by Lee Geiger
“MAYES HERE. YES….YES…alright Captain. We’ll be right there.”
“What’s going on?” Mac asked as The Sub approached the Embarcadero.
“A freighter from the Philippines arrived at the Port of Oakland Friday night. During inspection by customs agents, a box containing a dozen Balisong switchblades was found. Longley wants us to drive to Oakland and find out as much as we can about the shipment. We won’t find our murder weapon, but we may find out who’s dealing the contraband. We can’t begin to connect the dots until we have dots to connect. Not to mention Longley needs to see some progress on this case. Stone’s all over his ass. I told him we’d get there ASAP.”
Mac sat in silence while navigating The Sub. They were just minutes away from the Oakland-San Francisco Bay Bridge. Once they got on the lower deck of the aging double-decker span, their fate for the rest of the day would be sealed.
“What about our meeting with Sheyla?”
CHAPTER NINE
Sunday, September 14, 2008 - 1:00 pm
“A memorial service will be held on Tuesday afternoon, September 16th, at the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament in Sacramento, CA, Michelle Osher’s hometown. Thousands are expected to attend, and celebrities, politicians, and fans flying in from all over the world are scrambling to find hotel rooms.”
PEOPLE
MAC’S STOMACH WAS PERFORMING maneuvers worthy of a kamikaze pilot. It was already 1:15 p.m., and Sheyla Samonte was nowhere in sight. His badly-in-need-of-resoling black Florsheims had already paced a dozen laps around the elegant atrium of the Rincon Center, it’s massive skylight roof signaling the retirement of the morning fog. Hundreds of hungry diners waited in line to spend a week’s wages at Yank Sing, famous for having the best dim sum in San Francisco. Carts loaded with bronze-skinned Peking Duck, lamb dumplings, and flying fish eggs maneuvered through the aisles of white-clothed tables, many topped off with bottles of premium champagne. Mac always wanted to try the place. He just couldn’t afford it.
His cell phone bleated. The Voice was calling. “Hello, handsome. How are you?”
“‘Where are you?’ is more appropriate,” answered Mac, not even trying to hide his frustration. “You better not be standing me up, Miss Samonte. Otherwise, I will have you arrested.”
“Calm down, cutie. I’m just running a little late. You’ll learn I operate on Filipina time. Is your partner there with you?”
“No. He got called away. It’s just me and five hundred other people waiting in line for an egg roll. How soon can you be here?”
The atrium’s waterfall masked the seconds of silence. “Tell you what, Inspector. I’ve got another place in mind. You’re just a few minutes from my place. Why don’t you come pick me up? I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes. Don’t make me wait.” Then she hung up.
Two and a half minutes later, The Sub was moored in front of Sheyla’s apartment in South Beach. While waiting in the lobby, Mac could feel his breathing pick up, and his right hand started to reach for the handcuffs dangling from his back pocket. His frustration had reached a boiling point. If Sheyla Samonte didn’t show up in thirty seconds, he was going upstairs to arrest her.
At the last possible moment, the elevator doors parted. What Mac saw next was a jaw-dropping vision straight from the pages of Vogue. It was Sheyla, wearing an off-the-shoulder white linen sundress, which she had correctly decided looked better without a bra. Her white Chanel watch and matching handbag worked well with her gold hoop earrings. Strands of long, silky brown hair framed a pair of Gucci sunglasses. The smile on her face signaled to Mac that she was very excited to see him.
Sheyla’s four-inch heels made her nearly as tall as Mac, and she used them to walk straight up and kiss him flush on his lips. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him close to her, kissing him like a girlfriend who hadn’t seen her man in months. This kiss tasted even better than their first. Mac glanced around, and sure enough, there was a surveillance camera above the lobby door entrance. So much for public discretion.
As soon as they started walking back to The Sub, her arm locked in his, Mac knew he was toast. They had been together less than sixty seconds, and Sheyla had already taken control. Always a gentleman, Mac opened her car door. As he walked around to the driver’s side, he laughed at himself. He would never have done that for another man.
“Okay Miss Samonte. Where are we going?”
