Beat Until Stiff

by Claire M Johnson

  “Excuse me,” I said louder. Still no reaction. Did I have my invisibility cloak on today? Why weren’t people answering my questions?

  A small, heavyset man with deep-set black eyes and tufts of hair growing from his ears appeared from the back of the restaurant. He stood very close to the cash register, like I was going to rob the place. He wore a faded red tee shirt, with large perspiration rings under the arms.

  “Señor,” I began. “Donde esta Vino Blanco Corporation? Habla Ingles?” And that was the extent of my Spanish. I hoped the man spoke more English than I spoke Spanish.

  The chopping stopped. I looked over toward where the other men were working. They stared at me, their knives suspended in the air.

  Never taking his eyes off me, the man guarding the cash register said something in rapid-fire Spanish out of the corner of his mouth. Both workers dropped their knives and ran through the door leading to the back.

  “No comprende,” the heavyset man snapped at me.

  Concentrating on the two men sprinting out the back door, I missed the first part of what he said. He moved over to the chopping block, grabbed the cleaver, and poised it over the cutting board.

  “Excuse me,” I repeated.

  “No”—thwack went the cleaver. Meat went flying in all directions from the force of the knife. “Comprende”—thwack again. “Señora”—thwack, he repeated in a loud, slow voice, as if I was hard of hearing.

  “Vino Blanco Corporation, aqui?” I pointed to the floor.

  Instantly, his eyes darkened and the cords on his neck began to bulge. It was like watching a bull warming up to gore someone to death. He raised the cleaver shoulder height, threw back his arm, and aimed the cleaver right at my forehead.

  I ran.

  Chapter 10

  Car, car, get to the car, I told myself over and over. I’m naturally clumsy, but that morning God granted me a stay of execution from my big feet. Like a ballerina on fast forward, I pranced and hopped in between and around people in a frantic effort to reach my car before some beefy paw grabbed my shoulder. Once safely inside the car with all the doors locked, I hugged my steering wheel in relief.

  As I put the key in the ignition an image of that thug in the taqueria, his fat hands around my neck, did make me consider going home and forgetting this whole thing, but only for a millisecond. I was management. Not a few eyebrows would skyrocket if American Fare tanked because of questionable business practices. I’d spend the next three years looking for work, trying to convince people that I was clueless to Brent’s shenanigans. Or worse, pleading with some D.A. that I was innocent of any wrongdoing.

  I drove down Mission to the Fifth Street garage, parked in a well-populated section of the garage, and planned my next move. I wouldn’t do anything stupid. I’d stay away from the Mission and do my sleuthing some place safe. Like the Financial District.

  How do you set up a corporation?

  I mentally kicked myself for cutting all those business classes while at cooking school. If I had attended a few, maybe I wouldn’t have to drive down to the Embarcadero and face Dominique Porcella: corporate attorney, friend to the mayor, confidant to big business—and my uncle.

  Uncle Dom is a partner at a 101 California law firm that has earned a permanent home in Dante’s fourth circle of hell. Apolitical in a town infamous for its politics, their primary function is to make the rich richer. House lawyers for many of the big developers, Winston, White, Howe, and Porcella’s fingers are in most of the financial pies in town.

  A receptionist with a phone cradled on her shoulder scoped me out the four seconds it took me to walk from the elevator to her desk. My faded black tee shirt, down vest, and wrinkled khakis didn’t pass muster. Probably thinking I was part of the janitorial crew, she ignored me and continued to chat on the phone. I could tell it was a personal call. She kept twirling her hair with an index finger and giggling in a breathy, heavy tone that suggested one-way phone sex. The black suit, lips outlined in that fashionable dark liner/light mauvy infill with nail color to match, and a profusion of blonde, Ophelia-like hair made her look like a vampire in training.

  I waved a polite little hello close enough to her face to get her attention, but not close enough to be rude, and mouthed an “Excuse me.” She swiveled a couple of inches away from me and giggled some more.

  “Excuse me,” I said aloud.

