I looked across the street and I saw the short fat guy that Marty had described. I put on my hat and walked out the door. There was a newsie on the other side of Union Square. I walked over and the bowling-ball-looking guy stayed put. He was good. He didn’t make the usual mistakes that PIs make, being too eager and following too quickly. You let your mark get a head start.
Then he made his mistake. While I was in line at the newsie, he reached into a flivver’s jockey box and got a fresh deck of butts. It was probably the only mistake this bird was going to make, so I decided I’d better make the most of it.
I strolled back to the office and stopped at Marty’s.
“What the matter, O’Farrell. Wasn’t I working through the line fast enough for ya?”
“The round fat guy is across the street, Marty. I went to the newsie, and he tipped his mitt and showed me which car was his. I’m going to go check it out.”
Back in my office, I dialed police headquarters and asked for Inspector Vincent Castellano.
Vinnie Castellano and I have been best friends since grade school. He lived at the extreme end of North Beach, though closer to Fisherman’s Wharf than my neighborhood near Columbus Circle. Vinnie and I were altar boys when we were kids.
I’m careful not to ask my cop friends for loads of favors. Lots of the Irish and Italian kids in my neighborhood became cops. Since I am a private eye, I see them a lot and work with all of them at one time or another. It’s a fact of life that cops don’t like private eyes; they think we are lowlifes who get paid way too much for what we do. In reality, I don’t think we get paid all that much, but compared to a cop walking the beat I make a king’s ransom.
Vinnie growled on the phone. “Hey paisano, what do you want? You must want something?”
“Easy, Vinnie. This is a personal call. I’m working a couple of cases and I am mixing it up with a couple of G-men. Yesterday I picked up a tail. As far as I can tell it’s not related to any case that I am working on. I’m mixed up in a case in Chinatown, and things are getting ugly. I want to know who this bird is; he may be in danger and not know it.”
“What can I do, Sean?”
“I have the guy’s license number. Can you run it for me? It’s California N1334.”
“I’ll call you right back, pal.”
I was working the crossword puzzle in the Chronicle, a favorite pastime for all private eyes, when the phone rang.
“It was an easy find,” Vinnie said. “The car is a 1933 Ford, registered to the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in the Flood Building.” He chuckled.
“Well, well” was all I could say.
“Sean, are you dating anybody yet? It’s about time, pal.”
“As a matter of fact, I have a hot date with a librarian tonight.”
“Good for you, Sean, good for you. Hey, Gina and kids would love to see you. Why not give me a call at home and you can stop by for a meal.”
“Thanks, Vinnie.”
I called down to Marty’s.
“Hey, Marty, look outside and see if there is a black ’33 Ford with the fat guy in it down there, will you.”
After of couple of minutes, Marty came back. “He’s sitting in the car working the crossword puzzle.”
“Thanks. I’m coming down the back way.”
I grabbed my hat and took the back stairs that emptied into the alley off Market Street. I walked around the building and came up behind the Ford. I had my .45 out, hidden in the paper, as I opened the passenger door and got in the Ford. The fat boy was caught off guard and stunned. I stuck the .45 in his ribs.
“Reach for the sky, pal.”
“Go ahead, take the wallet, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Save the act, Pink. Let’s get to hitting all eight over to your office. I want to meet your boss. Hands on the steering wheel, pal.” I reached in and pulled his .38 out of the shoulder holster.
The guy was smooth under pressure. “I won’t give you any heat, pal. Safety the roscoe.”
“All right, pal, you’re on.” I clicked the thumb safety and the guy relaxed. I told him to drive. We didn’t have far to go. We could have walked there faster than driving. The Flood Building is at the end of the Powell Mason cable-car line on Powell Street. The front door was just off the turnaround.
The Flood Building is an odd building. It is the shape of a long triangle. It was one of the only buildings to survive the big earthquake in 1906. The all-marble lobby makes my building look like a tar-paper shack.
