Telegraph Hill

by John F. Nardizzi

  She nodded.

  “We need to get to some place safe.”

  Ray pulled away from the curb and headed east past whitewashed apartment buildings that lined the steep streets of Russian Hill. He raced down Union Street, timing the lights, and darted into North Beach. He turned left toward the Wharf, then turned up Filbert Street onto the slope of Telegraph Hill.

  Telegraph Hill had a glorious, tottering beauty about it, defiant in the face of inevitable earthquakes. The hill commanded views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz and Angel Island. Originally called Loma Alta, the precipitous hill had been home to roughhouse sailors and immigrants in the 1800s. Later, artists and bohemians moved in, attracted by spectacular views and cheap homemade wine served in North Beach restaurants. The neighborhood had long been gentrified by professionals. They drove German sedans, bought organic fruits, and overpaid for eight hundred square foot condos with original molding. But the neighborhood was still flecked with oddballs who had managed to thrive in the sharply angled neighborhood, the local cafe owner or a Chinese family who resisted the upwardly mobile erosion.

  Ray stopped at Union and Kearny. Halfway down Kearny, he turned left into a driveway. He looked around—no one in the street, no one tailing.

  He pulled up to a Spanish Revival home with a red stucco facade. A rotted balcony ran along the second floor. One of Ray’s oldest friends, Antonio Flores, lived there. They had grown up together in New York. Antonio taxed friendships. He disappeared for weeks at a time, and then showed up at friends’ houses unannounced, past midnight. He was blunt to the point of crudity, but Ray forgave it as an occasional antidote to California dopiness. Antonio’s loyalty was canine, so Ray didn’t feel hesitant in knocking on his door unexpectedly.

  Ray knocked and heard a heavy braying of dogs. A squat rawboned figure abruptly opened the door. He had Doberman-thick black hair and a superbly scarred face, so prehistoric that it looked as if he had murdered his way from the Gold Rush era into modern times.

  “Ray! God, come on in!” Antonio motioned for them to enter. He looked at Tania and smiled deeply, extending a hand. Ray looked at Tania, who appeared bedraggled and almost out on her feet. He did not waste any time.

  “Antonio, I’m in a bind. She needs to disappear for a while. We had trouble this morning in Marin.”

  “You’re family Ray, you know that. Whatever you need.”

  “Tania, do you need anything? A drink?”

  She nodded.

  Antonio motioned them inside. He was wearing black shorts with yellow neon trim and a black shirt with sandals.

  “Can I make a call?” Ray asked.

  “Phone is in the living—hell, you know where everything is! Let me get you something to drink.”

  Ray headed into the living room, where a menagerie of stuffed animal heads—zebra, bear, lion—peered silently from the pine walls. Rustic pine furniture and an enormous television. Ray sat down beneath a wolf's head, and collected his thoughts. Then he dialed Lucas.

  “We had trouble today. As I told you, I tried to meet Tania last night. The meeting went well. But she’s running from a group she was involved with. An Asian gang. A group of them surprised us in Marin this morning. Rough going, but we got out of there.”

  “How is she?” Lucas interrupted.

  “She’s OK. Exhausted at this point.”

  “Where is she?”

  “At a friend’s.”

  “Where is that?”

  Ray sensed the urgency in Lucas’s voice. “Trust me when I say she is in a safe place. I don’t want to say too much— I am sure you understand. I can confirm it later with you.”

  Lucas paused. “Yes. Yes, I understand. When can I see her? We need to set a meeting.”

  “Can you fly out?”

  “I can fly out tonight, if you want. Where should we meet?”

  “I’ll email you a place in a few hours.”

  “OK. Great work today, Ray.”

  “I’ll be in touch with the time and place.”

