Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘Generally speaking, what do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. We’ve been through the list, now where are we? I feel like we will end up with Colonel Mustard with a wrench in the library. Maybe we should gather all the suspects in the parlor and turn the lights out.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Carly said.

  ‘You don’t mean it,’ Lang said. ‘You mean it, don’t you?’

  ‘Not exactly like you think.’

  The doctor came in. They wanted to keep her overnight. Probably nothing at all, but there was some swelling. They wanted it to go down before they released her.

  ‘My car,’ she said to Lang.

  ‘Give me the key,’ he said. ‘We’ll take care of it. Tonight. Call me in the morning. I’ll come get you.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been . . .’ She shook her head, didn’t continue.

  Outside the hospital, Lang flipped open his phone, called Thanh.

  ‘Can you do me a quick favor?’

  Maybe it was all the activity, but Lang’s energy hadn’t flagged as it usually did in the evening. Maybe now was a good time to visit young Warfield and complete the first run-through on the list. The list? It had taken on its own life, hadn’t it?

  Sixteen

  Lang picked up Thanh on the corner of Polk Street and Sutter. He was a PIB tonight, PIB standing for People in Black. It was still de rigueur in some circles. Lang was pretty sure that Thanh belonged to or at least infiltrated many social circles and he knew the fashion codes for each.

  Tonight, Thanh’s assignment was easy. He needed to get Carly’s car parked safely – close to her home. Thanh agreed. Next stop for Lang was Angel LeGard’s apartment, but not before Thanh filled him in on Markham.

  ‘Dishonorably discharged from the Navy where he had been . . .’ Thanh shrugged ‘. . . something called a “seal”. From then on, he was doing the PI thing.’

  ‘Navy Seal,’ Lang said out loud. It was hard to believe that this forlorn, overweight, barely successful PI was a trained killer, spy, survivalist. Certainly he was tougher than he looked. He was also an underachiever.

  Lang rang the buzzer for apartment 307.

  ‘A delivery for Angel LeGard,’ Lang said into the intercom when she answered.

  ‘What kind of delivery?’ she asked – no fool she.

  ‘Flowers,’ Lang said.

  ‘Really,’ she said not quite believing. ‘Come on up.’ Her tone had changed to ‘what the hell’.

  ‘You have no flowers,’ she said, not looking all that disappointed.

  ‘You noticed. And you’re not completely dressed.’ She was covered, sexily so, in a silk slip the color of salmon. She wore nothing underneath, he was sure.

  ‘You noticed,’ she said. ‘What is it you want?’

  He wanted her, but he couldn’t say that. Beyond the sensuous, twentyish Asian woman he believed to be Angel was a dimly lit living room and the voice of Phoebe Snow.

  ‘Mickey Warfield,’ Lang said.

  ‘What a letdown,’ she said. ‘He’s not here. He doesn’t live here.’

  ‘He’s here often, though.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ she asked.

  ‘I know a lot of things nobody else cares about.’

  ‘He owe you money?’

  ‘No. I want to ask him some questions about the death of his father.’

  ‘He’ll be here in the next hour or so. Maybe you can ask me some questions for a while. About anything.’

  ‘Are you two friends?’ Lang asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

  ‘I have lots of friends,’ she said, then reconsidered. ‘Not that many. Come in. Anything I can do for you while we wait?’ Her expression left him in little doubt as to the meaning of her question.

  ‘Am I supposed to answer that?’

  ‘You police?’

  ‘Not really. Private. Licensed. What do you do?’

  She smiled. She shrugged. ‘I’m versatile.’

  ‘Lady of the evening?’

  She shook her head no. ‘I make do though. All I have is Scotch,’ she said and went to a sidebar and poured them each a drink, though he had not accepted the tacit offer.

  Her English was impeccable, better than most native speakers, which meant she was second- or third-generation Chinese or that she was schooled young and was smart.

  ‘You’re Mickey’s girlfriend, right?’ It seemed to be obvious, but Lang figured he hadn’t really nailed that down and he had more than one motive to ask.

