Telegraph Hill

by John F. Nardizzi

  Telegraph Hill

  John F. Nardizzi

  © 2013, John F.Nardizzi

  www.usindiebooks.com

  Library Of Congress Control Number: 2014953986

  ISBN: 978-1-941740-11-8

  All rights reserved and owned by John F. Nardizzi. No part of this book may be used, reprinted, copied, sold, borrowed, bartered or loaned without the express permission of the author. You have been warned. Ignore at your peril. Remember, Mr. Nardizzi is a Boston based private investigator and mates with Patrick H. Moore and Max Myers. You don’t want them to pay you a visit.

  This is a work of fiction. None of it is real. Names, characters, businesses places, events and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner based on his real life experiences. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental, unless otherwise stated.

  In Telegraph Hill, private detective Ray Infantino searches for a missing girl named Tania. The case takes him to San Francisco, the city he abandoned years ago after his fiance was murdered. Thrust into his old city haunts, Ray finds that Tania may not be lost at all. Tania saw a murder; and a criminal gang, the Black Fist Triad, wants to make sure she never sees anything again. Ray enlists help from an old flame, Dominique, but now he has three women on his mind. Meeting with various witnesses—ex-cops, prostitutes, skinheads—he relentlessly tracks the evidence. But the hunt for Tania fires his obsession with avenging the murder of his fiancé. When the triad retaliates, and blood begins to flow, Ray must walk the knife edge between revenge and redemption on the streets of San Francisco.

  www.johnnardizzi.com

  Acknowledgements

  For Stacie, who walked the city hills

  and nudged me to write it all down.

  Dedicated to the memory of Jean Roberts,

  an Oakdale teacher who believed

  all that is gold does not glitter.

  About John F. Nardizzi

  John Nardizzi is a writer and investigator. His fictional detective, Ray Infantino, first appeared in print in Austin Layman's Crimestalkers Casebook (spring edition, 2007). Telegraph Hill is the first novel featuring Infantino. Many details from the book are loosely based on legal cases John handled in San Francisco's tough Tenderloin District, as well has other cases from around the country.

  Some early ideas—poems and short sketches—came from walking from Nob Hill through the Tenderloin—one of greatest mixes of wealth and poverty in a short space. John took these word- pictures and stories of the denizens of the city—gang members, cops, prostitutes, talented, damaged artists—and tossed them in a stew until the book Telegraph Hill was ready to be served up.

  John has publishing credits in numerous professional and literary journals, including San Diego Writer's Monthly, Oxygen, Liberty Hill Poetry Review, Lawyers Weekly USA and PI Magazine.

  In 2003, John founded Nardizzi & Assocs., Inc., a private detective agency in Boston. His investigations on behalf of people wrongfully convicted of crimes led to million dollar settlements for clients like Dennis Maher, Scott Hornoff, and the estate of Kenneth Waters, whose story was featured in the 2010 film Conviction.

  Prior to working as a PI, John worked as a landscaper, law clerk, and in athletic clubs. He failed to hold any restaurant job for longer than a week.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 1

  As night slouched on, the flesh and drug trade simmered at the intersection of Turk and Jones. Johnny Cho smoked a cigarette on the fire escape of the Senator Hotel. Johnny could have afforded a better room than the Senator; he was now earning huge sums of cash. Saving like only an immigrant can save, scraping money from every hungry minute.

  Two men watched him from the shadows of the alley. They turned away and walked to Eddy Street, waiting for the call. One man tapped his jacket. Ready for the wet work. The men turned left on Leavenworth Street.

  Johnny glanced at his watch: 10:33 PM. Across the street, graffiti on a brick wall—‘Plastic people are cute.’ He didn’t understand the reference. Bodies lurched on the sidewalk, glowing in the neon lights of porn shops—crack whores, johns, dealers, junkies. Some didn’t move at all, sprawled on greasy sidewalks.

  His triad owned these sidewalks. They operated three massage parlors in the city’s Tenderloin district: Crystal Massage, The Golden Lotus, and Tokyo Spa. All were fronts for prostitution. The world’s oldest profession had a centuries-old lineage in the city. If not exactly accepted, the profession at least had carved out a certain measure of grungy respect. The massage parlors operated openly, signs beckoning over restaurants, ads in local papers. They generated substantial fees on their own, but as cash businesses, their value as money makers paled in comparison to their main function: laundering a steady torrent of drug money. And because of the triad’s interest in developing new cash businesses, the massage parlors were earning him a very respectable living.

  Johnny had left Hong Kong with a group of refugees when he was fourteen. They drifted for weeks across the Pacific on a chunk of rotten wood someone had the balls to call a boat. Eight dead bodies later, he made it to Los Angeles. Since then, he had come a long way from washing dishes in grubby Chinatown restaurants. First, a runner for the numbers, a trusted doorman. Then bigger assignments—jobs issued with a whisper, or on a dirty slip of paper, coded, you never knew the whole deal. Follow the man to see which apartment he enters at 10:30 PM. Get the address of the girl with the purple hat who works at the bank.

