Trick of Light

by Bayer-William

  After class, Rita calls me aside. She asks: "How 'bout a commitment on the shodan exam?"

  "Please," I ask her, "give me a little more time. I'm distracted right now. When I go for it I want to concentrate a hundred percent."

  "More like a hundred and ten," she says. "Okay, we'll wait awhile. But not too long, girlfriend. Remember, when your time comes, you seize it." She grins. "Course I wouldn't want to intimidate you . . . or anything like that."

  Having watched others face their moments of truth, I know exactly what she means. To prepare for the shodan is to be highly intimidated, by one's sensei of course, but also, ultimately, by oneself.

  Standing still in the darkening cemetery garden of Mission Dolores, I listen to the final minutes of the evening mass. The chanting and music spill out of the basilica, rebound off the stone compound walls, disperse in the open air, otherworldly sounds of mystery and yearning.

  María Quintana, dressed in black, floats toward me out of the shadows. It's only when she's close that I make out the deep crease of concern between her eyes.

  "You must not go back," she says, voice clear, decisive. "It is dangerous now. For you and also for others."

  "How do you know—"

  "That you have been going there? Everyone knows. The whole neighborhood."

  "But—"

  "Do you think you can stand for hours on the street handing out pieces of paper and then go night after night to the same house and people will not recognize you, will not know that you are there? Do you suppose that when you pause before a door, then peer around to see if anyone can see you, there are not a hundred pairs of eyes watching your every move?"

  "You're embarrassing me, María."

  "I do not wish to embarrass you. I only wish for you to stay away."

  "I'm sorry, I can't, I'm not finished yet."

  "What is this 'finished'? Is to be finished to be killed?"

  There's an edge to her, a belligerence she hasn't shown before.

  "The motorcyclist—who is he?"

  She stares hard at me. "Promise me you will stay away."

  "The motorcyclist, María—I need to know."

  She continues to gaze.

  "He's the one, isn't he—the same one who ran down my friend?"

  "I know nothing of this man," she says, biting off the word.

  "You've seen him before."

  "He showed himself to you. Is that not enough?"

  I meet her eyes. Is she saying last night's appearance was for my benefit?

  "Did he also show himself to her?" I ask.

  She turns away as if stunned. For a moment she holds her composure, then starts to weep. I move toward her, reach for her hand, lead her to a stone bench. We sit in the darkness. As she continues to sob I place my arm about her, hold her shoulder lightly, feel her convulse.

  "I am so sorry," she says. "I feel so badly about everything."

  "You didn't do anything wrong," I assure her.

  "I should not have told you about the room."

  "I'm very glad you did."

  "I should have known that you would go there. They control the neighborhood, you see. They know everything. Now they have warned you. You must not go back. They will not give a second warning. Next time they will kill you too."

  "Who are 'they,' María?"

  It takes her a while to get the story out. The neighborhood, she tells me, is controlled by drug dealers. They operate out of several houses, one of which is in the middle of the Capp/Twenty-fourth Street block. Security is tight. Couriers turn up at odd hours to deliver money and pick up drugs. A freelance enforcer patrols by motorcycle. In return for the silence of neighbors, he keeps the neighborhood safe. There's no crime within a three-block radius, and the pushers and prostitutes who roam freely on lower Capp never venture above Twenty-third.

  When she's finished, I'm left with a strange thought: that the person who killed Maddy and the people Maddy was watching may not be the same.

  "The group that uses the second-floor apartment at 4106—what do you know about them?"

  "Only that they come on Wednesdays twice a month, spend a few hours, then leave."

  "Are they connected to the drug people?"

  She shrugs. "They dress differently, act differently, come and go in different cars."

  "And the drug dealers don't mind them?"

  She shrugs again. "Well, they do not walk about the street with a camera," she says.

  "Is that why the enforcer killed my friend?"

  María shifts her eyes. "She crouched on the street at night, hiding behind cars," she says. "Of course people felt threatened. The motorcycle man ran by her several times, but still she stayed. Though your friend was old and weak, she was not afraid. It would have been better if she had taken his warning."

