Greasing the Piñata (16 page)
Follow your nose up Columbus Avenue from Fisherman’s Wharf and you’ll find The Stinking Rose. The exterior is painted a lurid purple and the sign is electric orange—a combination that’s hard to miss—but most people smell the famous restaurant long before they see it.
By its own estimation, the restaurant serves over three thousand pounds of garlic each month, which doesn’t count the more than two thousand garlic bulbs used to decorate the interior. Along with red wine and dark chocolate, garlic has been widely praised for its health benefits, making the restaurant popular not only with tourists but also foodies and health nuts. The only people who avoid the place are vampires.
Frank had taken a private room in back. The room was normally reserved for parties of six or more, but Frank ate enough for four all by himself and had two bodyguards, so it was close enough.
The waitress brought the second course as Frank mopped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t recognize her, figured she must be new. Not much of a looker, big hips and thick braided hair going gray at the roots. A mole on her chin that might have been sexy if only it had been two inches higher. But she was fast, and that’s all that mattered. If Frank wanted to see tits and ass he could walk across the street to any of the strip clubs littering both sides of Broadway. Frank wanted to eat.
***
Cape smiled at the hostess and blinked away tears as his eyes adjusted to the garlic-infused atmosphere. He scanned the restaurant but didn’t see Sally. He headed toward the restrooms, located directly past the private dining area.
He passed red leather booths with velvet drapes overhead, chandeliers and coat racks adorned with bulbs of garlic. A wall mural of San Francisco landmarks populated by cartoon garlic-people, smiling and laughing as they mingled with tourists who would, no doubt, be eating them soon.
***
Frank didn’t expect any trouble. He’d made his peace with the Chinese, drew neat little lines on the map. There might be some heat from the Feds because of this fiasco with the Senator, but nothing he couldn’t handle. They tap his phone again, big fucking deal. Business as usual.
Still, Frank never ate alone. No need to upset the other patrons of the restaurant by having Tommy outside the door looking like a bouncer, but having him inside the door helped Frank’s digestion. And with André sitting behind him, Frank had a bodyguard sandwich ready to protect him if anything went down.
He drank some more water and smiled as the waitress brought the main course.
Courses
—plural—Frank had an appetite tonight. He dabbed his napkin across his forehead and scooted his chair closer to the table.
***
Cape stood at the sink in the men’s room and visualized the room he had just passed. One guy sitting on a chair near the door, looking relaxed but out of place, no table in front of him. Frank with a napkin tucked into his collar, another in his right hand, his florid complexion reflecting the halogens overhead. Another guy behind Frank, presumably a second bodyguard, his face obscured by the waitress’ hips as she bent to put a plate the size of Kansas in front of Frank. Cape noticed two more dishes on a serving tray behind her.
He ran some water over his hands and splashed it on his face, nodded to himself in the mirror, opened the door and started down the hall.
***
“Will there be anything else?”
The waitress squeezed the last plate onto the table and removed the dirty dishes, refilled Frank’s glass of water and poured another glass of wine without spilling a drop. Damn she was good.
“What’s your name sweetheart?” Frank was feeling magnanimous.
The waitress said something he couldn’t catch. Sounded almost Chinese.
“It means
Little Dragon
.” She leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper. “But you can call me Sally.”
Frank started to respond but stopped as he noticed someone in the doorway, a man about six feet tall, sandy hair, shirt untucked over jeans. He looked vaguely familiar. Frank half-stood as he leaned past the waitress to get a better look, just as the man stepped across the threshold and kicked Tommy in the face.
Cape dropped to his knees, landing on Tommy’s solar plexus. He could taste the bodyguard’s breath as the wind rushed out of him. Cape removed the nine-millimeter from Tommy’s shoulder holster and turned toward Frank. The bodyguard sitting in the back of the room was already on his feet, his hand reaching under his coat.