  ‘We have an understanding.’ She handed him the drink and then took possession of the sofa and he sat across from her in an amply upholstered chair.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘None of your business,’ she said smiling again.

  She held her sexuality back, but only slightly, perhaps just enough to keep Lang interested. He had to be careful. Angel LeGard was probably a lot smarter than he was, at least in this kind of situation. Lang had been led foolishly astray more than once by the involuntary flow of blood to a destination beyond his control.

  She took a sip of her Scotch.

  ‘I have no money, Angel. I’m one payday from being thrown on the street,’ Lang said, slightly exaggerating.

  ‘Money isn’t everything.’ She sat up, leaned forward, her breasts preceding her. ‘Let me see your badge.’

  Lang pulled out the leather folder, flipped it open. She took it, stared at it under the dim light by the sofa.

  ‘Is that it? No badge?’

  ‘We aren’t allowed badges.’

  ‘It’s like a driver’s license or something.’ She pulled a business card from the other side of the leather case. She read it. ‘Noah Lang.’

  Lang nodded.

  ‘Noah. Like the boat.’ She put the card on the table. She handed his license back, again leaning forward, knowing that his eyes were devouring her, knowing that he knew she knew.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. It’d be nice to have something shiny in silver with eagles and snakes.’

  ‘It would.’ She smiled.

  Then there was silence, the atmosphere thick with it. It was uncomfortable for him, but she seemed to be bearing up well. After a short spell – and it seemed like a spell to him – she had mercy on him.

  ‘No more questions for me?’ she asked with a smile.

  She was definitely in control of the territory.

  ‘You could go slip on something less comfortable,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not going to get off that easy,’ she said. ‘You know how I meant that, right?’

  ‘OK. I do have a question. What does Mickey Warfield do for a living?’

  ‘Got me,’ she said.

  ‘Where does he live? He doesn’t live here.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t live here, but he is paying some of the bills.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. He tried to be uninterested in the information. A doctor, maybe, acknowledging a symptom. She saw through it.

  ‘Doesn’t mean he owns me.’

  She was sultry. The room, warm and small as it was, seemed luxurious, with everything bathed in a gold light. And the music. And the slow motion. And her beauty? It was criminal. He could be in one of those sensuous, moody Wong Kar-Wai films – In the Mood for Love or 2046. The fact that she was Chinese made all of this more than a fleeting celluloid sensation.

  He’d have to stop watching so many movies.

  ‘You do expect him this evening?’ he asked, trying to break the mood.

  ‘Are you getting nervous?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Things to do, places to go,’ he lied.

  She smiled knowingly. She took his glass and freshened up his Scotch.

  ‘I don’t like being alone,’ she whispered in his ear as she delivered his glass.

  He didn’t have to see her. She enveloped his senses.

  ‘Vanilla,’ he said.

  ‘And jasmine and oil from orange blossoms.’ She was still there, her lips touching his ear ever
so lightly.

  The key in the lock was jarring. Lang felt himself blush, despite the fact that the temperature of his body was already up a few degrees.

  Angel was heading for the door as it opened.

  ‘Angel,’ the man’s voice said.

  Lang turned back to see the cheerful face of a late-fortyish man turn sour. He stood, turned toward the approaching Mickey Warfield.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘You know me, don’t you? Noah Lang. Private investigator.’

  Warfield looked at Angel who maintained an observer’s expression, but Lang noticed she put her glass on top of his business card.

  ‘I fooled her to get inside,’ Lang said.

  ‘No one fools Angel,’ Warfield said, now looking a little amused. ‘You don’t look the worse for wear.’

  ‘Scotty Markham did his best.’

  ‘Maybe I should have hired you.’

  Warfield was a big guy, but not fat. Six-two. A barrel chest wrapped in a tweed sport coat over an expensive black tee shirt. It was a comfortable, cool look that didn’t look too orchestrated. His hair was the color of old rust. His skin also had a rust-colored cast as if his freckles were too close together.

  ‘I don’t scare me either.’