  Not afraid: María's right about that. With a camera in her hand, Maddy was fearless. I think of her, frail in her illness, crouching behind a car across the street from 4106 Capp, watching the front entrance, waiting for someone to come out. How awkward, uncomfortable, even painful it must have been for her, yet she wanted their pictures so much she was happy to endure the pain.

  "You will stay away now—yes?" María asks. Night has cloaked the garden cemetery. Her eyes glow in the darkness.

  "I don't know," I tell her truthfully. "You've given me a lot to think about."

  She closes her eyes, crosses herself. She doesn't believe I'll stay away.

  When she's gone, I walk out to Dolores Street. From in front of the basilica, I call Kremezi on my cell phone.

  "Been expecting to hear from you," he says. "You seem to know powerful people." He pauses to let his irritation sink in. "What I got to tell you is I got nothing new to tell you."

  "You're saying you don't know anything about drug dealers operating on the block and their motorcyclist enforcer?"

  "Where'd you get this?" he asks sharply. When I tell him I have an informant, he chuckles again: "Seems I figured you right."

  "Just how did you figure me, Detective?"

  "As a lady who wouldn't let go."

  A lady! "So now that you know the story, what're you going to do about it?"

  "Look into it. Meantime, I suggest you back off."

  "Funny the way everyone's issuing me warnings these days."

  "Why don't you knock that chip off your shoulder, Ms. Farrow? You did your part. Now let me do mine."

  Tonight, I decide, I won't go over to Cypress, and not just because I've been warned off. Now that I've learned the people who use the apartment at 4106 Capp apparently do so on alternate Wednesdays, it's not worth my time to sit in the dark staring at a blank window till they return.

  It feels good to be free of my night regime, yet I'm left feeling empty too. After living off the tension of the enterprise for a week, it's a letdown to have nothing to do.

  Still, I decide, it will be good to rest my eyes. Next time I peer into that window, I want to be absolutely certain about what I see.

  THE GUN / FIND THE GUN / WHERE'S THE GUN?

  Maddy's peculiar notation haunts my mind. I spend the morning examining all the photographs she took through the window, searching her negatives for glimmers of metal—gun barrels, hammers, triggers, anything that might have caught the light and gleamed.

  I start seeing guns everywhere. I'm amazed. It's as if every vague and grainy highlight in the film is actually a part of a gun.

  Am I imagining them? Where did they come from? How come I didn't see them before?

  I peer closely with my naked eye, then with a magnifying glass. Guns . . . guns . . . guns! What is going on here? Is this what she was shooting—sex with guns?

  I take an early-evening aikido class. Rita has us practice randori, dealing with multiple attackers. I dutifully play the part of attacker, waiting patiently for my turn to be the nage. When it comes I truly revel in the role, twirling, whirling, applying techniques, throwing opponents right and left, moving beyond exhaustion into a pure state of exhil
aration and empowerment.

  At the end of class Rita sums up, referring to the nearly supernatural abilities of Morihei Ueshiba, founder of aikido.

  "O-Sensei would turn his back on his attackers," she tells us. "Then when they got to where he'd been they were surprised—he wasn't there."

  At which I think: Maybe he wasn't there. And maybe the guns aren't in Maddy s pictures either.

  Four-thirty A.M.: The telephone rings. It's Joel. He's just received a tip from his informant with the phony Chinese accent. He'll be by to pick me up in twenty minutes.

  "Load up your cameras, kiddo. And don't bother making coffee—we'll pick some up along the way."

  Outside the air's chilly, cold sea fog swirling up Russian Hill. As I wait for Joel my cameras feel like dead weight. I adjust the collar of my black leather jacket, then rub my hands together for warmth. A minute later Joel pulls up, I hop in, he U-turns, then tears back down Hyde toward Market.

  "Where're we going?"

  Joel mimics his informant: "'You go Tan-Hing Enterprises, 2221 Alameda. Velly interestin' storage facility there. Enjoy. Bye-bye. '"

  "That's it?"

  Joel nods. "I especially appreciated his 'enjoy.' Like we're going to get a really tasty meal."

