MD05 - The Confession

by Sheldon Siegel

  It’s after midnight and the raucous crowd is pouring out onto Mission Street. Traffic is still heavy as we watch a homeless man pushing his shopping cart down the street in search of a place to sleep. Just another night on the strip in my old neighborhood.

  We shuffle down Mission and turn left at Twenty-fourth, where my car is parked at the corner. I look at my beat-up Corolla and immediately see that the driver-side window has been smashed in. Tiny shards of glass cover the driver’s seat. “Dammit,” I say.

  “It happens,” Pete says. “You’ve been living out in the suburbs too long.”

  “There was nothing in the car worth stealing,” I say.

  He shrugs. “You couldn’t tell that from the outside.”

  I glance at a pristine Mercedes that’s parked behind my Corolla and say, “If I were a garden-variety car thief, I would have taken my chances with the Mercedes.”

  “That car has an alarm,” Pete observes. “Yours doesn’t.”

  I’m not convinced. “There are a bunch of people who aren’t excited by the fact that we’re involved in this case. Maybe somebody is trying to send me a message.”

  “It may be nothing, Mick. If you’re really worried, my guy will be on your tail starting at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks.” I wish he was there already.

  Pete reads the troubled look in my eyes and says, “You aren’t going to back down, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.” He takes inventory of my car and says, “I think it’s still driveable, but it may be a little cold going over the bridge.”

  “I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” I say.

  He takes a deep breath of the damp night air and says, “Are you in any hurry to get home?”

  The thought of crossing the Golden Gate Bridge in a cold drizzle with a broken window isn’t especially appealing. “Not really,” I say. I haven’t slept in two days, but I’m game.

  “I’m going to see if anybody is hanging out behind Concepcion’s apartment.”

  “Want some company?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 20

  “Looking for a Good Time?”

  “I have instructed the Chief of Police to give high priority to prostitution and other‘victimless’ crimes in the Mission District, where law abiding citizens should not have to suffer the indignity of being accosted by prostitutes and drug dealers.”

  — The Mayor of San Francisco.

  My brother’s cat-like eyes are darting as we’re standing in the alley behind Concepcion’s apartment building at twelve-twenty A.M. The rain has given way to a dank fog and I can see my breath. The tightly-packed low-rise buildings are covered with graffiti and the only source of illumination is a single light that’s mounted on a power pole. Cars are parked haphazardly and threatening signs warn interlopers not to block the garages. An emaciated cat is pawing for food in an overflowing dumpster and the pungent odor envelops us.

  We’re only a block and a half from Lopez’s sleek restaurant, but it’s a different world. The alley rivals Mission Street as the neighborhood’s hub of night time commerce, and traffic is continuous. The selection of goods is limited and the quality is spotty, but all of the products are illegal. We’ve been here for fifteen minutes and we’ve been offered coke, crack, heroin, meth and women. I can hear a wailing siren from Mission Street, but there is no discernable police presence. An imposing entrepreneur is peddling pharmaceutical products with impunity from the back of his van. He was more interested in selling heroin than providing information, and he assured us he hadn’t been in the vicinity last Monday night.

  We’re leaning against a decaying garage door and trying to engage the sliver of humanity that inhabits this flea market for vice. In other words, we’re looking for trouble. We’ve chatted up drug dealers, hookers, gang members and petty thieves, with nothing to show for it so far. One dealer pulled a knife and tried to extort a little extra cash, but quickly reconsidered when Pete flashed a small, but intimidating twenty-two caliber pistol. My anxiety is somewhat tempered by the fact that there is an armed ex-cop standing next to me. He’s licensed to carry the gun, but legal niceties lose much of their meaning in a dark alley in the Mission.

  I ask Pete, “What are the odds we’ll get some useful information?”

  “Better than fifty-fifty.”

  “And the chances we’ll get ourselves killed?”

  He pats the handgun under his jacket and says, “Worse than fifty-fifty.”

  Twelve-thirty turns into one o’clock as we continue talking to the addicts and low riders who parade by us. The vignettes in our immediate proximity are typical for this hour: a man selling drugs to a young woman; a hooker arguing with a john; a group of boisterous teens wearing matching gang jackets. In the distance, we can hear gunfire and the sound of cars doing donuts in a parking lot behind a long-closed movie theater. Police have been trying to crack down on these so-called “sideshows” for years, with limited success.