We took the elevator to the third floor. The fat boy wasn’t saying much. Not much to say when you got a rod in your ribs.
We got off the elevator and came to suite 314. It had that logo on the glass, the never-blinking eye. Well, one of their ops was just caught blinking. The fat guy opened the door. The place was crawling with operatives who stopped whatever they were doing and stared.
“Morning, boys. Who is the head Pink around here?” The fat guy was nervous and sweating.
“That would be me. You O’Farrell?” A tall redheaded guy with a Van Dyke walked over with his thumbs hitched in the straps of his leather shoulder holster.
“That would be me. Here.” I tossed him the fat guy’s roscoe.
“Your buddy here kept dropping it on the ground. I took it from him before it went off.” I put my .45 back in my holster.
The redheaded guy gave the fat guy a dirty look and nodded toward his office. “You want some Joe?”
“No thanks.”
We went into his private office and he closed the door.
“My name is Powell, take a seat. Bertie is generally a good op. How did you spot him?”
“I didn’t, it was a retired cop that works in my building. He put me wise to your boy. I went out for a stroll and he reached into his car for a butt. I ran the plates and here we are.”
“Nice work, O’Farrell. I told Bertie he better be extra careful shadowing a PI, a detective is a detective. You got to have your A game going.”
I nodded. “When I was in the Navy a few years back, I worked a missing-kid case with one of your ops, a guy everybody called Slim.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s Sam Hammett. He’s out of the detecting business. He came up lame as a lunger, couldn’t work anymore.”
“Shame. He was a sharp op. What he doing now?”
“You must live under a rock. He’s going by his middle name now, Dashiell Hammett. He writes pulp about detectives and makes us all look exotic.”
“Gees, that’s Slim?”
Powell shrugged and gave me a bewildered look.
“Who hired you guys?” I demanded.
“Come on, O’Farrell, you know I can’t tell you that. Why don’t you blab to me all about your cases? I’m sure your clients won’t mind. Much.”
Good point. He leaned back in his chair and puckered his lips and sucked air through his teeth. It was an irritating sound.
“Look, Powell, I will tell you I am working on a couple of cases. One involves the mob in Chinatown and the other involves gamblers and big-time debts. The FBI is tailing me and both of these babies are getting out of hand. There have been death threats. I get the feeling that your shadow job isn’t related.”
“You might be right about that, but then again, you might not.” Powell sucked through his teeth again.
“Well, that’s clear as mud, Powell. If your boys are going to follow me around they better be a lot smarter than this Bertie. I have enough trouble keeping myself alive on these two capers; I don’t want one of your guys to take the big dirt nap while shadowing me. That’s not a threat from me. There are some bad hombres in this deal and they are definitely wrong gees. Make sure your boys are on their game and everything will be Jake. I don’t want anybody getting hurt.”
I got up and stated to walk out.
“O’Farrell, your
rep around is pretty solid. Everybody I talk to says you are a standup gee. If you ever want to join up, we got a spot for a smart guy like you. I sorry, I wish I could help you out.”
I believed him. I opened the door. Powell hit the button on the box on his desk.
“Hey, Sharon, will you bring me the number of hours that Bertie has been following this O’Farrell guy. Mr. O’Doherty wants a complete accounting.” He folded his hands on the blotter and smiled, then he sucked air through his teeth again. Man, that sound was maddening. I gave him a nod, then I faded.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I walked back to the office and checked in with Marty. I asked him to be available for the meeting between the Wang’s and the Broadcreek’s. I didn’t have anything set up yet, but he was willing to stand by.
Back in my office, I called the library and asked for the reference desk. As luck would have it, that old battle-axe librarian answered the phone.
“Main Library reference, Mabel speaking.” She had the voice of a Mabel, whatever that sounds like. It was like a fingernail against a blackboard. I asked for Kaitlin O’Doherty.
