Telegraph Hill

by John F. Nardizzi

  Ray saw Cherry go still.

  He picked up a pamphlet. “So this is what you hand out. Good design. Can you read this to me Bobby?”

  Ray flicked over the pamphlet. Cherry stared and then shoved it away. “Of course I can read it.”

  “Your father never taught you to read, did he? A father like that, neglecting the schooling. Slave to the liquor. He probably snuck into the house at night when he was drunk, the back stairs creaking. You pretended you were asleep. Try to get through to morning. Fathers like that don’t deserve the family they’re given. Because when he was drinking, the worse came out.”

  Ray dropped off. “Do you have a sister?”

  Cherry stirred ever so slightly, an animal whir.

  “I know you do. Her name is Delana. Sisters. Man, you can’t grow up with a mother and a sister and learn to hate women. Just not possible. You learn more from them than from any old book. No matter what your dad said. Or did. But some men fear the mystery of women. Soft and tough at the same time.”

  Ray stood up. “I know what happened there. Talked to some people, Bobby. Your family lived on Jefferson Street in Birmingham. Little house with blue trim and a screened porch. I saw it. Your neighbors, nice people. They were worried about you, the kids. They could hear him at night on the stairs; that heavy tread. The sound of a drunk father is the heaviest sound in the world.”

  Ray watched as Cherry tensed. “And you wanted to do something. You were ready. But you’re a little kid. You’re scared. Your dad going to your sister’s room again. You thought about it, but never did anything. He’s bigger. You were just a kid. Who do you tell, Bobby? What can you really do?”

  Ray stopped. “And your mother, she should have known, why is daddy on the stairs to your sister’s room again?”

  Cherry rose out of the chair snarling, his mouth tight and wolfen. Ray cut the angle and stepped into him, getting inside. He drove his right fist through the middle of Cherry’s face, chopping him down. Cherry crashed to the side and knocked a chair over. Ray wrapped an arm around Cherry’s head and drove a knee into the side of Cherry’s face. The muffled crunch of cartilage snapping. Drove the knee again. And again. Ray felt a storm of madness coming up inside, and knew he would kill Cherry here, just leave the fucking kid on the floor. But Cherry just sagged, all the fight run out of him. He whimpered on the floor. His face was a mess of snot and blood, his teeth stained red.

  Ray regained control of his reflexes. He took a breath; this was not the way. Cherry and his sad little apartment were not the end of the line. The road only started here. “Tell me about the address.”

  Cherry moaned. “You diggin’ ‘bout my goddamn family! What the hell you doin’!” He fought for breath amid tears and blood.

  “Bobby, take a minute.” Ray walked to a window, trying to regain his composure. “All this is not your fault.” He sat down. “There's a rat inside your group. Someone high up. You know he won’t do any time if he can sell a story about someone else doing this thing. That’s how it works. He’s selling a dream. And the cops are buying it. Someone else is gonna to do slow time on a federal rap. Someone low on the totem pole.”

  Cherry wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  “It always works this way, Bobby. The old men sell out the younger guys who do the grunt work. They’ll have the best lawyers in town so don’t think you’re ever gonna hear from them again. You know that’s how it works. They ever come see you here in this apartment complex?” Bobby looked up and shook his head.

  “You’re just meat to them. I know you were involved, Bobby. I just need to know why. If you just delivered—and I think that’s all you did—we can deal with that. If you planned the bombing, arranged the whole thing, that’s a different story. But I don’t think it was you who planned it.”

  Ray got up and touched Cherry’s shoulder. “Was this an isolated thing? That time they asked you to do something like this?”

  Cherry said nothing. Then he put his head down and looked at the floor. Ray stared at him and let the silence grow.

  “First time,” said Cherry.

  “OK. How did you first learn of the address in North Beach?”

  “They told me to drop off a package.”

  “Who did?”

  “I just had the address—no names. That’s all I knew.” Cherry talked into the floor.

  “Who told you?”

