He wondered what had become of the women. Dead probably. He knew of a famous Boston call girl known as the Leopard Lady on account of a spotted coat she usually wore while picking up johns in the theater district. Supposedly she married a high-tech mogul in the western suburbs. The exception. The mug shots, so different than the ones of the men, capturing a strange feminine disregard for the cop—it had probably been a man—taking the picture. Almost like they never saw him, looked through him. A sliver of terrible light in those eyes. Not innocence, but something else, a grim illumination. He felt a sadness looking at the photos, but there was something else too, something almost holy. He could not stop poring over the faces.
Waymon had quite a collection, Ray thought. He spent over an hour before finding a stack of color photos from the 1990’s. They were smaller, laid out on a page according to case number. He peered through several pages of photos.
He recognized her immediately, the intelligent eyes gleaming even in a mug shot, the tender mouth. Ray flipped over the photo, and read: Tania Kong: DOB 04/26/73; 639 Jones Street, Apt. 12, San Francisco, CA. Charge CPC 309.
Ray sat back, very pleased. He peered through a few more photos, but found none of Tania. He looked around at the chaos—boxes, photos, the musty pleasures of an old basement. He walked upstairs to find Waymon sitting on one of his atrocious brown sofas.
“What did you find?”
Ray flapped a photo he held in his hand. “Mind if I make a copy of this?”
“Sure. You had some luck. Good. I never throw out anything, you know. I’m a pack rat of the first order.”
Ray handed Waymon the photo. He studied it for a moment. “Nope, never met her. Even if I met a million like her.” He handed the photo back to Ray. “You can have it.”
Ray took the photo, thanked Waymon, and then left.
Chapter 10
Ray raced back to San Francisco over the Bay Bridge. The morning grayness had burned off, leaving the sky blue and wide. Treasure Island loomed as he entered the tunnel, then the gray jigsaw of downtown skyscrapers, and the pale upraised finger of Coit Tower to the north. In the distance, the Marin Headlands shouldered its rocky bluffs into the sun-ripped Pacific.
He exited on Bryant and headed up 8th Street to Taylor, took a left on Eddy, and drove toward the library.
The San Francisco Public Library, a fog-gray granite and glass monolith, was designed by an architect renowned for working with expansive rotundas and soaring spaces of light. Unfortunately, he was not a librarian. Once the library opened, his design was discovered to have left very little room for books. Nonetheless, the building emitted light like a shooting star, and even if people frequently searched in vain for a book, they all paused to admire themselves in the various reflective surfaces of the library.
He walked to the reference room. Rows of old phone directories, maps, heavy volumes of government documents that no one ever seemed to read. Ray pulled reverse directories for the early 1990’s, and sat down at a table. He reviewed the resident listings for 639 Jones Street, Apartment 12. The 1996 directory listed a T. Kong in Apartment 12. It also listed Steven Moran as a tenant. He jotted down the name, and headed back toward the lobby.
He exited the library, blinking in the sun. Might as well try Moran on Jones Street now; it was a beautiful day. He walked up Larkin Street past sub shops, jewelry stores, and cheap bars. Located on the outskirts of the Tenderloin, Larkin bustled with commercial activity, most of it legal. An ethnic medley walked around him. Laden with groceries, old ladies hurried from the Vietnamese markets; a black man sold a motley collection of merchandise in front of an electric switching station; a young man with a grungy haircut wandered into a bookstore, looking for the meaning of life. Ray took a right on Bush Street and saw a drunk stagger out of a corner pool hall. Bracing his hands on a light pole, the drunk promptly heaved his afternoon libations onto a tree.
639 Jones was halfway down on the left side, a boxy, blue thirty-unit apartment building with Victorian adornments long since left to rot. The building was in a neighborhood on the lower section of Jones. It was the perfect spot for vice, where the steaming muck of the Tenderloin lapped the shores of Nob Hill decency.
