He opened a drawer and took out a slip of paper. "I checked the payroll roster for the film she did. These are the names and addresses of a couple of crew members I've been in touch with since. I can't guarantee they're still here in San Francisco, but it's a place to start."

I took the slip and glanced at it, recognizing the names from the list I'd checked. Both San Francisco numbers were now disconnects. "Thanks. I appreciate this." Worthless as it is, I thought.

He got up from the desk. "Now if you'll forgive me, I have to put in a quick appearance before I go to bed. Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?"

"Thanks, but I'd better not. I have ground to cover yet, and I'm not in town that long."

"I'll walk you out," he said courteously.

I followed him down the wide white marble stairs, across the foyer, and through a vast empty room with a domed ceiling and pale, glossy, hardwood floors. At the far end, there was a small stage. "What will you do now that your business is sold?"

"This is the ballroom," he said, catching the curiosity in my look. "My wife had it refurbished. She gives charity balls for diseases only rich people get. To answer your question, I won't have to do anything."

"Lucky you."

"Not luck. This was my intention from the onset. I'm a goal-oriented person. I'd advise you to do likewise."

"Absolutely," I said.

In the foyer, we shook hands. I noticed he had the door closed before I reached the front walk. I retrieved my car, tipping the parking valet a buck. From his look of amazement, everybody else must have tipped him five.

I consulted my map. Russell Turpin's Haight Street address wasn't far. I headed south on Masonic and crossed the Panhandle section of Golden Gate Park. Haight was two blocks up, and the address I needed was only four blocks down.

The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Remnants of the past glories of Haight-Ashbury were still in evidence: vintage dress shops and bookstores, funky-looking restaurants, a storefront clinic. The street was well lighted, and there was still quite a bit of traffic. The street people were decked out like the flower children of old, still wearing bell-bottoms, nose rings, dreadlocks, torn blue jeans, leather, face paints, multiple earrings, backpacks, and knee-high boots. Music tumbled out of bars. In half the doorways, kids loitered, looking stoned, though perhaps on drugs more exotic than grass or 'ludes.

I circled, driving an eight-block track—two down, two over, two up, two back—trying to find a place to tuck my car. San Francisco seems ill equipped to accommodate the number of vehicles within the city limits. Parked cars are squeezed into every available linear inch of curb, angled into hillsides, lined up on sidewalks, wedged against the buildings. Front bumpers are nosed in too close to fire hydrants. Back bumpers hang out into red-painted zones. Garage space is at a premium, and every driveway bristles with signs warding off the poachers.