“Can we just drive around for awhile?” she asked excitedly. “I love this car! It’s so cool. What kind is it?”
“It’s a Chevy Kingswood Estate Cruiser, built during the Eisenhower Administration. It’s got almost 300,000 miles of charm on it, and it has the turning radius of a small European country. I call it ‘The Sub.’”
“Mmmm…really? Does that mean I get to go down on your periscope?”
In less than twenty-four hours, Mac had learned two things about Sheyla that he liked. She had a wicked sense of humor, and she adored his car. Both were big pluses in his book. His soon to be ex-wife was just the opposite. Denise had all the witticism of a bag of parsley, and she wanted The Sub to be decommissioned and turned into scrap.
“How about we do this, Miss Samonte? You tell me where to go, and I’ll take the scenic route.”
“That sounds wonderful. I know the perfect place; the Grand Café at the Hotel Monaco. It’ll be fun because one of my best friends works there. It’s on the corner of Geary and Taylor, across the street from the Clift Hotel. And please, you would sound so much sexier if you called me Sheyla.”
“I could call you Jasmine. That’s a sexy name.”
“Oh, please. Jasmine is a performer who works at Pearls of Asia. She’s my alter ego, a cartoon character. I want you to know Sheyla. She’s much more interesting.”
“Of course she is,” he said while flashing her his patented deep-dimpled smile. “By the way, you look very nice today.”
“Why thank you, Mac. I wanted to look good for you. I’ve been dying to wear these Kate Spade pumps that I bought last week at Bloomingdales.”
The last thing Mac was looking at was her feet. Sheyla’s dress was hitched up ever so slightly, exposing a virtual galaxy of shapely legs. Instead of facing forward and looking straight ahead, Sheyla shifted her body toward her winsome driver. Mac spoke fluent body language, and Sheyla’s said she was thrilled to be with him.
“Mac, do you mind if I ask you a question? Why did you become a cop?”
“I’m the one who is supposed to be asking the questions, Miss Samonte. The short answer is I like to solve puzzles.”
“Really? Is that what I am to you, a puzzle?” said The Voice with a flirtatious smirk. “If that’s the case, Inspector Fleet, you’re going to have a lot of fun putting my pieces together.”
THE GRAND OPERA STYLE architecture of the Hotel Monaco’s ballroom blended with the art deco windows and glass ceiling fixtures, giving The Grand Café an elegance befitting its location at the heart of San Francisco’s Theater District. The room had a European turn of the century style and made one feel as though they had stepped into a restaurant in Prague. Mac had never been to The Grand Café. He had also never been to Prague.
After being seated, an angelic Asian waitress approached their table, and Sheyla jumped out of her seat to offer a hug. “Nicole! It’s so good to see you.”
Nicole was pretty and petite, and she had a warm smile. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, and her body was as fit and trim as an athlete’s.
“Mac, this is my dear friend Nicole. Nicole, meet my newest heartthrob, Mac Fleet. He’s a detective. Can you believe it?”
Nicole spoke with the slightest touch of a French accent. “Girlfriend, nothing you do surprises me. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mac.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Nicole. Miss Samonte insisted we come here.”
“That’s because we have such huge portions, and Sheyla always eats like she’s eating for two.” Nicole gave her friend a playful
poke in her stomach. “You are one handsome man, Mr. Mac. Later on I’ll ask Sheyla what she did to win your favor. When it comes to attracting men, she’s my role model. Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Mac?”
Mac requested a simple glass of ice water, while Sheyla ordered a spicy Bloody Mary. Mac may have been a professional when it came to solving a murder case, but Sheyla was an expert when it came to ordering off a menu.
“How do you know Nicole?” he asked.
“When I arrived in America ten years ago, the first job I got was selling makeup at Macy’s in Union Square. Nicole worked the counter next to me. Isn’t she amazing to look at? She’s so shy and self-conscious. She has no idea how beautiful she is. She’s a trans woman also, but you would never know it, would you?”
Mac shook his head in disbelief. “Are you kidding? Not in two million years. She’s gorgeous.”
