Telegraph Hill (11 page)

Chapter 20

At 7:30 PM, Dominique called Ray from the house
telephone line in the hotel lobby. Ray put on his coat and headed downstairs.
In the lobby, he saw Dominique wearing a dark blue business suit set off with a
lilac blouse and black boots. Classy. He stared just a moment longer than
necessary just to let her know he was looking. She accepted the attention with
a slight smile.

“Here’s the notebook.” She handed him a black
binder titled The Triads: Origins of Chinese Gangsters. “I need it back after
you’re done.”

“Looks good.”

“According to my friend, the Black Fist has been
the top group locally for many years. Street crime is split between Chinese,
Mexican and black gangs. The Italians usually run their street action here
through these other gangs. They’re limited in San Francisco now.”

“You’d never know it from Hollywood,” said Ray.
“They still love the Mafia. The food. The weddings.”

“Watch those shows a few times?” Dominique asked.

“I like to see what stereotypes are burdening the
mind of the American populace.”

They headed outside the hotel. The wind whipped
down Nob Hill along Sutter as pedestrians leaned into the cool air, muttering
about memories of Midwestern summers. Ray told her about his visit to the
massage parlor.

“Moon was intriguing. I think she knows where
Tania is.” He told Dominique of the photo and Moon’s comment that the photo
showed Baker Beach. “It’s a geographical impossibility,” he noted.

“You could tell that the photo was taken at
Drakes?”

“I’m steeped in local beach lore.”

“Didn’t know tough PIs were into trivia.”

“I’m in the trivia business.”

They walked leisurely on Geary towards Union
Square.

“Moon also told me Steven Moran, the ex-boyfriend,
was much more emotionally attached to Tania than he admitted to me.”

“Why do you believe her?”

“I’m not sure that I do yet. I just mean that her
comments about Steven were revealing, whether or not she’s telling the truth.
But my shit-sniffer went off the charts with her on that last comment.”

“Maybe you were sniffing something else,” said
Dominique.

The city flowed by, cars racing from downtown,
workers hauling bags of rice into a Thai restaurant. A homeless man with a
silver beard lay on the gray sidewalk; shoppers cascaded by him, laden with the
day’s plunder.

“I feel like a steak,” said Ray.

“Where do you want to eat?”

“Your choice tonight.”

“I’m tired of that Tuscan olive oil stuff,” said
Dominique. “I want some red sauce tonight. I know a southern Italian place in
North Beach that should have steak on the menu.”

Cafe Etna occupied a sooty brick scar of a
building that survived the twin disasters of earthquake and inferno in 1906.
The owners were Sicilian, a husband and wife, both in their forties, vibrant
and eternally moving, their unending industry giving intimations of major
machinations behind the kitchen doors. Ray and Dominique sat down and ordered a
bottle of Chianti.

He looked around the room.

“Are you OK?” Dominique asked.

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You seem distracted.”

Ray said nothing.

“I’ve been thinking of your trip here. Seems like
we never missed any time,” she said.

“I know,” said Ray. “I’m happy we got together.”

“I hope we don’t blow it again like after we
graduated,” she said, suddenly serious. “People seem to do that these days. I’m
sorry about what happened to us. And you.”

He stared into her tea-colored eyes, thinking of
how the time slipped by. He had always desired her as a woman. But this topic
disturbed him. They both knew why. He tried to forget the past, but rage
overwhelmed any philosophy he had concocted, woven late at night, a sentence
stolen from a book, a song that made sense for half a minute. But then the fury
washed over him and the jetsam drifted into the darkness.

“I don’t know how to move on from what happened,”
he said. “I’m trying.” He was not sure if he was ready to discuss this with
her, or with anyone.

Dominique sensed his reserve. She looked away and
sipped her wine.

He put down his fork. “It’s funny, the way we
were. We got so involved in our jobs.”

“A lot of our friends were that way,” she said.
“Putting in long hours. Some of them are emotional mutes. Friendships take
time.”

“You spend time at work with people who you have
nothing in common with, other than the same person signs your check,” Ray said.
“All that time you miss with the people who really matter. Family, friends.”

Ray looked at her. “You were always a good
friend,” he said. “The best of friends.”

“I should have called you after it happened.”

“It’s OK—“

“It’s not OK,” she said with more feeling. “I
should have been there for you.”