  We rush past St. Francis Memorial, where Sasha works in the ER, then cruise down the hill through the western tip of the Tenderloin. At the intersection with O'Farrell we just miss sideswiping a shivering transvestite prostitute who lurches at us out of the gloom. Joel pulls over at Ellis, where there's an Arab-owned all-night deli. While he goes inside to purchase carryout coffee, I study the old apartment house across the street. Called the Ben-Hur, its facade is decorated with embedded terra-cotta Roman chariots.

  Alameda is situated in the South of Market decorator and design district, a neighborhood of antique dealers and wholesale furniture showrooms. Number 2221 turns out to be an enormous old standalone brick warehouse, the kind that can be extremely dangerous in a serious earthquake, when thirty seconds of vigorous trembling can shake the mortar loose and collapse the structure into a heap of bricks.

  Here, in the SoMa flatland, there's no fog, but because it's an industrial area, the street lighting's dim and spare. Joel circles the building searching for an entrance. There are several huge wooden doors; all appear well secured. Then, as we pass the enclosed loading area in the back, I notice a tear in the chain-link fence.

  I tell Joel to stop, let me out.

  "I'll slip through, see if there's a way in from the loading dock."

  "Be careful, kiddo. There could be a night watchman, even a dog. Any trouble, run like hell."

  I hadn't considered the possibility of a dog. Making my way toward the barrier, I quiver at the thought of being pursued by some drooling Doberman. Passing through the fence, I note the tear looks fresh. When I reach the loading dock, I turn back toward Joel, take confidence in the fact that he's watching me from the car. Once I mount the concrete stairs I'll be out of his sight line. I wave to him, then climb.

  There're two big loading doors, both firmly shut, plus a normal-size door for pedestrians. I try it. Locked. I'm about to return to the car when I'm surprised by a mechanical sound. I step to the side and watch transfixed as the left loading door slowly rolls up, revealing a freight elevator, empty, rickety, without a ceiling, descending, then stopping with a shudder flush with the concrete loading-dock floor.

  It takes a while for the sounds of the mechanism to subside. When everything's quiet I call out.

  "Hello! Anyone there?" My words echo up the shaft.

  Someone has sent the elevator down. Now it waits, lit by a single bare bulb, beckoning me to enter and take a ride.

  I scurry down the stairs, gesture to Joel. When he reaches me, I lead him to the loading dock. He gazes at the open elevator cab, the size of my bedroom.

  "Kind of inviting, isn't it?" He gestures like a courtier. "After you, kiddo."

  From inside, the empty elevator seems even bigger. I go to the control panel.

  "Which floor?"

  Joel shrugs. "I suppose we should start at the top, work our way down. But first let's wait a minute or two, see if anything happens."

  We wait a minute or two. I'm about to push the button for five, when suddenly the horizontal doors of the cab start to close. When I glance over at Joel, he shrugs again.

  "Let's see where it takes us," he says.

  The doors shut and latch, the elevator jerks. Sounds of cables straining over rusty pulleys as we rise. I'm uncomfortable with the notion of being guided by unseen persons, but Joel acts as if he expected this—we'd arrive, find a rip in the fence, find an empty elevator which would mysteriously appear, then take us to our destination.

  At the third floor the elevator jerks to a stop. The doors open, the mechanism quiets, we step out, find ourselves in a huge loft dimly lit by widely spaced dangling low-wattage bulbs. The loft is divided into storage cages surrounded by steel fencing.

  Each cage has a steel gate and above it the lessee's name: South Asia Antiquities, Rakoubian Carpet Company, Evelyn Perry Designs, "La Belle France." Through the fencing we can see stored merchandise: chairs, tables, chandeliers, vases, andirons, sculptures, hookahs, stone heads of Asian deities, rolled Oriental carpets.

  There's a list of lessees and a floor plan posted on a pillar. Tan-Hing Enterprises is at the end of Corridor C. Making our way beneath the free-hanging bulbs, we pass Urban Solutions, The Swiss Loft, Treasures of the Souks, Tran Van Minh Ceramic Arts—I feel as though I'm striding through a mall of Aladdin's caves.