Sally laid her right hand flat on the table and vaulted past Frank, landing directly in front of André. He sneered and snapped his left arm out from his body, a football blocking move, as he grasped the butt of his gun with his right hand.
Sally grabbed his left wrist with both her hands and twisted inward, toward his body. The effect was dramatic. André’s brain told him to protect the bones in his wrist, which sent a signal to his legs to leap backward out of harm’s way. He levitated off his heels with a distinct lack of grace, airborne long enough for Sally to kick his legs out from under him. He landed in a heap at her feet, his gun clattering across the floor until it spun to a stop directly under Frank’s chair.
Frank’s eyes darted to the pistol but he wasn’t stupid. He looked at the gun in Cape’s hand and nodded, then kicked the gun that was under his chair toward the door, which Cape had gently closed behind him.
Cape gestured at Tommy with the gun. The bodyguard scooted backward against the wall, then stood. His chin was red where Cape’s shoe had connected but he wasn’t bleeding. Cape slid the chair over and Tommy took a seat, looking like he wanted to kill someone. Cape was pretty sure he knew who that someone might be.
The bodyguard behind Frank stood awkwardly, clutching his wrist. Cape smiled when he saw the man’s face. It was his old friend from Mexico, the man he thought of as Cyrano. His nose looked the same but his expression had become considerably more sour.
“
Hola, mi amigo
,” said Cape.
“Up yours.”
“Never did get your name when we were South of the border.”
“—his name’s André.” Frank cut in. “Like André the giant, only more like André the dumbass from the look of things.” He glanced at Sally, who took André by the wrist and led him to another chair. She seemed to barely touch him, but André winced with every step and made no move to resist.
Sally stood between the two bodyguards and proceeded to undress. Her wig was the first to go, tossed in a ragged heap on the floor. The mole on her chin was peeled off, then flicked across the room like a squashed bug. The waitress outfit was shed to reveal false hips underneath, padded foam contours attached with velcro.
“Unbelievable.” Frank shook his head and turned his attention back to Cape. “You’re not here to whack me, so I don’t suppose you mind if I finish my fuckin dinner?”
Cape took the chair directly across from Frank and spun it around, straddled it. He placed the gun on the table, out of Frank’s reach but well within his own grasp. Then he unbuttoned his shirt to the center of his chest and pulled the two sides apart.
“No wire, Frank.”
“Not much chest hair, either.”
Cape rebuttoned his shirt. “Does Salinas know you have another supplier?”
Frank coughed, spraying Cape with garlic-infused spittle. For a moment it looked like the Heimlich maneuver might be needed.
“Skip that question for now,” said Cape. “Let’s talk about the Senator.”
Frank drank some water, his face cooling from red to pink. He stared at Cape for a long moment before jabbing a fork into his garlic chicken.
“Why am I talking to you?”
“Oh, sorry.” Cape took a card from his pocket. It was the card Salinas had given him in Mexico, the one with the drug lord’s private number. Cape slid it across the table far enough for Frank to read. “Want me to ask that first question again?”
“The Senator’s dead.”
“That hasn’t hit the news yet, Frank.”
“Word gets around.” Frank glanced toward André-Cyrano, who was still massaging his wrist. “Go wait in the car.” Frank turned toward Cape. “Unless you got a problem with that?”
Cape made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger and pretended to shoot it at Cyrano, who gave him the middle finger in response. After he was gone, Cape turned his attention back to Frank.
“How long did you own the Senator?”
“You’re mighty well informed.” Frank took a bite of chicken and spoke with his mouth full. “Too bad you can’t prove anything.”
“I don’t have to—I’m not a cop, or a Fed. I just need some answers for my client, then I go away and you never see me again.”
“Somehow I doubt that—you’re like a bad penny.”
“C’mon, Frank, neither one of us is getting any younger.”
Frank dabbed his mouth with the napkin tucked under his chin. “You know that stadium project that made the Senator a local bigshot—guess who built the stadium?”
“Construction is your bread and butter, isn’t it?”