  By one-forty-five, the Mission is settling in for the night. Traffic has slowed to a trickle and the hookers and johns have retired. The next shift are the homeless, who materialize from the crevices and cautiously push their shopping carts into doorways in their nightly attempt to find sheltered places to sleep. The mist is getting thicker and my hands are getting colder. Pete’s leather jacket and mustache are covered with moisture. His eyes keep moving as the alley becomes ominously still. A dirt-encrusted man toasts us with a kind word and a bottle of gin. He lavishes us with slurred thanks after we oblige his request for change, but he provides no helpful information.

  At two o’clock, Pete motions down the alley toward a tall Latina who is walking in the shadows with a halting gait. I can’t tell if she’s injured, intoxicated or trying to navigate high heels. I ask, “What’s she doing here?”

  “Working,” Pete says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shut up, Mick.”

  I always feel like Barney Fife when I’m on a stakeout with Pete.

  Despite the fog, the woman is clad only in a miniskirt and a loose fitting, white cotton blouse. Her heavy make-up is smeared and her long hair is disheveled as she limps toward us. Her exact age is difficult to discern in the dim light, but she can’t be much older than twenty.

  We’ve made no attempt to remain inconspicuous and Pete invokes a non-threatening tone when he approaches her cautiously and says, “Do you need some help, Miss?”

  The worldly hooker reaches into her blouse and the dim light reflects off the blade of a small knife. “Is your name Gary?” she asks.

  I’m guessing Gary isn’t her boyfriend. “I’m afraid not,” Pete says. He’s just far enough away from her so that she can’t reach him. I can feel my heart pounding as Pete holds up his palms. “My name is Pete,” he says, “and this is Mike.” I step forward to show her that I’m unarmed. Pete tries to keep his tone reassuring, “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Are you vice?”

  “Nope.”

  “Undercover?”

  “Nope.”

  “Mayor’s Task Force?”

  “Nope.”

  I admire her directness.

  Her eyes turn hopeful. “Looking for a good time?”

  “We’re here on business.”

  “So am I.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Pete says. He gestures toward Concepcion’s building and adds, “A woman died in there last Monday night. Were you here?”

  “Maybe.” She hesitates and says, “Maybe not.” There is recognition in her eyes when he tells her that we’re working for Ramon. “I’ve met him,” she says. “I get dinner at the church a couple of nights a week.”

  “Then help us.”

  Reality intrudes. “My pimp is going to beat the crap out of me because I can’t find a guy named Gary and now you want me to help you solve a murder?”

  “Tell us who else works on this street. Maybe somebody can help
us.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “The knowledge that you helped keep Father Aguirre out of jail.”

  She’s unmoved. “You’re going to have to do better.”

  “What was Gary supposed to pay you?”

  “Fifty. . . a hundred bucks.”

  “We’ll give it to you.”

  I’m not sure about the precise legalities of this transaction, but her dull eyes light up and she tries to raise the ante. “A hundred and fifty.”

  “A hundred–that’s going to be my best offer.”

  “All right, but I want you to find me a new apartment,” she says.

  Give her credit for trying, but there are limits on what we can offer. “I’m a PI, not a social worker,” Pete tells her.

  This is a spot where I might be able to add something useful. “I’m a lawyer,” I say, “and I know some people who can help you.”

  “Lawyers are assholes.”

  At least we’re starting on a positive note. “Not all of them,” I say. “I represent people who get accused of crimes that aren’t their fault.”

  “Like what?”

  “People who sell their bodies to make money for asshole pimps. I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee and talk about it.”

  “Forget it.” She fingers her knife and says, “Coffee doesn’t pay the bills.”

  “Money does.” I pull out my wallet and hand her five twenties. “Here’s the hundred that Gary owed you. Now you’re in good with your pimp. Let’s start with your name.”

  She tucks the money inside her blouse and says, “Anna.”

  “That’s a pretty name. Is it real?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “That’s going to cost you another fifty.”

  “That’s a little steep.” I hand her a twenty.

  “Moreno,” she says.

  Progress. Our window of opportunity may be very short. “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Twenty-five.”

  She’s lying. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “A couple of years.” She says she grew up just south of here on Garfield Square. Her father left home when she was a baby and her mother died when she was thirteen. She did foster care for a few years and then went into business for herself. Now she lives in a women’s shelter.

  “Hypothetically,” I say, “would you be interested in meeting some people who might be able to help you go back to school?”

  “What’s it going to cost me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There’s no free lunch.”

  “There is with me.”

  “You’re an unusual lawyer.”

