One night he attended a party on Townsend Street with a friend. As he sipped a beer, he saw an Asian woman walk to the bar. She was tanned, about five feet tall. Her black hair was streaked with blond. Her face had a regal sadness to it, a touch of wisdom that lifted just another face into stardom. Her name was Tania.
“She really put the hooks in me. I mean, look, I know I’m not the best looking guy—why kid myself? And I usually don’t bother with the best looking girls—boring women who look good but have nothing to say. But there was something so seductive about her. So I talked to her. Even a blind hen gets a seed now and then.”
“And how did the blind hen do this night?” Ray asked.
“Very well. I brought her a drink and made stupid jokes. She laughed at everything I said. We spent the night talking and dancing. She had lived in Hong Kong. She told me stories of her home. We left the club together at 3:00 AM. Everything went perfect, just one of those perfect nights.”
After leaving the club, they saw a bus parked with its “Not In Service” sign lit; the driver was heading home for the night. Steven joked with the bus driver who, in a jovial midnight mood, took them on a wild careening trip over the steaming manhole covers of Kearny, up to the light show of Broadway. They got off the bus and ate seafood at You Lan. Afterwards, they went back to his apartment and screwed happily until dawn.
The next morning Tania was quiet, and she left quickly, refusing to have coffee or even accept a ride home. Steven had been reduced to begging for her telephone number, which she reluctantly gave. Steven leaned forward.
“After a few weeks of tea and coffee cake at four, I was frustrated. We couldn’t go back to the mood of that first night. So she finally told me why she was acting so weird.” He looked at Ray with a sharp nod, ready to divulge pivotal details. Showing his readiness, Ray opened his hands.
“She was an escort, a hooker. And she said that guys don't stick around for hookers.”
“She told you that?” asked Ray.
“Yeah. That was why she was so cold—she thought that we could never have a relationship because of what she did.”
“But you felt differently.”
“Yeah, I was in love with her. She was a fabulous girl. She had a real sensuality.” He sighed. “She must have been a great little whore.”
Ray stifled a laugh. “When did you last see her?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I was about to get to that. At that time, she had been living at the Hotel Virginia.”
“Big brick place in an alley off Mason?”
”Right. She saw clients there, mostly businessmen.”
“How did she get started in that business?” Ray asked.
“Tania told me she was working off debts owed by her parents. First she started working at the Peking Garden massage parlor. Eight girls, mostly Koreans. She was brought into the business by a girl who told her she was making 100 grand per year. All these girls lie about the amount of money they make, but that comes with the business.” Steven sat back heavily.
“Did Tania live at the parlor? Ray asked.
“No.”
“The Jones Street apartment?”
“That was her place. She moved there later.” Steven’s head swiveled energetically on its puffy neck stem. “After a time, I started spending more time at that apartment. He raised a finger. “You know you’re serious when you have your own toothbrush in the crusty little holder at your girlfriend’s house.”
Ray nodded. “Sure sign. What did she tell you about her work?”
“That was a touchy subject for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She told me I didn’t understand the business—she used a phrase ‘in dark shadows.’ Some Chinese colloquialism. And she was making a lot of money. She always had the hottest little outfits on—BeBe, Claiborne, you know the look. One of those Asian girls in little designer skirts strutting around the mall.”
“I gave up hunting at the mall about twenty years ago,” said Ray.
Steven grinned. “Not me. Anyway, a few months into it, the whole thing unraveled. I was tired of Tania screwing these guys. I told her to leave the life. I’d take care of her. But she refused. We had been drinking, and next thing you know, I’m shouting at her.”
He left her apartment for the night, slamming the door hard on his way out.
The next afternoon Steven had returned to the apartment. He found three Asian men waiting.
“They lounged around. Like they owned the place. Tania sat on the floor in shorts and bare feet. She wouldn’t even look at me.”
When he tried to speak to Tania, one of the men pushed him back firmly. The other two men fired slight smiles his way. He smelt a faint whiff of violence on the horizon. A few more quick smiles and hands in bulging pockets underscored the sincerity of the new hosts.
“One of the men pulled all my clothes off my rack in the closet and shoved them in my hands. I was guided out.” Steven slumped in his seat. “My last image of Tania was her sitting on the floor, completely devoid of any expression. She looked like a slave.”
“Any idea of their connection to Tania?” Ray asked, trying to rope the increasingly melancholy man back into the sunlight of casual conversation.
“I think they were gangbangers. A protection racket. I remember reading about the Viet gangs and how they extort money from the legitimate businesses in the ‘Loin.”
“Did she call them?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she did.”
“Why do you think they were Vietnamese, and not Chinese?” asked Ray. “Did they identify themselves as Vietnamese?”
“No. I guess they could be Chinese.”
“Do you know either language?”
“No.” Steven paused. “That was the last time I saw her.” He paged Tania that night and then numerous times the following day. She never responded. On a rainy Friday night, he donned a trench coat and took a cab over to Geary. The theater crowd, talking loudly, bellies stuffed with prix fixe dinners, filled the streets along with the working girls. Steven huddled beneath a tree on Jones, watching Tania’s apartment for a sign of activity.