  Then came other tasks, things he didn’t talk about.

  The feuding bosses of the major triads had met earlier that day, twenty-four men in total: bosses, favored lieutenants, and bodyguards hiding behind sunglasses. They talked over a long lunch at a big downtown hotel, ordering dim sum and cold beer, posturing and blowing cigarette smoke at each other. Johnny found the negotiations tiresome. He wanted some time away. A bit of a risk coming to the Senator Hotel with the girls—he usually went to one of the triad houses. But he did not want to be disturbed tonight, and he would have been recognized at the Lotus. He was not in the mood to listen to complaints. So, the Senator Hotel had been pressed into service once again. He’d dine alone too, if he could help it. Tomorrow promised another day of endless meetings.

  He watched the street action, reaching absentmindedly for another cigarette. He was out. Where was the girl? She had gone inside over five minutes ago—still no smokes.

  He heard a click in the alley. He looked down and saw a wooden door open into the passageway. The cement walkway gleamed, slick from an earlier rain. Two men slid inside. They walked past trash barrels into the shadows.

  Johnny stared. One of the men looked up, and met his eye. The man muttered something. Then the men crouched and sprang toward the rear of the building.


  Johnny shivered a bit, a spade dragging across cold stones. One of the men reached the iron fire escape. Hunching low, he took two steps at a time.

  Johnny didn’t like this at all. Reached down and felt a sickness in his gut—the snub .38 was in his jacket.

  He sprang back from the edge of the railing and moved toward the battered steel door. He yanked the door handle—it was locked. He smashed his fist on the door, jammed his face near the small square window. One of the girls looked up, startled. He saw the other girl, the blond, packing her bag near the bathroom. For a second, his eyes met those of the blond, and he drew in her frightened complicity. Fucking whore—she set him up! He watched as she turned away, shouting something to the other girl.

  Bracing against the rail, Johnny slammed his shoulder against the door. Nothing—the steel door was immovable.

  The sudden heightening of senses, the pungent smell of cement and rain.

  Footsteps clanged on the black iron of the fire escape. Johnny turned toward the stairwell—climb to the roof, maybe crawl up somehow. He took two steps, curling over the railing.

  They were already in range.

  He heard a popping sound from below, and his ribcage shuddered. And again. He tried to breathe past the pain lancing his chest. Chinese voices, and another voice, unidentifiable. Cold on his cheek, and he knew he was down on the ironwork. Something like boiling soup poured on his stomach. He felt some leathery thing brush his face, and then a whooshing of wings peeling away across a vast black canyon.

  Chapter 2

  Ray Infantino strode along the red brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill in Boston. Old elms shaded the stately row houses, set close to the narrow streets and bordered with iron gates and granite steps. Small gardens exploded with color—foxglove, bleeding heart, purple cone flowers spilling over the brick. Across the street, a group of tourists fired madly away with their cameras at a particularly well-preserved brick mansion. One of those lush days in a fast and furious New England summer—it made the existence of winter seem an impossibility.

  For the upcoming meeting, Ray dressed in a navy blue suit with a cobalt shirt and patterned gold tie. He avoided button-down collars, a sign of epic repression.

  He knew that he would be scrutinized by one of Boston’s best criminal defense lawyers, Lucas Michaels. Lucas had invited him to his home office, where he was working for the day. Lawyers like Lucas often had ambivalent relationships with investigators. Investigators could be a problem. They needed to be roped in all too often. Too many cowboys telling war stories from back in the day when their cocks got stiff without help from a little blue pill.

  Ray rang at the door of a three-story Victorian row house topped with a copper dome that had faded to a green patina. The golden dome of the state house peeked over the hill a few blocks away. He brushed back a wave of unruly black hair, and pulled the suit jacket over his spare boxer's physique.

  He rang again and heard a buzzing sound. The door clicked open, and Ray stepped into a foyer painted a brilliant white. A thin man in his sixties walked toward him.

  “Lucas Michaels,” the man said, extending his hand. “Thanks for coming over so soon, Ray.” Lucas wore a faded blue polo shirt over tan slacks. His face was all sharp angles, topped by a crisply cut hedge of white hair. He looked fit and rested.

  Although lawyers were often guilty for lauding each other with bloated reviews, Lucas’s reputation as one of the top defense lawyers in the city was legitimate. His fame had not come easily. After working on the West Coast as a young lawyer, he had returned home to Boston and worked unheralded for many years as court–appointed counsel for indigent defendants. In 1963, he undertook the defense of the Scollay Slasher in a murder trial with national coverage. The defendant had murdered seven women in back alleys of the decaying Scollay Square section of Boston. He was acquitted after Lucas’s brutal cross-examination of two witnesses exposed major flaws in the police investigation. He had never looked back, regularly defending the city’s most hated and controversial figures. His reputation grew, one of thoroughness, a solid, if unspectacular, intelligence, and a certain ruthlessness. He seemed to enjoy eviscerating witnesses on the witness stand, even those he did not suspect were lying; he enjoyed it just a bit more than even the bruising standards of his profession allowed. “A feared elder statesman of the Boston defense bar,” a mutual friend, Paul Artemis, had said of Lucas before arranging the meeting with Ray. “A real prick.”

