Death in North Beach (9 page)

‘Yes, the old pervert.'

‘I was at his studio picking out a painting for my office . . .'

‘You went to him? You know I have access to some of the finest emerging artists anywhere. You could have a great bargain with all sorts of investment opportunities. Anselmo, bless his obese heart, is where he's going to be.'

‘I like his work. I like him. And it reminds me of another time, with my parents, those days.'

‘Sentiment. You're getting soft in your . . .'

‘Old age?'

‘. . . post adolescence, I was going to say.'

‘I got it, Nadia. The cheap sentiment of an old woman.'

Nadia nodded. ‘If you like.' She smiled as she shook her head. ‘Yes. OK.'

‘So I have a list of folks to find out about, some of them artists. Can you fill me in?' Carly asked about Hawkes and Sumaoang even though they were on Lang's list. And about Lili D. Young and Frank Wiley.

Nadia did. Lili Young was a huge black woman who did watercolors of flowers. They were wonderful and in demand internationally. Her clients, Nadia explained with a touch of disdain, were interior designers not gallery owners. But she did well. She had no idea what Warfield might have had on her.

‘I hear she is a tough, passionate woman,' Nadia said. ‘She scares some folks.'

‘OK, Richard Sumaoang,' Carly said.

‘No, can't picture him. There are many folks out there putting oil on a canvas and hanging on.'

‘Marshall Hawkes.'

Nadia raised her eyebrows. She grinned, then took a sip of the Multipulciano.

‘A hateful little man,' Nadia said. ‘But he is one of the most respected artists on the West Coast. His work isn't in the hundred thousand dollar bracket, but it's getting there. He is respected. Worshipped by those who favor his approach and his paintings are in all the right collections.'

‘His secret?'

‘He's a flaming queen,' Nadia said.

‘Come on. That's nothing anymore. Certainly not in this town and I can't imagine it making any difference at all in the art world.'

‘Exactly. But he tries to convince people he's straight and he's sued at least two publications for suggesting otherwise.'

‘I don't get it,' Carly said.

‘Neither does anyone else.'

‘Why would Warfield dislike him?'

‘I didn't follow Warfield. I mean, I knew he was some sort of legend in his own mind, but his life didn't in any way intersect mine.'

‘OK, last one. Frank Wiley.'

She nodded. ‘Now we're notching back down again. I only know about him because he belongs to some photographers' group. His work is, as far as I'm concerned, archival. Not that it's bad. He's very, very competent. But aside from a few portraits that found their way into
Time
and
Newsweek
back when North Beach was the center of the universe, he's pretty much of a nobody.'

Nadia continued to talk about other San Francisco artists, not realizing Carly had drifted off a bit.

‘Are you seeing anyone?' Carly asked to change the subject.

‘I'm seeing everyone,' Nadia said. ‘And you, my little precious?'

‘No.'

‘Peter hasn't called again?'

‘No.'

The rest of lunch was light gossip centering around Nadia and her young artists and about a planned trip to a hill town in Mexico where she would hook up with the best artists designing silver jewelry.

At home, Carly dodged the sprinklers Mr Nakamura had on a timer for the dry summer. It hadn't rained since February. Not really. In less than two months though, the rains would begin, and they would seem never to stop. That's how it was in San Francisco most years.

Eight

As Carly left Delfina's in the Mission, Lang was across town, waiting at a table just inside the broad opening at the front of Enrico's in North Beach. He was waiting for Whitney Warfield's mistress. The restaurant was one of Lang's favorites and for a short time was doomed to the dustbin. Some said the assaults and killings in the neighborhood – most of them late at night on the same stretch of bawdy Broadway as Enrico's – might have dampened the enthusiasm of the restaurant's clientele.

But it was back, a little whitewash on the walls, some great jazz, and good food. Marlene Berensen was only twenty minutes late. She didn't apologize. Noah Lang could have forgiven her several more sins. She stepped out of a forties movie, a standard mistress. She might have been fifty. Then again, if she was, she was a pretty spectacular fifty. She and her clothes had attitude, a kind of casual attitude, the knowing, ready-for-anything look on her face complemented by something expensive she slipped on without thinking too much about it.

‘Mr Lang?'

‘Noah. And you are Marlene Berensen.'

‘If not I've been living a lie,' she said, her smoky voice sounding like the crunch of dry leaves.

‘You know Humphrey Bogart?' he asked.

She sat down. She got it. She didn't like it. The waiter came over immediately.

‘Should I bring you a Scotch?'

She nodded.

Not a big surprise. It was her idea to meet there. But it was all playing too cool. In the real world and considering the number of years they were together, Lang thought, Warfield's mistress should look like Aunt Bee. She didn't.

‘You wanted to talk about Whitney?'

She looked like she wanted a cigarette.

‘I do. I'm trying to locate a manuscript he was writing,' Lang said.

‘And if he was writing something, how do you figure you are entitled to it?'

‘We think it might lead to his murderer,' Lang said, giving up the ruse since it didn't make a whole lot of sense after Marlene's question.

‘And who is we?' she asked.

Here we go again, Lang thought.

‘I've got this problem. I keep losing control of the interrogation. You'll help me out, won't you?'

‘No.'

‘Did you kill him?' Lang asked. If subtle conversation failed, maybe sudden rudeness would work.

She laughed. ‘Where's my Scotch?' she asked the universe. The universe answered.

‘Here, Ms Berensen,' the waiter said.

‘You don't look devastated by his death.'

‘I'm sorry. But I'm not devastated. Every night we slept together, I prepared myself to wake up to a corpse in the morning. He was overweight, ate and drank too much, never exercised, and had high blood pressure. Type A personality, full of anger and frustration. I'm surprised he lived as long as he did.'

