Death in North Beach (6 page)

Some of the photographs she found were of the Beats, some of them about to make a name for themselves, the core group in their youngest San Francisco days. That meant Wiley was no spring chicken. Some of these photographs were taken in the fifties, late fifties probably, but still a long time ago. If he was twenty then, he'd be in his seventies at least. A murderer? Possibly, seventy is the new forty.

His work was currently being represented by Reed Fine Arts on Geary, according to a fairly recent posting on an art-oriented website. That meant the gallery would likely know where to find him. Tomorrow she could visit the gallery. It was in what could loosely be called the ‘gallery district' – a small area near Union Square with a mixture of fine arts targeted to serious collectors and lesser ones targeting less knowledgeable tourists. Reed was one of the former. Perhaps she could also locate Lili D. Young through the galleries. There were casual mentions on the Internet. And eBay had one of her watercolors listed for $1,200. There was an old newspaper article that indicated that, at least at the time of that writing, she lived on Potrero Hill.

After the gallery visit, she'd check her email. If she hadn't heard from the newspaper editor Bart Brozynski or city Supervisor Samuel McFarland, she knew where to find them and she would hunt them down.

She felt as if she had put in enough time, even if half of it was in the comfort of her own home. She was beginning to like this new Carly Paladino, a little more laid-back, a little more spontaneous. Yes, it still made her a little nervous and she had twinges of guilt. But, she
was
getting the job done, wasn't she?

She poured herself a half glass of wine and stepped back out on to the deck. The cold had come in – good for sleep, but not so good for hanging out. She downed her wine, checked the locks on the doors, switched off the lights, undressed, and slipped naked into her luxurious bed.

As Lang talked with Sumaoang, he noticed something odd. As the night wore on, people came into the bar, walked past the two of them toward the back and didn't return. He thought, at first, they were going to the john. But it'd be quite a gathering in there by now.

Richard Sumaoang was talking about ‘the scene' and it didn't take too much prompting to get him to talk. He said that when he came along, the old guard had either died or moved on. Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder and many of the other core members of the ‘Beats' were traveling the world, no longer just North Beach talent. But by the mid sixties, the energy these legends had supplied mutated. The center of the new culture moved from North Beach and the ‘Beats' to Haight Ashbury and the ‘Hippies'. With the media as an active accomplice there was dramatic, though philosophically slight, cultural shift. The Beats catered to a small, highly literate audience. The Hippies were mass-marketed. Jazz, the musical backdrop for the Beats, gave way to the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane.

As Richard Sumaoang told the story, he preferred the Beats and remained camped out in North Beach, a neighborhood that was becoming rich in history, but drained of the spark that created such literary shake-ups as Allen Ginsberg's
Howl
, a book so threatening to the ‘standards' of ‘decent' Americans that some thought it was an exception to ‘freedom of speech'. The case went to the Supreme Court.

Each of the names that Lang mentioned brought about a wistful smile and a little story. Marshall Hawkes hung around North Beach in the early days, but was never a part of it, according to Sumaoang.

‘He was too materialistic, too practical,' Richard Sumaoang said. ‘There was this great fight between Hawkes and a painter named Anselmo about art, but some say it was about love. Hawkes denied being queer, but most people thought he was and Anselmo was just a lustful creature. They're still fighting, I think.'

‘What about Warfield?'

‘He was a transplanted New Yorker,' Sumaoang said. ‘That alone made him superior in his mind. He was never part of anything. He couldn't be. That would mean he would subsume his personality to something larger. A movement, for example.' Sumaoang smiled.

‘What about Warfield's mistress?' Lang asked.

‘Marlene? She'd have no reason to kill him. The theory was that whatever Warfield's estate was – and it was probably only the potential future income on the copyrights because he spent every penny he got – it would go to his wife, unless of course, the wife dies first.'

‘You're saying if Marlene wanted someone dead it would be Mrs Warfield?'

‘Yeah, I guess – if.'

‘The wife then,' Lang said.

