He leaned forward with a big smile. "Sounds good."
Once we were done going through the background without mentioning our specific plan, I asked, "What do you think?"
He somehow pulled up his two massive legs into the chair, crossed them, and sat on them. "They're trying to control the harbor but that's hard-going stuff, don't you know. You'll have to find a junk or a sampan and sail up the coast and then walk from there."
Chapter 9
1198 Sacramento Street
Tuesday, February 8, 1955
A quarter before 10 in the evening
I was sitting at my father's desk in the office, looking over an old map of Hong Kong that I'd found in the large library my father had left when he'd moved across the street. Some of the books had been my great-grandfather's. He'd brought a few on the boat from Wales when he'd sailed over to join in on the Gold Rush. He'd added others later. But most of them were my grandfather's. He'd been the one who'd built up the library into what it was. I didn't think my father had added much to the collection.
Carter was down in his gym with Ferdinand, Sam, and Bobby Cheung. We'd invited Sam and Bobby over for dinner that night. Carter had suggested that the two of them bring some clothes so that, after we ate, they could do whatever it was they did down there for fun.
The phone rang. I picked up the extension on my desk. "Yeah?"
"Nick?" I didn't recognize the voice. I could hear a lot of voices in the background and some music.
"Yeah?"
"It's Ricky."
I sighed. "I was wondering when I'd hear from you."
"I bet. I need to meet with you."
"Sure. You wanna come over here?"
"Nah. Don't wanna get you in no more trouble. You've had plenty. Can you meet me at the Silver Rail? I have a kinda office here."
I chuckled. "The Silver Rail?" That was a hustler bar in the 900 block of Market Street.
"Yeah. You know."
"I do now. OK. How about in fifteen minutes?"
"That's good. Ask the old man bartender for Ricky. He'll show you where to go. And come alone. Don't bring that fireman with you."
"Fine. See you in fifteen." I put down the receiver before he could say anything. I jumped up and jogged into the hallway, through the great room, into the kitchen, and down the stairs to the garage. When I got to the gym, I found Sam and Bobby doing some sort of odd move where they were bent at the waist and moving around in a circle.
"Sorry to bust things up but the Kid just called."
Everyone stopped and looked at me. Carter asked, "What's he want?"
"To meet me. At the Silver Rail. In fifteen."
Carter said, "It'll take me five to get dressed—"
I shook my head. "He doesn't want you to come." I looked over. "Sam?"
He nodded and began to strip.
Carter frowned at me. "I'm coming whether you want me to or not. Even if I just stand out on Market Street and smoke a cigarette. There is no way—"
I kissed him to get him to shut up. "Fine. Go get dressed."
. . .
We put Bobby in the Roadmaster and had Ferdinand drive him over to his Uncle's place on Kearny. We took a cab that we picked up on California Street. When we got down to Market, the Warfield theater at the corner of Taylor was just letting out. The Silver Rail was a few doors down. It was a mob scene all around, so we got out at the corner and walked the rest of the way.
Sam went in first. I counted to thirty and then left Carter on the sidewalk.
The place was busy. There was the usual crowd of hustlers who were mostly young kids on the prowl for johns. They all stood at the bar except for the few who were chatting with potential clients. Most of them were wearing tight white t-shirts and dungarees with the cuffs rolled up. Some had buzz cuts. Others sported greased-back pompadours. All of them tried to look disinterested while keeping an eye out for the next customer.
There were groups of men at the tables and booths. Some were my age. A few were older than my father. They all had their eyes on the kids. The place reeked of desperation. The kids needed the dough. The men needed their warm bodies and a few moments of affection, no matter how much of a transaction it might be.
I pulled down my hat and kept my head pointed to the floor as I walked the no-mans-land in between the two groups. A couple of the kids called out, "Hey, Mister," to me as I passed by. No one appeared to recognize me, which was good. As I got to the end of the long bar, near the phone booth, Sam appeared out of nowhere and bumped into me. "You oughta watch where you're goin'."
