Telegraph Hill (7 page)

Chapter 12

Ray walked back to his hotel. Windy and cool now.
He and Dominique had agreed to meet for a late dinner. He called her at work.

“Well, good afternoon.”

“Let me take you to dinner at the Grand Cafe at
the Hotel Monaco.”

“Two calls in one week, Ray.”

“You were an agreeable dinner companion last
night,” he said.

“You were somewhat agreeable yourself.”

She always had a wonderful sense of humor, he
realized, a trait he had somehow forgotten.

“Did you see Waymon?”

“Yes, I did. Ornery old coot, but he panned out
big-time.”

“Tell me.”

“He’s a pack rat. Never tosses anything,” Ray
said. “He had mug shots of the girl I’m looking for.”

“That's great. I knew he’d help you.”

“I’ll fill you in at dinner, if you can meet.” Ray
picked at some lint on his pants.

“What time is good for you?” she asked.

“7:00 PM. I’ll meet you there.”

“See you then.” They said goodbye.

Ray hung up the phone. He flicked on his computer
and logged into the locator databases. He needed to find Moran, the guy who had
lived with Tania. And deal with whatever was happening at the apartment on
Jones Street. Jettison into the vagueness, bang on people’s doors. Decipher a
person’s eye-blink, the way they intoned the word “No”.

He ran several searches for Steven Moran, finding
five different individuals with that name within the city limits. In Marin, he
found three more. But only one of the guys had a past address on Jones Street
in San Francisco—Steven H. Moran, age twenty seven, currently at 49 Vallejo
Street, Apartment 1. He felt certain that this was the right guy. It was late.
He would pay a visit to Mr. Moran tomorrow.

After clipping the .32 semiautomatic on his belt,
Ray walked down to the lobby and out to Jones and Sutter. He headed west and
stopped at Last Man Standing Saloon, a local place where he had spent many
nights. He loved the stripped-down blues bands that played here. A poster
advertised a band he had seen many times, The Acolytes, playing for the next
three nights. A guitarist, a bassist, and a heroin addict drummer who drifted
into the world of the living just long enough to bestow his percussive
blessings on a drumbeat crowd. He would have to take Dominique here.

The evening had grown bracingly cool. The last
rush hour traffic burst through the intersection, horns blaring. He walked a
few blocks to the Hotel Monaco, and saw Dominique standing in the entrance. She
wore a muted leopard skin outfit that fit her well.

“I envy the leopard,” he said.

She smiled. “You like it? A bit wild, I know.”

“Very few women can carry that off.” He nodded
approvingly.

He told her about his earlier visit to Tania’s old
Jones Street apartment.

“Be careful Ray. Don’t you have someone with you
when you go to these places?”

“Sometimes. But this place was fine.”

Inside the restaurant, the host guided them to a
table. They ordered a bottle of wine, a fine Malice.

“So how does it feel to be back?” Dominique asked.

“Strange. It’s not my city anymore. I had a weird
feeling today while I walked, thinking I might recognize someone. Like I always
used to when I walked in the city. But I never saw anyone. And then it hit me
that it’s been ten years since I lived here.”

The waiter returned to the table with the wine. He
was efficient and unobtrusive. After reading the menu description of shrimp
swimming in a spicy tomato sea, Ray ordered scampi fra diavolo. Dominique
ordered butterfish. They split a salad.

“Interesting salad,” said Dominique. “What would
life be without Sonoma greens?”

“That’s what a salad evolves into when it costs
$15.95,” Ray said.

The food matched the exotic atmosphere of the
restaurant. The Grand Cafe was resplendent, with pale yellow walls, soaring
pillars and chandeliers with amber-hued glass. The pillars did not obscure
Ray’s view of two Asian men sitting at the bar. They rolled in shortly after he
and Dominique. Both men were in their 20s, with dark jackets, hair cut short.
One gazed over once too often to make it a coincidence.

He said nothing to Dominique—why spoil the
butterfish? The waiter came by to refill the minute amount of water Ray had
consumed.

Ray told her about Waymon and his odd collection.
They ordered a nightcap of tea and Sambucca before calling for the check. The
two Asian men continued to drink at the bar.

Ray walked behind Dominique and headed for the
door. As they walked by the bar, the two Asian men continued to banter. Neither
guy looked familiar. Ray slammed one man a hard look. The guy gave no response.
Ray and Dominique continued walking. He held the door open, gazing back inside
the restaurant. If the men had been tailing him, they were making no attempt to
follow now.

