Telegraph Hill

by John F. Nardizzi

  Ray walked into the kitchen while Tania got ready. They were starving. Antonio came back with some Thai food: shrimp with a chili sauce and chicken with yellow curry. “I’m warning you,” he said, “I like my food spicy. It clears your head.” They ate and drank while Ray filled in Antonio on the day’s events. He watched Tania for signs of stress, but she seemed rejuvenated. As did he. Ray decided that they would to stay at Antonio’s that night. No need to be on the streets.

  Something was nagging him about Lucas. He decided that he would review a certain item, a small matter, the next morning. He had long ago learned that intuition was a king who did not tolerate disobedience.

  Later that night, he lay in bed in the front bedroom. He dozed off listening to faint strains of an electric guitar coming from the Saloon. He dreamt of his old home, the basketball court and the glittering green grass in the fenced yard. A gurgling sound. The yard flooded with a milky-blue liquid. Something moved beneath the turgid azure, a bubbling. A fin slit the surface. He slipped beneath the ghostly murk, struggling to find his footing. The black fin jerked toward him as he slipped up to his neck, deeper and deeper into the wetness. Above the fence, a leering face appeared, a man watching. He could not make it out. Then some unseen thing hammered his legs.

  He woke and got out of bed. Red digits on the clock read 7:21 AM. He went to the bathroom and took a long hot shower. Then he put on a pair of jeans, a blue shirt, and combed his hair. He left a note on the table and headed out to the cool dawn.

  Pelicans dove through the cold waters of the San Francisco Bay. The scentless salt air of the bay gusted over the hills. He walked down Telegraph Hill, headed up Powell, and right on Jackson. He turned left onto Polk Street. He passed two cafes that battled for customers by perching enormous cinnamon rolls in the window. He evaluated the offerings of both cafes, entered the cleaner of the two. He bought a cinnamon roll, and sat down in a seat by the window. Watching shards of glaze fall to his plate. The sugar kick-started him. Two fine young things entered the cafe, fresh from an all-night club, platform shoes, toes exposed, midriff bare. Hooker chic. After fifteen minutes, he headed south on Polk Street to the library.

  The most frequent visitors to the library stood waiting by the enormous doors: college students facing semester-breaking possibilities, a couple of seventy-year old bibliophiles, a homeless man waiting to warm up in the magazine section. Ray was a little envious of the homeless guy’s grubby lassitude—he could spend hours reading peacefully. Ray took his place in line. The wooden Italianate doors rumbled open and a small waifish woman stepped out over the threshold. She gave a halfhearted good morning.

  Ray secured a spot at a terminal, and surfed to the home page of the Massachusetts Board of Bar Overseers. In the search section he entered “Michaels, Lucas” and the results came back: Lucas B. Michaels, member since 1958. Law School: U.C. Berkeley. Undergraduate: Boston College.

  He then walked over to the reference section, where the scent of rarely opened books permeated the air. He looked through several lawyer guides, but most volumes only went back to the 1980s. Older volumes were on microfiche.

  After reviewing several pages of microfiche, he found the listing for San Francisco circa 1958: Lucas had been employed at the Law Office of Richard Scheckman, 86 Sansome Street, San Francisco. The note indicated that the firm’s practice was limited to criminal defense.

  He checked an index of news articles from 1957 to 1965—there were 44 sheets in all. After an hour, he looked at a black and white photo with an article about Lucas Michaels, young attorney about town. The date was August 14, 1961. The headline: POLICE ARREST ONE IN CHINATOWN GUN BATTLE. A photo showed a young man with chiseled cheekbones and short, black hair that stood straight up as if he were being jolted with major voltage.

  The article described how during the early morning hours, police officers had responded to an emergency call: four Chinese men had exchanged gunfire at the intersection of Stockton and Pacific. When police arrived, they chased a man who was bleeding from gunshot wounds. He was later identified as Ralph Ho Chen. The police suspected that the incident was the latest in a series of battles between Chinatown tongs.

