Free The McCone Files by Marcia Muller Page A

Port Chicago.” Port Chicago was where the Naval Weapons Station was located, on the edge of Suisun Bay.
    â€œWell, maybe not all the way to Chicago.”
    I smiled at the feeble joke, thinking that for a clown, Fitzgerald really didn’t have much of a sense of humor, then allowed him to lapse back into his moody silence.

    When we arrived at the pavilion, the parking lot was already crowded, the gates having opened early so people could picnic before the show started. An orange-jacketed attendant directed us to a far corner of the lot which had been cordoned off for official parking near the performers’ gate. Fitzgerald and I waited in the car for about fifteen minutes, the late afternoon sun beating down on us, until Wayne Kabalka’s Seville pulled up alongside. With the manager and John Tilby were two women; a chic, fortyish redhead, and a small dark-haired woman in her twenties. Fitzgerald and I got out and went to them.
    The redhead was Corinne Kabalka, her strong handshake and level gaze made me like her immediately. I was less sure about Nicole Leland; the younger woman was beautiful, with short black hair sculpted close to her head and exotic features, but her manner was very cold. She nodded curtly when introduced to me, then took Tilby’s arm and led him off toward the performers’ gate. The rest of us trailed behind.
    Security was tight at the gate. We met Roy Canfield, who was personally superintending the check-in, and each of us was issued a pass. No one, Canfield told us, would be permitted backstage or through the gate, without showing his pass. Security personnel would also be stationed in the audience to protect those clowns who, as part of the show, would be performing out on the lawn.
    We were then shown to a large dressing room equipped with a couch, a folding card table and chairs. After everyone was settled there I took Kabalka aside and asked him if he would take charge of the group for about fifteen minutes while I checked the layout of the pavilion. He nodded distractedly and I went out front.
    Stage personnel were scurrying around, setting up sound equipment and checking the lights. Don had already arrived, but he was conferring with one of the other KSUN jocks and didn’t look as if he could be disturbed. The formal seating was empty, but the lawn was already crowded. People lounged on blankets, passing around food, drink and an occasional joint. Some of the picnics were elaborate—fine china, crystal wineglasses, ice buckets, and in one case, a set of lighted silver candelabra; others were of the paper-plate and plastic-cup variety. I spotted the familiar logos of Kentucky Fried Chicken and Jack-in-the-Box here and there. People called to friends, climbed up and down the hill to the restroom and refreshment facilities, dropped by other groups’ blankets to see what goodies they had to trade. Children ran through the crowd, and occasional Frisbee sailed through the air. I noticed a wafting trail of iridescent soap bubbles, and my eyes followed it to a young woman in a red halter top who was blowing them, her face aglow with childlike pleasure.
    For a moment I felt a stab of envy, realizing that if I hadn’t taken on this job I could be out front, courtesy of the free pass Don had promised me. I could have packed a picnic, perhaps brought along a woman friend, and Don could have dropped by to join us when he had time. But instead, I was bodyguarding a pair of clowns who—given the pavilion’s elaborate security measures—probably didn’t need me. And in addition to Fitzgerald and Tilby, I seemed to be responsible for an entire group. I could see why Kabalka might want to stick close to his clients, but why did the wife and girlfriend have to crowd into what was already a stuffy, hot dressing room? Why couldn’t they go out front and enjoy the performance? It complicated my assignment, having to contend with an entourage, and the thought