Telegraph Hill (17 page)

There was no one here for her, Tania realized.
Then she took the pen in stiff fingers and signed the documents, transferring
the property out of her possession forever.

Chapter 28

Afternoon arrived in a gray curtain. Ray slumped
on the couch and brooded over Lucas’s deception. He was rotting here, he felt
it, the inactivity heavy as sludge in his veins. The horror of almost
delivering Tania to her pursuers. Like the lethal package that had once been
delivered to his old home, when he wasn’t there, and someone else was. The thin
line between a brilliant performance and ripping your lungs out at a funeral.

Lucas would be arriving soon. He got up and
flicked on the computer, entered his password. He looked at his contact
information for Lucas, and typed a message into his phone: Pantera Cafe, Romolo
Place, North Beach. See you @ 4:00 PM.

A touch of venom in his brain, he hit send.

Ray made himself a cup of coffee. Rainwater rushed
in torrents down the gutter. Tania was sleeping. She was still angry, and had
not spoken to him after learning of Lucas’s deception. Ray accepted her
coldness. She was bending under the strain.

Ray telephoned Dominique, and updated her on his
suspicions about Lucas. “I may ask you to go to your news sources with this later.
The usual bullshit: ‘Prominent Attorney Plotted Murder; 40 years as a
gangster’s bag man.’ Some bullshit the good citizens can chew on over a bagel.”

“We have to consider the possibility that he’ll
sue for libel. Are you certain that’s the full story? Is there a chance he can
explain? All you have is this old news story.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have some explanation,” said
Ray. “I just want to be there to see if he stains his underpants with the
effort. Lawyers don’t like being questioned. But I think he’ll have to explain
himself with more than just coincidence theory.”

“OK. I’ll think about where to place it,” said
Dominique.

“Just to play this a bit further, let’s draft an
affidavit. He’ll never sign it but we’ll play the game. ”

“He’ll be insulted,” she said. “His Burberry tie
will start smoking.”

“Maybe there’s a way we can link him to sex with
underage boys.”

“No one will blink,” she said. “Underage horses
might cause him problems. PETA is active in California.”

“Go with it.”

Ray showered. He put the Beretta semiautomatic in
the shoulder holster, strapped it on, then dressed in a blue pinstriped,
double-breasted suit with a lavender shirt and tie. A bit bulky; he’d leave the
coat unbuttoned. He killed an hour reading a book from Antonio’s eclectic
library: a biography of a Russian mage named Gurdjeiff, who reportedly had
developed telekinesis and could hurl himself off a thirty-foot stage without
suffering injuries. Ray found the book oddly reassuring: its quirky mysticism
transcended the nasty business at hand.

At 3:30 he left the house. He walked to Union
Street and headed down the slope of Telegraph Hill to North Beach, just another
businessman transacting the dealings of the day.

On Powell Street, he gazed down toward his old
apartment. Chaos in the street that day, panicked neighbors. The sun was
blazing; the sun always seemed to be out for the big disasters in California.
Sifting for evidence. He could never forget the human sleet scattered all over
the place. Each night he dreamt it again, walking through the house. Then the
explosion, the burning, and the voice of the friendly cop trying to stop him
from seeing: “Nothing to see in there, sir.” Then her voice, soft and murmurous
as water in a dying creek. She was telling him something. The tea bags, they
were out of tea bags again.

That day gouged his overheated mind over and over
and over, etching a ravine through his brain. He just wanted to stop the fire.

Ray shook his head and walked the gentle rise of
Columbus Avenue toward downtown. The Transamerica pyramid rose majestically in
front of him, seemingly floating on the tip of Columbus, dominating the view.
He walked past the Steps of Rome, the restaurant quiet as young bloods sipped
espressos and checked soccer scores from the Italian leagues. At Columbus and
Grant trucks were double-parked while workers unloaded pink carcasses of
freshly killed pigs from the steel beds.

He took a left on Broadway. Strip joints lined the
streets, red doors heavily locked, painted with quaint come-ons from the
1960’s—GROOVY GIRLS IN A FEMALE LOVE DUO. A neon nipple flashed blue while
hawkers corralled tourists into paying ten bucks for pisswater beer.

He took a sharp left past the strip joints into
Romolo Place. He stopped, looking back into Broadway. Traffic roared by, and
people walked and shopped. Nothing unusual.