  Ray knew that elder statesmen of the bar were often late payers. He’d make certain to get a retainer.

  Lucas led Ray through the living room filled with dark, ornate furniture, and into an informal brick-walled study. Books of literature and law lined the walls. A white oak bar filled one side of the study. The two men sat down in overstuffed leather chairs. The smell of cigar smoke filled the air.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you over the years, “ Lucas said. “Paul Artemis at Boswell & Giles spoke well of you. Said you were an uncommon talent.”

  Ray nodded in recognition of Artemis’s name. “We did some work together on a civil rights case against the White Aryan Nation.”

  “Paul said you have a talent for finding and handling witnesses. This might be the right case for that talent.”

  Ray tried to think of which investigator Lucas had worked with on past cases, but he drew a blank.

  “Tell me more of your background,” Lucas said. “How did you come to work in the PI field?”

  “While in law school, I started working one summer for the Southern Law Project as an investigator,” said Ray. “I developed a strategy for placing undercover operatives in hate groups. Based on some of the evidence we developed, the Law Center filed a civil RICO case and was able to seize the Aryan Knights’ assets. Even the Aryan Knights name was turned over. They can’t use the name anymore without infringing a trademark.”

  Lucas nodded. “That must have infuriated them. Sounds interesting. Those are some rough people.”

  “Rough,” agreed Ray, fading out and thinking of the Project. He forced himself to think of the meeting, letting his thoughts of the Project diffuse in the air. Ignore it. “A few years later, I went out on my own. I specialize in interviewing witnesses, handling the fact-finding on complex cases,” he concluded.

  “Well, I hope you can assist me,” Lucas said. “I have a client with a personal issue involving a young member of the family.” Lucas stood up, walked behind the bar, and bent down to open a small refrigerator. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Water is fine, thanks.” Lucas returned with two miniature bottles of water, some fancy imported stuff with a label crowing about gelid springs and eternal life. Ray sipped his water, and waited.

  Lucas sat back in his chair. “The client is a Chinese family who I have represented for many years in business matters. They are based in Hong Kong. They asked me to assist in locating a missing family member, a woman named Tania Kong. Her sister is the one who is leading this inquiry.”

  “Tania is of Chinese-Thai descent. She was always the black sheep of the family. She had a difficult childhood. Her natural mother died when she was a young child. Her father remarried a few years later. That unfortunate series of events brings us here.”

  Lucas paused and sipped his water. “Growing up, Tania was rebellious, depressed. She never got along with her stepmother.” He shrugged and opened his hands. “The usual fairy tale. Tania was raised by her father in Hong Kong. The family fell on rough times when he passed away after being fatally injured in an auto accident. Tania was devastated by her father’s death. As I said, her relationship with her stepmother was never warm. At age eighteen, she left the family compound and was living on her own.”

  Ray noticed that Lucas spoke in a formal, literary manner that, while probably appealing in court, could be off-putting in casual conversation. He was surprised by this habit, given Lucas dealt with criminal dregs. He forced himself to focus.

  “A few years ago, after moving to
San Francisco, she disappeared,” said Lucas. He shifted in his seat and made himself comfortable. “The client is only now pursuing this. They tried to reach her every now and then, but she seems to have just dropped off the face of the earth.”

  “Does the family know of any friends in California?” asked Ray.

  “None that we know. We have no address, no telephone number. This is why I called you. There is very little to go on. Nothing really.” He leaned forward. “Do you think you can assist in finding her?”

  “Absolutely. There are things that can be done, local city records, courts, that type of thing. Interviews with people—“

  Lucas interrupted, “That brings me to the next point: the client is a prominent family in Hong Kong. Various businesses, restaurants, nightclubs. Real estate on both U.S. coasts. They don’t want to be on page one with a story about their wayward little girl. That is a major concern. Avoid the paparazzi. They simply want to find her and make sure she is all right.”

  “I understand. Do you have a photo of Tania?”

  “Not yet, but I will have the client provide one. The photos will be a bit dated, obviously.”

  “And you say the family does not have even a last known address in the city?” asked Ray. “Maybe I can speak with the family just to confirm that they have no information.”

  “Certainly,” Lucas said. “The client has told me they have no information about where she may have lived in San Francisco. She never corresponded with them while she was there. Not by mail or telephone. She was reclusive.”

  “So there really is not much to go on.”

  “Not much at all.”

  Ray nodded, rubbed his chin. Find the missing girl. Easy enough, usually.

  “I know you cannot give guarantees,” continued Lucas, “but approximately how long do you think before you can begin to see some results?”