Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘Who’s Jimmy Choo?’ Lang asked as he headed for his office.

  ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about Jimmy Choo,’ Thanh said, smiling.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Lang said. ‘I needed that room in my brain to figure out the meaning of life. Good to have the pressure off. And the call you took?’

  ‘Marshall Hawkes,’ Thanh said.

  Lang stopped, turned back.

  ‘He can see you today at noon.’

  Lang looked at his watch. ‘That makes it pretty much now,’ he said.

  It was a short walk to the address Lang was given for Hawkes. Even so, he was greeted with the usual South of Market population, ranging from the down and out and the up and coming. The architecture reflected the same arc of abandonment and resurrection. Empty, trashed buildings existed side by side with creatively remodeled spaces and shiny, new condominiums.

  Inside one of those condo buildings, the artist, Marshall Hawkes, wore a silk kimono. The pinks and burgundy dominated an intricate abstract pattern in the silk that seemed more garish than it was because of Marshall’s flaming red hair. The man was thin, sharp-featured, eyes narrow-set and a crisp, heartless blue.

  Hawkes welcomed Noah with a thin smile and a dramatic gesture. The living room was very Japanese, very minimal. There wasn’t the scent of oil or turpentine, just Marshall Hawkes’s cologne. Off the living room was a terrace that overlooked the street.

  ‘Yes,’ Hawkes said, perching himself like a skinny bird on the edge of one of the two sofas, both upholstered in a fabric similar and complementary to the kimono.

  ‘You know about the death of Whitney Warfield.’

  ‘I know what’s going on in the world,’ Hawkes said. There was condescension in his voice.

  ‘It seems . . .’ Lang began, then with a nod asked if he could sit.

  ‘By all means. You were saying?’

  Lang sat on the opposite sofa. ‘It seems as if Mr Warfield was writing a book . . .’

  ‘That’s what he does,’ Hawkes said.

  ‘. . . that was to chronicle the indiscretions of his friends,’ Lang said, bumping up his tone and his vocabulary involuntarily. He couldn’t help but smile at his own foolishness. He couldn’t remember ever using the word ‘indiscretions’, let alone ‘chronicle’ as a verb in a sentence. ‘And any other embarrassments. This means that people who have something to hide might also have a motive for his murder.’

  Hawkes smiled. ‘That’s all very Agatha Christie, isn’t it?’

  Lang nodded.

  ‘And what is it you want?’ Hawkes asked.

  ‘Just trying to get a feel for the people who traveled in his circles.’

  ‘I don’t travel in anyone’s circle, Mr Lang. If there’s any traveling done, they are traveling in mine.’

  A fawn-colored greyhound peeked around a corner and retreated.

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have hated or feared Mr Warfield enough to have killed him?’

  ‘The buzz seems to be that a certain young man who sells his affections to the highest bidder had an argument with Whitney just before he was killed.’

  ‘Word gets around,’ Lang said.

  ‘You know this fellow?’

  ‘Never met him. You have a name?’

  ‘William something. You could check with Anselmo Ruiz,’ Hawkes said. ‘They are very close. Other than having talked with Whitney, who was also curious about artists and writers in the city, I don’t have much to add to the gossip. As I mentioned, I don’t . . . what . . . don’t hang out with the people who populate Whitney’s world.’

  ‘You, then,’ Lang said. ‘Did Warfield have something on you? Do you have something that you would prefer the world not to know?’

  Hawkes laughed. ‘Who doesn’t? And I have absolutely no alibi. I live alone. However, Mr Lang, there’s no way I would be out in the middle of the night in some wretched little park in North Beach. My idea of outdoors is a Martini by the pool.’

  ‘How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘I do mind,’ Hawkes said. ‘Why did you put me on your little list to question?’

  ‘As I said on your answering machine, someone said that you were to be a main character in Mr Warfield’s book.’

  ‘And who gave my name?’

  ‘A little birdie told me.’

  Hawkes smiled. ‘Your little birdie is an idiot. There are no tales out of school that would be embarrassing enough for me to kill.’

  ‘You never know,’ Lang said.

