Six O'Clock Silence

by Joanne Pence

  “Me? Same old, same old,” Rebecca said, wondering what brought that on.

  “That’s not the way I hear it,” Lorene said. “Your sister called. Courtney said you’re seeing a young man, and it’s pretty serious.”

  Rebecca swallowed, remembering Courtney’s strange visit to San Francisco a while back. “Oh, well—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Are there wedding bells in the future?”

  “You know how Courtney exaggerates.”

  Silence. Then Lorene said, “I was afraid you’d say that. Did something happen between you and the fellow? Courtney worked hard to convince me you were actually serious about him. I told her you would have called to let me know if that was the case, but she insisted. She also said he was ‘interesting,’ but wouldn’t tell me what that means. She said she’d let you explain. I guess that’s not going to happen either.”

  Rebecca’s teeth ached as she listened to Lorene’s criticism. “You’re right. It’s not going to happen. There’s nothing to explain. I am dating someone. But it’s not a marriage situation. We’re friends.”

  “You aren’t saying he’s already married, are you?” Lorene voice wavered between accusatory and resigned.

  “No, I’m not saying that.”

  “Friends? All I can say is, if you like him, marry him. At your age, it’s downright silly to hold out for someone you’re madly in love with. Someone who’ll turn your head and cause you to act in ways you never dreamed you would. Such love doesn’t come along very often in real life, I’m sorry to say. Take your father and me. We were happy enough for quite a few years. Maybe my heart never beat faster when he was around, but he was a good man.”

  Rebecca knew exactly how little Lorene had cared about Benjamin, and vowed she’d never marry rather than to be in a loveless marriage. Now, she feared blood would drip from her mouth the way she was biting her tongue. She chose to say nothing more about her love life, or how she felt about Richie.

  If only you knew, Mom, she thought. Her feelings for him were the problem.

  She pretended a call about a dead body had just come in and she ended the conversation.

  Ready to spit nails, she plopped down on the sofa. Spike jumped up beside her, his big, bulging brown eyes questioning. A part of her would have loved to have been able to tell her mother about Richie and how she felt about him. Instead, she had been reduced to, “It’s not a marriage situation.”

  The thought struck that Richie must face similar questioning from his relatives nearly constantly since they were all over the city. She couldn’t help but wonder if that was what had bothered him so much during their last get-together. Their relationship.

  A short while back, she had told him she was miserable when not with him, and he said he felt the same. To her, that meant they should stay together because they enjoyed it, but that their “life choices,” her being a cop and him being a “fixer” or whatever the less-loaded term was for his high-finance shenanigans, remained a problem.

  In other words, there was no future, no “happily forever after” for them together.

  It was a stupid idea, and she knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth.

  And as far as actually living that way, it was hell.

  She liked him, really, really liked him—maybe even more than she dared admit to herself. And she did want to think about a future with him. In other words, the time had come to “put up or shut up,” “fish or cut bait,” or whatever.

  She decided to go to Big Caesar’s that evening. There, she would face Richie and tell him how much she missed him, and ask if something was going on that they needed to talk about.

  She started rummaging through her closet for something attractive to wear, but then stopped. Showing up at his nightclub in a bad mood and demanding to talk was not the way to handle Richie. He was probably still at home, so she picked up the phone and called before she got any other bright ideas.

  He answered.

  “Hi. How are you?” she asked, doing her best to sound upbeat and cheerful.

  “Okay. Is everything all right?” He sounded surprised to hear from her.

  “Fine. I’m just wondering what you’re up to. Are you going to the club tonight? Are you very busy?” That couldn’t be a clearer opening for an invitation.

  “I am,” he said. “I’ve got some personnel issues that need handling. I expect they won’t leave me with time to deal with anything else tonight.”

  Deal with? “Oh, well, I guess I should let you go, then,” she murmured. She could all but feel him withdrawing from her on the phone.

  “Yeah. Well, good to talk to you. I’ll give you a call soon, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  With that, they said goodbye.