“I’m so lucky to have Nicole in my life. It’s rare to find a true friend in the San Francisco TS community, especially among the Filipinas. Everything is a competition with them, particularly when it comes to looks. The prettier you are, the more jealous and hateful the girls get. I mean, just look at Diamond. She was a sweet little gay boy when she graduated high school and began her transition. Two years later she started to blossom, but so did her attitude. She told anyone who would listen to her that she was the prettiest girl in town. I don’t know, maybe she’s insecure because she was an only child, or because she was born in the States. Diamond started alienating everyone in the Filipina trans community who cared about her. I mean, don’t you think it’s better we support one another instead of ripping each other to shreds? Diamond’s a beautiful girl, but she’s just so annoying and spiteful. It’s impossible to like her. She’s turned into this narcissistic bitch who cares only about herself. All she does is talk about how pretty she is while backstabbing her friends and gossiping about people she doesn’t know. I swear, Mac, she’s evil.”
“Don’t sugar coat it, Miss Samonte,” joked Mac, passing a basket of French pastries to Sheyla, “tell me how you really feel.”
Sheyla helped herself to a croissant, along with a blueberry scone. And a chocolate-dipped palmier. “You know how TS is supposed to be short for ‘transsexual?’ In Diamond’s case it means ‘tropical storm.’ Whenever she gets a hormone shot, she’s so paranoid and neurotic we upgrade her to a hurricane.”
Mac cracked up. Sheyla’s wit was quick and biting, just like his. “Anyway, I don’t want to waste our time together talking about that tramp.” Sheyla slid her chair closer to Mac. She kissed him on the cheek, and then nibbled on his ear. Her hand managed to find Mac’s knee while they looked over the menu. This was not going to be a typical interrogation.
Nicole brought over their drinks. “You must be someone special, Mr. Mac. My friend is positively glowing this morning.”
“It must be the sun.”
“Isn’t he funny?” remarked Sheyla. “I just love his sense of humor.” Sheyla and Nicole spoke to each other in Tagalog and laughed. “Pogi n’ya no?” (“Isn’t he gorgeous?”) “OO! Meron ba s’yang mga kaibigan?” (“Yes! Does he have any friends?”) Mac had no clue what they were saying. For all he knew, they could have been planning to cut his throat and dump his body into the bay.
Mac ordered a simple western omelet, while Sheyla asked for eggs benedict…and a side of crispy bacon…and buttered sourdough toast…and blueberry crepes…with hash browns. And don’t forget the fresh squeezed orange juice.
“Did you just get a tip on a famine?” Mac asked. “Most of the girls I know eat like birds.”
“Not me, Mac. I live for today. Remember all those women on the Titanic who passed on the dessert tray? Besides, being on a date with a hot looking man always gives me an appetite.”
“You just don’t stop, do you Miss Samonte? What makes you think this is a date?”
“Because I’m here with you, and I don’t spend my precious time with just anybody.”
Mac needed to get down to business. Police business. He removed Sheyla’s hand from his knee and slid her chair back to where it belonged. “Tell me about Paul Osher. How did you meet him?”
Sheyla’s smile vanished almost as fast as the pastries she had already eaten. It was clear discussing Paul Osher was not one of her favorite topics. “Nadia told me about Paul two years ago. He later came to Pearls of Asia with a couple of businessmen, gave me his business card, and asked me to call him. I’ve been seeing him ever since.”
“Did you know he had money?”
“Of course. Besides, the first thing you need to know about Nadia is that she only pays attention to men with money. I can also tell a lot about a man by his choice of shoes and watches. The night I met Paul he was wearing a pair of black leather wingtips from John Lobb and a Patek Philippe watch. Paul wants the entire world to know he’s loaded.”
Mac was wearing a cheap department store Timex, and his shoes were still in need of their annual shine. “I guess you can tell I’m broke.”
She again slid her chair closer to Mac. “Honey, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve been broke and I’ve been poor, and I can tell the difference. One is temporary while the other is permanent. Besides, it’s obvious you’re more down to earth; there’s no pretense with you. You’re a real man, Mac Fleet. Not to mention easy on the eyes.” Shela leaned over and tried to kiss him again. This time Mac was able to pull away before she made contact.
