Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘Chiu wasn’t part of the North Beach people then?’

  ‘Not in any movement sense. Just like the Italians weren’t part of the movement.’

  ‘I thought North Beach was all about the Italians.’

  ‘Listen, the Italians, the people who had businesses here, didn’t find the likes of us lovable. They were family people. Catholics. Hard workers. We didn’t work. We hung around coffee shops and bars. We didn’t dress right. We didn’t play by the rules. The top Italians here were pretty conservative. In today’s terms, they were very family values.’

  ‘Can you handle another bottle of water?’ Lang asked.

  Sumaoang smiled.

  ‘I’ll pace myself,’ he said.

  Lang ordered a beer for himself and water for his witness.

  ‘All right,’ Lang said, after the drinks arrived, ‘what did Warfield have on you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sumaoang said. ‘I truly don’t know. I came down here because you said Warfield was writing or had written a tell-all book and that I was supposed to be in it. I was hoping you’d tell me.’

  ‘What have you got to hide?’ Lang said.

  ‘If I had something to hide, would I be telling you? Maybe you’re the one writing the book.’

  ‘Maybe a couple more bottles of water,’ Lang said, ‘and you’ll become a little more compliant.’

  ‘I’ve got to move on,’ Sumaoang said. He slid off the stool, extended his hand.

  Lang shook it.

  ‘Tell me,’ Lang said, ‘all those people who walked by here. Where did they go?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Hey. Twenty people came in here while we were talking. They walked right by us. And they didn’t come back.’

  ‘Maybe out the rear door,’ Sumaoang said.

  ‘No, they just came and you’re telling me they were just passing through?’

  ‘It’s private . . . for regulars.’ Sumaoang looked around and turned back, saying softly, ‘I’ll leave it at that.’ He nodded and went the way of the others. He stopped, came back halfway. He pointed his finger at Lang.

  ‘Confidences should be honored,’ he said with an edge of anger in his voice.

  ‘Did you tell me any secrets?’

  ‘No,’ Sumaoang said.

  ‘Then why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Maybe you’ll find out.’

  Was that a threat or was he merely saying that this was what Lang should consider in his investigation?

  It wasn’t a bad night, Lang thought. Except for two things. The bartender was tight-lipped and a big guy kept Lang from going to the back room.

  The poet/artist did fill in a few holes, but left a few unfilled. What did Warfield have on Sumaoang? Why was Sumaoang so willing to talk? The answer to the last question was that maybe he wanted to know what Lang knew? No slouch, he. Maybe Lang gave away more than he got. And maybe most of these folks would want the missing tell-all book, if there was one, to stay missing, wouldn’t they? Lang laughed out loud in the increasingly cold and windy night. Maybe his bright idea was only so bright. He’d have to put the fear of a murder charge back into the conversation.

  Now about Sumaoang. He was fit, lean and vital. He’d have no trouble handling an ageing chub like Warfield. Sumaoang would stay on the list.

  Lang walked and tried to relax. But there was a little anger. He could feel it in his neck. What really bugged him was the back room at Alighieri’s. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were merely locked. Unfortunately, someone committed the ultimate sin. They told him he couldn’t go in. Now he had to.

  Intense light came through the slats of the blinds and burrowed through her eyelids. She awoke somewhat startled at the sun’s strength and the fact that it was a new day. She remembered climbing into bed last night and waking up as if time had not really passed. She got out of bed and was enveloped in the warmth of the room – a rare experience on a chilly San Francisco morning. It was nine a.m. Very late for her. But it would be fine. The art galleries didn’t open until later in the morning. She still had time for a morning run.

  She walked naked into the kitchen, put on some coffee, and then to the bathroom where she started the shower. As the water in the shower came up to temperature, she laid out her running clothes – the lighter Northface gear considering the day.

  The shower felt good. Having a case felt good. She thought about calling the office, but that wasn’t how it worked anymore. There were no expectations, except for those she had of herself. After her shower, she checked her cellphone in the event that she had slept through a call. No missed calls. No messages.

