Greasing the Piñata

by Tim Maleeny

  Priest reached forward and took Bernie’s left hand in his with a grip that was surprisingly gentle but remarkably cold, as if he’d just come in from outside.

  “Afterward, all of us crying and ashamed, he’d beat the sin from our bodies. I had so many concussions I can barely remember a day of grade school.”

  Bernie breathed through his nose and tried not to blink.

  “It was during those times, when I was on the verge of losing consciousness, that I came to know God.” Priest’s eyes welled with tears, then dried suddenly. Bernie wondered where the tears had gone. “When all seemed lost, I found faith. And I realized that God is vengeance, Bernie.”

  Bernie didn’t say anything.

  “Vengeance. He doesn’t reward the weak, he helps the faithful. And the very next day, He was there to help me.”

  “How?”

  “I came home to find father passed out on the couch. He was a drunk, but he never did that, not during the day. It was providence. My brother was playing with friends, so I was alone with the old man. Providence.”

  Priest chuckled at some private joke.

  “A garden trowel did the job nicely. I was sixteen, an age when most of my friends had no clue what to do with their lives, and suddenly my path was clear. I prayed as if I really believed, and a change came over me. I swore to God that I would become his Sword of Damocles and bring judgment and retribution back to the world.”

  “You’re…you’re not a priest.” Bernie couldn’t help himself. “You must know that.”

  Priest shook his head. “The seminarians didn’t see things the way I did—found me over-zealous, can you imagine?”

  Bernie didn’t comment.

  “And that, Bernie, is what brings me here, at your service.”

  “Sorry, I must have missed something.” Bernie tried to retrieve his hand but Priest sat immobile, kneeling on the floor in some parody of supplication.

  “I realized then that all men are sinners, Bernie. And since God helps those who help themselves, I sought out other men who had the will, the strength of character to exact judgment here on Earth. Men who made their own laws, like our mutual employers. Might does make right—that is God’s law—His only law.”

  Priest sat back, his backside resting on his calves. He looked serene, satisfied with the flawless logic of his life’s work.

  “Right,” said Bernie. “So, um…we done here?”

  Priest released Bernie’s hand and stood, brushed off his slacks. “I have one small problem.”

  Only one? Bernie kept the thought to himself. “Shoot.”

  “That paper you gave the bag man. The one with the list of numbers.”

  “I told you, it’s not a problem. Nobody could decipher it.”

  Priest pursed his lips. “But what if they could?”

  “Who cares?” Bernie rolled closer to the desk. “It doesn’t prove a thing without corroborating testimony.”

  “Legally speaking?”

  “It’s inadmissible.”

  “Ahhh.” Priest brought his fingertips together. “Someone would have to translate the ledger in court.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I see.” Priest took his seat on top of the desk and looked out the window. The moon had dropped in the sky, bisected by the suspension cables of the bridge. “I still don’t think you’re seeing the big picture, Bernie.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  Priest’s eyes glittered with reflected light. “You could translate the ledger.”

  Bernie lunged sideways off his chair and reached for the bottom-right desk drawer. Priest kicked him in the side of the head.

  “Fuck.” Bernie clutched the side of his face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Priest calmly kneeled and opened the drawer. A Kimber .45 automatic lay next to a box of ammunition.

  “Tsk-tsk…they teach you how to use one of these at Harvard Law?”

  Bernie scrabbled backward until his head thumped into the window.

  Priest took the gun in his right hand and walked calmly to the window, where he used the butt of the pistol to bang against the glass. A hollow thunk reverberated around the office.

  “Safety glass.”

  Priest squatted next to Bernie and stroked his cheek with the barrel of the gun. The click of the hammer seemed deafening.

  “I abhor guns.”

  Priest stood and took a step back, raised the pistol over Bernie’s prostrate form and pulled the trigger.

  The window exploded in a spiderweb of cracks centered around a surprisingly small hole. Priest pulled the trigger again.