  “It was Lee. At a meeting.”

  “Lee who.”

  “Lee Hightower. He runs it.” Cherry wiped the snot off his face with his left hand.

  “Where is Lee Hightower?”

  Cherry looked down and rubbed his neck. “Outside San Diego. He runs the California squads.” He struggled to sit up.

  Ray knew Cherry was telling the truth; Hightower’s organization was a well-known entity with longtime roots near San Diego. “Who was the bomb maker?” Ray asked.

  “I don’t know, man, I just took a package over, no names. I never knew what was in there.”

  “Well, how did you get it?”

  “I went to one of the rallies. One night, we had a meeting and they told me to meet someone at Powell Street. Near the subway.” Cherry’s eyes were wide, hateful. “A guy gave me a gym bag.”

  Ray tilted his head, staring at Cherry. “How did he know you?”

  “We met before, the rally was the night before?”

  “What device was used?”

  Cherry spread his hands but said nothing. Ray waited. “I thought it was a warning, just scare someone. I found out later it was live, a pipe bomb,” said Cherry. “One foot long metal inside a PVC. The PVC was filled with nails and shit, all kinds of metal.” Cherry looked at him, eyes almost pleading. “I never knew, sir. I swear I didn’t.”

  Ray flashed to the grisly plasma mess on Powell, the detritus caused by jagged metal rocketing haphazardly through human flesh. He stood back. Cherry sat up, holding his face in his hands, breathing raggedly on the carpet. Rap music pulsed from the street.

  Ray stood over him. “Now tell me all about Lee Hightower.”

  It was close to 4:00 PM when Ray finished with Cherry. He stood up and walked toward the door. The room felt cleaner, something released, a passing of some crawling horror. Then he turned. Cherry sat in a chair, slumped in the seat like he had been deboned of everything that was once alive in him.

  “Thanks, Bobby,” Ray said. “I appreciate you being honest. I really do.” He opened the door and the sunlight slashed into the darkened room. “I may have to talk with you again.” Then he stepped outside and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter 32

  Ray drove back in silence to San Francisco. The East Bay sun gave way to drifts of gray sky. The afternoon traffic was slow. He mulled over the name Lee Hightower. He knew Hightower was involved with several San Diego hate groups, but the extent of his role had been unclear. Hightower was a bigger player than expected. A new line to pursue.

  The sky blanketed the city in gray. Ray pulled up to Antonio’s house, and walked up the front walk. He entered the living room where Antonio and Tania were sitting. Tania wore olive-colored cotton pants that fit her well, along with a black blouse. Silver bracelets adorned her wrists.

  Dominique walked in from the hall, looking elegant in a cream-colored business suit.

  “I’m back,” he said, drawing out the words. He walked to Dominique and held her, kissed her. Then he exchanged greetings with Antonio and Tania, and settled in a chair. Tania sat quietly, impenetrable.

  He looked at Dominique. “I hope Antonio made introductions.”

  “Of course,” Dominique said, smiling at Tania.

  “I met Victoria last night,” Ray said.

  Tania stirred and looked up in surprise. “How did you manage that?” she asked.

  “I showed up at her house.”

  “Just like that?” Tania asked.

  “He’s been doing that for years,” said Dominique. “Cute the first time. Now it’s just irritating.�
�

  “No one can resist a navy blue pinstripe suit.”

  “What did she do when you showed up?” asked Tania.

  “She made me wait a bit, showing me who’s boss. She heard me out but she admitted nothing. We talked—or I talked—and she acted like I was speaking Bulgarian.”

  “What was your impression of her?” asked Dominique.

  “She does not disappoint. Impressive. Strong as a buffalo. Comes off as bloodless, cruel. All that coiled power hidden by a pianist’s hands and a face that looks embalmed. I don't know what she took out of the meeting. I tried to push her on the exposure she faces from her reliance on Lucas.”

  “Do you think she buys it?” asked Dominique.

  “It won’t phase her,” interrupted Tania.

