Anytime after nine, he said."

Evan grinned and pocketed the note. He looked forward to seeing long-time pals, but there were more pressing matters.

He found his sister in her room upstairs. She lounged on her bed in bare feet and flipped through Life magazine while listening to a Laura Nyro record on her turntable. Dolores mouthed the words to "And When I Die." When Evan spotted her, she stopped and scowled at him for interrupting her privacy.

"Wait here," he said. Then Evan slipped down the hallway to his bedroom, lifted the mattress, and retrieved the diary. Making sure his mother wasn't in earshot, he tiptoed back into Dolores's room and quietly shut the door. Then he handed her the book. "Read this."

Dolores turned it over in her hand. "What is it?"

"Patrick's diary."

"Oh, yeah? From when he as a kid?"

"From the last few months."

She opened the cover, flipped through the handwritten pages, and blinked with disbelief. "January, March, April… What the hell…? Where'd you get this?"

"He mailed it to me. It's been sitting untouched on the desk in my room for weeks."

"Holy shit. What does he write about?"

"Read it for yourself. Then we need to talk. But don't show Mom or Sandy. I don't think either of them are ready for this yet."

"Okay," she said. "I've got a job interview this afternoon, but I'll get to this."

"Where's the interview?"

"Playland at the Beach."

"That old dump?" The aging amusement park at Ocean Beach had fallen into disrepair in recent years. "What job?"

"Concessions. Selling popcorn. That's about all I'm qualified for."

A notion struck Evan. "Tell me about the biker."

Dolores rolled over and rubbed her face. "Ahh, I don't wanna talk about him."

"What's the guy's name?"

"Jack Pulasko."

"Do you remember his lawyer's name?"

Her face twisted with disgust. "No. Why?"

"Do we have transcripts from the trial or anything like that?"

"No. He just appeared in court, confessed, and—Why do you care, Evan?"

He scratched his head. "Was anything written in the newspaper?"

She rose from her bed, reached for a three-ring binder on her dresser, and handed it over. A faded photo of Patrick as a ten-year-old boy was glued to the cover. Evan flipped open the binder. Inside were page after page of memorabilia: photos of Patrick throughout the years; crayon drawings he'd completed as a tike; school essays marked with high grades; photographs from Sandy and Patrick's wedding; a formal portrait of Patrick in his Naval dress uniform; a picture of the proud father holding baby Andy in his arms; a Polaroid of the young family on a picnic with Patrick's hair grown long. Evan's eyes welled.

"In the back," Dolores said.

He flipped to the final two pages. On one side was a typed poem, which Dolores had written about Patrick. On the opposite side was a newspaper clipping from the San Francisco Examiner. The headline read, Confession In Haight Murder. He scanned the short, three-paragraph story. The article noted the victim as Patrick Dunne, Pulasko's guilty plea, and the information Evan sought – the name of Pulasko's attorney, Richard Friedman.

He handed back the binder. "This is real nice, Dolo."

She shrugged. "Probably too sappy for his taste."

"Read the diary," he said. "And not a word to Mom." Then Evan slipped out of the room so his mother wouldn't become wise to their secret.

---

Half an hour later, a service truck towed the Plymouth to a local garage. A mechanic looked over the dirty car. A new battery was required. So were brake fluid, steering fluid, washer fluid, gas, and oil. The bill would make him cringe.

For the remainder of the sunny afternoon while his Plymouth was in the shop, Evan wandered the streets to reacquaint himself with the old neighborhood. Things hadn't changed much since he left for college: the camera shop, the candy store, the Chinese laundries, the family hardware store, the dingy pubs, the old drugstore, and looming over it all, the Castro Theater's marquee. Like the Dunne house, most of the working-class neighbors' Victorians showed various states of disrepair. From all exterior signs, the neighborhood seemed the same, but Evan noticed more men on the streets. Before he left for college, rumors swirled about deviant men's clubs in the area. He didn't want to believe that gossip, though. Not in his Irish Catholic neighborhood. Some people had begun calling the district the Castro, but to him it would always be Eureka Valley.

By four p.m., like clockwork, fog cascaded over the top of Twin Peaks. In two more hours, the gray mist would also envelope Eureka Valley, which seemed unfazed by the wild scene in the Haight Ashbury. The hippie district was only a mile away, but it might as well have been in another state.

With cigarette in hand, Evan walked back to the payphones at Market and Castro and dialed the Associated Press reporter. Again, the answering service picked up the line, but because he'd instructed the operator to make a person-to-person call, the connection was dropped. Did Burnblad ever answer his own phone? Maybe not. He made a snap decision and dialed direct.

"How may I direct your call?"

"Please take a message for Carl Burnblad. This is Evan Dunne." He then gave his mother's telephone number. "I'm in San Francisco. Please tell him to contact me after six p.m. Pacific time. I'll wait for his call."

"Is this urgent, sir?"

"Um, yes."

Leaving his family number seemed chancy, but he had little choice. Off he went to retrieve his car. To Evan's dismay, the bill for towing and auto service came to a staggering ninety-three dollars. Filling the gas tank cost over four bucks, leaving a paltry two-fifty in his pocket. At least his Plymouth was operating. He drove it to Eureka Street. A sedan blocked his driveway, so he parked his car at a curbside spot halfway down the block and walked home.

Inside his mother's house, just beyond the open door, stood two men in trench coats. Alice wrung her hands. As Evan climbed the steps, the men turned to greet him. Both were middle-aged with square jaws. One wore thick glasses. The other sported a pencil-thin mustache. They wore matching suits and ties and patent-leather shoes.

"Mr. Dunne? I'm Agent King. This is Agent Menard. Federal Bureau of Narcotics."

Evan closed the door behind him. "What's this about?"

"We're just following up on the case. We wondered if—"

"My brother's murder?"

"Actually, we're tracking his activities. If you have any information regarding that, we'd appreciate your cooperation."

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