His efforts to find Tania died as desire flickered and grew dim. A beautiful piece of his life drifted into the shadows.
“To this day I regret not finding her. Maybe I regret meeting her.” Steven’s voice was low and disconsolate now. He picked at his shirt sleeve.
Ray asked again: “You never heard from her? Or saw her in the street?”
“Nothing.”
“Did Tania ever mention any other names of people she hung out with?” Ray asked. “Friends or family?”
“No one except her friend, Moon,” said Steven.
“She never mentioned her family?”
“No.”
“Who is Moon?” Ray asked.
“I met her once at SF MOMA. I took Tania to a short photo exhibit there. Roy DeCarava, great black and white still shots from Harlem.”
“I saw the DeCarava show. I liked the soulful scenes of empty kitchens.”
“You saw it too? Great show.” Steven paused. “Anyway, we stopped to talk to a friend of hers outside at the park.” Steven’s face was looking more morose by the minute. He sank deeper into the cushions.
“Any last name?”
“Yi. Or Lee. I’m not sure.”
“How old was she?”
“Late 20’s. Long black hair, very hot. Superior genetics. She seemed tight with Tania, although I just met her that one time. They seemed to know each other well.”
“Was she a working girl too?”
“Yeah. They don’t use that term. Tania always referred to herself as a provider,” Steven said, chuckling a bit.
“Where can I find this Moon Yi?” asked Ray.
“Or Lee.”
“What?”
“Lee. Or it might be Li, with an ‘i’.”
“OK. How did they know each other?”
“I don’t know. But they we
re close.”
“Why do you say that?”
Steven dabbed a coffee stain on his shirt. “I don’t know, something in the way they talked. Like a lot of preliminary stuff had already been discussed. Immediacy.”
“Did Tania sleep with women?”
Looking more awake, Steven replied: “Not on a regular basis. If a client asked for it, she might double-team a guy. But in her personal life, I never saw any sign of it. That is a huge fetish for me, so believe me, I would have known. Seeing two girls together is a cleansing experience.”
“I know what you mean,” said Ray. “Any idea of where I can find Moon?”
“I remember Tania telling me Moon worked at a spa in the Haight.”
“Remember the name?”
“Mmmm, no.” Steven thought for a moment. “Fuji Spa, maybe? I think that’s it.”
Steven sagged back in his chair, his back almost parallel to the floor.
“Steven, thanks for meeting. If you don’t mind, I might call you again at some point to follow up on some things.”
“You think you’ll find her?”
“Hope so.”
“You must have an interesting job.”
“Usually. I get to see a wide selection from the menagerie. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a programmer. I develop video games.”
“Love video games. I spent a fortune playing Defender when I was young.”
“Great game for its time.”
Ray started toward the door.
Steve paused. “Can you let me know if you find her?”
Ray stopped walking and turned slightly. “Well, probably not. You can call me if you want; I’ll let you know if she’s all right. But I can’t tell you where she is. Sorry.”
“No, I understand.” Ray said goodbye and jotted down Steven’s phone number. Then Steven shut the door behind him.
Chapter 15
Ray headed for the stairs and considered his haul for the day. His peculiar personality aside, Steven Moran had been helpful: he had identified someone close to Tania, this woman named Moon.
Ray headed to Vallejo Street and walked down the hill to North Beach. He grabbed a seat outside Cafe Trevi and dialed Lucas Michael’s office phone. He didn’t like clients to get sticker shock. Progress meant time, and his time was on their dime. Michael’s receptionist rang him through.
“I found a case for Tania in San Francisco. She was arrested on pandering and prostitution charges.”
“Are we certain of this?” asked Lucas.
“Yes.”
“That will be a bit of a shock,” Lucas sighed. “Have you been able to locate her?”
“Not yet. I checked an old address that came up on a mug shot. She’s no longer there—at least that was the story from the people at the apartment now. But I spoke with an old boyfriend of hers who had some interesting information.” He relayed the main points of the Steven Moran interview, and let Lucas digest that unpleasant sampling. “Moran is quirky, but not a bad guy. He gave me what he could. I plan on meeting with a woman tomorrow who may have known Tania. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Moon. No last name yet—possibly Li. I’m working on it.”
“Thanks Ray, good work. Look forward to hearing more.”
They ended the call. Ray sat at the cafe, watching the mingled millions on the street. He decided that he would go see Moon immediately. Before he did, he wanted to get a start on the Project. He called Dominique.
“Nice to hear your voice,” she said.
“Maybe some time soon, you can hear it live.”
“We’ll see, big boy.” She laughed softly. “You might have to take me out one more time. I’ve seen all the tricks in your magic show. So what do you need now?”
“A number. Who did you recommend for surveillance here?”
“I use the Perry Agency. I called him for you—Richard Perry, former Secret Service. He’s very good, a lot more responsive than most of the retired cops out there.” She checked her phone and gave him the number.
“I’ll call you later today,” he said.
