Ray paused. “And if in picking him, they get a drift of a larger beast below the surface.”
Victoria glanced at something above his shoulder. Ray resisted the temptation to turn around.
“Call off the hunt for Tania,” he said. “She is not a threat to anyone here, no matter what she did or did not see.”
“Mr. Infantino, I know Lucas professionally. He has advised me for many years. Tania left home on her own years ago. You know what she does, I am sure. She is a whore. A liar. Whatever conspiracy theories you have do not interest me. That is where it ends. Your other references are not at all familiar to me.”
“I don’t think that I misinterpret your influence—if not your involvement—to date, Ms. Chang,” Ray said. “Whatever you think of Lucas, he panicked. Our meeting yesterday had an unfortunate, fiery conclusion. Another shootout in San Francisco. Nothing gets the law’s attention like a Minnesota tourist getting smoked on the cable car.”
Ray shook his head, opened his hands. “I am just beginning to explore the ties between Lucas and your organization. But before we let slip the dogs of war, I wanted to come here. We need to remove one soldier from the battlefield.”
Victoria gave no sign of having heard. She sat still, a flat look to her eyes. Ray looked at those delicate hands, thin, long, vampirish. But the public face of that darkness, composed and elegant. He felt chilled in that room, that close to her. He thought of a line from a book he had loved as a child—'All that is gold does not glitter.’ Here he beheld its terrible reverse: splendor veiling the devil’s face.
“I will consider your words,” Victoria said, “although I am not familiar with much of what you have said. You’re not making sense. Now I must call our meeting to a close.”
She stood up. “Please leave a card.” She gestured to a table where sat a gold tray fashioned in the shape of a maple leaf.
“I look forward to hearing from you.” Ray got up slowly, picked up his leather card case and placed a card in the tray. Like handing a map of your home to an assassin, he thought.
Victoria Chang sat back in her chair and receded into the shadows. Ray nodded and walked toward the foyer. He saw no one, but sensed someone peering at him from the darkened recesses. Wordlessly, the older man who had greeted him appeared, and led him to the door.
Ray stepped out into the darkness, feeling his bones loosen a bit. He felt relieved, and a little burst of adrenaline spiked through his veins.
Victoria Chang had been a brutal read. He had no idea how she had digested his offering. He walked to his car and drove down the long driveway. The gate opened and he drove right onto Brattle Street. He rolled down his window. The scent of spring, dirt-rich and pungent. The maple pollen covering the sidewalks with a luminous green dusting. He inhaled deeply.
He drove back on Memorial Drive and headed to his home on the Charles River. He went upstairs and put his head on a cool pillow. He lay there for a long time, meandering down murky corridors of his mind.
* * *
Victoria sat quietly watching the small video screen. Ray Infantino’s car drove away from her property. She directed her staff to leave her alone for the next hour. Then she turned to the well-dressed man who had let Ray into the house and then watched the entire meeting through a hidden aperture in the wall.
“Impressions?’ she asked.
“The visit was a desperate move,” he replied, sitting next to Victoria.
“Perhaps. His unannounced arrival showed a certain boldness that I think should be nipped in the bud,” said Victoria. She looked again at the video screen. Ray Infantino was gone. “But I admire the tactic. The simple act of getting in front of me, where I could see him, taste his skin.”
“It’s a tactic we favor,” he said.
“Yes, a solid policy. I think his action needs an appropriate response. A meaningful gesture. But his message has some substance to it.”
“Our old associate botched things badly,” said the man.
“The years may have strengthened our friendship, but there are signs that time has eroded his business acumen. We will arrange a resolution,” she said. “He’s tired. It is time he passed those duties to another lawyer.” Victoria sipped her tea.
Then the man walked to another desk, picked up a secure line and dialed California.
Chapter 31
The telephone rang and Ray picked up—the electric voice of the wake-up call. He rolled out of bed, showered, and checked out of the hotel without eating. He thought of driving by the office, but he needed to get back to San Francisco. Everything else could wait.
