ALSO IN THE AKASHIC NOIR SERIES:
Brooklyn Noir, edited by Tim McLoughlin
Brooklyn Noir 2: The Classics, edited by Tim McLoughlin
Chicago Noir, edited by Neal Pollack
FORTHCOMING:
D.C. Noir, edited by George Pelecanos
Dublin Noir, edited by Ken Bruen
Manhattan Noir, edited by Lawrence Block
Baltimore Noir, edited by Laura Lippman
Twin Cities Noir, edited by Julie Schaper & Steven Horwitz
Los Angeles Noir, edited by Denise Hamilton
London Noir, edited by Cathi Unsworth
Miami Noir, edited by Les Standiford
Lone Star Noir, edited by Edward Nawotka
This collection is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Series concept by Tim McLoughlin and Johnny Temple
Published by Akashic Books
© 2005 Peter Maravelis
San Francisco map by Sohrab Habibion
ePUB ISBN-13: 978-1-936-07044-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-888451-91-7
ISBN-10: 1-888451-91-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2005925465
All rights reserved
Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
[email protected]
www.akashicbooks.com
It’s an odd thing, but anyone who disappears
is said to be seen in San Francisco.
—Oscar Wilde
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Introduction
PART I: EDGE CITY
DOMENIC STANSBERRY North Beach
The Prison
DAVID CORBETT Hunter’s Point
It Can Happen
SIN SORACCO Russian River
Double Espresso
BARRY GIFFORD The Bayview
After Hours at La Chinita
PART II: IN MEMORIAM TO IDENTITY
KATE BRAVERMAN Fisherman’s Wharf
The Neutral Zone
ALVIN LU Chinatown
Le Rouge et le Noir
MICHELLE TEA Bernal Heights
Larry’s Place
ALEJANDRO MURGUÍA The Mission
The Other Barrio
PART III: NEO-NOIR
PETER PLATE Market Street
Genesis to Revelation
WILL CHRISTOPHER BAER The Castro
Deception of the Thrush
JIM NISBET Golden Gate Bridge
Weight Less Than Shadow
JON LONGHI The Haight-Ashbury
Fixed
PART IV: FLOWERS OF ROMANCE
ROBERT MAILER ANDERSON The Richmond
Briley Boy
EDDIE MULLER South of Market
Kid’s Last Fight
DAVID HENRY STERRY Polk Gulch
Confessions of a Sex Maniac
About the Contributors
INTRODUCTION
A GEOGRAPHY OF TRANSGRESSION
Recently strolling through the narrow back alleys of Chinatown, I chanced upon an elderly Asian man playing a Chinese double-stringed violin known as an erhu. He was performing an eerie and atonal rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” I noticed a faint smile upon his lips as his fingers moved effortlessly up and down the neck of his delicate instrument. His sweet and ominous music followed me down the crooked cobblestone paths as I made my way to work that day.
Since then, I have repeatedly sighted him throughout North Beach and Chinatown. He always performs the same song in the same strange manner. It appears to be the only tune in his repertoire. The melody has become so embedded upon my psyche that it now serves as the de facto soundtrack for my walks through the city.
A few days ago, I caught yet another glimpse of the erhu-playing man. This time, he was performing a couple yards away from a scraggly and comatose guy doubled-up on the ground adjacent to a bus shelter. Next to the unconscious fellow was a paper coffee cup containing a scant number of dirty coins and a weakly scrawled sign pleading for a handout. Directly above him stood a billboard that read: Is your business due for termination? The ad was paid for by an organization calling itself Nevada Rescue. It displayed a photo of a middle-aged white man’s beleaguered face, covered in bruises. The billboard was referring to the recent downturn in the SF economy, encouraging the soon-to-be-disenfranchised to “jump ship” and join the burgeoning labor camps of Nevada. I asked the musician if he could play me a different tune. He smiled without reply.
San Francisco is a city shaped by protean forces. The fusion of terrain, weather, and seismic phenomena has produced an exquisitely volatile ecology. Hazardously steep hills lead into lush garden communities engulfed by banks of fog that roll through with regularity. The salty ocean air eats away at beachfront bungalows while constant tremors loosen the foundations of the most well-reinforced buildings. Skyscrapers built atop landfill haunt the dreams of jaded FEMA administrators, while insects the size of thumbnails threaten to crush local agribusiness. An eroding coastline offers even the staunchest of non-Buddhists a sobering meditation upon impermanence. These perilous conditions punctuate life on the edge of a continent. The divine travels on a collision course with the dangerous.
The city has also been shaped by dreams. Since its birth in the 1700s, immigrants have flocked to San Francisco in the hope of reinventing their lives. From the Gold Rush of the 1840s to the dot-com madness of the late twentieth century, the city has experienced successive waves of newcomers that have radically altered its profile. A myriad of social universes have come into being, quite often bleeding into each other’s orbit. This has resulted in a rich cross-pollination of cultures. It has also led to tragic consequences. From “be-ins” to lynchings, San Franciscans have long had to live with a dialectic revolving around tolerance and backlash.
