never graduated. As the years went by, he took fewer and fewer classes. Presumably he would eventually accumulate enough credits for a degree, but I doubted it would matter. In many ways, Herman Ott still lived in the days of marijuana, Free Speech, antiwar demonstrations, and loathing of the Pigs.
It was after eleven when I finished the report. I should have gone home, if only to see how much water had dripped in through the jalousie windows that made up three walls of my porch-turned-studio apartment. Instead I turned east toward Telegraph. One advantage of dealing with a detective who lives in his office is he’s likely to be there at night.
Telegraph Avenue leads directly off the campus. It is the center of the students’ commercial world. The head shops and Indian clothing stores that used to characterize it are giving way to boutiques and gelato shops, but the sidewalks are still filled with street artists. Students and former students still ponder their goods. And, seemingly unaware that the sixties ended over a decade ago, rag-covered addicts still wander the avenue or prop themselves against buildings and ask for spare change.
But for the most part, Telegraph Avenue closes down with the departure of the sun. At night the shops are dark, the sidewalks empty, and the yellow glow from the streetlights shines overbright against the emptiness of the sidewalks. The only pedestrians are students hurrying from night classes, or the occasional drug burnout still propped against a building. Even on the street itself you rarely see another car.
And now, at nearly midnight, the students were gone and the avenue looked like a set from a long-completed movie.
I left my car in a red zone in front of Ott’s building and ran for the staircase that huddled darkly between a pizza take-out and a poster shop. I stood for a moment waiting for my eyes to adjust and wondering what regulation the landlord had broken in failing to provide an entryway light. But considering the condition of the building, that had to be the least of his infractions.
I made my way up the steps. The entry door was at the top. Not surprisingly, it was unlocked. Inside, the hallway was warm, and the smell of stale marijuana filled the air. I followed the staircase around and up to the third floor.
A dim light shone through the frosted glass panel of Ott’s office. It outlined the metal bars behind it. I knocked.
Ott wasn’t likely to pay for electricity when he wasn’t there. He was more likely to count on his reputation for coming out bruised but on top. He’d survived in this seedy establishment for nearly twenty years. Half of his clients were on drugs. In his early days another large slice of his clientele was so anti-establishment that they would have found not paying his bill laudable. But Ott had always made his rent, and as far as I knew he had never been hospitalized. And he had never given the police incriminating information about a client. He’d never cooperated with us unless there was something in it for him.
I pounded on the door. In my years on this beat I had tried to get information out of Ott four or five times, but succeeded only once, when it was clear to both of us that I could haul him in for obstructing justice.
Inside, I could hear a grunt.
I pounded harder.
“Okay, okay, keep your pants on.”
Ott pulled open the door and stared at me through half-closed eyes. He looked like he was sleepwalking, but I knew his reputation better than to believe that. He was shorter than I, his limp blond hair thinning on top. A gold-and-brown flannel shirt was half in and half out of his tan cords. Behind him, flung over the back of his desk chair, I could see his familiar yellow sweater. He looked a bit plumper than I recalled, as if the canary were about to lay an egg.
“Well?” he demanded, staring at my face, puzzled. The other times he had seen me I had been in uniform.
“Police.” I held out my shield.
He glanced at it and
It was after eleven when I finished the report. I should have gone home, if only to see how much water had dripped in through the jalousie windows that made up three walls of my porch-turned-studio apartment. Instead I turned east toward Telegraph. One advantage of dealing with a detective who lives in his office is he’s likely to be there at night.
Telegraph Avenue leads directly off the campus. It is the center of the students’ commercial world. The head shops and Indian clothing stores that used to characterize it are giving way to boutiques and gelato shops, but the sidewalks are still filled with street artists. Students and former students still ponder their goods. And, seemingly unaware that the sixties ended over a decade ago, rag-covered addicts still wander the avenue or prop themselves against buildings and ask for spare change.
But for the most part, Telegraph Avenue closes down with the departure of the sun. At night the shops are dark, the sidewalks empty, and the yellow glow from the streetlights shines overbright against the emptiness of the sidewalks. The only pedestrians are students hurrying from night classes, or the occasional drug burnout still propped against a building. Even on the street itself you rarely see another car.
And now, at nearly midnight, the students were gone and the avenue looked like a set from a long-completed movie.
I left my car in a red zone in front of Ott’s building and ran for the staircase that huddled darkly between a pizza take-out and a poster shop. I stood for a moment waiting for my eyes to adjust and wondering what regulation the landlord had broken in failing to provide an entryway light. But considering the condition of the building, that had to be the least of his infractions.
I made my way up the steps. The entry door was at the top. Not surprisingly, it was unlocked. Inside, the hallway was warm, and the smell of stale marijuana filled the air. I followed the staircase around and up to the third floor.
A dim light shone through the frosted glass panel of Ott’s office. It outlined the metal bars behind it. I knocked.
Ott wasn’t likely to pay for electricity when he wasn’t there. He was more likely to count on his reputation for coming out bruised but on top. He’d survived in this seedy establishment for nearly twenty years. Half of his clients were on drugs. In his early days another large slice of his clientele was so anti-establishment that they would have found not paying his bill laudable. But Ott had always made his rent, and as far as I knew he had never been hospitalized. And he had never given the police incriminating information about a client. He’d never cooperated with us unless there was something in it for him.
I pounded on the door. In my years on this beat I had tried to get information out of Ott four or five times, but succeeded only once, when it was clear to both of us that I could haul him in for obstructing justice.
Inside, I could hear a grunt.
I pounded harder.
“Okay, okay, keep your pants on.”
Ott pulled open the door and stared at me through half-closed eyes. He looked like he was sleepwalking, but I knew his reputation better than to believe that. He was shorter than I, his limp blond hair thinning on top. A gold-and-brown flannel shirt was half in and half out of his tan cords. Behind him, flung over the back of his desk chair, I could see his familiar yellow sweater. He looked a bit plumper than I recalled, as if the canary were about to lay an egg.
“Well?” he demanded, staring at my face, puzzled. The other times he had seen me I had been in uniform.
“Police.” I held out my shield.
He glanced at it and
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