“Yeah, too bad,” I said, dryly. “Pretty crappy when a twenty-four hand isn’t good enough.” I stood and stretched. I’d never been lucky.
Django growled, lifting his head, right before the knock on the door came. Darling looked at her security camera screen and then leaned over to push a small button. The door swung open. George gestured for a small woman with a tidy black bun to come in. When Django saw it was George, he lazily wagged his tail and then put his head back on his paws. They’d already gone over all the ritualistic wiggling and face licking earlier when we arrived. Even the dog knew that with George around nobody had to worry—he could relax and go back to sleep.
George, a former linebacker with the San Francisco 49ers, was still in better shape than most of the starting lineup this year. His warm brown eyes belied his tough manner. His bald head shone in the chandelier hanging down by the door.
Stepping into the room, the woman seemed embarrassed. “Miss Darling, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“It’s all good, sugar. What you need?”
“My man, he got laid off last month, you know.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Darling said.
“Well, the landlord comes to us this morning and says if we don’t pay the rent by midnight, sheriff’s office is going to be here with an eviction notice.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Darling said, standing and heading toward a large desk. She fished a key on a necklace out of her ample bosom and unlocked a drawer. She withdrew a zipped black bag.
“How much you need, baby girl?”
The woman burst into tears and ran over, hugging Darling around the waist.
“Hush now. How much?”
“Eight hundred.”
Darling counted out eight one-hundred-dollar bills and placed them in the woman’s palm, closing her hand over the cash.
“Thank you. I promise we’ll pay you back. I swear.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Darling steered the woman toward the door where George waited. He took the woman’s arm and the door closed behind them.
I eyed Darling as she sat back down. I stared at her until she looked up at me.
“What you looking at?”
“Last time I was here someone else came with some sob story and you forked over a small fortune then, too.”
“Mmmm hmmm.” She looked away.
She handed me the deck. “Loser’s deal.”
This time the knock was urgent. I looked over at the bank of cameras. George was outside the door alone.
Darling saw the look on his face and stood this time as she punched the button.
George was out of breath. He was holding his cell phone.
“Sasha called. They in the plaza.”
Darling’s face drained of color.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Chapter Five
Achilles Heel
Within seconds, we’d rushed out the back door of the salon and were running toward the Civic Center Plaza. George disappeared ahead of us. I stayed behind to match pace with Darling, who probably hadn’t run since grade school recess. She kept stopping, patting her ample chest and gasping for breath.
I took her arm. “It’s okay. Don’t kill yourself. We’re almost there. George will find Sasha.”
“Oh, Lord, please keep my grandbaby safe.” Darling’s voice was panicked. “I told her not to get involved. I told her turn around and go straight home, back to her safe little apartment in that hippie town.”
“She’s just being a journalist,’ I said, as we paused on one corner.
Darling dismissed my words with an irritated wave of her ringed fingers.
“I barely sleep anymore worrying about that girl. She thinks she can save the world.”
Finally, after race-walking with frequent pauses, we turned the corner and caught up to George, standing on the edge of a massive crowd on his tiptoes scanning the crowd for Sasha.
The hazily lit plaza was a squirming mass of bodies. There were two distinct groups. On one side, about two hundred men, most wearing khaki pants and white polo shirts, holding Tiki torches. An order was given and almost simultaneously, all the torches were lit.
Across from this group, there were another two hundred or so people, men and women, some with dreads, some with buzz cuts, holding signs that said, “You lost the war!” and “All are welcome here!”
In between the two groups was an empty strip of concrete about ten feet wide. The two sides eyed each other warily.
Then the chanting began. The men in polo shirts yelled, “You will not replace us.”
The other side yelled, “Nazis go home!”
The night was thick with anger and a strange heat. Too many bodies pressed against one another. Hatred and fear swarmed the plaza and felt almost tangible. Darling clutched my arm, her long nails digging into my flesh.
Across from us, in front of a church, a dozen clergy members locked arms and sang “Amazing Grace.”
In a flurry of shouting, violence erupted. In an instant people were on each other, pushing and shoving and screaming. I tugged Darling back toward me as the crowd around us surged forward.
“There’s Sasha!” she yelled, her giant eyes wide with fright. “Sasha! Sasha!”
George, who towered above us, arched his neck. “Where?”
“There!” Darling pointed one well-manicured nail. “In the pink sweatshirt.”
I craned my neck but only got a glimpse of pink before the crowd swallowed her.
“I see her,” George said and was gone, pushing his way through the crowd like a bulldozer, shoving people on each side of him out of the way to clear a path. For a second, I started to follow him, but the crowd quickly closed behind him and Darling clutched at my arm. I was worried about her heart. I knew there was no way she was going to leave without Sasha.
Smoke filled the air and popping sounds echoed off the surrounding buildings. It didn’t sound like gunshots, but I wasn’t sure. I also heard the chopping of a helicopter high above.