  She stared at the phone. That wasn’t Richie. Richie always had time to talk, and he definitely always had time for her. She wished she had done something to cause this reaction because then she would at least have something to try to fix. But now…

  She couldn’t stand it. Between Lt. Eastwood criticizing her at work, and now Richie acting weird, she was at her wit’s end. She grabbed a bottle of chardonnay and headed up the back stairs to visit her neighbor, Kiki.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As Richie finished getting ready for work, he wondered about Rebecca’s phone call. She sounded unhappy. He hated that he'd pretty much pushed her away. In time, he told himself, he’d make everything right again. But at the moment, he had too much going on that he wasn’t ready to tell her about.

  Before leaving the house, he picked up a case of Uncle Silvio’s homemade wine from his basement, his usual “private reserve,” and put it on the passenger seat of his Porsche. He then drove to a mansion in Presidio Heights, an area with homes of the rich and famous, including politicians, big business CEOs, the country’s top attorneys, and one of the richest, most powerful men in the city’s Italian community.

  Giorgio Boiardi, called Don Giorgio, had headed a “West Coast operation” until he was sent to prison in 1989. He remained there until 2005 when he was released due to age and infirmity.

  Once out of prison, Don Giorgio had rallied. In fact, Richie met Rebecca while trying to help some of Don Giorgio’s old friends attend his ninetieth birthday party.

  Now, Richie walked to the front door of the man who was once il capo di tutti capi—the head honcho of all the heads of … well, Richie would prefer to not even think about what Giorgio Boiardi once headed. Anyway, all that was gone now. The one thing age and imprisonment did for Don Giorgio was to convince him to walk the straight and narrow. He might totter a bit from time to time, but the last thing he wanted was to be locked up again. He often said that those people who declared prisons to be like country clubs should spend a night in one.

  Holding the wine, Richie rang the bell. An old man answered.

  “Signore Amalfi, benvenuto!”

  “Grazie, Alfonso. Is Signore Boiardi available?”

  “Sì, sì. Come inside. Prego!”

  “I have a little something for him,” Richie said, indicating the wine he carried.

  “Ah, molto gentile!” He took the wine and headed down the hall.

  The living room was large for an older San Francisco home, and was decorated in an old-fashioned European style with dark wood and ornate gold and green fabrics on heavy draperies and furniture.

  Richie sat on a gold brocade sofa, one leg jiggling nervously.

  Alfonso brought him a small cup of espresso. Richie added about three teaspoons of sugar, and then drank it down quickly.

  After a short wait, Boiardi entered the room. Anyone looking at him would see a small, frail man with whispery white hair, and have no idea of the power he once wielded throughout the San Francisco Bay Area and as far-reaching as Sacramento. “Eh, Richie! Come va?”

  “Tutto bene.” Richie assured him all was well as he walked over to him. They hugged and kissed on both cheeks as Boiardi thanked him for the wine.

  “It’s been a
long time, Richie,” Boiardi said. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  “Never, Don Giorgio,” Richie said.

  “Bene.” Don Giorgio sat in a tall, green velvet armchair, and Richie returned to the sofa. Boiardi continued, “I heard you’ve been spending most of your time with a pretty homicide detective. That’s good, Richie, I’m happy to hear it.”

  “Thank you, Don Giorgio,” Richie said, remembering how Don Giorgio had been there for him after Isabella’s passing. “Actually, Rebecca is the reason I’m here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not long ago, she was called out to investigate a phony homicide, and someone tried to kill her. I suspect it was an inside job, and I’m worried they’ll try again.”

  At the words “tried to kill her,” Boiardi’s dark brown eyes sparkled. “Ah, molto interessante. An inside job? But why? She’s a cop. To kill her, that would cause big trouble.”

  “She was looking into a case that involved a lot of foreign money coming into the city—phony real estate deals. Next thing we know, she ended up a target. She was lucky to survive.”

  “She thinks her boss is in on it?” Boiardi asked.