At the airport, he put up with the usual antiterrorist probing and poking, and boarded a 9:00 AM flight. He arrived without incident in San Francisco, and then called Dominique.
“How did it go?” asked Dominique.
“OK. I just flew in. I’ll be at Antonio’s in an hour. You remember Antonio.”
“Of course,” said Dominique. “He kept hitting on my friend Lisa, remember?”
“She was all over him.”
“Please.”
“Well, I’ll be there in an hour or so. Tania is there now. Can you meet me at Antonio’s this afternoon?”
“Of course.”
“See you then. Missed you.”
“Me too.”
A cab pulled up to the curb. The elderly fare got out and putted around on a dark wooden cane. Ray climbed in and the driver drove north, taking the Port of San Francisco exit and racing up 6th Street. Bent figures lurched into traffic, crossing the street haphazardly. ‘Gimme Shelter’ played on the radio.
Ray took a call on his cell. Richard Perry’s voice burbled with muted excitement: “He’s at home now. We confirmed it. 110 Hayward, Apartment 4.”
Ray hesitated. “OK, keep an eye on him. I’ll be over there in a half-hour.” He called Dominique and told her he would be late.
Ray directed the cab to the Sutter Street garage, where he got out and had his car pulled around front. He drove south again toward the onramps for the Bay Bridge. Less heralded than her red sister, the Golden Gate, the Bay Bridge opened herself to all, her four silver towers planted in city soil, clamped down over the Embarcadero, running over SOMA. You could travel alongside the raw metal, drive around the towers, scramble up her sides. Set off against the downtown towers, the bridge looked like a long steel arm embracing the twin cities of Oakland and San Francisco.
He was over the bridge in seven minutes, weaving from lane to lane. He took the exit for the waterfront and headed towards the Oakland Coliseum. He stopped in front of a long row of stucco houses. They were designed to look like bungalows, with low red tile roofs and sheltered doorways. But after years of neglect, the homes had a grimy, sullen aspect, with doorways choked with debris, the red tile roof cracked and broken. Ray passed by a gray Honda with tinted windows—Richard Perry.
Ray pulled to the curb. Kids played on the weedy lawn next door, cracking a whiffle ball into high arcs over the street. Hip hop music played from somewhere. Oil stains glistened on the asphalt.
He headed toward the building complex. A plastic banner hung outside: “First Month Free!” Rusty air conditioners sagged from windows over greenish brown lumps that had once been shrubs. As he walked through the complex, Ray grimaced at the smell of soy sauce coming from a trash barrel. He opened a screen door to apartment 4 and knocked.
A voice inside: “Who is it?”
“Hey Bobby. Wondering if I could talk with you for a few minutes.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m an investigator,” said Ray. “Not a cop.”
Silence. “I’m busy.”
“It’ll just take a few minutes. Talk about your work.”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You may get interested. I know about the warrants, Bobby. As I said, I’m not a cop. Let’s just talk, you and me, see if we can sort through a few things.”
Sile
nce from the door. Half a minute passed. Then Ray heard bolts being drawn back, the rattle of chains, a heavy thump on the floor. Then the door opened and Bobby Cherry’s head peeked out. His skin looked translucent, the blue piping of his veins visible in his neck and hands. Eyes too close together, bulging slightly, amphibious and unreflective. He had an angry hole for a mouth.
“I’m looking into something that happened in San Francisco a few years ago,” said Ray.
“Who ay’ workin’ for?”
“Me. I’m working on a special project.” He scanned Cherry’s face. A mustiness wafted from inside the apartment. “Can we sit down?”
Cherry shrugged.
“Let’s talk for a minute.” Ray stepped toward the door. Cherry hesitated, looked as if he would object. But he was still a Southerner with a modicum of politeness. Ray was inside before Cherry knew it.
Ray looked around at the living room. A World War II poster covered one wall; it blazed black and red, with a stylized Art Deco swastika merging into a black eagle flying over an army of helmeted, square-jawed German soldiers. A bookshelf with hate-spewing titles sat below the poster. Two folding chairs were set around a new, large-screen TV. People always splurged on TV, no matter what other necessities they had to forego. Cable TV was an American birthright.
