When the Past Comes Calling

By Mark Gummere

You can run but you can’t hide.
Mississippi transplant Danny Mosley’s ex-lover, Kalinda Jones, tracks him down in San Francisco triggering a dangerous, violent and wildly unpredictable set of events. When Jones is found murdered shortly after visiting with Mosley, he quickly becomes the police’s number one suspect.
Robert “Lucky” Lucas, a retired police officer and part-time off-the-books private investigator, comes to the aid of his friend, but the arrival of eighteen-year-old Destiny Jones, who introduces herself as Mosley’s never-before-seen-child, and daughter of the murdered Jones, threatens to send an already complicated situation spiraling out of control.
As the body count climbs, Lucky’s investigation soon extends beyond the trouble in San Francisco, to Mississippi, New Orleans and the world of organized crime, Southern style.
When the past comes calling, all bets are off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Gummere
• Release date: Nov 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311696403

Mark Gummere

Writer and college instructor in Film Studies. Former former private investigator in San Francisco.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

This girl started fires, Danny said, shaking his head at the memory. I’m all alone, just having a drink in a bar, and she slides in next to me…had me from word one.

Which was? I asked.

Danny laughed. Hi.

Clever.

On a Saturday afternoon in April I was sitting with Danny Mosley, a forty-two-year-old African-American tow truck driver that I’d first met a couple years earlier. As a retired cop, I’d looked into the drive-by shooting of a young man in Chinatown when the police were deemed ineffective by the boy’s mother. That I was dating the mother of course made any attempt to stay uninvolved mute. Danny had been contacted as a witness, and we subsequently became friends.

We were in Sam Jordan’s Bar on 3rd Street in the Bayview-Hunters Point neighborhood of San Francisco. A prized piece of community color, the bar was opened in 1959 by Singing Sam Jordan, an ex-light-heavyweight boxer who took his name because he sang the national anthem before his fights, and who even ran for mayor once.

Why she picked me I never knew, Danny said.

This was in Mississippi?

Yeah.

And now, eighteen years later she shows up here, claiming there’s a daughter back in Mississippi carrying your genes? That right?

That’s the quick version.

Sam Jordan’s is just a couple miles from Candlestick Park, the former home for the Giants and 49ers, now well past its glory years in purpose, comfort, and value. The Giants had moved uptown and the 49ers were now 35 miles down the peninsula where Silicon Valley’s vast sums of white tech money built them a new football stadium and put them farther out of reach from San Francisco’s already diminishing working class and African-American community.

How’d she find you? I asked.

Relatives. She said she ran into a cousin of mine. Asked her about me. Wouldn't be hard.

I was nursing a bottle of Mexican beer and Danny was drinking his usual Korbel brandy over ice. The past has come-a-calling, I said.

He smiled. Way you say it, sounds like a damn blues song.

"There was an old movie from the ’40’s, Out of the Past, Robert Mitchum and Kirk Douglas, I said. I took a sip from my beer and picked up the story. Mitchum owns a gas station in a small town and is in love with the local beauty. You first see him in this scenic lakeside setting with his fishing pole and his blond-haired girlfriend. It’s all too perfect for it to last, of course. Douglas plays the heavy. He stumbles upon his old pal Mitchum and invites him up to Lake Tahoe for a little get-together; share a drink and some laughs about the old days. Mitchum hesitates, but eventually agrees. And before you know it, Douglas has Mitchum back on the streets doing him favors to repay old debts he claims are still on the books. Debts from a past Mitchum has been trying to forget."

Danny took a drink and set the glass down on the bar. How’s it end up?

Well, there’s a second girl, too. Not so small-town. She’s the wild card. I looked at Danny, raised my beer, and just before taking a sip said, In the end she shoots Mitchum and he dies.

Danny’s deep rowdy laughter echoed throughout the bar. That is one fucked up story to tell me, he said, shaking his head.

I took a long pull from my beer. Think so?

Yes, I do, he said, still laughing.

Maybe, you’re right. After a pause, I asked, What’s Charisse think about this woman?

Well, when I tell her, I can’t imagine she’s going to be too happy. We’ve been doing good, even thinking of moving in together.

She doesn’t know?

No. He finished the last of his brandy. Not yet at least.

I let that sit.

Well, if you take that next step with Charisse, you’ll make Mona happy. She’s in the Charisse fan club.

Danny nodded at the bartender and held up two fingers, and then looked at me. What about me? Mona like me?

You she can take or leave.

Danny punched me in the shoulder.

