Ray expected to interview numerous people over the next few days. He had rented Detroit spawn. A Cadillac: big, American, faintly ridiculous. He liked pulling up to witnesses in a Caddy. Americans had been raised on mob movies, and instinctively associated the Caddy with power, ruin, conspiratorial afternoons in villa gardens. Something like that.
After clearing the airport, Ray headed up Highway 280, taking signs for the Port of San Francisco. The traffic flowed and weaved as he arrived at 6th Street. He headed east toward the waterfront. He arrived at the Embarcadero, where palm trees graced the median and a pale strip of glass brick lined the sidewalk. The Bay Bridge soared over the bay, straddling the twin cities of Oakland and San Francisco.
He turned right on Broadway, racing past the strip joints and restaurants, zigzagged his way on the small side street just before the tunnel, then left on Mason over Nob Hill. It felt good remembering all the old shortcuts. Ray parked and walked a few blocks to pick up a cheese steak sandwich. Then he headed toward the criminal courts. He had decided he would check the dockets first to see if Tania had caught a case.
In every county seat in the United States, a vast public record exists in the form of court cases, all indexed by last name. On the civil side, the records contain a history of the grievances, complaints and assorted ailments that plagued a society. And on the criminal side, courts maintain historical dockets of deviance and sick behavior, a blueprint of the lives of society’s incorrigibles.
Ray was dressed for court in dress pants, a dark blue shirt with a tan jacket. He drove South of Market to the Hall of Justice. Nine stories tall, and built like a bomb shelter, it was nerve center of law enforcement in the city of San Francisco. He walked through the metal detector, strolling past predators prowling the tiled hallways: rapists, murderers, district attorneys. The tiles made it easy to scrub off the accumulated filth. The rough banter of probation officers, lead-eyed felons, and thick-handed cops. The veteran cops and criminals had an easy familiarity with the place, comfortable in each other’s presence. They understood that they needed each other. They had spent time together in the past, and would likely do so again.
For others, fear and rage clung palpably to the walls here, lives determined in small courtrooms with swinging doors. Signs in English and Spanish on the wall:
Do Not Chew Gum In Court. Weapons Are Not Allowed In The Courtroom.
Conversations boomed and echoed in the hallway so that privacy was something you left at home, for other buildings, other times, a luxury the rich enjoyed in carpeted homes with solid wood doors. An odd sense of racial peace reigned, for this was a place for the democratic poor—black, white, brown, it didn’t matter. One look around confirmed that the jaws of justice chewed meat in all flavors.
Ray walked over to a clerk at the service desk, an attractive Latina in her forties. She was entombed in a bulletproof glass cubicle. He had to shout through a narrow slit to make himself understood. The clerk had dark eyes, and a bosom barely constrained in a light green suit. She got away with it; her curvy nerve got her through.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’d like to check a name for any cases going back to the 1980’s.” He jotted down Tania’s name and birth date on a sheet of paper.
The clerk checked the alphabetized index on her computer for Kong and printed out the results: one case from 1997. Ray filled out an order form and requested the case file. The clerk disappeared behind some rolling file cabinets. After a few minutes, she returned with the file.
“I like your jacket,” said Ray.
“Thanks,” the clerk handed him the file, smiling. “No fear of a full color palette.”
She laughed. “I like to spice it up in here.” She rapped the Plexiglas with her knuckles. “Place is decorated like a penitentiary.” She handed him the file. “Here you go. Let me know if you need copies,” she said.
He was feeling better already. Funny how a bit of human interaction could mean so much to a traveler. He opened the case file, but saw only a single sheet of paper, the criminal complaint. It contained the barest amount of information, announcing with the quaintly Communist language used by California courts: People of California v. Tania Kong. The charge was California Penal Code Section 315: Tania had been arrested for working at a house of prostitution.
There was nothing else in the case — no photos or affidavits or legal papers. The briefly worded complaint stated that on May 24, 1997, Tania Kong had been arrested for prostitution after police raided a brothel at 781 Jackson Street in Chinatown. No other defendants were named.
