by Tim Maleeny
He was loathe to admit it felt good, but it did. Cape had decided his visit to Frank Alessi should be unannounced. The approach had worked in New York, and Frank didn’t like company. He also didn’t like Cape, which compounded the problem. Besides, showing up uninvited gave Cape an excuse to punch something other than a wall.
Cape had studied martial arts when he was younger but always considered himself nonviolent, until as a reporter he was thrust into situations that required a choice. Most people have the luxury of driving through bad neighborhoods without taking their foot off the gas, past impending crimes that happen as soon as their car rounds the corner, or the moment the sun goes down, or the bars close. But if you stay around and watch, you become part of it, whether you want to or not. Do you just keep watching and write about it later, or do you step in?
The first time Cape saw a pimp beat up one of his girls, the decision was made for him. Cape was picking shards of the pimp’s broken teeth from between his own bloody knuckles before he even stopped to think. He just reacted and, in that visceral moment, discovered his own capacity for violence. It would be years before he found his calling, but he knew then he wasn’t really cut out for the newspaper business. He looked in the mirror that night and realized he’d rather have bruised knuckles than a writing callous.
Frank Alessi’s building was on the corner of Broadway and Columbus Avenue, directly across from Big Al’s, an infamous San Francisco landmark. While most adult bookstores were anonymous storefronts squeezed between strip clubs in the red light district, Big Al’s proudly announced its presence with a twenty-foot-tall neon sign on the corner of two of the city’s busiest streets. The sign was in the shape of a gangster, complete with Tommy gun and smoking cigar. Frank’s office was at eye level with the neon mobster, and Cape often wondered if that was how Frank regarded himself, looming over San Francisco and larger than life.
And Frank was growing larger by the day, if his dinner order was any indication. The Italian restaurant next door took his order and gave it to Chuck, their delivery guy, as they did almost every night. Fifty dollars later, Chuck was headed home for the evening, and Cape was holding Frank’s dinner. An extra ten bought Chuck’s baseball cap, emblazoned with the restaurant’s logo.
It had been almost a year since the last time Cape called on Frank, but he doubted much had changed. Frank was a creature of habit, and Cape had been watching the front door for the past two hours. He figured maybe four guys in the building—one downstairs at the front door, one in the upstairs hallway, and two inside the office with Frank. There were always two with Frank.
Cape wasn’t worried about the last two, because he hoped to have Frank’s undivided attention by then. Frank wasn’t the type to do anything rash unless you posed a threat, but he also wasn’t inclined to invite you inside just to make conversation. It was a bullshit test of Frank’s—you get inside and he might listen.
Cape knocked and felt himself getting the once-over from the thug behind the door. An old-fashioned peephole, no camera, since Frank was both old-fashioned and cheap. Besides, he was supposedly a legitimate businessman with nothing to fear except a tax audit. Apparently the roundness of Cape’s eyes, the red cap, and the paper bag with grease stains passed inspection, because he heard the lock turning.
The door opened out in accordance with city fire codes, so Cape grabbed the knob and yanked as hard as he could. The man behind the door lurched forward a step but then recovered, so Cape reversed direction and slammed the door back in his face. He heard a satisfying crunch as the wood collided with the man’s nose, snapping his head back into the door frame. Cape grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into the street. The man landed face down, coughing and spitting.
Cape bent at the waist to retrieve the paper bag, stepped inside, and locked the door. The stairs were on the right, and he took them two at a time. He guessed maybe thirty seconds before pounding on the door commenced.
Shifting the bag to his left hand, he reached under his jacket and pulled the revolver. He’d brought the Ruger for intimidation value, and as he crested the landing he cocked the gun and swung to the left.
He was facing the entrance to a sitting room off the second-floor hallway, where a squat man with thinning hair sat watching television and smoking a cigarette. When he heard the click of the hammer, he snapped his head around, jaw open, and dropped his cigarette on the carpet. He blinked rapidly to make the hallucination vanish—a delivery guy with a revolver, about to blow his brains out.