  And again.

  Bernie whimpered as Priest dropped the gun onto the carpet. Before he could react, Bernie felt Priest’s fingers in his hair, pulling hard. His right ankle was grabbed and he felt himself being lifted off the floor.

  The window lunged at him with impossible speed. He felt the glass break apart as it lacerated his face, the sound like icicles falling. A sudden loss of gravity and then distance, an impossible distance between him and the ground.

  Cars moved listlessly below, one in particular looking more and more like it might become a bull’s-eye. Bernie twisted in midair and saw stars blinking their warnings, a silent Morse code he wished he had noticed before. The moon was overhead, the bridge its constant companion.

  Priest had been right. It really was quite a view.

  Chapter Forty-one

  “How’s the view from up there?”

  Cape sat on the floor and watched Sally defy gravity. She was balancing on a black nylon rope six feet above the hardwood floor. Her shoes were split between the second and third toe, providing a narrow channel to guide the rope as she moved. She wore calf-length black tights, a long sleeved black sweatshirt, and a blindfold.

  “Funny.” Sally reached the midpoint of the rope, arms extended, her head cocked to one side.

  Cape told her about his visit with Assemblyman Kelley. When he had finished, Sally bent her knees and brushed the rope with her right hand, then straightened, the motion causing the rope to bounce slightly.

  She adjusted the blindfold and continued moving forward. “Freddie Wang says he’s not involved.”

  “Isn’t that what you’d expect him to say?”

  Sally shook her head. “He wasn’t lying.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Let’s just say I caught him with his pants down.”

  “OK, another dead-end.”

  “Not entirely.” Sally sprang straight into the air and twisted, the rope vibrating like a piano wire. She landed in a crouch facing the opposite direction, arms out, the rope snapping into place between her toes.

  “Nice,” said Cape.

  “Freddie says that Frank Alessi has a new supplier.”

  “Not Salinas?”

  Sally shook her head, displacing the blindfold slightly. “Freddie thinks Salinas is still doing business with Frank, but there’s someone new.”

  “Maybe Luis Cordon.”

  “Freddie didn’t know, but he said volume is up, street prices are down.”

  Cape nodded. “Frank drives demand while he plays one supplier against the other, controls his costs.”

  “Sounds plausible.”

  “Only Frank would know.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Cape stood. “Why do you think I’m here?”

  “Because you missed me.” Sally took a long step and launched herself into space, spinning in a tight somersault before opening her arms and landing noiselessly on the hardwood floor. She stripped off the blindfold as Cape clapped lazily, the sound a hollow echo in the open space.

  “Free tonight?”

  Sally nodded. “Frank’s office in North Beach?”

  “Not this time.” Cape shook his head. “I think Frank’s probably jumpy…someone might get hurt.”

  “Isn’t that the point?”

  “You’re starting to sound like Beau.”

  “You have a better
idea.”

  Cape smiled. “I know where Frank eats dinner.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Inspector Garcia held the soccer tickets at arm’s length and clucked his tongue reprovingly.

  “You surprise me, Ramirez. You are never late.”

  “I’m not late,” snapped Ramirez. “I said tomorrow.”

  “You said that yesterday.”

  Ramirez pointed to the lab’s wall clock. “It’s a quarter to five. I still have fifteen minutes.” He pushed his glasses onto his bald head and rubbed his eyes.

  “But you didn’t call.”

  Ramirez blinked. “That’s because I knew you would come find me. Like you always do.”

  Garcia frowned. “My wife says I am not a patient man.”

  “I thought you were divorced.”

  “Now you know why.”

  “Fine.” Ramirez gestured to an empty chair adjacent to his desk.

  Garcia eyed the chair. “Shouldn’t this be a short visit? Yes, the gringo Senator is dead. So is his son.”

  “Yes, the gringo Senator is dead, Oscar—so is his son. There is a positive DNA match for both.”