  Halfway down the aisle the cages give way to storage rooms with solid walls which render the stored items invisible. At the door to Tan-Hing Enterprises we pause to listen. There's a gurgling sound within.

  "Running water," Joel whispers. "I wonder—" He pushes lightly on the door. Neither of us is surprised when it swings open.

  We find ourselves in an anteroom. The air's warm, fetid, and there's an odor of something organic. Following the running water sound, Joel moves to an inner door. The moment he opens it, the smell grows strong, a pungent tropical-jungle aroma carrying a hint of rot.

  We peer inside. The room's lined with aquaria, lit from behind, filled with schools of darting tropical fish and bubbles gurgling out of tubes.

  Joel sniffs. "Tropical fish don't smell like this. There's gotta be something else."

  I point to a small half-door beneath one of the aquarium stands that looks like it might lead to a utility closet. Joel gets down on his hands and knees, crawls beneath the aquarium.

  "Smell's getting stronger." He pulls the door open, reels back. "Jesus!"

  I crawl in after him. The odor in the next room is overpowering and the sounds are strange, sharp low-pitched grunts followed by hissing. I recoil, not knowing what living things surround us. Joel, always the "intrepid reporter," stands, stumbles, finds a light switch, flicks it on.

  The source of the hissing is soon revealed. A deep crate covered with chicken wire contains a dozen strange turtlelike creatures, the smallest ten inches in diameter, several half again as large. Swiveling eyes in gnomish heads, darting in and out of hard dome shells, seek a way out of the crate.

  Joel studies them. "Radiated tortoises," he says, "probably smuggled from Madagascar via Ceylon. Collectors love 'em for the designs on their backs. On the animal black market these'll fetch five to ten grand a piece."

  I stare at the largest of the creatures. The top of its shell is beautiful, like a work of intricate marquetry. The shell also has a radiant quality as if lit from within.

  "What're the colors, Joel?"

  "Black, brown, amber."

  Though to me all the tones read dark, the contrasts are defined.

  I wonder what kind of extravagant environment these creatures come from where such designs would serve as camouflage.

  "Look over here." Joel's standing at a table across the room. On it is a cage divided into two compartments. In each there's a large coiled s
nake.

  "Australian pythons," he says. "Like chameleons, they change color to blend in. These babies'll run you twenty grand apiece." He leads me to another table supporting more cages, these containing strange scaly horned creatures with flat unblinking eyes. "Don't know what these are called. Point is, we're in black-market animal country. God knows where they keep the cockatoos." He checks his watch. "Almost dawn. There's probably going to be a raid. I'm sure that's why we were tipped. Better start taking pictures, kiddo— before the Fish and Wildlife folks get here and all hell starts breaking loose."

  While Joel looks around for more animals, I set to work documenting the setup: the sign for Tan-Hing Enterprises out front, the first room filled with tropical fish, the crawl-through into the second room, then shots of the illegally imported endangered creatures.

  In addition to the radiated tortoises, pythons and lizards, there are other species secreted in cage boxes: tree boas, anacondas, teju lizards and a huge and, according to Joel, particularly venomous snake, an Australian taipan.

  This, of course, is not fine-art photography; it's journeyman's work, which is fine by me. I become so immersed I'm able to put aside my fear of snakes and my revulsion at the sickening odor that pervades the room. The coverage becomes a project: How can I best convey the meanness of the people involved—those who stole these creatures from their habitats, those who cruelly imprison them and, worst of all, the collectors on whose account the heinous racket endures?

  There's no way, I decide, except to shoot straight with the strobe, to take deadpan documentary photographs. No cute close-ups of the animals to show their exotic beauty, rather medium-distance shots that will emphasize their desperation in confinement.

  I become so engrossed I forget about Joel. When finally I turn to look for him, he's no longer there. I take a couple more shots, then crawl back out through the low door.

  He's not in the aquarium room. Since I know he wouldn't abandon me, I grab my stuff and retreat to the corridor. No sign of him. I start to worry. Where could he have gone? Then I remember: someone, using some kind of remote control, sent the elevator down to us. Finding that person, a possible lead to his informant, would be more important to Joel than documenting conditions at Tan-Hing.