Looking up, he saw the sign for the Pantera Cafe,
emblazoned with the silhouette of a running panther. He took a deep breath,
pictured in his mind the strands of the last few days coalescing into a black
web. He just hoped he wasn’t the one about to fly into the center. Then he
walked into the Pantera.

A long wooden bar flanked by carved wooden lion
heads; a clock no longer functioning, with gold arms fixed at 12:03. A series
of tables and chairs, red in color, arranged in a dining area. A jukebox played
opera music—Puccini, Verdi, and other classics, leavened with a sonic dose of
Frank Sinatra. A few solitary souls at the bar: several older men, a few
creative arts types in meditative postures over their drinks, and one young
woman talking quietly on a cell phone.

At a table near the rear wall, Lucas Michaels sat
in silver-haired grace, debonair in a dark suit and red patterned tie. He
sipped a cocktail. Ray looked briefly at two Asian men sitting at a table to
the left. Late thirties, well-dressed, they were drinking and talking casually.
Too casually, in Ray’s mind: a wolfishness still hung off them. And the drinks
were clear, probably water. Real warriors needed no lubrication. The men glanced
over at Ray. One of them, shorter and leaner than his associate, stood and
walked to the restroom. His bearing showed a fighter’s flexibility. Ray would
have to deal with him first, if anything came of it.

Lucas looked up and smiled a Sunday afternoon
smile. “Hello Ray.”

“Hi Lucas.”

Ray sat down. An efficient dark-haired waitress
commandeered the floor, and Ray ordered a gin and tonic.

“Well, it’s good to see you Ray. Your work was
outstanding.”

“Thanks. Good to see you.”

Lucas looked around. “Where is she?”

“Tania made a decision to delay the meeting.”

Lucas eyes went flat and tight for a second before
flooding back to a cool sheen. “Why? Is she OK?”

“Tania is singing a song of self-preservation,
Lucas. One that will pull her into a new life.”

Lucas gave him a quizzical look.

“She told me this morning that she wasn’t ready to
meet yet.”

“Where is she?” Lucas said calmly.

“She needs to clarify some outstanding issues.”

Lucas said nothing. He looked irritated, and
shuffled his glass on the table. He didn’t like this ridiculous riddling at
all. “I am paying you well, you were to find her, and I thought we had agreed
that she would be here.”

“Yes, I know. But things are evolving even as we
speak. Tania is in danger, Lucas. She’s hiding from an Asian gang called the
Black Fist.” Ray paused and watched as Lucas’s eyes widened a fraction. “Ever
hear of them?”

“No,” said Lucas softly.

“I thought you might recall the name. You
represented one of them, Ralph Chen, early in your career. And then represented
several more gang members over the years. She is concerned about that
connection. I’m sure you can understand.”

Lucas swayed slightly, a cobra evaluating its
strike zone.

“That representation occurred many years ago, and
was the start of my career as a defense attorney,” said Lucas. “It is not
relevant to anything happening now.”

“I understand. But this connection is causing
Tania a lot of concern.”

“Not important,” snapped Lucas. He took a drink,
then jammed the glass to the table.

“Wrong. Very important. If I have some reason to
question the purpose of an investigation, then I might ask for assurances. In
this case, I have reason to ask.”

“I did not hire you to look into my background,”
Lucas said thickly.

“Your background is only part of the story,” said
Ray. “When we spoke by telephone after our little run-in in Marin, you had an
interesting take on what had happened. Was there another bird whispering in
your ear?”

Lucas’s face flushed slightly. “You are being
well-paid to handle this matter, and I expect you to produce the—her, Tania.”

“The story is too sweet,” said Ray. “Very good
though, Lucas, appealing to my nobler instincts. How were you going to do it?
Right in front of me, after I brought her to you? I can only assume you hadn’t
thought that out either. Because maybe you’re nothing more than a bag man,
despite the law school education.”

Lucas stared. A smugness flattened his face, and
his hand pecked at his glass on the table. He laughed abruptly as if the matter
were too petty to consider. “This is ridiculous!”

Ray could see his mind working, rolling the jagged
facts into a comfortable arrangement. Men like Lucas did not admit anything.
They were beyond reach, glossy creatures that existed in another dimension.
Lucas specialized in warping words to his benefit. A lifetime devoted to
studying ways to confuse, delay, muddy up the trail. He was the subject of news
articles, he lived in a big city, made sure his yearly income was in the upper
echelon. He was a middle-aged white lawyer, and that still counted for
something. Lucas gathered himself up.

