Telegraph Hill (21 page)

Chapter 33

Ray headed to the car and drove west over
Telegraph Hill. On Van Ness, he dodged an SUV pulling out from the curb, some
puffball struggling to pilot his craft, his lone weekly exertion.

He drove on. He took a right on Pine Street,
chewing up intersection after intersection as he hit a jackpot of green lights.
A rainbow blur of Victorian homes lined the street, painted in wild patterns of
mauve, purple, amber and gold. An old lady sat on a porch and watched the
traffic.

He dialed the telephone number he had been given
for Moon.

“Hi Moon. It’s Ray.”

“Hi.”

“Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s do this discreetly. Take a cab and tell him
to drive straight up Divisadero, then left on Fulton. Head up Fulton and pull
over near the entrance to USF.”

“OK. Where will you be?”

“I’ll call your cell again in fifteen minutes.”

He hung up and headed west on Pine, jostling for
position as he crossed Geary. He passed the Peace Pagoda in Japantown. Traffic
was building to heart-attack levels. He turned left on Divisadero, racing
through the Fillmore. The sweet smell of a barbecue joint spiced the air near
Grove and Divisadero. He took a right on Fulton. After a few minutes, he
arrived in front of the hilltop campus of the University of San Francisco, and
pulled over to the side of the street. He watched the entrance. A coed in tight
jeans squeezed her way up a steep pathway toward the campus. Thank god for the
hills, Ray thought.

A cab pulled over next to a long path winding up
the hill. He sat and watched. No other cars pulled over. No sinister movements
on the grassy knoll.

He dialed Moon.

“Moon. Is that you parked?”

“Yes.”

“Start walking back to Divisadero. I’ll call you
in a few minutes.”

A pause on the line. “OK.”

Ray watched as Moon exited the cab, her hair
pulled back to reveal her perfect porcelain neck. She looked sleek and
untouchable, dressed in a hip-length white sweater, black pants, black boots,
and aviator sunglasses. She briefly scanned the horizon, and then walked down
the hill toward Divisadero.

He watched her as she strode, graceful but quick.
Then he called her again.

“Moon, cross Fulton and take a cab straight down
toward the beach.”

She flagged a cab and zoomed up Fulton. No one
followed. Citizens went about their business in the emerging sun.

Ray pulled into traffic. The cab was easy to
follow—a decrepit wreck painted a puke-tan color, with rusty holes near one
wheel well. The driver proceeded at a leisurely pace toward the ocean.

He called again.

“Have the cabby drive up to Geary.”

A few moments later, the cab turned right, sagging
on the turn. Ray followed several car lengths behind.

Ray watched Moon’s petite head in the back seat,
bouncing in sync with potholes in the road. They passed Mel's Drive-In, its
tasty cool-blue neon drawing all eyes. He called Moon again.

“Moon, have the cabby bang a U-turn and drop you
off at the corner near Mel's.” The cab slowed, and took the left.

The scrambling had smoked out anyone tailing them.
He followed the cab, keeping a sharp eye on any other cars. No one made any
quick turns.

A red Lexus pulled up quickly behind him. Ray
noted an Asian male driver. The Lexus turned left on Euclid. He relaxed.

Moon was paying the cabby and looking across
Geary. Ray zoomed up and stopped in front of her. She appeared mildly irritated
at being rustled all over the city.

Moon got in, looking at Ray. He pulled away. The
pulse and flow of traffic, people running in front of cars on a million
afternoon errands.

Ray made a couple of quick turns, tires chirping
mildly. He drove up a side street. No one was tailing them, and he felt more
comfortable.

“Sorry for the chaos,” he said. “I had to take a few
precautions, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“Yes,” she said. Up close, she looked more
attractive than he’d remembered, even if windswept.

“Tania is looking forward to seeing you. The last
few days have been tough for her.”

“I miss her. Thanks for picking me up.”

They drove on in silence through the redwoods and
eucalyptus of the Presidio. He took a right on Union Street and drove through
Pacific Heights.

Ray aimed the car up Russian Hill, stopping for a
cable car at Powell Street. Tourists hung off the sides of the cable car like
baboons. Outside a store, a grocer built a pyramid of oranges on a green cart.
A few oranges rolled off the cart and meandered down the hill.

They zipped through North Beach, and pulled into
the garage on Kearny.