  She dressed, took her coffee and her laptop out to the deck off the bedroom. Sprinklers were on and the wet greenery shined in the sunlight. Today she’d get through as much of the list as she could. Maybe she’d get a line on artist Lili D. Young and photographer Frank Wiley from the gallery people. They might know something about Nathan Malone as well.

  After looking at news headlines and noting that no killer asteroids were heading toward earth, Carly checked her email. She had a message from the newspaper publisher Bart Brozynski and another from Supervisor Samuel McFarland’s office. She read the publisher’s email first. He was free at four in the afternoon – this afternoon. She would have to come to him. No additional information. McFarland’s office wanted to set up an appointment weeks from now. That wouldn’t do. She’d call when she got back from her run. But her day was filling up nicely.

  This morning she ran with Louis Prima’s ‘Just A Gigolo’ piped into her ears. It was a happy, bouncy tune. Up the hill toward Lafayette Park, around it and then through it, all the while thinking about William Blake. Had she picked that CD on purpose? The gigolo piece was paired with ‘I Ain’t Got Nobody’. She tried to repress a smile. She felt a little giddy and, she told herself, this wasn’t something a woman of her age should feel. But what a charmer. She thought about Noah Lang’s warning that Blake was playing her. Certainly, he possessed those skills. If he was as successful as he appeared to be as a ‘professional companion’, he’d have to have a good game. Lang was right. She’d have to be careful.

  Second shower of the morning. The first was to wash away sleep, the second to cool off. Now in her robe, she poured herself a second cup of coffee, opened a small carton of yogurt to which she added fresh sliced peaches. As she prepared her breakfast snack, she thought about what she should wear downtown. What do you wear to high-quality art galleries? She had a light gray suit, but that seemed a little stuffy, especially so on a day that would grow warmer. She finished her yogurt and returned to the bedroom, where, staring deep into her closet, she was about to make the toughest decision of the day. Did she have anything elegant but fun? Arty?

  Lang had awakened early, traipsed down to the coffee shop at Hayes and Central and walked over to the Park between Oak and Fell streets. He sat on a bench near the bike path and watched as healthy, anti-global warmers and those who could not afford such luxuries as cars and gasoline, pedaled to work. Beyond the path were open fields and dog lovers were giving their charges a chance to answer nature’s call and get in a little exercise before most of them would be left in the apartment for the day. The dogs were off their leashes and well behaved.

  He liked dogs. He liked them better than humans. The lazy PI nibbled at the top of a muffin and sipped his coffee as he watched the goings on under the tall eucalyptus and the big blue sky. He had coffee at home but this, paper cup and all, was better and he enjoyed the fresh air. There were times when his place seemed a little claustrophobic.

  Lang tossed the remainder of the muffin on the grass. Some creature would be rewarded. He opened the copy of the Fog City Voice, a weekly he picked up at the coffee shop. The paper focused on politics and entertainment, though in San Francisco the two were pretty much the same. Lang checked the masthead to see if the publisher was the one on Carly’s list. He was. Also, among the contributors was Nathan Malone, another one on Carl
y’s list.

  Lang flipped through the movie listings, glanced at the masseuse ads and then checked out the first few pages of the paper to see what moral crusade they were on at the moment. There were several articles on a rumored new hotel in North Beach. The Voice was vehemently against it. He finished his coffee and walked back toward his place. Though it would be autumn officially in a few weeks, there was no hint of it in the air.

  Two guys stood in front of his door. As Lang got closer, he saw who they were. Rose, a black guy and the smaller of the two, leaned back against the building, one foot up against the wall. He smiled. His partner, Stern, was a big white guy in his fifties, the strain of alcohol and general disdain etched on his face. He wasn’t smiling. He stepped toward Lang as Lang approached.

  ‘The party was last night,’ Lang said. ‘Next time.’

  ‘You know, you’re not as smart or as funny as you think you are,’ Stern said. The guy’s suit was two sizes too small.

  ‘Of all the cops on the force why is it always you?’

