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Pete McCauley, middle-aged hero of the Korean and Vietnam wars, suffers a head injury in what appears to be a hunting accident and wakes up with trauma-induced amnesia. He is suddenly a man without a past, a man determined to find out who he is—and why someone seems intent on killing him. His search for answers leads him from his comfortable bachelor pad in San Francisco into the shadowy world of rogue CIA agents, neo-Nazis, anti-government militia and a plot to plunge the nation into an all-out war against international communism, beginning in the nation's own backyard.
I arrived at John's Grill early to get a jump on Tobin. They knew him all right. He was a regular. They said I couldn't miss him, and they were right. The bartender nodded toward the door as Tobin entered and all I saw was a shadow falling over the room. Dan Tobin was a monster of a man. He stood about six feet, six inches and must have weighed over four hundred pounds. He wore a topcoat that made him look like a circus tent with a crumpled fedora on top. He was more than disheveled; he looked as if he'd just walked through a tornado.
"Ah, McCauley," he said as I approached him. "I see you came early to check on me. Well, you can see I am who I said I am and I'm not a cop. Let's take a booth so we can talk privately. I can't manage a bar stool and bartenders have big ears."
He picked a booth in the rear of the restaurant and with great effort slid into the seat, which he filled with his bulk. Once he had made himself comfortable, the table was pushed so far my way I had difficulty squeezing in opposite him. Ignoring my plight, he withdrew a handful of papers from his coat pocket and spread them on the table, pawing through them with his huge, meaty hands. The waiter came immediately.
"It's my custom to have a drink before lunch, McCauley. What will you have?"
"A dry martini, straight up and no olive."
The waiter brought Tobin's drink without having to ask—double grasshopper which the big man eyed greedily.
"It's all I drink," he explained. "I really don't like most alcoholic beverages, and this reminds me more of mint candy than booze. Cheers, McCauley."
As with many huge people, Tobin was gentle as a bird. He grasped the stem of his glass between his thumb and index finger and raised it to his lips with his pinky extended. After sipping the frothy mixture he carefully placed the glass on the table and dabbed at his lips with his napkin.
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"Ahhh, delicious," he exclaimed. "And now McCauley let's get down to business. We must see if there is any profit in this for either of us."
He had sorted through the papers and extracted a document that he proceeded to read in the muffled tones one uses to scan through irrelevancies in search of a nugget of importance. Most of what I could catch sounded legalistic, something about claims to the estate of a person named Lundgren. Omaha—I distinctly heard him say Omaha. And the sum, $300,000, came through loud and clear accompanied by a glance from Tobin to catch my reaction.
"Now then, here it is—'Elmer Lundgren's only known heir is a nephew, Capt. Peter J. McCauley of the United States Army, whose last known address was Letterman Hospital, San Francisco, California.' This is dated January, 1974. I don't know how old the attorney's information was. Could it be you they're referring to, McCauley? Or are we dealing here with a mere coincidence of names?"
"I don't know. I don't think I know anyone named Elmer Lundgren in Omaha. And even if I did, I don't know how I'd prove it." The reference to Letterman was intriguing, but it might require going into my song and dance about amnesia, and I wasn't ready to do that, not yet. Tobin was the detective, let him prove his case.
"Not much help," he said, fishing a faded photograph from among the papers. He held it up to compare the face to my face. "No help at all," he concluded. "Too old by far."
"Who, me or the man in the picture?" I asked, taking the photo he offered. It was a standard military portrait of a young second lieutenant, the kind of shot that's taken just before graduation from Officer Candidate School—the head shaved, the overseas cap squared away, the manly expression. I noticed the insignia, the crossed rifles of the Infantry. But the face wasn't mine. It was all wrong—the eyes, the nose, the cheekbones, the mouth. The man in the picture definitely wasn't me. A face changes, but not that much. I think I was more disappointed than Tobin was.
"Sorry," I said. "Anyone can see that's not me. I guess you're out your finder's fee, and I'm out an inheritance. But never say die, Tobin. You never can tell when another Peter J. McCauley might turn up on the police blotter."
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He was looking at me very closely, not to compare a face with a photograph, but as if seeking something deeper.
"I knew the moment I saw you that this was not your photograph, McCauley. But a photograph might not be conclusive evidence anyway. A court would demand more."
"The cops took my fingerprints," I said, holding up a finger to display an obstinate trace of ink. "They could forward them to Omaha and check them against your McCauley's prints. If he was a commissioned officer, the feds must have them."
He took my hand quickly and examined the faded ink stain.
"This is very interesting," he said.
"What is?"
"They did take your prints, and I know I read the booking sheet correctly this morning. But when I went back for second look after you called, your booking sheet had been pulled. There is no record of your arrest."
"Why would they pull it?" I asked.
"I would guess it's because you have a lot of clout, McCauley—or a very good lawyer. I can't think of any other explanation."
"Some may have clout in this town, Tobin, but not me. I'm a nobody."
"Then perhaps someone is pulling strings for you, and quite effectively."
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