‘With all those qualities, no wonder you were attracted to him,' Lang said.

‘He was also sweet, generous, frightened, creative and he loved me unconditionally.'

‘Qualities he was careful to hide.'

‘All men are babies,' she said. ‘These silverback apes yell and beat their chests, but when they're alone at night, all by themselves, they need someone to help them through their nightmares.'

Just as he'd seen her before in countless movies, he'd heard the ‘big baby' line before. Was that because it was true? Or was it that she was playing a role?

‘I always thought that we are the people we were in the third grade,' Lang said. ‘That's my theory anyway. If you remember who you were and how you acted in the third grade, that's you.'

She didn't respond.

‘What kind of girl were you?'

‘The kind of girl who stayed away from class clowns.'

Ouch. She wasn't far off.

‘You weren't after the money, were you?' Noah sipped his beer.

‘He didn't have that much. So where are we going here, Mr Lang?'

‘The person who killed Whitney Warfield is likely someone who didn't want the book published. I'm told he was planning a tell-all and you were on the list of people who might object to that.'

‘The theory is that the other woman is supposed to be a secret and that as that other woman I would be upset that our affair would become public. Everyone in Whitney's life knows about me – including his wife. I like Elena. We get along. We are polite to each other and the only consideration we do for the public is that we aren't in the same place at the same time with Whitney. I have no other shame. And Whitney would never do anything to hurt me.'

‘You have any idea who wanted to kill him?'

‘I came to meet you out of curiosity,' she said, getting up, grabbing her coat and bag. ‘I'm leaving you out of boredom.'

‘Who gets his royalties?' Lang asked.

She stopped. ‘His family.'

‘Don't you want his killer found?'

She didn't look back.

Musicians were setting up inside. He was either going to commit to a night of jazz and alcohol – and maybe, just maybe meet a beautiful girl – or head home to spend some quality time with Buddha.

‘Boring?' he asked, as he stood and put enough dollars on the table to cover the drinks and a tip. ‘Me?'

Frank Wiley's place wasn't all that far from Anselmo's. Nor was it all that different on the outside. Unremarkable exteriors on unremarkable streets. She found Wiley's dilapidated stairway halfway down the half block that dead-ended at another wooden structure.

She had to feel for each step as she climbed up to his door. The light that came from a naked bulb above his door did little more than cast indistinct shadows on the steps. Most of the light was absorbed by the blanket of night.

There was light inside. She knocked, waited, and knocked again. If he was there, she was determined to get him to the door.

She heard some muffled grumbling before the door opened.

Frank Wiley stood there, all bones and pale flesh. He had a skinny mustache and wisps of hair combed as if he had a full head of it. He wore a sleeveless white shirt and gray work pants and sandals with white socks. He also wore big, horn-rimmed glasses. Carly thought he looked like a bug. A nice bug. A harmless bug. His initial smile gave way to a look of befuddlement.

‘I'm Carly Paladino. I'm an investigator looking into the affairs of Whitney Warfield.' Nice and succinct, she thought

His eyes, already magnified, widened. His face went dark.

‘That's no affair of mine,' Wiley said. His tone was dismissive. He didn't quite close the door, but he had narrowed the gap.

‘I'd really like to talk to you,' Carly said. ‘I'd appreciate it very much. We're just trying to make sense of his death.'

‘Why does that include me?'

‘I'm afraid there is an indication that you and he had a falling out.'

‘And you are not police,' he said. Though it was not a question, it seemed to demand confirmation.

‘No.

‘And if we talk?'

‘I'm just trying to track down some nasty rumors,' Carly said.

‘Involving me?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Come in,' he said, stepping aside.

The room she stepped into was, in fact, set up as a small gallery. Aside from the sixteen large, flat cartons leaning against the far wall, the place was neat and clean, ready for visitors. Even the cartons were neat, stacked in groups of four, probably containing frames for large photographs or the photographs themselves. Black and white photographs were on the wall. She recognized a photograph of the old hungry i, an old hardware on Grant she remembered from her childhood, the Condor Club when Carol Doda was its headliner, and a place called the Black Cat.

‘Where is the Black Cat?'

‘Nowhere now,' he said. ‘Closed in the early sixties. One of my first shots. Queer place, but everybody went there. It was over on Montgomery near Columbus.'

She noticed photographs of places she knew – Caffe Trieste, City Lights Bookstore, Vesuvio, Tosca, the Savoy Tivoli, Caffe Roma long before it was refurbished. There were photographs of restaurants, many of them still there. But she was reminded how many had gone. She looked around for a photograph of her parents' place. Didn't see it.

‘Did you ever photograph Paladino's?' she asked.

‘You that girl who used to fill up the water glasses?'

She nodded.

He seemed to soften. ‘I'll find that photograph for you when we're done. Have a seat.'

There were three mismatched chairs. She chose one.

‘What would you like to know?' he asked.

‘Who hated him so much?'

‘He was not a likable guy,' Wiley said. ‘It's kind of a cliché, but he was a complex person. I think he hated individual people but loved mankind. He was constantly disappointed with every cause he ever pursued and in every person he came to trust. They couldn't help but betray him in some way. Yet, he had this ability to attract people at the same time. The one thing he never lost was his passion for telling the truth.'

‘As he saw it,' Carly said.

Wiley nodded. ‘Of course.'

‘What was your relationship with him?'

‘We remained friends, I think, mostly because I didn't talk much. I listened. I took “pictures”, as he used to say. He'd love it when I photographed him. He used to tell me that I was the only one who told the truth.'

‘Is that right?'

‘I let the camera talk.'

‘No portraits up there. I read you photographed some of the greats from the Beat era.'

‘I did.'

‘You don't have any up on the walls.'

‘I don't have a lot up on the walls.'

‘I understand you have a big show coming up.'