  ‘Look, it wasn’t personal,’ he said, tossing two sets of keys on the table. One set belonged to a Jaguar.

  ‘It felt personal,’ Lang said. He felt more comfortable facing Warfield than he did his girlfriend. But he advised himself not to get carried away with matching macho with macho.

  ‘I could use one of those,’ Warfield said, nodding toward Lang’s drink. Angel obeyed graciously, not in a subservient way, but not offended either. ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘The first thing I want is to find out why you’re so sensitive about my looking into the death of your father. The second thing is to find out why you are so difficult to find. And the third is what you have to gain from your father’s death.’

  ‘It all goes back to your first question. This is none of your business. None of it is your business. As far as I’m concerned,’ he said, nodding toward Angel who was bringing him his drink, ‘you know too much already.’

  ‘Your father wrote a book revealing a lot about a lot of people who didn’t want their secrets told. The question is – did his son have a motive to kill him? You have just made the case for me.’

  Warfield looked puzzled for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Why don’t you finish your drink?’

  ‘It’s all right. You can have the rest of it,’ Lang said and went toward the door, but turned back briefly. ‘Nice to meet you, Angel. Thanks for the hospitality.’

  ‘You’ve been warned, Mr PI.’ The man said it plainly and firmly.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Lang said. ‘Have a nice evening.’

  Outside he spent a few minutes canvassing the neighborhood. He found a new black Jaguar parked down a block. He wrote down the license plate number. Not sure that was the only Jag in the neighborhood, he went a block in each direction. It wasn’t the kind of area one would park a late-model luxury car. It wasn’t the kind of neighborhood to go wandering around in late at night, either.

  Lang went home. Buddha was by the door as usual and guided his human room-mate to the kitchen whereupon Lang fixed the feline a late dinner.

  ‘A little candlelight?’ Lang said as he put the dish on the low counter. Buddha gave him a look that Lang took as disapproval. Buddha didn’t appreciate sarcasm either, apparently.

  Lang plugged his cellphone into the charger, put his pistol on the table and opened an Asahi ‘Super Dry’ as he peered into his refrigerator for inspiration. He pulled a frozen crab cake from the freezer and defrosted it in the microwave. He boiled some water for pasta and chopped two small cloves of garlic into tiny pieces.

  It all came together in twenty minutes. Olive oil, basil from his plant outside, and garlic for the pasta and a thawed crab cake in a small skillet. Once the cake was cooked, he put it on a separate dish, and put everything else in the skillet, stirring it up until some of the pasta was crisp. Finally he topped it with some grated pecorino cheese.

  ‘Pasta Crabolini,’ Lang said to Buddha, who looked as if he were impressed. Perhaps it was the lingering aroma of crab.

  After Lang put Chet Baker on the stereo, he took his plate of food and second beer outside. The air was still warm and if there was a wind the force of it was blocked by the homes. The sound of Baker’s trumpet drifted out to his little table in the near darkness. Lang took a deep breath and relaxed. Life was good at the moment. And Lang had learned to appreciate these fine, small moments. He’d call Carly in the morning, pick her up if he needed to. He’d also run the plates on the Jaguar, maybe get an address on Warfield the Younger.

  The second murder, though he couldn’t be absolutely sure, lent credence to the idea that Warfield’s, and now Frank Wiley’s, deaths were connected to the list.

  Carly Paladino wanted her bed, her bath, her wine. As it turned out, she wanted her sleep. The nurses did not let her drift off for too long, it seemed. By morning she had been awakened and had looked into a little flashlight at least ten times.

  When the doctor did his rounds at eight, he told her she could go home, but to be alert for signs that might suggest she needed further treatment. While she had been disoriented only briefly after being struck, the fact that she had been unconscious was serious.

  ‘No aspirin,’ the doctor said, pulling out a pad and prescribing some other pain medicine if she needed it. ‘Someone needs to check in with you periodically. You have someone who can do that?’

  She thought of Nadia. Maybe.

  ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’ Getting out of there was worth some risk, she thought.

  She called Lang who, though a little groggy, said he’d be right there. He brought her coffee and she sipped it as he drove her home.

