A Blogger, Idiot Noir

Everything about the rendezvous stunk. It was 5:30 AM - before the dog walking crowd, or any crowd, for that matter. That made Kane nervous. It would be dark, too, and in unfamiliar territory Kane would be exposing himself to unnecessary risk. And Stow Lake - a stagnant, manmade body of water in the middle of Golden Gate Park - literally stunk.

But he had to meet Adler. Sigmund Adler, who by appearances in the warehouse records was Zinneman's labor foreman and top ranking employee. Adler hadn't been seen since Zinneman's disappearance, and Kane's trip to Adler's Ocean View home had been fruitless. The phone call from Adler was mystifying but worth following up on...even under these circumstances.

The situation was this: Kane was to take a canoe (there'd be one untethered) and wait in the middle of the lake, at which point Adler would presumably find a way to meet up with him. And so daybreak found a single boat drifting sluggishly along the shores of Strawberry Hill, with a dark figure hunched at the helm, a fly fisherman's hat obscuring the face.

An agitated flurry of wings amidst the trees followed closely on the heels of a sharp crack! whose origin seemed to be the cobblestone bridge not far from the canoe. As the first bullet knifed into the water, Kane was already reaching for his Colt .32 pistol, deftly switching the safety off as he brought it to his line of sight. He didn't like to carry a gun, but he wasn't too fond of being shot at, either.

The second bullet ripped through the breast pocket of Kane's shirt, and the canoe shuddered. Kane himself, though, was watching from shore, taking a quick moment to mentally pat himself on the back for using the mannequin trick once more. It wasn't the most clever move he had, but then again, it was dark out, and there was a chance any setup might get sloppy.

Death had come to interview Kane on three previous occasions: The first time, in Libya, June 1941, in the only real action he saw in the war, he'd been wounded and discharged after complications during his rehab. The second time, his first night back in the U.S. following the Africa tour, an ill-advised bar fight had escalated into a knife fight. And the third time was simply the result of a poor decision to get behind the wheel of his car.

This is no time for nostalgia, Kane told himself as he crept toward the bridge. The second muzzle flash had given away the shooter's location. As Kane approached, he saw an object - it must have been the gun - being flung over the side rail and into the water.

But Kane was unprepared for the third shot. This one came from off in the distance, and caused Kane to re-evaluate his pursuit.

The man on the bridge apparently did not see it coming, either. His final glimpse was of the dusty trail rising up to meet his face.