  Ray called and checked his messages at the office. Nothing urgent. He hung up the phone. He walked over a floor laid with Mexican tile to the living room. Tania sat there on a sofa, sipping a large glass of orange juice, her hair neatly combed. Antonio looked like a freshly groomed dog at a show, leg wiggling in suppressed excitement. Tania’s Asiatic elegance was having its way with him. Antonio was bragging about his exploits as an amateur panner who, each September, traveled to the Sierra Nevada Mountains to pan for gold in the cold mountain rivers. He hid his small findings of gold throughout the house, mixing the gold flecks with sand in empty baby food jars. His gleanings to date amounted to no more than twenty ounces of gold, but he was in it for the long haul. He wasn’t starving though; he owned several rental properties in the city. He was retelling a story that he repeated at any gathering of friends: “I told the adjuster, if you stay on my property, I will be forced to discharge a firearm in your general direction.”

  “Antonio, enough gun talk. We’ve had enough guns discharged at us already.”

  “Sorry. What the hell happened to you today?”

  “It’s a long story.” Ray recounted the fire fight in the woods.

  “Unreal,” said Antonio. “You can stay here a while.” He turned to Tania. “So how do you feel being with a famous detective?”

  “Watch it,” Ray said. “I’ll slap you six miles south of stupid.”

  “You can’t move granite, baby.”

  Ray and Antonio bantered while Tania sat and read a magazine, taking in the carom shots. Ray thought Tania was finally beginning to relax a little; Antonio’s attentive energy seemed to boost her spirits. At least as far as it went. He hadn’t discussed it with her, but he was concerned about the firepower they would face—these were people who, after all, had shown a belief that resolution flowed from muzzle of a gun.

  “Antonio, Tania and I need to talk a bit in private. Can we sit outside on the back patio?”

  He laughed. “Sure, just toss me out of my own home. I’m heading out anyway. I’ll be back later. Make yourself at home.” Antonio walked into another room, where they heard him rummaging in a closet.

  Tania was hungry, but exhaustion was braying louder. She slumped into a rocking chair and closed her eyes.

  “Ray, before we talk, I need to lay down and rest.”

  “OK.”

  He walked her to one of the rear bedrooms. The shades were drawn and the room was dark and cool.

  “This is a guest room. You’ll be fine here.”

  Tania lay down on the bed without a word.

  Chapter 25

  Ray picked up the phone and called a back line at the Berkeley offices of the Southern Law Project. A familiar voice answered, his old roommate Kevin Burgess. They made arrangements to meet later that afternoon at the Embarcadero Cafe.

  Seabirds whirled overhead. They ordered coffee and watched the massive freighters ease their way toward the Oakland waterfront.

  “Anything new with the Bobby Cherry investigation?”

  “Nothing new, Ray.” Kevin squinted behind his glasses. He wore one of his dozen navy blue suits, an item that seemed to reproduce in the darkness of his closet.

  Kevin began to recount the details in a staccato delivery. “We check on him every few weeks. Still lives in Oakland. Holding a job. Not that active as far as we can tell. Tries to get some recruiting activity going along the Oakland waterfront, which as you know is the main port in the area. No one’s buying what he’s selling. Mostly black workers there anyway. He passes leaflets to the white guys and talks to them about the coming race war. He’s a dipshit— they usually chase him home.”

  “Any sight of Cherry with other members?”

  “No, but—”

  “I still think that he’s tied in,” Ray interrupted. “More than we think.” He was disappointed that the Center had not developed more information. Cherry had been seen in the area before the bombing and was questioned by police. But
everything had stalled since the initial frenzy of work.

  Ray knew that Kevin was doing everything he could on the Cherry case. He had busted his brain studying, one of the hardest-working students Ray had known. After graduating from law school, he began working for a pitiful salary at the Southern Law Project. Over the next few years, he developed the legal stratagem that led to a massive civil judgment against a local Aryan Knights group, effectively bankrupting the organization. An appreciative local attorney nicknamed him ‘Ka-ching Kevin’ – no attorney had ever been as successful at flipping the coat pockets of the Aryan Knights.

  Kevin sat quietly, sipping his coffee. “We’re doing all we can with limited resources, Ray.”

  “I know,” Ray said. He took a deep breath.

