A poignant silence filled the room. Somehow, his even tone and polite words achieved an eerie menace.
“Is it our policy to harass visitors to our place of business?”
Nothing.
“Please, leave us alone. At once.”
The sound of bodies scrambling, shuffling, moving out of the room.
“Close the door behind you, Rex.”
When we were alone, Poe murmured, “I’m sorry about that, Plank. They’re good boys, all in all, but sometimes they get carried away and become overly diligent to their responsibilities.”
I nodded. No way in hell Poe didn’t know the moment I arrived and hadn’t approved of everything that had happened until right now. I decided not to mention this fact to him, though. Couldn’t see the point.
A rattler is a snake and always will be.
Poe offered me his hand. I took it and rose.
He was a short, thin man with a muscular build and a soft voice. He wore his black hair short and trim. He had cool blue eyes, a goatee, and an easy smile. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and a black vest, his typical fare.
He looked like dirty money.
“I’m impressed. Those men you were dispensing a beating to are normally not to be taken lightly.”
I shrugged. “I have great faith in fools, my friends call it confidence.”
Poe laughed. “Wonderful. I’d forgotten how amusing you can be.” He clapped his hands together gleefully.
I’d quoted Edgar Allan before he did.
He shook his head, chuckled a little more. Delighted. “Come with me, won’t you?”
He turned, and I followed him into an adjoining room.
Poe’s man cave had one glass wall with an unobstructed view west toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Behind an antique walnut desk stood a tall bookshelf filled with volumes of Poe and other American Romantics—Hawthorne, Irving, Cooper.
A bust of Poe’s namesake, looking harrowed and haunted, sat beside the books. Framed posters of old B-movies directed by Roger Corman and starring Vincent Price—The Pit and the Pendulum, House of Usher, The Raven, Tales of Terror—hung on the walls. On the desk was a miniature pendulum made out of dark wood.
All in all, the room of an academic, perhaps a bit obsessed by his subject. He was an Edgar Allan Poe freak with a surprising pedigree—a master’s degree in English literature. His thesis had been on Edgar’s influence on modern day horror writers. Only, Poe had left academia and his real name, Lawrence Fenderdale, far behind. How he’d gotten from Swarthmore to Pirate’s Cove had to be a fascinating and horrible story in itself, worthy of the Edgar Allan treatment. I only knew a few anecdotes. No one seemed to know much of the tale except for Poe himself, and he hadn’t written his memoirs yet.
He sat down behind his desk and bid me sit in a spit-shined black leather chair in front of it.
“Espresso?” he asked.
I nodded.
He pushed a button and said, “Two espressos please, Angelique.”
He glanced out toward the sun-dappled waters, stretching out to the Gulf of the Farallones, and then looked back at me.
“A bit surprised to find you here without benefit of an appointment.”
“It was a spur of the moment thing. I was out for a drive, mulling a problem over in my mind. All of a sudden, I wondered if perhaps you might be able to help me solve the thing. I just took a sharp left and found myself here.”
“You are aware of my strong preference for advance notice.”
It wasn’t a question. Anybody who knew him knew, or better-had-damn- well-know, his preferences.
“Like I said, it was an impulse. Don’t worry though. I won’t be popping in on you all the time and—”
A tap on the opened door. A woman holding a silver tray. Poe motioned her in.
She was black, tall, big-boned. Her hair was short and frizzy, emphasizing her high cheekbones. She placed a demitasse cup and saucer with a cube of sugar wrapped in silver foil in front of me on the desk and then placed another in front of Poe.
I brought the cup to my nose and closed my eyes. I breathed in the earthy, aromatic smell and smiled. I took a sip and smiled again.
“Thank you, Angelique,” I whispered.
She looked at me, nodded, and didn’t smile with her beautiful full lips. She was intimidating. And sexy as hell. She left the room.
“She’s a gem,” Poe said. “A ninth dan black belt in Taekwondo and Hapkido. My toughest warrior. She could take any of the men out there that you beat down.”