Right in front of us, three men in polo shirts had another man on the ground, kicking him in the ribs. When one man wound up to kick him in the head, I had my hand inside my jacket on my gun. I was about to step in when a young man with a lumberjack beard yanked the attacker away. Then those two were at each other, punching and kicking and clawing. Droplets of blood scattered through the air like they’d been flung by a sprinkler.
I dragged Darling by the arm and pulled her several feet away from the angry mob and blood spatter, where she crumpled softly onto the lawn bordering the plaza.
“Oh, my Lord. Jesus help us.” She was quivering.
I stood and she grabbed my hand. “Stay with me, Gia.”
Sitting back down I threw my arm around her. I’d never seen Darling afraid of anything. The biggest, baddest drug dealer in the Tenderloin had held a gun to her head and she had laughed in his face.
But Sasha was her Achilles heel.
More popping noises erupted and more screams. Smoke filled the air.
At the end of the plaza, a line of police officers stood with their arms crossed. Some held shields. All wore tactical gear and masks. They were not moving. They were keeping the fight contained so it wouldn’t spill out onto Polk Street. But they were doing nothing to intervene. I was outraged.
If those in power fail to protect the weak, it is up to the warrior to step in and see that the vulnerable are protected.
I glared at the police and then patted Darling’s arm. “It’s okay. George is probably with her right now.”
I glanced over at the roiling mass and hoped I was right.
After a few minutes of sitting with Darling, another friend of hers came over, panting.
“Miss Darling, you okay?”
“I’m fine, honey. It’s Sasha. You seen her?” She pressed her lips tightly together.
“No, ma’am.” The woman who had her hair pulled back tightly in braids and wore a tank top and shorts flopped down on the grass. “Hope she got out of there. T
hose people are crazy.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Darling said.
Any trace of the terror she had showed me earlier was gone. The big bad strong woman was back. I was relieved. I didn’t know how to handle Darling falling apart.
Now that someone was there to sit with her, I couldn’t wait any longer. I leaned down. “You sit here with Darling until I come back, or else take her to Katrina’s and buy her a stiff drink.” I peeled off a one-hundred-dollar bill. “And some food.” I peeled off another bill. “And buy yourself something, too.”
Without waiting for an answer, I slipped into the crowd. I was shoved here and there and had to hop over a body or two on the ground, but I kept my elbows out and headed toward where I’d last seen George’s bald head.
My gun felt like it was alive in my shoulder holster, but I knew taking it out would be a game changer in a game I wasn’t even playing.
Chapter Six
Billy Club
I was nearly across the plaza when I saw a group crouched down around a man. My heart raced. George. I pushed and shoved my way through. “Get out of my way!” I shouted.
With terror streaking through me, I knelt down by George’s head. A huge gash sliced through his temple. He was unconscious, his long black eyelashes closed. “Call 911. Get an ambulance here now. Call 911. Now. What are you waiting for?” I shouted to the knot of people surrounding us.
When I finally looked up, I saw they were all staring at me. One man in Elvis Costello glasses cleared his throat. “We already did.”
I stood and looked around.
“We need a doctor! Is there a doctor anywhere? Help, we need a doctor!”
The crowd in the plaza had thinned. A large mass of people streamed toward Market Street, a roiling group of anger and hatred and frustration. The only people who remained in the plaza were straggling groups nursing the injured.
I ripped off my leather jacket and folded it up, gently sliding it under George’s head.
He groaned. I took that as a good sign. I leaned down and murmured in his ear, “It’s going to be okay, George, you hang in there. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.”
A man in a blazer and glasses leaned down beside me.
“I’m a doctor. An ambulance is on the way.”
That’s when I remembered. Sasha. I turned to the group surrounding George.
“There was a girl. He was trying to get to her. She is about five-foot-two and was wearing a pink sweatshirt.”
Blank faces.
“I saw her.” A woman stepped forward. She had shoulder-length curly blond hair and a beauty mark above her full lips. She wore a faded T-shirt with Bob Marley’s smiling face on it, baggy jeans, and purple Converse high tops. “They took her. A few minutes ago.”
“What? Who took her?”
“A group of men. Those ones that wear masks.”
“The group Anonymous? The ones who wear Guy Fawkes’ masks?”
Another man in a goatee stepped forward. “No, these guys were dressed all in black and had black masks on.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Terror streaked through me.
“They were dragging her by the arms. She was crying and screaming. Your friend here tried to stop them and they hit him in the head,” the woman said.
“With a Billy club,” someone added.
“Jesus.”
The man in the goatee looked down. “When they took this fellow down, we were too afraid to try to stop them. There were too many of them.”
“It’s okay.” Inside, though, I was thinking it was not okay. Not at all. “Why did they grab her? I don’t understand.”
The woman with the curly hair spoke again. “Because she was a reporter. They walked up to her and she showed them some badge or something around her neck and I heard her say she was a reporter. And she was holding a notebook and pen.”
That sounded about right.
“Fuck me.”
In the distance, the wail of ambulances sounded closer. I tried to squash the panic rising in my throat. “Where did you last see them? Where were they taking her?”
