Telegraph Hill

by John F. Nardizzi

  “Honor your father,” the fat man repeated. His sickly-sweet odor, the waxy light behind the desk. Victoria sat in the shadows, her hands illuminated.

  There was no one here for her, Tania realized. Then she took the pen in stiff fingers and signed the documents, transferring the property out of her possession forever.

  Chapter 28

  Afternoon arrived in a gray curtain. Ray slumped on the couch and brooded over Lucas’s deception. He was rotting here, he felt it, the inactivity heavy as sludge in his veins. The horror of almost delivering Tania to her pursuers. Like the lethal package that had once been delivered to his old home, when he wasn’t there, and someone else was. The thin line between a brilliant performance and ripping your lungs out at a funeral.

  Lucas would be arriving soon. He got up and flicked on the computer, entered his password. He looked at his contact information for Lucas, and typed a message into his phone: Pantera Cafe, Romolo Place, North Beach. See you @ 4:00 PM.

  A touch of venom in his brain, he hit send.

  Ray made himself a cup of coffee. Rainwater rushed in torrents down the gutter. Tania was sleeping. She was still angry, and had not spoken to him after learning of Lucas’s deception. Ray accepted her coldness. She was bending under the strain.

  Ray telephoned Dominique, and updated her on his suspicions about Lucas. “I may ask you to go to your news sources with this later. The usual bullshit: ‘Prominent Attorney Plotted Murder; 40 years as a gangster’s bag man.’ Some bullshit the good citizens can chew on over a bagel.”

  “We have to consider the possibility that he’ll sue for libel. Are you certain that’s the full story? Is there a chance he can explain? All you have is this old news story.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll have some explanation,” said Ray. “I just want to be there to see if he stains his underpants with the effort. Lawyers don’t like being questioned. But I think he’ll have to explain himself with more than just coincidence theory.”

  “OK. I’ll think about where to place it,” said Dominique.

  “Just to play this a bit further, let’s draft an affidavit. He’ll never sign it but we’ll play the game. ”

  “He’ll be insulted,” she said. “His Burberry tie will start smoking.”

  “Maybe there’s a way we can link him to sex with underage boys.”

  “No one will blink,” she said. “Underage horses might cause him problems. PETA is active in California.”

  “Go with it.”

  Ray showered. He put the Beretta semiautomatic in the shoulder holster, strapped it on, then dressed in a blue pinstriped, double-breasted suit with a lavender shirt and tie. A bit bulky; he’d leave the coat unbuttoned. He killed an hour reading a book from Antonio’s eclectic library: a biography of a Russian mage named Gurdjeiff, who reportedly had developed telekinesis and could hurl himself off a thirty-foot stage without suffering injuries. Ray found the book oddly reassuring: its quirky mysticism transcended the nasty business at hand.

  At 3:30 he left the house. He walked to Union Street and headed down the slope of Telegraph Hill to North Beach, just another businessman transacting the dealings of the day.

  On Powell Street, he gazed down toward his old apartment. Chaos in the street that day, panicked neighbors. The sun was blazing; the sun always seemed to be out for the big disasters in California. Sifting for evidence. He could never forget the human sleet scattered all over the place. Each night he dreamt it again, walking through the house. Then the explosion, the burning, and the voice of the friendly cop trying to stop him from seeing: “Nothing to see in there, sir.” Then her voice, soft and murmurous as water in a dying creek. She was telling him something. The tea bags, they were out of tea bags again.

  That day gouged his overheated mind over and over and over, etching a ravine through his brain. He just wanted to stop the fire.

  Ray shook his head and walked the gentle rise of Columbus Avenue toward downtown. The Transamerica pyramid rose majestically in front of him, seemingly floating on the tip of Columbus, dominating the view. He walked past the Steps of Rome, the restaurant quiet as young bloods sipped espressos and checked soccer scores from the Italian leagues. At Columbus and Grant trucks were double-parked while workers unloaded pink carcasses of freshly killed pigs from the steel beds.

