Telegraph Hill (9 page)

Chapter 16

Tania snipped and dark swaths of hair fell to the
floor. She stared at her face in the cracked mirror. Her hair looked ratty; she
hadn’t styled it in weeks. Just another vagabond in another come-crusted motel
somewhere north of the city.

She hacked at her hair again with the scissors. To
anyone looking, she might be just a pretty ass Asian boi, a club kid in bad
clothes. The problem was that there were dozens, maybe hundreds, of people
looking for her. And some were looking hard. Every nerve in her body bristled
with tension.

She finished cutting and looked at the mirror
again. Looked like a dyke. That struck her funny, because although she had
lustily buried her face between Moon’s legs, she was not one of them. It was
just that, when it came to beautiful men and women, she could not say no to
love.

Tania took a sip of water from a plain glass. Felt
a little better to be on the move in Marin County. San Francisco was too
dangerous. She realized that she knew no one in the city. The men in her life
were just paying customers, nothing more. Yes, some of them were kind and
treated her well, very well in fact. And some fucked her good. A few had
ventured close to becoming real friends. But she didn’t always know their real
names, and who was going to take a call now from a runaway whore under a death
sentence? No one wanted that call. No one was riding into a fairy tale.

She went out, hooded as usual, staying away from
any Asian restaurants or businesses. She walked across 4th Street to a little
pizza joint and ordered a pizza, salad with ranch dressing and a Pepsi. An oily
smell heavy in the air. All the Greek pizza places made dough that smelled the
same. Some guy with dreadlocks sat in a booth and looking like he wanted to
start a conversation. No way. She put on her iPod and wandered toward the door,
staring out at the newspaper racks. Townie life rolled by quietly. She reached
into her pocket and pulled out three quarters, bought the last copy of the
local paper. Then her meal was ready. She zipped inside, picked up the paper
bag and walked back for another lonely dinner inside her room.

She needed to set up something more permanent.
These rooms were costing her a fortune. As she scanned the paper, she noticed
an ad for a zen center. Free room and board in exchange for a commitment of
time and work. The photograph in the ad showed the staff members beaming out
goodwill and peace. That was something she could do. She laughed out loud. She
was going from a working girl to a zen master in two weeks. Life was rich, she
thought, devouring her salad. She hadn’t eaten a full meal in days.

Chapter 17

Sitting at a Haight Street tacqueria, Ray ate a
carnitas burrito and watched a fly-eyed street punk enter the store. Slime
plastered the guy’s warm-up jacket, and his eyes blinked rapidly. The guy moved
to the salsa bar, looked around, then reached out and filled a few tiny paper
cups with fresh salsa. He walked outside and handed the cups to a group of
grubby kids sitting on the sidewalk. They were flying on glue and meth, and
they devoured the salsa like it was sweet nectar. One of the restaurant owners,
a young thick-shouldered Mexican, approached the group, who swore and moved
away. “This is my business!” the restaurant owner yelled. “I got kids, man!” He
walked by Ray, and shook his head.

“Hope it was the habinero,” Ray said.

The owner laughed. “Ha ha, yeah! Burn their damn
lips off. They wreck this place, man, taking all my stuff, the napkins,
everything.”

Haight-Ashbury. The scene of San Francisco’s
Summer of Love, acid-drenched streets and free-loving hippies cultivating
enlightened philosophies and medieval hygiene. During the decades following the
1960s, the Haight had gotten edgier. Love may have flowed at one time, but now
the street was often a sad parody of itself. Greasy-haired burnouts begged on
street corners while young runaways chased feverish dreams among the ghosts of
a summer now forty years dead. Occasional tourists wandered the street looking
for free music and scantily clad California blondes. But some street corners
showed resilience to the grime as young immigrants from Asia and South America
opened new restaurants and shops. And Haight-Ashbury Music Center still
bristled with Stratocasters and amplifiers for the fadeaway dreams of
musicians.

Ray finished his dinner and headed up the street.
He passed 63 Cole Street, the former residence of convicted murderer Charles
Manson. Although the landlord tried to downplay the Manson angle, some tenants
sought out the address, even paying a premium to live there and partake of some
karmic convergence with the mass murderer.

He stopped at an orchid-colored Victorian, a two
story Mansard with wood dentils and cornices accented with a number of
different shades of purple and magenta. The paint was old and beginning to
fleck and peel. A six-foot tall iron fence surrounded the property. A gate
shaped in the likeness of a giant spider provided the only entryway. A green
burst of exotic plants shadowed the windows, which were covered with heavy red
drapery. A small metal sign over the basement door read “Fuji-Open”. He rang
the bell and waited.

Moon was probably not using her real name. She had
been described by Moran as exceedingly gorgeous—he ought to notice that.

A small aperture in the door cracked open,
startling him. A tiny face appeared: “Hi, you want massage? You been here
before?”

“Yes.”