  Ray followed the story as it had developed. The district attorney returned with an indictment against Ralph Ho Chen, a reputed member of the notorious Black Fist Triad, for his role in the 1957 execution of two Chinatown merchants in the basement of the Blue Moon Restaurant on Vallejo Street.

  Mr. Chen’s attorney was identified as Lucas Michaels, an attorney with the criminal defense firm Sheckman & Riley. Lucas had issued a statement on behalf of his client: “These charges are baseless, false, and without merit. My client will be exonerated once all facets of the incident are evaluated by a jury of intelligent and reasonable people.”

  “Well spoken, counsel,” Ray said to himself softly.

  Lucas had porked him nicely, Ray thought. The lost little girl routine. He looked at his watch and then hurried from the library.

  Chapter 27

  Ray walked back to Antonio’s house on Kearny Street. The streets were busy now: last night’s drunks hunting for a morning omelet; elderly Chinese women collecting cans from trash barrels; skinny joggers blowing out their knees on the steep hillsides. The scent of grilled chicken and lemon at Il Pollaio almost derailed him on Columbus, but he soldiered on.

  He entered the house, and saw Tania sitting on a leather sofa. He stared for a moment at her body. She had a natural grace that was evident even in repose. She was curled comfortably into the fabric, her cinnamon skin lighter against the dark leather chair. She was reading a book about old Hollywood westerns, one of Antonio’s consuming passions.

  “How are you? You look rested.”

  “Yes, I needed to sleep. Where were you?”

  “Finishing up some research. On the client.” He sighed. “Which is often the most important work you do.” Tania put her book down. Ray went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, and returned to the living room. “I spoke with Lucas last night. I thought I knew him—at least I knew of his reputation in Boston. But I found out this morning that Lucas worked as a criminal defense lawyer in San Francisco during the 1950s and 1960s. One of his clients was a Black Fist member named Ralph Chen.”

  “I know him. “Tania said.

  “How?”

  “Well, I know of him. He’s now a boss of the snakeheads. He started the Mexican pipeline, running Chinese immigrants into the U.S. from Mexico. That’s how a lot of girls made it into the U.S. Take a boat to Mexico, and then walk across the border.”

  “How do you know this?’

  “He knew many of the girls. He lives in the East Bay. Lots of girls have been to his place. He’s pale and fat for a Chinese man. Like a big scallop. He talks about his work all the time.”

  Ray said, “Well, I don’t think it’s just a coincidence that Lucas represented Chen, and now he just happens to be looking for you. You don’t just stop representing these guys. Once you’re accepted into the inner circle, you tend to get involved for the long haul. Whether you want to or not.”

  Tania sighed. “Well, what do we do now? First you appear, then Moon, and then I almost get killed by those guys yesterday. And now you’re saying this lawyer probably hired the guys who tried to kill me? My life’s coming apart since you came here. I know you didn’t—“

  “Tania, you lived like a caged animal,” he said. “How long were you going to hide out with the new age fraud at Ashtanga?”

  “She’s not a fraud.”

  “No, I liked her actually. But you weren’t safe there for long. I found you easily. After just a few days of work.” He paused. “I need to think about this meeting with Lucas.” Ray walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Tania walked back inside her room. She checked the hallway and shut the door. Then she slumped into a cushioned chair, put her head back. She was frustrated with Ray. Who the hell was he, turning her hideout into a battle zone? If she had not been completely
happy, then at least she was working to get there.

  Still, she admired what he had done. And she had to admit: he was partly right. How long was she going to work in the yoga center kitchen, baking breads for the yoga enthusiasts, keeping out of the light like a cockroach? She was just existing up there. Except for a few brief early morning trips, she realized she had not left the center grounds for over ten days. In her heart, she knew that her time in Marin was not going to last long.

  She felt exposed. But Ray's interference also made her feel furious and alive. She peered out at the Golden Gate Bridge, fog billowing beneath the bridge supports. She understood now that she was a darting obsession to them, someone worth thinking about. Someone worth killing. Her time running had not changed anything. She had misjudged her importance to them. All those men, after all, had been at Ashtanga yesterday morning for the sole purpose of executing her. And she escaped because of a stranger's intervention. She pictured again the men she had seen killed. The green silence of the hills fractured by gunshots. The bump as the tires rolled over the body. She wondered again about Moon, about the other people at the yoga center.