“You are an old-fashioned hero, Ray. You really
are. What a fool. I think you’ve fallen in love with her. I’ll press every
advantage I have professionally to see that your actions are well known among
the bar. You’ll be ruined.”

“Please Lucas. I know as many lawyers in Boston as
you do. Probably more. But we need to discuss some of this stuff on record.”
Ray pulled out a tape recorder. “California doesn’t permit one-party taping, so
I need you to OK it. . .”

“What’s this!” Lucas looked askance at the
recorder. “Are you joking? Put that fucking thing away.” His brow looked
sweaty. “Assuming that there are certain considerations that limited what I
could tell you, your theory is not based in reality. Tania is the blood
relative of my client. I already told you this. If they became involved. . ..”

Ray let him talk, and watched his face, making
slow circles from the eyes, eyelids, and brow, down to the mouth and then back.
Lucas’s mouth was drawn into a tight box, harsh and ragged. Clearly, he was
angry about Tania’s absence. But there was something else. His fingers tugged
at his collar, and he returned to his constant theme: “I need to see Tania
today. Now.”

“She won’t be here today, Lucas. Not a chance.”

“Where is she—“

“Just tell me what’s happening,” said Ray,
smoothing the air above the table with his hand. “How long have you represented
Victoria Chang?”

At the mention of Victoria, Lucas’ face twitched
with subterranean irritation.

“Do you need to scratch?” asked Ray.

“What?”

“What does she have on you? Why the mystery?”

Lucas shifted in his seat, trying to position
himself comfortably. “In 1958, I was a young lawyer with a top criminal defense
firm here in San Francisco. One of my early clients was Ralph Chen. He was a
low-level soldier for a Chinese gang, involved with minor street violence
against other gangs in Chinatown. He was indigent. There is nothing more to the
story. I performed a legal service and my relationship with that client ended.
It’s unfair to judge a defense attorney on who he represented years ago. These
are people who get churned up by the justice system without any representation.
You know that. I agreed to represent him, and I am proud of the legal work I did
on his behalf. Now I am ending this conversation and bid you good day. You are
no longer authorized to continue working.”

Ray raised his hand, placed his palm against
Lucas’s chest. A stirring from behind the table. The two Asian men dropped
their feigned indifference and layered their attention toward the table. Ray
kept his voice low.

“Lucas, you earn a living through words. And like
a lot of attorneys, you figure as long as you’re running your mouth, you must
be making money. But you should consider how your famous voice has played so
far. Quite a few dissonant chords, Lucas. The Marin hit was botched, and I’m
guessing that someone will be very unhappy to hear of another failure. You
won’t get to Tania through me. Not today, not ever. Her testimony is being
memorialized. You made a foray into the street business of your clients, but
that’s not an easy thing to pull off. Will you consider an alternative?”

Lucas paused. His voice started, then wavered and
went out, extinguished by a chill from some desperate corner of his life. Ray
realized that Lucas was terrified.

Then Lucas sneered. “You think it’s all wrapped up
so tightly? Go ahead with your little fucking news story!” Lucas jabbed his
finger at Ray. “I represented a gangster in the 1960’s. So what? That’s the way
it is, Ray! We defend clients with dirty pasts.”

“But now you’re dirty, Lucas. That’s the
difference.”

“Your case is built around a hooker, Ray. No one
believes hookers.”

“She was in the trade,” said Ray. “But you’re the
real whore.”

Ray sat back in his chair. “Come to Jesus, Lucas.
Before your master..”

“I’m through with this conversation!” Lucas
hissed.

Ripples of heat and animosity emanated from the
small table as Ray stood up. People were turning towards them now. The two
Asian men looked at Ray with undisguised hunger, awaiting some sign from Lucas.

But the sign never came. Lucas sat at the table,
shaking with rage and something else; the two men stood still, bad intentions
frozen in anticipation. A fine-looking Latina abruptly walked past the table
towards the door; she had curly black hair and a slender body perched on
open-toed sandals. She looked at Ray with concern in her eyes, sensing the
hostility of the meeting. Ray followed her out the door and left the Pantera.
After he walked down Romolo Place and reached Broadway, his body flooded with
relief that he wasn’t being blasted with anything other than Northern
California sunshine.