  The two men sat in the sun. A group of tourists were pointing at a group of California sea lions that were baking their hides on a wooden dock. Two guys tossed rocks near the dock.

  “How often do you get him under surveillance?”

  “At this point, we just get reports on him from local sources. He’s a known commodity. You know our resources— it’s all volunteers. We get students for a few months during the school year, but it’s tough to keep real good tabs on a guy for a few months. There’s so many nuts in California. More and more each year.”

  The law center devoted considerable resources to tracking and monitoring hate groups across the United States. It compiled data on recent activities, recruitment drives, planned rallies, and publications. Despite the region’s liberal reputation, hate groups operated aggressively in Northern California.

  “I know you are doing what you can.” Ray struggled to mute the frustration in his voice.

  One of the rock-tossing guys banged a boulder off the dock and into a sea lion. The animal let out a roar. The guy put his hand to his mouth, muffling laughter.

  “Is SFPD being helpful?”

  “Sort of. They’re not about to let this case drop to cold case status at the back of some file cabinet,” said Kevin. “It’s still high profile. We re-interviewed every resident on the street, but no one remembered seeing a package delivered.”

  Ray took a sip of coffee and watched as another rock went sailing into the sea lions. Someone yelled at the guy; he gestured and swore back.

  “What about the elderly Chinese woman, Mrs. Chin?”

  “She still recalls seeing a young white guy with dark hair walking or running up Telegraph Hill just before the explosion. She never saw a face or noted his clothing. She says he disappeared around the corner of an apartment building near Greenwich and Powell streets. We showed her pictures of Cherry, but she couldn’t ID him.”

  The sparse description was more maddening than helpful. But Ray hung a lifetime of hope on the Chinese woman’s brief, useless recollection. He pictured the event in his mind, watched the fleeing figure, trying to formulate a face. For Ray, the definitive piece of evidence was not something he needed. As his rage cooled, he knew that the case against the Aryan Knights would rest on Bobby Cherry’s shoulders. The case would come together bit by bit, piece by piece, until the sheer mass of the thing, its hot black heart, burst its shell and illuminated the face of the bomber.

  “How did the research down South go?” he asked.

  “Good. Did some interviews in Alabama. Cherry had a home life that could only be called a toxic mess. Alcoholic parents and rumors of sexual abuse. There was some sort of family court involvement early on involving a sister. Records were sealed. The sister was removed from the house. Father was charged with rape but the case never went to trial.

  “Some of the neighbors we talked to said that Bobby was a nasty little motherfucker as a kid. Lots of fighting, tossed out of school repeatedly, that sort of thing. He also had a habit of torturing animals. No cat was safe from Bobby. He was an active Aryan Knights soldier from his early twenties. He had no prospects there, so he drove his light blue pickup truck to live with a friend in California. That’s pretty much the last anyone there has heard of him,” said Kevin.

  “The boy’s chemistry sounds flawed.”

  “Ray, I know you think this guy is involved. If we learn anything else, you’re the first to get a call.”

  “I know that. I just want to stay on him.”

  “I know this has special meaning to you.” said Kevin.

  Ray paused for a moment. “I am taking up some of the work while I am here. Time permitting.”

  “Of course,” said Kevin, looking at his friend.

  Kevin leaned over and pulled out a folder. “I put this together for you. All of our work over the past few years.” He handed the file to Ray.

  “Thanks.” Ray opened to the one-inch thick stack of documents neatly clasped inside. He examined the photographs that one of the Law Center investigators had taken during a surveillance last year. Cherry was short and stooped, as if he was constantly warding off a blow from an unseen hand. His black eyes and short dark hair set off noticeably from his pale skin, giving him an intense, almost evangelical look. Ray focused on the eyes. They were phenomenal; they loomed from Cherry’s head like separate beings, bulging with unseen pressures. Ray let the image of Cherry’s face, his eyes, seep into his brain.

  They talked for a while and finished their coffees.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” said Kevin. “Office space, whatever.”

