by Tim Maleeny
“Ah, now that’s interesting,” said Beau. “We’re talking marijuana, lots of it. Salinas is old school, with close ties to the mob. That means he gets paid up front and then walks away—moving the drugs is somebody else’s problem, but it’s also an opportunity.”
“Because that somebody gets to mark up the price.”
“Big time.”
“And you know who that somebody is, don’t you?”
Beau shrugged. “Can’t prove it, but my money’s on Fat Frank.”
“You’ve had a hard-on for Frank Alessi ever since I met you.”
“Cops and robbers ain’t supposed to get along.” Beau stretched, his arms brushing the edge of the lamp hanging over their table. “Frank’s the local mob boss, and every beat cop knows it. He’s the only one with an organization that could move that much grass. The gangs in the Mission are too small.”
“But you can’t prove it.”
Beau shook his head. “Man’s a civic leader. Real estate magnate, friend of the mayor.” He paused and gave Cape a sympathetic look. “This helping?”
“Not at all.” Cape looked out the window of the restaurant, cars cutting across the view of the abandoned piers on the far side of the street. “What about Freddie Wang?”
“Chinese mostly deal in smack.”
“Doesn’t he do business with Frank?”
“If you’re asking if Freddie’s connected, the answer’s yes. But connected doesn’t necessarily mean involved.”
“Got it.”
“You’re grasping at straws, aren’t you?”
“Now you’re being optimistic.” Cape tried to force a smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. “But call me if you think of anything.”
“Cool.” Beau stood to leave. “But maybe you should think about what I said.”
Cape looked at his friend but said nothing.
“You got paid to find some people, and you found them,” said Beau. “Not your fault they wound up dead. It’s over.”
“I don’t think so.” Cape shook his head. “I think it’s just getting started.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Sally was dressing to kill.
She stood alone in a small bedroom chamber, the moon visible through a skylight. Through the open door behind her was a large open space with hardwood floors, the walls adorned with racks of arcane weapons. Wooden swords, yari spears with double-edged blades, a masakari hand axe, a bow alongside a quiver full of arrows.
She arched her back and zipped herself into a long-sleeved dress embroidered with gold thread. In front of her stood a wide dresser with a mirror and lamp, assorted sundries and makeup. Some of the items were familiar to a woman’s bedroom, others looked like costume makeup, wigs and face-paint more typical of the theater.
Sally carefully selected two hairpins from an ornate tray, then dipped them one at a time into an old inkwell. The razor tips came out dripping, glinting in the reflected light from the mirror. She waited until each dried, then inserted them carefully into her thick black hair. Finally she took four metal darts the size and shape of collar stays and inserted two in each sleeve before adjusting her cuffs.
Taking one last look in the mirror before bringing her hands together at her breast, Sally wrapped her left hand around her right fist. The crack of her knuckles broke the silence as Sally smiled.
Time to paint the town red.
Chapter Thirty-four
“This guy had big feet.”
Beau looked from his partner to the legs sticking out of the dumpster. The right shoe was missing, revealing a gold-toe sock, but the left foot still bore a size-twelve black loafer. The rest of the body was out of sight. Beau returned his gaze to Vincent Mango, all five-six of him leaning over the edge of the receptacle with a penlight.
“What are you goin on about?”
Vincent clicked off the pen light and returned it to his jacket pocket. His suit was pearl gray, double-breasted, and immaculate.
“Driver’s license says the guy is five-ten.”
Beau nodded but didn’t say anything. It was too early and the gallon of coffee he’d drunk on the way wasn’t working.
“So a twelve is a pretty big shoe,” said Vincent. “For a guy his size.”
“You’re sayin he’s got a big cock.”
A nearby uniform snickered until Vincent gave him a warning glance. “I’m not saying anything about his cock, I just—”
“Wanna take a look?” Beau raised his eyebrows.
“Fuck you.” Vincent extended a hand and the uniform handed him the license, trapped inside a glycine bag. He tossed it to Beau in a spinning arc. “Recognize him?”
Beau held the license at arm’s length until his eyes focused. “Joey DeLuca.” He whistled, long and low. “Part of Frank Alessi’s crew.”
Vincent nodded. “Turf war?”
Beau shook his head. “This is nobody’s turf.” He looked around the parking garage. “Where are we again?”
“Market and First.” Vincent shook his head. “You need more coffee.”
“I know the address…name of the building?”
“Delta Energy.”
Beau tossed the license back to the uniform, who caught it one-handed. “I wonder what brings a bag man to an energy company.”
“Strange,” said Vincent.
Beau nodded and frowned at the legs tangled up with the trash.
“Very strange.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Freddie Wang reluctantly agreed to leave the restaurant for a hand job.
Few professional gangsters had survived public scrutiny for so long. Chinatown was unforgiving and San Francisco was a small town. Enemies on both sides of the law had been biding their time for years, waiting for Freddie to slip up.
He almost never left the restaurant that doubled as his office, and he never left Chinatown.
The first bodyguard poked his head out the front door, signaling to the second bodyguard that all was clear inside. The door was almost as old as Freddie, a carved wooden facade adorned with the Chinese characters Triple Delight, a popular menu item at a neighboring restaurant and a specialty at the brothel involving three girls at once.