Ray jotted down the address, and copied the complaint. He returned the file to the light green lovely in her glass cube.
“What did this one do?” she asked.
“A rapscallion. Hardcore.”
The clerk glanced at the complaint. “Poor girl had some bad love.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
Ray thanked the clerk and left the courthouse.
Chapter 7
Four muscular Asian men strutted along the Embarcadero, radiating that odd mix of intimidation and restraint peculiar to Asian gangs. The men had spent a lot of hours building muscle; being young and violent, they showed off the results of their work with the iron. Thick traps danced beneath the muscle tees, hard chests thrust out, triceps rippling. But the men gave way to tourists, didn’t try to overdo the turf walk. They were on business, simple and direct: hunt down Tania Kong.
They walked past an outside cafe, scanning the people. Fit men in black spandex and funny-looking helmets straddled titanium bikes, or lounged on the grass. Kids walked by with their parents, munching on junk food.
They had been looking for Tania for six days. No sign of her anywhere. Everyone had been sure it would be over in forty-eight hours. But they were wrong. Excitement leaked away; frustration set in.
Ricky flicked a cigarette to the sidewalk as he reconnoitered the perimeter of the cafe. “I once seen this show about missing persons—you don’t find them in twenty-four hours, you be fucked.”
Dan looked at him. “Ahh shut ya’ cake hole.” The other guys glared at Ricky, resenting the implication. The fuck-up was reaching major proportions. Word filtered down from the bosses—they were pissed. Tamo was riding them hard. A subliminal pressure was building; the guys could feel it, like the tipping point in football when a linebacker crunches into a quarterback to jar the ball loose. A spirit of collision. Someone had to make something happen soon.
Last night at Buddha Bar, Xio “Kenny” Chu came up with an idea. Lean, well-dressed, a smooth talker, Kenny was dating a girl who worked at a hospital and drove a van for elderly people. He told the crew that the van had “Elderly Services” printed in blue block letters on the side and was outfitted with stuff for the oldsters—the van actually tilted down and had a little conveyor belt that lifted the old people out the door.
“Well, the great thing is, my girl takes the van home each night, she got the keys.” He smiled broadly over his beer as he told everyone. “We can do missions from the handicap van. Roomy and they don’t attract a lot of suspicion.”
He met her at a club, and they did the club hookup, sleeping together after one night out and then trying to salvage the thing and get to know each other afterward. He was still banging her on occasion.
“She told me that if I needed wheels, I could take the van anytime I need it.”
So now the crew had the handicap wheels for the day, cruising around and hunting Tania from the van. They could park in handicap spots — anywhere really — because elderly people voted, they had all kinds of rights, and who was going to ask a van used to help elderly people to move anyway?
So they piled inside and roamed the city. It was funny shit, the van cruising heavily, the way the door opened and the van tilted down like a decrepit elephant so the oldsters could step on.
The guys carried six guns on board, four pistols and two sawed off shotguns. Kenny and Dan placed one sho
tgun in each corner of the van so they could cover all angles, a rolling fortress. The guns had homemade silencers on them, thick as cans and stuffed with sound deadening fiberglass.
After a dull morning, they parked at the water looking over the East Bay. Kenny and Sammy got off to pick up some lunch when they saw her sitting in the cafe. Asian girl, petite, eyes with a certain Western look to them. Right height, right profile. They ran back to the van to check the picture.
“Yep, it’s Tania,” said Kenny. They passed the picture back and forth, and voted. Sammy shook his head no. They argued. “I’m just saying, the girl in the cafe looks different. I don’t think it’s her.” But Dan, squat and eager, muttered, “Let’s do this.” The mission just seemed inevitable. No one listened to that douche bag Sammy anyway.
Dan pointed to the driver seat. Kenny hustled up to the front and pulled away. They had found their target, they felt the pressure. Plus, Kenny had told them his girlfriend had to drive the van to work the next day.