The Lilliputian door closed.

The buzzer sounded, the door swung open, and he
entered a gray hallway. An Asian woman of indeterminate age stood there,
evaluating him with a stiff smile. She wore a tight black cocktail dress that
accented her slim form; she had bare feet, and short hair over a face that,
having seen forty years, still bore in the eyes a sliver of childlike grace.

“Who’s working today?”

“Who you see before?

He slurred something that sounded like ‘Lynn.’

“Who? Jen?” she asked, frowning.

“Yes. But I’d like to see everyone today.”

She paused, smiling. “You want to see everyone?
Ah, handsome man likes to shop.”

Ray nodded and the girl disappeared. He heard some
rustlings behind a screen, and the sound of skin being slapped into shape. He
looked around. Neon lights, and a television blaring a Chinese language soap
opera. He noticed a small sign on the wall that spelled out the rates, with a
warning:

Prostitution is illegal in CA. Please do not ask
for sexual services.

After a minute the girl returned, still smiling.
“Here,” she said, gesturing behind her.

Just beyond her hand stood three Asian women, all
dressed in silk cocktail dresses showing legs and cleavage.

His eyes moved immediately to the woman on the
end. She was heavily tanned, possibly Thai, with long black hair and perfectly
formed features. She had a body that cried out for attention. She looked about
thirty or so. The other two women were attractive as well, but he instinctively
knew that the tan woman at the end was Moon.

Ray smiled ruefully, feeling suddenly on the spot:
apparently he was now expected to dismiss two of the women. All had a
readiness, a certain animal watchfulness to their eyes. These were not passive
girls, although he did not doubt that they could convince a customer otherwise.

“I'd like all three”—the girls laughed politely—
“but her first.” He pointed to the lithe beauty on the end.

The two girls melted away. They would wait for
other customers, the usual herd of pent-up men. They walked behind a screen and
resumed listlessly watching the soap opera.

The girl locked eyes with him momentarily, smiled,
and took his hand. She said nothing as she led him down a darkened hallway and
into a room lit with a small table lamp. A massage table, a fan, several
bottles of ointments, oils, powders and other liquid applications. White towels
on a hook. The walls were covered with a print showing a spray of red flowers
and several photographs.

Ray admired the girl’s athletic body, barely
concealed by her dress. She looked at him coolly: “You can take a shower and
I'll be back. Would you like something to drink?”

Ray noticed that she spoke flawless English.
“Water is fine. I didn’t get your name.”

“Vicky,” she said. She left in a sparrow flight of
silk.

Ray undressed. He adjusted the shower water, and
stepped in, letting the hot water flood the fatigue out of his muscles. He
finished, stepped out, wrapped a towel around him, and lay on the table. He
smelled jasmine mixed with disinfectant. He looked closely around the room,
which was decorated with what appeared to be the woman’s personal effects:
pictures of various people, a bamboo-framed painting showing a scene in an
Oriental garden, and several long tapered candles.

Five minutes passed, and the woman returned,
closing the door behind her.

She placed his water glass on a table next to him,
and smiled. This was a well-rehearsed act for her, Ray thought, just another
slab of meat waiting to be manipulated.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yes, I used to see a girl named Jen.” If she was
suspicious, she gave no indication.

She dimmed the lights to a pleasant gloom.
Grabbing a bottle of baby oil, she began to massage his back.

Ray relaxed. He didn’t want to bring up his search
for Tania until he had a chance to gauge her, and he was enjoying her hands on
his body. She massaged his muscles, digging deep, squeezing, kneading. His
body, relaxed but steaming. He considered the possibility that she might do
something more. He looked at her, but she gave no sign either way. She started
to massage his shoulders and then pounded his back muscles as if tenderizing a
pork chop.

After ten minutes of deep massage, he felt her
fingers ease along the inside of his thigh. Light, light touches. Very slow
now. Her hands were very warm. She continued the massage, and her hand grazed
his cock. Was it intentional? Accidental? He felt the familiar urgency. Either
way, the result was the same—he was heading into a tar pit of primordial
instincts.

She began to lightly drag her fingers over the
back of his thighs, and he felt the better part of himself come alive.

He would resist. Yes, he could. This was business,
he needed to approach this professionally. He ground his pelvis into the table
to keep himself from getting too aroused.

Moon continued, humming softly to herself. Soft,
soft hands. Her hands felt warm, liquid gold. She continued to work, humming
softly, seemingly half-present.

With a sigh, Ray propped himself up on his elbows.
“Do you mind if I ask you something? Is your name Moon Li?”

Her face was a stone wall. She mumbled something.
Ray sat up.

“It’s OK. I just want to talk while I get my
massage. My name is Ray. I’m trying to get in touch with a friend, Tania Kong.”

Moon leaned back, fading into the gloom.

“Please. I work for her family. They are worried
about her. Can you help me?”