The bartender, a thin man with gray hair and a little soul patch underneath his bottom lip set down the drinks and two menus. Barbecue ’specially good today, he said. The catfish too. You boys need to eat something you going to be drinking in the afternoon.

Good idea, Henry, Danny said.

I took one of the menus, but before opening it asked Danny, You think this daughter is yours? Ever hear about her before?

Never.

What’s she want?

"Kalinda? What do you think? Mentioning the daughter was just the start. Second part gets to money. Kalinda says I never met any of ‘my financial responsibilities’ as a father. She say now is the time I could make up for it."

Kalinda?

Danny nodded. Yeah.

Pretty name.

I guess.

How much does it cost? To meet your responsibilities?

"She say we’ll work something out. Money is owed ‘like back rent’ she says."

Is the timing right? Could she have gotten pregnant when the two of you were intimate and before you split up?

Danny tilted his head and looked at me. "You awful white right now, Lucky. When we were intimate? he said with a laugh. Yeah, sex a big part of the attraction, truth be told. Morning, afternoon, night, middle of the night. We had sex with and without protection and she never said she was pregnant. Danny sipped from his fresh drink. So, intimate? Yeah, we were that."

Okay so I’m white and old. Maybe she didn’t know she was pregnant until you were already gone.

Danny nodded. That’s her story too. Plus she’d found someone else by then, some other guy to pay the bills. Things different now, I guess.

What do you think? You believe her?

Don’t know what to think.

She dangerous?

Not sure ’bout that either. Haven’t seen her in eighteen years.

Well let’s hope she doesn't shoot you.

CHAPTER TWO

Mona leaned against me on the couch in the living room of my house in the Sunset District where we were watching the local news on television. I don’t know if someone in their fifties should call someone in the forties their girlfriend or not, but I couldn’t think of a better term. I certainly didn't like significant other, which to me sounded like some part of a science project: ‘Once the significant other aspects of the experiment are finalized, we’ll have an answer.’ Maybe partner would work, but for now it was girlfriend.

Mona pointed at the television. Who does this woman doing the weather remind you of?

I looked at the dark haired woman pointing at a weather map. I don’t know. Nobody.

Charisse! Mona said.

I looked again, a bit more closely. She was African-American like Charisse, but not as tall, not as pretty. I don’t see it.

Really? It’s something about her manner. And her smile.

Nope. Don’t see it. Not at all.

Mona leaned back, tilted her head so she was, in effect, looking down at me. It’s hard to believe you were ever a cop. You’re observations skills are so limited. Charisse would see the similarities.

I figured there was no way I’d win this disagreement, so I took a different tack. Have you seen her lately?

Charisse? Mona shook her head. No, actually I haven’t. Have you? Her or Danny?

Nope.

What has Danny told her about the woman showing up from his past?

Last time we spoke, nothing.

Nothing at all? Nothing about her or the possibility that they share a daughter?

A week ago he hadn’t. That’s all I can say.

He’s going to have to tell her.

I shrugged. That’s sort of between them, I think. Not really our business.

And you didn’t meet this woman?

I did not.

Mona took that opportunity to go into the kitchen. I’ll be right back, she said.

The television news went into the sports report. The reporter was a familiar face, more of a local media personality than an actual reporter who went out into the field, conducted interviews, and reported stories. He told a few bad jokes, waved his arms around in mock indignation at one story, and did a credible job of acting excited as he read the scores from the games around the country off a teleprompter. Then another commercial.

Mona returned carrying a dish of flan she’d brought home from the Mexican restaurant she owns and manages. I dribbled some Kahlua on top. She handed me the dish and a spoon.

Where’s yours? I asked.

Mona repositioned herself on the couch and playfully tugged at the side of my belly. Tonight we’re sharing, she said.

I took a bite of the flan, which Mona knows is one of my favorite desserts. Kahlua? That’s coffee flavored and rum based, right?

Very good, Mona said. We use rum; others use vodka, some gin. She took the spoon from my hand and scooped a small taste of the flan. Hmm, it’s pretty tasty.

If it tasted any better you’d have the FDA and the DEA after you for selling addictive substances.

That’s sweet. I think.

The television commercial ended and the news station switched to a live shot of woman standing in what looked like an abandoned construction site, with beams of white light bouncing off the rippling black water of the bay in the background. A yellow font inserted on the bottom of the screen read: Roberta Allen, Naval Shipyards - Hunters Point.

