Stray Cat Blues

by Robert Bucchianeri

  “Shouldn’t we get Red some real cat food?” Frankie asked as she poured another healthy dollop of syrup over her already soaked stack.

  “If he hangs around. Maybe he belongs to somebody else around here. One of the other boat owners.” I doubted that, but I could hope.

  “He doesn’t. I don’t think he has a home at all.” She reached down and petted the cat, who ignored her and continued slurping the milk.

  “Well, we’ll see. I’ll pick up a small bag of cat food later.”

  That seemed to satisfy her, and she dug back into her pancakes.

  After breakfast, Frankie insisted on doing the dishes, and she did a thorough job and handed me the clean-as-a-whistle plates to dry.

  As we were finishing up, Meiying popped her head into the galley.

  “Max, you have new dishwasher?”

  Frankie screeched and ran into Meiying’s arms. They hugged, pulled back, stared at each other with big smiles, hugged again.

  She and Dao had never had kids. Dao had informed me, in his usual blunt manner, that his sperm count was too low. They’d thought about adoption, but life had somehow gotten in the way as for many years they’d led a peripatetic existence: Dao working for or consulting with various mighty giants of finance from New York to London to Hong Kong to Dubai, until finally he’d gotten tired of the bullshit and hooey of high finance and gone off on his own, settling finally onto the Sweet and Sour, falling in love with San Francisco and its peerless bay.

  All that to say, a baby never happened. They might have some regrets about that, but it didn’t seem to impact their powerful bond.

  As I watched Frankie and Meiying, my cell phone rang from across the room. I took it out of my jacket and went out onto the deck above, leaving the girls to their pleasant chatter.

  The sky was a vast and mostly blue canvas. It was cool with a slight southwesterly breeze. A brown pelican sat regally on the post of a pier, with a flock of seagulls circling overhead anxious for a mid-morning snack.

  “Plank,” I said into the phone.

  “Yeah. This is Leonard, you know.”

  It wasn’t a question. Neither he nor I was likely to forget each other for a while, an unfortunate reality for both of us. For a moment, I wondered how he’d gotten my number, but then I remembered giving him my card.

  “I do know,” I answered.

  “I want the girl out of here,” he said. Well, howdy-do to you too, Len.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I mean. C’mon man, it’s too dangerous around here. Johnnie was into some serious shit, and now Frankie’s up in it. Why should I be involved? It’s already cost me more than five hundred bucks and—”

  “Why are you calling me?”

  There was a pause on the line. I could hear his wheezy breath as he considered my question.

  “I haven’t seen her, man, but I don’t want her coming back here. I figured you’d know where she was and you could talk to her, tell her what’s up.”

  “You’re a prince among men, Lenny. Do you have a lease signed by Johnnie?”

  Another pause while he decided whether to lie or not. “There was a lease, but it expired. I can throw ‘em out anytime I want.”

  That was bluster and he knew it. “That’s not the way it works. You have to give thirty days’ written notice.”

  “Bullshit, man. Bullshit,” he repeated as if trying to hammer home the fact that he knew he was full of it. “I want her out. If she comes back, she’s going to have it rough here. I’m telling you, I’m going to—”

  “Shut up. If she comes back, you aren’t going to do a damn thing to that little girl. If I find out that you so much as raised your voice to her, I’m going to pay you a visit, and we’re going to resume our previous chat.” Leonard was a hustler, and a low-life, and a true creepazoid. And like all vermin of his nature, he was a coward.

  “I’m not afraid of you, man. If you start up with that shit you tried last time, strong-arming me, I’m gonna call the cops.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “I didn’t mention any kind of violence. I just said we’d chat. And I’d welcome the police. If they aren’t already aware of some of the activities going on at your lovely home, I’m sure they’ll be interested in your business.”

  “God damn you. I’ve got friends. Tough as you for sure.” His voice trailed off. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, emitting a low growl of frustration. “I don’t want the kid back here. Tell her that.”