  “She’s not happy about what happened,” said Ray, looking at Tania. “But I’m not sure what she’s going to do about it.”

  “We should talk to the DA about conspiracy to murder charges against Lucas.” said Dominique. “Victoria won’t like a bright light shining on someone that close to her.”

  “Can your office reach out to someone there?”

  “Of course. I‘ll start on it this afternoon.” She walked with Ray toward the door. Once they were out of sight of the others, she stopped and stared at Ray. “Are you OK? You look amped up.”

  “Something happened on the other case,” said Ray. “The guy in the East Bay I told you about. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “OK. I called my friend who gave me that breakdown on the triad,” Dominique said. “The triad is not just moving drugs anymore.”

  “What else?”

  “Remember the snake heads? Syndicates get girls from Russia or Estonia. They either work off debts, knowing they are going to be slaves working on their backs for years. Or they get tricked into it. Ads about working in Germany for a British couple. Once the girls cross the border, the gangs seize their passports and they work.

  “The Black Fist has upped the game. The Mexican border is not just for immigrants or prostitutes. They have done those runs for years. Last year, the Border Patrol began to pick up some Arabs on the border. They were dressed like Mexicans and for a while, no one even noticed. But an Arabic speaking agent— there was such a guy there, if you can believe it—heard two men talking. They are being debriefed now. They appear highly trained and are resisting any interrogation techniques practiced at the border.”

  “They’re smuggling terrorists into the country on the old drug routes,” said Ray, shaking his head.

  “Yes. Makes sense. No one has a better smuggling system than the triad. So now the terrorists are subcontracting out their transport to the triad. Chinese gangs have perfected penetrating U.S. borders—why not use the best?”

  Ray was silent. “Subcontracting terrorism.”

  “So now you can see why they want Tania. Cho’s group has the best connection to the Arabs. If the feds pressure her, and she mentions the triad link, news spreads about their work for terrorists. Then it’s a whole new level of attention on them.”

  “I have to run,” said Dominique. She pressed his hand and kissed him. “Lots to think about.”

  Ray walked back into the living room. Tania gave him a curious look. “She’s pretty. How long have you known her?”

  “Many years. We’ve known each other since law school.” That Tania was interested in his relationship with Dominique gave him a feeling of cheap teenage satisfaction.

  “I like her. Smart lady,” said Tania.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “What’s next,” said Ray, “is that we wait. Victoria probably got the news of Lucas’s North Beach session, and I have to think that will disappoint her. We’ll see.”

  Tania nodded and stared at her feet. “While you were gone, I spoke with Moon.”

  “You called her?” Ray asked.

  “She called me.”

  “Is she OK?”

  “Yes, she’s fine.”

  “What happened after Marin?” Ray asked.

  “She said she was at the front door when you drove behind the building. After we left, those guys carried the bodies of a couple men to the car and took off. Police arrived a few minutes later.”

  “Anyone come after her?”

  “They never bothered her,” said Tania. “She never spoke with them.”

  “She notice any of them following her?”

  “No, she didn't mention it,” Tania replied, an edge to her voice. She brushed her hair back and looked at Ray. “I want to see her.”

  “Soon,” said Ray.

  “I don't see why it’s such a problem.”

  “If they followed her already, they’ll stay on her. Keep her under surveillance.”

  “I need to see her,” Tania said. “She needs help!”

  Ray sat down heavily in a chair near the window. He stared outside. Alcatraz jutted a rocky forehead into the gray water of San Francisco Bay as seagulls whirled in the cold air. Treasure Island boldly green; Sausalito a smoky mirage across the harbor.

  Tania sat holding a book, her mouth set. Ray was again struck by the contrast between her angelic face and gutty personality. He shook himself. “What were you reading?“

  “One of Antonio's books. A movie guide on old westerns.”

  They sat quietly for a while.

  “Why don't you call Moon and tell her we’ll pick her up at 4:00 today. You can call her on my cell phone and tell her where to meet us.”