At the mention of bread and butter, Frank took another bite. “We underbid the job. Senator Dobbins didn’t realize that two major corporate contributors to his election campaign had ties to the—umm, to
us
.” Frank smiled at the memory. “So when we won the stadium job, we could make it look like maybe the Senator was playing favorites.”
“He either goes on the payroll or you say something to the press. Goodbye political career.”
“Hello jail.” Frank chuckled. “And no skin off my back, since the press would only have enough to claim
alleged
mob connections.”
“The rumors would be enough to ruin him, so you owned his vote.”
“Rented, is more like it.” Frank shifted his focus to the garlic mashed potatoes.
“How often?”
“We greased him on a regular basis—a few grand a month—but only called in favors once in a while.”
“Because you had others on the payroll?”
Frank leaned back, shifting his weight from side to side. “Attracts less attention if you spread the responsibility around. You do your homework, don’t you?”
Cape tried to look modest and almost pulled it off.
“I’m not saying I know anything about that.” Frank sounded like he was testifying in court. “Just like I’m not saying there is such a thing as organized crime—I’m just a businessman with diversified interests in construction, shipping, real estate.”
“How about insurance?”
“You bet.” Frank smiled and sucked on his teeth. “Some people buy insurance because they’re worried there might be a fire in their store—some dumbass spills lighter fluid or a stock boy gets careless with matches. But if the owner of that store buys insurance—”
“—from you—”
“—then no fire—they’re protected. Fire insurance, life insurance. Nowadays they got insurance for everything.”
“Legislative insurance?” Cape reached out and spun the gun like a bottle. “Protection in case corporate taxes get raised. Real estate zoning changes, drives up costs. Maybe the right kind of insurance could pay for a team of bi-partisan lawmakers voting on your behalf.”
“That’s quite an imagination you got there.” Frank rested his hands on his belly.
“Was Delta Energy one of the companies that benefited from your voting block?”
“No comment.”
“Off the record?”
Frank glanced at the gun resting on the table. “By the time I order dessert, I want you gone.”
Cape knew his threat to call Salinas must have an expiration date attached to it. Salinas would find out eventually, so Frank wanted to control the timing. That gave Cape some leverage but not enough, and there were some things Frank would never admit, even under duress.
“Five more minutes, Frank. Then you can have your tiramisu.”
“Gonna need a new waitress.”
“Why did you hire the son?”
“C’mon.”
“Danny do something stupid?”
“Besides working for me?” Frank grinned. “He was a mule, nothing more. And not a very good one. Just an overgrown kid looking for cheap thrills.”
“You used him.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“What went wrong, Frank?”
“You’re the detective. I was hoping you could tell me.” Frank shook his head in dismay. “You think I killed him?”
“It was one theory.”
“Look, a man like me only wants three things out of life.” Frank ticked them off on the fingers of his right hand. “A wife that can cook, a girlfriend who swallows, and a steady stream of non-taxable income.”
“Are those in order of priority?”
“If you don’t mess with those three, I don’t give a fuck what you do. The Senator was my clean-up batter—my ace in the hole. You think I’d throw that away, you’re an idiot.”
Cape felt like an idiot. He was running out of questions. “Maybe the Senator stopped cooperating. Had a change of heart.”
“Nobody bats a thousand. Maybe he did start to feel the heat—if he wasn’t dead you could ask him yourself. But I had more than ten years invested in that douchebag.”
Cape looked over at Sally standing placidly beside Tommy, who watched her warily but didn’t look stupid enough to try anything. Cape returned his gaze to Frank.
“You trust your Mexican associates?”
“About as much as they trust me.” Frank pulled the napkin from under his neck, revealing multiple chins. “I’m ready for dessert.”
Cape nodded and reclaimed the card with Salinas’ number. Then he took the gun off the table and dropped it in his jacket pocket. “Souvenir.” He moved toward the door.
Frank called after him. “How’s your client?”