Once inside Freddie was met by a fawning Madame who must’ve had a good ten years on Freddie. She ushered him down a long hall lined with antiques to a private room filled with furniture dating from the 18th century. Freddie was starting to feel young by comparison until he saw the girl standing next to the massage table.
She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, assuming she was even legal. She bowed her head and lowered her eyes, giving Freddie a chance to look her over. She wore a plain white two-piece swimsuit, modest by bikini standards but showing plenty of skin.
The first bodyguard, a heavyset man named Park, stayed inside with Freddie and took a seat by the window, which was open just a crack to allow a gentle breeze into the small room. Park had the foresight to bring a newspaper so he wouldn’t have to look at Freddie. The second bodyguard had won the coin toss and returned to the car.
Freddie turned away from the girl and unceremoniously started taking off his clothes, tossing them onto a nearby chair. The chair had taloned feet at the end of its legs and a phoenix motif on its back that took almost two years to carve.
Freddie didn’t give a shit. He just wanted a hand job.
Freddie had never been an attractive man, and age had only exacerbated the situation. His left eye was droopy and faint, his right black as onyx and twice as hard. Three hairs sprouted from a prominent mole on his cheek, which some Chinese believed to be good luck.
Freddie must have been the luckiest man in Chinatown, because the removal of his shirt revealed a forest of moles and an explosion of hairs on his back that defied counting. Skin hung off his hunched shoulders in folds as thin as rice paper, a riot of blue veins clearly visible. Freddie smiled inwardly as he sensed the young girl behind him shudder before regaining her composure.
Freddie sighed as the
girl’s hands touched his back, warm and slick with lotion. He heard Park shift in the seat as he opened his newspaper. Freddie took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Thud.
Freddie might have dozed off, he couldn’t be sure. It happened more often these days, more than he cared to admit. Something jarred him awake, the sound of something falling. Maybe the girl dropped the bottle of lotion. She had stopped rubbing his shoulders. That could only mean one thing. It was time for his happy ending.
Freddie got his arms underneath him, grunting from the effort. He felt the breeze from the window across his back, much cooler than when he first lay down. He called out to Park as he got himself up on one arm and began to turn over.
“Shut that window and go wait in the hall. Time for my happy ending.”
Park didn’t answer.
Freddie completed his turn and froze, his sunken chest bare, his crotch barely covered by a towel. He couldn’t have been more vulnerable.
The girl was gone, and Park was sprawled unconscious on the floor, a livid scratch on his neck. Standing over him was Sally, stretching seductively as she replaced an ornate hair pin.
“Sorry, Freddie, but I don’t believe in happy endings.”
Chapter Thirty-six
“I brought you a present.”
Beau eyed the pastries as he spoke, a mixed assortment of starch, sugar, and chocolate glowing like precious gems under the flourescent lights. Peet’s was known for having the best coffee in town, and their pastries were second to none.
Cape gestured at the case. “Go ahead.”
“Nah, I got a sour stomach. Up all night looking through garbage.”
“You sure?”
“Fuck it.” Beau pointed at the glass and smiled at the young woman behind the register. “Two of those, one of those, and…” He looked over his shoulder at Cape, who nodded. “Two of those. And a large black coffee and an iced tea.”
They took a table near the window. Foot traffic was light but constant, people moving through the Embarcadero Center on their way back to work, running errands, searching for an ATM.
Cape took a bite of a chocolate croissant. It wasn’t a pancake but it had the desired effect. “You said you had a present.”
Beau nodded. “A dead body.”
“You shouldn’t have. Anybody we know?”
“Nobody you know, but he was somebody who worked for somebody you know.” Beau tossed an inter-office envelope on the small table and watched as Cape removed a color copy of Joey DeLuca’s driver’s license, along with another sheet of paper.
“Found him in the garbage—bag man for Frank Alessi. Picked up his dry cleaning, picked up cash from extortion rackets, that sort of thing.”
Cape looked at the second sheet, a jumbled list of letters and numbers. “What’s this?”
“That’s now officially the property of the Feds,” said Beau. “Had to give them a copy.”
“Which means this might be a smoking gun?”
Beau nodded. “You find a list of numbers like that on a wiseguy, five will get you ten it’s some kind of ledger. The hardest part about being a gangster these days is hiding the money. The rest—stealing, threatening people, destroying lives—that part’s easy.”
“I can keep this.”
“Made you a copy. You still work with that computer hacker?”
Cape nodded. “Sloth—and he prefers to be called a programmer.”
“Whatever.” Beau made a muffin disappear. “He makes sense of that, you can call him the King of Siam. But I got something else.”
“Aren’t you generous today.”
“Frustrated. I got a dead body but shitty forensics. Guy was killed with some kind of knife but no signs of a struggle. The lawyer he visited looks clean but isn’t talking, which means he’s anything but—I’m not holding my breath on a warrant. Now the Feds want to drive because there might be a money trail. I know Fat Frank is sitting at the end of it, but I don’t have permission to rattle his cage.”
