Been there. Done that. Got the scars to prove it.
“So?” Bo asked.
I glanced over at the band members. Vig and Pete, the former totally bald, the latter with his long graying hair falling over his shoulders, stood at the keyboard chatting. Marty and Martha, married to each other and usually either fighting or necking in public, were watching us.
“Can you come with me for a minute?” I turned and, dodging traffic, crossed Marina Boulevard. Bo followed, and we stood in front of a one-hundred-plus-foot yacht with a finish that looked like copper glistening in the sun.
I turned to Bo and said, “Have you seen Poe lately?”
He frowned. “He was at the restaurant a few weeks ago.”
“What he’s been up to? Do you know of any changes in his business, habits, his people?”
“What’s going on, Max?”
I quickly summarized my encounter with Frankie. When I finished, he said, “You’re taking the case for free?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet. Just trying to get a little information and see if I can help the kid out.”
He nodded, shook his head. “Poe came by with his...” He paused, glanced out at the yacht harbor—seagulls soaring, boats rocking, sunlight glistening off the waves—and winced. “Entourage,” dragging out the syllables. “About a month ago. They closed up the place. I dismissed everybody else, and Poe and I had a chat at a side table while his party—eight of them, each a unique evolutionary specimen—ate my food for free.”
A few years ago, Bo discovered that Poe was his landlord, having purchased the building which housed the Rusty Root, though the owner of record was an attorney known to be friendly with Poe. There’d been one steep rent increase since then, but other than that it had been business as usual.
“What did he want?”
“Hard to say. I think he likes me.” Bo smiled, shook his head. “He wasn’t trying to strong arm me. He didn’t mention a rent increase. Probably knows I can’t pay anymore and still have a viable business. He asked about my restaurant, inquired politely about the gossip in the neighborhood. Told me he loved the food.”
“Nothing else?”
“He said that his own neighborhood was ‘transitioning.’ Said it was all to the good and that his own business was benefitting from the changes.” Bo pursed his lips, nodded. “That’s about it.”
Poe’s base of operations was on Treasure Island, a strange, spooky, sparsely populated pile of fill sitting on natural shoals in the Bay. It had been created for the 1939 World’s Fair. Poe runs it like his own personal fiefdom, paying off cops and politicians who are happy to turn a blind eye to his pastimes. After many years of behind the scenes political maneuverings, he got approval to build a casino there, and the tax revenues from that keep all the cats in Sacramento purring and declawed.
I stood staring back at Bo’s garage for a few moments, mulling existentially the nothingness of what I’d learned.
“You going out to see him?”
“Guess so.”
“Be careful, buddy.”
I nodded. “Band sounded pretty good from what I heard.”
“We suck.”
“You’ll knock ‘em dead. Your daughter and new son-in-law will be the talk of the town.”
“Shit.”
“That too,” I said.
Four
As I crossed the isthmus that connects Yerba Buena Island to Treasure Island, I was aware of the blood pumping in my veins, the thrill of the rumbling bike between my legs, along with a more uncomfortable feeling, a wariness anticipating a meeting with Poe.
On the Avenue of the Palms with San Francisco Bay’s waters just feet from my bike, I glanced out at Alcatraz Island and beyond it to the gleaming spires of the Golden Gate Bridge. If there is a better view anywhere in the universe, I have yet to encounter it.
I zipped up around Perimeter Drive with Angel Island beneath a cloud cover looming in the distance. A cruise ship housing thousands of gamblers was moored a few hundred yards out in the bay. A three-masted schooner floated closer in. I guessed it was Poe’s boat, perhaps out there only to add flavor.
To my right, the resort complex, Pirate’s Cove, spread out like an octopus.
Actually, there was no “like” about it. It was a man-made octopus. Perched at water’s edge was the main casino, a gigantic smoky glass round hub with eight curling steel and glass spindles reaching out from it. Two of them held hotel rooms coursing out over the bay and anchored to the ocean floor by concrete hands. Topped by overhanging walkways lush with palms, fountains, Daliesque statuary, even a couple of water slides. And game parlors, where you could continue to lose money while getting your fresh air break from the casino.