  She had run. But they had found her again. She tried to plan and her thoughts were borne back to her old life. The painful memory returned, that day when she left. A country removed, one full of color, deep red, somber, her old home in Hong Kong, the windows looking over the bay. A young girl basking in the adoration of a loving father. Her father had been a businessman, head of a computer hardware wholesaler that sold cheap Korean-made hard drives to overseas dealers. He had grown up bone-poor in Shanghai—“the city of true Chinese” he told her—and he kept the friendships of his youth, installing many of his friends in high positions. He lived hard, allowing a seamy side of the business to flourish along with legitimate ventures, gray-market and counterfeit goods that were funneled through various companies by his friends, all of them longtime triad members. Tania's mother, his first love, became ill and died shortly after Tania was born. He later married for a second time, a Hong Kong beauty, Victoria Chang, a marriage that her politically connected family received coolly. Tania had never been close with her father's second wife. She thought the two of them showed little emotional love, but there was something that drew them together. She could never figure it out, some hard, flinty agreement she could never decipher. He spent little time with his second wife Victoria, who spent most of her time in the U.S., but he lavished attention on Tania. In return, she gave him the gift of her youthful exuberance, and her pride at being his daughter.

  Her father’s sudden death dropped a black shroud on her happiness. For a year, she grieved. She noticed little of events around her, the cold paper hustle of moving a dead man’s earthly belongings through the courts. Victoria Chang was appointed executrix of his estate. She was efficient, uncompromising. Never talkative about her family or origins, she controlled her husband’s finances and began to invest those funds in Hong Kong businesses, most notably a series of subsidiaries of a company called the Pan-Pacific Trading Company. Victoria told Tania that the family investments in Pan-Pacific were safe: they were handled by relatives who were experienced businessmen.

  In the months after her father’s death, various businessmen arrived to meet with Victoria and her assistants. One evening, Tania was instructed to meet Victoria in the study, her favorite room in the house. Her father had assembled a wonderful collection of books on architecture, poetry, literature, and history. Burgundy walls, oak paneling, the scent of old paper—a room of dusty comforts.

  Victoria sat behind the desk. A small lamp shone a yellow cone on the brown wood. Victoria fingered a large white envelope and wore an aggrieved look on her face.

  Sitting to one side were two Chinese men Tania had seen on several occasions. One man had a dark, narrow face tapered like an ax, with long, fine hands. His long frame covered in an expensive wool suit. The other, thick and flush with years of hard drinking, was dressed in a gray herringbone jacket which emphasized his belly fat. He scanned papers from his briefcase.

  Victoria made introductions. “Mr. Chu, this is my daughter.” The tall man nodded, bowed slightly. “Mr. Deng.” The fat man barely acknowledged her.

  “As you know, I am the executrix for your father’s estate. With some assistance, we have completed the review of legal issues relating to the estate distribution. I had hoped the news would be better. But the estate faces serious problems.”

  Victoria leaned toward at Tania. “Your father has left us in difficult circumstances, Tania. Although this may come as a surprise to you, your father was a gambler. And he has left us with considerable debts.”

  Tania shifted to interrupt, but Victoria raised her hand.

  “Please allow me a moment to explain. We have debts, Tania, debts that your father’s estate must meet. Debts to people who do not expect to be kept waiting. There is no other way. Gambling is a disease. A disease that hurts many people, many families. We cannot claim that we are being treated unfairly. As is customary, both the assets and debts of the deceased pass through the estate to the heirs. In this case, we inherit only debts. The debts of your father. And my husband.”

  Tania felt her stomach knot and her breath tighten. “I cannot believe that my father owes money to anyone.” The men threw her a lazy glance.

  “The debts are real,” replied Victoria. “Now we are called to answer for those debts. With my advisors—she gestured to the two men—we outlined a plan whereby the assets, about $37.2 million worth of real property and stock, will pass to a Hong Kong-based investment corporation. And in time, with wise management, the debts will be paid out of the managed money. We will also realize income after the debts are paid.”

