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It took about three seconds for the turbaned clerk to squint at the photo, flip through a bound black register, and in a tight accent say, “Tree-oh-sevon. He is registered with the name Burns.” He pointed. “Ele-vator to the right.”
Moments later, we stood in the dingy, paint-chipped hallway on the third floor outside Coombs’s room, flicking our automatics off safety.
“Remember, we’re only talking,” I cautioned. “Keep your eyes open for anything we can use.”
Jacobi and Cappy nodded, then each took a position on either side of the door. Cappy knocked.
No one answered.
He knocked again. “Mr. Frank Burns?”
Finally, a heavy, grumbling voice. “Go the fuck away. Get lost, huh. I’m paid up through Friday.”
Jacobi shouted, “San Francisco Police, Mr. Burns. We got you your morning coffee.”
There was a long pause. I heard some commotion, the sound of a chair being dragged and a drawer closed. Finally, the sound of footsteps coming closer and a voice barking, “What the fuck do you want?”
“Just to ask a few questions. You mind opening the door?”
It took about a minute of waiting with our fingers tensed on the triggers for the door to finally unlatch.
It swung open, revealing an angry Coombs.
Chimera.
His face was round and heavy, with eyes that sagged into deep-set craters. Short, graying hair, a large, flat nose, mottled skin. He had on a white short-sleeved undershirt pulled over rumpled gray trousers. And his eyes burned with hatred and disdain.
“Here…,” exclaimed Jacobi, swatting him in the chest with a rolled-up Chronicle. “Your morning paper. Mind if we come in?”
“Yeah, I mind.” Coombs scowled.
Cappy smiled. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for this cat who used to be on the force? What the hell was the cat’s name? Oh yeah, Coombs. Frank Coombs. You ever hear that from anybody before?”
Coombs blinked impassively, then his mouth curled into a half smile. “Wouldn’t you know, I get boarded on planes for him all the time.”
If he recognized Jacobi or Cappy from years ago on the force, he didn’t register it, but he squinted a look of familiarity as his gaze fell on me. “Don’t tell me, after all this time, you bozos are the department’s welcome-home committee?”
“How ’bout you let us in?” Jacobi asked.
“You come with a warrant?” Coombs leered.
“I told you nicely, we’re just delivering your morning paper.”
“Then make a fucking scene. C’mon,” Coombs said between gritted teeth. His eyes were something else; they burned a hole right into the back of your skull.
Cappy pressed the door firmly in Coombs’s face, then he and Jacobi pushed their way into the room. “As long as we’re here, we might as well run a couple of questions by you.”
Coombs rubbed his unshaven chin, glaring vicious darts at us. He finally pulled out a wooden chair from a small table and took a seat with his arms wrapped around its back. “Fuckers,” he muttered. “Useless shitbirds.”
The tiny room was littered with newspapers, Budweiser bottles lined up on the sill, cigarette butts in Coke cans. I had the sense that if I could only poke around, something was there.
“This is Lieutenant Boxer of the Homicide Detail,” Jacobi said. “We’re Inspectors Jacobi and McNeil.”
“Congratulations.” Coombs grinned. “I feel safer already. What do you Three Stooges want?”
“Like I said,” Jacobi replied, “you should read the papers. Keep abreast of what’s going on. You follow what’s in the news much?”
“You got something to say, say it,” Coombs said.