  ‘I do know. Such motivation is rarely generated by indifference.’

  ‘Could it be that you’re gay?’

  ‘Gay?’ He looked almost puzzled.

  ‘Some people think you’re homosexual.’

  ‘As long as they think it and don’t say it. If they say it I’ll sue them for libel.’

  ‘Is it so terrible?’

  ‘Terrible? I don’t know and I don’t care. It simply isn’t the truth.’

  ‘What’s your dog’s name?’ Lang asked.

  Hawkes looked puzzled for a moment, looked around.

  ‘Pepe,’ he said. His face softened. ‘He was rescued. He ran his heart out for some gambling scum in Florida and when he lost a little of his speed on the track, they shipped him off to some death camp. Now, those folks I could eliminate without blinking.’

  Hawkes stood. His look was one of dismissal. He had said all he wanted to say. His curiosity had been satisfied. He had no more use for Lang.

  ‘So, it seems you are not totally indifferent, are you?’ Lang said.

  Hawkes ignored the question. ‘If you choose to talk with Anselmo,’ he continued as he walked toward the door, ‘please, please do not give him my best.’

  On his walk back to the office, Lang called Carly.

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘It’s on my desk, thanks,’ Carly said. ‘Anything?’

  ‘I get the feeling I’m giving out more information than I’m getting. But I get a sense of these people.’

  ‘Are either of them capable of killing Warfield . . . I mean physically?’

  ‘Both. Richard Sumaoang is youngish. Looks pretty fit. Hawkes is maybe sixty, not particularly athletic, but it looks like he takes care of himself. Eats his broccoli. What about you?’

  ‘I eat my broccoli,’ she said.

  ‘What’s with your guys?’

  ‘I’m still tracking some of them down. I’m visiting the Fog City Voice publisher this afternoon. Trying to connect with Supervisor McFarland. Frank Wiley isn’t answering his phone. And I can’t find Warfield’s son.’

  ‘Maybe he’s with his mom, the widow . . .’ Lang said. ‘You see how this could come together?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You know, it occurred to me that if I murdered someone, it might be interesting to give someone a list of suspects that didn’t include me.’ Lang dodged a man pushing a grocery cart full of his life’s belongings. He wondered why these guys got all materialistic. He’d seen some with two carts, slaving away moving them around, and no doubt worried about vandals.

  ‘I’d agree with you, but he didn’t have to come to us,’ Carly said. ‘He could have done that with the police.’

  ‘So you’re set for lunch?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘OK, I’m going home, then I’ll find somebody on that list to talk to. Thanh still there?’

  ‘No. But Brinkman is. He’s smoking on the fire escape again. From time to time he looks in through the window and smiles.’

  ‘He never smiled at me.’

  ‘And that makes you feel?’

  ‘Happy.’

  It was cool inside Lang’s loft space. Buddha seemed puzzled at his room-mate’s early afternoon return. No doubt Lang was disturbing Buddha’s routine. But in moments, the golden-eyed cat adjusted. The two napped briefly on the sofa and Lang made a few calls – the ones to Elena Warfield and Ralph Chiu were fruitless. However, the mistress, Marlene Berensen,
agreed to meet Lang in a public place. Eight in the bar at Enrico’s.

  Lang gave himself the rest of the afternoon off.

  Seven

  Bart Brozynski was a big bear of an older man, probably heading toward 300 pounds and seventy, but at a plodding pace. He wore a somewhat bushy, wiry salt and pepper beard that added to an intimidating presence. He did not get up to greet Carly. It would have been difficult to do so because the circa 1930 wooden office chair fit him like a wedding ring on a swollen finger.

  He nodded for Carly to sit in a side chair that was no doubt chosen for its lack of comfort. No one would hang around too long. She had to remove a couple of books to sit.

  ‘You’re here to talk about old Whitney. Is that right?’ He talked slowly and deliberately.

  ‘And you,’ Carly said. She chose her tone carefully. She couldn’t start the conversation as a supplicant.

  Brozynski’s eyes softened. A thin grin was barely perceptible beneath the facial hair.