I mumbled, "Sorry."
He whispered, "He's all the way in the back," and then moved on.
I walked over to the bar and had a good look at the bartenders. All of them, save one, were just as primed for action as any of the kids at the bar. They were wearing the same clothes, had the same haircuts, and looked tough and street smart. The exception stood at the end of the bar, staring right at me. He had to be in his sixties. His gray hair was cut short but his eyebrows were wildly overgrown. His narrow black eyes burrowed into me. In a low voice that was raspy from decades of smoking, he said, "You'll find Ricky down the stairs in the back. Make the first left. Can't miss it."
I nodded and laid a folded twenty on the bar. He picked it up fast, stuffed it in his trousers, and grunted.
. . .
The stairs were lit by a single dim bulb. At the bottom was a long hallway that extended in either direction. I'd heard that there were tunnels below that section of Market Street. Someone had said that they dated back to Prohibition. But I'd also heard from Kenneth that they had been used more recently during police raids.
I found a small storeroom right where the bartender had said it would be. It was more brightly lit than the stairs or the tunnel. Standing in the middle of the room, in an Army surplus jacket that was two sizes too big for him, was my old pal, Ricky.
I held back in the doorway for a moment and took in the sight of him. He was shorter than I remembered. He had a bit of a gut that the jacket hid a little. He grinned at me, walked over, and extended his hand.
"How the hell are you, Nick?"
I smiled tightly and shook. "Better than they say in the papers."
Ricky nodded. "I know how that goes."
I shook my head. "No you don't. I've never murdered anyone in cold blood."
Ricky backed up and nodded. "Sure, Nick. But before you get up on your faggotty high horse, lemme tell you that I'm here to help you."
"Help me?"
He nodded. "Seems like your informant has rattled a lot of high places."
I shrugged. "What informant?"
"You know. The one who used to work for Metro and is hiding out in Las Vegas."
"And?"
"Well, you might not know what a greedy bastard he is and how's he gone to the mob with every bit he sold to you and the Feds. Stupid move, if you ask me."
I had to agree but I tried to stay stone faced about it. "So?"
"So, he's got the scoop on everyone from Rob-Rob"—the mayor of San Francisco—"to Eisenhower and back. Ain't gonna be good for you."
"How's that?"
"Instead of just the F.B.I. on your tail, now you got the mob. That's where I come in."
I crossed my arms.
"You remember a little meeting you had last summer at the Old Poodle Dog?"
I nodded.
"They was feelin' you out. And you passed the smell test. Now they're not so sure." He pulled back his jacket and rubbed his belly. I noticed that his shirt was new, his tie was new, his trousers were perfectly tailored for him and his shoes were polished to a bright shine. Everything was pressed and starched. I wondered what the coat was for. "You sure have come up in the world since 1939. You're a force to be reckoned with, Nick. And that day of reckoning may be coming sooner than you think."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Now that the boys in Vegas have the same scoop you have, they see you as the competi
tion. This Abati crowd here in town, they're small potatoes. Always have been."
"But you're one of them."
He shook his head and spread his feet out. "Not really, no. I'm a gun for hire. I go where the business takes me. This is where I live because the boys are sweeter in the City."
I shrugged. "I wouldn't know about that."
He laughed. "Husband? You have some nerve."
"What are you trying to tell me?"
He walked over and stood close to me. "I'm trying to tell you to watch your back, Nick. For old times sake." He reached up and grabbed my chin.
I jerked it out of his hand. "Did somebody send you?"
He stepped back and his face got a little red. "Nobody sends me nowhere. I have clients. I do the job. I get paid. That's it. But I hear things. And, you may despise me, Nick, but I still love you. Always have and always will."
That shocked me. I could feel myself softening a little bit.
"What happened to you?" I asked.
He smiled. "I could ask you the same question. You hated your father. Now you live in his house and run around just as la-dee-da as he ever was."
