Free From Berkeley with Love by Hamilton Waymire Page A

Mayer.
    Linda looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Is that really necessary?”
    I said, “Please,” and held out my hand.
    She rummaged through her purse for a couple of minutes and produced a standard white envelope, neatly sliced open at the top. Holding it halfway across the table, she pulled back when I reached for it, hesitated a moment, then let it go. I noted the Ventura date stamp. One sheet of white paper stuck inside, inexpertly folded to fit the envelope. My eyes wouldn’t focus on the text, gravitating instead to the photograph that had been photocopied on the page. The picture quality was poor, but it showed a young woman, presumably Linda, engaged in an acrobatic sexual activity involving a guy and another girl. That would’ve made me vote for Linda every time, but I had to agree that such images might not go down well with her Republican friends.
    Eventually I managed to pry my eyes from the picture. The words instructed Linda to deposit fifty thousand dollars in cash in a private mailbox in Santa Ana by the seventeenth. That would be Saturday. Three days from today.
    “How do you know it’s from Wainer?”
    “There were six of us: Wainer, his girlfriend Tammy, Linda and me, and the Dretskes,” Mayer said. “Peter and Carla Dretske died in a car accident while we were still seeing each other. Their deaths kind of broke up the group, I guess.”
    Linda interrupted him. “There’s an off-chance it might be Tammy, but frankly, I don’t think she’s smart enough. They could be in it together, I suppose.”
    I pondered that for a moment. “Your letter pretty much the same?” I asked Mayer.
    “Identical, except for the picture,” he said and tried to smile.
    When they exited the office, I was left with a thousand dollar retainer, a blackmailer’s letter, and a twenty-two year old color photograph that Linda had brought, fading at the edges and showing Steven Wainer, Tammy Zelter, Ron Mayer, and my client. I could’ve done worse.
    I put a call through to Patty O’Connor, an old flame from my days at St. Augustine High School. As a claims processor with the Social Security Administration, she had access to a huge computer database. Unfortunately, she’d never forgiven me for dumping her for this fun-loving biker chick I met right after graduation.
    “You’ve got some nerve,” she barked as soon as I said my name. “I have work to do. If you’re going to ask a favor, forget it.”
    “When have I ever asked you a favor, honey? Look—”
    “I’m not your honey, and the last time you asked was in February. I’m really swamped, Ben.”
    “I’m looking for a Steven Wainer, born around 1938 or ’39. Last known address is 15 Basilone Alley, Berkeley, California. That was back in 1971. I don’t have a social.”
    She snorted. “You must be joking. It would be illegal for me to give out such information. And besides, with so little to go on, I probably wouldn’t find him anyway.”
    “I know you can do it.” I hated myself for buttering her up like this, but I really needed the money from this job. “Please. For old times’ sake. I’d do the same for you.”
    “Old times’ sake? You friggin’ dumped me for a leather-wearing slut.”
    “Honey, if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t make that mistake again,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “Please.”
    “What was the name again?” she grunted.
    I repeated the information.
    “I don’t know why I should, but I’ll give it a shot,” she said. “You owe me. Big time.”
    “Sure,” I said. “And while you’re at it, could you throw in Tammy Zelter, same address, couple years younger? Next time I’m in Baltimore, I’ll take you out to dinner. Promise.”
    I could picture her sardonic grin as she said, “Give me some advance warning. I’ll need to think up something to tell the hubby.”
    I made some more calls—phone companies, utilities—but didn’t get anywhere. When I finally put my feet up on the desk, my