The steel security door was ajar. Ray slipped inside and looked at the mailboxes. Apartment 12 was labeled “resident,” with no name listed. A sure sign of criminal activity. The inner door was locked. Ray paused and picked up a newspaper, loitering in the hall. He thought he loitered well. He was considering the next spoke in the investigative wheel when the inner door opened and an Asian woman in jeans and a red leather jacket stepped out. She held the door. Thanking her, Ray entered.
The hallway was painted institutional white. Wall sconces with flame-shaped amber bulbs cast a lurid hue. Debris littered the hallway: bottles with cigarette butts sloshing in the swill, condom wrappers, coffee cups. A sign on the wall read:
Management will not help settle gambling debts. Gamble at your own risk. Manager.
He geared up for the upcoming interview. Numerous scientific studies had been conducted in the field of psychology regarding the detection of deceptive behavior. For a time, experts taught that if a person’s eyes shifted right, he was creating a visual response (and therefore presumably lying); if the person looked left, he was recalling an actual event (and thus most likely telling the truth). Newer studies had concluded that these eye movement theories were utter crap. If a man blinked, he was nervous, or stressed, or he had a gnat caught under his left eyelid; if he sweated profusely, he was lying, or possibly had lived for several years in Finland.
The heavy wooden door of apartment 12 was straight ahead. Ray knocked. A minute passed. The door opened a crack and an Asian man peered out. He was in his 30’s, black hair styled with angular aggression in a crewcut.
“Hi, is Steven here?”
The face gave no flicker of recognition. “Um, no.”
“I’m looking for Steven Moran. I thought he lived here. Do you know him?”
No answer.
“I’m trying to reach him.” Ray took a leap. “How about Tania, is she in today?”
The man continued the stony look, but Ray saw a subterranean ripple, just around the eyes. The man recognized the name.
“Can’t help you. But please, wait a minute.” The man said please awkwardly, as if not accustomed to polite words.
Noise of steps padding across a wood floor. Silence. Then a new face at the door, Asian, same haircut, a lank, wary face.
“What do you want.” Said not as a question, insistent.
“Hi, I’m trying to reach Steven Moran.”
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“Ray Infantino. I’m a friend.”
“You mentioned someone else,” the man said.
“Tania Kong.” Ray jabbed the guy with a look.
“Do you have a card?” He was friendly, the new guy, smiling a big Sunday afternoon smile. Ray handed him a card. The man looked at the card. “A local number?”
“That number is the best way to reach me.” He was not in the habit of providing hotel numbers. “Do they still live here?”
“No. They moved.”
“Do you have an address?”
“No. Sometimes we get mail for them. But if we can get word to them.” He trailed off. “If we see them.”
“I’m sure you will. On both counts.” Ray smiled.
The Asian man closed the door, grinning or grimacing, it was tough to tell. Ray turned and walked away,
Ray heard the door click open. He turned around. Inside the crack of the door, he could see dark clothing and a sliver of face. An eye appeared, oddly disjointed in the narrow aperture. The he heard whispering. The door closed again abruptly after a few seconds. The hallway was still.
Ray did not like the hallway all of a sudden, and he walked toward the stairway.
Outside, he looked at the building but he couldn’t determine if the apartment had any windows facing the front or side alley. Probabl
y not—the apartment seemed to be located to the rear.
Well, something was set in motion. He had no idea what.
Ray decided to walk a few blocks to his old apartment in North Beach. He walked up Nob Hill, past Grace Cathedral and Huntington Park. Children on swings, flying into the blue sky, while across the street, luminaries and tourists waded into the throngs in the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel. He headed north on Mason and dropped down a block over to Powell Street on the edge of Chinatown. Shabby restaurants with dusty corn plants in the window. He crossed over to Washington Square and walked on Powell Street, stopping in front of a vintage clothing shop. He looked over at the apartment building across the street where his old life had burned away.
The building had been rebuilt—no lot stood vacant for long in the city, where real estate was always in short supply. The facade was painted bright white, which highlighted the red tile roof. Ray wondered if any of his old neighbors still lived there—probably so. He wasn’t sure if he wanted anyone to see him.