I figured her appearance was just to let me know that he had weapons upon weapons if need be. He needn’t have bothered. I knew what I’d be facing if I ever presented a real threat. Poe himself was rumored to be proficient in the art of violence, particularly involving knives, although these days he generally eschewed force in favor of more genteel persuasions.
“Alright. Let’s assume next time you’ll make a proper appointment.”
“Sure. What’s your cell phone number?”
He gave me a look.
I shrugged. I knew I was supposed to make contact with one of his people on the street, who would then make contact with his contact, and so on and so forth, and then a few days later I’d get a note or a call with the meeting particulars. I didn’t think Frankie should have to wait that long.
“So what is it that I can help you with today?”
I gulped down the rest of the espresso, smacked my lips, and said, “A little girl name of Frankie says you’re a friend of hers.”
“Frankie?”
“Yup. A few inches shy of five feet. Ponytail. Skateboard.”
“Good kid,” he said.
“Seems like it.”
“I forgot. I did send her to see you, as I recall.”
“That’s why I’m surprised at the rough welcome.”
“Boys misbehaving is all.”
“Sure. How do you know Frankie?”
“Well...”
“Probably not the right question, is it?” I paused a moment for dramatic intensity. “It’s Johnnie you know, isn’t it?” Beautiful, twenty-two-year-old Johnnie.
“I have had the pleasure of getting to know both her and her sister.”
“But Johnnie’s the one that works for you.”
Poe sighed. “She does not.”
“What’s your involvement then?”
He paused, pursed his lips. “I will not violate her privacy any more than I have to. She used to work in one of our clubs as a dancer. I came to know her. We were friends. She looked at me as a father figure or mentor. I was occasionally able to be of assistance to her.”
Lord help Johnnie. I wanted to know more but figured he wouldn’t tell me, so I got to the point. “What do you know about her disappearance?”
He took a sip of his espresso. The cup tinkled like a bell when he placed it back down on the saucer. “Unfortunately, not much. Just what poor Frankie told me. I guess Johnnie was in business for herself. Trading online. Sometimes selling things locally.”
“You know about these guys she had a deal with? Blue Notes?”
He brushed his cheeks with his fingers, nodding. “The Blue Notes, yes. A Mission gang.”
“What else?”
“That’s why I sent her to you. You’re the private investigator, no?”
Poe had informants all over the city, including the Mission, and he also had businesses in the district. He had to know more than he was telling me. It didn’t make sense. Why would he involve me at all? Our previous encounters had been more than a tad gnarly, after all.
“I’m not a P.I.”
“Same difference.”
I shook my head, looked out the window. To my left, I could see several smaller boats a little ways away from the ocean cruiser moving toward the maw of the beast.
“So you can’t help Frankie or your...friend, Johnnie?”
“I’d very much like to help. I’ve had a couple of acquaintances ask around, but nothin
g’s turned up. She vanished and nobody seems to know why or where she’s gone.”
“Do you think she just took off and abandoned the little girl?”
“No. Not likely.” He shook his head decisively.
“What about the Blue Notes?”
Poe stood up, walked to the window. With his back to me, he said, “Hidden vices and perversions beneath the veneer of virtue.”
“Must be Edgar Allan.”
A few seconds passed. With his back to me, he said, “Did you see my schooner out there? I’m going to have it refurbished, upgraded. Then I’m going to sail it around the Caribbean for a month. Me and...” He paused, clasped his hands in front of him. “Anyway, it’s a great boat. I’m going to make it into a magnificent one.”
I glanced out at the boat for a long moment, waiting.
Men with toys, just like boys.
“The Blue Notes started out around ten years ago as a group of recovering alcoholics and drug addicts, providing services. Soup kitchens, food banks, twelve step programs, even a dating service for addicts, or ex-addicts, I guess. But in the past several years, things have changed. The organization’s been taken over. They still have some of the services, but they’re a cover for drug dealing and other street crime—numbers, prostitution, extortion. Strictly local and small time, but pretty effective in their own way.”