It was Las Vegas transplanted to San Francisco.
The design was ridiculous. The architect, Raise Fuhlman out of Hong Kong was an idiot savant. From the start, it seemed a boondoggle of the highest order. San Francisco was much too cosmopolitan for a development of such tacky kitsch.
But, so far, all the prognosticators were wrong. It had been an unmitigated success since it opened a little more than a year ago. Tourists and the home crowd alike flocked to it like seagulls to a rotting whale corpse.
Poe had to be making millions. Of course, for him, enough was never enough.
I pulled into the mouth of the beast via one of the tentacles—a tunnel leading directly into the underground garage beneath the casino.
Bo had told me Poe’s base of operations was on the top floor of the casino, eighteen stories high. I figured Poe must be suffering from delusions of grandeur. He belonged in the basement, underground, a black widow spinning his webs in the dark.
I took the metal stairs, my rubber-soled shoes squeaking, to the first floor, opening out into the cacophony of the casino. Dominating the center of the room was a pirate ship, supposedly a replica of the Black Pearl from Pirates of the Caribbean.
Slots, blackjack tables, and roulette wheels were strewn all over the deck of the ship and spilled out all around it in longboats and luggers, where the hopeful and the hopeless could nurture the dream of pirate treasure—despite the fact that the machines here were manipulated to pay out even less frequently than those up in Lake Tahoe.
The light was dim, the floor painted sea blue, and the ceiling black with bright starburst patterns.
The tin sound of the slots mixed with the crackle of people laughing, crying out, shouting. The subtle sweet stench of excess spirits (alcohol only one of them) reflected the thrum of the casino itself. The machine of the system was visceral, a sweet sucker punch—it either thrilled or sickened depending on your predilections.
I’d been here once before with Bo when we’d played a few rounds of blackjack and caught a show in the lounge featuring a still blistering hot Steve Miller. It had been a pleasant experience overall. We’d both left with a few dragoons in our pockets and met two lovely women, Katherine and Paula. Both approaching the dangerous age of forty—lifelong friends from Hoboken and Palm Beach respectively—they’d been on a weekend getaway to see if they could recapture a touch of something lost after divorces and other depredations of age. They were kind enough to spend the evening with us. I like to think they recall that night with fond smiles, and maybe a blush or two.
All in all, I had nothing against Pirate’s Cove.
Up against the south wall of the place was a reception area featuring islands of sand, palm and coconut trees made of metal, treasure chests, babbling water fountains, comely wax wenches. I engaged a pretty, young red-haired woman behind the black granite desk wearing a Swashbuckler’s hat and pirate corset fulfilling the designer’s intent. She smelled like the second day of spring.
She flashed a big smile; I returned the favor.
In that brief moment, I felt we connected on a subtle, yet profound level.
She wore a tag that read, “Julie.”
“Julie,” I said. “I’d like to get up to the eighteenth floor.”
She frowned. “Nothing’s on the eighteenth floor, sir.”
I nodded. “That right?”
“Yes. Do you need a room, sir?”
“I believe the owner of this casino is on the eighteenth floor, Julie.”
She looked at me. I looked back. Moments passed. She appeared to be a bit confused.
“I speak of Poe.”
Her face dropped. I’d crossed a line.
“Poe,” I repeated.
“One moment, sir.” She spun and disappeared into a narrow hallway to my right.
It was a full five minutes before she returned, trailed by an older man not wearing a pirate outfit. I took this to mean that this was a more seriously empowered employee.
He stepped in front of Julie and drew a deep breath, puffing up his chest a bit, before giving me a plastic smile. He was around fifty, soft around the edges, a falcon face, big ears, and jet black hair that looked suspiciously like a piece.
“Hello. Dave Robins at your service. How can we help, Mr...?”
