“I envy the leopard,” he said.
She smiled. “You like it? A bit wild, I know.”
“Very few women can carry that off.” He nodded approvingly.
He told her about his earlier visit to Tania’s old Jones Street apartment.
“Be careful Ray. Don’t you have someone with you when you go to these places?”
“Sometimes. But this place was fine.”
Inside the restaurant, the host guided them to a table. They ordered a bottle of wine, a fine Malice.
“So how does it feel to be back?” Dominique asked.
“Strange. It’s not my city anymore. I had a weird feeling today while I walked, thinking I might recognize someone. Like I always used to when I walked in the city. But I never saw anyone. And then it hit me that it’s been ten years since I lived here.”
The waiter returned to the table with the wine. He was efficient and unobtrusive. After reading the menu description of shrimp swimming in a spicy tomato sea, Ray ordered scampi fra diavolo. Dominique ordered butterfish. They split a salad.
“Interesting salad,” said Dominique. “What would life be without Sonoma greens?”
“That’s what a salad evolves into when it costs $15.95,” Ray said.
The food matched the exotic atmosphere of the restaurant. The Grand Cafe was resplendent, with pale yellow walls, soaring pillars and chandeliers with amber-hued glass. The pillars did not obscure Ray’s view of two Asian men sitting at the bar. They rolled in shortly after he and Dominique. Both men were in their 20s, with dark jackets, hair cut short. One gazed over once too often to make it a coincidence.
He said nothing to Dominique—why spoil the butterfish? The waiter came by to refill the minute amount of water Ray had consumed.
Ray told her about Waymon and his odd collection. They ordered a nightcap of tea and Sambucca before calling for the check. The two Asian men continued to drink at the bar.
Ray walked behind Dominique and headed for the door. As they walked by the bar, the two Asian men continued to banter. Neither guy looked familiar. Ray slammed one man a hard look. The guy gave no response. Ray and Dominique continued walking. He held the door open, gazing back inside the restaurant. If the men had been tailing him, they were making no attempt to follow now.
Outside, the theater crowd, overdressed and hungry, was milling about and battling for cabs. Ray and Dominique stepped in a taxi that pulled curbside. Dominique directed the driver to Pacific Heights. Ray watched the rearview mirror to see if they were tailed, but no lights followed.
“Thanks for dinner.”
Ray paused. “How are you for tomorrow?”
“Call me. Maybe we’ll do something late,” she replied.
“Good.”
The cabbie met his gaze in the rearview, eyebrows raised slightly.
The cab drove down Jackson Street, and pulled next to a large white Mediterranean home. The rear of the house commanded a view of San Francisco Bay. Dominique stepped out. “I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow. Don’t work too hard.” She stepped out and walked toward her front door.
“Wait until she gets inside please,” Ray said to the driver. He watched her walk into the foyer. After she stepped inside, Ray had the driver head back downtown. Bush Street was a row of green lights, and Ray was downtown within five minutes.
He was pleased with how things were going. Would have been nice to have been asked up to her place. But that way was madness. Slow was best.
“I’ll get off at the corner of Jones.” The taxi sagged to a stop, Ray got out, and paid the driver.
The night air was chilled with fog. He checked his watch: 11:10 PM. He walked down Jones, headed right on Sutter to the hotel. He passed a narrow alley and looked up, following the cramped passage up the hill, where it ended on the edge of California Street. Behind loomed the bluish black sky.
At the very edge of sight, where the street cut away from the dark sky, Ray saw a figure standing. Medium height, legs apart. Arms bunched in front. He saw a sudden flash of light, and then another. His gut coiled instinctively. But he quickly realized it wasn’t gunfire. It was the flash of a camera. The figure stood facing downhill and took a series of photos.
The figure bent down, and Ray heard a tinkling sound as of coins dropping on concrete. As if beckoned offstage, the figure turned, walked quickly to the left, and disappeared behind the building.
Not moving, Ray stood and watched the hill. He thought about following, but he was 50 yards away and the hill rose at a steep angle. He would be hard-pressed to chase down someone one block ahead and uphill. Plus the streets at the crest of Nob Hill broke off in numerous directions. And what had the person done other than take a picture? He did not dwell on the fact that someone was taking photos just before midnight.