Outside, the theater crowd, overdressed and
hungry, was milling about and battling for cabs. Ray and Dominique stepped in a
taxi that pulled curbside. Dominique directed the driver to Pacific Heights.
Ray watched the rearview mirror to see if they were tailed, but no lights followed.

“Thanks for dinner.”

Ray paused. “How are you for tomorrow?”

“Call me. Maybe we’ll do something late,” she
replied.

“Good.”

The cabbie met his gaze in the rearview, eyebrows
raised slightly.

The cab drove down Jackson Street, and pulled next
to a large white Mediterranean home. The rear of the house commanded a view of
San Francisco Bay. Dominique stepped out. “I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow.
Don’t work too hard.” She stepped out and walked toward her front door.

“Wait until she gets inside please,” Ray said to
the driver. He watched her walk into the foyer. After she stepped inside, Ray
had the driver head back downtown. Bush Street was a row of green lights, and
Ray was downtown within five minutes.

He was pleased with how things were going. Would
have been nice to have been asked up to her place. But that way was madness.
Slow was best.

“I’ll get off at the corner of Jones.” The taxi
sagged to a stop, Ray got out, and paid the driver.

The night air was chilled with fog. He checked his
watch: 11:10 PM. He walked down Jones, headed right on Sutter to the hotel. He
passed a narrow alley and looked up, following the cramped passage up the hill,
where it ended on the edge of California Street. Behind loomed the bluish black
sky.

At the very edge of sight, where the street cut
away from the dark sky, Ray saw a figure standing. Medium height, legs apart.
Arms bunched in front. He saw a sudden flash of light, and then another. His
gut coiled instinctively. But he quickly realized it wasn’t gunfire. It was the
flash of a camera. The figure stood facing downhill and took a series of
photos.

The figure bent down, and Ray heard a tinkling
sound as of coins dropping on concrete. As if beckoned offstage, the figure
turned, walked quickly to the left, and disappeared behind the building.

Not moving, Ray stood and watched the hill. He
thought about following, but he was 50 yards away and the hill rose at a steep
angle. He would be hard-pressed to chase down someone one block ahead and
uphill. Plus the streets at the crest of Nob Hill broke off in numerous
directions. And what had the person done other than take a picture? He did not
dwell on the fact that someone was taking photos just before midnight.

He crossed Sutter and walked back to the hotel, moving
deliberately, not hurrying. He looked up each street as he passed but saw no
one. As he turned the corner at Jones Street, four hooded shapes jumped him. He
crashed to the pavement. Pain erupted from his head—his ear was being ripped
off. Heavy weight on his chest, someone held his arms. He felt a blizzard of
kicks and punches pounding everywhere. A boot veered toward his face and he
offered his shoulder instead. A bolt of pain shivered his arm. “Fuck him up!” a
voice muttered.

He stopped struggling for a second. Then with all
the power he could summon, he spun quickly on the ground. He leg was free and
he whipped his foot into a meaty leg; a cry of pain rang out. The simple
maneuver caught them by surprise, and he saw momentary light, men above him. A
weakness in group attacks — someone let up, thinking the fight was over. He
kicked out again wildly, and the kick glanced off someone’s shin. A momentary
break, two of the men now moving uncertainly.

An engine roared, and he knew they were going to
run him down. Then a voice: “Don’t hit him, just—” but then another voice broke
in, clipped and guttural. Ray missed the words but the commanding tone was
clear. The sound of boots thudding on the concrete. He felt water running in
his eyes, but knew it was something else. A door closed and an engine died away
in the distance.

Ray sat up. The whole thing had been ten seconds,
maybe twenty. He hunched against the building and wondered about the last
voice.

An old Chinese woman walked by and shot him a
curious look. She kept plodding uphill. He must have looked like a bum, rolling
in his filth. A five second transformation. He laughed in spite of himself, a
half-mad cackle.

Two women, middle-aged, neatly dressed in
identical jackets, were coming at him now.

“Oh my god, are you OK? What happened sir?”

He stood still as his head tried to find
equilibrium. Blood ran from a cut above his left ear.

“Not sure. Welcome to California.”

“You need us to call an ambulance?”

He struggled up. “I’d settle for dinner right
now.”

One woman smiled.

“You’re OK. You’re joking.”

