Naked Moon

by Domenic Stansberry

  An old habit, inherited from his father. Come to listen to the dead. To hang his long nose over the bar.

  Inside, the restaurant was all but empty. It was only Stella Lamantia, the owner, and the blind woman Julia Besozi, who sat as she always sat, dressed primly, perfectly erect, with her legs crossed and one shoulder toward the window. The TV played in the corner. Julia could not see, but her hearing was fine.

  Stella meanwhile had out her broom and made a show of sweeping the place, pushing the dust toward the corner. This was not usual. Usually, Stella had a Chinaman who did the sweeping and washed the dishes, but the man was nowhere in sight. What Pesci and his nephew had told him the other night, over at Gino’s, was true enough.

  Stella was closing the place down.

  “All I have is spaghetti.”

  “All right.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the bread is hard.”

  When Stella came back with the food, it was in the condition as promised.

  “I would make it fresh,” she said, though her voice carried no hint of apology, “but this one, that one over there”—she pointed toward the Widow Besozi—“she eats nothing. And if it’s just one person, why cook?”

  “I like it cold,” said Dante.

  “Of course you do,” she said. “You never had any sense.”

  “Pesci is mad, for her closing,” said Besozi. “You know how he is. Leads that nephew around like some goat.”

  “They boycott me, that’s what they are doing. Thirty years, forty years, I can’t tell you how long, that man has been coming in here, filling the air with his stinking cigarettes—and this is my thanks.”

  Julia Besozi let out a small moan.

  “Look,” said Besozi. “It’s Gennae Rossi.”

  On the television, Gennae Rossi filled the screen, the darling of North Beach, dark haired and olive skinned. The volume was low. Besozi might not be able to see, but her hearing was sharp. The old woman’s posture came yet more erect. Everyone knew Gennae Rossi’s story. The mayor’s daughter, a wholesome girl with a streak of compassion, who every Saturday served up chow for the old ones down at Fugazi Hall. A few years back, she’d come down with multiple sclerosis, not the worst strain of the disease, but bad enough. She took the podium standing, sometimes, but wheeled the streets in her chair. Nonetheless, she’d gotten herself on the city council, and now she was running for mayor. Though she was a long-shot candidate, behind both Edwards and Lee in the polls, her presence rankled the race. A cult of sorts had developed around her, an odd coalition. Old women from the Beach. Hipsters from the Mission. The shops sold necklaces of her image hung on string.

  “I have a lock of her hair,” said Besozi.

  “It’s not her hair.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Keep it in your purse.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not real.”

  “No. It’s beautiful.”

  “She has a hook nose.”

  “You sound like Pesci,” said Besozi. “He’s an awful man. He’s losing his mind.”

  Stella glanced toward the screen. At the moment, on the television, Gennae Rossi worked the sidewalk in front of the building that had burned on account of the hydrants that had failed. It was a big issue, the sporadic water pressure all over the Beach. City crews had been busy down on Columbus forever it seemed, tearing up asphalt, searching for the broken main.

  “The woman’s an opportunist,” said Stella. “Just like her father.”

  Stella stood lamenting her situation. She had signed her lease over to the owners of the Chinese disco next door, who planned on punching a whole in the wall, expanding into her old space. The fault for this went back to Rossi thirty years ago, who had sold the city out to the Chinese. It was a tangled logic, but Dante understood. He had heard it from a hundred others who, like Stella, had vowed never to sell.

  “I got good money, though,” said Stella. “I didn’t just sign it over. I got mine.”

  The old Italians always said this.

  Dante ate. Besozi leaned against the wall. Stella swept.

  The television showed the Chinese candidate now, his rally truck, then Edwards, the incumbent, working the outer Richmond, out in the sand dunes, among the new middle class, trying to wrestle for himself some of the Asian vote.

  While he was eating, Marilyn returned his call. Stella did not like people talking on a cell in her place. It was unnatural. It made her ill just to see someone, head over their food, talking to someone she could not see. Sometimes, such situations, she cleared your plate early and took away your wine.

  “No telephones at the table.”

  Dante wrapped his fingers around the stemware and batted the old woman away.

  “No,” he said.

  “What?” said Marilyn.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Of course. I’ve been with clients all morning.”

  “Give me that glass,” said Stella. “Everyone in your family, they are difficult. I heard about your cousin, out at Rossi’s. What was that about anyway? What’s the matter with him?”

  Dante let the glass go.

  Stella’s son had appeared in the back of the restaurant, a thick-shouldered man, a few years older than Dante, graying at the temples with a bald spot in back.

  “Stop it, Mom,” he said.

  “What’s this about?” asked Marilyn.

  On her end, there was noise in the background, suggesting another restaurant—the sound of dishware, glasses clattering, laughter. A place more lively, in some ways, than Stella’s. Marilyn’s voice was cheerful, but distant. At the same time, Dante felt the noose tightening. The longer he stayed in North Beach, the more he risked drawing them to her. Then there was the matter of David Lake.