‘What changed with his death?' Sumaoang asked. ‘That'd be the question I would ask. Elena was his wife through several mistresses, all known to her. She delighted in it. She was Mrs Warfield. That made her a celebrity of sorts. And she enjoyed that. And she didn't have to put up with him, let alone sleep with him.'

Sumaoang laughed.

‘Didn't she feel shame? Everyone knew.'

‘Not a lot of shame being felt by anyone in that group.'

‘There was a guy named Ralph Chiu. Also on Warfield's enemies list.'

‘Pretty straightforward,' Sumaoang said. ‘Chiu was a political conservative. Some used to say he was very powerful among the Republicans in the city. All twelve of them.'

‘Just politics?'

‘There is a rumor that despite all the Italian businesses in North Beach, the Chinese actually own all the buildings. I don't know the specifics but there was some sort of real estate issue between Warfield and Chiu.'

‘What did Warfield have on Chiu?'

‘I don't know the answer to that. But between politics and real estate, progressives and developers, there are some suspicious deals and lots of animosity. Could be that.'

‘Chiu wasn't part of the North Beach people then?'

‘Not in any movement sense. Just like the Italians weren't part of the movement.'

‘I thought North Beach was all about the Italians.'

‘Listen, the Italians, the people who had businesses here, didn't find the likes of us lovable. They were family people. Catholics. Hard workers. We didn't work. We hung around coffee shops and bars. We didn't dress right. We didn't play by the rules. The top Italians here were pretty conservative. In today's terms, they were very family values.'

‘Can you handle another bottle of water?' Lang asked.

Sumaoang smiled.

‘I'll pace myself,' he said.

Lang ordered a beer for himself and water for his witness.

‘All right,' Lang said, after the drinks arrived, ‘what did Warfield have on you?'

‘I don't know,' Sumaoang said. ‘I truly don't know. I came down here because you said Warfield was writing or had written a tell-all book and that I was supposed to be in it. I was hoping you'd tell me.'

‘What have you got to hide?' Lang said.

‘If I had something to hide, would I be telling you? Maybe you're the one writing the book.'

‘Maybe a couple more bottles of water,' Lang said, ‘and you'll become a little more compliant.'

‘I've got to move on,' Sumaoang said. He slid off the stool, extended his hand.

Lang shook it.

‘Tell me,' Lang said, ‘all those people who walked by here. Where did they go?'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Hey. Twenty people came in here while we were talking. They walked right by us. And they didn't come back.'

‘Maybe out the rear door,' Sumaoang said.

‘No, they just came and you're telling me they were just passing through?'

‘It's private . . . for regulars.' Sumaoang looked around and turned back, saying softly, ‘I'll leave it at that.' He nodded and went the way of the others. He stopped, came back halfway. He pointed his finger at Lang.

‘Confidences should be honored,' he said with an edge of anger in his voice.

‘Did you tell me any secrets?'

‘No,' Sumaoang said.

‘Then why are you telling me this?'

‘Maybe you'll find out.'

Was that a threat or was he merely saying that this was what Lang should consider in his investigation?

It wasn't a bad night, Lang thought. Except for two things. The bartender was tight-lipped and a big guy kept Lang from going to the back room.

The poet/artist did fill in a few holes, but left a few unfilled. What did Warfield have on Sumaoang? Why was Sumaoang so willing to talk? The answer to the last question was that maybe he wanted to know what Lang knew? No slouch, he. Maybe Lang gave away more than he got. And maybe most of these folks would want the missing tell-all book, if there was one, to stay missing, wouldn't they? Lang laughed out loud in the increasingly cold and windy night. Maybe his bright idea was only so bright. He'd have to put the fear of a murder charge back into the conversation.

Now about Sumaoang. He was fit, lean and vital. He'd have no trouble handling an ageing chub like Warfield. Sumaoang would stay on the list.

Lang walked and tried to relax. But there was a little anger. He could feel it in his neck. What really bugged him was the back room at Alighieri's. It wouldn't have been so bad if it were merely locked. Unfortunately, someone committed the ultimate sin. They told him he couldn't go in. Now he had to.