  “Goodbye, Lennie,” I said, and heard him mumble, “Dammit,” as I tapped the phone off.

  The pelican had joined the seagulls in the sky and suddenly veered sharply downward and dove, in that inimitable rocket-like way, until it plunged into the water, breaking the surface with a splash of white foam. A moment later, it emerged with a mouthful of anchovies.

  I’d thought about mentioning the list that Frankie had stolen from him. I could do it without implicating her, and it would probably really throw him into a panic. I assumed it was a list containing the names of his drug clientele, along with some of their “preferences” in women, which put an interesting spin on his business, and my view of his relationship with Maggie. I still didn’t know enough to make a firm conclusion, but things were beginning to go from opaque to merely murky. I’d decided to hold off on confronting him with my knowledge of the list until an appropriate moment when we were face-to-face, and I’d have a much better shot at breaking through his inevitable prevarications.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Meiying calling me from below. “Plank, I want to take Frankie to the Sweet and Sour with me. Big plans today.”

  “Big plans!” Frankie giggled, and Meiying shushed her, but they both laughed even louder, delighted with their secrets.

  Plans which solved my problem of what to do with Frankie for the moment. I was sure that Meiying and Dao would take the girl in, at least for a couple of days.

  I was also sure Leonard couldn’t evict her as quickly as he hoped, but I was as worried as he pretended to be about the danger she was in. Until I could figure out what was going on, I’d keep her close to me.

  If anything happened to Frankie, I knew I’d have to answer to Meiying and Alexandra, and that was almost as frightening as the prospect of the unseen forces gathering around the little girl.

  Seventeen

  “So what did Tom say to that?”

  Marsh frowned. He picked up his white bone china demitasse cup of rich, in all senses of the word, seven buck espresso. He took a sip and smiled.

  I had my bargain basement, six-dollar Americano in front of me, held within the confines of a black mug with the store logo—a dancing woman with a wrench in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—etched in gold across its surface.

  It was early evening. We’d had dinner at the Rusty Root, and we were at FIX in Ghirardelli Square—one of three locations, with three more planned to open in the next few months, according to Marsh, who was an investor and part owner/consultant to the three twenty-something fledgling entrepreneurs, who were intent on pushing the envelope vis-a-vis how much you could charge for a cup of coffee and still keep a straight face.

  Judging by the size of the crowd wending its way out the door, the sky’s the limit.

  I sometimes marveled at the continuing influx of people from all over the world anxious to call the Bay Area home. The real estate prices were beyond ridiculous, the traffic horrendous, and places like FIX stretched the bounds of the fantastic.

  Beauty has its price, and the gorgeous lady that is San Francisco is a demanding bitch.

  “So?” I said after it looked like Marsh wasn’t going to answer my question.

  “I like him. I do. But he’s gotten too possessive. He’s young. He doesn’t realize there’s a big old world out there and that I’m not his knight in shining armor.”

  “Want me to clue him in for you?”

  “Thanks. But I’ve already done that. He’s familiar w
ith the negative side of my ledger and doesn’t seem to care.”

  “You’re such a lovable lug, it’s hard to see your forest for your trees.”

  Marsh studied a couple of young surfer types at the counter eating gluten-free kale and cranberry muffins and drinking organic green tea, perhaps steeped in Himalayan spring water, hand-carried by extra virgin Sherpas down from the snowy peaks.

  “So what’s the verdict?”

  “Huh?” He eyed the younger surfer, probably only around twenty, with golden locks and a deep tan, wearing a purple headband, three gold earrings in his right ear, and a shirt open to the waist revealing chiseled pecs, hot out of a Tony Horton commercial.

  “Yes,” he said, finally, reluctantly looking away from the hunk. “He’s moving out, but we’re still going to talk. He insists we try a...” Marsh made parentheses with his fingers, “‘timeout’ but that we talk every other day and meet for dinner once a week while we figure things out.”

  “Sounds very adult. And you went along with it?”