He stood up. Moon backed off. A muteness about
her—she was marshaling her defenses, scuttling for cover. He wrapped a towel
around his waist.

“I’m hoping you can tell me a little about Tania.
The last time you saw her. Do you know if she’s OK?”

Her eyebrows were raised slightly, drawn inwards.
Her mouth was pulled back in a small knot. Still not displaying agreement with
anything he said. “How do you know my name?” she asked.

“I got your name from a friend of hers who met you
once.”

Moon fingered her hair absentmindedly. Her lips
were pulled back tightly. “I have not seen her in over one year.” Her eyes went
to the floor.

“So you knew her?”

“Yes. A little.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“No.” Moon’s face impenetrable. Ray tried a
different tack.

“Moon, I know this is unusual. Can you tell me if
she needs help?”

Still nothing.

“I’m not a cop. I’m not here to turn this place
upside down. No one benefits.” Ray leaned forward. “Can you tell me if she is
OK?”

Moon stared at Ray as if searching his face for a
rippling of deceit. After a time, she stirred. “I think that she’s OK. I have
no reason to think she’s hurt. What do you want to know about her?”

Ray paused. He might as well divulge what he knew;
it might put her at ease. To get information, you had to give information, and
he suspected that many details of Tania’s life would be known to Moon anyway.

“I did some research and found court records that
showed Tania was arrested for working as a . . . courtesan.”

Moon smiled. “What a nice term to describe what we
do. Are you a poet?”

“Sometimes. You can only trust a poet for the
first couple of lines. But I have no problem with what she was doing.”

“You shouldn't. You came here,” she said. “And
you’ve been here before, right? Like you said?”

He shook his head. “First time. I came here to
talk to you.”

“Why?”

“To find out if you can help me get in contact
with Tania. Can you help me? Her family has not heard from her in years.”

“You’re not a cop?”

“No. I’m a private investigator.”

Moon stopped and looked him over. Then she sat
down in a small chair. “Tania worked as an escort—a courtesan as you say. She
worked at a private house in Chinatown.”

“What kind of house?”

“Professional massage house. It was close to
downtown for the businessmen. And then at night, the regulars who lived on Nob
Hill.”

“Were you close with her?” Ray asked. He sat down
and begin to pull his clothes back on.

“Yes.”

“What is she like?”

“Tania’s a wonderful girl. Very sophisticated,
attractive. Beautiful legs. She was one of the most popular girls in the
house.”

“Tell me about the house,” said Ray, buttoning his
shirt.

“Why do you ask these questions?” asked Moon.

“Her family is worried about her. No one has seen
her in years. I can help her—if she needs it.” Ray concentrated on keeping his
dark eyes calm and flat.

Moon considered it. She explained that Tania had
used the name Michelle when she worked. At the time she was reading books on
alternative religions, spirituality. She defied the stereotypes of an escort:
she had been well-educated overseas and invested much of her earnings in the
stock market.

“She never told why she was in the life. She was
smart, she could do other things. She wanted to start her own business. Some of
her clients were businessmen, lawyers, athletes—famous people in the city. She
used to see a famous athlete. Very famous.” Moon gave an exaggerated wide-eyed
look.

“Who was that?” Ray asked.

“Football player.”

“Raiders or Niners?”

“Oakland,” Moon nodded. “He has all these muscles.
He’s strong! But when he sees Tania, he’s like a little sheep. He wants her to
tie him up and whip his ass.”

He noted the present tense: sees, wants: “She
still sees the football player.”

Moon gave him the stone-face. “I don’t know.”

“You said she was popular. In demand.”

“Tania made a name for herself. She was what the
clients call GFE. ‘Girlfriend experience,’” said Moon sarcastically. “Like the
real thing.”

“Did you work with her?”

“Sometimes. We made a lot of money together.”

Moon seemed to have overcame some of the
inhibitions that had earlier held her back, but there was still a cold, caustic
edge to her tone.

“What are most of the clients like? Good guys?
Wackos?”

“Why do you think they’re any different from you?”
she asked.

Ray laughed. “I came here seeking enlightenment.”

“Oh sure! You are all alike—horny men!” Moon
laughed, enjoying the bullshit. “It’s not easy. We try to fit every man’s
fantasy. They want to screw for five minutes. Then they want someone to listen
while they complain.”

“They pay you just to talk?”

“Sometimes. Men don’t show their feelings, right?”
she said, sarcastically drawing out the word ‘feelings’ like a talk show host.

Ray finished tying his shoes. “They talk about
problems with their wives?” he asked.

“They’re the problem. Their wives are fine. It’s
everything else—their jobs, their bosses. Money. Unhappiness. We‘re like
psychotherapists.”

“Except less clothing,” Ray said. “But you
probably get better results too.”

Moon nodded. “One guy came in today and said: ‘I’m
ready for some poon.’ Such a blunt way of getting to his needs.”