Scenarios - A Collection of Nameless Detective Stories

by Bill Pronzini

  "My Gianna, she's good girl," Pietro said. "Never give trouble, even when she's little one. La bellezza delle bellezze, you understand?"

  The beauty of beauties. His favorite grandchild, probably. I said, "I understand. Tell me about the money, Pietro."

  "She don't steal it," he said. "Una ladra, my Gianna? No, no, it's all big lie."

  "Did the police arrest her?"

  "They got no evidence to arrest her."

  "But somebody filed charges, is that it?"

  "Charges," Pietro said. "Bah," he said and spat.

  "Who made the complaint?"

  Dominick said, "Ferry," as if the name were an obscenity.

  "Who's Ferry?"

  He tapped his skull. "Caga di testa, this man."

  "That doesn't answer my question."

  "He live where she live. Same apartment building."

  "And he says Gianna stole two thousand dollars from him."

  "Liar," Pietro said. "He lies."

  "Stole it how? Broke in or what?"

  "She don't break in nowhere, not my Gianna. This Ferry, this bastardo, he says she take the money when she's come to pay rent and he's talk on telephone. But how she knows where he keep his money? Hah? How she knows he have two thousand dollars in his desk?"

  "Maybe he told her."

  "Sure, that's what he says to police," Dominick said.

  "Maybe he told her," he says. "He don't tell her nothing."

  "Is that what Gianna claims?"

  Pietro nodded. Threw down what was left of his Toscana and ground in into the dirt with his shoe—a gesture of anger and frustration. "She don't steal that money," he said. "What she need to steal money for? She got good job, she live good, she don't have to steal."

  "What kind of job does she have?"

  "She sell drapes, curtains. In . . . what you call that business, Dominick?"

  "Interior decorating business," Dominick said.

  "Si. In interior decorating business."

  "Where does she live?" I asked.

  "Chestnut Street."

  "Where on Chestnut Street? What number?"

  "Seventy-two fifty."

  "You make that Ferry tell the truth, hah?" Dominick said to me. "You fix it up for Gianna and her goombah?"

  "I'll do what I can."

  "Va bene. Then you come tell Pietro right away."

  If Pietro will tell me where he lives—"

  There was a sharp whacking sound as one of the bocce balls caromed off the side wall near us, then a softer clicking of ball meeting ball, and a shout went up from the players at the far end: another game won and lost. When I looked back at Dominick and Pietro they were both on their feet. Dominick said, "You find Pietro okay, good detective like you," and Pietro said, "Grazie, mi amico," and before I could say anything else the two of them were off arm in arm to join the others.

  Now I was the one sitting alone in the sun, holding up a burden. Primed and ready to do a job I didn't want to do, probably couldn't do, and would not be paid well for if at all. Maybe this man Ferry wasn't the only one involved who had caga di testa—shit for brains. Maybe I did too.

  2.

  The building at 7250 Chestnut Street was an old three-storied, brown-shingled job, set high in the shadow of Coit Tower and across from the retaining wall where Telegraph Hill falls off steeply toward the Embarcadero. From each of the apartments, especially the ones on the third floor, you'd have quite a view of the bay, the East Bay, and both bridges. Prime North Beach address, this. The rent would be well in excess of two thousand a month.

  A man in a tan trenchcoat was coming out of the building as I started up the steps to the vestibule. I called out to him to hold the door for me—it's easier to get apartment dwellers to talk to you once you're inside the building—but either he didn't hear me or he chose to ignore me. He came hurrying down without a glance my way as he passed. City-bred paranoia, I thought. It was everywhere these days, rich and poor neighborhoods both, like a nasty strain of social disease. Bumper sticker for the nineties: Fear Lives.

  There were six mailboxes in the foyer, each with Dymo-Label stickers identifying the tenants. Gianna Fornessi's name was under box #4, along with a second name: Ashley Hansen. It figured that she'd have a roommate; salespersons working in the interior design trade are well but not extravagantly paid. Box #1 bore the name George Ferry and that was the bell I pushed. He was the one I wanted to talk to first.

