Telegraph Hill (8 page)

Chapter 14

The room smelled stuffy. Ray glimpsed a dingy pile
of flannel shirts on the floor. Prints hung on the walls, pop art drawings of
women or tropical beaches, stuff usually seen in health clubs and dentist’s
offices. The featured reading material was TV Guide, set neatly in the middle
of the table. A halogen floor lamp tilted dangerously on the carpet, promising
facial injuries to anyone sitting on the white sofa. The room’s notable lack of
personal effects made it strangely memorable, some horrific bodysnatching
nightmare. Who really lived here?

Steven excused himself, took a piss, and returned
to his spot on the sofa. His body looked soft as oatmeal; he hadn’t pushed it since
high school.

“Why are you looking for Tania again?”

“Her family is concerned about her. They haven’t
heard from her in years.” Ray paused. “How did you get to know Tania?”

“Met her in a club. Best girlfriend I ever had.”
Steven sat back and sighed. He looked ready to unburden himself of some
baggage. Ray decided to just sit back and let the man unwind.

In 1990, Steven had moved to San Francisco from
Brooklyn. He embraced the open atmosphere that pervaded the city. He met
superstars of remote art forms: Jade Vortex, a fire-breathing stripper; Pamela,
whose one-woman show in South of Market warehouses involved her feeding live
armadillos with organic pineapple held in her labia. He had fallen into the
underground club circuit, where various groups rented out warehouses on weekend
nights and threw raves that lasted into the early morning hours. Steven
reminisced as he sat splayed on his sofa. “For two months I just smoked dope
and partied. And I was actually meeting girls, good-looking ones too. I dated
40 year old women who educated me in ways I had not considered.”

One night he attended a party on Townsend Street
with a friend. As he sipped a beer, he saw an Asian woman walk to the bar. She
was tanned, about five feet tall. Her black hair was streaked with blond. Her
face had a regal sadness to it, a touch of wisdom that lifted just another face
into stardom. Her name was Tania.

“She really put the hooks in me. I mean, look, I
know I’m not the best looking guy—why kid myself? And I usually don’t bother
with the best looking girls—boring women who look good but have nothing to say.
But there was something so seductive about her. So I talked to her. Even a
blind hen gets a seed now and then.”

“And how did the blind hen do this night?” Ray
asked.

“Very well. I brought her a drink and made stupid
jokes. She laughed at everything I said. We spent the night talking and
dancing. She had lived in Hong Kong. She told me stories of her home. We left
the club together at 3:00 AM. Everything went perfect, just one of those
perfect nights.”

After leaving the club, they saw a bus parked with
its “Not In Service” sign lit; the driver was heading home for the night.
Steven joked with the bus driver who, in a jovial midnight mood, took them on a
wild careening trip over the steaming manhole covers of Kearny, up to the light
show of Broadway. They got off the bus and ate seafood at You Lan. Afterwards,
they went back to his apartment and screwed happily until dawn.

The next morning Tania was quiet, and she left
quickly, refusing to have coffee or even accept a ride home. Steven had been
reduced to begging for her telephone number, which she reluctantly gave. Steven
leaned forward.

“After a few weeks of tea and coffee cake at four,
I was frustrated. We couldn’t go back to the mood of that first night. So she
finally told me why she was acting so weird.” He looked at Ray with a sharp
nod, ready to divulge pivotal details. Showing his readiness, Ray opened his
hands.

“She was an escort, a hooker. And she said that
guys don't stick around for hookers.”

“She told you that?” asked Ray.

“Yeah. That was why she was so cold—she thought
that we could never have a relationship because of what she did.”

“But you felt differently.”

“Yeah, I was in love with her. She was a fabulous
girl. She had a real sensuality.” He sighed. “She must have been a great little
whore.”

Ray stifled a laugh. “When did you last see her?”
he asked.

“I’m sorry, I was about to get to that. At that
time, she had been living at the Hotel Virginia.”

“Big brick place in an alley off Mason?”

”Right. She saw clients there, mostly
businessmen.”

“How did she get started in that business?” Ray
asked.

“Tania told me she was working off debts owed by
her parents. First she started working at the Peking Garden massage parlor.
Eight girls, mostly Koreans. She was brought into the business by a girl who
told her she was making 100 grand per year. All these girls lie about the
amount of money they make, but that comes with the business.” Steven sat back
heavily.