“Anonymous.”
“Sure,” said Frank, smiling without warmth. “Tell her I said hi.”
Cape dropped off Sally in Chinatown before turning down the impossibly steep side of California Street.
He pulled behind a bus claiming to be a
zero emissions vehicle
, twin antenna connecting it to overhead wires running the length of the street. The lights inside the bus flickered on and off every few blocks, illuminating the three passengers with an erratic strobe, making them appear and disappear.
Cape had the top down and was grateful for the night air as he turned onto The Embarcadero. There was something to be said for driving a vintage convertible—the wind off the bay was almost strong enough to flush the smell of garlic from his clothes.
At Townsend Street he parked, grabbed his jacket from the back seat, and walked across the sidewalk to the restaurant he knew so well. Town’s End was a favorite breakfast haunt that opened early, but they also served dinner, and the tables were spaced far enough apart to have a private conversation.
Rebecca stood when she saw him and waved. She was alone at a four top near the back. Cape walked past the open counter in front of the grill and said hello to the cooks, including Mary and David, the owners, all dressed in white chefs’ uniforms. Cape had never been in the restaurant without seeing at least one of them in the kitchen. He wondered when they slept.
Rebecca hugged him and Cape didn’t object. She wore considerably more clothes than in the desert, but Cape was blessed with a good visual imagination.
Nothing had happened between them at Burning Man, though there had been signals even before the candle flickered out. For starters, she had been naked and covered in mud, and he had no objection to getting his hands dirty. But they exchanged nothing but words—no bodily fluids, no moments of intimacy—though Cape sensed that something might have happened if he had taken the initiative. Sitting in the dimly lit restaurant, he wondered why he hadn’t.
He could tell himself it was because of professional ethics, but those had more to do with never quitting a case than not sleeping with clients. Another explanation might be the fresh wound from getting dumped by e-mail, but Sally had been right about that relationship—it had been over long before he got the message. Looking across the table, Cape realized his hesitation wasn’t from a lack of physical attraction but from a gnawing sense that he still didn’t completely trust his client or himself.
Maybe he was pursuing this case out of pride, a refusal to admit failure. And perhaps Sally was right—Rebecca’s motivation had less to do with closure than revenge, and Cape was doing nothing more than helping her get blood on her hands.
“Thanks for meeting me.” Rebecca’s smile was bright enough to cast a shadow on his suspicions. It was one thing to be neurotic, another to be paranoid.
“You said you found something.”
“This.” Rebecca took a manila envelope from her bag and laid it on the table. “My father left it for me.”
Cape reached for the envelope. “What did he say?”
“Not a damn thing.” Rebecca’s expression was bland, but the bitterness in her voice was palpable. “No note, just a bunch of papers.”
Cape undid the clasp and started removing documents, spreading them out on the table. “Maybe he was in a hurry.”
“Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Men suck at apologizing.”
Cape had to admit the latter was more likely, but it prompted a thought that made his skin crawl.
“Rebecca, were you abused as a child?”
Her cheeks flushed but she didn’t hesitate. “No…never…why would you ask such a thing?”
“You’re positive.”
“I think I’d remember.”
Cape didn’t answer right away. “Never mind…just thought I should ask.”
“Why?” Rebecca’s expression was less angry than concerned.
“You were the only daughter and got sent away at a young age. Sometimes that happens—the mother steps in and removes temptation. Tries to save the family by breaking it apart.”
Rebecca shook her head. “That’s not my story. My father sent me away, and it killed my Mom.”
“What did?”
“His secrets—I think the stress of living with them ate her alive, one cancer cell at a time.”
Cape nodded. “OK.”
“It’s not OK, but that’s the way it is. I can’t change it now, but…” Her voice trailed off.
Cape waited, sensing what she would say before she found the words.
“I think the people who killed my brother—my father—I think they might as well have killed my Mom. I think it’s all one and the same.”