He took her hand. “It’s OK. Like I said, I didn’t
answer the phone for a year anyway.” He looked down at his lap, tucked his
napkin. “I still think of her a lot. Diana. Her name was Diana. By all odds, I
should have been home with her. I had just run out for something. Tea, if you
can believe it. My life, saved by a tea bag.”

“I’m sure . . ..” Dominique trailed off. “I don’t
know what to say. It’s awful what happened, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m glad you’re here. She would have liked you.”

“Thank you,” she said. They sat quietly for a
minute.

“I’d like to see more of you, Ray. No pressure.
Nothing heavy. I know you’re only here for a short time. But I’m glad we were
able to see each other again.”

“Me too,” he said. “Seeing you again—the chance
that would happen—was one of the things that brought me out here.”

Dominique gave Ray a look he could not decipher.
Then she leaned forward with a slight smile and looked around the room.

The waiter appeared, a young Mexican, neat and
unobtrusive. A well-finessed entrance. He took their orders. Ray and Dominique
watched as a customer complained about the penne being undercooked. A
black-haired waiter spoke of proper cooking methods—"al dente, signori.”
But the lout continued to complain. Eventually, the waiter bowed to the
customer’s wishes and headed to the kitchen, shaking his head at the shabby
tastes of American diners.

They drank wine, swirling the crimson liquid in
the glass. The food came. Dominique loved the braciole, real nana’s
cooking—pork pounded to a thin sheet, rolled with raisins and, he guessed,
mint. Ray savored an outstanding steak. One of the owners, a soft-spoken
balding man, sat at the table near the kitchen, looking over at Dominique and
Ray. “Next time you come, you ask me for the seafood specials—I’ll make you
something not on the menu. Especially for you. Just ask me.” Ray shook hands
with the owner. It was a good night when the chef picked you out, anointed you
as one of the chosen.

The bill came and Ray reached for it, Dominique
objecting mildly. They exited the restaurant and walked toward Washington
Square. Saint Peter and Paul Church was lit with ground lights, sheltering the
park with its grand bulk. They stood looking at the bustling street, the
restaurant crowds flowing down Columbus. The scent of pines on a sea breeze,
the low moan of a fog horn.

Ray took her hand and pulled her close to him.
Cupping her face gently, soft skin, soft, soft. He kissed Dominique, tongue
sliding over hers, lips thick and tender. He pressed against her, and she
responded. They broke off wordlessly and Ray hailed a cab. One stopped and they
stepped inside. Ray gave directions to Pacific Heights, and the cab headed up
Union Street. The mansions of Russian Hill passed by in silence.

“Tonight I think maybe you can come up,” Dominique
whispered.

“I’ve been good,” said Ray.

They were inside her apartment within ten minutes.
Dominique turned on a Tiffany lamp in the hallway and Ray saw a painting with a
Japanese motif of a waterfall, and an old man leaning on a staff. The hallway
bore the scent of fresh-cut flowers.

“You want some wine?” Dominique asked.

“Sure.”

Ray closed the door, and Dominique turned to him.
They embraced in the dim light, moving sideways in some primitive crab walk,
laughing as they slumped to the sofa.

“I didn’t expect this,” Dominique said.

“Me either. But I’m glad.”

“Me too,” she said. “Been a while since we were
together.”

“I know. Remember the water bed? The first night.”

She laughed. “I felt seasick.”

“You sunk into the bed. Great bounce though.”

She grabbed him and squeezed.

“Still want that wine?” she asked.

“Later.”

They kissed and held each other. Then a sudden
impatience with buttons and zippers and the artifacts of politeness. He slipped
her blouse off. Dominique’s lush breasts revealed, a scent of warm skin, her
nipples dark and swollen.

“Let's go to my room,” she whispered. He pressed
his mouth to her neck. Both breathing harder. She dug her fingers into his back
as she pulled him down on top of her. Ray pushed against her, the tension
powering both their bodies. He stared down at her smooth skin, her pelvic bone
edged in shadow. Amber moonlight fell on the floor. Sweat evaporated in the
cool night air.

The profound needs of the body. They slept deeply
until morning.

