The Ophelia Cut (8 page)

Underage drinking, he thought. As a bonus, most of the kids in these upscale drinking establishments were middle- and upper-class whites, so he could crack down without the accusation of racism that hampered any effort to interdict the dope traffic in the city’s poorer, mostly minority communities.

Underage drinking. That was the ticket.

G
OODMAN FINISHED GIVING
his press conference at the top of the grand staircase in San Francisco’s city hall. Present were reporters from the
Chronicle
and the
Courier
as well as all the local networks and a few cable and Web-based outlets. He had started off with the unfortunate couple from Boise and managed to include statistics on the increase in traffic problems and other crimes involving minors who had been drinking; on bars that served as distribution centers for drug sales; even down to a few riffs on the proliferation of fake IDs and the threat they posed to national security. “We are a tolerant city,” he had concluded after a robust
Q&A, “and rightfully proud of it. But that tolerance cannot extend to premises and people where illegal activity threatens lives and is a danger to individuals and to public health.”

He was feeling good as he turned away from the knot of reporters to walk to his office. When he saw Jon Lo standing in front of his door, Goodman at first thought that his client had come down to congratulate him on a job well done. But there wasn’t any pleasure in Lo’s face, no sign at all of approval.

Goodman rearranged his own expression, a quick smile, then all concern. “Jon,” he said. “Something on your mind?”

“Maybe inside?” Lo replied.

The suite featured two small anterooms where the clerical staff worked, although this being Friday evening, none was in attendance. Behind those rooms, overlooking Van Ness and peering out to the Opera House, Goodman worked in surroundings that were both traditional and somewhat opulent—red leather chairs and a mahogany desk on a Persian rug, file cabinets, bookshelves, and sideboards hugging the wall space.

Lo went over to stand by the windows, hands clasped behind his back. Short and stocky, in a tailored blue business suit, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts, his shoulders rising and falling, until finally he turned back to Goodman. “I do, as you say, have something on my mind.”

Goodman nodded. “I’d like to hear it. I thought it went very well out there, but if there was some note I didn’t hit—”

Lo held up a hand. “It’s not about that. That went fine. Everything with the alcohol strategy has been good. This is about one of your people.”

“My people? Constituents?”

“No. The young people working here, in your office. The interns.”

This was a surprise, and Goodman showed it. “What about them?”

“How many are there?”

“It varies by day, paid and unpaid, part-time and full, but six average. Always at least three, plus my secretary. Why?”

“All men?”

“One woman. Plus my secretary, Diane, and a new temp we’re got here from Berkeley. What about them?”

“All right, then, four men. One of them . . .” Lo stopped and drew a
breath. “One of them has been visiting my houses and not paying for services. Worse, when the girls complain, he threatens them. He has manhandled one.”

“Which one of my interns?”

“I don’t know. You will laugh, but my girls say they can’t tell, the clients all look the same. Truth is, they’re afraid. They don’t want to make trouble, to be caught in the middle. So when I ask them, they say they don’t know. One says she heard it from another. When I question that one, she says she heard it happened, but not to her.”

“Then how do you know it was somebody from this office?”

“Because I know.” Lo shrugged. “Understand, Liam, that is not why I’m here. I am not asking, I am telling you it is someone from your office, and I cannot let this continue. It is my job to prevent it. It must stop. I don’t want my girls hassled like this. They perform a service. They get paid. They pay me my share. Everybody is happy. If you can’t find a way to do this and it keeps being a problem, the solution will fall to me. But I would much rather you handle it yourself before it causes bad feelings between us.”

Goodman got the message. He backed up a step and put a haunch on the corner of his desk. “I’m really not sure I believe this, Jon.” He held up a hand. “I believe
you,
of course. This is what you hear from your girls, and you bring it to my attention. Which is as it should be. But anybody could say he works for me and try to stiff them.”

Lo nodded. “Please don’t underestimate how serious this problem is. I’m sorry to have to talk to you about this, today of all days, when you should be happy, when the bar sting has worked so well. But I just found out about it myself, and I can’t leave my girls unprotected.”

“No. Of course not. If it’s really one of my people, I’ll find out who it was and fire him immediately. I promise you.”

“That would be good,” Lo said. “At least that.”