“Down Fulton. About five minutes ago.”
Right before I arrived.
Two paramedics raced up and knelt by George. There was nothing I could do for him now. I turned and sprinted toward Fulton Street.
As I passed the Pioneer Monument—a life-size statue of Minerva, the goddess of war—I murmured a plea to her. “I could use some of your help right about now.”
With the San Francisco Library on my right and the Asian Art Museum on my left, I crossed Hyde Street and ended up in another plaza, the United Nations Plaza. My breath was ragged and I wheezed a little. I needed to quit smoking pot. And cigarettes.
This plaza was eerily deserted.
But at the far end, where the plaza met the end of Leavenworth Street by the Art Institute, I saw something. A dark huddled mass. It parted and I caught a glimpse of pink.
Sasha.
I darted toward them, keeping to the shadows cast by trees lining the plaza. As I got closer, an SUV pulled up near the group. Two of the dark figures holding Sasha dragged her toward the vehicle. She struggled, but wasn’t screaming. I saw a strip of white across her mouth.
Reaching under my sweatshirt into the holster inside my waistband attached to my belt, I lifted out my Beretta Nano 9mm. I kept it by my side as I ran. I was only a half block away when someone opened the SUV door. Then all of them piled into the vehicle, hauling Sasha with them.
“Sasha!” I screamed. For one second, it seemed as if something would happen and then the SUV screeched away.
I chased it toward Market Street, getting a glimpse of part of its license plate. 6LIK. It crossed Market Street at probably thirty miles an hour. There was no way I could keep up on foot. A man in a silver Mercedes pulled up beside me, oblivious to what was going on. He had his window down and was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, singing along to some Caribbean music.
I leaned over and stuck the muzzle of my Beretta in the window.
“Get out. Now. I won’t hurt you. This is an emergency. A life or death situation.” I said hoarsely, out of breath from running.
He refused to look at me, the whites of his eyes staring straight ahead, hands clutching the steering wheel.
“Did you hear me?” I said. “I need your car. Now. A girl’s life is in danger. Get out.”
A BART train drowned out my words as it screeched by in front of me, blocking my way and making sure I had zero chance of following the SUV.
I lowered my gun. “Never mind,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”
The man kept staring straight ahead.
I put my gun back in its holster and turned back toward the plaza.
Chapter Seven
Blue Velvet
When I got back to the plaza only a few stragglers roamed in the dark. George was gone. The police had left. The spot where I’d left Darling on the lawn was empty.
A group of people my age huddled at the edge on the lawn, passing around a bottle and a joint.
“Do you mind?” I held out my hand.
A guy with a man bun handed me the bottle. I chugged some, handed it back and wiped my mouth with the back of my palm. A girl offered me the joint, but I shook my head and walked away.
When I got to Polk Street, I took out my cell phone. When I’d been running, it had been vibrating in my pocket nonstop. Twelve missed calls from Darling.
“Thank God,” she said when she picked up. “I can’t get ahold of anybody. They said it was over but Sasha’s not answering her phone. George isn’t either.”
“You somewhere safe?”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Her voice was suddenly low and dangerous. “You talk to me right now.”
I was worried about her heart, but I couldn’t lie.
“They took her, Darling.”
“What?” She gasped. “My grandbaby? They took my grandbaby?”
&n
bsp; “I tried to stop them. They took her because she was a reporter. They left in a black SUV. They knocked George out to get to her. He’s at the hospital. We need to call the police.”
Silence.
“Meet me at Katrina’s,” she said and hung up.
When I walked into Katrina’s, the entire place glowed. White candles covered every surface. An elaborately ornate metal trellis covered one wall, designed purely to hold dozens of candles.
My motorcycle boots were silent on the black marble floors. I passed the blue velvet booth with the engraved metal plate that said “Gia Santella.” Darling sat, surrounded, at a circular table in the corner. Her reflection multiplied into infinity by gigantic silver-framed mirrors covering two walls.
As I got to the table, everybody but Darling moved to another table.
“Sit.” Her voice was deadly. I swallowed and obeyed. A man in black pulled heavy purple satin curtains around the table, closing the two of us off from the rest of the world.
As soon as the curtains closed, Darling’s shoulders slumped and she put her head down.
“They kidnapped Sasha. We need to call the police.”
She lifted her head, tossing her curls.
“The PO-lice? We aren’t bringing in the PO-lice. You think they give a shit about a little black girl gone missing in a protest? Nuh uh. They don’t care.”
I wanted to argue with her, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know if she was right or wrong. I hadn’t grown up black in the Bay Area. I thought about it for a second.
“I’ll pay for the best private investigator in the country.”
“Nope.”
Raising an eyebrow, I waited. She clamped her lips together, her huge Egyptian eyes staring me down. She wasn’t budging.
“What?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“You find Sasha.”
It took me a second to absorb that. “Darling, you know I’d do anything to help you, but I’m not a detective. I’m not a P.I. We need experts to help us find her.”
Forgotten Island Page 3