  She swiveled her chair completely away from me so that I faced her back. The final straw was when she flicked her wrist at me, in a pert, cool-your-jets sort of motion.

  That was the third time today. I was sick of people ignoring me.

  I marched around the curve of the desk to where she was sitting and yanked the phone out of her hand.

  “I’m sorry, the person you are phone fucking has to return to work now. If you continue to call her at work, she will be fired. Good-bye.” I slammed the phone down.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing,” she screeched. “If you don’t move your ass on the elevator right now, I’m going to call security.” She shook her mass of blond, moussed ringlets in the direction of the elevator and picked up the phone to make good her threat.

  Am I the only person in the continental United States who doesn’t own a canister of mousse?

  “Hey,” I snapped back. “I happen to be Dominique Porcella’s niece. I would greatly appreciate it if you would ring him immediately and tell him that Ms. Ryan is here for her appointment.”

  I didn’t have an appointment, but she didn’t have to know that.

  The mention of Uncle Dom’s name and the rage vanished from her face. As if he were in the room scowling in disapproval, her hands swung the hair back off her face, she checked her collar to make sure it hadn’t crept under the jacket, and tugged on the jacket to make sure it was smooth.

  Without making eye contact she said, “I’m sorry Ms. Ryan, I’ll ring Mr. Porcella’s private secretary right away.” She grabbed the phone and punched the button with the end of a pencil because her nails were so long. “Ruthie, Ms. Ryan is here for her 11:30 with Mr. Porcella.”

  I crossed my fingers. Be there, I prayed.

  “You may go in now, Ms. Ryan,” she mumbled to her desk blotter and buzzed the security door for me to go through.

  “Thank you very much,” I said to the top of her head.

  I normally don’t pull that kind of power play, but in the Financial District if you’re not dressed for the part, you’re invisible. No Donna Karan suit, no eye contact. No Rolex, no courtesy. It pisses me off.

  I walked down miles of corridor to a coveted corner office and knocked.

  “Come in,” a deep voice ordered.

  As usual, Uncle Dom was on the phone, reading a brief, and typing on a computer. His attention is never focused on one thing, two at a minimum, four for him to be perfectly happy. I’ve often thought he’s a manic-depressive, but conveniently missing the depressive part.

  “Walter, I’ve got a lunch date with Willie in fifteen minutes. I’ll update you when I return. I don’t anticipate any problems.”

  Uncle Dom never does. My condolences to the people who attempt to cause him problems.

  The headset came off, the laptop was snapped shut, the brief was returned to its folder and placed precisely in the middle of his desk. Having gone completely gray by forty, he hasn’t aged one iota in twenty-five years. Enemies and relatives call him “Domian Grey” behind his back. He has those strong Italian features that made him gawky at twenty but handsome at forty. A face that gradually came into its own and stayed there.

  He stood up and walked across the room with the energy of a twenty-year-old and flicked a quick eye over my attire; he didn’t bother to hide his disgust. His suits were made in Hong Kong, his shirts in London. In a previous visit to his office he had handed me a check for $3000 and ordered me to buy some decent clothes. I’m embarrassed to admit I accepted it, then ran down the street to Williams Sonoma and bought enough
copper pots to rival the kitchen at Buckingham Palace.

  “Mary, we can talk while I walk to Jack’s. I’ve a lunch date with the mayor,” and he was out the door, me trailing in his wake.

  Not a word passed between us until we were out on the street. At a clip I would describe as a trot, we strode up California Street. If Uncle Dom did this every day, no wonder he was in such great shape. He had thirty years on me and I was gasping for breath and sweating from pores I’d no idea I possessed. He didn’t even look like he was breathing.

  “I accept your apology, Mary.”

  We’d gotten into a fight during Christmas dinner over the recent escalating number of pedophile cases involving priests and altar boys and hadn’t spoken to each other since. A devout Catholic who attends Mass every day, he dismissed it as a bunch of troubled youths at the mercy of unscrupulous psychologists and incompetent lawyers. I countered that every gay man I knew who’d been an altar boy had had his first sexual experience with a priest. A bad move on my part. His eldest son, my cousin Joe, was a priest.

