Dead time, but necessary; until close of business there was always a chance, however small, that Tamara or somebody who knew her whereabouts might call. Then he switched on the answering machine, locked up, went down to the garage for his car. On his own time now. Ready to jump when Bill called, but until then the priority flag was down. He let himself think again about Troy and Tommy Douglass. Keep moving, keep busy, pick up where he’d left off earlier. South San Francisco, sprawled out in a little valley under San Bruno Mountain, was an industrial city that billed itself that way in huge white letters cut into one of the flanking hillsides. Nearly half of it was given over to factories, steel mills, maintenance shops for the airlines at SFO, meat-packing plants, paint and chemical and plastics companies. The other half was largely blue-collar and lower-income, white-collar residential—housing that was crazily overpriced, like all Bay Area real estate these days, but given its proximity to San Francisco, still affordable and desirable.
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