  “Not really. He’s a new guy transferred up here from LA. He thinks he’s going to become Chief of Police if he does the right thing, but frankly, he doesn’t know shit from Shinola about the city or its politics.”

  Boiardi chuckled at Richie’s old-fashioned expression, one Richie had heard him use many times over the years. “So, you’re thinking, maybe she knows too much about these deals and someone higher up is afraid of the consequences.”

  “Exactly.” Richie’s jaw tightened. “Someone in the police department or City Hall. While I doubt her boss is a part of it, I think he’s being pressured, and he’s folding like an old cot. I want to find out who’s after her and stop whoever it is.”

  “Capito. I’ll see what I can learn.” Boiardi nodded. “A couple guys I know, they still have ties with the mayor’s office, and not much happens in this city that the mayor doesn’t know about. Although, to be honest, most of the guys I used to work with, they’re dead or they’re so old and senile they just sit around and drool. Worthless, that’s what they’ve become. It’s not like the good ol’ days, Richie. Still, for you, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Grazie mille, Don Giorgio.”

  He pointed a bony finger at Richie. “In the meantime, if these guys are as high up as you think, keep away from them. Capish’?”

  “Okay, I understand.”

  “Ascoltami!”

  “I hear you. I’ll be careful.”

  The don stood, and so did Richie. They gave each other a quick hug, and Richie left for Big Caesar’s. He was pleased with the visit, although he’d be damned if he was going to sit around doing nothing while Rebecca was in danger.

  o0o

  Rebecca’s upstairs neighbor, Kiki Nuñez, had been busy the past few weeks setting up a new day spa. She had to close her prior spa, Kiki’s House of Beauty, after a body was found dead in a mud bath. Kiki suspected that no matter how much she swore the bath had been cleaned, customers willing to get into it would be few and far between. San Francisco might have its oddities, but so far they hadn’t extended to ghoulish sloshes in the mud.

  “Becca, you’re a life saver!” Kiki said as she opened the back-door to find Rebecca standing there with a bottle of chilled chardonnay in hand. “Just what I need! This spa business is killing me.”

  “Glad to be of service,” Rebecca said as Kiki took the wine bottle and poured them each a full glass, then put out some brie and crackers. Kiki was in her late forties, vivacious and outspoken. She had just gotten home from another tiring day moving furniture, unpacking supplies, and staging everything in a way that should be both handy and logical in the new spa.

  They sat down in the living room. Kiki kicked off her shoes.

  “What’s wrong, Becca,” Kiki said after taking a sip and letting the cool wine trickle down her throat. “You look like you lost your last friend.”

  “It’s almost that bad,” Rebecca said. “I just talked to my mother.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” Kiki said. In the past, Rebecca had told her the way Lorene found Rebecca to be a failure and a disappointment compared to her “television-star” sister. For a few years Courtney did have a good, high-paying, on-going role in a daytime soap. But then her character was killed off. Her last job was as a zombie on Walking Dead. It didn’t last long. But Courtney had faith that things would turn around for her, and so did Lorene. Compared to that, being a mere homicide detective was low on the prestige totem pole. “At least Richie will cheer you up,” Kiki added.

  “Hah!” Rebecca told her about his last visit, and her troublesome phone call. “It’s so ironic. Just as I was thinking I trusted my feelings and his, and that it was safe to move things to the next level, he starts acting as if I’m the last person he wants to see. I always suspected it would happen eventually. But that doesn’t make it any easier.” She took a big swig of wine.

  “These men!” Kiki said with disgust. “I thought better of him—and his friend Gino the Nailer.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Gino was helping you with the spa,” Rebecca said. “How did that work out?”

  “It didn’t. I thought he was called ‘the Nailer’ because he’s such a good carpenter. I’ll admit he was nice enough for a while, but he wanted more than money in payment for his assistance! That was what his nickname really referred to, son of a bitch! I threw him out.”

  Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh. She could imagine Kiki tossing delusional Gino out on his ear. “I’m sorry to hear it. Richie should have known better than to recommend someone like that.”