Ray and Moon entered a side door, and stepped into
a hallway. Ray guided her toward the living room. Antonio came in wearing
bright shorts and a black T-shirt. Ray introduced Moon to Antonio.

“Let me know if you need anything,” said Antonio.
“A drink, whatever you want.”

Ray and Moon entered the living room. Tania sat on
the sofa, still reading a book. She looked up and rose quickly. She looked
relaxed, even restored. The two women embraced. They stood that way for some
time, letting the fear of the last few days slip from their bones, standing in
a sunny spot.

“I’ll leave you two for a while,” said Ray. He
exited the living room. In a way, he envied their closeness. They both
intrigued him, their sleek black hair, the circular way they approached
conversation, spiraling slowly, sparrows over a forest.

In the kitchen, Ray and Antonio read the
newspaper.

“Jesus, two beautiful women,” said Antonio. “What
are you doing in here with me?”

Ray poured a glass of Cabernet. The label showed a
masked horseman clad in red. “This looks expensive,” he said. “Your taste is
developing.”

Antonio grunted.

In the living room, the two women held each other,
speaking in hushed tones.

“I missed you,” said Tania.

“I know. Me too.”

“The last two days. All these surreal revelations,”
said Tania. “I feel trapped in this house.” Tania held Moon’s face in her
hands, kissed her lips, her forehead. “It’s been so long, Moon!”

“I can’t believe this is happening to us,” said
Moon quietly.

“But how are you?” Tania leaned forward to look
into Moon’s face.

“OK, given the circumstances.” Moon whispered, “I
didn’t know if I could trust him. He showed up asking about you.”

“I know. That seems to be how he works. He burst
in on me too,” said Tania, pulling Moon closer. “But he’s legit. I would be
dead by now if—”

Moon moved away, looking exhausted. Her hands
trembled slightly.

“You poor thing,” said Tania.

“You look as bad as I do,” said Moon.

“I want to end this crazy life,” said Tania. “How
long can we keep hiding?” Tania put her face in her hands.

Moon moved to her, holding her, stroking her hair.
“We don’t have to do it much longer,” she said softly.

“Promise me you will stay with me. Don’t go away.”

“I’m staying,” said Moon. “This time forever.” She
leaned close. “We can leave tonight—we need to.”

Tania looked up. “What? How can we leave—”

“They came after me,” Moon whispered. “This was
after Marin.” She hung her head. “They did things to me.” She lifted her shirt
sleeve. Tania looked with horror at the splotches of mottled burns, a mess of
raw red tissue. A sob convulsed Moon’s body and then subsided.

“I didn’t say anything,” she whispered. “I never
gave them anything—”

“Oh my god, Moon, what did they do to you! You
need help—”

“They wanted me to take them to you. But I would never
do that. I tricked them.” She was crying. “They thought I was on their side
after they did this. They gave me a phone to call them once we met. They said
they would take us away from Ray, that he’s up to something. I told them I
would call. But I never would!” She grabbed Tania’s hand. “I just want us to be
together.”

Tania sprang up. “Did you ever call them?”

“Never! They called me but—”

“They can track us with these phones!” Tania raced
toward the kitchen, pulling Moon behind her.

Ray heard a crash under the kitchen floor. Antonio
looked up. ”The basement door!” Ray ran toward the hallway as Tania burst
through the door.

“Ray, they’re here! They followed her here, they
tracked a cell phone—”

“I’ll get the shotgun!” yelled Antonio. He rushed
out.

“Get upstairs!” Ray said to Tania. Drawing his
gun, he led the way back into the hallway toward the stairs.

They were too late. On the right, the basement
door burst open. Two black-clad Asian men swept into the alcove, covering the
kitchen with shotguns. They blasted off two, three shots, and a tremendous roar
echoed in the room. Ray shoved Tania toward the hallway stairs. Unloaded five
rounds at the men as they raced into the kitchen. Wild gunfire exploded around
him. Bullets punctured holes in the plaster. Already down to a few shots. Then
he dove behind the thick wood walls of the dining room.

He heard feet scrambling on the stairs—Tania and
Moon seemed to be out of the way. But he heard a once-vital female voice
braying its distress.

Where was Antonio? Ray looked around. They were
coming. Dining room wrapped into the kitchen—the shooters could enter from
either way. But they didn’t know the layout. Better bring the attack and hope
that Antonio covered the back.

He aimed the gun toward the rear doorway in the
dining room. Then he began to crawl silently toward the kitchen.

