Telegraph Hill (4 page)

Chapter
7

Four muscular Asian men strutted along the
Embarcadero, radiating that odd mix of intimidation and restraint peculiar to
Asian gangs. The men had spent a lot of hours building muscle; being young and
violent, they showed off the results of their work with the iron. Thick traps
danced beneath the muscle tees, hard chests thrust out, triceps rippling. But
the men gave way to tourists, didn’t try to overdo the turf walk. They were on
business, simple and direct: hunt down Tania Kong.

They walked past an outside cafe, scanning the
people. Fit men in black spandex and funny-looking helmets straddled titanium
bikes, or lounged on the grass. Kids walked by with their parents, munching on
junk food.

They had been looking for Tania for six days. No
sign of her anywhere. Everyone had been sure it would be over in forty-eight
hours. But they were wrong. Excitement leaked away; frustration set in.

Ricky flicked a cigarette to the sidewalk as he
reconnoitered the perimeter of the cafe. “I once seen this show about missing
persons—you don’t find them in twenty-four hours, you be fucked.”

Dan looked at him. “Ahh shut ya’ cake hole.” The
other guys glared at Ricky, resenting the implication. The fuck-up was reaching
major proportions. Word filtered down from the bosses—they were pissed. Tamo
was riding them hard. A subliminal pressure was building; the guys could feel
it, like the tipping point in football when a linebacker crunches into a
quarterback to jar the ball loose. A spirit of collision. Someone had to make
something happen soon.

Last night at Buddha Bar, Xio “Kenny” Chu came up
with an idea. Lean, well-dressed, a smooth talker, Kenny was dating a girl who
worked at a hospital and drove a van for elderly people. He told the crew that
the van had “Elderly Services” printed in blue block letters on the side and
was outfitted with stuff for the oldsters—the van actually tilted down and had
a little conveyor belt that lifted the old people out the door.

“Well, the great thing is, my girl takes the van
home each night, she got the keys.” He smiled broadly over his beer as he told
everyone. “We can do missions from the handicap van. Roomy and they don’t
attract a lot of suspicion.”

He met her at a club, and they did the club
hookup, sleeping together after one night out and then trying to salvage the
thing and get to know each other afterward. He was still banging her on
occasion.

“She told me that if I needed wheels, I could take
the van anytime I need it.”

So now the crew had the handicap wheels for the
day, cruising around and hunting Tania from the van. They could park in
handicap spots — anywhere really — because elderly people voted, they had all
kinds of rights, and who was going to ask a van used to help elderly people to
move anyway?

So they piled inside and roamed the city. It was
funny shit, the van cruising heavily, the way the door opened and the van
tilted down like a decrepit elephant so the oldsters could step on.

The guys carried six guns on board, four pistols
and two sawed off shotguns. Kenny and Dan placed one shotgun in each corner of
the van so they could cover all angles, a rolling fortress. The guns had
homemade silencers on them, thick as cans and stuffed with sound deadening
fiberglass.

After a dull morning, they parked at the water
looking over the East Bay. Kenny and Sammy got off to pick up some lunch when
they saw her sitting in the cafe. Asian girl, petite, eyes with a certain
Western look to them. Right height, right profile. They ran back to the van to
check the picture.

“Yep, it’s Tania,” said Kenny. They passed the
picture back and forth, and voted. Sammy shook his head no. They argued. “I’m
just saying, the girl in the cafe looks different. I don’t think it’s her.” But
Dan, squat and eager, muttered, “Let’s do this.” The mission just seemed
inevitable. No one listened to that douche bag Sammy anyway.

Dan pointed to the driver seat. Kenny hustled up
to the front and pulled away. They had found their target, they felt the
pressure. Plus, Kenny had told them his girlfriend had to drive the van to work
the next day.

The van cruised down the Embarcadero toward the
cafe. The shooters crouched near the shaded windows. They stopped for a few
minutes until Tania got up and left the cafe. She sipped a coffee as she
strolled in front of one of docks on the marina. The van rolled slowly by. A
rear window cracked open. Dan unloaded, sending a muffled blast right at Tania.
Her right shoulder evaporated in a red mist. She toppled over. Then another
shot and another shot, muffled humps, as the van rolled peaceably by. Tania lay
still on the concrete. There was some ricochet action and a biker toppled over,
crashing into a cafe table.