  He was as big as Anselmo. And both were bearded. But where Anselmo seemed harmless and moved about easily and fluidly once he woke up, Brozynski appeared as though he was repressing some sort of explosion and it took considerable effort to do so. Just turning his head seemed to be the result of a considered effort. This was not an impetuous person, she thought. He wore a sport coat that looked like it was made of canvas over a tee shirt that had some sort of faded graphics on its front.

  ‘Go for it,’ he said, his head falling back in a way that suggested he was determined to look down on her.

  ‘What have you done in your life that is so incriminating that you would kill someone to keep it secret?’

  He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together. He scratched his beard.

  The room was full of old newspapers and books, all stacked against walls and on tables, threatening to tumble down if someone sneezed. His desk had messy piles of papers and a manual typewriter. Was it for show?

  ‘I’d kill somebody for less than that if I thought I could get away with it.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll have to give that some thought. I’ve done many things. So this is your take on old Whitney’s death. He was going to reveal deep dark secrets and someone strongly objected?’

  ‘Seems so. We know he was writing a tell-all book . . .’

  ‘His legacy.’ His tone was derisive.

  ‘And we have names of a few people whose stories were included in a very unflattering way.’

  ‘There was no love lost between Whitney and me. None. He was a blowhard who didn’t know when to call it a day. His first book, especially, covered some new ground and deserved the attention it got. But for a lot of writers, unfortunately, there is really only one story. And if you keep writing you simply tell it over and over again. That was Whitney. People grew tired of it. Yet, he demanded attention, demanded to be treated like a star. He was pissed that the paper wouldn’t give him the attention he wanted. In fact, he submitted articles. And we rejected them.’

  ‘We?’ Carly asked.

  ‘Me,’ he said. ‘Me. I rejected them. I called him personally. I loved to get his goat, get him all riled up. I’d tell him I had an intern position open if he wanted it. I liked getting him all blustering and spitting.’

  ‘You do that with many people,’ Carly said.

  ‘I do. It is my raison d’être.’ He smiled. ‘Now that’s a phrase Whitney would have used.

  ‘What did he have on you?’ Carly asked.

  ‘Personally, I live a pretty boring life these days. I regret to admit there is nothing scandalous here. My obsessions are public. You can read them every week in the paper.’ He halted, took a deep breath. ‘I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t had sex with a goat, but even if I did, no big deal. You know, if there’s something really embarrassing to be revealed about me, I’m as interested as anyone else.’

  He said all of this in a casual manner, halting frequently to choose his words.

  ‘What do you know about Frank Wiley?’ she asked.

  ‘Excellent photographer, but caught up in the romance of the Beats. Kind of limited his appeal.’

  ‘He’s on the list. Why?’

  ‘This list, where did you get it?’

  Carly smiled. ‘An anonymous source close to the investigation.’

  ‘We don’t use anonymous sources in our publication,’ he said. ‘Unlike the mainstream press, we are journalists.’ He grinned. Perhaps he wasn’t so tough, Carly thought. ‘I don’t know what,’ the publisher said, ‘if anything, Frank Wiley would have to hide.’

  ‘Agnes DeWitt?’

  ‘She wrote her own tell-all and had some nasty things to say about Whitney. She’s not quite capable of killing anyone. She’s almost blind and nearing death, herself.’

  Carly realized that Brozynski was enjoying the conversation. As a journalist, he was about to find out, if Carly continued, everyone who was on the list. Maybe it wasn’t wise to continue. If she did it would be in next week’s Fog City Voice. Maybe that was good. Maybe not.

  ‘Who do you think might want Mr Warfield dead?’ Carly asked.

  ‘Shifting gears, I see,’ he said. He was enjoying himself.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who might want him dead and who might be willing to do it are two different things. Warfield’s son hated his father. We don’t know why. Maybe just being in the man’s shadow was enough to piss off young Warfield. Maybe it was that Whitney cheated on his mother. Whatever it is, his intense dislike of his father was known around town.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Who else do you have on the list?’ he asked.

  If it were going to be tit for tat, she would offer up one.

  ‘Samuel McFarland.’