  ‘We miss you,’ Rose said, coming forward to join the conversation. He had a casual attitude and a well-pressed look.

  ‘No we don’t,’ Stern said.

  ‘Stern doesn’t appreciate sarcasm,’ Rose said.

  ‘He has a lovely childlike quality,’ Lang said. ‘I’ve long admired it.’

  ‘What are you doing sniffing around the Warfield killing?’ Stern asked.

  ‘Who says I am?’

  ‘Gratelli says so,’ Rose said.

  Lang thought that Gratelli must have come in the bar after he left. The bartender wasn’t as tight-lipped with the homicide inspector as he was with Lang. And Lang had given the barkeep his card. In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t a good idea.

  ‘It’s a murder investigation,’ Stern said.

  ‘I would think so,’ Lang said.

  ‘And you?’ Stern moved closer to Lang. It was his way of intimidating people. That and ‘the look’. The cop look.

  ‘I have nothing to do with it. Hope you find out who did it,’ Lang said. ‘I leave it entirely in your capable hands.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you,’ Rose said.

  Lang looked at Stern. ‘More sarcasm.’ When Stern didn’t respond, Lang said, ‘You’ll catch on.’

  Stern sneered. Lang knew he shouldn’t tease the bear. But he couldn’t resist.

  ‘You know about PIs and active murder investigations, right?’ Rose said.

  ‘Of course. Gumshoe 101.’

  ‘Then what are you doing?’ Unlike Stern’s, Rose’s tone was civil. Rose seemed the smarter of the two. But, having been partners for a couple of decades, they played games. When Stern was in a better mood, they would do a little comic routine.

  ‘Just looking for a book,’ Lang said.

  ‘Then you should go to a library,’ Stern said.

  ‘You practicing your sarcasm?’ Rose asked his partner.

  ‘It’s never too late to learn.’

  ‘You want to answer the implicit question?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Won’t be in a library. It’s unpublished.’

  ‘Let me guess. A book by Warfield.’

  ‘God, you guys are good,’ Lang said.

  ‘You know there’s a book out there?’ Rose asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re looking for a book you don’t know exists?’

  ‘Keeps me busy. I don’t like crossword puzzles.’

  ‘The book have something to do with the murder?’ Rose asked, while Stern wandered off, stared down the street.

  ‘I haven’t read it yet.’

  Rose smiled, shook his head. ‘Don’t piss him off too much,’ he said softly, referring to his partner.

  ‘Who is your client?’ Stern said, coming back. There was anger in his voice, but there was almost always anger in his voice.

  ‘I don’t have a client.’ Technically, William Blake was Carly’s client.

  ‘Then why are you looking for the book?’

  ‘Because I don’t know where it is.’

  Stern’s face reddened. ‘I’m gonna beat the shit out of him,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a right time and a right place,’ Rose said, then turned to look at Lang. ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘You and your promises,’ Stern said.

  Six

  Reed Fine Arts was on the fifth floor of 69 Geary, an address where a number of respected firms had their galleries. Carly had settled on a loose-fitting knit sweater and slacks, a delicate gold necklace, and low-cut boots by Jimmy Choo she bought in a moment of weakness . . . or madness. But dressing right was important. She knew it was superficial, shallow. Sometimes she liked superficial and shallow.

  She always remembered her grandmother taking her downtown to the City of Paris before it closed and telling her how important clothes were to the proper young woman. Maybe her grandmother made it true, but dressed like this Carly felt confident, and she was about to meet with people who were knowledgeable about a subject she knew little about. It was the philosophy that if everything is all right on the outside, the inside will adapt. It did.

  There were two desks behind a rosewood wall on the right as she entered. At each was a young woman dressed in black, sitting in front of an Apple computer. They didn’t look up as Carly passed by them. Beyond was where the exhibitions began. The first room showcased very large underwater photographs . . . brilliant blue-greens and ephemeral shapes in the water. The images didn’t come from the ocean deep, but from swimming pools. There was something both ghostlike and cheery – a very difficult mood to embrace. Off to the left was a hallway, clearly a place for offices. But there was another opening, a smaller room where portrait photographs, maybe twenty-five of them, resided on white walls. They were all the same size and looked at first to be identical. In fact, they were portraits of just one person, each with a subtle difference.