He often dreamt of his old home on Powell Street. The sun streamed on maple floors; he used to lie on the floor, basking in the heat and listening to music. He kept his eyes closed: then you heard the music like it was meant to be heard. But now the sun scorched his face. Memories were alive in a way they should never be. He walked through the burning rooms. Looking for her. A voice in the smoky misery. He had left the apartment, their apartment, walked to the corner store. Routines carved over years. She teased him about drinking the last cup of tea. “Pick up some tea, OK?” Her last words as he went out. There’s an alleyway you’ll walk into for the last time. You’ll drink from a cup you’ll never touch again.
Ray turned for a second, thought he recognized a woman crossing the street. A bus raced up Powell and blew diesel gusts into his face. He walked around the corner and headed to the North Beach playground. Kids were playing basketball. A group of young children jumped in the pool with their parents. He sat on a low wall, and watched kids in the playground kick soccer balls off a concrete wall. The echo of each shot boomed in his belly: pow pow pow pow pow.
Chapter 11
She knew they were watching for her. Not safe walking in the city. Too many triad soldiers roaming the streets, ready to snuff out her daylight. She was exhausted. The city looked sick to her. Dismal pavement everywhere, no trees, a chill hardness in passing faces. But she needed to get outside. The acrid air of the apartment was killing her. She needed to think.
She took a cab out to the park, directing the driver along Fulton, away from the noodle shops in the Chinese neighborhoods near Clement. Dressed in a sweatshirt and faded jeans, she looked like just another disheveled lump moving in the anonymous morning gray.
She got out of the cab near the greenhouse in Golden Gate Park. Lots of tourists and joggers. A carefree babble in the air that she remembered from long ago. She pulled her baseball cap down low over her face.
The air was cool in the western section of the city, sheltered with trees and fog. To a city girl, the oxygen was almost intoxicating. She meandered along the grass, staying just behind a group of four older men talking about the 49ers. They strolled well off the main roads and she carefully followed, padding her way through the dewy lawn. The group passed by Spreckels Lake and approached the horse stables. She felt better, took a huge breath of cool ocean air.
A luxury car was parked near the entrance to the stables. Two Chinese men in dark clothes sat inside. Tania froze and almost stopped, her belly cold and heavy. She watched them from behind her sunglasses. Not sure if they were triad soldiers, but stopping or turning abruptly would be too noticeable. She kept walking.
The group of 49er fans moved on and she stayed with them. The air shimmering now with anticipation. She could hear voices calling from the soccer fields beyond the trees. The men in the car were watching the road. But with her hair cut so short, the cap, they would never notice her.
She was shaking all over. The thing they did that night. Cindy shot in the back, Jesus sweet Jesus, the guy came up on her so sudden, just took her out.
Tania pulled abreast of the car. One of the men gestured. They looked down at something. Tania picked up her pace. She saw the passenger side door open. A short Chinese man stepped out. His eyes were hawking her now. He stepped around the door for a closer look
Her nerves fired in an adrenal surge. Then she sensed rather than saw him moving away from the car. His eyes layered into her across the car hood. Hands fluttering out in front of her, she jogged past the car to the group of men ahead of her, calling urgently to them—“They’re following me, oh God, you gotta help me—”
The men saw her distress and stopped in the road. Heads turned back to face the two gangsters coming up the road.
Pop-pop pop echoed in the trees. One of the men fell instantly. Shots continued as the rest scattered. Tania raced up the hill. A voice was screaming and she knew then it was hers. The two triad soldiers sprinted toward her. She glanced back and saw their pursuit was interrupted — one of the men from the group threw something, a bottle or can, something heavy enough to slow them for a second.
Tania bounded over a pine bluff and raced down toward a wide green lawn at the Polo Fields. There were dozens of people playing soccer on several fields. She raced across the nearest field, right through a game. Voices yelling at her, “What the fuck!!”