Intense light came through the slats of the blinds and burrowed through her eyelids. She awoke somewhat startled at the sun's strength and the fact that it was a new day. She remembered climbing into bed last night and waking up as if time had not really passed. She got out of bed and was enveloped in the warmth of the room – a rare experience on a chilly San Francisco morning. It was nine a.m. Very late for her. But it would be fine. The art galleries didn't open until later in the morning. She still had time for a morning run.

She walked naked into the kitchen, put on some coffee, and then to the bathroom where she started the shower. As the water in the shower came up to temperature, she laid out her running clothes – the lighter Northface gear considering the day.

The shower felt good. Having a case felt good. She thought about calling the office, but that wasn't how it worked anymore. There were no expectations, except for those she had of herself. After her shower, she checked her cellphone in the event that she had slept through a call. No missed calls. No messages.

She dressed, took her coffee and her laptop out to the deck off the bedroom. Sprinklers were on and the wet greenery shined in the sunlight. Today she'd get through as much of the list as she could. Maybe she'd get a line on artist Lili D. Young and photographer Frank Wiley from the gallery people. They might know something about Nathan Malone as well.

After looking at news headlines and noting that no killer asteroids were heading toward earth, Carly checked her email. She had a message from the newspaper publisher Bart Brozynski and another from Supervisor Samuel McFarland's office. She read the publisher's email first. He was free at four in the afternoon – this afternoon. She would have to come to him. No additional information. McFarland's office wanted to set up an appointment weeks from now. That wouldn't do. She'd call when she got back from her run. But her day was filling up nicely.

This morning she ran with Louis Prima's ‘Just A Gigolo' piped into her ears. It was a happy, bouncy tune. Up the hill toward Lafayette Park, around it and then through it, all the while thinking about William Blake. Had she picked that CD on purpose? The gigolo piece was paired with ‘I Ain't Got Nobody'. She tried to repress a smile. She felt a little giddy and, she told herself, this wasn't something a woman of her age should feel. But what a charmer. She thought about Noah Lang's warning that Blake was playing her. Certainly, he possessed those skills. If he was as successful as he appeared to be as a ‘professional companion', he'd have to have a good game. Lang was right. She'd have to be careful.

Second shower of the morning. The first was to wash away sleep, the second to cool off. Now in her robe, she poured herself a second cup of coffee, opened a small carton of yogurt to which she added fresh sliced peaches. As she prepared her breakfast snack, she thought about what she should wear downtown. What do you wear to high-quality art galleries? She had a light gray suit, but that seemed a little stuffy, especially so on a day that would grow warmer. She finished her yogurt and returned to the bedroom, where, staring deep into her closet, she was about to make the toughest decision of the day. Did she have anything elegant but fun? Arty?

Lang had awakened early, traipsed down to the coffee shop at Hayes and Central and walked over to the Park between Oak and Fell streets. He sat on a bench near the bike path and watched as healthy, anti-global warmers and those who could not afford such luxuries as cars and gasoline, pedaled to work. Beyond the path were open fields and dog lovers were giving their charges a chance to answer nature's call and get in a little exercise before most of them would be left in the apartment for the day. The dogs were off their leashes and well behaved.

He liked dogs. He liked them better than humans. The lazy PI nibbled at the top of a muffin and sipped his coffee as he watched the goings on under the tall eucalyptus and the big blue sky. He had coffee at home but this, paper cup and all, was better and he enjoyed the fresh air. There were times when his place seemed a little claustrophobic.

Lang tossed the remainder of the muffin on the grass. Some creature would be rewarded. He opened the copy of the
Fog City Voice
, a weekly he picked up at the coffee shop. The paper focused on politics and entertainment, though in San Francisco the two were pretty much the same. Lang checked the masthead to see if the publisher was the one on Carly's list. He was. Also, among the contributors was Nathan Malone, another one on Carly's list.