  “Even though it’s a waste of time. I don’t know how long I can bear with it, but I’ll try. In the meantime, let’s—”

  The surfers rose, and as they moved by our table, Marsh called out to them. “Gentlemen, may I have a word with you.”

  They stopped, looked around, then decided that he was speaking to them. He coaxed them closer with a wagging index finger.

  “Thanks, gents. I’m Marsh Chapin, and this is my friend, Plank. I was just wondering, if you don’t mind, what you thought of the muffins and the tea. I work with the owners here, and those are new items on the menu. There’s nothing like immediate feedback, no?” he said, smooth as smooth ever gets.

  “Yeah, sure,” the older, shorter one replied with a smug expression on his face. He was happy to be consulted. He had thinning black hair, a goatee, a dark tan, and wore a Hawaiian shirt. He was in good shape, but paled in every way next to his younger buddy.

  As he sang the praises of gluten free and organic, Marsh and the blond Adonis eyed each other frankly.

  After goateed finished, Marsh said, “Thank you, Mr.?”

  “It’s George. And this is Dave.”

  “Dave, nice to meet you,” Marsh said. “And what did you think of the fare, David?”

  “It was okay,” he said, coolly. It was obvious Dave understood the value and heft of what stared back at him in the mirror every morning. He wasn’t going to be reeled in so easily by an attractive stranger’s offhand pitch.

  “Good,” Marsh said. “Thank you for your time.” He opened his wallet, extracted a couple of cards. “Here’s my contact information. If you have any suggestions regarding the shop, please don’t hesitate. We really want to involve the community in making this the best coffee establishment in town.”

  Marsh stood, shook George’s hand, then turned to the beautiful Dave and gripped his hand, at the same time placing his other palm around the younger man’s wrist. “A pleasure,” Marsh said, staring into his eyes. “I do hope to hear from you.”

  You could see a light bulb clicking on, a dawning on George’s face as to what had just happened. Marsh stepped back, sat down, and asked me if I wanted another coffee. I nodded, and he motioned to the barista.

  Surfer boys stood by the table for a few seconds in silent reverie, considering perhaps the ramifications of the encounter and what might occur as a result. Marsh ignored them as if they no longer existed.

  Finally, Dave said, “Let’s go.”

  I was sure that, before twenty-fours passed, Dave would think of something that might improve FIX in some small, yet interesting way, and feel an immediate need to call Marsh.

  Funky Jack’s lived up to its name.

  It reeked of cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, a strong dose of unwashed man, and a skosh of urine.

  It was a narrow low-ceilinged space holding three rooms: The first was a small foyer, complete with an ancient crystal chandelier that hung so low that anyone taller than five-and-a-half feet had to veer around it or suffer a bloody nose. A massive antique coat rack with copper-colored hangers took up most of the space. The walls were covered with dark paintings of the English countryside, Romantic-era landscapes and ocean scenes in the J.W. Turner style. The floor was black marble.

  This makes the room sound fancy, but it wasn’t. Most of the chandelier lights were broken and filthy, the coat rack was covered with jackets, blouses, men’s and women’s underwear—a black bra and tangerine colored thong the most prominent—and old shoes. A thick veneer of dust covered the paintings. The floor was cracked, cratered, perilous to step on.

  The main room appeared to have no relation to the entry. It was a long, dark space, with a vinyl covered bar on the left that spanned the length of it. A dozen tables were scattered about in no discernible pattern. The floor was hard-bitten wood and sawdust, the ceiling painted black. A large, smoky black mirror centered the bar. The decorations featuring motifs from the Mexican Day of the Dead: skulls, unlit and half-melted candles, dolls with cadaverous faces, and cheap costume jewelry scattered about.

  The bar was fronted by a half-dozen swiveling stools with either ripped or faded black leather covers. The only light in the room was provided by a few bulbs in cast iron fittings.

  The air was full of smoke and broken dreams.

  Overall, the place was a nice mashup of a coal mine and a whorehouse.

  When Marsh and I entered, all heads, ten including the bartender, turned toward us and gawked.