The operating motive behind this anthology has been to breach a certain literary canon. Crime fiction is the scalpel used to reveal San Francisco’s pathological character. The contributors perform a brutal examination of the passions that govern life in the city. We offer tales that draw their breath from the obscured recesses of collective history.
Since the end of World War II there has been an ever-increasing rate of homelessness and displacement among the city’s populace. This has been coupled with a privatization of public space that has largely erased the last structures of historic relevance. Some of the key questions that we hope to pose are: What happens when the history of a city begins to disappear? What happens to literature when it feeds upon the ruins of amnesia?
Bitterness becomes our poetry. We intend to poison you with its beauty.
San Francisco Noir brings together a stellar cast of writers to help expose the psychogeography of a city. Hidden and repressed memories are a focal point, as some of the best local writers, inside and out of the genre of crime fiction, weave tales that speak of the elemental motifs that surface in everyday life. These hard-biting stories explore San Francisco’s shadowy nether regions in their sinister splendor. From inner-city boroughs like the Mission to the outlands of the Richmond, the authors investigate a broad cross section of the town. Landscape, historicity, and ethnicity are the backdrops as desperation, transgression, and madness fuel tales that offer a uniquely chthonic view of San Francisco.
Like nineteenth-century Frenchman Comte de Lautréamont’s surrealist anti-hero, Maldoror, the characters that populate our collection traverse a landscape that is compelling and infernal. Sex-crazed bag-men, framed public officials, disillusioned prostitutes, psychotic kidnapping vict
ims, and desperate ex-cons inhabit a realm where actions are governed by an algebra of desire. Beauty and treachery walk hand in hand. Welcome to a peninsula of broken dreams, shattered lives, and deadly liaisons. These are depictions of San Francisco the local visitors’ bureau hopes will recede along with our fading memories. Meanwhile, the man with the violin continues to play his tune. We hope you’ll enjoy the fare.
Peter Maravelis
San Francisco, July 2005
PART I
Edge City
THE PRISON
BY DOMENIC STANSBERRY
North Beach
It was 1946, and Alcatraz was burning. I had just got back into town and stood in the crowd along the seawall, looking out toward the island. The riot at the prison had been going on for several days, and now a fire had broken out and smoke plumed out over the bay. There were all kinds of rumors running through the crowd. The prisoners had taken over. Warden Johnston was dead. Capone’s gang had seized a patrol boat and a group of escapees had landed down at Baker Beach. The radio contradicted these reports, but from the seawall you could see that a marine flotilla had surrounded Alcatraz Island and helicopters were pouring tracer fire into the prison. The police had the wharf cordoned off but it didn’t prevent the crowds from gathering. The off-duty sailors and Presidio boys mixing with the peace-time john-nies. The office girls and Chinese skirts. The Sicilians with their noses like giant fish.
In the crowd were people I knew from the old days. Some of them met my eyes, some didn’t. My old friend Johnny Maglie stood in a group maybe ten yards away. He gave me a nod, but it wasn’t him I was looking at. There was a woman, maybe twenty-five years old, black hair, wearing a red cardigan. Her name was Anne but I didn’t know this yet. Her eyes met mine and I felt something fall apart inside me.
My father had given me a gun before I left Reno. He had been a figure in North Beach before the war—an editor, a man with opinions, and he used to carry a little German revolver in his vest pocket. The gun had been confiscated after Pearl Harbor, but he’d gotten himself another somewhere along the way and pressed it into my hand in the train station. A gallant, meaningless gesture.
“Take this,” he said.
“I don’t need a gun.”
“You may be a war hero,” he said, “but there are people in North Beach who hate me. Who have always hated me.
They will go after you.”
I humored the old man and took the gun. Truth was, he was ill. He and Sal Fusco had sent me to borrow some money from a crab fisherman by the name of Giovanni Pellicano. More than that, though, my father wanted me to talk with my mother. He wanted me to bring her on the train back to Reno.
Johnny Maglie broke away from his little group—the ex-soldiers with their chests out and the office janes up on their tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of the prison. Maglie was a civilian now, looking good in his hat, his white shirt, his creases. My old friend extended his hand and I thought about my father’s gun in my pocket.
I have impulses sometimes, ugly thoughts.
Maybe it was the three years I’d spent in the Pacific. Or maybe it was just something inside me. Still inside me.
Either way, I imagined myself sticking the gun in my old friend’s stomach and pulling the trigger.
“So you’re back in town,” said Maglie.
“Yeah, I’m back.”
Maglie put his arm around me. He and I had grown up together, just down the street. We had both served in the Pacific theater, though in different divisions. He had served out the campaign, but I’d come back in ’44—after I was wounded the second time around, taking some shrapnel in my chest. This was my first time back to The Beach. Johnny knew the reason I had stayed away, I figured, but it wasn’t something we were going to talk about.