The men were following. A voice yelled: “He’s got a gun.” Everyone scattered. To Tania, it looked surreal, semi-controlled chaos because of the colors of the teams: one blue and white, the other purple, the heedless, kindred colors running together and separately, away from the fields.
Damp and slick grass below her feet. She was panting now, gasping for oxygen, her limbs electric with fright. She tore across another field and glanced back, her face stretched into a wide-eyed terror mask.
The men jogged behind her. They were heavy, thank god, and they were too far back —for now—to shoot her in the back. Cindy in the hotel, they just walked up and shattered her spine.
The smell of cut grass. People perched on the crest of the natural earthen wall that bordered the fields. Some were cowering while others held hands to heads. Calling 911 —she could hear sirens in the distance.
Blue lights twinkled far off amidst the eucalyptus trees. Tania’s breath came in gasps. She raced after a small contingent of purple clad soccer players heading pell mell into the trees. Quieter under the trees. She ran and ran, the lactic acid building and building, slamming upward, past the limits of her muscles. She lurched the last few feet toward a knoll, then toppled over the edge into a hole near a tree.
Fog drifted into the cool dell. The scent of damp pines, leaves, dirt. The sun sneaked down below the tree line. The sirens faded off to her left, back near the field. No one was around. She slumped down and lay still.
Someone was watching. She opened her eyes. A black shape stood at the edge of the dell. One of the triad soldiers. He peered through the trees, but he wasn’t sure where to go. Locked his dark eyes on a clump of trees and undergrowth where she lay. He stepped toward Tania.
Then a siren came closer, some distance to the right. The solider paused, uncertain, looking off into the distance. He looked back down, then a cold smile slashed across his face. The siren blared closer. The man stepped back, turned right and disappeared.
Chapter 12
Ray walked back to his hotel. Windy and cool now. He and Dominique had agreed to meet for a late dinner. He called her at work.
“Well, good afternoon.”
“Let me take you to dinner at the Grand Cafe at the Hotel Monaco.”
“Two calls in one week, Ray.”
“You were an agreeable dinner companion last night,” he said.
“You were somewhat agreeable yourself.”
She always had a wonderful sense of humor, he realized, a trait he had somehow forgotten.
“Did you see Waymon?”
“Yes, I did. Ornery old coot, but he panned out
big-time.”
“Tell me.”
“He’s a pack rat. Never tosses anything,” Ray said. “He had mug shots of the girl I’m looking for.”
“That's great. I knew he’d help you.”
“I’ll fill you in at dinner, if you can meet.” Ray picked at some lint on his pants.
“What time is good for you?” she asked.
“7:00 PM. I’ll meet you there.”
“See you then.” They said goodbye.
Ray hung up the phone. He flicked on his computer and logged into the locator databases. He needed to find Moran, the guy who had lived with Tania. And deal with whatever was happening at the apartment on Jones Street. Jettison into the vagueness, bang on people’s doors. Decipher a person’s eye-blink, the way they intoned the word “No”.
He ran several searches for Steven Moran, finding five different individuals with that name within the city limits. In Marin, he found three more. But only one of the guys had a past address on Jones Street in San Francisco—Steven H. Moran, age twenty seven, currently at 49 Vallejo Street, Apartment 1. He felt certain that this was the right guy. It was late. He would pay a visit to Mr. Moran tomorrow.
After clipping the .32 semiautomatic on his belt, Ray walked down to the lobby and out to Jones and Sutter. He headed west and stopped at Last Man Standing Saloon, a local place where he had spent many nights. He loved the stripped-down blues bands that played here. A poster advertised a band he had seen many times, The Acolytes, playing for the next three nights. A guitarist, a bassist, and a heroin addict drummer who drifted into the world of the living just long enough to bestow his percussive blessings on a drumbeat crowd. He would have to take Dominique here.
The evening had grown bracingly cool. The last rush hour traffic burst through the intersection, horns blaring. He walked a few blocks to the Hotel Monaco, and saw Dominique standing in the entrance. She wore a muted leopard skin outfit that fit her well.
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