“I’m always up for a good cage-rattling, but I just want to know what a dead Senator has to do with a Mexican drug lord.”
“Can’t help you with the Senator, but I found something on his son.”
Cape stopped chewing, a supreme act of will.
Beau nodded. “Remember how you told me Danny had a low profile?”
“Just the one arrest.”
“The only one that made the papers.”
“There were more?”
“Eight arrests, no convinctions. All petty offenses, all tied to narcotics.”
Cape shifted in his seat. “Why didn’t—”
“—you find anything?” Beau raised his eyebrows. “I should have been able to get the lowdown on Danny with a few keystrokes on my computer, which is how I started. But nothing came up, not even the arrest you read about in the newspaper.”
“Does that me—”
Beau held up a hand for patience. “So I dug around, and low and behold, Danny got himself into trouble on more than one occasion, but he had a good lawyer. A very expensive lawyer.”
“And a Dad who’s a State Senator.”
“Wanna know who his lawyer was?”
“Sure.”
“Bernard Rhonbarr—a corporate lawyer, not a criminal lawyer.”
“How come?”
“You have a criminal lawyer, everyone thinks you’re a criminal.” Beau laid his hands flat on the table. “But the best part is that Bernie Rhonbarr has a day job—he just does some extracurricular legal work on the side.”
“For Senator’s sons.”
“And someone else.” Beau looked like the cat that ate the canary. “Frank Alessi.”
“You’re kidding.”
Beau nodded. “And you know where Bernie works?”
Cape glanced at the driver’s license of the dead man. “No way.”
“Yep…Bernie’s the very same lawyer that our dead bag man was visiting.”
“That’s quite a coincidence.”
“But not probable cause,” said Beau. “So no warrant, not that I’d expect to find anything in Bernie’s office. But you gotta admit, it smells pretty bad.”
“Maybe I should call Bernie, try to get an appointment.”
“Good luck, he ain’t talkin to us.”
“Why would a made guy like Frank pay his lawyer to bail out Danny?”
“Leverage.”
“Has to be.” Cape nodded as he resumed chewing. “Frank wanted leverage on the Senator.”
“I’d say he had it.”
“Doesn’t get me to Mexico, but it might get me to North Beach.” Cape brushed crumbs off the table. All the pastries had been decimated. “Maybe I should think about visiting Frank.”
“Wonder where you got that idea?”
“Easy,” said Cape. “You just gave it to me.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Sloth lived across from Golden Gate Park, with a view of eucalyptus trees and cherry blossoms that he never enjoyed.
He spent all his waking moments surrounded by four plasma screens networked to a server as big as a refrigerator. Plagued with a rare neurological disorder that made physical movement painful and slow, Sloth lived through his computers, and the freedom they provided was more precious than any glimpse of nature, tantalizingly close though it might be.
Linda answered the door when Cape arrived. Over the years Linda had become Sloth’s voice-box, an avatar for the things he couldn’t do himself and interpreter for the things he saw in cyberspace that no one else could understand.
By way of greeting, Cape handed her the page of letters and numbers Beau had given him.
“Present from the SFPD. Crack the code and win a prize.”
“Where did it come from?” Linda scanned the sheet before placing it next to Sloth, whose head tilted fractionally to the side, his eyes straining behind his glasses.
“It was taped to the crotch of a dead man.”
Linda’s hair shiver
ed at the thought. “Sit down.”
Cape took the empty chair next to Sloth, squeezing his friend on the shoulder in greeting. The plasma screens flashed as black words appeared in twenty-point type.
This is quite a case.
Cape nodded. “Tell me about it.”
Your Senator was getting squeezed.
“He wasn’t my Senator. How do you know?”
Linda cut in. “Show him, Sloth.”
Sloth’s right hand twitched, a movement so subtle it seemed involuntary. Beneath each hand was a pressure-sensitive scratch pad calibrated to his range of motion. The screens filled with colored bars and squares—blue, green, red—in a complex pattern that kept shifting as Sloth’s thumb shifted back and forth.
Linda kept her distance from the screens but jabbed a finger at the nearest one. “The horizontal axis is chronological, dating back to the Senator’s days in the local assembly. The boxes are his voting record on different bills, resolutions, referendums, and such.”
“Got it.”
“Now watch this.”
Sloth must have moved because the screens morphed, blues and reds fusing into purple, green splitting apart into yellow and blue. Linda’s hair jiggled with excitement.
“Sloth created a program to predict the Senator’s voting record.”
Cape frowned. “Based on what?”
“Party affiliation, educational background and alma mater, state of birth, ethnicity, and about ten other demographics, all cross-referenced against two hundred other politicians in our database.”
“Geez.”
“Exactly. So this program not only shows how the Senator voted on any given issue, it shows how he should have voted based on the model. So the areas in here—” Linda waved her right hand in a broad circle, her index finger pointing toward the purple rectangles. “—are anomalies.”
“Times when he crossed party lines.”
“Or just broke the mold,” said Linda. “By themselves these votes wouldn’t mean anything. Could be a personal issue for him, or a change of heart. Politicians break ranks all the time.”
“So why should I care?”