“Sure. No ambulance needed.”

“You sure? You sure look like you can use some
help.”

“People die in ambulances. I’ll be fine.” He stood
up, stretched his back. “Did you get a look at the guys who did this to me?”

“Big guys. Chinese. God, I hope you don’t need me
to ID them. They all look the same to me.”

Ray sighed, looking at the two ladies in their
matching coats.

“Get a license plate number?”

“No, sorry.” One of the ladies gave him a corner
of a smile. “I don’t see so good anymore. Do you need help getting home?”

“I can get back now, I’m staying one block away.”
His jacket was ripped and blood leaked out of the hole on his right pant leg.
Ray limped back down the hill to Sutter. It could have been a lot worse. He had
been completely surprised, badly outnumbered—he had a sense of four or five men
dancing on his bones back there. Asians. He did not recognize what language
they had spoken. He had his wits about him, no concussion, and relatively pain
free—except for his shoulder. That would change with morning. His face had some
abrasions, a cut above his ear, but nothing major. He knew Dominique would dote
on him, so no need to cover those up too much.

Back in his hotel room, he took a long hot bath.
When he was done, he took a seat near the window. He kept the lights off. He
stared down into the street, which was still alive with neon signs and
nighttime traffic. Steam drifted from a manhole cover, the exhalation of a
dying city night. He wondered why steam still drifted from manholes in the 21st
century. A scene he had witnessed in countless old movies. Sewer technology
should have improved, but there it was. He liked the steam.

No one looked up from the street to his window.
After a half hour, he crawled into bed, sleep rolling down slowly from above.

Chapter 13

The next morning, Ray awoke to another sunny day
in California, the kind that keeps the myth alive. His entire body throbbed
with pain. He gulped down some ibuprofen. He put on a blue dress shirt with a
dark blue patterned jacket, set off with a gold tie and tan pants. Then he
dialed room service. An overly polite waiter set a table with scrambled eggs
and a pot of black coffee.

Ray ate quickly and then got ready to see his
witness. He put a notebook in his leather bag, along with two pens—the weaponry
of conversation. He planned to stop in North Beach and interview Steven Moran
this afternoon. Most witnesses talked when approached for an interview. They
were concerned or curious or bored. Some wanted to test wits; others needed a
break from their padded lives. Even when their self-interest cried out for the
quietness of the grave, they talked. And if the questioner donned a jacket and
tie, worthiness was beyond question.

He exited the hotel, walked up the hill, and
caught a cab on California Street. The city was in the throes of morning rush
hour. He directed the driver to Vallejo Street in North Beach.

North Beach was the old Italian neighborhood of
San Francisco. Over the years, North Beach had turned into an annex of
Chinatown: Chinese residents were now a solid majority. But the Italian flavor
remained in the commercial area, diluted but lingering, the scent of garlic and
tomato sauce wafting from the restaurants lining Columbus Street. Dressed in
coats and ties, old Italian men tossed crumbs to pigeons in Washington Square
and drew on an endless reservoir of gestures, hands swooping like brown doves.
They patrolled the perimeter of the park; they held ancient grudges; they sat
for three hour lunches and played bocce near the library. They were the last of
a generation that had not renewed itself.

Ray got off at the corner of Vallejo and Grant and
walked to 49 Vallejo Street. The house was midway up Telegraph Hill, a six unit
Georgian-style building with a view of the concrete canyons of downtown. The
small yard was dominated by an enormous century plant, its green spiky leaves
scarred with the carved initials of passersby. ‘Moran’ was listed on the
mailbox, apartment 2. He rang the bell. No one answered. He rang again.
Nothing. He waited for a minute and then walked back to North Beach.

Ray headed over to Cafe Trevi, owned by his old
friend, Nino Pescatore. The 68 year old still served his signature dish of
spinach ravioli at the Cafe on the corner of Stockton and Columbus. He was a
legend in the area, holder of special titles, privy to neighborhood secrets. He
embodied the old neighborhood as North Beach underwent a creeping metamorphosis
from Italian to Chinese.

As head of the Italian American Sports Club, Nino
was the honorary chairman of the Columbus Day Parade, a position that included
the right to play Christopher Columbus during the celebration. Things had gone
roughly as of late. A few years ago, he had expected to land a replica of the
Santa Maria at Fisherman's Wharf in a reenactment of Columbus’s landing in the
New World. Unfortunately, his landing was met by protesters decrying the
destruction of Native American culture. Despite Nino battering several
protesters with a foil-wrapped replica of Columbus’s sword, he was ultimately
prevented from landing. He had vowed to land—whatever the cost—this year.