“Okay, Miss Samonte. Back to Paul Osher. Did you know he was married?”
“Of course I knew. Nadia told me. I’m okay with that, though. With someone like Paul, I’m not looking for love.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Security,” she said before taking a healthy belt from her vodka and tomato juice concoction. “The last thing I want from Paul is love. I want him to take care of me financially, to give me the freedom to do anything I want. Every time Paul comes over to my apartment, I turn on my stereo and blast Tina Turner’s ‘You Better Be Good to Me’ to remind him why he’s there.”
“And what is he looking for?”
Sheyla polished off the rest of her Bloody Mary and signaled to Nicole that she was ready for another. “A fantasy. You see, Paul Osher is the poster boy of tranny chasers. He’s into the whole super glamorous, hyper-femininity thing we girls are famous for. Whenever I see him, he expects me to look like I just stepped out of a Parisian fashion show. He wants me to be sexy and seductive at all times. He gets off on the fact that I spend more time deciding what shoes to wear than his wife does investing her 401(k).”
“Do you think Michelle Osher knew about you two?”
“To be honest, I never gave it a thought. Michelle was Paul’s problem to deal with, not mine. He claimed she didn’t want to have sex with him, but I didn’t believe him for a second. Part of Paul’s fantasy is to be consumed sexually, to have done to him what he’s done to women his whole life. At some point he decided he wanted to suck his own dick, and when he figured out he couldn’t, he started looking for girls like me. Where is my damn drink?”
“Okay Miss Samonte. Why you then? How come Paul Osher has made you his favorite charity?”
“You mean besides being beautiful and brilliant? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because I can suck George Washington off a quarter.”
Nicole brought over their food and the afternoon’s second Bloody Mary, and once again she and Sheyla shared a few words in Tagalog. “Naka do mo naba s’ya?” (“Have you slept with him yet?”) “Wiz, pero malapit na.” (“Not yet, but I will.”) These intimate private conversations they were having in Tagalog were starting to get on Mac’s nerves.
Mac noticed an ornate gold and sapphire ring resting on Sheyla’s right hand. “That’s a beautiful ring, Miss Samonte. Where did you get it?”
“Funny you should ask, because I never take it off. My life story is behind this ring. It was a gift from my mother, and it’s the most precious thing I own in the whole world. She gave it to me
when I was young. She was the only person who believed in me when I decided to transition. I wouldn’t be who I am without her.”
“That’s impressive,” said Mac, his natural curiosity piquing between bites of peppers and cheese. “I was wondering how supportive a family would be about their son becoming a daughter. Do you mind telling me what happened?”
“Not at all. My parents named me Stanford. Stanford Samonte; a good boy’s name, after my mother’s brother. But my older sister and some of her girlfriends knew I was different, and they would let me wear their clothes and put on makeup when no one was looking. My sister’s best friend was Reyna, whom you met the other night at Pearls of Asia. One time she saw me dressed up, so she decided to enter me in a local transsexual beauty pageant. She did my makeup, gave me one of her gowns, and took me to the pageant.”
“A transsexual beauty contest?” questioned Mac. “You mean there is such a thing?”
“Yes, and I won! I was crowned Queen of Cebu, one of the most prestigious titles in all the Philippines. I had just turned sixteen years old, and it was the happiest moment of my life. It was a real turning point for me.”
“That’s incredible,” marveled Mac, truly amazed by Sheyla’s story. “What happened after that?”
“I went home that night to this God-awful, grimy little two-room apartment we all lived in; my mother and father, my sister and me. I felt so good. I took a big chance and didn’t change my clothes or try to hide who I was any more. As I stood there in my wig and fancy dress, wearing lipstick and mascara, I announced that from that moment on I was going to live my life as a woman.”
“That must have been quite a shock to your parents.”
“You have no idea. My mother was speechless, but my father was infuriated. He stood up, enraged, and screamed at me, ‘Look at you,’ he yelled at the top of his lungs, ‘you’re a disgrace. You have brought shame to our family. Leave. Leave now. Get out of my house.’” Sheyla’s eyes began to glisten, and a tear started rolling down her cheek.