“You might want to put that out,” said Cape gently, “unless you want to get us in trouble with the fire department.”
The man stared, uncomprehending.
“The cigarette,” said Cape more firmly. “Pick it up and put it out.”
Keeping his eyes on Cape, the man bent and pawed at the carpet until he snagged the wrong end of the smoldering butt, cursed, and yanked his hand away. The second time he looked down. He reached awkwardly across his body for the ashtray next to his chair.
Cape nodded. “Now assume the position. Face down, hands behind your head.” He kept the gun up and added, “And please keep your mouth shut—if I have to shoot, we’re both in trouble.” Cape pulled two plastic cable ties tight around the man’s wrists, added duct tape around his mouth, then pulled his wrists down and used two more cable ties to secure them to his belt. It wasn’t handcuffs, but it would keep him rolling around the floor long enough for Cape to get to Frank. Cape turned the volume on the television slightly higher, then walked down the hallway.
Cape holstered the gun before reaching the double doors at the end of the hall. After a gentle knock, he turned the brass handle and stepped inside.
The office resembled a museum of antiquities that had been turned into a furniture showroom. An eighteenth-century couch with carved feet shaped like lion’s claws shared floor space with leather-backed chairs from a New York brownstone circa 1900. Every item looked expensive but nothing matched. The end tables belonged in a different room, if not another era, and the various floor lamps were no more related than justice and the law. Dominating the room was an enormous teak desk, and behind the desk sat an enormous man.
Frank Alessi sat resplendent in a pale gray suit, cufflinks, and a white silk shirt open at the collar. The lack of a tie offered a clear view of multiple chins, fully revealed in all their blubberous splendor, when his head snapped back in surprise at Cape’s entrance.
Behind Frank stood a tall man with black hair, a high forehead, and a hook nose. Cape was reminded of a hawk as the man swiveled his head toward the door.
“Hi, Frank,” said Cape, holding up the paper bag. “Your dinner’s getting—”
Two arms as big as pythons encircled Cape before he could finish his sentence. He dropped the take-out bag and gasped as he was lifted off the ground and squeezed mercilessly, his assailant’s chin digging into his spine. Judging by the distance to the floor, the man crushing the life out of him was as tall as a refrigerator.
The attack stopped as suddenly as it had occurred. Cape felt the pressure on his chest disappear and he dropped to the floor, wondering if he’d just been accosted by a feeble carnival giant trying to guess his weight. Then Cape heard his captor utter a single syllable.
“Ow.”
Cape didn’t hesitate. Without turning, he raised his right foot and drove the heel of his shoe into his attacker’s instep. Another “Ow,” louder this time. Cape spun and threw a punch where the solar plexus should have been and almost broke his hand, but the Fridge rolled onto his heels and fell, ass first, onto the hardwood floor.
“Ow—ow—oww!” repeated the Fridge. The bodyguard rubbed his left wrist with his right hand and looked at Cape with a wounded expression, his close-cropped hair and large ears giving him an almost childlike appearance. He wasn’t nearly as large as Ursa by half, but he sure as hell wasn’t buying his clothes off the rack.
Cape leaned forward to help the clumsy giant stand when he heard the un
mistakable click of a gun being cocked. He raised both hands in the air and slowly put them behind his head before turning around. The hawk-nosed man was aiming a Kimber .45 automatic at Cape’s face. Frank Alessi started clapping, a smug look on his face.
“What a dipshit,” said Frank in admiration. “You want it in the head or the gut?”
Cape looked the Hawk in the eye and very deliberately dropped his hands to his sides before responding. “You’re not going to shoot me, Frank,” he said evenly. “You’re a pillar of civic responsibility.” Cape slowly unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his bare chest, then redid the buttons. “No wire.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“You’re supposed to be glad to see me,” said Cape in a hurt voice. “We’re old friends.”