  “I need to see you,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Angel Island,” he said. “Do you still want to go?”

  “Saturday?”

  “That will be too late. The buyer, he’s taking the boat.”

  “Let me see.”

  She put the phone on mute. Along the counter where Dante sat, there were pictures embedded under the glass, old-timers, people from the neighborhood. When Marilyn came back, the sound was different, as if she had stepped into another, quieter world, as if, somehow, she were speaking to him from the world under the glass counter. In one of those pictures, Dante’s father was standing with Joe Rossi, holding a giant fish by a string.

  “Yes,” Marilyn said. Her voice was soft, intimate. “Tomorrow.”

  Out back, Stella and her son were taking stuff out of his pickup, loading it onto one of those sidewalk lifts that rose from under the metal grating in the alley: the type used to take produce into the basement beneath the restaurant. Only Stella and her son were loading the lift with old furniture and household junk.

  “It’s been in my garage for years,” said Stella. “We put it here, it’s for the new owner. It’s their problem, not ours.”

  “Saves a trip to the dump,” said the son.

  “We have no choice but to sell.”

  “No.”

  “Johnny Pesci, he doesn’t like it, for all I care, he can shoot himself in the head.”

  “Pecsi would sell, too,” said her boy, “if he had anything to sell.”

  Stella did not take a meek posture. She stood as she often stood, hands on her hips, breasts out, watching the stuff get lowered down, pleased to be getting rid of it this way, dumping it on the new owners, taking their money, giving herself the last laugh.

  “Another thing they don’t know, these people. The lock to the back door is broken,” said Stella. “It’s been broken for years. All you have to do is push down, a certain way.” Dante remembered how in the old days, people would come back after hours, play poker at the back tables. “But do you think I am going to tell them? What do I care, some punk comes in and trashes the place. It’s not my problem now.”

&nb
sp; Dante helped Stella’s son unload the stuff, pushing it against the wall down below. Supposedly, the basements here had been part of a tunnel system once, built by the Chinese, and the Italians had used the tunnels during Prohibition. Perhaps it was true. Beneath the concrete, there appeared to be the outlines of a door that had been cemented over, but it was hard to be sure. Dante rode the lift up and stood with Stella out in the alley. He needed to go see Rossi, to find out what had gone on with his cousin, what the fuss had been about, but according to the television, Rossi was on the campaign trail with his daughter—and would introduce her at a dinner event later this evening. Dante doubted the old man would be at his house on Russian Hill.

  “My lunch, I have to pay,” said Dante.

  “It’s my last day,” said Stella.

  “Does that mean I get a discount?”

  “No,” she said. “I charge double.”

  She balled up her apron and threw it in the corner, next to the broom. The sink was full of dishes. “You should marry that girl,” Stella told him. “You should marry her and get out.” Then she brought Julia Besozi another glass of port.

  ELEVEN

  An unmarked car sat at the bottom of Fresno Street, and a man with blond hair lingered behind the wheel. He was a thick-necked man, whom Dante had never seen before—but the man gave Dante the hard once-over and hopped on his cell. Dante kept walking. When he was halfway up the block, two figures appeared at the top of the hill, approaching him, and he heard the car door open behind him.

  He recognized the two figures at the crest of the street. One was Frank Angelo, whom Dante had worked with years ago, when Dante himself had been on the force. The other was the cop his cousin had mentioned, Leanora Chin, from Special Investigations. As it happened, she did not wear blue, but gray: a Chinese woman in a dark blouse and pencil skirt. The effect was pretty much the same.

  “Mancuso.”

  Angelo called the name pleasantly, or pleasantly enough. They had been friends once, partners on the beat. Dante stopped in the middle of the road. The three cops kept coming, forming a triangle around him, with Angelo and Chin in front, and the big blond man anchoring the apex behind.

  “Déjà vu,” said Angelo.

  It was an expression from the old days, when he and Angelo had worked homicide together, a phrase they used when they came across a familiar mug in the book, an old face associated with a new crime. Angelo had the appearance of a reasonable man, which was part of the reason he had moved up the department ladder, at least for a while. His smile, though, turned a little too much at the corners, knifelike, a sideways gash.

  “You didn’t recognize me?”

  “What is it?”

  “No hello? No friendly wave?”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt your stroll.”

  “How do you think that makes me feel, you ignore me like that?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You’re a bitter soul,” said Angelo. He said it in a friendly way, almost joking, like a brother who liked to bicker. Chin, on the other hand, was a delicate-boned woman with high cheeks and gray eyes. Dante had encountered her before, and knew she did not go in for this kind of banter. She was heading the investigation into his cousin, so he wasn’t surprised to see her. Angelo’s presence was a bit harder to figure.

  “Could we get off the street, Mr. Mancuso?” said Chin. “We’d like to talk with you.”

  “Yes. How about we step inside?” asked Angelo.

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “Right here.” Angelo widened his jacket so Dante could see the firearm inside. “Fresh from the judge.”