Chapter 21

He woke, sunlight shining on the bed. Dominique
slept soundlessly. He looked at her sunlit face. Her hair, dark and shiny on
the white pillow. Lips parted slightly, like a sliced peach. She looked holy, a
lost child of the sun. For a few minutes, he just watched her. He felt good.
Good as he had ever felt.

He dressed quietly and she stirred. He huddled next
to her, kissed her. She awoke.

“That was nice last night.” She sat up and leaned
her head on her elbow.

“Nice,” said Ray, nodding.

“I thought it was more than nice. But that’s the
best I can do at this hour,” she said. “Why are you awake?”

“Restless. I have a fax coming in on something at
the hotel. I’m supposed to be working, remember.”

“It’s Saturday. Take a break, big boy.”

“I did. And I will. You want breakfast?”

“I want to sleep.”

“Go ahead. I wish I could stay.”

She gave him an odd look, and said, “I know you
have to work.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll call once I’m done.”

Dominique smiled, crumpled her pillow, and curled
into a ball, half-asleep.

“I’ll call you later,” he said.

Ray bounded down the creaky stairs to the street.
It was just past 9:00 AM. He hailed a cab to take him back downtown to the
Commodore Hotel. The morning crispness was diluted by the strong sun, and the
city passed by in a lazy, offhand brilliance.

He thought about last night. He was back into it
with Dominique for certain. This would be his first relationship since Diana.
It felt comfortable, felt right. There was history there; they knew each other.
But he felt uneasy bringing Dominique—bringing anyone—into his life right now.
Given what happened, what right did he have exposing her to the underworld
where he operated? He could not guarantee it was over, could not be certain
some other nut wasn’t waiting to engage him in some fiery afternoon vendetta.
Just the other night, the thing with the guys assaulting him near the hotel.
And he wasn’t exactly walking away from it, not with the Project underway, the
flowering of his revenge.

The cab headed down Jones Street towards downtown.
As the cab pulled over, Ray watched a man walking down one side of the street
towards Geary. The man looked remotely familiar—the gait, the clothes,
something about him. Ray stared. As the figure turned, he recognized the face
of Steven Moran. He wore a pair of enormous sunglasses. A terribly lame attempt
at concealment, Ray thought—Steven looked very much like Steven, wearing huge
sunglasses.

Ray directed the cab driver to turn left on Post
and pull over. Steven walked slowly and peered up at the apartments; he seemed
to be checking addresses or windows.

Ray paid the driver and exited. He crossed the
street, and picked up a paper at a corner drug store. He pretended to scan the
headlines while watching the street.

Steven Moran stood on Jones Street, his wind
breaker rippling in the summer breeze. He wore baggy chinos and clumpy black
shoes. Ray imagined the Tenderloin hustlers locking their teeth on this most
vulnerable piece of meat: Steven’s outfit screamed his lack of street smarts.
He looked as conspicuous as a giraffe in rush-hour traffic, but that did not
seem to bother him. Steven continued to search the facade of a blue apartment
building. Ray recognized it as Tania’s old residence.

Abruptly, as if some sign had been given from one
of the windows above, Steven stalked up the steps and entered the building. Ray
moved to a small cafe located at the opposite corner. A wood counter ran along
the window; he decided he could sit there and keep an eye on the doorway. He
entered, ordered a cup of tea, and took a seat next to the window. He pretended
to read the San Francisco Weekly—the cover story blared about a cell of
terrorists in the Bay Area who were allegedly financing their activities by
producing porn films. He stared at the front of 639 Jones Street.

Ray waited for something to happen. Nothing did.
No one of interest peered out the window. No one of interest exited the
building. He sat there for two hours, and felt the Zen of his unceasing
dedication. Then a cramped reality came back to him—he had to take a piss.

A few minutes later, the front door opened, and
two Asian men exited. An eye-blink of excitement. Steven paused on the stoop,
peering behind him as if waiting for others to follow. He looked nervous,
frayed. The two young Asian men walked to a gray Lexus with tinted windows
parked on Jones. One of them Ray recognized from the first time he had visited.
The Lexus backed up into a narrow alley. Ray jumped up and tried to reestablish
a line of sight. The car disappeared into the alley. Ray exited the café and
walked quickly into the street, dodging traffic. He crossed the street, and saw
the Lexus. A rear door was open. The door closed quickly. The Lexus pulled out
into traffic and Ray looked at the plate number—K1410. Repeated the number as
he ran out to the street looking for a cab.