Cape dropped his eyes to the table. The first thing he noticed was a page of letters and numbers reminiscent of the one Beau had given him. He wondered if this was a duplicate and if Sloth had made any progress cracking the code.
Next were stock certificates for a bunch of companies Cape had never heard of before—LandMass Industries, Gaia-Tec Corporation, TerraMax Enterprises, Digest Fuel Corporation—almost a dozen companies, thousands of shares.
Lastly there were three maps, one of the United States, one of Canada, and one of Mexico. Cape felt his pulse quicken when he saw Puerto Vallarta marked with a red dot. Similar dots appeared on all the maps. Places in Canada he had never been, as far north as the Yukon and Northwest Territories. In the U.S. there were dots in the southwest, one in Texas near Austin and one in San Francisco. Cape flipped through the stock certificates and found a company name he had seen before: Delta Energy.
“Wait here.” Cape took the page of codes along with the stock certificates over to Mary, who was still working behind the counter. The restaurant took take-out orders by fax, and Cape didn’t want to lose any time. After a few minutes he had the pages headed to Sloth for analysis. When he returned to the table, Rebecca gave him a hopeful look.
“What does it mean?”
“It means your father wanted to tell you something.” Cape shrugged. “Maybe set the record straight.”
“He could’ve written a note.”
“Like you said, maybe he didn’t have the words.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe he left in a hurry.”
“Maybe.” Rebecca looked unconvinced.
“Sorry.”
“Not all men suck at apologizing.” Rebecca reached out and squeezed his hand, then let it go as she forced a smile. “None of this is your fault.”
“I know.”
“You’ll figure it out.” She said it as a simple truth, a statement of fact, but it still sounded like a question to Cape.
“Hold on to these—my friend has copies.” Cape gathered the papers together and returned them to the envelope. It was late, and the restaurant was almost empty. He stood to leave and Rebecca did the same.
“When will I see you again?”
Cape had been wondering the same thing. “Dinner tomorrow night—tonight I dragged you to a restaurant and we didn’t even eat.”
“Perfect.”
Rebecca had parked a few cars in front of him. Cape got a goodbye hug that might have lasted longer than the one in the restaurant. Rebecca had her arms wrapped around him, her mouth close to his ear.
“I want you to find the people who took my family from me.”
Cape nodded as Rebecca started to pull away.
“I want you to find them,” she said, “and I want you to kill them.”
Her voice was barely a whisper, and Cape thought he’d misheard her. When their eyes met she smiled with warmth that belied her words, and he wondered if he’d imagined it. Before he could ask, Rebecca had slipped into her car and pulled away from the curb.
He watched her drive away as he walked to his car, concluding that the goodbye hug definitely lasted a good four seconds longer, wondering what he should read into that.
Cape started his car and decided he really was a lost cause. He caught the light and made a U-turn onto The Embarcadero, accelerating along the water toward the abandoned piers on the right.
He glanced in his rearview mirror and thought he recognized the late-model Mercedes half a block behind him. An image of a car parked outside The Stinking Rose flashed into his brain, but then the car dropped back and Cape switched his eyes forward.
He picked up speed and caught the next light, then tapped the brakes where the road curved back toward the city.
He tapped the brakes again and felt pedal give way, his foot hitting the floor.
Cape spun the wheel but the car fishtailed and he over-compensated, sending it barreling over the curb. His right leg kicked against the brake pedal, hoping to find some resistance, but the car careened across ten feet of sidewalk into the chain link fence that blocked the wreckage of the pier. The fence flew apart, a stray pole breaking the windshield, as Cape felt his tires skid across the pier and sink into the decaying wood.
He had just enough time to regret wearing his seatbelt as the boards gave way one by one, explosions of splinters and rusted nails that sounded like gunshots. Cape groped for the belt release as his world turned upside down.
He jammed his thumb against the button and felt gravity take him, then his head hit the steering wheel and everything turned black. As black and unforgiving as the water of the bay.