“Plank.”
“Yes. Mr. Plank.”
I wondered why it had taken more than five minutes and Julie hadn’t even explained my raison d’etre to the man. “Well, Dave, as I explained to Julie, I’d like to see Poe.”
“Poe?”
“Yes, as in Edgar Allan.”
This was funnier than it seemed if you knew Poe. Dave’s lips did not move an iota from their straight professional line.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Nope. But we’re old friends. He’ll be surprised and pleased, I’m sure.” He would be surprised, but probably not altogether joyful.
“I see. Wait here a moment, please.”
Dave disappeared while Julie stood back from the reception desk staring off into the distance. Our initial chemistry evaporated like a mirage.
Dave never did return.
Two men, with an obvious fondness for free weights and tanning salons, appeared at my elbows. Each placed a large hand on my shoulders, almost simultaneously.
“Mr. Plank,” the one tampering with my right shoulder said in a gruff voice.
I turned to look into gray eyes displaying a decided lack of emotion. He was shorter than me but twice as wide.
I nodded.
“Come with us,” he said.
“Remove your hands,” I said.
“You got a problem?” the man gripping my left shoulder responded. I turned to him. He was my height, slimmer, with a face only a mother could love, and eyes that twinkled darkly when he smiled.
“None whatsoever.”
“Then do what the man told you to.”
“Love to.”
I shrugged, ducked, spun low and away, and turned back to face the men.
“Let’s go, gentlemen. Lead the way. I’ll follow.”
Short and wide attempted to reassert his hand. I slapped it away.
The two men looked at each other, frowns on their faces, consternation in their expressions. I suppose it was relatively rare for anyone to resist their kindly ministrations.
“What do ya think, Art?”
Tall, thin, Art breathed a long one through his little nostrils while sizing me up. “Okay. Forget it, Rex.”
“Rex?” I said.
Art turned. Rex followed lockstep. I trailed behind. Three ugly ducklings all in a row.
We ended up in an employees-only area, hidden beside the bank of customer elevators, behind a door that Art opened using a card key. It smelled like lemon cleaner, sweat, smoke, and cooking oil upchucked by a drunken sailor.
Art told me they had to search me. Expecting no less, I nodded my okay, and Rex felt me up.
“Did you enjoy that?” I asked when he’d finished.
“Shit head,” he snarled.
I took it as a compliment.
Two service elevators were waiting for us, and I followed them into one. They spread out on opposite sides, forcing me to take up the middle position.
“Is Poe a fun boss to work for?” I asked as the elevator began humming upward.
Art chuckled but said nothing.
That was the extent of the small talk.
The elevator stopped on the seventeenth floor, one short of our expected destination. Art’s hand came up toward my elbow, then wavered and dropped down.
“Go ahead,” he said.
I stepped out of the box.
We were in a gymnasium, a large fully-equipped space containing the full panoply of modern equipment—treadmills, stairmasters, ellipticals, and a couple of bowflexes, along with a long row of colored dumbbells, circuit equipment, power cages, and a boxing ring.
Such a waste of space and money. You do not need any of that equipment to get yourself into ship-shape condition. In fact, I would argue, it hampers the effort. Your own body, used appropriately, is more than adequate. Most people haven’t a clue. That cluelessness, however, keeps a lot of people employed. If things were sold based merely upon their necessity or usefulness, America’s economy would collapse upon its already shaky foundations.
Television screens, too many to count, were the primary wall decorations.
A blonde model type, long hair flowing behind her like a TV commercial for shampoo, pounded peds on one of the treadmills while watching Mad Men. Two black men traded punches and insults in the boxing ring. Otherwise, the gym was empty.
I knew there were two other gyms and various spas scattered throughout the resort. This one was likely not open to the public.
The far side of the room held a wall of mirrors, and I watched myself watching myself between Art and Rex. They both had their eyes on me and I on them, or their reflections. They were sizing me up, trying to figure me out.