T
ONY
S
OLAIA WENT
home to his third-floor studio apartment on Ellis near Mason, in a building bordering the notorious and dangerous Tenderloin district. He showered, then slept on his Murphy bed for four hours before he woke up hungry and worried.

Even for a studio, the place was small. The side walls were eight feet
apart; front to back was twelve feet. A sink in a thin counter hugged the wall next to the refrigerator, so the bed barely cleared them when he lowered it. Above the counter, two wall-mounted cabinets held the glasses and plates and mugs that had been there on his arrival. The other two cabinets held various canned foods and coffee and Top Ramen and spaghetti. The color scheme of the walls and counters was pale yellow, with the occasional brown water spot for accent. Bracketed on one side by a scratched end table and three-way lamp and on the other by the unit’s only chair, a mostly black couch of indeterminate fabric sagged under the windows. He had no television. A tiny closet and bathroom took up the rest of the footprint.

Solaia rolled over, put his bare feet on the floor, and stood up. He raised the bed into the back wall and closed the doors over it, instantly tripling his living space. In the bathroom, he peed and brushed his teeth, then took a two-minute shower.

His dinner table folded out of the side wall opposite the refrigerator, and ten minutes after his shower, he was sitting down to a bowl of Dinty Moore’s beef stew that he’d cooked on his one hot plate, chased by a sixteen-ounce can of Coors Light. He was dressed in clean jeans, hiking boots, and a stylish Jhane Barnes sweater.

After rinsing the dishes, he sat at the table, pulled out his cell phone, and punched up a number he’d marked as a favorite.

On the second ring: “Tony. How you doin’?”

“Hey, Frank. I’m doin’ okay. Going on the assumption that you didn’t see my name in the papers?”

“No. What happened? You make up another fancy cocktail?”

“Not this time.”

“You really shouldn’t be getting your name in the paper, Tony. This or any time. No picture, I pray to God.”

“I’m hoping that, too. I don’t remember any pictures.”

“Well, there’s a plus. Pictures really wouldn’t be good.”

“I hear you. I kind of remembered that from the initial briefing. It wasn’t something I had control over, but I don’t think there were any pictures.”

“Okay.” Pause. “So what happened?” Tony told him. When he finished, Frank asked, “Who’s this lawyer?”

“Just a guy I met where I swim in the mornings.”

“Does he know?”

“No. I don’t know why he would.”

“So why’d he come down and pick you out?”

“Luck of the draw, I guess. I think he’s just a good guy who thought he could help.”

“Right. From all the lawyers who grow on the good-guy lawyer tree.” A mirthless chuckle. “Okay, what else?”

“Well, what else is, I’m out of a job.”

Frank’s sigh echoed in the cell phone. “What do you want me to do about that?”

“Nothing at the moment. I’m in wait mode, see what happens to the bar. Hardy—the lawyer?—he says Rome is probably going to reopen in a couple of days. Meanwhile, I can make a week or two, but if it doesn’t reopen, I’ll need something else.”

“All right,” Frank said. “I’ll keep my eyes open. Another bar, I presume?”

“I’ve got experience in bars. That would be easiest. Hardy’s offered me some shifts in the place he owns.”

“This good-guy lawyer also owns a bar and says he’ll hire you?”

“Strange as it seems.”

“It seems like a miracle, you ask me. This guy have wings?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Jesus. All right.” Short pause. “So. Did they print you?”

“Sure.”

Another sigh. “I’ll have to talk to somebody down there, then. If they run you for outstandings . . .” He let the phrase hang.

“I get it, Frank. That’s why I called. I thought you’d want to know.”

“I’ve got to know, Tony. Your cover gets blown, guess who takes the hit for it? Your friendly U.S. Marshal, that’s who.”

“It wasn’t my fault, Frank.”

“It wasn’t you pouring drinks for the kids?”

“I poured the drinks, but I didn’t know they were kids. They had IDs. They got stamped at the door. Not my fault.”

“No. I guess not. But not the best luck, either.”

“No,” Solaia said, “no, it wasn’t.”

B
RITTANY WAS STARTING
to wonder if this was the way it always would be.