“Hit a mushroom, hahahah!” Kenny loved the mayhem.
The shared adrenaline rush, four hard, young badasses. The guys were laughing
and belting each other; they should have videotaped the bitch and put it up on
Youtube. The geek on the mountain bike was just a bonus.

People on the sidewalk were looking around now, a
girl down, a biker screaming. They scanned the street and over the water and
looked down the Embarcadero. The elderly van lumbered along, innocuous and
overlooked.

Later the papers came out with the story and the
girl’s name. Melissa. She was from out of town, a student from Wisconsin.

Another mistake. The bosses were not happy. Dan,
Ricky, Sammy and Kenny got the call. A dark SUV came by their Clement Street
apartment and drove them to a private bar on Grant Street. Some heavy hitters
there, soldiers from the top crews. Tamo had warned that bullshit mistakes
would not be tolerated. Two of the soldiers dragged Kenny down a stairwell to
the basement. Kenny resisted a bit. One of the men snapped the butt of his
handgun on his skull, a hard thwack. Kenny’s limbs jerked a crazy dance. They
shoved the other guys downstairs and tossed Kenny into a shallow pit dug into
the floor filled with filthy water. Beer cans and cigarette butts floated on
the surface. One of the men opened Kenny’s skull with a pipe. Blood mixed with
the dark waters. Head wounds always looked worse than they were, the pressure
of veins on the skull shot the blood everywhere, but still, the moaning from
Kenny unnerved his friends.

Dan, Sammy, and Ricky got knocked around a bit
before Tamo decided they had enough. Kenny lay unconscious in front of the
others, bleeding into the half dug pit. They emerged with shocked looks from
the basement into a side alley. Something different in their faces now. They
blinked in the summer light and eyeballed the dumpsters. Still worried the beat
down was not over.

Tamo watched them in silence. Then laughter
geysered up through him so rapidly that he rocked back and forth, almost
dancing. He loved this life. When you felt part of something so close to the
top, it was close to perfection. Like a ruined god.

“Dumb little fuckers. We like the handicap van
though. Smart!” Tamo pointed to his skull. “That’s why you’re still alive.”

A joke went around the triad, the crews needed to
increase their missionary work: seduce more girls who worked at hospitals,
nursing homes, schools for the blind.

Chapter
8

Ray walked the trash-strewn streets of the Civic
Center back to his car. He parked on Sutter Street and checked into the
Commodore Hotel, a Jazz-era hotel known for its informal style on the
Tenderloin outskirts. He had good memories of the place, having done some
spoken word performances here a few times with a blues band. He popped into the
hotel bar, decorated completely in red, with one wall comprised entirely of
champagne glasses encased in bulletproof glass.

He checked his phone for Dominique’s number. He
knew he could save time finding archived case files by making inquiries with
the San Francisco Police Department. And that meant reaching out to Dominique.
He was not sure he wanted to call her just yet, and had thought he might resist
for longer than one day. Well, he decided, he had as legitimate an excuse as he
could have asked. He punched her number on his cell.

At 7:00 PM. Ray walked over Nob Hill, watching the
sun sink and stain the sky a purple-blue patina. A cable car clanked up the
hill, arms of tourists jutting and pointing at the stately homes. On his right,
La Dolce Vita, an Italian bistro where he had eaten dozens of times with Diana.
The life he had lived. A black fury threatened to swamp his senses. He shook
off thoughts of the past and entered the restaurant.

The noise level was deafening. A row of impossibly
good-looking people sat at the bar, waiting for their tables. Ray sat at the
section near the window that looked over Hyde Street. He would watch for the
crescendo of craning necks that he knew would follow Dominique Arnello into the
restaurant. It was more than a trophy exhibition. Her impeccable bearing
elevated walking into a moving art. The artistry of the banal, one of the keys
to living.