“Why do you let them operate?”
He turned to face me with a smile on his face. “You overestimate me. I can’t control everything that goes on in this city and—”
“You could have fooled me.” That was an exaggeration, but I knew he was susceptible to that kind of flattery. “Why haven’t I heard of them?”
“They try to keep a low profile and stay out of the papers. Blue Notes is not their public name. The soup kitchens and food banks have generic names, like ‘Mission OutReach’ and the like.” He returned to his chair and sat down, swiveling to face me. He formed his fingers into a pyramid. “As I stated, they’re strictly small potatoes. But they sometimes resort to rather nasty practices. Best be careful if you pay a visit.”
“The two guys Frankie mentioned, Scooter and Vince. You know anything about them?”
“A little. They’re two of the gang leaders. The top gun is a Hispanic gentleman by the name of Caballo Negro, the Black Horse. He’s a piece of work. Very full of himself, but smart and dangerous.”
“Can you help me with them?”
Poe collapsed his fingers, folding them together. “I’m afraid that I cannot. I can only advise that you approach the group carefully and perhaps bring one of your associates who is not afraid of violence. I’d suggest Marsh.”
“Frankie mentioned a car repair shop, Good & Plenty?”
He shrugged. “May be a place to start. Don’t know where they’re hanging out these days.”
Something was wrong. Poe had to know more. He must have cared about Johnnie and Frankie since he referred her to me, but none of it made much sense. I guessed I’d probably have to come back here before I was through.
I got up, thanked him for the espresso, and left.
At the door, the black belt in Taekwondo was waiting for me. Just walking beside her provided a jolt to the old system. She moved like a dancer, a barely contained big cat. Our walk, side-by-side, felt like a sensuous dance, a stirring tango.
Maybe it was only me.
She stayed at my side, ignoring my stabs at chit-chat, until I reached the revolving carousel doors, freeing me from Pirate’s Cove’s clutch. I gave her my best smile and waved goodbye, but she didn’t wave back.
Five
The Sweet and Sour is a beaut.
Eighty-five feet of fiberglass and carbon fiber, teak, and stainless steel. It has two jacuzzis, a pagoda, a game parlor, and a sky lounge.
Meiying kissed me on the cheek and said, “See, I tell you. Beautiful ladies.”
I glanced around and shook my head, marveling. There were eight women on the main deck, each dressed in a variation of the long silky dress, each with elegantly coiffed hair pulled tight to magnificent skulls. All but one was Asian. All of the women were under thirty. I wondered what factory for porcelain perfection they’d been ordered from.
Dao did seem to have a knack for attracting young, pretty women. He liked to be surrounded by beauty in all its forms.
Meiying didn’t seem to mind; she knew she had a firm hold on him.
There were also a half-dozen men present, most middle-aged—here again, all but one Asian. Dao knew that rich men were much more likely to show off their wealth when in the company of female pulchritude.
“Where’s Dao?” I asked.
“Talking to Marsh downstairs. Take time. See Dao later. Here. Now. Be.”
She caught the eye of an impossibly lovely Asian woman in a red dress and motioned for her to join us.
She slunk forward, poetry in motion. Twinkling black eyes, alabaster skin, hair as black as ink.
“Luli, this my friend, Max.”
Luli extended her hand. Long, untamed fingers. Painted violet nails. I bowed, gently clasping her hand. “Absolute pleasure,” I said.
She nodded, acknowledging the obvious. Luli possessed a subtle demureness tinged by a provocative animal aliveness in her movements.
Or something like that.
“Luli likes Murakami and Koons, Plank. Those are two of your favorites, too. I leave you alone to discuss.” With that, she disappeared.
I’d never read Murakami. Koons’ paintings left me cold.
Fifteen minutes later, I found Dao and Marsh Chapin huddled over green tea and blueprints in a corner of one of the staterooms, beneath a porthole that looked out on the Aquarium of the Bay.