He crossed Sutter and walked back to the hotel, moving deliberately, not hurrying. He looked up each street as he passed but saw no one. As he turned the corner at Jones Street, four hooded shapes jumped him. He crashed to the pavement. Pain erupted from his head—his ear was being ripped off. Heavy weight on his chest, someone held his arms. He felt a blizzard of kicks and punches pounding everywhere. A boot veered toward his face and he offered his shoulder instead. A bolt of pain shivered his arm. “Fuck him up!” a voice muttered.
He stopped struggling for a second. Then with all the power he could summon, he spun quickly on the ground. He leg was free and he whipped his foot into a meaty leg; a cry of pain rang out. The simple maneuver caught them by surprise, and he saw momentary light, men above him. A weakness in group attacks — someone let up, thinking the fight was over. He kicked out again wildly, and the kick glanced off someone’s shin. A momentary break, two of the men now moving uncertainly.
An engine roared, and he knew they were going to run him down. Then a voice: “Don’t hit him, just—” but then another voice broke in, clipped and guttural. Ray missed the words but the commanding tone was clear. The sound of boots thudding on the concrete. He felt water running in his eyes, but knew it was something else. A door closed and an engine died away in the distance.
Ray sat up. The whole thing had been ten seconds, maybe twenty. He hunched against the building and wondered about the last voice.
An old Chinese woman walked by and shot him a curious look. She kept plodding uphill. He must have looked like a bum, rolling in his filth. A five second transformation. He laughed in spite of himself, a half-mad cackle.
Two women, middle-aged, neatly dressed in identical jackets, were coming at him now.
“Oh my god, are you OK? What happened sir?”
He stood still as his head tried to find equilibrium. Blood ran from a cut above his left ear.
“Not sure. Welcome to California.”
“You need us to call an ambulance?”
He struggled up. “I’d settle for dinner right now.”
One woman smiled.
“You’re OK. You’re joking.”
“Sure. No ambulance needed.”
“You sure? You sure look like you can use some help.”
“People die in ambulances. I’ll be fine.” He stood up, stretched his back. “Did you get a look at the guys who did this to me?”
“Big guys. Chinese. God, I hope you don’t need me to ID them. They all look the same to me.”
Ray sighed, looking at the two ladies in their matching coats.
“Get a license plate number?”
“No, sorry.” One of the ladies gave him a corner of a smile. “I don’t see so good anymore. Do you need help getting home?”
“I can get back now, I’m staying one block away.” His jacket was ripped and blood leaked out of the hole on his right pant leg. Ray limped back down the hill to Sutter. It could have been a lot worse. He had been completely surprised, badly outnumbered—he had a sense of four or five men dancing on his bones back there. Asians. He did not recognize what language they had spoken. He had his wits about him, no concussion, and relatively pain free—e
xcept for his shoulder. That would change with morning. His face had some abrasions, a cut above his ear, but nothing major. He knew Dominique would dote on him, so no need to cover those up too much.
Back in his hotel room, he took a long hot bath. When he was done, he took a seat near the window. He kept the lights off. He stared down into the street, which was still alive with neon signs and nighttime traffic. Steam drifted from a manhole cover, the exhalation of a dying city night. He wondered why steam still drifted from manholes in the 21st century. A scene he had witnessed in countless old movies. Sewer technology should have improved, but there it was. He liked the steam.
No one looked up from the street to his window. After a half hour, he crawled into bed, sleep rolling down slowly from above.
Chapter 13
The next morning, Ray awoke to another sunny day in California, the kind that keeps the myth alive. His entire body throbbed with pain. He gulped down some ibuprofen. He put on a blue dress shirt with a dark blue patterned jacket, set off with a gold tie and tan pants. Then he dialed room service. An overly polite waiter set a table with scrambled eggs and a pot of black coffee.