  Tania looked relieved. “Thank you. You have no idea how important this is to me.”

  “Make sure I have her number, OK?”

  Ray got up and walked into his room. He opened a window, and lay down on the bed. The machinery of the hunt was clanking to a rhythm he had not set. He hated waiting, and had no intention of rotting while Victoria moved. But how long could he hide Tania? People tended to focus on familiar dangers, while unknown demons inched closer, closer, bold approach making them invisible to the obsessive eye. What did he really know about this underworld of money-laundering massage parlors, illegal card games, dead-eyed young men hustling to midnight meetings?

  He drifted off, waking later to a soft, polite knocking.

  “Come in.”

  Tania entered. “I called Moon. It’s all set for 4:00 PM. Here’s her number.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’s worried. The stuff in Marin shook her up.” Tania smiled. “I’m excited to see her.”

  “How about this old boyfriend of yours, Steven? Did Moon ever meet him?”

  “Yes.”

  “They get along?”

  “I guess. I don’t think they had any problems. Why do you ask?”

  “She told me differently.”

  Tania frowned. “Well, maybe she felt protective of me. Steven could be weird.”

  “How?” He thought of Steven entering the Lexus on Jones Street.

  “Guys can get weird,” said Tania. “They come off very detached at first, after they find out what you do. They say that they want you to live your own life. But they get possessive. But it never got out of hand with Steven.”

  “Steven wasn’t like that?”

  “He was a nice guy. He even smelled naive. Like he was doused in baby powder.”

  Ray laughed. “I’ll go pick up Moon.”

  Chapter 33

  Ray headed to the car and drove west over Telegraph Hill. On Van Ness, he dodged an SUV pulling out from the curb, some puffball struggling to pilot his craft, his lone weekly exertion.

  He drove on. He took a right on Pine Street, chewing up intersection after intersection as he hit a jackpot of green lights. A rainbow blur of Victorian homes lined the street, painted in wild patterns of mauve, purple, amber and gold. An old lady sat on a porch and watched the traffic.

  He dialed the telephone number he had been given for Moon.

  “Hi Moon. It’s Ray.”

  “Hi.”

  “Are you at
home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s do this discreetly. Take a cab and tell him to drive straight up Divisadero, then left on Fulton. Head up Fulton and pull over near the entrance to USF.”

  “OK. Where will you be?”

  “I’ll call your cell again in fifteen minutes.”

  He hung up and headed west on Pine, jostling for position as he crossed Geary. He passed the Peace Pagoda in Japantown. Traffic was building to heart-attack levels. He turned left on Divisadero, racing through the Fillmore. The sweet smell of a barbecue joint spiced the air near Grove and Divisadero. He took a right on Fulton. After a few minutes, he arrived in front of the hilltop campus of the University of San Francisco, and pulled over to the side of the street. He watched the entrance. A coed in tight jeans squeezed her way up a steep pathway toward the campus. Thank god for the hills, Ray thought.

  A cab pulled over next to a long path winding up the hill. He sat and watched. No other cars pulled over. No sinister movements on the grassy knoll.

  He dialed Moon.

  “Moon. Is that you parked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Start walking back to Divisadero. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”

  A pause on the line. “OK.”

  Ray watched as Moon exited the cab, her hair pulled back to reveal her perfect porcelain neck. She looked sleek and untouchable, dressed in a hip-length white sweater, black pants, black boots, and aviator sunglasses. She briefly scanned the horizon, and then walked down the hill toward Divisadero.

  He watched her as she strode, graceful but quick. Then he called her again.

  “Moon, cross Fulton and take a cab straight down toward the beach.”

  She flagged a cab and zoomed up Fulton. No one followed. Citizens went about their business in the emerging sun.

  Ray pulled into traffic. The cab was easy to follow—a decrepit wreck painted a puke-tan color, with rusty holes near one wheel well. The driver proceeded at a leisurely pace toward the ocean.