‘I’m surprised you didn’t have lift-off.’
She ignored him. She took the large bag from her shoulder, tossed it on her desk. The San Francisco Chronicle spilled out. She turned back to stare at her new painting. He couldn’t tell whether it was admiration or an appraisal. There were things about her he didn’t quite understand. He liked that fact.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘A fawn.’
‘Oh.’
‘At dawn,’ she said. She looked at him, daring him to say something.
He wasn’t sure how far he could go. They were still getting used to each other. Perhaps he had gone too far with the friendly jabs. But if that was a fawn, then Lang had a stain on his carpet that was the Mona Lisa.
‘You don’t like it?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t say that.’
She looked at him. Expectation was on her face.
‘Classy,’ he said. ‘Looks like we’re movin’ on up.’
He went back to his office, sat in the chair with the ripped seat, and put his hands on the wood desk, a piece of furniture out of the fifties with ring marks, dents, stains and scratches. The plant under the dusty window looked unhappy. The sofa was a green Naugahyde disaster. Its still shiny pillows floated precariously on a frame with broken springs. When the new office was annexed, the whole place got a coat of paint. Unfortunately, the contrast of old and new merely made his office look shabbier.
‘Classy,’ he said. He thought that most would think a man barely this side of middle age would have had a more mature environment in which to work. They, of course, would be mistaken.
‘You busy?’ Carly asked, waiting in the doorway.
‘Just adding up all my assets. I just started. OK, I’m done.’
‘I need a set of eyes.’
He followed her back into her office. She held up the painting, which was about as wide as she was tall. She lowered and raised it.
‘There,’ Lang said.
She moved it left and right.
‘There.’
‘Could you hold it here while I mark it?’
He did. She put two pencil marks and he put the painting down. She reached in her purse to get two sturdy nails and one tiny hammer.
‘You borrow that from the Keebler elves?’
‘I did. By the way, they don’t like you.’
She pounded in the nails. It was slow going, but eventually she got the job done.
‘Seems as if you live in a miniature world,’ he said. She didn’t answer.
Lang looked down at the newspaper. It was a late city edition, a rarity these days.
As Lang left Carly’s office, his eye caught a photograph of San Francisco legend Whitney Warfield four columns wide and above the fold. The headline read: ‘Warfield Dead in the Water’. Lang didn’t know Warfield, but knew of him. Who didn’t? The headline was a surprisingly playful reference to one of his books, Dead in the Water, one of the many books Lang hadn’t read.
Lang was more of a movie guy. In fact, tonight, he was going to have crab cakes and beer and watch three of his favorites – Blood Simple, Blood and Wine and Red Rock West – all gritty little films about nasty people.
Two
One could guess his age and be off ten years either way. Maybe more. On this sunny morning, Thanh wore a straw hat, a white silky shirt open two buttons at the neck, light, sharply creased slacks, and something of a cross between shoes and sandals. He – and Thanh was a ‘he’ today – looked a little pimpish or just maybe in the wrong town. This was fog city, not sin city. But it was also September. Essentially summer. That San Francisco is in California is a myth – except during the warm and sunny months of September and October.
Thanh stood just inside Lang’s office this beautiful morning, not only wearing cool but being cool.
‘There’s a guy here looking for Carly.’
‘Do I look like Carly?’ Lang asked without looking up.
‘No, I guess not. But maybe if we did something with your hair . . .’
When Lang looked up he got the full ‘Thanh in the tropics’ effect.
‘You thinking about moving to Manila?’ Lang asked him.
‘You going out for a game of touch football?’ Thanh said. ‘You’re one to talk. Look at you. You’ve worn the same sweatshirt for three days.’
‘This week. All last week as well.’
‘When was the last time you washed your jeans?’
‘Oh, you’re supposed to wash these things?’
‘Now, take our guy waiting for Carly,’ Thanh said. ‘Good-looking guy. Expensive clothes. Sharp crease in his pants. Asked for her by name.’
‘That’s all very nice. I’m happy for him, but why are you telling me?’
‘She isn’t here.’
‘Give him a magazine.’
Thanh sighed and left. One couldn’t predict who Thanh would be tomorrow. It wasn’t a game, this endless supply of identities. It was a way of life.
Lang looked at his watch. Carly was late. There were no posted hours, but during their relatively brief period as partners, she almost always beat him in.
He heard a door shut, conversation, introductions. All was well with the world. He went back to his computer, and his Netflix page. He was hungry for more of the kind of movies he watched last night. As he scanned a list of noir choices, he dialed up his iPod for ‘Tony Bennett Sings Duke Ellington’. He would call around to see if he could dig up business, but he’d wait until ten. Meanwhile, he’d play. After all, he was his own boss and a very lenient one at that.
‘Do I call you Sweet William?’ Carly asked when they were seated in her office. To say she was aware of his green eyes would be an understatement.
‘If you want to, but only Anselmo calls me that, a name he gave me years ago.’