  He took a left on Broadway. Strip joints lined the streets, red doors heavily locked, painted with quaint come-ons from the 1960’s—GROOVY GIRLS IN A FEMALE LOVE DUO. A neon nipple flashed blue while hawkers corralled tourists into paying ten bucks for pisswater beer.

  He took a sharp left past the strip joints into Romolo Place. He stopped, looking back into Broadway. Traffic roared by, and people walked and shopped. Nothing unusual.

  Looking up, he saw the sign for the Pantera Cafe, emblazoned with the silhouette of a running panther. He took a deep breath, pictured in his mind the strands of the last few days coalescing into a black web. He just hoped he wasn’t the one about to fly into the center. Then he walked into the Pantera.

  A long wooden bar flanked by carved wooden lion heads; a clock no longer functioning, with gold arms fixed at 12:03. A series of tables and chairs, red in color, arranged in a dining area. A jukebox played opera music—Puccini, Verdi, and other classics, leavened with a sonic dose of Frank Sinatra. A few solitary souls at the bar: several older men, a few creative arts types in meditative postures over their drinks, and one young woman talking quietly on a cell phone.

  At a table near the rear wall, Lucas Michaels sat in silver-haired grace, debonair in a dark suit and red patterned tie. He sipped a cocktail. Ray looked briefly at two Asian men sitting at a table to the left. Late thirties, well-dressed, they were drinking and talking casually. Too casually, in Ray’s mind: a wolfishness still hung off them. And the drinks were clear, probably water. Real warriors needed no lubrication. The men glanced over at Ray. One of them, shorter and leaner than his associate, stood and walked to the restroom. His bearing showed a fighter’s flexibility. Ray would have to deal with him first, if anything came of it.

  Lucas looked up and smiled a Sunday afternoon smile. “Hello Ray.”

  “Hi Lucas.”

  Ray sat down. An efficient dark-haired waitress commandeered the floor, and Ray ordered a gin and tonic.

  “Well, it’s good to see you Ray. Your work was outstanding.”

  “Thanks. Good to see you.”

  Lucas looked around. “Where is she?”

  “Tania made a decision to delay the meeting.”

  Lucas eyes went flat and tight for a second before flooding back to a cool sheen. “Why? Is she OK?”

  “Tania is singing a song of self-preservation, Lucas. One that will pull her into a new life.”

  Lucas gave him a quizzical look.

  “She told me this morning that she wasn’t ready to meet yet.”

  “Where is she?” Lucas said calmly.

  “She needs to clarify some outstanding issues.”

  Lucas said nothing. He looked irritated, and shuffled his glass on the table. He didn’t like this ridiculous riddling at all. “I am paying you well, you were to find her, and I thought we had agreed that she would be here.”

  “Yes, I know. But things are evolving even as we speak. Tania is in danger, Lucas. She’s hiding from an Asian gang called the Black Fist.” Ray paused and watched as Lucas’s eyes widened a fraction. “Ever hear of them?”

  “No,” said Lucas softly.

  “I thought you might recall the name. You represented one of them, Ralph Chen, early in your career. And then represented several more gang members over the years. She is concerned about that connection. I’m sure you can understand.”

  Lucas swayed slightly, a cobra evaluating its strike zone.

  “That representation occurred many years ago, and was the start of my career as a defense attorney,” said Lucas. “It is not relevant to anything happening now.”

  “I understand. But this connection is causing Tania a lot of conce
rn.”

  “Not important,” snapped Lucas. He took a drink, then jammed the glass to the table.

  “Wrong. Very important. If I have some reason to question the purpose of an investigation, then I might ask for assurances. In this case, I have reason to ask.”

  “I did not hire you to look into my background,” Lucas said thickly.

  “Your background is only part of the story,” said Ray. “When we spoke by telephone after our little run-in in Marin, you had an interesting take on what had happened. Was there another bird whispering in your ear?”

  Lucas’s face flushed slightly. “You are being well-paid to handle this matter, and I expect you to produce the—her, Tania.”

  “The story is too sweet,” said Ray. “Very good though, Lucas, appealing to my nobler instincts. How were you going to do it? Right in front of me, after I brought her to you? I can only assume you hadn’t thought that out either. Because maybe you’re nothing more than a bag man, despite the law school education.”