  “I’m not here to apologize, Uncle Dom,” I panted. “I was not implying that Joe is a pedophile. And if we were adding up insults, I never received an apology for that rude comment you made about me wasting my brains and going blue collar just to spite my family.”

  It had been an ugly fight. It began with him accusing me of saying anything to slander the church, even to the point of calling his son a child molester, and ended with him telling me I was a disgrace to the family and that I should get a real job. His antagonism toward my profession was all the stranger as his own parents had owned a mom-and-pop bakery in North Beach for years. I don’t know what offended him more, my atheism or going into “trade” as he called it.

  I put my hand on his arm.

  “Look, I need some information about setting up corporations. If you don’t want to help me, I’ll go outside the family,” I emphasized.

  His pace slowed just a fraction, and I knew he was weighing the potential consequences of Dom Porcella’s niece asking other attorneys for advice. If that got around town…he patted my hand in a manner implying forgiveness and benediction.

  We turned onto Montgomery and a relatively flat landscape. Maybe I’d survive this walk without going into heart failure.

  Jack’s is beautiful. Arguably the oldest restaurant in San Francisco, the gold filigree ceilings, wall-to-wall mirrors, thick bunches of cream-colored roses spilling out of crystal vases all give it a Golden Age charm. Whenever I eat there I’m always a little shocked to see diners in modern dress. It’s the sort of restaurant where you would expect to see characters from an Edith Wharton novel at the table next to yours.

  “Hello, Mr. Porcella.” The maître d’ beamed a big, can’t-wait-to-get-my-cut-of-the-gratuity smile at my uncle. His fussy, over-trimmed mustache, bow tie, and shaved head reminded me of an egg in disguise. “Mr. Mayor is running a little late.”

  He ignored me completely. A fly on the shoulder of Uncle Dom’s jacket would’ve gotten more attention. San Francisco is still a man’s domain. Except for a select few, women are relegated to being the wife, the mistress, or the secretary.

  “As always, eh, Howard,” my uncle chuckled.

  The two of them probably repeated this conversation at least once a week.

  “Howard, this is my niece, Mary Ryan.”

  Uncle Dom might be a corporate shark willing to sell his own mother for stock options, but he is polite in the old world, treat your womenfolk well, sort of way. Not five seconds earlier, I didn’t rate a soupçon of acknowledgment, now I got my own beam of approval.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Ryan,” Howard gushed and smirked. I returned an equally insincere smirk. “Will you be joining Mr. Porcella and the Mayor for lunch?”

  It is not often that I see my uncle nonplussed. A look of horror crossed his face at the thought of his ragtag niece spoiling his power lunch with the mayor.

  “No, I have another engagement.” I smiled sweetly. “Uncle Dom, why don’t we have a quick glass of champagne while you wait for the mayor?”

  Now that we had made peace, we chitchatted about my aunt and cousins until the champagne arrived. Forty years ago my Aunt Mary shocked her Irish relatives by marrying this awkward Italian kid just out of law school. No one could have predicted that the two of them would “out-Catholic” us all, having eight children and graduating to a first-name basis with every cardinal in the United States.

  The waiter filled our flutes with Veuve Clicquot. I took a tiny sip; it was as fresh and light as a first kiss. In the middle of savoring the second, much larger sip, Uncle Dom’s voice brought me back to the present.

  “What do you need to know, Mary?”

  I blinked at him, confused. I was so engrossed in the champagne that I had completely forgotten why I was here.

  “Uh, right.” I hadn’t given any thought to how to handle this. I didn’t want to give Uncle Dom the impression that American Fare was doing anything illegal. “I’m thinking of opening my own restaurant. I’m assuming that I need to be incorporated and, of course, I thought you’d be able to give me the best advice.”

  “The tax breaks are enormous, well worth your effort.” Uncle Dom’s eyes glittered with the anticipation of all that money to be saved. A cold man, the only time I’ve ever seen him truly happy is when talking about money or receiving Holy Communion. “It’s not a complicated process. How large a restaurant are you talking about? Five million a year gross? Ten million a year gross? Two hundred seats, banquet facilities?”