  “But?” Garcia studied his colleague’s expression. Reluctantly he slid the soccer tickets into his breast pocket and sat down.

  “There is a third strand of DNA.” Ramirez swiveled in his chair and tapped his computer screen.

  “The alligator,” said Garcia. “We already spoke of this.”

  “No, a third person. That’s why the first two tests were tainted.”

  “You’re sure.”

  Ramirez nodded. “Three people died in that lake.”

  “Who?” Garcia could tell there was more.

  “That’s what I wanted to know, so I worked with the coroner to separate the various samples we had.”

  “The arms from the legs—”

  “—and the hands from the feet—”

  “—and we found someone who happens to be in our database.”

  “Which means he is a known criminal.”

  “Or law enforcement.” Ramirez hit several keys until a face appeared on the computer screen. A name, dates, and numbers appeared next to a stern man in his thirties with close-cropped hair. “Does the name Gilberto Arronyo ring a bell?”

  Garcia’s eyes popped. “Arronyo is definitely not law enforcement.”

  Ramirez squinted at the screen. “The file says he works for—”

  “—Luis Cordon.” Garcia exhaled loudly.

  “So one of the men works for Cordon—but who killed them?”

  “That’s not really the question, is it?”

  Ramirez turned in his seat. “You think it was Salinas?”

  “When a man who works for Luis Cordon gets killed, there is rarely another explanation.” Garcia shrugged. “But what was our Senator doing with one of Luis Cordon’s men in the first place?”

  “That is not my problem.” Ramirez reached forward and snatched the soccer tickets from Garcia’s pocket. He turned off the computer and stood, removing his lab coat and draping it across his chair. “Thanks for the tickets.”

  “You earned them.”

  “I know.” Ramirez looked at the clock. “You coming?”

  “You go ahead.” Garcia suddenly felt very tired. “I need to make some calls.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Follow your nose up Columbus Avenue from Fisherman’s Wharf and you’ll find The Stinking Rose. The exterior is painted a lurid purple and the sign is electric orange—a combination that’s hard to miss—but most people smell the famous restaurant long before they see it.

  By its own estimation, the restaurant serves over three thousand pounds of garlic each month, which doesn’t count the more than two thousand garlic bulbs used to decorate the interior. Along with red wine and dark chocolate, garlic has been widely praised for its health benefits, making the restaurant popular not only with tourists but also foodies and health nuts. The only people who avoid the place are vampires.

  Frank had taken a private room in back. The room was normally reserved for parties of six or more, but Frank ate enough for four all by himself and had two bodyguards, so it was close enough.

  The waitress brought the second course as Frank mopped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t recognize her, figured she must be new. Not much of a looker, big hips and thick braided hair going gray at the roots. A mole on her chin that might have been sexy if only it had been two inches higher. But she was fast, and that’s all that mattered. If Frank wanted to see tits and ass he could walk across the street to any of the strip clubs littering both sides of Broadway. Frank wanted to eat.

  ***

  Cape smiled at the hostess and blinked away tears as his eyes adjusted to the garlic-infused atmosphere. He scanned the restaurant but didn’t see Sally. He headed toward the restrooms, located directly past the private dining area.

  He passed red leather booths with velvet drapes overhead, chandeliers and coat racks adorned with bulbs of garlic. A wall mural of San Francisco landmarks populated by cartoon garlic-people, smiling and laughing as they mingled with tourists who would, no doubt, be eating them soon.

  ***

  Frank didn’t expect any trouble. He’d made his peace with the Chinese, drew neat little lines on the map. There might be some heat from the Feds because of this fiasco with the Senator, but nothing he couldn’t handle. They tap his phone again, big fucking deal. Business as usual.

  Still, Frank never ate alone. No need to upset the other patrons of the restaurant by having Tommy outside the door looking like a bouncer, but having him inside the door helped Frank’s digestion. And with André sitting behind him, Frank had a bodyguard sandwich ready to protect him if anything went down.

