In the last episode of The Crowded Streets, Rocky had chased Franklin, the man who tried to bribe him, to the office of a man named Inglehoff, who appears to be some sort of spiritual advisor. Franklin, in the meantime, is in a trance-like state as Rocky enters:
Inglehoff, by appointment only as his sign had read, wore a blue suit of a fine cut, the sort that requires a handful of fittings and a bundle of dollars. He had laid the jacket of this suit over a comfortable chair in the corner, revealing an impressive gray silk shirt and blue patterned tie set that must have cost him another pretty penny. A chunky ring with a deep blue stone adorned the fourth finger of his right hand. The furniture in his office was fairly new and well-built mahogany, upholstered in leather, but the jewel of the collection was his desk: a massive pine executive model with intricate pillared carvings at each edge, large enough to take up most of the room in the back portion of the office. Perhaps Inglehoff was a spiritual guide, but he certainly wasn't of the type to refuse the wealth and trappings of the world.
“If you would care to see my client,” Inglehoff intoned placidly, “please wait with the secretary downstairs. He has yet to achieve his higher state of consciousness.”
Over Inglehoff's shoulder I caught a glimpse of Franklin, sitting back in his chair with his head loose and wobbly, like he was taking an imaginary taxi ride after too many imaginary drinks. “I'm sorry to hear that,” I replied, “but I wouldn't care to wait.”
I stepped around Inglehoff toward the strange, thin man in the green suit and felt a hand reach for my arm, a hand that wasn't strong enough to hold me back. Franklin sat in his chair with his chin pointed at the ceiling, unaware of me or anything in his surroundings. I was nearly upon him, ready to shake him back to a lower state of consciousness, when Inglehoff shouted a word. One word, seemingly unrelated to anything:
“Halitosis!”
Not only did the word make me turn slightly to see what may have caused Inglehoff to say it, it woke Franklin from his trance. He was suddenly aware of the situation, and acted as quickly as possible, diving out of his chair and slipping across the floor with surprising speed to the window. Lucky for him, it was open, and as he charged through the curtains with a dive, he was even more fortunate to find a fire escape waiting for him on the other side. I was only a few paces behind, clanking after him on the fire stairs. He was almost within reach when he made the final turn and I swiped out a hand to grab him. My pointing finger caught the inside of his jacket and pulled it for just a second before it lost its grip and as he hit the ground running he put on a burst of speed that might have gotten him a spot on the next Olympic team. He intended to get to his car, and I knew if he did that, it was going to get messy. I ran after him as fast as I could, but he managed to jump into his driver's side of his Chevy and start the thing up before I could convince him not to. He squealed off.
Nothing to do but follow him.
He was better off sticking to his legs. My Buick had the advantage on the road and he learned that lesson quick. Franklin did nothing clever to shake me from his tail because he knew there was nothing he could do about it, so he did his best to outrun me. He ran the red lights in the hopes some kindly bystander would side-swipe me, and nearly got his wish at the corner of 17th and Parmenter when I managed to swerve and miss a blue Packard. He was heading straight west, toward the beach. Maybe I'd find out who he was really working for, and that got me going. I stepped on the gas, came so close to him that I bumped him a couple of times.
But I didn't guess what he was really after. Franklin had no intention of escape.
The ocean was in sight in the distance, beyond the pier at San Carlos Beach. I expected he would make the turn at the pier and head north, but he did no such thing. He jumped the curb and nearly took out a couple on the sidewalk. I hit the brakes and watched the rest: he skidded straight along the boards at top speed until there was nowhere else to go, crashed through the far gate and disappeared in a hideous splash. I left my car sitting in the middle of the road and ran out to see what I could do about it. Along the way, a man lay off to the side clutching his knee in pain, tended to by a couple of fishermen.
A group had already gathered at the gap in the gate Franklin had created, and they got to see what I saw: the last sickening moments of the Red Chevy disappearing under the cover of the Pacific Ocean.
What caused Franklin to drive his car off the pier, and what does it have to do with the financial dealings of Congressman Howard Dixon? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
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