“We fought the Japs, we win the goddamn war—but it looks like the criminals are going to come back and storm the city.”
I had liked Maglie once, but I didn’t know how I felt about him anymore.
“You going to stick around town for a while?”
“Haven’t decided,” I said.
“How’s your mom?”
“Good.”
He didn’t mention my father. No one mentioned my father.
“You know,” he stuttered, and I saw in his face the mix of shame and awkwardness that I’d seen more than once in the faces of the people who’d known my family—who’d moved in the same circles. And that included just about everybody in The Beach. Some of them, of course, played it the other way now. They held their noses up, they smirked. “You know,” he said, “I was getting some papers drawn up yesterday—down at Uncle’s place—and your name came up…”
He stopped then. Maybe it was because he saw my expression at the mention of his uncle, the judge. Or maybe it was because the cops were herding us away, or because a blonde in Maglie’s group gave a glance in his direction.
“Join us,” he said. “We’re going to Fontana’s.”
I was going to say no. And probably I should have. But the girl in the red cardigan was a member of their group.
For twenty years, my father had run the Italian-language paper, Il Carnevale. He had offices down at Columbus, and all the Italian culturatti used to stop by when they came through the city. Enrico Caruso. The great Marconi. Even Vittorio Mussolini, the aviator.
My father had been a public man. Fridays, to the opera. Saturdays, to Cavelli’s Books—to stand on the sidewalk and listen to Il Duce’s radio address. On Tuesdays, he visited the Salesian school. The young boys dressed in the uniforms of the Faciso Giovanile, and my father gave them lectures on the beauty of the Italian language.
I signed up in December, ’41.
A few weeks later my father’s office was raided. His paper was shut down. Hearings were held. My father and a dozen others were sent to a detention camp in Montana. My mother did not put this news in her letters. Sometime in ’43 the case was reviewed and my father was released, provided he did not take up residence in a state contiguous to the Pacific Ocean. When I came home, with my wounds and my letters of commendation, my stateside commander suggested it might a good idea, all things considered, if I too stayed away from the waterfront.
But none of this is worth mentioning. Anyway, I am an old man now and there are times I don’t know what day it is, what year. Or maybe I just don’t care. I look up at the television, and that man in the nice suit, he could be Mussolini. He could be Stalin. He could be Missouri Harry, with his show-me smile and his atomic bomb. This hospital, there are a million old men like me, a million stories. They wave their hands. They tell how they hit it big, played their cards, made all the right decisions. If they made a mistake, it wasn’t their fault; it was that asshole down the block. Myself, I say nothing. I smell their shit. Some people get punished. Some of us, we get away with murder.
“You on leave?”
Anne had black hair and gray eyes and one of those big smiles that drew you in. There was something a bit off about her face, a skewed symmetry—a nose flat at the bridge, thin lips, a smile that was wide and crooked. The way she looked at you, she was brash and demure at the same time. A salesman’s daughter, maybe. She regarded me with her head tilted, looking up. Amused, wry. Something irrepressible in her eyes. Or almost irrepressible.
“No, no,” I said. “I’ve been out of the service for a while now.”
She glanced at my hand, checking for the ring. I wasn’t wearing one—but she was. It was on the engagement finger, which she tucked away when she saw me looking. What this meant, exactly, I didn’t know. Some of the girls wore engagement rings the whole time their fiancés were overseas, then dumped the guy the instant he strolled off the boat. Anne didn’t look like that type, but you never knew.
As for me, like I said, I wasn’t wearing any kind of ring—in spite of Julia Fusco, back in Reno. We weren’t married, but…
“I grew up here.”
“In The Beach?”
“Yes.”
; She smiled at that—like she had known the answer, just looking.
“And you?”
“I’ve been out East for a while,” she said. “But I grew up here, too.”
“But not in The Beach?” I asked, though I knew the answer, the same way she had known about me.
“No, no. Dolores Heights.”
The area out there in the Mission was mostly Irish those days, though there were still some German families up in the Heights. Entrepreneurs. Jews. Here before the Italians, before the Irish. Back when the ships still came around the horn.
“Where did you serve?”
I averted my eyes, and she didn’t pursue it. Maybe because I had that melancholy look that says don’t ask any more. I glanced at a guy dancing in front of the juke with his girlfriend, and I thought of my gun and had another one of my ugly moments. I took a drink because that helped sometimes. It helped me push the thoughts away. The place was loud and raucous. Maglie and his blonde were sitting across from me, chatting it up, but I couldn’t hear a word. One of the other girls said something, and Anne laughed. I laughed too, just for the hell of it.
I took another drink.
Fontana’s had changed. It had used to be only Italians came here, and you didn’t see a woman without her family. But that wasn’t true anymore. Or at least it wasn’t true this night. The place had a fevered air, like there was something people were trying to catch onto. Or maybe it was just the jailbreak.
Maglie came over to my side and put his arm around my shoulders once again. He had always been like this. One drink and he was all sentimental.
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