  Lucas stared. A smugness flattened his face, and his hand pecked at his glass on the table. He laughed abruptly as if the matter were too petty to consider. “This is ridiculous!”

  Ray could see his mind working, rolling the jagged facts into a comfortable arrangement. Men like Lucas did not admit anything. They were beyond reach, glossy creatures that existed in another dimension. Lucas specialized in warping words to his benefit. A lifetime devoted to studying ways to confuse, delay, muddy up the trail. He was the subject of news articles, he lived in a big city, made sure his yearly income was in the upper echelon. He was a middle-aged white lawyer, and that still counted for something. Lucas gathered himself up.

  “You are an old-fashioned hero, Ray. You really are. What a fool. I think you’ve fallen in love with her. I’ll press every advantage I have professionally to see that your actions are well known among the bar. You’ll be ruined.”

  “Please Lucas. I know as many lawyers in Boston as you do. Probably more. But we need to discuss some of this stuff on record.” Ray pulled out a tape recorder. “California doesn’t permit one-party taping, so I need you to OK it. . .”

  “What’s this!” Lucas looked askance at the recorder. “Are you joking? Put that fucking thing away.” His brow looked sweaty. “Assuming that there are certain considerations that limited what I could tell you, your theory is not based in reality. Tania is the blood relative of my client. I already told you this. If they became involved. . ..”

  Ray let him talk, and watched his face, making slow circles from the eyes, eyelids, and brow, down to the mouth and then back. Lucas’s mouth was drawn into a tight box, harsh and ragged. Clearly, he was angry about Tania’s absence. But there was something else. His fingers tugged at his collar, and he returned to his constant theme: “I need to see Tania today. Now.”

  “She won’t be here today, Lucas. Not a chance.”

  “Where is she—“

  “Just tell me what’s happening,” said Ray, smoothing the air above the table with his hand. “How long have you represented Victoria Chang?”

  At the mention of Victoria, Lucas’ face twitched with subterranean irritation.

  “Do you need to scratch?” asked Ray.

  “What?”

  “What does she have on you? Why the mystery?”

  Lucas shifted in his seat, trying to position himself comfortably. “In 1958, I was a young lawyer with a top criminal defense firm here in San Francisco. One of my early clients was Ralph Chen. He was a low-level soldier for a Chinese gang, involved with minor street violence against other gangs in Chinatown. He was indigent. There is nothing more to the story. I performed a legal service and my relationship with that client ended. It’s unfair to judge a defense attorney on who he represented years ago. These are people who get churned up by the justice system without any representation. You know that. I agreed to represent him, and I am proud of the legal work I did on his behalf. Now I am ending this conversation and bid you good day. You are no longer authorized to continue working.”

  Ray raised his hand, placed his palm against Lucas’s chest. A stirring from behind the table. The two Asian men dropped their feigned indifference and layered their attention toward the table. Ray kept his voice low.

  “Lucas, you earn a living through words. And like a lot of attorneys, you figure as long as you’re running your mouth, you must be making money. But you should consider how your famous voice has played so far. Quite a few dissonant chords, Lucas. The Marin hit was botched, and I’m guessing that someone will be very unhappy to hear of another failure. You won’t get to Tania through me. Not today, not ever. Her testimony is being memorialized. You made a foray into the street business of your clients, but that’s not an easy thing to pull off. Will you consider an alternative?”

  Lucas paused. His voice started, then wavered and went out, extinguished by a chill from some desperate corner of his life. Ray realized that Lucas was terrified.

  Then Lucas sneered. “You think it’s all wrapped up so tightly? Go ahead with your little fucking news story!” Lucas jabbed his finger at Ray. “I represented a gangster in the 1960’s. So what? That’s the way it is, Ray! We defend clients with dirty pasts.”

  “But now you’re dirty, Lucas. That’s the difference.”

  “Your case is built around a hooker, Ray. No one believes hookers.”

  “She was in the trade,” said Ray. “But you’re the real whore.”

  Ray sat back in his chair. “Come to Jesus, Lucas. Before your master..”