  Ray shook his hand and they said good-bye. He felt tense. He walked toward Fisherman’s Wharf, where he had parked the car. He stopped to use a public restroom. Inside he saw one of the men who had pelted the sea lions with rocks. The guy tottered a bit on his way to a urinal. He wore a Steelers jacket and baseball cap with the number 0. Without looking at him, Ray went to the sink to wash up. He could smell rock-gut vodka fumes wafting from the guy.

  The drunk looked over at Ray. “Hey bro. This a great city or what?”

  “Sure is. So why were you tossing rocks at the wildlife?”

  The guy paused and then laughed. “Fuck 'em. Why do you care about some stupid animal like that? That a western thing?”

  “No, it’s just a human thing. Probably too much for a shitbag like you to comprehend.”

  The big guy got real quiet. “Well, what you gonna do about it, friend?” he slurred.

  Ray ignored him. Always a massive breach of etiquette to speak to another guy in the men’s room. Nothing ever came of it. He knew better.

  “Hey man, I'm talking to you.”

  Ray looked at the guy. He was in no hurry. He felt a barely controlled rage flowing through his body. Cherry, the sea lions—all of it hot sap powering his muscles. Some wrath down in his bones needed to be worked off. But there was no need to start anything. The guy was just drunk.

  “Fuckin'A, buddy—” the drunk reached out and grabbed Ray’s shirt. The guy was big and strong but Ray could see his belly flopped over his belt. The guy had another characteristic often paired with physical heft: he was very slow. Ray slipped the guy's grasp. Then he pivoted on his left foot as he had been trained, as he had done ten thousand times before, swinging his right leg and turning it into a scythe. The knobby bone of his instep thudded into the meat of the guy's thigh. The guy went down like he’d been poleaxed. He cried out in pain and writhed on the tile.

  Standing over him, Ray still felt irritated. He unzipped his fly and pissed all over the guy, soaked his chest and head. The guy stared at him with a look of befuddled pain.

  “Jesus, my fucking leg!” The drunk held his quadriceps, moaning. He looked damp. “You fuckin’ pissed on me!” His voice was high. “What the hell!”

  Ray zipped up and adjusted his pants. “Just marking my turf. It’s a western thing.” Then he left the guy on the bathroom floor and walked outside.

  Chapter 26

  Ray walked his anger off with a long slow stroll to the house on Telegraph Hill. He took a seat in the kitchen and read the newspaper. The front page was devoted to another anthrax scare. A packet with white powder and a threatening note was sent
to a clinic in Brookline, Massachusetts. The white powder had turned out to be flour. The sender handled the envelope so many times that fingerprints were lifted and matched to an out-of work pharmaceutical salesman on Cape Cod. For every criminal mastermind, there were ten cretins: the cruel algebra of intelligence applied across the masses.

  He thought again of the carnage in Marin and called Hulme for an update. After the shooting, the Asians had cleaned up quickly. There were no bodies left for the cops to tag. But the Ashtanga staff was terrified. The police were still hot for him to call. Ray promised to get back to them.

  The Asians were smart: no bodies, no evidence. But on that hill, he had run over one man and shot another at close range. Although he couldn’t be sure, the possibility of both men surviving was slim. But it felt easier to deal with anonymous bodies. He hoped he never learned the names of those two men.

  Ray spent over an hour on the phone with a cop from Marin. They wanted to interview him and Tania in person at the station. He told them they were in hiding, and Tania was unsure about making a statement. The cop, a young guy, was not happy with that decision. Ray told him that they were the victims but didn’t want to press charges. The cop yelled a bit and Ray ended the call. He got up, knocked gently on Tania’s door. She told him to come in, and she sat up abruptly.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked

  “OK.” She rubbed her eyes. “What do we do now?”

  “Police want you to come in for an interview.”

  “No way.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “They can’t protect me.”

  “Probably not. But neither can I. You should think it over.”

  She said nothing. He sat down on the thick cotton blanket covering the bed.

  “I talked to Lucas, the attorney. He wants to meet, if you’re agreeable. I didn't set a time yet.”