While studying law at the University of
California, Dominique’s friendship redeemed the drab social life that plagues
most first year law students. Starting law school at age forty one, she was
older than most of her classmates. Her high-voltage intellect and sleek figure
comprised an unusual combination of gifts, and for that, many of her classmates
could never forgive her. She refused to look the part often assumed by young
female law students: either the devout, unsleeping scholar of law, or the
sharp-tempered courtroom medusa with swords sticking out of her hair. She was
just Dominique, kind, intelligent, and seemingly there for the sheer joy of it.

Dominique arrived at the restaurant a few minutes
later, black curly hair down to her shoulders, a lavender business suit with a
strategic amount of cleavage, showing to great effect, a string of pearls. The
wave of heads rolled as expected.

Ray took in the sight of the woman he had once
known so intimately — olive skin, deep eyes the color of fallen oak leaves. He
thought she looked unbelievably healthy, radiant as a newly fired sun.

She saw him right away and cut through the crowd.
He reached out and they embraced. They looked at each other, so much to say.
The host guided them to a table. They ordered a bottle of Cabernet. Both flush
with muted excitement, talking in that tender way when people meet for the
first time in years. The wine came and they relaxed.

“Do you keep in touch with any of the old crew?”

“I hardly see anyone. Once in a while I see
Patrick in court. Remember him?”

“He was the guy who tore pages out of the first
year assignments.”

“You remember that!” she laughed. “He always
denied it.”

“Not convincingly,” said Ray.

The noise level in the dining room was rising as
wine glasses were drained.

“Didn’t you two shoot pool all through the first
year?”

“If you are referring to my billiards sessions, I
can only say the time spent was exaggerated. Pool relaxed me.” Ray took a
drink. “That, among other things.”

Dominique looked at him and smiled. The waiter
brought some sourdough bread.

“What are you working on these days?”

“The usual,” said Dominique. “Some overcharged
drug cases. Black teenagers from Oakland getting maxed out in federal court.
And the kingpin, some white dude, free in the suburbs somewhere.” She sipped
her wine. “So what brings you to California?”

Ray told her about Lucas Michaels and his efforts
in locating a missing girl. “She slipped beneath the radar looking for her
California dream.”

“Let me know if I can help. If you need office
space. “

“I will. Thanks.”

“Any leads?” Dominique asked.

“A big one surfaced today. Municipal Court handled
a case where she was charged with prostitution a few years ago. But there was
hardly any paperwork in the case file. What’s the retention policy on
misdemeanors?”

“The clerk’s office is getting rid of a lot of old
files. Clogging up the old courthouse. There’s no place left for the stuff.”

“Any suggestions on how to get more background on
that arrest?”

“A vice detective I know might be able to help
you. Waymon Pierce. He’d be a great place to start.”

“Good.”

“He’s an odd bird, a real talker. But he’s seen it
all. I'll call him tomorrow for you.”

The waitress, a skinny gruff woman, came and took
their orders. Ray was surprised that she had elbowed her way into the
hospitality business. He ordered swordfish, while Dominique ordered tortellini
with cream sauce.

“Glad you didn’t just order a salad. I hate it
when women do that.”

“Me? Please. Plus, you’re paying.” She paused. “I
am glad that you called. It seemed like geography got in the way of our
friendship.”

“Despite everything we said.”

“By the way, how’s your family, your mother and
father? I loved your father, with those shirts!”

“They’re doing fine. Living in Boston still. I see
them every week.”

She paused and looked at the floor. “Ray, I’m
sorry about what happened to your fiancé. That was terrible.”

Ray looked at her. “Thanks.”

“I read about it. I wanted to call. But I felt . .
. I don’t know.”

“It’s OK. I didn’t answer the phone for a year.”

“But I should have done something,” she said, her
brow furrowing. “That was wrong.”

“It’s OK. Really. It’s tough to talk about. Even
now.”

They sat awkwardly, waiting for the food. The host
was making a big show of seating a well-dressed older couple, who ate up the
attention.

“How is the investigation going?” Dominique asked.
“They indict anyone?”

“They never did. We think the bombing was
retaliation for my work with the Law Center a few years back. We developed
evidence that an Aryan Knights group planned the murders of several Mexican
migrant workers found bludgeoned to death in camps near the border.”