  Brozynski thought a moment. Nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A host of reasons. McFarland was for the new North Beach hotel. He and Chiu.’ Brozynski thought for a long time and Carly was happy that she got a second on the Chiu inclusion. ‘But McFarland was trying to lay low in public on the issue. It was one of those deals that would piss off half his constituency. If he came out against it, he’d piss off the other half. The money half. It opened up the whole debate about North Beach as a thriving viable neighborhood versus honoring its history and leaving it as part of authentic San Francisco. Whitney was opposed to anything that would change things in North Beach. North Beach was a shrine. He bled at each change. He snarled at tourists too. He was vocal. And he had some pull.’

  Brozynski seemed to tire after navigating his last answer. His eyes lost focus. He was either drifting off to his own thoughts or was bored. He excused himself, though he didn’t get up. It was clear, Carly was expected to leave.

  She got up to leave.

  ‘By the way, I’ve been on many lists,’ Brozynski said. ‘Better ones than Warfield’s – mayors, bikers, hospitals, corporate executives. I was probably on Nixon’s.’

  Carly met her friend Nadia at Delfina’s on 18th Street near Valencia. The two of them got together at least once a week for a little light chatter. And Nadia’s office – she ran a non-profit organization that helped artists – was in the Mission, where many of the younger, struggling artists congregated. Low rents. But that was changing, as it always did, and part of the Mission was no longer low rent. Trendy restaurants, like Delfina’s, popped up all over on Valencia and Guerrero. Eventually, the Mission, like all San Francisco neighborhoods, would be gentrified.

  Carly found Nadia sitting at an outside table at the restaurant’s recently added Pizzeria – a more casual and less expensive place than the highly recommended dining room. Two glasses of wine were on the table.

  Nadia smiled.

  ‘I took the liberty of ordering you the cheap wine,’ she said.

  ‘You know me too well,’ Carly said, settling into the chair and looking at all the young and mostly hip folks seated at sidewalk tables or walking by. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Putting together a show. I’ve rented a gallery for
three weeks and we’re pressing on new work in all media.’

  An attractive woman came out to take their orders. They ordered Monterey Bay Sardines and a Margherita pizza. They would share. With Nadia, one always shared, which meant that any time they dined together, it would be a negotiation worthy of ambassadors and international trade.

  ‘Sounds exciting,’ Carly said after the server left, ‘the show.’

  ‘It is. I can’t tell you how energizing it is to work with all this young talent.’

  ‘Just working?’ Carly asked, an edge in her voice. Nadia was often more than a little taken with her discoveries.

  ‘Just work.’ She smiled. ‘Just work.’ But the way she cocked her head suggested that the situation was fluid. ‘And you? How’s your partner?’

  ‘Fine. We’re working together.’

  Nadia smiled. ‘You come to terms about how you feel about him?’

  Carly shrugged. ‘We’re working together. I think that’s a wise way to keep things.’

  ‘What are you working on?’

  Carly explained. Nadia was fascinated, as Carly knew she would be, with William Blake. Why not? The good looks, the notoriety, the secrecy.

  ‘And he’s disappeared?’ Nadia asked.

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘And came to you because? You have such a reputation on the street? Because of your extraordinary beauty?’

  ‘You might remember Anselmo Ruiz.’

  ‘Yes, the old pervert.’

  ‘I was at his studio picking out a painting for my office . . .’

  ‘You went to him? You know I have access to some of the finest emerging artists anywhere. You could have a great bargain with all sorts of investment opportunities. Anselmo, bless his obese heart, is where he’s going to be.’

  ‘I like his work. I like him. And it reminds me of another time, with my parents, those days.’

  ‘Sentiment. You’re getting soft in your . . .’

  ‘Old age?’

  ‘. . . post adolescence, I was going to say.’

  ‘I got it, Nadia. The cheap sentiment of an old woman.’

  Nadia nodded. ‘If you like.’ She smiled as she shook her head. ‘Yes. OK.’

  ‘So I have a list of folks to find out about, some of them artists. Can you fill me in?’ Carly asked about Hawkes and Sumaoang even though they were on Lang’s list. And about Lili D. Young and Frank Wiley.