Frank narrowed his eyes and chewed his lower lip, trying to remember precisely why he disliked Cape so much. “You fucked up one of my sofas,” he said indignantly, then in afterthought, “And you killed one of my guys.”
“He wasn’t your guy, Frank,” replied Cape. “He was selling you out to the competition.”
“That wasn’t your business.”
“He tried to shoot me, and I shot back,” said Cape. “That was my business.” Then he pointedly added, “I did you a favor, Frank.”
Frank opened and closed his mouth like a fish, so pissed he might be in Cape’s debt that he forgot what he was going to say.
“Speaking of getting it in the gut,” said Cape, “I think your bodyguard just ruined your dinner.” He gestured at the paper bag, upside down and split open, pasta and meat sauce strewn across the floor like blood and guts.
Frank went red in the face as he jabbed a finger at Baby Huey. “You’re supposed to crush him, not give him a hug—the fuck is your problem?”
The lumbering guard thrust out his lower lip and rubbed his wrist. “I think I got carpal tunnel.”
Frank nearly came out of his chair. “You got what?”
The Hawk leaned forward and whispered, keeping the gun on Cape the whole time. Frank wheeled around in his chair, incredulous.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The Hawk shrugged apologetically, answering in a subdued voice.
“It’s a repetitive stress disorder.”
The Fridge nodded, holding up his left arm for examination. “Comes from making the same motion again and again and again, like typing on a keyboard; or, in my case, hitting guys—I always hit ’em the same way.”
The Hawk shrugged and nodded. “It can be quite painful if not treated properly.”
Frank looked from one thug to the other, his mouth open.
“I don’t fuckin’ believe this.”
Cape jumped in. “This could be serious,” he said. “We’re talking on-the-job injury, Frank. That means workmen’s comp, medical bills, physical therapy…”
Frank leveled a finger at Cape. “You shut the fuck up.” The finger swiveled toward the Fridge. “And you get off your ass and get me another dinner before I shoot you—you fucking my-wrist-hurts pansy.”
“I know a good lawyer if you need one,” whispered Cape as he helped the Fridge stand. The big man nodded and smiled like a grateful child before heading down the hallway.
“Cape-fuckin’-Weathers,” intoned Frank from behind his desk. “Tell me again why I don’t drill you right now?”
“Because unlike you, Frank, I have friends,” replied Cape in a tired voice, adding, “who happen to wear badges—”
“—who know you’re here,” said Frank with a disgusted look on his face.
Cape nodded. “And they’re dying for an excuse to dig deeper into your business affairs.”
“And you think that if they find you floating face-down in the Bay after talking to me, that could be considered probable cause.”
“You know, Frank, I don’t understand why everyone tells me you’re stupid.”
Frank’s eyes bulged. “Maybe I can’t kill you so easy,” he said, “but I can hurt you some.”
“I can get your heroin back for you,” said Cape nonchalantly.
Frank sat forward, darting a backward glance at the Hawk.
“What heroin?”
“You notice I didn’t ask if you wanted to get your smack back?” said Cape. “Not going for the obvious rhyme took a lot of restraint on my part.”
Frank’s temples seem to balloon outward. “What heroin?”
“The stuff you sold to the movie producer,” replied Cape. “Tom Abrahams.”
Frank stared as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. A full minute passed before he said anything.
“Who?”
“How do you like the movie business, Frank?” asked Cape.
Frank hunched his shoulders and put both hands on his desk.
“The fuck are you talking about?”
Cape studied Frank carefully before asking the next question.
“Been to the zoo lately, Frank?”
Frank’s eyes went flat. “I never go to the zoo,” he said. “Can’t stand the smell.”
Cape nodded as if accepting the answer at face value. “Shame about Otto,” he said sympathetically. “You think his wife will close the deli?”
Frank did the fish routine again, mouth opening and closing before any sound emerged. “What do you know about Otto?” He gestured at the Hawk, who nodded and shifted the forty-five to aim at Cape’s chest.