  A minute died away, while I listened to the wind that was savaging the trees on the hillside below. Out on the bay hundreds of sailboats formed a mosaic of white on blue. Somewhere among them a ship's horn sounded—to me, a sad false note. Shipping was all but dead on this side of the bay, thanks to wholesale mismanagement of the port over the past few decades.

  The intercom crackled finally and a male voice said, "Who is it?" in wary tones.

  I asked if he was George Ferry, and he admitted it, even more guardedly. I gave him my name, said that I was there to ask him a few questions about his complaint against Gianna Fornessi. He said, "Oh Christ." There was a pause, and then, "I called you people yesterday, I told Inspector Cullen I was dropping the charges. Isn't that enough?"

  He thought I was a cop. I could have told him I wasn't; I could have let the whole thing drop right there, since what he'd just said was a perfect escape clause from my commitment to Pietro Lombardi. But I have too much curiosity to let go of something, once I've got a piece of it, without knowing the particulars. So I said, "I won't keep you long, Mr. Ferry. Just a few questions."

  Another pause. "Is it really necessary?"

  "I think it is, yes,"

  An even longer pause. But then he didn't argue, didn't say anything else just buzzed me in.

  His apartment was on the left, beyond a carpeted, dark-wood staircase. He opened the door as I approached it. Mid-forties, short, rotund, with a nose like a blob of putty and a Friar Tuck fringe of reddish hair. And a bruise on his left cheekbone, a cut along the right corner of his mouth. The marks weren't fresh, but then they weren't very old either. Twenty-four hours, maybe less.

  He didn't ask to see a police ID; if he had I would have told him immediately that I was a private detective, because nothing can lose you a California investigator's license faster than impersonating a police officer. On the other hand, you can't be held accountable for somebody's false assumption. Ferry gave me a nervous once-over, holding his head tilted downward as if that would keep me from seeing his bruise and cut, then stood aside to let me come in.

  The front room was neat, furnished in a self-consciously masculine fashion: dark woods, leather, expensive sporting prints. It reeked of leather, dust, and his lime-scented cologne.

  As soon as he shut the door Ferry went straight to a liquor cabinet and poured himself three fingers of Jack Daniels, no water or mix, no ice. Just holding the drink seemed to give him courage. He said, "So. What is it you want to know?"

  "Why you dropped your complaint against Gianna Fornessi."

  "I explained to Inspector Cullen . . ."

  "Explain to me, if you don't mind."

  He had some of the sour mash. "Well, it was all a mistake just a silly mistake. She didn't take the money after all."

  "You know who did take it, then?"

  "Nobody took it. I . . . misplaced it."

  "Misplaced it. Uh-huh."

  "I thought it was in my desk," Ferry said. "That's where I usually keep the cash I bring home. But I'd put it in my safe deposit box along with some other papers, without realizing it. It was in an envelope, you see, and the envelope got mixed up with the other papers."

  "Two thousand dollars is a lot of cash to keep at home. You make a habit of that sort of thing?"

  "In my business . . ." The rest of the sentence seemed to hang up in his throat; he oiled the route with the rest of his drink. "In my business I need to keep a certain amount of cash on hand, both here and at the office. The amount I keep here isn't usually as large as two thousand dollars, but
I—"

  "What business are you in, Mr. Ferry?"

  "I run a temp employment agency for domestics."

  "Temp?"

  "Short for temporary," he said. "I supply domestics for part-time work in offices and private homes. A lot of them are poor, don't have checking accounts, so they prefer to be paid in cash. Most come to the office, but a few—"

  "Why did you think Gianna Fornessi had stolen the two thousand dollars?"

  "What?"

  "Why Gianna Fornessi? Why not somebody else?"

  "She's the only one who was here. Before I thought the money was missing, I mean. I had no other visitors for two days and there wasn't any evidence of a break-in."

  "You and she are good friends, then?"

  "Well . . . no, not really. She's a lot younger.

  "Then why was she here?"