“Oh, it’s you, handsome. I’ve been waiting for you to call or come by. You want to talk to Katie?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
“I’ll bet you would like that.” She slammed the phone so hard that my eardrum rattled around in my head like a maraca.
Being a determined cuss, I called again. This time Kaitlin answered.
“Good afternoon. I was calling to see what time I could pick you up?”
I heard that old biddy in the background telling Kaitlin to hang up on the worthless bum, meaning me of course.
She giggled. “We are going to North Beach?”
“That is correct, my dear.”
“Meet me here at five and we’ll take the cable car there. It’s going to be a beautiful evening.”
“I’ll be there right at five.”
“Be careful, Mabel works till six. She’ll be here.”
“Don’t worry, I’m a licensed private investigator and everything. I’ll bring a gun to protect myself.”
She giggled and hung up. She had the best giggle.
I walked over to the St. Francis and asked the front desk to find Jerry Ronkowski. They sent a bellboy who came back in a few minutes with Jerry in tow. We met near the grandfather clock.
“Hey, Sean, what’s up?”
He sunk into a couple of lobby chairs. “I need a favor, Jerry. I need a meeting room where I can stick two big wheels and their wives for a meeting.”
“That’s no problem. Anything special I need to know about?”
“Yeah. One is the Deputy U.S. Attorney General in charge of the special task force to bring down the kingpins in Chinatown.”
“Okay, and the other guy?”
“The kingpin in charge of Chinatown.”
Jerry leaned forward in his chair.
“You putting me on? You’re putting Chin Wang in a room with the U.S. Attorney, and their wives?”
“That’s the plan. I’m bringing along two FBI guys to cover this Broadcreek guy, and two bodyguards that work for Wang to cover them. I got Marty Durrant watching the door and checking roscoes.”
“Oh, you can count on me to be there to back up Marty. Are you expecting trouble, Sean?”
“This is a personal matter, not business. But the subject of business may come up. That’s why I have the wives coming and the bodyguards for both sides. Plus, I’ll be in the room.”
“We got the Borgia Room. It used to be the chapel. It’s small and close to the elevators, so we can keep a lid on the place. I’d take it you want to keep the newshawks from getting a whiff of this?”
“That would be a disaster for everyone involved. We have to keep this quiet,” I said.
I thanked Jerry and headed for the library. Kaitlin was right: it was a beautiful afternoon and it would be an even better evening. I mounted the steps and looked for the reference desk. It was 4:58 p.m., right on the money.
Mabel was at the desk. I tried, “Good evening, Mabel, and how are you?”
“Shove it in your pie hole, pal.”
She was a real charmer, all right.
“Don’t you worry about little kids hearing you talk that way?” I said.
“Why don’t you do me a big favor and go lie down in front of a cable car,” she countered.
Kaitlin came out of the back room with her sweater and purse, ready to go. “Good night, Mabel.” She smiled.
“Good night, Katie, I hope you have a wonderful time and a wonderful dinner.”
She then looked at me. “You, I hope you choke to death on a meatball.”
We started across the library. It was hard not to laugh. Kaitlin was starting to smirk and giggle. She couldn’t hold it much longer. Then I said, “All that charm and looks too.”
We made it to the steps before we started laughing.
“This is good training for me meeting your parents one day.”
“Mabel is one tough old gal. She lost her husband in a shipboard fire,” she said.
“Navy?” I asked.
“Yes, he was a chief petty officer. She’s got a heart of gold, but she never lets anybody see it. For some reason, she likes me.”
“Well, she hates me. I make it a point to keep an arm’s length away from her. My guess is she has a blackjack under that counter, and she knows how to use it.”
“Give her a break, Sean. She’ll warm up.”
We got to the cable car turnaround and were able to hop right on. That is not usually the case on a Friday night, right after working hours. We grabbed a seat and enjoyed the warmth of the sun. It was at moments like this that I appreciate living in San Francisco. I loved New York City, but it was not the same as home.
I asked her, “Do you miss Boston at all?”