The van cruised down the Embarcadero toward the cafe. The shooters crouched near the shaded windows. They stopped for a few minutes until Tania got up and left the cafe. She sipped a coffee as she strolled in front of one of docks on the marina. The van rolled slowly by. A rear window cracked open. Dan unloaded, sending a muffled blast right at Tania. Her right shoulder evaporated in a red mist. She toppled over. Then another shot and another shot, muffled humps, as the van rolled peaceably by. Tania lay still on the concrete. There was some ricochet action and a biker toppled over, crashing into a cafe table.
“Hit a mushroom, hahahah!” Kenny loved the mayhem. The shared adrenaline rush, four hard, young badasses. The guys were laughing and belting each other; they should have videotaped the bitch and put it up on Youtube. The geek on the mountain bike was just a bonus.
People on the sidewalk were looking around now, a girl down, a biker screaming. They scanned the street and over the water and looked down the Embarcadero. The elderly van lumbered along, innocuous and overlooked.
Later the papers came out with the story and the girl’s name. Melissa. She was from out of town, a student from Wisconsin.
Another mistake. The bosses were not happy. Dan, Ricky, Sammy and Kenny got the call. A dark SUV came by their Clement Street apartment and drove them to a private bar on Grant Street. Some heavy hitters there, soldiers from the top crews. Tamo had warned that bullshit mistakes would not be tolerated. Two of the soldiers dragged Kenny down a stairwell to the basement. Kenny resisted a bit. One of the men snapped the butt of his handgun on his skull, a hard thwack. Kenny’s limbs jerked a crazy dance. They shoved the other guys downstairs and tossed Kenny into a shallow pit dug into the floor filled with filthy water. Beer cans and cigarette butts floated on the surface. One of the men opened Kenny’s skull with a pipe. Blood mixed with the dark waters. Head wounds always looked worse than they were, the pressure of veins on the skull shot the blood everywhere, but still, the moaning from Kenny unnerved his friends.
Dan, Sammy, and Ricky got knocked around a bit before Tamo decided they had enough. Kenny lay unconscious in front of the others, bleeding into the half dug pit. They emerged with shocked looks from the basement into a side alley. Something different in their faces now. They blinked in the summer light and eyeballed the dumpsters. Still worried the beat down was not over.
Tamo watched them in silence. Then laughter geysered up through him so rapidly that he rocked back and forth, almost dancing. He loved this life. When you felt part of something so close to the top, it was close to perfection. Like a ruined god.
“Dumb little fuckers. We like the handicap van though. Smart!” Tamo pointed to his skull. “That’s why you’re still alive.”
A joke went around the triad, the crews needed to increase their missionary work: seduce more girls who worked at hospitals, nursing homes, schools for the blind.
Chapter 8
Ray walked the trash-strewn streets of the Civic Center back to his car. He parked on Sutter Street and checked into the Commodore Hotel, a Jazz-era hotel known for its informal style on the Tenderloin outskirts. He had good memories of the place, having done some spoken word performances here a few times with a blues band. He popped into the hotel bar, decorated completely in red, with one wall comprised entirely of champagne glasses encased in bulletproof glass.
He checked his phone for Dominique’s number. He knew he could save time finding archived case files by making inquiries with the San Francisco Police Department. And that meant reaching out to Dominique. He was not sure he wanted to call her just yet, and had thought he might resist for longer than one day. Well, he decided, he had as legitimate an excuse as he could have asked. He punched her number on his cell.
At 7:00 PM. Ray walked over Nob Hill, watching the sun sink and stain the sky a purple-blue patina. A cable car clanked up the hill, arms of tourists jutting and pointing at the stately homes. On his right, La Dolce Vita, an Italian bistro where he had eaten dozens of times with Diana. The life he had lived. A black fury threatened to swamp his senses. He shook off thoughts of the past and entered the restaurant.