I put on my inscrutable face.
There were hallways leading away from the gym to my right and left.
“This where you guys buff your impressive physiques?”
They were a tough crowd. Rex touched me again on the elbow. “This way,” he said and pointed to the hallway on the left. I eased my elbow away from his fingers and followed his direction.
Thus, we found ourselves in a small, square room with white walls, gray carpet, and no windows. A single desk with a glass top and swivel chair. Another swiveler was pushed into a back corner.
Three more men had gathered.
I was flattered to have drawn a crowd.
The two standing gentlemen had been produced by the same cookie cutter responsible for the look of my escorts: biceps bulging, eyes flat, faces with expressions lacking joie de vivre.
The one sitting behind the desk had a prosperous gut, but his upper body was a tree trunk. His hands lay flat, motionless. A stapler, a basket of pens, papers stacked neatly, a pair of wire rims, an unwrapped sucker in a glass ashtray, a square plastic bottle of fancy water with bold calligraphy signaling its specialness.
Sitter was older than the other three men, perhaps mid-forties, but he too resembled a bull. Poe’s job requirements were nothing if not utilitarian.
The other two men stood at opposite sides of the desk in erect military-style posture.
“Mr. Plank, why are you here?” the man at the desk asked, his index finger rising for a moment.
“Come to make my fortune.”
The fist that took me by surprise shouldn’t have. I buckled over, holding my gut. Rex had been aching to smack me since the moment we met.
I dropped to one knee, trying to catch a breath.
“Why are you here?” the older man repeated.
I winced, looked up. The men at the sides of the desk hadn’t moved a muscle. Art was still a few steps behind me. I could sense Rex hovering above me, his fists clenched, eager.
“I need to talk to Poe,” I managed.
“Not gonna happen,” he responded.
“Shame,” I said.
“Life,” he offered.
“Tell me about it,” I countered.
“We don’t like you coming here and bothering our employee
s with questions about the boss.” For the first time, his voice betrayed a tinge of malice.
I closed my eyes, visualizing the scene. Seconds passed.
I grabbed Rex’s ankle and jerked it sharply back towards the center of his stance. As he started to fall, I socked him in the groin. He cried out, toppled over.
“Sucker punches irritate me,” I said, jumping to my feet, my palms open at my side. “Just one of my pet peeves.”
The two men at the desk hadn’t had time to absorb and respond yet, but I sensed Art beginning to move behind me. Shifting my weight to my right foot for balance, I spun and slammed my left foot into his knee. He grunted. I broke his nose with my right elbow, and he collapsed.
I pivoted to face the others.
Nothing had changed in their positions, only the expressions on their faces. Since I like to move people emotionally, I was glad to see it.
“You’re a dead man, Plank,” desk man said, not bothering to raise his voice.
One of the standing men barked, “Fuckhead’s in deep shit now.”
“Sticks and stones,” I retorted, relaxing my limbs, letting go of my mind, moving forward on the balls of my feet.
The Fuckhead Fulminator charged, fists first. I tripped him, and he fell at my feet. I spun, kicking him in the stomach, and he grabbed his solar plexus and gasped for air. A pair of hulking arms wrapped around my neck and tightened, lifting me up in the air. I dangled for a moment, then rocked my legs up and out and slammed my heels down on choker’s feet. He screeched and let go. I whirled and caught him with a right hook. Somebody wrenched my legs out from beneath me. I fell and two bodies crashed down on top of me.
I grabbed an ear and twisted, poked an eye with my thumb. Screeching and howling in my ear. We rolled around on the floor for a few seconds, and then a voice broke through the chaos.
“Stop!”
Both men immediately rolled off me and knelt in a fair rendition of a yoga cat pose.
“Plank, are you alright?”
“Never been better. Things were just beginning to get interesting.”
I looked up at Poe from my prone position on the floor.
“Did no one think to advise me that we had a visitor?”
Stray Cat Blues Page 3