A shot cracked behind him—Antonio crouching on the
stairs and firing round after round into the kitchen. A hurricane of noise and
mayhem. Something crashed into the stove. Pots clattered on the floor. Ray got
up and ran toward the doorway. A figure in black was backing in, distracted by
the shotgun flak. The figure whirled. Five feet away, Ray fired
repeatedly—push, hold, squeeze. The rhythmic concussions echoed off the walls.
The man toppled back in rude punctuation to the blasts. He lay still.

Antonio was calling for him. Ray raced back to the
foyer. At the foot of the stairs he saw Moon sprawled on the floor, unmoving.
Blood flowed from her neck. Tania was crumpled near the stairs, eyes closed,
breathing raggedly.

Antonio and Ray scrambled on the floor, pulling
blankets on Tania and Moon. Antonio called 911. A heavy smell of smoke in the
air. Ray felt fury run over his limbs. He thought of Victoria Chang’s cryptic
response. This was done at her bidding, the emblem of her black design all over
it.

He crawled to Tania, holding her tightly. The blue
carpet was turning into a slick, damp swamp of blood. Antonio drifted from room
to room, checking on Moon and Tania, yelling instructions into the phone.

He had swooped into California just a few days
ago. He played his hand boldly, the confrontation in Cambridge. But now he sat
once again amidst carnage in an apartment on a hill in San Francisco. He held
Tania, listening for sirens, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

Chapter 34

The two-tone Lexus, squat and luxurious in its
deliberate pace, motored through the afternoon traffic on Geary. Behind the
tinted windows, Lucas Michaels peered out at the traffic. His hands tapped the
imported wood inlay of the steering wheel. A Sade CD played. He believed that
such music added an exotic tint to his personal aura, a scent he could somehow
emit, an unexpected compliment to his patrician profile.

The past few days had veered close to being a professional
disaster for him. The Marin matter was botched. The ridiculous meeting in North
Beach was an embarrassment. The situation had dragged on much too long. In just
a few weeks, the missing girl had grown into a cancer. Once he had found her,
Ray Infantino had been a good deal more effective—and intrusive—than
anticipated. All this had caused an unfortunate backwash on his reputation.

Victoria had made her displeasure known, and he
knew that thirty years of a business partnership were crumbling. But in the
end, they had worked things out. He had received word that the matter was to be
handled by an old consort of Tania’s—a woman no less.

But Tania had again survived the attack. He had
not pressed for details.

It occurred to him again that, by the end of his
career, he had engaged in acts that would have warped his soul as a younger
man. The idealism of youth. He stifled the urge to ruminate. He had made a
choice a long time ago, and the rewards had been significant. He understood
that the dead make poor editors. History is for the victors, and he would be
victorious here. That was the crucial thing. It was time to press on to new
business.

He ignored the unpleasant swirling in his gut, and
concentrated on the road.

At a red light he watched a young girl in white
knee-high socks stroll by, creating a minor riot among a scrap of teenaged
boys. He got a sense of pounding music, hip-hop, urban poses, kids in warm-up
jackets, gold and red.

A silver BMW angled from his left and slid
expertly in front of him. He frowned—as a rule, BMW drivers were arrogant
pricks. He watched people on the sidewalk, streaming past bakeries and shops
with awnings covered in bird dung.

An abrupt movement on his left. An Asian man in
sunglasses appeared, tight in his window. Lucas felt a pit in his belly. The
man raised a gun, pointed it at Lucas’s temple, fired pointblank. A fiery roar
ate his face, blood splashing merrily over the leather interior.

The shooter turned to the nearest restaurant, the
Bangkok Café, and fired several shots into the front window. Bullets pocked the
glass and snapped into the wall. A diner dove for cover behind a potted palm
tree. An old man reflexively stood up, jarring his table; hot soup spilled on
his lap. He howled in pain.

The shooter took off through the stalled cars on
Geary. On the street, people scattered. The brave and the fools looked around,
confused, not sure of what they saw. A young couple on the sidewalk pointed to
the restaurant, certain that the shots had come from the long-haired white dude
at table four.

Who can tell what happens in three lanes of
traffic at rush hour?

Lucas’s body folded into the steering wheel. His
foot slipped off the brake. The Lexus rolled forward, just another car now, and
crashed into a hydrant. Water surged upwards in a geyser, and a misty confusion
rolled through the San Francisco streets.