He wore a blue blazer, a white shirt and Palomino-colored pants, all custom-made, Carly was sure. Loosely draped and elegant. If she had known he was visiting, she would have taken a little more care of her own appearance. However, at the moment, she was working on a more relaxed image.
‘What can I do to help you?’
‘I have some questions for you first. Do you mind?’ William asked.
‘No, it makes sense. What would you like to know?’
‘What is your background?’
‘I worked for more years than I care to mention at Vogel Security – one of the most prestigious investigation firms in the country.’
‘And you went out on your own?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I hit the glass ceiling and the work was becoming routine,’ Carly said.
‘How big a firm is this?’
‘We’re small, just Noah Lang and I for the most part.’
‘And Mr Lang?’
‘He has been here for several years. He has tremendous experience in criminal defense work.’ She waited to see if his expression changed. His blink, longer than usual, confirmed her feeling that he was here about Whitney Warfield. ‘That can be helpful, right?’ she asked.
William took a deep breath, looked around, started to talk, but stopped. He nodded toward the doorway.
‘Thanh,’ Carly called out.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you hear what we’re saying?’
‘It’d be better if you’d talk a little louder.’
William smiled, got up, peered around the doorway. ‘Nothing personal,’ he said, closing the door. He returned to his seat.
‘You overheard us at Anselmo’s.’
‘I hoped you’d talk a little louder,’ she said, smiling.
‘The police came to my place early this morning,’ he said.
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. I went out the back.’
‘Not to drive business away, but maybe you need a lawyer not an investigator.’
‘Look,’ William said, standing, walking to the window. ‘Here’s my take on this. I was with Whitney late the night of his death. We were in a bar in North Bea
ch. We were arguing. It got hot. He was drunk and unreasonable, though he doesn’t have to be drunk to be unreasonable. He stumbled out. I followed. We argued on the street. Not good. Add to this,’ he continued as he moved back toward her, ‘most would not consider me a paragon of virtue. I’m a professional companion.’ He waited. Carly remained quiet. ‘There are other names.’
‘There was a song,’ she said.
He smiled.
‘Once the police put my career and the argument together, they won’t look anywhere else. And even if they can’t prove I did it and don’t, in fact, indict me, the suspicion alone is a career killer. What I need is for someone to find the killer. That’s the only way I’m safe.’
‘Were you drunk?’
‘No. I never have more than two drinks in public.’
‘What were you arguing about?’
‘Are you working for me?’
It was clear to Carly he didn’t want to say a whole lot more unless they had an agreement.
‘Yes.’ She explained rates and conditions, which included a retainer. ‘I’ll put it in writing.’
‘I’ll take you at your word. We were arguing over a book he was writing.’
‘You were going to be in it, I bet.’
‘I was, but that wasn’t the worst part. I have had relationships with people to whom I promised absolute discretion. As smart as he is . . . was . . . discretion was not part of his vocabulary.’
‘But if you didn’t tell him anything . . .’
‘He picked up a lot of gossip. Most of it was wrong. But if I corrected him, I was collaborating and going against my word. If I didn’t correct him he was going to take it as a confirmation of his suspicions. And there were foolish people who confided in him as well as people who passed along confidences. He traded in such gossip.’
‘Who are the people most likely to get hurt by the book?’
He gave the question a lot of thought.
‘This is going to be absolutely essential. This is the suspect pool, William.’
He nodded, but stayed quiet.
‘You’ve got to trust someone.’
He smiled. ‘Not trusting has been the reason I’ve survived.’
‘You mean that in a general sense,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry. But in this case, silence is like going to the doctor and not telling her where you hurt.’
He nodded, but was still deliberating.
‘I’m charging by the hour, William. And I’d think time isn’t on your side.’
‘Whitney knew that his life was coming to an end.’
‘He knew someone wanted to kill him?’
‘No. He was old and not in the best of health. It was a matter of time. And so far the end hadn’t been kind to him. His books went out of print. The media didn’t call him . . . about anything anymore. His old circle of friends and enemies were dying off. His whole story was losing relevance. He wanted to chronicle his time, with him as the star, of course. To build himself up, to make himself heroic, he had to drag down a few contemporaries, living and dead.’
‘Somebody didn’t want him to finish his book.’
‘That seems the logical answer,’ William said.
‘Including you.’
‘Precisely. The police would make that connection first. That, coupled with the events preceding his death, puts me right in the center of all this.’
‘Did you and Whitney have an affair?’
‘No. I can’t tell you the number of very straight men who, after a certain age, flirt with the idea of playing around with a younger man. This is much more common than anyone admits. But Whitney had an overabundance of testosterone. He was definitely and wholly into women. But he was very interested in knowing the gritty details about those who liked to jump the fence now and then.’
‘And you. Do you see women?’
He smiled. ‘Yes. Most of my relationships are with women.’
‘But?’
‘Of course. I love people. I love money. I like the good life. I don’t appear to have the same inhibitions as most people.’
‘Different inhibitions. Like trust.’