They were an odd pair. I’d introduced them a couple of years ago when Marsh had stepped in to help Dao with a fellow yacht owner—a nasty racist, an unneighborly neighbor. Marsh had quickly “solved” the problem, sending the offending party scurrying to find a port far, far away from Dao. They’d got on famously since, sharing interests in Kabuki theater, traditional Asian architecture, quantum physics, and the Boston Red Sox. To say nothing of commodities trading and the markets in general.
“Thanks for leaving me all alone with Meiying and her harem.”
Dao looked up and smiled. “She thinks it’s time you got married.”
Dao was in his early sixties, short, balding, plump with a round face and intelligent eyes. He was whip-smart and knew more about money, finance, and economics than any three Ph.Ds in said fields.
“She’s always thought that.”
“You’re not getting any younger.” He stopped, laughed. “Her words, not mine.”
Dao had been in this country since he was a little boy and had no accent, unlike Meiying, who’d not immigrated until she was almost thirty. Her family knew his family in Beijing, and she was sent over specifically to meet and marry Dao. He resisted until the moment he set eyes on her.
Marsh was leaning back in his chair, studying me.
“What?”
“He’s right.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re aren’t getting any younger.”
“You are?”
“I carry it better.”
Actually, he did. He was a couple of years younger than me but looked like he was still in his twenties. He had golden hair and a rugged face with unblemished skin. His eyes were the color of burnished steel, appraising life and all those living it with a cool, hard matter-of-factness. His body wasn’t overly muscled or bulky, but he was cut, lithe, and moved like a panther. He was a master of more esoteric martial arts than I had names for. He’d trained me, adding significantly to my arsenal of basic but pretty effective moves.
He’d been with Special Forces during part of the Afghanistan war and, I think, was still available for “consultations.” He didn’t ever talk about it, but I’d seen his “expertise,” and it was scary.
I didn’t like to be around at those times when he p
ut his training into practice. I’m not prone to nightmares, but I didn’t want to risk it.
“I don’t see you and Tom walking down the aisle.”
“Please.”
Marsh was never on board with the rush to have gay marriage sanctioned. He was a rogue, through and through, and had no interest in rules and regulations, or in any government or church sanction about how to live.
“Anyway, Tom left.”
“You mean you kicked him out.” Tom was head over heels. They’d been together almost a year, the longest relationship of Marsh’s life.
“It was time.”
I nodded. I liked Tom but knew it probably wasn’t going to last. Marsh was and always would be a loner.
“We need to talk.”
Marsh studied my face, then dipped his chin.
I walked closer to their table. “Blueprints?”
“Marsh has a good idea for a small Kabuki theater here on the Wharf. The Fondue Fanatic is looking for a buyer. Good price. No other Kabuki in the whole city.”
“Where will you get the performers?”
“No problem. Here. There. Everywhere,” Dao said.
I didn’t know a thing about Kabuki, who performed, or who was interested in seeing it.
“What about tonight? Are you going to pitch soon?”
“Pitch. I do not pitch,” Dao said, frowning. “I offer opportunities.”
“Sorry, I can’t stay. I’m not your target audience anyway. I actually still buy my own groceries.”
“Meiying will be upset if you do not make a date with one of the ladies.”
“I’ll see what I can do on my way out.” I turned back to Marsh. “Can you meet me on the pier in ten minutes?”
He nodded.
“Go upstairs first and have some gunpowder chicken and hoisin, please, Plank.”
“I will definitely do that.” My mouth was already watering in anticipation.
“Cribbage?” Dao asked.
“Same old. Tomorrow. Rusty Root at 5.”
Dao nodded and turned back to the blueprints.
Marsh and I stood under the shadow of the awning of the Aquarium of the Bay. The three-quarter moon blazed in the night sky. The water lapped the edges of the pier, a big cat slurping.
Stray Cat Blues Page 4