  “Do we have some proof of these debts?” asked Tania. She had never seen any sign that her father gambled. “It’s not like him.”

  “Gamblers don’t get receipts, Tania,” said Victoria.

  “Then I don’t believe it.”

  The tall man Victoria had called Mr. Chu moved to the wall where a Japanese katana sword hung. The blade shimmered below a wood handle wrapped in cord. The sword had been presented to Tania’s father by one his oldest friends.

  Victoria stood up. “I also demanded that an audit take place. I’m not sure we have much choice at this point. We need to process the sale of several properties immediately.”

  The tall man lifted the sword from its hanger, and walked across the room. The steely sharpness glittered in the faint light. He studied the weapon, intensely interested in the blade. He tested the edge with a fingertip.

  Tania felt a warm breath over her shoulder, a sudden heaviness as the other man, Deng, leaned forward, pressing her down with his bulk. She cried out. Hands gripped her right hand, pulled it out. Pressed it forcefully to the table, splayed the fingers out. She was gasping for breath, but any movement was impossible.

  She heard Victoria’s voice. “I don’t think that is necessary,” she said. “Tania, we need to sign certain documents today and these problems will pass. These are harsh people. We can all move on.” Tania wondered at Victoria’s calmness.

  Mr. Deng continued to push his bulk into her. The lights were dim and she smelled sweat and stale food on the chunky man’s breath. In front of her, Mr. Chu tapped the table lightly with the sword, swirled it as if he were writing with a giant pen.

  “The estate is not sufficient to cover the money your father owed. We have to transfer the funds today. Tania, you are young. An agency run by the creditors in San Francisco will assist you in finding work. You leave tomorrow. They have arranged a plane. They ask that no inquiries be made about the finances. We have no other options, Tania.”

  Her back was hurting. She scrambled for a way to defy the crude demands of these men. She would talk to someone, there were people, lawyers her father had known, who could help.

  Victoria added, “If we can resolve this today, they have told me that your sister will be left out of this problem.”

  Something
reptilian and cold shot through her gut. Victoria opened the envelope that had been lying on her desk, dumping the contents on the desk in front Tania. Plane tickets and an itinerary. Cash in rubber bands, as well as a notebook. There were also several photographs. Victoria slid the photographs towards Tania, fanning them out like a deck of playing cards.

  “I saw these just one hour ago. They told me these were taken yesterday in Shanghai.”

  Tania picked up a photo and saw her half-sister, Lin. They looked like recent photos. Lin held two plastic bags of groceries as she walked down Siping Road in the Hongkou District, probably after shopping for fresh shrimp at a small market she loved. Lin had called her that night, and spoke about the dinner she was cooking. The next photo showed the faded sign of the movie theater next to the apartment where she lived. A third photo showed Lin wearing a red hat, sitting at a café and sipping tea on a leisurely afternoon.

  In each photo, her sister was clearly oblivious of the photographer. No shadow of concern darkened her face. She was blind to the watcher, just living. Tania craned her neck and looked at each photo again. Lin’s fragile life, no longer secure in the anonymous city, but pinned and squirming in front of Tania like a butterfly in an entomological display. Both she and her sister without family or means. Both vulnerable to the specter of sudden violence.

  The tall man moved to Tania, the sword gripped with offhanded elegance. He spoke in a low voice. “None of this is your fault. Honor your father’s memory. Honor your ancestors.” He named casinos where her father had bankrupted himself, businesses that were owed funds, restaurants and nightclubs where he had run exorbitant tabs. Victoria sat impassively at the desk, while they beat Tania down with misdirection and innuendo. “Let’s take care of this today, forever,” the tall man said. “And then you start on the path to a new tranquility.”

  Tania listened to the words, unbelieving, the edge of her focus worn away. Her mouth was dry. Her wrists hurt. She felt terribly alone then, and a black mood descended. Her sister at the café, oblivious. A deep sob erupted from inside, the shame of it, all this in her own father’s house. A daughter’s love for her father, purest on earth.