“Talk,” said Frank.
Cape looked from the gun to Frank, then nonchalantly walked over to the sofa and sat down. When you played cards with Frank Alessi, you had to bluff on every hand. Frank was a rottweiler—you showed fear and he’d eat you for lunch, but you looked him in the eye and he’d just sit there with a dumb expression on his face, wondering which hand held the dog biscuit.
“I know you didn’t kill Otto,” said Cape.
Frank looked disappointed—no biscuit in that hand. “No shit, detective.”
“But you think Freddie Wang did.”
Frank jerked his head sideways. The Hawk lowered the gun.
“And how is this your business?” asked Frank.
“You think he’s after your half of the drug business,” continued Cape. “He already controls the supply, so why not take over distribution?”
“Stop jerkin’ me off,” said Frank. “You want money for information, say so; you know something, spit it out.”
“I don’t know shit, do you?”
“I got my theories.”
“But you can’t test them without getting close to Freddie,” said Cape.
“Give it time.”
“Bullshit,” said Cape. “It would take an army to get close to Freddie, unless you can turn one of his guys.”
Frank shifted in his seat impatiently.
“My business,” he snapped. “Not yours. You through wasting my time?”
“I’m going to see Freddie,” said Cape matter-of-factly.
Frank spoke without thinking. “I’ll give you twenty grand to kill him.”
The Hawk’s eyes bulged with surprise. Cape forced a laugh and shook his head, wishing for Beau’s sake he’d been wearing a wire. “I’m not in that line of work.”
“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” spat Frank. “You shot one of ours.”
“He shot first,” said Cape. “There’s a difference.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Then buy a pair of glasses,” said Cape. “I’ll give him a message, if you want.”
“What’s this to you?” demanded Frank. “Why the fuck are you here?”
Cape thought for a minute before answering. “I think I’ve been investigating the wrong case.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” muttered Frank. “Don’t know why anyone would hire an asshole like you in the first place.”
“Does that mean I can use you as a reference?”
“Fuck off.”
“Good night, Frank,” said Cape. “Thanks for telling me jack shit about next to nothing.” H
e nodded at the Hawk before heading toward the door. The gun had never wavered the entire time.
“Wait a minute,” said Frank.
Cape turned.
“You really gonna see Freddie?”
Cape nodded. “My next stop.”
“Go ahead and give him a message.”
Cape stood there quietly, waiting for Frank to gather his thoughts. It didn’t take long.
“Tell him I said he should stay where he belongs,” said Frank. “In Chinatown.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” said Frank. “If he tries to cross Broadway, I’ll kill him.”
Cape let himself out. No one tried to stop him. A minute later he was crossing Broadway and heading into Chinatown.
Chapter Forty-five
“Freddie Wang is a tapeworm.”
“Is that an actual job description?”
“Yes, it is.”
Sally led Cape down a twisted alley he never knew existed somewhere near the heart of Chinatown, only a few blocks but a world away from the tourist trade on Grant Street. The kitchen entrance to Freddie Wang’s restaurant was a few doors down. A cook was standing outside smoking, his face illuminated by the dim glow of a facing apartment window. As they got closer, Cape noticed the cook’s white jacket bulged on his right side and realized he was packing—a door guard dressed like the kitchen help.
“I see him,” said Sally calmly. “Not a problem.”
Cape nodded and kept walking. “You were telling me where to apply to become an intestinal parasite.”
“Freddie Wang is a tapeworm living off the Triads,” said Sally.
“I thought he ran the tongs.”
“He thinks he runs Chinatown, but he can’t take a piss without asking permission. He’s just another mail stop in the network.”
“A bureaucrat,” suggested Cape.
“Yeah,” said Sally, “that’s exactly what Freddie is—not a leader, not a soldier, but not a civilian, either. Just a criminal parasite who thinks he’s in charge.”
“Maybe he should run for Congress.”
Sally snorted but didn’t reply. They had reached their destination.