‘Yes.’ He smiled. His green eyes bored through her.
She could see him on the arm of some middle-aged woman on opening night for the opera or symphony.
‘Where are you living?’
He was considering a response, it appeared, not giving one.
‘And your last name?’ she added. ‘Trust, remember.’
‘Blake,’ he said, smiling. ‘You’ll have to trust me on that. I travel some. But I live most of the time in a condo on Telegraph Hill.’
‘You own it?’
‘And you ask this because?’
‘I guess I’m interested in how self-reliant you are financially,’ she said.
‘You want to be sure I can pay you?’ he asked.
‘That too. But I need to understand your motives. You’ve already admitted that you love money.’
‘I don’t own it. I house-sit for someone who comes to San Francisco for a month once a year.’
‘He or she lets you stay there?’
‘Yes.’
It was clear he wasn’t ashamed of his life. Carly made no judgment either. Growing up in San Francisco, one learns quickly about how life is.
‘Are you a native?’ she asked.
‘Yes. All my life. I come from a long line of companions,’ he said, smiling again. Warm, flirting, funny. ‘You?’
‘I come from a restaurant family. Here all my life. I even live in the home I grew up in, near Lafayette Park. When my parents passed on, I inherited it. And as things seem to be going, I’ll die there too.’
‘Not too soon, I hope.’
‘I plan to be around for a while.’
‘I’d like to think I will too. I might need your help with that.’
‘Beyond the police, do you think your life is in danger?’
‘That’s something I cannot know without knowing who killed Whitney. So, you see, I have very important reasons to find the murderer.’
‘I need a list of all those people Whitney was writing about – that you know of. I need to know where he hangs out? What people he hangs out with? Friends, girlfriends. Can you do that?’
‘Yes,’ he said, sitting again. ‘I can write them down now, if you like.’
‘Good.’
She handed him a yellow legal tablet. He pulled out a black Mont Blanc pen from inside his jacket and began to jot down names.
‘I’m going away,’ William said without looking up.
‘Where?’
‘Just away.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ he said, looking up.
‘It will make you look guilty. Running away.’
‘I go away a lot,’ he said. ‘I don’t tell people where I go. I could be in Europe for three months. No one would know. For all practical purposes, I’m not running. I simply have an engagement elsewhere.’
‘How will I contact you?’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ He reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a stack of banded bills. ‘Retainer. I know you can’t guarantee that you can investigate without getting noticed, especially the police, but I’d appreciate as much discretion as possible.’
He finished writing the list.
‘I’m not sure the killer is on the list. But it’s a start, I hope.’
‘It is.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, nodding to her with a smile.
Paladino thought he didn’t seem frightened. There was a confidence, or maybe aloofness, in his persona that suggested he was at home in the universe or, at best, had made peace with it. It was an attractive quality.
‘William,’ she said getting up and temporarily interrupting his departure.
‘Yes.’
‘This list,’ she said, ‘how do you know all this?’
‘He told me. He was going to “slice and d
ice” them. That’s how he said it. He told me who because he wanted what I knew about them. Some of them I didn’t even know. Some are dead. They aren’t on the list.’
‘So that’s a complete list?’
‘I can’t guarantee that. Those are the people he said were on the list, the people he was going to get.’
Again he started toward the door. This time, he had it open.
‘William.’
He paused, turned back slowly, waiting for her question.
‘What were you arguing about?’
‘What?’ he asked.
It was a reflexive remark. He had heard her. He wanted time to think before answering.
‘You and Mr Warfield.’
‘What I told you. He was intentionally going to hurt other people.’
‘Other people? Not you?’
‘Me too, of course.’ His smile let her know he was aware of having been caught.
‘Why? How was he hurting you?’
‘Some of these are people whose lives I’ve shared and because of caring for them I’ve been rewarded with kindness. We established that earlier, didn’t we?’
‘Wow,’ Carly said. ‘Did we dance around that one?’
‘We did.’ He smiled again. ‘Let’s do it next time with a little music.’ He moved back toward her. ‘Discretion is important. If you need more specific answers for your investigation, I’ll be happy to share some deeply personal moments. But if this is for your . . . one’s . . . personal curiosity, I’d prefer to leave this vague.’
‘We’ll see, William. I may need to know. I may need the details.’
Three
‘Let’s go get lunch,’ Lang said, looking up at Carly.
‘Now?’
‘It’s early afternoon. While some folks may prefer lunch at midnight, I’m told many people often eat lunch this time of day,’ he said.
‘Some people . . .’ She halted. Whatever she was going to say, she thought better of it. She took note of Lang’s sandy good looks, rougher than William’s smooth beauty. Interesting to compare men, she thought. Lang was a straight-on kind of guy. William seemed to cultivate mystery. Both were charming in their ways. Then there was Thanh. What was she to make of him? Or her?
‘It’ll take a while to find a parking place in North Beach,’ Lang said. ‘We can get a bite to eat, talk about your list and get the lay of the land.’
Death in North Beach Page 2