Ray called the agency and got Richard Perry on the line. He outlined the history of Bobby Cherry. “The guy may be tied to other white supremacist groups operating on the West Coast—White Aryan Resistance, League of the South. I need to get him under surveillance for a few weeks. He lives in Oakland.”
“Oakland!” said Richard. “That’s odd.”
“I know. He’s stuck in a poor neighborhood with the very people he wants to shit on. How soon can you get on him?”
“Tonight if you want. Is he known to set up anywhere? Any destination?”
“He leaflets at the Wharf in San Francisco, Pier 39. You can find him there or at his home. I’ll email you the details.” Ray jotted down Richard’s email address, and hung up the phone.
Ray thought Richard seemed OK. A bit amped up though; he would have to keep an eye on him. He composed a brief memo, and emailed it to him.
Chapter 16
Tania snipped and dark swaths of hair fell to the floor. She stared at her face in the cracked mirror. Her hair looked ratty; she hadn’t styled it in weeks. Just another vagabond in another come-crusted motel somewhere north of the city.
She hacked at her hair again with the scissors. To anyone looking, she might be just a pretty ass Asian boi, a club kid in bad clothes. The problem was that there were dozens, maybe hundreds, of people looking for her. And some were looking hard. Every nerve in her body bristled with tension.
She finished cutting and looked at the mirror again. Looked like a dyke. That struck her funny, because although she had lustily buried her face between Moon’s legs, she was not one of them. It was just that, when it came to beautiful men and women, she could not say no to love.
Tania took a sip of water from a plain glass. Felt a little better to be on the move in Marin County. San Francisco was too dangerous. She realized that she knew no one in the city. The men in her life were just paying customers, nothing more. Yes, some of them were kind and treated her well, very well in fact. And some fucked her good. A few had ventured close to becoming real friends. But she didn’t always know their real names, and who was going to take a call now from a runaway whore under a death sentence? No one wanted that call. No one was riding into a fairy tale.
She went out, hooded as usual, staying away from any Asian restaurants or businesses. She walked across 4th Street to a little pizza joint and ordered a pizza, salad with ranch dressing and a Pepsi. An oily smell heavy in the air. All the Greek pizza places made dough that smelled the same. Some guy with dreadlocks sat in a booth and looking like he wanted to start a conversation. No way. She put on her iPod and wandered toward the door, staring out at the newspaper racks. Townie life rolled by quietly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out three quarters, bought the last copy of the local paper. Then her meal was ready. She zipped inside, picked up the paper bag and walked back for another lonely dinner inside her room.
She needed to set up something more permanent. These rooms were costing her a fortune. As she scanned the paper, she noticed an ad for a zen center. Free room and board in exchange for a commitment of time and work. The photograph in the ad showed the staff members beaming out goodwill and peace. That was something she could do. She laughed out loud. She was going from a working girl to a zen master in two weeks. Life was rich, she thought, devouring her salad. She hadn’t eaten a full meal in days.
Chapter 17
Sitting at a Haight Street tacqueria, Ray ate a carnitas burrito and watched a fly-eyed street punk enter the store. Slime plastered the guy’s warm-up jacket, and his eyes blinked rapidly. The guy moved to the salsa bar, looked around, then reached out and filled a few tiny paper cups with fresh salsa. He walked outside and handed the cups to a group of grubby kids sitting on the sidewalk. They were flying on glue and meth, and they devoured the salsa like it was sweet nectar. One of the restaurant o
wners, a young thick-shouldered Mexican, approached the group, who swore and moved away. “This is my business!” the restaurant owner yelled. “I got kids, man!” He walked by Ray, and shook his head.
“Hope it was the habinero,” Ray said.
The owner laughed. “Ha ha, yeah! Burn their damn lips off. They wreck this place, man, taking all my stuff, the napkins, everything.”
Haight-Ashbury. The scene of San Francisco’s Summer of Love, acid-drenched streets and free-loving hippies cultivating enlightened philosophies and medieval hygiene. During the decades following the 1960s, the Haight had gotten edgier. Love may have flowed at one time, but now the street was often a sad parody of itself. Greasy-haired burnouts begged on street corners while young runaways chased feverish dreams among the ghosts of a summer now forty years dead. Occasional tourists wandered the street looking for free music and scantily clad California blondes. But some street corners showed resilience to the grime as young immigrants from Asia and South America opened new restaurants and shops. And Haight-Ashbury Music Center still bristled with Stratocasters and amplifiers for the fadeaway dreams of musicians.
Ray finished his dinner and headed up the street. He passed 63 Cole Street, the former residence of convicted murderer Charles Manson. Although the landlord tried to downplay the Manson angle, some tenants sought out the address, even paying a premium to live there and partake of some karmic convergence with the mass murderer.
He stopped at an orchid-colored Victorian, a two story Mansard with wood dentils and cornices accented with a number of different shades of purple and magenta. The paint was old and beginning to fleck and peel. A six-foot tall iron fence surrounded the property. A gate shaped in the likeness of a giant spider provided the only entryway. A green burst of exotic plants shadowed the windows, which were covered with heavy red drapery. A small metal sign over the basement door read “Fuji-Open”. He rang the bell and waited.
Telegraph Hill Page 7