“And they tied all this to you?”

“The group knew my face. But privacy is not what
it once was. All those goddamn internet sites selling personal data,” he said,
trailing off. “Somehow, they tracked me here.” Ray sipped his wine and took a
deep breath to calm himself.

“Who is the main suspect?”

“Dude named Bobby Cherry. An investigator saw him
on the Embarcadero the week before the bombing, spreading discomfort among the
tourists.” Ray fingered a knife. “Skinny white boy calling for a race war. The coming
of the great white god.”

“Did the police ever question him?” Dominique
asked.

“He was interviewed. He admitted being present at
the wharf, but denied heading into North Beach. Nothing could tie him in.”

Ray looked around for the waiter and signaled for
another drink. Dominique sat back, and frowned. She started to say something
when the food arrived.

The restaurant grew noisy. Once Ray and Dominique
had a few bites of dinner the gloom disappeared. The red wine loosened nuggets
of conversation. They laughed about old times, lovingly chopping down friends
who weren’t at the table to defend themselves. They were in the early stages of
an old dance resumed. Best taken slow.

“This swordfish is great—would have a food critic
fingering the thesaurus,” Ray said.

Dominique laughed. “I hate food critics. They’re
either hack authors or failed chefs. Not good enough for either.”

They finished the meal. “Anything you need this
week, just call,” Dominique said.

“I will. I have something else going here. Some
surveillance on another case. Recommend anyone?”

“There’s a PI firm downtown I’ve used a couple of
times. I’ll call over and have them get in touch with you.”

Wrapped in conversation, they finally noticed that
the restaurant was emptying.

“This waitress looks like she wants to dive-bomb
the table,” Ray said. “She’s ready to close out.”

Ray paid the bill, the waitress muttering a
thank-you in his direction as they moved to the door.

Lightly stewed in red wine, they ambled to the
door, brushing arms as they walked into the night.

“It was great to see you.”

“Yeah, great to see you too, Ray. I'm so glad you
called.”

“The past is the past,” he said, not knowing what
that meant.

“I have to go now.”

“Another drink?”

“I really do have to go Ray,” she said smiling.
“Call me tomorrow. I don't trust you yet after midnight.”

Ray stopped walking. “How about after two?”

“How about after sunrise,” she replied. “We can
talk then.”

“Sunrise? You worried I’m a vampire?” He showed
his teeth.

She ignored him, smiling at some private thought.

A cab slowed in front of the restaurant. Dominique
got into the rear seat, a vision of lavender and exposed toes. Ray smiled,
humming an old song about the virtue of patience. For the better, he thought.
She was a beautiful person in every way. He realized just how much he missed
her, the joy of life that radiated from her.

The cab pulled away. Ray walked on Hyde Street
toward downtown as it descended to the outer reaches of the Tenderloin. Fog
drifted across the hilltop and through the dark alleyways. He passed
laundromats and bistros, a corner pizzeria with a jade plant overgrowing its
windows. On Sutter Street, a pair of women perched on a street corner, garish
birds trolling for crumbs. One in a red leather contraption that screamed
hooker, the other dressed in a cocktail dress several sizes too small. Ray
walked by, nodded. One of the women replied in a deep voice, a basso profundo.
The juxtaposition of female curves and male audio jarred his senses. Still, he
had to admit that the transsexual looked better than the waitress at the
restaurant.

Ray reached the hotel. The Red Room was pulsing
with twenty year old men practicing elaborate approach rituals on anything
resembling a female. A clueless frat boy wearing bowling shoes and a green
sweatshirt tested a line — “Hey, nice cookies.” A blond woman frowned, and
looked for something to swing. Several men roared with laughter.

The spectral neon blue from the hotel sign leaked
into his room. He didn’t mind; he had kept Christmas lights up year round in
his old apartment in law school. Sometimes he just liked to keep them lit, even
in summer. He remembered Dominique busting his ass about it once, like he was
some old dago with lights lining the restaurant ceiling. He fell asleep
instantly, nostalgic and exhausted.