“I don’t miss the cold weather,” she said. “But I miss good New England clam chowder, New England boiled dinner, and the Red Sox. My father misses red flannel hash and eggs, he swears no one here knows how to make it here. But, I left some bad memories in Boston. I like it better here. I just wish we had the bigs here.”
I looked up the hill. “My kid sister got married to a great guy and moved to Long Beach,” I said. “They live in an area called Los Cerritos and have two great kids. He’s a city councilman. They love where they live, but my sister has to come home every so often and eat the sourdough bread and seafood. She misses it.”
The cable car turned hard left onto Jackson Street. When it did, Kaitlin slid over close to me. She smelled great. It had been so many years since I had been out on a date; I hardly knew how to carry on a conversation with a woman. It’s one thing to quip at her in the library, but it’s another thing when the chips are on the table and you are out on a date. We traveled along for a few minutes, listening to the cable car rattling and groaning.
“Where are we going to eat?”
“Gino’s Italiano and Bocce on Mason Street. You better get yourself ready for Uncle Gino and the gang.”
“Uncle Gino. You’re related?”
“I grew up three doors down from Uncle Gino. My dad and Gino were friends as soon as my folks arrived in San Francisco. My old man built a bakery. He baked bread, cookies, pastries, and he had a little espresso machine. His place was a neighborhood hangout for the guys. My old man was one of the first bakers to mechanize. He put every penny into new equipment and started making a pretty good living. He provided all the bread and desserts for Uncle Gino’s and lot of other restaurants.”
“Is the bakery still around?”
“I sold it to Uncle Gino’s son, Peter, we call him Petey. He should pay me off in another twenty years. The place is still running and the old retired guys hold court there. Petey does a great job with the place. If I don’t have anything g
oing on Saturday mornings I go in and help Petey make bread. Saturdays are big bread days because the restaurants are extra busy that night. My old man always told me that if a man can make bread, he can feed the world. There is something about kneading dough and cutting them into loaves.”
We got off the cable car and walked the half a block to Gino’s. Uncle Gino’s youngest, Fredo, was at the podium outside the front door. He came out from behind with his arms open wide.
“Sean, it’s been weeks since you have been by. The old man and Grandpa Mario have been looking for you.” He gave me a big Italian hug, complete with the back slapping. He looked at Kaitlin and was taken aback. “Sean, and who might this be?”
“Cousin Fredo, this is Kaitlin O’Doherty.”
Fredo gave her the same treatment. “It’s so nice to have you both here. Let me get you a nice table. I’m going to warn you, Kaitlin, your table will probably be invaded by family, so be ready. Come on, come on.”
He waved his arms and found us a primo table near the indoor bocce court. There were about eight older men on the court, arguing about which ball was closer. Every one of them had a glass of red wine in their hand. They always did at Gino’s. It may not have been the most expensive Chianti in town, but it was pretty good, there was plenty, and it went well with the meal. All of the old guys stopped arguing long enough to say hello to me. I pulled the chair for Kaitlin, and in the background I could hear, “O’Farrell’s got a date, can you believe it?”
I had just gotten settled into my chair when I was bear-hugged from behind. It was so crushing that it brought me out of my chair. It is a good thing I didn’t have a gun on, or I might have broken a rib. It was Uncle Gino.
“Where have you been, everyone has been asking about you?” He filled our wine glasses and, with a swift move, he pulled a chair for himself and pulled a wine glass from his apron pocket.
Gino Chiconis was short, round, bald, and funny. He was the Italian version of a leprechaun. He didn’t serve people in his restaurant; he worked the room like he was half comedian, half politician. When the church or a civic organization needed money, no one was tougher to turn down then Uncle Gino. He’d work you over like a tough guy with a blackjack. I’d seen it time and time again: some poor guy taking out his checkbook and writing a check to get Gino off their back. He is a good egg.
The Halfway to Hell Club Page 9