  He drank some more water and smiled as the waitress brought the main course. Courses—plural—Frank had an appetite tonight. He dabbed his napkin across his forehead and scooted his chair closer to the table.

  ***

  Cape stood at the sink in the men’s room and visualized the room he had just passed. One guy sitting on a chair near the door, looking relaxed but out of place, no table in front of him. Frank with a napkin tucked into his collar, another in his right hand, his florid complexion reflecting the halogens overhead. Another guy behind Frank, presumably a second bodyguard, his face obscured by the waitress’ hips as she bent to put a plate the size of Kansas in front of Frank. Cape noticed two more dishes on a serving tray behind her.

  He ran some water over his hands and splashed it on his face, nodded to himself in the mirror, opened the door and started down the hall.

  ***

  “Will there be anything else?”

  The waitress squeezed the last plate onto the table and removed the dirty dishes, refilled Frank’s glass of water and poured another glass of wine without spilling a drop. Damn she was good.

  “What’s your name sweetheart?” Frank was feeling magnanimous.

  The waitress said something he couldn’t catch. Sounded almost Chinese.

  “It means Little Dragon.” She leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper. “But you can call me Sally.”

  Frank started to respond but stopped as he noticed someone in the doorway, a man about six feet tall, sandy hair, shirt untucked over jeans. He looked vaguely familiar. Frank half-stood as he leaned past the waitress to get a better look, just as the man stepped across the threshold and kicked Tommy in the face.

  Cape dropped to his knees, landing on Tommy’s solar plexus. He could taste the bodyguard’s breath as the wind rushed out of him. Cape removed the nine-millimeter from Tommy’s shoulder holster and turned toward Frank. The bodyguard sitting in the back of the room was already on his feet, his hand reaching under his coat.

  Sally laid her right hand flat on the table and vaulted past Frank, landing directly in front of André. He sneered and snapped his left arm out from his body, a football blocking move, as he grasped the butt of his gun with his right hand.

  Sally gra
bbed his left wrist with both her hands and twisted inward, toward his body. The effect was dramatic. André’s brain told him to protect the bones in his wrist, which sent a signal to his legs to leap backward out of harm’s way. He levitated off his heels with a distinct lack of grace, airborne long enough for Sally to kick his legs out from under him. He landed in a heap at her feet, his gun clattering across the floor until it spun to a stop directly under Frank’s chair.

  Frank’s eyes darted to the pistol but he wasn’t stupid. He looked at the gun in Cape’s hand and nodded, then kicked the gun that was under his chair toward the door, which Cape had gently closed behind him.

  Cape gestured at Tommy with the gun. The bodyguard scooted backward against the wall, then stood. His chin was red where Cape’s shoe had connected but he wasn’t bleeding. Cape slid the chair over and Tommy took a seat, looking like he wanted to kill someone. Cape was pretty sure he knew who that someone might be.

  The bodyguard behind Frank stood awkwardly, clutching his wrist. Cape smiled when he saw the man’s face. It was his old friend from Mexico, the man he thought of as Cyrano. His nose looked the same but his expression had become considerably more sour.

  “Hola, mi amigo,” said Cape.

  “Up yours.”

  “Never did get your name when we were South of the border.”

  “—his name’s André.” Frank cut in. “Like André the giant, only more like André the dumbass from the look of things.” He glanced at Sally, who took André by the wrist and led him to another chair. She seemed to barely touch him, but André winced with every step and made no move to resist.

  Sally stood between the two bodyguards and proceeded to undress. Her wig was the first to go, tossed in a ragged heap on the floor. The mole on her chin was peeled off, then flicked across the room like a squashed bug. The waitress outfit was shed to reveal false hips underneath, padded foam contours attached with velcro.

  “Unbelievable.” Frank shook his head and turned his attention back to Cape. “You’re not here to whack me, so I don’t suppose you mind if I finish my fuckin dinner?”