  “I’m through with this conversation!” Lucas hissed.

  Ripples of heat and animosity emanated from the small table as Ray stood up. People were turning towards them now. The two Asian men looked at Ray with undisguised hunger, awaiting some sign from Lucas.

  But the sign never came. Lucas sat at the table, shaking with rage and something else; the two men stood still, bad intentions frozen in anticipation. A fine-looking Latina abruptly walked past the table towards the door; she had curly black hair and a slender body perched on open-toed sandals. She looked at Ray with concern in her eyes, sensing the hostility of the meeting. Ray followed her out the door and left the Pantera. After he walked down Romolo Place and reached Broadway, his body flooded with relief that he wasn’t being blasted with anything other than Northern California sunshine.

  Chapter 29

  Ray felt certain that the bar was being watched. He looked around. People walked the sidewalks, peering into cafes and restaurants. A homeless guy with a brown beard rolled around on the sidewalk in front of a corner liquor store.

  Ray headed north on Grant Street past the blues bars. He took a quick right, crossed Green Street and then walked into Genoa Place. The backs of three-story apartments loomed over the narrow alleyway. For a second he regretted entering—the alley was too isolated. He picked up his pace, jogging to the end of the cool, deserted alley, peering cautiously onto Union Street. No one stood watching, no male-packed cars menacing a corner.

  So this was the end of the line for Lucas. Ray had seen rich clients—politicians, executives, celebrities—reduced to frantic phone calls when the props failed, and the arc of their burnished life thudded into the ground. The right neighborhood was a trap, and a career could be pissed away on one astoundingly dumb decision. He had no idea why Lucas was working for the triad, but clearly, he was deeply involved.

  Ray looked back. A blue Acura blocked the alley entrance. A tinted window simmered and slid silently down.

  Ray sprang out of sight behind the corner of the building. He ran up Union Street and saw a cab stop at the intersection and begin to accelerate. He yelled, and the cab’s brake lights flashed red. He ran to the cab, opened the left car door and jumped inside. “Go right on Kearny. Then down Vallejo to Sansome.” The driver gunned the musty Chevrolet up the hill. Turned right, then left on Vallejo. Ray pulled out the nine millimeter, keeping it low. The driver turned left on Sansome, the sheer face of Telegraph Hill ris
ing high overhead on their left. They headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf.

  Too late.

  The blue Acura surged into view on the right. Ray glanced over, caught images— sunglasses, half-rolled windows, taut faces, a gun barrel pointing. The cabby glanced over and hammered the brakes. The front end of the taxi dove earthward. The sour smell of burning rubber. Several popping sounds, and the rock-face of the hill smoked. Ray watched as the Acura tried to stop, its wheels smoking the pavement. The car skidded down the street, trailing a smoky wake. Other cars slowed or veered off to one side.

  Ray could hear honking and yelling. A crash as two cars collided behind them. The cabby was wailing wildly, unable to gather himself, his taxi vulnerably becalmed in the middle of Sansome Street.

  Ray flung open the door and leaped from the cab, racing toward the base of the hill. A long cement staircase meandered up the steep side of Telegraph Hill. About thirty yards up, the path turned steeply into thick underbrush. A series of wooden steps ran uphill several hundred feet.

  Ray ducked behind a cement column. He looked back at the street. No one was following. The blue Acura peeled away. A few cars were tangled in the middle of the street. People stood in the middle of the street, gaping, while others yelled about the gunshots, urban tales of narrow escapes.

  A German couple thought they had stumbled upon a film set; they approached several men who looked vaguely famous and asked for autographs.

  Sirens in the distance.

  Squatting behind the column for a few minutes, Ray scanned the area. He turned and hiked up past small, shaded cottages on either side, accessible by way of narrow paths lined with century plants and pine. Wild parrots flitted and chattered overhead. Every few minutes, Ray looked back warily, but he felt better here. Telegraph Hill was a tree-sheltered labyrinth of one way streets and dead ends, alleys that zigzagged over the overgrown hill. He knew the hills well from having walked them almost every day while living in the neighborhood. He would meander through the hidden paths and get back to North Beach.