The second leg of their trip had led them to an abandoned warehouse along the China Basin, a well-known sanctuary for the local homeless population. Mike knew that somewhere within the broken windows and burning barrels were the answers to countless crimes in The City, if one were to dig deep enough- and bring ample change.
Ignoring the cold breeze blowing his black overcoat all over the place, Mike waited for his partner to join him, walking side by side this time, as they approached the sizeable colony of people who were down on their luck.
"It's a culture of its own out here, isn't it?", Steve said and rubbed his cold hands together, then blowing into them, his warm breath rising in the air before a strong gust carried it away.
"You bet. Like a city inside a city. They've got their own rules, their own code of ethics, their leaders…for most people it's hard to fathom it even exists."
It didn't take long before their arrival had been duly noted, as weary faces turned into their direction, whispers were exchanged, a couple questionable characters here and there disappearing amongst the tents and rags that made up the community.
A few others cocked their heads in welcoming greeting, acknowledging the visitors as friends, before resuming their daily business.
"And here I complain about my cold apartment…", Steve muttered, his curious eyes taking in the many walks of life that shared the abandoned warehouse, people forgotten by society, somebody's son or daughter wasting away in a filthy corner, held upright only by a barren, lifeless concrete wall.
"It puts things into perspective, doesn't it?"
There was a softness in Mike's voice when he said that, his deep empathy for those lost souls around them shining through on the edges.
"Ah. There we go!", the Lieutenant followed up and pointed to the right, where a bearded man waved at them enthusiastically, "I think we found our first helper."
Dressed in a light brown jagged overcoat and black seaman's cap, the man's narrow frame and wrinkled face told a story of prolonged homelessness and exposure to the elements that even his thick beard reaching down to his chest couldn't hide.
"Michael!", he greeted genially as the two detectives approached, "It's a pleasure seeing you around here. How are you, my friend?"
Despite a couple missing teeth, the man's smile was genuine as he slapped Mike's shoulder, before reaching out a hand to shake Steve's.
"I see you brought your…your protégé with you again. I am sorry, young man, I forgot the name."
"Stephen Keller.", Steve said and shook the strong hand, "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Mister…"
"Daniels. Harry Daniels. But you can call me Huck."
"Huck, it is."
With a friendly smile, Steve let go of the homeless man's hand, noticing his frost-bitten fingertips, dark red and purple skin that was exposed from the fingerless gloves. Even if it did bother Huck, he didn't show it.
"So, what is it that brings you here today, Michael. I don't see your face down in these…parts of town all that often anymore."
"This is a work-related trip, unfortunately…", the Lieutenant explained somberly and followed Huck's gesture to stand near a burn barrel to get out of the wind, "I figured if anybody knows who we are looking for, it might be you and the guys."
"Well, you say guys…you know there aren't that many of us left. Barry was killed a few weeks ago. Right up here on Brannan. He was just crossing the street to get some food when a blue car rolled him over. They called it a hit and run. Nobody ever followed up on it. Naturally."
"I am very sorry to hear that…", Mike apologized and reached forward to pat the other man's shoulder, "I know you and Barry were close. When we get back, I'll dig into the case, see if there's anything we can do from our side, you have my word on that."
"Slinkie died of an overdose a month or so ago. And Derek, well I haven't seen Derek in ages. Somebody said he's moved down to the Tenderloin but I am not sure. It just leaves Sammie, Smitten and myself."
With a weary sigh, Huck let his eyes drift to the littered ground before stretching his injured hands toward the barrel again, relishing the heat that came off the burning paper and garbage despite the noxious fumes engulfing the area.
"But enough of us. What is it you need help with, Michael?"
Shifting back somewhat to avoid any of the sparks from burning his coat; Mike shoved his cold hands into his pockets before clearing his throat.
"We're looking for information on a man who was part of a group of entertainers during World War 2 right here in the San Francisco area. They'd perform for free but if people donated, they'd give the money to local food banks…"
His vague information caused the other man to raise his eyebrows, then shrug.
"I am not sure I can help you there, but I can ask around down here. Anything else you got?"
"Yeah…", Mike said, trying to stifle a shiver against the cold temperatures, "They had tattoos on their thighs…one side read "San Francisco", the other side read…"
"…Happy Art. You're talking about the Happy Artists. Why didn't you say so right away!"
With renewed enthusiasm, Huck clapped his hands together, his broad and sincere smile nothing short of infectious.
"Man, that was a long, long time ago. Small group of local artists, I'd say maybe seven or eight guys. They had some jugglers, poets, singers, the works. They were great."
"Do you know if any of them are still alive and where they reside now?", Steve asked, his question rewarded with a faint nod.
"A lot of them left the city after the war, not sure if it was to pursue other interests or what. You see, they were kind of a legend on the streets, young man, a group of benevolent guys who were just trying to help their community. It earned them as much praise as it did scorn, jealousy even from other artists and venues. There came a point where their…services weren't required any longer so they disbanded. Their goodwill spread in the community made them a legend over the years. But as of now, I only know of two of the guys still in the area. What are their names…give me a second…"
"Just take your time.", Mike nudged patiently.
"I think one is Winston Seaver, or Seavers. The other one had a strange name…Bogo…or Bollo Hernandez, I think. That's all I know though, I swear. I don't even know if those two still live in the city. Been a while since the topic was brought up."
"This is wonderful, thank you so much!", Mike cheered and retrieved a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet before handing it to Huck, much to his partner's surprise, "Here, that ought to keep you fed for a few days."
Inspecting the money as though he expected for it to be fake, Huck turned the billfold over few times, reading the inscription, then glanced back up at the detectives.
"Thank you, guys. It's always a pleasure doing business with you!"