Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

“Not all the way. By now some of those hopheads I was running with are on their way to Tia Juana for more heroin. They took over a thousand dollars from Bello up on Rincon Hill. What if word is around town that I was with Bello before he was killed by these junior league hopheads on Turk Street? I can put it out that I was still pressuring him for some heroin.”

“Alright. You know the crowd, Chris. I dislike seeing you lose the effectiveness of the role you’ve worked on for six months. What do you suggest now?”

“That I try to contact the kilo man over at Sausalito. I’ll try to get Bello’s job. I know the junkers and I can drop enough names to convince this connection that I’m his best candidate to take over and replace Bello. If he’s not the top man out here, I’ll try to get on up the heroin ladder to the man who is on top. If he is the actual importer and transporter, we’ll move in on him with his first delivery to me. Make sense?”

“I’ll get in touch with Washington and see what the director has to say, Chris. Get something to eat and I’ll let you know in a few minutes.”

Chris Padgett listened to the sounds of the teletype as he drank black coffee. He shaved and changed his clothes. He re-loaded the.38 and left the narcotics caps with the Bureau lab man for analysis, carefully tagging each one with its source and date, hour and location. He was on his second cup of coffee when his senior officer of the N Man team joined him in the kitchen.

“You’re cleared for Sausalito, Chris, but we’ll have a snooper on you all the way. Take the green Chev from the garage. It’s already bugged. We’ll be on top of you all the time. And, Chris, check in your I.D. and revolver for this trip. You’re not playing footsie with San Francisco addicts. You can run into a frisk at this level that could mean a dead agent if that card were turned up. The name of that schooner is the Stardust. Its owner is the lessee of that apartment on Grant. He’s also the owner of the bar on Turk. The name’s Karl Gortoff — no record here; white male, 44; supposed to have moved here about a year ago from LA. The LAPD has no record on him. But the schooner has a Panamanian registry. The boys picked up his prints from the Grant Avenue pad and neither the FBI nor Interpol people have anything on him. He’s a mystery man and the Stardust is a mystery ship. It hasn’t moved from its anchorage for six months. We’ll have the Coast Guard keep it under surveillance from now on. But once you’re aboard, you’ll have to play it by ear. If it weighs anchor and sails out of U.S. territorial waters, you’ll be on your own. Better get fixed up with a passport — just in case.”

Chris Padgett drove carefully over the bridge. He didn’t worry about a tail. He knew he was tailed by his own N Man co-workers and that, if he were picked up by a chance recognition from San Francisco addicts, his protective tail would have them promptly stopped by local police. He parked the Bureau car under the cliff and walked across the cliffside Sausalito road to a swank resort restaurant bar. From its room-wide window, he saw the Stardust, lying at anchor on the shimmering, moonlit water. Its cabin lights glowed through the fog. Padgett sat at the bar and listened to a low-playing combo play, “stardust”.

“Ballentine’s and water, please,” he replied to the barman.

The barman made conversation and the window view made Padgett’s question a natural.

“Whose schooner?”

“Karl Gortoff. He also owns this place.”

Padgett disguised his reaction at this new source of information and smiled, “Nice boat. Nice spot here.”

“We do have a good trade.”

Padget sipped his drink and listened as the bar enlarged on the “nice kind of trade” which patronized the Stardust Inn. “Not too much of a crowd during the week. But reservations are necessary on weekends.”

“I’d like to meet Mr. Gortoff. He around?”

“He might be aboard the schooner. But the manager’s here if you want to see him. You a friend of Mr. Gortoff?”

“Yes,” Padgett lied with a smile. “I’ll be back.” He left a bill on the bar and walked leisurely outside the inn. He leaned against a porch pillar, idly smoking a cigarette and looking down the cliffside road. He flipped the butt into the air and sauntered across the road to his car. For a few minutes he sat in the car, looking out into the night fog. When his eyes were adjusted to the dark and fog, he watched the inn for five minutes. Then he switched on the car’s fog lights. From the cliffside of the road a man moved towards the car. Padgett opened the door and switched off the fog lights.