  It was another old line, an old routine. Someone didn’t want to talk, a glimpse of the firearm sometimes loosened them up. Judge, trial, and jury. Angelo gave him his brotherly smile. When they had worked together, back when, Angelo had been the one with the soft soap. The hard end of the stick, that had been Dante’s end of things.

  “You chief yet?” Dante said, another one of their old lines, funny once, but not so funny anymore. These conversations, even then, they’d had a tendency to go the wrong way.

  “I have my opportunities.”

  “It’s nice, you have such a good attitude.”

  Angelo spoke softly. “You’re a bitter fuck.”

  “Better than no fuck at all.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had that problem.”

  “No?”

  “I’m happily married.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  It wasn’t a kind thing to say. Angelo had been to the brink of a divorce. Maybe it was the autistic kid at home. Or the usual midlife stuff. Or the fact that his career, while good enough, was not exactly where he’d wanted it to be.

  “Let me see the paperwork.”

  “It’s coming,” said Angelo. “The boys are on their way from the courthouse.”

  “It’s true,” Chin repeated. “The warrant’s on its way.”

  It was possible they were bluffing. He’d done so himself, back in the day, just to get inside, to take a look around before the suspect cleaned the place out.

  “All right.”

  He made the slightest gesture, as if moving toward the door, but the thick-neck put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I think we’ll be a little more comfortable,” said Angelo, “if you let Sergeant Jones here check your person.”

  “I have a firearm, under the shoulder. It’s licensed.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Angelo. “Now, if you empty out your pockets, my friend here, he’d like to give you a little bit of a thrill.”

  Dante dumped his cell and his keys and all his change.

  “Open your jacket.”

  Dante did as he was told. The big blond reached in and took the gun from its holster, then patted him down. He wasn’t too gentle about it. Big hands under the shoulders. Knifing up between the legs.

  “Do it again,” said Angelo.

  “What?” asked the sergeant.

  “Between the legs.”

  Sergeant Jones did as he was told, knifing up a second time. “There’s nothing.”

  “As I suspected,” said Angelo.

  TWELVE

  It was difficult to tell Chin’s age by looking, but there was an iron streak in her hair, and in this light, if only for a moment, he could see the hard lines on her face. She had not changed much since the last time Dante had seen her, though she allowed herself small adornments these days: simple earrings and a faint gloss on her lips. Meanwhile, Angelo strolled about his apartment, peering into everything. Rule was, situation like this—when a civilian invited you into their place—you could look but not touch. Not unless something jumped out at you.

  “Bit of a mess here.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to clean.”

  “Looks like someone’s been rummaging.”

  “Corkscrew,” Dante said. “I had a bottle of wine I wanted to open.”

  “What vintage?”

  “Red.”

  “You keep it in the cellar?” Angelo nodded toward the basement door.

  “You’ll have to wait for the warrant.”

  Angelo tilted his head, cocking his ears—a gesture almost comic, doglike.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “No.”

  “I should take a look. I’m concerned there might be someone else on the premises.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That noise—in the basement? Do you hear it, Lieutenant Chin?”

  This, too, was part of the routine. There had been no noise, and they all three knew it. Angelo waited for the nod from Chin. It was a common-enough tactic: a pretense for poking around without a warrant—but Chin still did not respond, not wanting to do anything that would jeopardize the case or spoil the evidence in the eyes of a judge, in the event they found whatever it was they were after.

  Ultimately, it did not matter.

  Because suddenly there was a car outside. The alley was
narrow and the car pulled up on the walk, and another car pulled up close behind.

  The warrant boys had arrived.

  Chin sat across from him, in the sagging chair that had been his father’s. She was somewhere in her fifties, though it took more than a single glance to make the calculation. Maybe it was on account of the Chinese skin, or because of the San Francisco fog, shielding the sun, but her face did not hold its age. Rather the age lines came and went, according to the light, and in this particular light, they had vanished altogether. She had grown up around the corner, back when the Italians still outnumbered the Chinese, and the dago toughs still ruled the corners down on Stockton. She had her own reasons for pursuing the Wus. Years ago, one of her relatives had been shot to death in the Imperial Restaurant.

  “You’ll find my financials in a plastic box upstairs,” said Dante, “but you’re not going to find it interesting. Nothing from the warehouse. I don’t have much to do with that.”

  “I’m aware of your financials,” said Chin.

  Something flickered across her face, and he realized this search, it was about something else. Angelo was with homicide, after all. He felt dread rise in his stomach.

  “You’ve already got my Glock,” he said. “There’s a Wesson upstairs, a .45. Registered—in a holster, in my closet.”

  “I’ll tell them,” she said.

  He did not mention the stiletto, blade concealed, spring-loaded in its metal case that resembled an old-fashioned cigarette lighter. If they found it, he’d say it had been his father’s, a keepsake—though this wasn’t true. Meanwhile, he could hear the warrant boys in the garage. Often as not, the cops took the owners off premises during a search like this, unless they thought you might help them in some way, or if they wanted to study your reaction as they searched.

  “If you tell me what you’re looking for, maybe we can cut this short.”