Ms. Allen spoke. "I’m standing in the area of Hunters Point that formerly housed the Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory. The area was officially closed in 1994 as part of the Base Realignment and Closure Commission in response, at least partially, to reports of radioactive contamination. And where earlier tonight two teenage boys found a woman’s body wedged in against the pilings at one edge of the bay. The two boys, though exploring in restricted areas closed to the public, nevertheless called 911 to report the body. Police have told reporters that preliminary findings indicate the woman died of multiple gunshot wounds to the chest. And, in hopes of reaching any local residents who may have had contact with the woman, the police have taken the somewhat unusual step of releasing her name. State issued identification was found with the victim that matched her description. The police are tentatively identifying the woman as Kalinda Jones, forty-two years old, from D’Iberville Mississippi.

CHAPTER THREE

On Wednesday evening a little before seven o’clock, Charisse Timmons walked into Mona’s Mexican restaurant on Clement Street wearing red corduroy pants and a white silk blouse with the top two buttons open. A silver necklace with polished black stones glistened against her black skin and her five foot ten inch frame was balanced inside a pair of red leather open-toe high heels. Long black hair, curled and brushed back, hung well past her shoulders. Charisse didn’t walk into a room without heads turning.

Do you swim in the fountain of youth? Mona said, as Charisse slid into our booth along one wall in the restaurant.

She’s the female Dorian Gray, I said, moving over to make more room.

He sold his soul, right? Charisse said. Not me. I’m forty in a few months and I look it, she added, smiling and laughing simultaneously.

Only if forty looks thirty, Mona said.

Hush up, Charisse said.

Can I get you something to drink? Mona asked. We can eat in a little while. I’m having wine, Lucky’s got a beer.

White wine would be great. Charisse set her black leather purse between us on the seat and exhaled a deep breath. How are you guys?

Good, Mona said. A waitress came to the table and Mona ordered the wine for Charisse. Then after a moment, said, But we’re a little worried about Danny?

Worried? About what?

I looked at Mona. She returned the look, raised her eyebrows and said nothing, effectively hitting the ball back to my side of the court. I hadn’t been able to reach Danny since hearing the news story about the woman’s body being found in the Navy shipyards three days earlier. I had assumed, as had Mona, that whatever involvement Danny may have had with the Jones woman, he would have by now explained things to Charisse.

Do you know where he is? I asked. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him for a few days. Even left messages, but I’m striking out.

Well, he should have returned your calls, but he left town, so maybe that’s it. He went back home.

I was surprised. To Mississippi?

Yes. The waitress was back at the table and set down the glass of wine in front of Charisse who raised the glass in a salute and took a drink. Hmm, that’s good.

When did he leave? I asked.

Sunday morning. He called me and said something came up with his grandmother. She’s been sick and getting worse, I guess. He got a call. Someone, not sure who, said that he should come and see her.

And you haven’t heard from since?

No, but we don’t talk every day. Especially, if something like this comes up.

Mona went to push the conversation away from any tension I might create. How old is his grandmother?

I don't know. Not as old as you might think. Seventy, seventy-one, I think. She was a young mother, as was Danny’s mom. They were already raising kids before they were twenty.

My grandmother was only seventeen when she gave birth to my mom, Mona said.

That’s so young, Charisse said. After a second sip of her wine she asked, Where were you born?

Salina Cruz, Mexico.

Really?

On the coast, in the state of Oaxaca. My mom’s Mexican, but my dad was American.

How about you, Charisse? I asked.

San Francisco born and bred. We lived in different parts of town while I was growing up, but always in San Francisco.

Any roots in the south, like Danny?

Some. My grandma came out to Los Angeles when she was real young. Her parents were originally from Alabama. But I’ve no emotional connection. We’ve never gone back there.

The waitress returned to the table and Mona suggested that she order for the three of us.

I’ll always trust the owner, Charisse joked.

Me too, I said. And how about a margarita with the meal?

I love coming here, Charisse said.

Mona laughed. And I love having you. Mona ordered the dinner and for a moment we each sipped at our drinks and enjoyed the quiet.

After a moment, Charisse said, I know Danny told you about that woman who came to see him. Her smile left her face and her voice dropped an octave. I could feel Mona glance at me, but I stayed focused on Charisse.

Yeah, he mentioned her.

He told me about her. Maybe a little more than a week ago. And he told me that he’d mentioned the situation to you. Not asking for advice, he said, but just needing someone to talk to.

That’s what it felt like, I said.

I told him he’s supposed to talk to me when he has a problem. But he was worried I’d get mad, get jealous. I told him he needed to get to know me better. That as long as he was truthful we’d be okay. What happened in the past was in the past. He and I are building a future. At least, that’s what I hope we’re doing. I explained all that to him.