No cab showed up for five minutes. Ray paced and
stomped the pavement in frustration—the gray Lexus had faded into afternoon
traffic.

Ray headed back to the café, borrowed a pen and
jotted down the plate number. Then he went to the restroom and took a
long-awaited piss. Outside the café, he stood for a moment, wondered if he
should try to find the car. Or try the apartment again. He walked into the
alley. Several metal doors opened into the building. He listened but heard no
movement behind any of them. Then he walked back to the street and made his way
into the apartment foyer. The doors were unlocked. He walked quietly up the
stairs, and listened at the end of the hallway, peering at the room. The lights
glowed weakly. There was no sound. He approached apartment 12 and knocked. No
answer. Knocked again, but still no answer.

Ray walked down the hallway, and headed back to
the street. He walked back to his hotel room. He stripped off his clothes and
took a long, hot shower. The hot water burned his back, the pain dancing on the
border of pleasure. It felt good. He thought about what he had seen: why would
Steven Moran resume contact with a bunch of Asian gangbangers? He guessed that
Steven had been stirred up enough by their conversation to resume trying to
contact Tania. Or maybe there was another connection, something he had missed.
But Steven had appeared genuinely distressed during the interview. Ray decided
to run the plate, and track who owned the car. Probably stolen plates.

Another mystery to drown in. He had realized long
ago he made a living chasing ghosts. Sometimes he considered leaving the
profession. No more unraveling schemes. No more deciphering the truth from a
thousand wayward stories, listening to grifters justify the burnt ends of their
lives. He didn’t want them to touch his life anymore. He’d leave this vague
bullshit behind and sit in a sunny room somewhere. He’d become a painter. A
rough canvas in his hands. Make things you can touch and see. Wake up at noon,
give rambling interviews to slutty reporters from Art Weekly. He’d piss on a canvas,
make figure eights, sell the work for six figures. Organic art. Neoclassical
primitivism, with an emphasis on secretions.

He stepped out of the shower and put on dress
pants and a T-shirt. He flicked on the computer, and reversed the Lexus plate;
it came back to a Pacific Imports Company at 867 Stockton Street. He knew it
was the address of a post office in Chinatown. Something he would check out
later.

Ray took a call from Richard Perry.

“Ray, we’ve been on him all day. Same old song and
dance. Heading to a bus stop on Bay and Columbus.”

“Let’s extend it,” said Ray. “Follow him home
today. Find out his schedule. Any luck with the undercover?”

“We’re in contact. We had the undercover at the
wharf yesterday.”

“What’s his background?”

“His name is Don Gaines. Very bright. He has an
ability to get people to open up.”

“Anything so far?”

“Cherry gave him some literature with a hate line,
as they call it. The calls go to a recording giving the Aryan news of the day.
They have a council meeting each month, but Don hasn’t been able to find out
where. They’re careful about disclosing the location to newcomers.”

“What are their numbers here in San Francisco?”

“Cherry’s been talking thirties,” said Richard. “I
would bet it’s half that.”

“OK, I’ll call you later.” Ray ended the call.

Ray ordered room service: tea, a ham and pepper
omelet, home fries and some oranges. The binder Dominique had given him lay on
the table; he picked it up and skimmed it. The history of Asian crime
syndicates. He flipped the pages until he came to chapter one.

“During the year 1947 AD, in the city of Hong
Kong, a criminal kingpin named Chang Kong Sen organized a cadre of displaced
warriors, petty thieves and other adherents to immigrate to the United States.
His organization, the most powerful of the Chinese crime syndicates, and the
sun around which all the others had come to orbit, was the Black Fist Triad.
The Black Fist effectively controlled the city’s lucrative prostitution,
gambling and extortion business, known collectively as the “black society.” The
move to the United States perpetuated a syndicate that has existed for over 400
years.

Fact and myth have blended together, but it is
agreed by most scholars that the triad origins can be traced to resistance
fighters who battled the emperors of Manchuria. In the 1600s, the Manchus had
invaded China from the north, sacking the Chinese capital of Peking. During the
13th year of rule by the Manchu emperor, a rebellion broke out in the province
of Fukien. To lead the emperor's forces, the Manchus called upon the Sui Lan,
(the name is derived from a term meaning “fighting monks”), warriors from a
monastery known for its vigorous martial arts regimen. A well-trained,
disciplined group of 100 warriors led the emperor’s troops at Fukien, where
they brutally clamped down on the rebellion. The Sui Lan were awarded imperial
powers as a result of their efficient efforts on behalf of the emperor.