  "The rent," Ferry said. "She was paying her rent for the month. I'm the building manager, I collect for the owner. Before I could write out a receipt I had a call, I was on the phone for quite a while and she . . . I didn't pay any attention to her and I thought she must have . . . you see why I thought she'd taken the money?"

  I was silent.

  He looked at me, looked at his empty glass, licked his lips, and went to commune with Jack Daniels again.

  While he was pouring I asked him, "What happened to your face, Mr. Ferry?"

  His hand twitched enough to clink bottle against glass. He had himself another taste before he turned back to me. "Clumsy," he said, "I'm clumsy as hell. I fell down the stairs, the front stairs, yesterday morning." He tried a laugh that didn't come off. "Fog makes the steps slippery. I just wasn't watching where I was going."

  "Looks to me like somebody hit you."

  "Hit me? No, I told you . . . I fell down the stairs."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "Of course I'm sure. Why would I lie about it?"

  That was a good question. Why would he lie about that, and about all the rest of it too? There was about as much truth in what he'd told me as there is value in a chunk of fool's gold.

  3.

  The young woman who opened the door of apartment #4 was not Gianna Fornessi. She was blonde, with the kind of fresh-faced Nordic features you see on models for Norwegian ski wear. Tall and slender in a pair of green silk lounging pajamas; arms decorated with hammered gold bracelets, ears with dangly gold triangles. Judging from the expression in her pale eyes, there wasn't much going on behind them. But then, with her physical attributes, not many men would care if her entire brain had been surgically removed.

  "Well," she said, "hello."

  "Ashley Hansen?"

  "That's me. Who're you?"

  When I told her my name her smile brightened, as if I'd said something amusing or clever. Or maybe she just liked the sound of it.

  "I knew right away you were Italian," she said. "Are you a friend of Jack's?"

  "Jack?"

  "Jack Bisconte." The smile dulled a little. "You are, aren't you?"

  "No," I said, "I'm a friend of Pietro Lombardi."

  "Who?"

  "Your roommate's grandfather. I'd like to talk to Gianna, if she's home."

  Ashley Hansen's smile was gone now; her whole demeanor had changed, become less self-assured. She nibbled at a corner of her lower lip, ran a hand through her hair, fiddled with one of her bracelets. Finally she said, "Gianna isn't here."

  "When will she be back?"

  "She didn't say."

  "You know where I can find her?"

  "No. What do you want to talk to her about?"

  "The complaint George Ferry filed against her."

  "Oh, that," she said. "That's all been taken care of."

  "I know. I just talked to Ferry."

  "He's a creepy little prick, isn't he?"

  "That's one way of putting it."

  "Gianna didn't take his money. He was just trying to hassle her, that's all."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Well, why do you think?"

  I shrugged. "Suppose you tell me."

  "He wanted her to do things."

  "You mean go to bed with him?"

  "Things," she said. "Kinky crap, real kinky."

  "And she wouldn't have anything to do with him."

  "No way, Jose. What a creep."

  "So he made up the story about the stolen money to get back at her, is that it?"

  "That's it."

  "What made him change his mind, drop the charges?"

  "He didn't tell you?"

  "No."

  "Who knows?" She laughed. "Maybe he got religion."

  "Or a couple of smacks in the face."

  "Huh?"

  "Somebody worked him over yesterday," I said. "Bruised his cheek and cut his mouth. You have any idea who?"

  "Not me, mister. How come you're so interested, anyway?"

  "I told you, I'm a friend of Gianna's grandfather."

  "Yeah, well."

  "Gianna have a boyfriend, does she?"

  ". . . Why do you want to know that?"

  "Jack Bisconte, maybe? Or is he yours?"

  "He's just somebody I know." She nibbled at her lip again, did some more fiddling with her bracelets. "Look, I've got to go. You want me to tell Gianna you were here?"

  "Yes." I handed her one of my business cards. "Give her this and ask her to call me."

  She looked at the card; blinked at it and then blinked at me.

  "You . . . you're a detective?"

  "That's right."

  "My God," she said, and backed off, and shut the door in my face.