  Carly came back to the women who sat at the desks by the entrance. One of the women, a blonde of maybe thirty, looked up. Smiled and nodded. Eyebrows lifted, she was asking what Carly wanted without uttering a word.

  ‘I’m trying to find Frank Wiley,’ Carly said.

  ‘The photographer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ the woman said, picking up the phone. After a brief conversation, she said, ‘Mr Reed will be right with you.’

  Carly moved into the room of swimming pool photographs and waited. A slender man in a pinstriped suit that made him look slenderer came in. He wore squarish horn-rimmed glasses. He was probably fifty. His hair was brushed back. There was a Fred Astaire kind of elegance, but his face was solemn.

  ‘Yes?’ He forced a smile from a face that seemed uncomfortable with the exercise.

  ‘I’m trying to find Frank Wiley,’ she said. ‘I understand you carry his work.’

  He put his fingers to his lips. Obviously, this required some thought.

  ‘We did,’ he said finally.

  The conversation was held in hushed tones as if they were in a library or church.

  ‘You don’t anymore?’

  ‘No. Mr Wiley, you might be interested to know, is holding his own retrospective. Probably his last. He wanted to do it here, but frankly . . . well, nothing.’

  ‘His work has slipped.’

  ‘No, it’s just that his work is a bit . . . uh . . . historic now. He’s a fine photographer. We’ve always been a little ahead of the times, you know.’

  ‘I’m trying to find him. Do you know how I can contact him?’

  ‘I’m not sure that would be appropriate,’ Reed said.

  ‘I’d like to see his new show,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure there will be some notice in the papers,’ Reed said. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ Carly said.

  He stood for a moment, obviously waiting for her to depart. Instead she went back to the photographs. Reed gave up and disappeared into the hallway.

  Carly
stopped by the desk.

  ‘I just got done talking with Mr Reed,’ she said, misleading them with the truth, ‘do you have a phone number or address for Frank Wiley?’

  ‘Sure,’ the blonde said. Her fingers tapped on the keyboard and when they stopped, she said, ‘I’ll write this down for you.’

  Carly Paladino departed the gallery with the information on a Post-it note. She had a sudden thought and came back in.

  ‘Do you have anything on an artist, Lili D. Young?’

  The blonde looked at her then to her right where Mr Reed stood, more serious than one might think possible.

  Carly smiled, waved. Noah Lang was rubbing off on her.

  Lang stopped by the office. Carly arrived at the same time and they both took the stairs. The elevator was slow. A snail could make it up the steps faster than the clanging, groaning and notoriously unreliable lift. There, sitting in the reception area, was Thanh. He wore a blue blazer, a white shirt and Palomino-colored pants, all custom-made. The clothing was loosely draped and elegant. His hair was combed back, a touch of silver around the temples. There was an air of sophistication in the way he looked up at Carly, who was stunned for a moment.

  ‘How is Carly Paladino today?’ Thanh asked, barely suppressing a grin.

  ‘You are a chameleon aren’t you?’ Carly asked.

  He was an Asian version of William Blake, looking a little younger, a little slimmer, but catching that smooth, sleepy-eyed charmer completely.

  Carly looked at Lang, who shrugged.

  ‘You should see his Audrey Hepburn,’ Lang said.

  Carly thought that she shouldn’t have been surprised at this act of impersonation. She’d seen Thanh in action before – as a glimmering goddess and then, of course, yesterday, when he looked like a slippery pimp from the tropics.

  ‘Any calls?’ Carly asked.

  ‘One, but I just got here,’ Thanh said, voice reverting to normal. ‘You can ask Brinkman. He got here at seven this morning, said it was easier to sleep at the office.’ He looked down at Carly’s footwear. ‘Jimmy Choo, cool.’