  “No, just a small place. Maybe fifty covers?”

  The light went out of his eyes. For ten seconds he had thought that I’d seen the error of my ways and was about to play with the big boys.

  “Go to a bookstore and buy the Nolo Press book on setting up a corporation in California. It’s very well written and concise. Fill out the forms and mail them into Sacramento. You’ll be incorporated in no time. A monkey could do it.”

  I resisted the urge to get up and walk out. I needed some answers and if it meant putting up with Uncle Dom’s subtle and not so subtle insults, so be it.

  “It can’t be that simple,” I argued. “Are you telling me that I can buy this book, fill out the forms, and have my mail sent to…to…a taqueria in the Mission? That’s it? I’m incorporated?” I said.

  “Absolutely. Once incorporated you must return your quarterly forms and be very careful about the taxes,” he warned. “That’s where they always get you. Other than that, you can set up shop in a dumpster if you wanted.”

  “What if by some miracle I got the money to open a big place, something about the size of American Fare. Is it a different process?”

  “Not really, although the paperwork is considerably more involved. Which is where someone like me comes in. Hmmn, Willie is late, even for him.”

  While Uncle Dom motioned to Howard and asked him to call the mayor’s office for an ETA, I began to put some pieces of the puzzle together. Brent must have gotten the money for the initial start-up costs from Vino Blanco, but for whatever reason, Vino Blanco was not officially in the picture. Why?

  “One more question, Uncle Dom. What if I had a silent partner, one that put up the money, but then wasn’t involved in anything else beyond that? Doesn’t appear on any paperwork, is completely out of the picture. Is that possible?”

  “Yes, of course it’s possible, but you would have to ask what they are getting in return for their initial investment. No one, no one,” he repeated, “does something for nothing.”

  The sudden rush of waiters to our table signaled the mayor’s arrival. Uncle Dom stood up, a not so tacit way of telling me to leave.

  “Mary, if you ever want to play with the big money, I’d be happy to help you. This nickel and dime stuff…” he waved his hand dismissively.

  “Thanks, Uncle Dom. Give my love to Aunt Mary,” I said, but it was lost on him. His attention was fixed on
the mayor walking across the dining room to our table.

  At the exit I took one last look. Uncle Dom and the mayor tête-à-tête over the menu, a quartet of waiters at the ready. Better them than me.

  Chapter 11

  I should drink expensive champagne on an empty stomach more often. The stress kinks in my neck had unraveled, and my limbs were heavy with a delicious inertia. I felt mighty fine as I strolled down Montgomery Street toward Embarcadero One where my car was parked. I was toying with the idea of taking a nap in the back seat of my station wagon for a couple of hours when the obsessive, driven part of my personality screamed, “No! You have more questions that need answering.”

  I bought three Snickers bars and a double espresso from a kiosk on Front Street and wolfed them down. Today’s lunch. By the time I reached my car the chocolate and caffeine had kicked in, spoiling the soporific effects of the champagne. My hands were twitching from the caffeine, and the stress kinks were back. No matter.

  Time to eat crow.

  I drove up Second Street to the alley behind American Fare and parked in the loading zone. I punched in the number to Thom’s pager and half-hoped he wouldn’t call me back. He was the only one besides Brent who had a total picture of the restaurant’s cash flow. I was becoming convinced that Brent was into something illegal, big time illegal, not some measly shakedown of a local purveyor.

  I’d give Thom five minutes. If he didn’t call me back, then I’d start rifling through the files in the office hoping for some clue.

  Thom called me back in four minutes and forty-five seconds.

  “Yes,” he intoned in a come-hither drawl, elongating both the “Y” and the “S.” If his greeting had been any longer I’d have had to buy a Muni Fastpass.

  Obviously he didn’t recognize the number.

  “Thom, it’s Mary, Mary Ryan from work.”

  “Bitch,” he yelled into the phone with such ferocity that I almost felt spittle on my cheek.