Last night she’d been waiting at the Shamrock, passing the time with her dad and the Beck, and Rick had appeared, dressed up in coat and tie and looking every bit as hot as he did during the week when he stopped in at Peet’s. Seeing her, he lit up. He and Brittany and the Beck went into the back room and shot darts and drank some whiskey, and everybody was getting along great, Brittany thinking that the night was going to work out, textbook—she knew she would have her hands and everything else all over Rick Jessup tonight and as far into the future as she wanted to hold on to him.

It got to be around nine o’clock, and she’d had a couple of cosmos and learned more about Rick. On the positive side, he had a real job, chief of staff for Liam Goodman; he wasn’t and hadn’t been married; he was twenty-seven. Not so good was that he wasn’t wild about dogs or cats or country music, although he could tolerate . . .

“. . . Taylor Swift.”

“She’s not even country anymore,” the Beck said.

“No,” Brittany put in. “She is country. She’s just not stupid country.”

“Well,” Rick said, “stupid country is what I mean by country. Which is why Taylor Swift is okay. Because she’s not really country. Like”—he turned to Brittany—“who’s this playing right now?”

“Carrie Underwood.”

“There you go. Totally country, totally stupid. ‘Jesus, Take the Wheel.’ ” Rick was getting into it. “Give me a break. Drive the damn car yourself! Don’t give it to Jesus! How’s Jesus supposed to know how to drive? Does she think they had cars back in ancient Israel? I want to punch her.”

“No punching women allowed,” Rebecca said.

“Not unless you have to.” Rick gave the Beck a flat look, dead serious for a split second before breaking into a teasing smile, then continuing, “But country? Really? Totally LCD.”

“How can you say that?” Brittany cut between them. “Carrie is not the lowest common denominator. To say nothing of Brad.”

“Who’s Brad?”

“ ‘Who’s Brad?’ he asks. Paisley? Only the best guitar player in the world? And singer and songwriter, while we’re at it.”

“Nope. Sorry. He’s the tick guy, right? ‘I Want to Search You for Ticks’?”

“A great song.”

Jessup shook his head. “LCD.”

“Blake Shelton?”

Rolling his eyes. “No.”

“Miranda Lambert.”

“Please.”

“Get out! Kenny?”

Rick turned to the Beck. “What’s this with the first names?” Back to Brittany. “Kenny?”

“Chesney? Hello?”

Finally, Rick let himself grin. “Okay, beach stuff only, not bad. But that’s as far as I’m going. At least until I get another drink. And speaking of that, what’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here?”

In the bathroom, washing her hands, the Beck said, “I’m glad neither of our dads was around to hear him say that sometimes you had to punch women.”

“That was a joke.”

“Really? Not the funniest one I’ve ever heard. And you didn’t pick up just a little tiny bit of condescension?”

“Why? Because he doesn’t like country music?”

“No. Just the general attitude.”

“He’s got opinions, Beck. That’s a good thing.”

“Kind of depends on what they are, don’t you think? I can’t say I’m really taken by the way he got you to order another round for us all. And you went.”

“I’m a nice person, Beck. I went to get us drinks. Big deal.”

“I don’t know. You combine arrogant and impatient, and okay, he’s good-looking, but he’s a politician, and I bet he’s used to getting his way. At least that’s the way he comes across. Don’t you think?”

“I think somebody might be a little jealous here.”

Drying her hands, the Beck turned to face her. “Get real, Brit.”

“Y
OUR DAUGHTER IS
beautiful,” Jessup said.

McGuire leaned over the bar, close to the young man wearing a suit and tie on a Friday night. “She is,” he agreed. “She’s a wonderful person. How’d you two meet each other again?”

“I’m a regular customer at Peet’s. We got to talking. One thing led to another, and here we are.”

“So where are you two off to?”

“That plan is still uncertain. Hopefully someplace we can talk, get to know each other a little.”

“That’s a good start.”

Jessup flashed a confident grin. “Gotta communicate,” he said. “That’s the key.”

McGuire narrowed his eyes. Was the guy putting him on with this cliché? He simply nodded, saying, “Can’t argue with that.”

“I think it’s cool,” Jessup went on, “that she asked me to come meet her down here. Say hi to her dad on night one. That’s not everybody’s first move. It’s gutsy. I like it. And no guts, no glory, as they say.”

“I don’t know if I’m all that intimidating,” Moses replied.