CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Friday would be the day—the night—of the show at the Coliseum. But first Lindsey wanted to look for Andrew Joshua Hammersmith. He drove into San Francisco and put the Hyundai in a muni lot. Then he walked to Hammersmith’s hotel, a rotting pile of bricks that might once have housed respectable citizens. Now it had been converted to warehouse welfare cases and newly-arrived Asian refugees.
A hand-lettered cardboard sign hung in the doorway, advising one and all that no one was admitted except residents. Lindsey tried the door and found it locked. On a Friday at 11:00 AM. He rapped on the glass. He could see a few old men and women sitting around the lobby on faded furniture. A black-and-white TV set was mounted on a bracket eight or nine feet above the floor. Lindsey coul