I shrugged. "Maybe. But what about you?"
He laughed. "I guess you could say I'm doing the same thing. My father was a gun for hire. Just like his father back in the old country."
"Who was your father?"
"You wouldn't know him. He died back in Chicago. I wasn't even born yet. My mother came out west once I was born and he was buried. Francesco Lanza was my godfather. He's the one who made sure I got the good schooling like you Nob Hill swells."
"But he died in '37."
"Sure. And that's when I started runnin' wild with you and those other characters."
"And they're all gone. All three in Italy from what I read. Did you ever go?"
"Me? A wop? Nah. I stayed outta sight and then the family sent me over to Sicily in '44 once the fighting was over so I could learn the trade of how to kill a man. It's a decent living."
I shook my head. "It's no way to live, Ricky. Why don't you quit? Come work for me?"
He looked down at the brick floor. "I've thought about it. And I might." He looked up. His eyes were full of tears but his voice was steady. "But it ain't like it was when we was kids."
I sighed. "The last time I saw you was when the cops broke up that party. Did you go to jail?"
He laughed and wiped the tears off his face with the back of his hand. "Nah. I was Francesco Lanza's godson. Couple of thugs picked me up from Mission Station and took me home to mama. I ran away the next day to ride the rails. Finally came home about six months later and started doing odd jobs for Mr. Lima who took over after Mr. Lanza. He was OK. Made me apologize to my mama for scaring her to death."
I vaguely remembered his mother. She was shorter than he was and about as wide as she was tall. She didn't speak much. I never knew if it was because she didn't speak English or whether she didn't have anything to say. "How is she?"
"She's dead, Nick. That's how she is."
"I'm sorry about that, Ricky."
He grinned darkly. "Well, them's the breaks, right?"
I nodded. "Did you kill Peter Thomas?"
"Who?"
"He was an old drunk. Someone slugged him on South Van Ness on Monday night and made it look like he fell on his face. Was that you?"
Ricky shrugged but didn't answer.
"The cops know it was you. You dropped him off at the hospital and someone there recognized you."
He dug his left finger into his left ear, looked at whatever he found, and then rubbed his finger on his jacket.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because he hit you for being a queer."
I was shocked.
"How'd you know that?"
He shrugged again.
After a long moment, I walked over and embraced him. I had no idea why I did it. The move was instinctual. I was afraid of Ricky and what he was capable of. Maybe I did it in order to protect myself.
He smelled like a barber shop. We stood there for a long time, neither of us saying anything. Finally, I leaned down and kissed his cheek. It tasted like bay rum. He'd obviously had a shave in the last couple of hours. I suddenly realized our meeting was as much of a date as anything else. That chilled me to the bone.
He pulled away from me and reached up to gently pat my cheek. "I know you're in love and all that, but if you ever..."
I nodded but didn't reply.
. . .
Sam was waiting for me just by the phone booth upstairs. "Hey, Mister?"
I stopped. "Yeah?"
"Take me home, will ya?"
I pulled down my hat, nodded, and walked through the bar and out into the street with Sam following in my wake. We found Carter leaning against a lamp post.
Without saying anything, Carter stepped off the curb and used his hog-calling whistle to get us a cab.
Once the three of us were crammed into the backseat with me squeezed between Carter and Sam. the cab driver asked, "Where to, fellas?"
I whispered, "I'm not ready to go home. Let's go to the Black Cat."
Carter took my hand and squeezed it. To the cab driver, he said, "Corner of Broadway and Washington."
"Black Cat?" asked the cabdriver.
"You got it," replied Sam, who took my other hand in his. We rode the rest of the way just like that and in silence.
. . .
Since it was a Tuesday night, the Black Cat was much quieter than the Silver Rail had been. The Nightingale, José Sarria, wasn't performing that night so the music was coming from the jukebox.
We grabbed a small table in a dark corner. Sam got us drinks without asking.