Ray ate quickly and then got ready to see his witness. He put a notebook in his leather bag, along with two pens—the weaponry of conversation. He planned to stop in North Beach and interview Steven Moran this afternoon. Most witnesses talked when approached for an interview. They were concerned or curious or bored. Some wanted to test wits; others needed a break from their padded lives. Even when their self-interest cried out for the quietness of the grave, they talked. And if the questioner donned a jacket and tie, worthiness was beyond question.
He exited the hotel, walked up the hill, and caught a cab on California Street. The city was in the throes of morning rush hour. He directed the driver to Vallejo Street in North Beach.
North Beach was the old Italian neighborhood of San Francisco. Over the years, North Beach had turned into an annex of Chinatown: Chinese residents were now a solid majority. But the Italian flavor remained in the commercial area, diluted but lingering, the scent of garlic and tomato sauce wafting from the restaurants lining Columbus Street. Dressed in coats and ties, old Italian men tossed crumbs to pigeons in Washington Square and drew on an endless reservoir of gestures, hands swooping like brown doves. They patrolled the perimeter of the park; they held ancient grudges; they sat for three hour lunches and played bocce near the library. They were the last of a generation that had not renewed itself.
Ray got off at the corner of Vallejo and Grant and walked to 49 Vallejo Street. The house was midway up Telegraph Hill, a six unit Georgian-style building with a view of the concrete canyons of downtown. The small yard was dominated by an enormous century plant, its green spiky leaves scarred with the carved initials of passersby. ‘Moran’ was listed on the mailbox, apartment 2. He rang the bell. No one answered. He rang again. Nothing. He waited for a minute and then walked back to North Beach.
Ray headed over to Cafe Trevi, owned by his old friend, Nino Pescatore. The 68 year old still served his signature dish of spinach ravioli at the Cafe on the corner of Stockton and Columbus. He was a legend in the area, holder of special titles, privy to neighborhood secrets. He embodied the old neighborhood as North Beach underwent a creeping metamorphosis from Italian to Chinese.
As head of the Italian American Sports Club, Nino was the honorary chairman of the Columbus Day Parade, a position that included the right to play Christopher Columbus during the celebration. Things had gone roughly as of late. A few years ago, he had expected to land a replica of the Santa Maria at Fisherman's Wharf in a reenactment of Columbus’s landing in the New World. Unfortunately, his landing was met by protesters decrying the destruction of Native American culture. Despite Nino battering several protesters with a foil-wrapped replica of Columbus’s sword, he was ultimately prevented from landing. He had vowed to land—whatever the cost—this year.
Nino sipped a cappuccino with Ray at a small table near the window. “This year, there will be no problems. I have everything accounted for.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We are going right for the top. Cut off the head.” Nino smiled.
“Sounds drastic.”
“Go for the jugular. Choke ’em out early. I told the nuts if they don’t screw around with the landing, we’ll send something over. Give ‘em a big envelope.”
“An envelope?”
“A donation. For their cause. Why not?” Nino shrugged. “Listen, I’m Sicilian, I feel for these guys. The Lucchese in North Beach, they were here first. Goddamn Italian blue-bloods. They called us Sicilians the mud people when we came here. I know how people get. Just don’t protest when I land. That's the message that was delivered.” Nino paused. “They protest that hard when the real Columbus came, maybe we never have this conversation.”
“Did you really smack someone with that sword?”
Nino gave him a look of mock horror. “The guy slipped. Salt water, people spill things.” He sipped his cappuccino daintily, three fingers jutting like antennae.
“Why do you sip like that?” Ray asked.
“Like what?”
Ray mimicked Nino’s splayed fingers.
“What? You want to talk about fingers? That’s how it’s done. Balance the cup. Ergonomics.”
Ray nodded. “Nino, I’m trying to reach a guy who lives up the street. Steven Moran. Do you know him?”
“Yeah, I know Steven. Came in this morning.”
“Any idea where he works?” asked Ray.
“He’s working at home, I think. He’s a researcher or something. He should be there now.”
“OK, I’m heading up there again. I already tried him, but no one was there.”
“He’s there. Funny guy, probably saw your mug and decided he’s not answering,” said Nino. “Try him again.”