  ‘I’ve met Warfield’s kid,’ Lang said, as they drove down California toward Fillmore. ‘Why don’t you give him to me?’

  Lang didn’t tell her that he wondered if Mickey Warfield would escalate. First, hire some muscle to scare off an investigation. Then, when that failed, murder someone who might prove problematical.

  ‘That might be good,’ Carly said. She seemed defeated. ‘I’m supposed to rest for a few days.’

  She didn’t look too happy about it.

  ‘Looks like the game is getting serious,’ Lang said.

  ‘Are we causing any of this? The deaths, I mean.’

  ‘It’s us or the police.’ He nodded toward her. ‘And now, it’s personal.’

  She looked at him. She liked him more that second than she had since she met him. And there were a couple of really good moments. She considered herself pretty strong and definitely independent, but it didn’t hurt to have someone taking care of your back. She hadn’t really had that since her father died – a long time ago.

  Seventeen

  After dropping Carly at her place and seeing her to the door, Lang stopped for coffee at Quetzal on Polk Street. He called the office to see if Thanh was in. He wanted his sometimes assistant to check on the Jaguar. But it wasn’t Thanh who answered the phone.

  ‘Brinkman, Paladino and Lang.’

  ‘That you, Brinkman?’

  ‘Last time I looked.’

  ‘You’re answering the phone?’ Lang asked. To an outsider it would seem to be a dumb question, but Brinkman never answered the phone, which was understandable because it was never for him.

  ‘It’s not exactly engineering a soft landing on Jupiter.’

  ‘How is it that Brinkman is first?’ Lang knew better than to ask, but he did anyway. ‘You said “Brinkman, Paladino and Lang”.’

  ‘Alphabetical order.’ His tone suggested Lang’s intelligence was in question.

  ‘But if that’s the case Lang is before Paladino.’

  ‘I never knew you were so petty.’

  It was hopeless.

  ‘Is Thanh there?’


  ‘If he was I wouldn’t be answering the phone.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’

  The coffee was good. The place was busy. All of the half-dozen iMacs on a counter near the door were occupied. Lang was seated by a window that overlooked busy Polk Street. Watching the people walk by, he noticed that the neighborhood, once called Polk Gulch and Polk Strasse – and now by order of the merchants, Polk Village – seemed to attract Middle-Easterners as well as Vietnamese. A copy of the Fog City Voice was abandoned with the dishes on the table next to his. He picked it up. The cover said it all. There was a collage – a digitized photo of Whitney Warfield, a partial map of North Beach, and an artist’s rendering of a hotel. All of this was under strategic drops of blood. At the bottom of the cover, it read: ‘Did Warfield’s opposition to North Beach Hotel sign his death warrant?’

  The story went on for six long pages. Lang was amazed at the skill of the writer. There were no accusations, only questions, subtle and sometimes far-fetched implications. Was there a hotel being built in North Beach? If so, Warfield was opposed to it. It was possible the land that the hotel was to be built on could have been owned by Mr Chiu. And if that was the case this was the district represented by Council member McFarland.

  The story, quoting ‘sources close to the investigation’, indicated that Warfield’s missing book might have implicated the players the story mentioned and that they had motive to kill Warfield to keep him quiet about the secret plan until developers were ready to reveal it. Big bucks and intricate political maneuvering were required for the project’s success. Timing was essential.

  It was a great non-story with the thin plotlines augmented by the often bizarre assortment of characters surrounding Warfield. The late author’s flattering obituary was a sidebar to the story. Lang finished his coffee and copped the paper to show Carly.

  At the office he made some calls and, before noon, Lang had his second major surprise of the day. The Jaguar young Warfield was driving last night was registered to Daddy’s mistress, Marlene Berensen.

  Shortly after noon, Carly called.

  ‘I’m not going to make it,’ she said wearily. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.’ There was a faint laugh. ‘Sounded pretty dramatic. What I mean is, I’m not going to be able to just hang around the flat for three days. I’m ready to scream now.’