The noise level was deafening. A row of impossibly good-looking people sat at the bar, waiting for their tables. Ray sat at the section near the window that looked over Hyde Street. He would watch for the crescendo of craning necks that he knew would follow Dominique Arnello into the restaurant. It was more than a trophy exhibition. Her impeccable bearing elevated walking into a moving art. The artistry of the banal, one of the keys to living.
While studying law at the University of California, Dominique’s friendship redeemed the drab social life that plagues most first year law students. Starting law school at age forty one, she was older than most of her classmates. Her high-voltage intellect and sleek figure comprised an unusual combination of gifts, and for that, many of her classmates could never forgive her. She refused to look the part often assumed by young female law students: either the devout, unsleeping scholar of law, or the sharp-tempered courtroom medusa with swords sticking out of her hair. She was just Dominique, kind, intelligent, and seemingly there for the sheer joy of it.
Dominique arrived at the restaurant a few minutes later, black curly hair down to her shoulders, a lavender business suit with a strategic amount of cleavage, showing to great effect, a string of pearls. The wave of heads rolled as expected.
Ray took in the sight of the woman he had once known so intimately — olive skin, deep eyes the color of fallen oak leaves. He thought she looked unbelievably healthy, radiant as a newly fired sun.
She saw him right away and cut through the crowd. He reached out and they embraced. They looked at each other, so much to say. The host guided them to a table. They ordered a bottle of Cabernet. Both flush with muted excitement, talking in that tender way when people meet for the first time in years. The wine came and they relaxed.
“Do you keep in touch with any of the old crew?”
“I hardly see anyone. Once in a while I see Patrick in court. Remember him?”
“He was the guy who tore pages out of the first year assignments.”
“You remember that!” she laughed. “He always denied it.”
“Not convincingly,” said Ray.
The noise level in the dining room was rising as wine glasses were drained.
“Didn’t you two shoot pool all through the first year?”
“If you are referring to my billiards sessions, I can only say the time spent was exaggerated. Pool relaxed me.” Ray took a drink. “That, among other things.”
Dominique looked at him and smiled. The waiter brought some sourdough bread.
“What are you working on these days?”
“The usual,” said Dominique. “Some overcharged drug cases. Black teenagers from Oakland getting maxed out in federal court. And the kingpin, some white dude, free in the suburbs somewhere.” She sipped her wine. “So what brings you to California?”
Ray told her about Lucas Michaels and his efforts i
n locating a missing girl. “She slipped beneath the radar looking for her California dream.”
“Let me know if I can help. If you need office space. “
“I will. Thanks.”
“Any leads?” Dominique asked.
“A big one surfaced today. Municipal Court handled a case where she was charged with prostitution a few years ago. But there was hardly any paperwork in the case file. What’s the retention policy on misdemeanors?”
“The clerk’s office is getting rid of a lot of old files. Clogging up the old courthouse. There’s no place left for the stuff.”
“Any suggestions on how to get more background on that arrest?”
“A vice detective I know might be able to help you. Waymon Pierce. He’d be a great place to start.”
“Good.”
“He’s an odd bird, a real talker. But he’s seen it all. I'll call him tomorrow for you.”
The waitress, a skinny gruff woman, came and took their orders. Ray was surprised that she had elbowed her way into the hospitality business. He ordered swordfish, while Dominique ordered tortellini with cream sauce.
“Glad you didn’t just order a salad. I hate it when women do that.”
“Me? Please. Plus, you’re paying.” She paused. “I am glad that you called. It seemed like geography got in the way of our friendship.”
“Despite everything we said.”
“By the way, how’s your family, your mother and father? I loved your father, with those shirts!”
“They’re doing fine. Living in Boston still. I see them every week.”
She paused and looked at the floor. “Ray, I’m sorry about what happened to your fiancé. That was terrible.”
Ray looked at her. “Thanks.”
“I read about it. I wanted to call. But I felt . . . I don’t know.”
“It’s OK. I didn’t answer the phone for a year.”
“But I should have done something,” she said, her brow furrowing. “That was wrong.”
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