  I stood there for a few seconds, remembering her eyes—the sudden fear in her eyes when she'd realized she had been talking to a detective.

  What the hell?

  4.

  North Beach used to be the place you went when you wanted pasta fino, espresso and biscotti, conversation about la dolce vita and Il patria d'Italia. Not anymore. There are still plenty of Italians in North Beach, and you can still get the good food and some of the good conversation; but their turf continues to shrink a little more each year, and despite the best efforts of the entrepreneurial new immigrants, the vitality and most of the Old World atmosphere are just memories.

  The Chinese are partly responsible, not that you can blame them for buying available North Beach real estate when Chinatown, to the west, began to burst its boundaries. Another culprit is the Bohemian element that took over upper Grant Avenue in the fifties, paving the way for the hippies and the introduction of hard drugs in the sixties, which in turn paved the way for the jolly current mix of motorcycle toughs, aging hippies, coke and crack dealers, and the pimps and small-time crooks who work the flesh palaces along lower Broadway. Those "Silicone Alley" nightclubs, made famous by Carol Doda in the late sixties, also share responsibility: they added a smutty leer to the gaiety of North Beach, turned the heart of it into a ghetto.

  Parts of the neighborhood, particularly those up around Coit Tower where Gianna Fornessi lived, are still prime city real estate; and the area around Washington Square Park, il giardino to the original immigrants, is where the city's literati now congregates. Here and there, too, you can still get a sense of what it was like in the old days. But most of the landmarks are gone—Enrico's, Vanessi's, The Bocce Ball where you could hear mustachioed waiters in gondolier costumes singing arias from operas by Verdi and Puccini—and so is most of the flavor. North Beach is oddly tasteless now, like a week-old mostaccioli made without good spices or garlic. And that is another thing that is all but gone: twenty-five years ago you could not get within a thousand yards of North Beach without picking up the fine, rich fragrance of garlic. Nowadays you're much more likely to smell fried egg roll and the sour stench of somebody's garbage.

  Parking in the Beach is the worst in the city; on weekends you can drive around its hilly streets for hours without finding a legal parking space. So today, in the perverse way of things, I found a spot waiting for me when I came down Stockton.
r />   In a public telephone booth near Washington Square Park I discovered a second minor miracle: a directory that had yet to be either stolen or mutilated. The only Bisconte listed was Bisconte Florist Shop, with an address on upper Grant a few blocks away. I took myself off in that direction, through the usual good-weather Sunday crowds of locals and gawking sightseers and drifting homeless.

  Upper Grant, like the rest of the area, has changed drastically over the past few decades. Once a rock-ribbed Little Italy, it has become an ethnic mixed bag: Italian markets, trattorias, pizza parlors, bakeries cheek by jowl with Chinese sewing-machine sweat shops, food and herb vendors, and fortune-cookie companies. But most of the faces on the streets are Asian and most of the apartments in the vicinity are occupied by Chinese.

  The Bisconte Florist Shop was a hole-in-the-wall near Filbert, sandwiched between an Italian saloon and the Sip Hing Herb Company. It was open for business, not surprisingly on a Sunday in this neighborhood: tourists buy flowers too, given the opportunity.

  The front part of the shop was cramped and jungly with cut flowers, ferns, plants in pots and hanging baskets. A small glass-fronted cooler contained a variety of roses and orchids. There was nobody in sight, but a bell had gone off when I entered and a male voice from beyond a rear doorway called, "Be right with you." I shut the door, went up near the counter. Some people like florist shops; I don't. All of them have the same damp, cloyingly sweet smell that reminds me of funeral parlors; of my mother in her casket at the Figlia Brothers Mortuary in Daly City nearly forty years ago. That day, with all its smells, all its painful images, is as clear to me now as if it were yesterday.

  I had been waiting about a minute when the voice's owner came out of the back room. Late thirties, dark, on the beefy side; wearing a professional smile and a floral patterned apron that should have been ludicrous on a man of his size and coloring but wasn't. We had a good look at each other before he said, "Sorry to keep you waiting—I was putting up an arrangement. What can I do for you?"