The two men watched street action, the usual city plumage. A blond entered wearing a black dress and open-toed heels.
“I don’t like long middle toes on a woman,” said Nino, smoothing the air with his fingers. This was obviously a topic close to his heart. “But she looks good. She has the toes to carry off the look.”
“All-star toes,” said Ray. “If the middle toe slithers off the shoe, that’s it for me.”
“Yes. I know exactly what you mean,” said Nino. “I‘m seeing a lot of second-tier toes.”
“Too many women are not paying attention to this,” said Ray.
“Tell me about it,” said Nino. “And young guys wearing these cheap sandals. Brutal, these guys. I’m serving the best expresso in the city to who? Some kid with plastic feet. The things I see.”
The men said their goodbyes. Nino unshifted the charm and went to serve the blond.
Ray left the cafe and headed back up to 49 Vallejo. He rang and rang, leaning on the bell. This time the intercom came alive.
“Hello?”
“Steven Moran, please.” Said Ray.
“This is him.”
“Steven, my name is Ray Infantino. I’d like to speak with you regarding Tania, Tania Kong.”
A long pause. “Who are you?
“I’m trying to reach her on behalf of a family member.”
“Who?”
“It’ll just take a few minutes.”
A few seconds passed. Then a buzzer sounded and the front door unlocked. Ray entered a brightly lit hallway devoid of any decoration. He heard a door open somewhere down the hallway and saw a head jut from the right into the hallway.
Ray walked toward the head. The head moved. Then a thin man with unkempt brown hair entered the hall. His jaw line had little definition, sloping into his neck, giving it a hoggish aspect, pink and soft. He wore a white tee-shirt and faded blue jeans.
Steven Moran shook Ray’s hand, and invited him inside. Steven was in his forties, and wore his hair long in back. His bearing tilted toward the deferential—a guy who apologized after farting in an empty room. Originally from the East Coast, h
e gave off an aura of stumbling amazement, as if his soul had yet to adjust to the open spaces of the west.
“How did you find me?” Steven asked.
“I knew Tania once lived on Jones Street. You were listed there as a co-tenant.”
“No, I mean here?”
“On Vallejo? Databases. If you spend money, then you are probably in the data.”
Steven gestured to a seat, and Ray sat in a large green chair with a matching ottoman. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” Ray said, knowing full well he was, and not caring at all.
Steven grinned. “Tania, what a blast from the past. I haven’t seen her in years.”
Chapter 14
The room smelled stuffy. Ray glimpsed a dingy pile of flannel shirts on the floor. Prints hung on the walls, pop art drawings of women or tropical beaches, stuff usually seen in health clubs and dentist’s offices. The featured reading material was TV Guide, set neatly in the middle of the table. A halogen floor lamp tilted dangerously on the carpet, promising facial injuries to anyone sitting on the white sofa. The room’s notable lack of personal effects made it strangely memorable, some horrific bodysnatching nightmare. Who really lived here?
Steven excused himself, took a piss, and returned to his spot on the sofa. His body looked soft as oatmeal; he hadn’t pushed it since high school.
“Why are you looking for Tania again?”
“Her family is concerned about her. They haven’t heard from her in years.” Ray paused. “How did you get to know Tania?”
“Met her in a club. Best girlfriend I ever had.” Steven sat back and sighed. He looked ready to unburden himself of some baggage. Ray decided to just sit back and let the man unwind.
In 1990, Steven had moved to San Francisco from Brooklyn. He embraced the open atmosphere that pervaded the city. He met superstars of remote art forms: Jade Vortex, a fire-breathing stripper; Pamela, whose one-woman show in South of Market warehouses involved her feeding live armadillos with organic pineapple held in her labia. He had fallen into the underground club circuit, where various groups rented out warehouses on weekend nights and threw raves that lasted into the early morning hours. Steven reminisced as he sat splayed on his sofa. “For two months I just smoked dope and partied. And I was actually meeting girls, good-looking ones too. I dated 40 year old women who educated me in ways I had not considered.”
Telegraph Hill Page 6