Nino sipped a cappuccino with Ray at a small table
near the window. “This year, there will be no problems. I have everything accounted
for.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We are going right for the top. Cut off the
head.” Nino smiled.

“Sounds drastic.”

“Go for the jugular. Choke ’em out early. I told
the nuts if they don’t screw around with the landing, we’ll send something over.
Give ‘em a big envelope.”

“An envelope?”

“A donation. For their cause. Why not?” Nino
shrugged. “Listen, I’m Sicilian, I feel for these guys. The Lucchese in North
Beach, they were here first. Goddamn Italian blue-bloods. They called us
Sicilians the mud people when we came here. I know how people get. Just don’t
protest when I land. That's the message that was delivered.” Nino paused. “They
protest that hard when the real Columbus came, maybe we never have this
conversation.”

“Did you really smack someone with that sword?”

Nino gave him a look of mock horror. “The guy
slipped. Salt water, people spill things.” He sipped his cappuccino daintily,
three fingers jutting like antennae.

“Why do you sip like that?” Ray asked.

“Like what?”

Ray mimicked Nino’s splayed fingers.

“What? You want to talk about fingers? That’s how
it’s done. Balance the cup. Ergonomics.”

Ray nodded. “Nino, I’m trying to reach a guy who
lives up the street. Steven Moran. Do you know him?”

“Yeah, I know Steven. Came in this morning.”

“Any idea where he works?” asked Ray.

“He’s working at home, I think. He’s a researcher
or something. He should be there now.”

“OK, I’m heading up there again. I already tried
him, but no one was there.”

“He’s there. Funny guy, probably saw your mug and
decided he’s not answering,” said Nino. “Try him again.”

The two men watched street action, the usual city
plumage. A blond entered wearing a black dress and open-toed heels.

“I don’t like long middle toes on a woman,” said
Nino, smoothing the air with his fingers. This was obviously a topic close to
his heart. “But she looks good. She has the toes to carry off the look.”

“All-star toes,” said Ray. “If the middle toe
slithers off the shoe, that’s it for me.”

“Yes. I know exactly what you mean,” said Nino.
“I‘m seeing a lot of second-tier toes.”

“Too many women are not paying attention to this,”
said Ray.

“Tell me about it,” said Nino. “And young guys
wearing these cheap sandals. Brutal, these guys. I’m serving the best expresso
in the city to who? Some kid with plastic feet. The things I see.”

The men said their goodbyes. Nino unshifted the
charm and went to serve the blond.

Ray left the cafe and headed back up to 49
Vallejo. He rang and rang, leaning on the bell. This time the intercom came alive.

“Hello?”

“Steven Moran, please.” Said Ray.

“This is him.”

“Steven, my name is Ray Infantino. I’d like to
speak with you regarding Tania, Tania Kong.”

A long pause. “Who are you?

“I’m trying to reach her on behalf of a family
member.”

“Who?”

“It’ll just take a few minutes.”

A few seconds passed. Then a buzzer sounded and
the front door unlocked. Ray entered a brightly lit hallway devoid of any
decoration. He heard a door open somewhere down the hallway and saw a head jut
from the right into the hallway.

Ray walked toward the head. The head moved. Then a
thin man with unkempt brown hair entered the hall. His jaw line had little
definition, sloping into his neck, giving it a hoggish aspect, pink and soft.
He wore a white tee-shirt and faded blue jeans.

Steven Moran shook Ray’s hand, and invited him
inside. Steven was in his forties, and wore his hair long in back. His bearing
tilted toward the deferential—a guy who apologized after farting in an empty
room. Originally from the East Coast, he gave off an aura of stumbling
amazement, as if his soul had yet to adjust to the open spaces of the west.

“How did you find me?” Steven asked.

“I knew Tania once lived on Jones Street. You were
listed there as a co-tenant.”

“No, I mean here?”

“On Vallejo? Databases. If you spend money, then
you are probably in the data.”

Steven gestured to a seat, and Ray sat in a large
green chair with a matching ottoman. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” Ray said,
knowing full well he was, and not caring at all.

Steven grinned. “Tania, what a blast from the
past. I haven’t seen her in years.”