  So I’ve been told. There are limits to what one can accomplish in an alley in the middle of the night, but she seems genuinely interested. I give her my business card and ask her to call me at the office. She gives me a phone number that I hope is real. I try to ease her into a discussion of the matters at hand. “How often do you work here?”

  “Six nights a week.”

  Jesus.

  “I can make five hundred a night,” she says, “but most of it goes to my pimp. Every once in awhile, the vice cops clear everybody out for a few weeks.”

  “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “Of course.” Her tone suggests this is an accepted cost of doing business. She says she’s done a little jail time. “It sucked.”

  I’ll bet. “Is there anybody who might have seen something last week?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s it going to cost us?”

  “Another hundred.”

  This is getting pricy. “Tell me who it is.” I flash another five twenties, which she tries to grab, but I snatch them away.

  Her voice goes down a half-octave. “I thought we had a deal.”

  “We did.”

  “Then give me my money.”

  “Not until you give me a name and tell us where to find him.”

  She hesitates for an interminable moment, then she leads us down the alley and to a building a half-block from where we started. She points to a closed garage door and says, “His name is Preston Fuentes.”

  “Is he your pimp?”

  “Do you think I’d give you the name of my pimp?”

  Probably not. “Who is he?”

  “My cousin.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a mechanic.”

  Seems innocuous enough. I’m about to pursue it when the quiet calm is broken by the sound of violent barking.

  “That’s Fluffy,” she explains. “She’s Preston’s Doberman.”

  Everybody should have a pet.

  “He’s restoring a Corvette in this garage,” she explains. “He works on the car at night and Fluffy keeps an eye on it when he isn’t around.”

  Two thoughts flash through my mind. First, I wonder where a mechanic got the money to purchase a Corvette. Second, I decide to stay on Fluffy’s good side.

  Chapter 21

  “I Figured You Might be Up”

  “It takes some babies longer to calibrate their sleeping patterns, but they should make it through the night by their first birthday.”

  — Parenting for Dummies.

  My brother’s voice is raspier than usual when he says, “You sound terrible, Mick.”

  It may have something to do with the fact that I just spent the last three hours interviewing prostitutes and drug dealers next to a dumpster in an alley off Capp Street, and my left arm is numb from the freezing rain that’s whipping through the broken window in my car as I’m driving past the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge at three-ten A.M. My tone is less-than-convincing when I say, “I’m fine, Pete.”

  He’s still looking for witnesses behind Concepcion’s apartment. I offered to stick around, but there are times when he prefers to work alone. This doesn’t mean he’s planning to do something sordid, but it doesn’t rule out the possibility.

  I glance to my right, where the clouds are obstructing my view of the Alcatraz beacon and the Berkeley Hills, then I ask him if he found anything after I left.

  “I can score you some of the finest quality crack this side of the Mississippi.”

  It’s too late for jokes. “What about Preston Fuentes?”

  “He works at a body shop on Valencia Street when the sun is up. He runs a different kind of body shop after the sun goes down.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Seems he supplements his income by selling drugs and pimping out of his garage.”

  “Is Anna Moreno one of his girls?”

  “No, she’s really his cousin. And the stuff about restoring cars in his spare time is true. Evidently, he’s quite good at it.”

  Maybe he can fix the window on my Corolla. I ask him how he managed to uncover the treasure trove of information at this hour.

  “The Mission is always open for business and I talked to a couple of his neighbors. Then I disconnected his alarm and broke into his garage. I didn’t stay long.”

  I’m not hearing this. “You realize that breaking and entering is still a crime.”

  “Yes, I do. I didn’t find anything illegal, but I met Fluffy. You know I’ve always had a way with animals.”

  Pete once ran over our dog with his bike and he felt terrible about it for years. He and the bike recovered, but the dog was never the same. “What’s Fluffy doing now?”

  “I persuaded her to take a nap.”

  Most Dobermans aren’t terribly receptive to friendly suggestions. “Did your persuasive skills include the use of a tranquilizer gun?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do me a favor,” I say. “Don’t do anything illegal for the rest of the day.”

  “Deal. Do you want to know what else I found out about Fuentes?”

  “You realize we won’t be able to use anything you tell me in court.”

  “I’m not a cop anymore, Mick. I’ll let you lawyers worry about it.”

&n
bsp; I’ll take what I can get. “Okay, give.”

  “Fuentes lives by himself in the building behind the garage and spends his nights restoring a beautiful sixty-six ’Vette and collecting dough from his girls. He likes to play loud music out in the garage. This doesn’t make him especially popular with his neighbors, but there isn’t much they can do. Nobody wants to get on Fluffy’s bad side.”