  “I can’t fault Richie. He got me such a good deal when I left my old spa, he’ll have to murder someone in front of my eyes before I’ll ever say a bad thing about him. But Gino! Bah! And here I thought he was special.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. He is awfully cute and has a good sense of humor. But so what? His attitude was for the birds, so I told him adios. Still, it’s disappointing.”

  “I’m sure someone special is out there for you, Kiki.”

  “Maybe.” Kiki realized both glasses were empty and refilled them. “For all I know, Gino is still married. In fact, he might have more than one wife out there. A bigamist. Leave it to me to pick ‘em!”

  “Maybe he’ll get a divorce.”

  “Maybe he’s not over her yet,” Kiki said. “Like Rich—, I mean, you know these guys.” Kiki reached for her wine and took a big swallow.

  “Like Richie?” Rebecca pounced. “What do you mean? Richie was never married.”

  “No. I know.” Kiki vigorously shook her head.

  “Engaged,” Rebecca said, closely studying Kiki.

  “Yeah, I heard.” Kiki studied her wineglass as she swirled the wine in it.

  Rebecca frowned. “Did Gino tell you Richie’s not over Isabella yet or something? Did you two talk about Richie being unable to forget her?”

  Kiki put down the glass. “No, Becca! Nothing like that! Richie loves you, I’m sure. Don’t think otherwise. It’s just that…”

  “That?”

  “Gino told me he’s looking into her death.”

  It took a second for Rebecca to comprehend what Kiki was saying. “What do you mean? It was a car accident. What’s there to look into?”

  Kiki shrugged helplessly. “Apparently, he heard something from an old girlfriend.” Kiki’s mouth wrinkled. “Yeah, another old girlfriend. I hadn’t really thought about it before, but the guy really is like Casanova, isn’t he? Anyway, he was talking to some old girlfriend, and she told him something that made him wonder if his old fiancée got too close to some high finance thing going on that involved a bunch of big shots in the city. Isn’t that weird? How one old girlfriend would tell him something about another that would cause him to go all Inspector Clouseau? I mean, if he was over his fiancée, he’d let it go, wouldn
’t he? I’m only telling you this because I don’t want you to be hurt any more than I think you already are.”

  “Thanks.” Rebecca’s tone conveyed anything but gratitude.

  “I mean it. I admit I was the one pushing you toward him all the time, even as you thought you should stay away. Well, I’m changing my tune. If he’s so hung-up that he’s going off half-cocked because of something he heard, I don’t think you want to get any more involved with him.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Kiki.” Rebecca had to change the subject or she might not be able to hold in how upsetting Kiki’s words were to her. She chugged down the glass of wine and forced a smile. “Now, tell me what your latest plans are for the new spa.”

  But Rebecca only half listened to her friend’s plans. Her mind was racing. Try as she might to keep thoughts of Richie at bay, she couldn't help but think that he was stirring up things that could have consequences for both of them—and none of them pleasant.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rebecca was running late the next morning as she drove to work. She was approaching an intersection, hoping the light wouldn't change before she crossed it. The car in front of her slowed down.

  “Idiot! The light’s still green!” she shouted, even though she knew the driver couldn't hear her. But then the driver made a turn onto Jones Street.

  The light switched to yellow as she continued into the intersection. From the corner of her eye, she saw a huge Mack truck barreling toward her. His light was still red, but it didn't look like he had any intention of stopping.

  She stomped hard on the gas, but braced for the collision.

  o0o

  The Homicide Department of the Bureau of Inspections was located on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice. It consisted of one large room where the inspectors had their desks. Along the perimeter were Lieutenant Eastwood’s office, interrogation rooms, and a small reception area where the staff’s administrative assistant sat.

  “What’s wrong with drivers these days?” Rebecca fumed at Bo Benson as she flung herself into her desk chair. Bo sat near her and was her closest friend on the staff. A couple of years younger than Rebecca, he was single, handsome, and African-American, with a quiet, wicked sense of humor when he let it show.