  We ignored the startled looks and wandered to the bar. I ordered a beer and Marsh a coffee, black. The bartender—young, bald, Asian, hostile—gave Marsh a look of disdain and said, “Coffee, man?”

  Marsh gave him a look back, and the bartender shrugged. “Got some from this morning. I can heat it back up for you if you want.”

  “As appealing as that sounds, I’d like a fresh cup, please,” Marsh purred.

  “Jesus.” He looked toward the ceiling, unable to comprehend the trials that God was sending his way. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Be ten minutes. At least.”

  “Great to see that fine service is still valued in this great city,” Marsh said to no one in particular, turning his back to the bar.

  At a corner table, three older men, two drinks past woozy, sat hunched and muttering over a game of liar’s dice. At another table near the entry sat three young women, all Latino, all with short skirts, spiky heels, and black stockings. The table was covered with empty shot glasses and full ashtrays, and the women leaned in close to each other, trading secrets, stealing glances.

  The sharp unmistakable crack of a break shot came from behind us, and after I got my pint, we wandered back to take a closer look.

  The two pool tables were worn but in decent shape, seemingly the only objects that received a modicum of care in the establishment.

  Six young men with pool cues surrounded the tables. The men were all young—all sharp elbows and puffed-out chests, tough talk, and dirty jokes.

  It took me a few moments to notice the two men lurking at the farthest corner of the room, shadowy figures in the dim light. One sat on a tall bar stool backed up against a closed door. The other knelt beside him, occasionally making comments to which the seated man nodded. I couldn’t make out their features, but I felt a dangerous vibe emanating from them.

  The boys were shooting separate games of eight ball for money. Piles of twenty dollar bills sat at the tables’ edges. There was a squirrelly bite to the conversation, the typical blasphemous cursing and macho posturing, back slapping, goading. It was friendly but tinged with the barely concealed hint of violence.

  Marsh and I watched silently. After a long while, the bartender called out that the coffee was ready, and Marsh brought back a mug full and winced when he took a sip.

  “Not up to FIX standards, eh?”

  “If he didn’t just reheat the stuff he made this morning, you can’t tell. Course it probably was dreck in the first place.”

  The pool pl
ayers paid no particular attention to us, although there was the occasional glance or brief appraisal beneath hooded eyes.

  After ten minutes, a fat young Mexican kid with a full beard pointed his pool cue, moving it back and forth between us. “Hey man,” he said.

  I looked at him but said nothing.

  “You play or just watch.”

  “I haven’t played for a while, but I used to.”

  “You like to gamble?” another man said. This one was tall and lanky, loaded with tattoos.

  I shrugged.

  Lanky said, “Scooter, you wanna play ‘em?”

  Scooter stepped in front of the table and planted his cue stick. He dropped the cigarette dangling from his right hand to the floor and ground it out with a dismissive twist of the toe of his black silver-buckled boot. A gunslinger posturing before a duel.

  He wore black jeans and a black t-shirt and looked like his little brother, Louie, only with a more pronounced epicanthic fold to his Asian eyes, fewer tattoos, and more hair. The long black tresses trailed to his shoulders.

  “Your friend play?”

  “I prefer shuffleboard,” Marsh quipped.

  Scooter gave him a quizzical look. Marsh raised his hands, palms up, in a “sorry but I’m just a square peg who happens to live in a round-hole-world” gesture.

  “Choose your weapon, man,” the fat Mexican said, pointing to the wall opposite the pool tables—a rack with a dozen or so cues.

  After sampling a few, I decided on one made out of maple that seemed to have the hardest tip and lightest weight of the bunch. I checked out the balance point with two fingertips. It was a few inches ahead of the wrap.

  “What you doin’ man,” the Mexican mocked. “Picking out a dress?”

  Everybody got a laugh out of that one. Me too.

  The first game was short and to the point.

  Scooter extended me the courtesy of the first break and then sunk a solid ball, followed by two more before he missed.