“Did Tania live at the parlor? Ray asked.

“No.”

“The Jones Street apartment?”

“That was her place. She moved there later.”
Steven’s head swiveled energetically on its puffy neck stem. “After a time, I
started spending more time at that apartment. He raised a finger. “You know
you’re serious when you have your own toothbrush in the crusty little holder at
your girlfriend’s house.”

Ray nodded. “Sure sign. What did she tell you
about her work?”

“That was a touchy subject for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She told me I didn’t understand the business—she
used a phrase ‘in dark shadows.’ Some Chinese colloquialism. And she was making
a lot of money. She always had the hottest little outfits on—BeBe, Claiborne,
you know the look. One of those Asian girls in little designer skirts strutting
around the mall.”

“I gave up hunting at the mall about twenty years
ago,” said Ray.

Steven grinned. “Not me. Anyway, a few months into
it, the whole thing unraveled. I was tired of Tania screwing these guys. I told
her to leave the life. I’d take care of her. But she refused. We had been
drinking, and next thing you know, I’m shouting at her.”

He left her apartment for the night, slamming the
door hard on his way out.

The next afternoon Steven had returned to the
apartment. He found three Asian men waiting.

“They lounged around. Like they owned the place.
Tania sat on the floor in shorts and bare feet. She wouldn’t even look at me.”

When he tried to speak to Tania, one of the men
pushed him back firmly. The other two men fired slight smiles his way. He smelt
a faint whiff of violence on the horizon. A few more quick smiles and hands in
bulging pockets underscored the sincerity of the new hosts.

“One of the men pulled all my clothes off my rack
in the closet and shoved them in my hands. I was guided out.” Steven slumped in
his seat. “My last image of Tania was her sitting on the floor, completely
devoid of any expression. She looked like a slave.”

“Any idea of their connection to Tania?” Ray
asked, trying to rope the increasingly melancholy man back into the sunlight of
casual conversation.

“I think they were gangbangers. A protection
racket. I remember reading about the Viet gangs and how they extort money from
the legitimate businesses in the ‘Loin.”

“Did she call them?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she did.”

“Why do you think they were Vietnamese, and not
Chinese?” asked Ray. “Did they identify themselves as Vietnamese?”

“No. I guess they could be Chinese.”

“Do you know either language?”

“No.” Steven paused. “That was the last time I saw
her.” He paged Tania that night and then numerous times the following day. She
never responded. On a rainy Friday night, he donned a trench coat and took a
cab over to Geary. The theater crowd, talking loudly, bellies stuffed with prix
fixe dinners, filled the streets along with the working girls. Steven huddled
beneath a tree on Jones, watching Tania’s apartment for a sign of activity.

His efforts to find Tania died as desire flickered
and grew dim. A beautiful piece of his life drifted into the shadows.

“To this day I regret not finding her. Maybe I
regret meeting her.” Steven’s voice was low and disconsolate now. He picked at
his shirt sleeve.

Ray asked again: “You never heard from her? Or saw
her in the street?”

“Nothing.”

“Did Tania ever mention any other names of people
she hung out with?” Ray asked. “Friends or family?”

“No one except her friend, Moon,” said Steven.

“She never mentioned her family?”

“No.”

“Who is Moon?” Ray asked.

“I met her once at SF MOMA. I took Tania to a
short photo exhibit there. Roy DeCarava, great black and white still shots from
Harlem.”

“I saw the DeCarava show. I liked the soulful
scenes of empty kitchens.”

“You saw it too? Great show.” Steven paused.
“Anyway, we stopped to talk to a friend of hers outside at the park.” Steven’s
face was looking more morose by the minute. He sank deeper into the cushions.

“Any last name?”

“Yi. Or Lee. I’m not sure.”

“How old was she?”

“Late 20’s. Long black hair, very hot. Superior
genetics. She seemed tight with Tania, although I just met her that one time.
They seemed to know each other well.”

“Was she a working girl too?”

“Yeah. They don’t use that term. Tania always
referred to herself as a provider,” Steven said, chuckling a bit.

“Where can I find this Moon Yi?” asked Ray.

“Or Lee.”

“What?”

“Lee. Or it might be Li, with an ‘i’.”

“OK. How did they know each other?”

“I don’t know. But they were close.”