You’re a smart woman Charisse, Mona interjected. And Danny will figure it out. Men think women can’t handle some things. They believe we’re fragile. She raised her glass and tilted it, as if it were a tool of emphasis, and added, They just take training.

Charisse let a smile crawl back onto her face. She looked from Mona to me and said. You are one lucky man Lucky.

Well said, I replied.

So, now you both know that I know about this Kalinda woman. And I know Danny will work things out with her. Not sure about the daughter, but I don’t see why it should become a problem.

Obviously, Charisse did not know about Kalinda’s death. Mona looked from me to Charisse and back at me. Once again the ball seemed to be in my court; her expression asking, What now, smart guy?

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning Charisse learned that Kalinda Jones had been murdered when a San Francisco police officer called her at work to ask if she had any information regarding the whereabouts of Danny Mosley. She called me.

Did you ask him how he got your name? Why he called you? I asked.

"I did. He said, We’re cops, we find things out. Sort of rude, really. He said he knew I was close with Danny." She paused. I could hear her breathing.

I was in my backyard and had been washing sand off Lou the Dalmatian after a trip to the beach. Hang on a minute. I set down the phone, turned off the hose, and watched Lou flop onto his back and roll around on the grass. Okay, I said, picking up the phone and sitting in a chair next to the patio table. Go ahead.

I said Danny was in Mississippi, seeing family. Then he asked me if I knew Kalinda Jones, who was also from Mississippi. I said that I’d heard the name but never met her. He asked where I’d heard her name, and I said she was an old acquaintance of Danny’s, and that he’d mentioned her. There was a pause.

Okay. Then?

Well, then he asked me if I knew this woman had been murdered. I was shocked. I said I did not. Then I asked him again how he got my number.

And?

He just answered by asking more questions. Asked me for Danny’s cell phone number and the names and phone numbers for his relatives in Mississippi.

I knew cops, having been one for over twenty years in Southern California. After my wife Patti died of cancer I’d crawled inside a bottle for a while before sobering up and retiring from the force. And with nothing tying me down, I moved to San Francisco to be near my son Keith and his family in Berkeley. So I knew cops and how they worked, and I knew the one who had contacted Charisse planned on asking the questions, not answering them.

Did you give him Danny’s numbers?

No. I’d gotten a little defensive by that time. I told him I didn’t think it was my place to give out people’s phone numbers.

Have you spoken with Danny?

No. I left a message on his cell last night and I just called him again. I thought he’d call me back but he hasn’t yet.

He will. I had no basis for making such a claim, but I did it none-the-less. Sometimes you say things to people that you hope will make them feel better, even if you have no concrete reason to believe it. At least I do.

Charisse’s tone hardened. Did you know last night, at the restaurant, about this? That this woman had been found murdered?

I did.

And yet you chose not to say anything?

I’m sorry. It’s not always easy to know the right thing to do.

Who said life was supposed to be easy?

I can only apologize once, Charisse.

You just let me go on thinking everything was fine.

I couldn’t say for certain it was even the same woman. I knew it was a weak reply.

Well, now you know, Charisse said. "For certain." She ended the call without another word.

I wondered what led the police to connect Kalinda Jones to Danny and what then led them to Charisse. I thought for a moment about calling Charisse back, but decided against it. I called Mona instead.

Hello handsome. How’s your morning? Mona asked.

I just got off the phone with Charisse.

And?

I explained the details of the conversation. She hung up on me, I said. She’s angry and hurt.

I should call her, Mona said.

This woman was a treasure. My thoughts exactly.

We can talk later. Bye.

Lou pushed himself up from the lawn and ran over to me. Everyone’s hanging up on us, boy. Lou shook vigorously and most of the water still lingering in his coat splashed against my clothes. Gee, thanks Lou. I picked up the towel I’d been using and dried him a little more. Want something to eat now? Lou barked and we went inside the house.

I fed Lou and reheated a cup of coffee to go along with a two day old slice of pepperoni pizza. I ate sitting at the counter in the kitchen and thought about Danny. I certainly didn’t think him a killer, but I had to admit that what I did know about Danny’s personal life was equally matched by what I didn’t know. Until a couple months earlier, I didn’t know he’d had an older brother who’d been killed in the Persian Gulf War or that the anger he’d experienced over the loss resulted in a string of small time robberies, bar fights and arrests. It was only because of a sympathetic judge who knew the Mosley family that he was he given the choice of serving nine months in lock-up or agreeing to leave Mississippi. He’d left Mississippi and moved to California, first landing in L.A. and a year later moving to San