Carter leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "You OK?"
I said, "Yeah." Then I thought about it and felt the way I was shaking on the inside. I shook my head. "Nope."
"What happened?"
"I'll give you the lowdown when Sam gets back but one thing, just between you and me."
"What's that?"
"I love you so goddam much, Carter Jones. You're my husband and I love you and sometimes I can't believe how lucky I am."
He smiled. "I think you mean how lucky I am."
"I was standing there, looking at him. It was like looking at the past and seeing how things could have gone wrong."
Carter nodded. "That's another box of cigars, then."
"What?"
"For Mike. For what I owe him."
"What you owe him?"
"Sure. You're the way you are because of him." He looked across the bar thoughtfully. "And your mother."
"Yeah."
We sat there until Sam came to the table. "Guy's bringing it all. Was too much to carry."
Carter asked, "What'd you order?"
Right then, the bartender showed up with a tray. We each got a mug of beer about four-fifths full along with a shot of what looked like whiskey or bourbon.
I handed the guy a folded five and he walked off with his tray.
Carter laughed. "Boilermakers?"
Sam nodded. "You bet. Drop 'em in fellas."
So we did just that and, in no time, we had three empty mugs in front of us.
Sam sighed. "Of all the crazy American drinks, that one is my favorite. There'll be another round of beer by in a bit. Burgie, of course."
Carter replied, "Of course."
I looked down at the table, burped, and gave them the breakdown of my reunion with my old pal. Once I was done, I sat back and closed my eyes. For some reason, the scent of bay rum was all around me. It was making me a little sick to my stomach.
Carter looked more worried than I'd ever seen him. "How does he know what's going on inside the house?"
Before any of us could answer, Sam stood up.
"What?" I asked.
"I'm gonna go tell the bartender to nix that third round of beers."
"Why?"
"We need to go see Mike. Right now."
. . .
"You're fucking kidding me, right?" Mike looked at Sam and then at me. The three of us were standing in Mike's kitchen, leaning against the counter. Carter and Greg were sitting at the table.
I shrugged. "No. Why?"
Sam said, "I haven't told him what we're working on. I thought I'd leave that up to you."
"The Kid murdered the brother of our client." He ran his hands through his hair and said, "Dammit!" He reached over and grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket.
Carter stood up. "Mike!"
Pulling me up close, Mike looked down at me searchingly. He had his scary monster face on. His electric blue eyes were burning into my soul.
"The Kid is your old buddy, Ricky?"
I nodded. He was holding me up close to his face. I could smell his fear and his rage. I realized my feet were beginning to dangle from the floor. "Let go, Mike."
He did and pushed me down. I fell back into Sam, who helped me get my footing. I pulled my coat sleeves down and asked, "What the hell has you so riled up?"
"I shoulda iced that kid when I had the chance back in '39. I knew he was trouble. I knew he was the reason you were running loose. I knew he was—"
I exploded. "None of that was any of your goddam business."
He narrowed his eyes and said, "No? Then you'd have preferred to live on the street? To maybe have be taken in by the mob? Maybe you could've—"
Greg banged his hand on the table. "Enough, Mike! Enough. Tell him the truth. Tell him who the client is."
With controlled rage, Mike pointed at Greg. "He's our client."
"Why haven't you told me?"
"When was I supposed to have told you? While you were vacationing in gay Paree?"
I looked over at Carter, who was rubbing his jaw. Unlike other times, I was angry enough to just stand back and watch what was about to happen.
Sure enough, in a very dangerous voice, Carter asked, "Mike?"
"What?" He was still looking at me.
"Turn around."
"What?" Mike turned and, as soon as he did, Carter landed a punch right in his gut. Mike doubled over and slid down to the floor.
"Get out." That was Greg. He was looking at me. He was angry and tears were running down his cheeks.
I shook my head. "No. We're gonna have this out, once and for all."
The Sodden Sailor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 11) Page 8