The Manchus grew to distrust the Sui Lan and their
newfound popularity. After a few years, the Manchus made secret plans to
destroy them. They laid a trap by calling upon the Sui Lan to attend a ceremony
at a courtyard inside the Forbidden City. A large contingent of bowmen secretly
assembled inside the city. A feast was laid out, laced with poison. The
unsuspecting Sui Lan fell ill or died from the poison; those who failed to
succumb were killed by carefully placed bowmen, who shot the unarmed monks as
they sat in the open courtyard. Nearly all the Sui Lan monks were massacred,
and the slaughter was kept secret for some time behind the walls of the
Forbidden City.

However, amidst the carnage, five monks survived
and escaped. In the hills far from the capital, they vowed to avenge the
massacre. They founded five secret societies with names that changed
frequently, often operating under benign names that suggested a commercial
association. They later became known collectively as the Triads. Four triads
were eventually stamped out by Manchu troops. One survived, the Black Fist
Triad, which adopted the symbol of a black fist on a field of crimson.

The Black Fist dedicated themselves to the
overthrow of the hated Manchus, whose Confucian secular lifestyle was an
affront to the artistic and intellectual achievements of the Ming Dynasty,
regarded as the golden age of China’s cultural achievements. Although the
Manchus ruled until the early 1900s, the Black Fist prospered by controlling
virtually the entire Chinese black market. Slowly, but inexorably, it expanded
its power into every level of Chinese society. Historians estimate that the
Black Fist had between 75,000 to 100,000 members. The Black Fist drew most of
its support from the coastal cities of Hong Kong and Shanghai, where it
operated those cities notorious opium dens and brothels. During World War II,
the invading Japanese Army reached a secret agreement with the Black Fist,
whereby the syndicate would continue to control the black society in the cities
from Nanking to Hong Kong. In return, the Black Fist would provide intelligence
to the Japanese regarding the nascent Communist insurgency, which was harassing
the over-stretched Japanese supply lines.

Seeing an opportunity to rid themselves of a foe
they saw as directly antagonistic to the black society, the Black Fist began a
methodical extermination of Communists. Beginning in 1940, the Black Fist
rounded up suspected Communists agents with a ruthlessness that surprised even
the Japanese. Within four years, the Black Fist was responsible for the murder
of nearly 10,000 Communists. Many of the murders bore signs of ritual
execution, and took the form of two shots to the forehead and the back of the
skull.

In 1945, the American military incinerated two
Japanese cities with a devastating new weapon, the atomic bomb. Faced with the
possibility of having its cities razed from the earth, the Japanese surrendered
within hours of the second bombing. The Black Fist lost much of its power in
the vacuum that resulted from the Japanese defeat. As the Japanese controls
were thrown off, the Communists from four cities of Peking, Canton, Nanking,
and Fukien surged to Hong Kong to avenge the Black Fist purges.

And the Black Fist met them. Fighting with small
arms against troops armed with machine guns and rocket launchers, the Black
Fist suffered enormous losses. Meeting in December 1946, the last remaining triad
bosses developed a plan to leave China and reemerge in carefully selected
foreign bases. They selected five cities in which to operate, including two in
the U.S.A.—New York and San Francisco.

In early 1947, the remnants of the once-powerful triad
departed mainland China. Funds had been sent abroad to ensure long-term
financial health for the organization. In San Francisco, the Black Fist faction
was headed by Chang Kong Sen, a 47 year old exporter who had been educated in
the US before the war. Guided by Sen, the triad began to muscle turf away from
the various disorganized local gangs, extorting protection fees from small
businesses and organizing a network of brothels and card parlors, often
operating in hidden rooms dug into the basements of respectable Chinatown
businesses. During the next two decades, they developed independent businesses
in the entertainment and fashion industries, as well as finance and law. During
the 1980’s, the New York-Boston faction came under the control of a woman,
Victoria Kong Chang, who was to become one of the triad’s legendary rulers.”