“Why do you say that?”

Steven dabbed a coffee stain on his shirt. “I
don’t know, something in the way they talked. Like a lot of preliminary stuff
had already been discussed. Immediacy.”

“Did Tania sleep with women?”

Looking more awake, Steven replied: “Not on a
regular basis. If a client asked for it, she might double-team a guy. But in
her personal life, I never saw any sign of it. That is a huge fetish for me, so
believe me, I would have known. Seeing two girls together is a cleansing
experience.”

“I know what you mean,” said Ray. “Any idea of
where I can find Moon?”

“I remember Tania telling me Moon worked at a spa
in the Haight.”

“Remember the name?”

“Mmmm, no.” Steven thought for a moment. “Fuji
Spa, maybe? I think that’s it.”

Steven sagged back in his chair, his back almost
parallel to the floor.

“Steven, thanks for meeting. If you don’t mind, I
might call you again at some point to follow up on some things.”

“You think you’ll find her?”

“Hope so.”

“You must have an interesting job.”

“Usually. I get to see a wide selection from the
menagerie. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a programmer. I develop video games.”

“Love video games. I spent a fortune playing
Defender when I was young.”

“Great game for its time.”

Ray started toward the door.

Steve paused. “Can you let me know if you find
her?”

Ray stopped walking and turned slightly. “Well,
probably not. You can call me if you want; I’ll let you know if she’s all
right. But I can’t tell you where she is. Sorry.”

“No, I understand.” Ray said goodbye and jotted
down Steven’s phone number. Then Steven shut the door behind him.

Chapter 15

Ray headed for the stairs and considered his haul
for the day. His peculiar personality aside, Steven Moran had been helpful: he
had identified someone close to Tania, this woman named Moon.

Ray headed to Vallejo Street and walked down the
hill to North Beach. He grabbed a seat outside Cafe Trevi and dialed Lucas
Michael’s office phone. He didn’t like clients to get sticker shock. Progress
meant time, and his time was on their dime. Michael’s receptionist rang him
through.

“I found a case for Tania in San Francisco. She
was arrested on pandering and prostitution charges.”

“Are we certain of this?” asked Lucas.

“Yes.”

“That will be a bit of a shock,” Lucas sighed.
“Have you been able to locate her?”

“Not yet. I checked an old address that came up on
a mug shot. She’s no longer there—at least that was the story from the people
at the apartment now. But I spoke with an old boyfriend of hers who had some
interesting information.” He relayed the main points of the Steven Moran
interview, and let Lucas digest that unpleasant sampling. “Moran is quirky, but
not a bad guy. He gave me what he could. I plan on meeting with a woman
tomorrow who may have known Tania. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“Moon. No last name yet—possibly Li. I’m working
on it.”

“Thanks Ray, good work. Look forward to hearing
more.”

They ended the call. Ray sat at the cafe, watching
the mingled millions on the street. He decided that he would go see Moon
immediately. Before he did, he wanted to get a start on the Project. He called
Dominique.

“Nice to hear your voice,” she said.

“Maybe some time soon, you can hear it live.”

“We’ll see, big boy.” She laughed softly. “You
might have to take me out one more time. I’ve seen all the tricks in your magic
show. So what do you need now?”

“A number. Who did you recommend for surveillance
here?”

“I use the Perry Agency. I called him for
you—Richard Perry, former Secret Service. He’s very good, a lot more responsive
than most of the retired cops out there.” She checked her phone and gave him
the number.

“I’ll call you later today,” he said.

Ray called the agency and got Richard Perry on the
line. He outlined the history of Bobby Cherry. “The guy may be tied to other
white supremacist groups operating on the West Coast—White Aryan Resistance,
League of the South. I need to get him under surveillance for a few weeks. He
lives in Oakland.”

“Oakland!” said Richard. “That’s odd.”

“I know. He’s stuck in a poor neighborhood with
the very people he wants to shit on. How soon can you get on him?”

“Tonight if you want. Is he known to set up
anywhere? Any destination?”

“He leaflets at the Wharf in San Francisco, Pier
39. You can find him there or at his home. I’ll email you the details.” Ray
jotted down Richard’s email address, and hung up the phone.

Ray thought Richard seemed OK. A bit amped up
though; he would have to keep an eye on him. He composed a brief memo, and
emailed it to him.