Ray sat down in a chair. Cherry sat slowly, looking around his house as if he was seeing it for the first time.
“Where you from, Bobby?”
“Central Valley area,” Cherry said calmly.
“How is the recruiting going?”
“Good.” Cherry gave a bland smile.
“I’m curious. Why the wharf? How’s the interest level among the tourists?”
“There’s more than tourists there.”
“I know,” said Ray.
“How did you know we were there?” Cherry asked.
“We saw your affiliates there over the past few weeks. If the goofy-looking guy throws rocks at the seals again, someone might be leaning on him. Not me. But that’s what I hear. Very active animal rights movement here.”
Cherry guffawed and tried to look mean. He picked at his shirt, lifting invisible specks and dropping them on the floor.
“That wasn’t my thing. I got nuthin’ ‘gainst a damn seal.”
“I know. But why the wharf?”
“Ah, it’s a good place,” said Cherry. “It’s legal for us to talk to people under the 1st Amendment, anyone and anywhere on public property. Freedom to associate. You can’t stop us.” Cherry tilted his head.
“You are right. But I’m not trying to stop you. I think your presentation should be seen by all.” He paused. “Ever try North Beach?”
Cherry looked up. “No.”
“That would be a good place. Lot of street traffic there too.”
“We like the wharf.”
“How about Oakland, the waterfront, maybe Jack London Square?”
Cherry said, “Too many Afros.” Then he smiled, there was a little joke in there, that word, Afros.
“But you tried once, didn’t you? Wasn’t there a bit of an altercation?”
Cherry looked up and closed his eyes briefly. “Oakland’s not our prime preferred territory.”
“How long did you check out Powell Street?” Ray felt his blood race, and he forced a deep breath inside.
Cherry did not respond.
“Nice street, you’d like it. You know Powell Street,” he said again, with no inflection of a question.
“I take Powell to the BART line there, downtown,” said Cherry.
“But did you ever recruit in North Beach? Lots of Italians and Chinese there, not sure if that’s your territory.”
Cherry shook his head no, and smiled. “No Chinese allowed.”
“But what about the Italians? Too dark probably. It’s a funny thing, skin tone. I saw a bunch of Aryan Knights on TV talking about how dark-skinned Italians are considered niggers. Interesting. Southern Italians especially, Sicilians, Neapolitans. Too close to Africa not to have mixed blood with the black race. What’s your thought on that matter? Could I join your group—I’m from Naples. Or am I just a nigger?”
Cherry shed a little half-smile, like he wasn’t sure a full laugh was appropriate. Ray smiled back. “It’s OK. I won’t take offense.”
“Ever see that movie?” said Cherry with a shady smile. “Dennis Hopper tells the godfather his grandma got fucked by niggers.”
“That’s a great scene,” Ray said. “Walken calls him a cantaloupe. Nice play on the eggplant comment.”
Cherry nodded, pointed to Ray. “I remember.”
“Anyway, North Beach is an interesting place,” said Ray. “We saw you there looking over the corner of Powell and Greenwich. What’s so interesting about that intersection?”
Cherry’s glee over the joke was gone and he looked serious. “Nothing.”
“Who lives there, Bobby?”
“Don’t know.”
“You know the name. You were there before. Tell me about the corner apartment.” He stepped close, putting his face near Cherry, just to the left. He felt very alive just then, a snake writhing in his gut.
“Just walking by,” said Cherry. “Not sure—” Then he stopped. His legs stretched out tautly in front of him, a bow waiting to be released.
“Tell me about the apartment. Who sent you there?”
Cherry’s eyes moved around the room, insects looking for a crack.
“Who directed you to go to that apartment that one time? I know it wasn’t you. Someone sent you there.”
“No, I just walk by.”
“How many times did they tell you to go there?”
“None. No one.”
Ray felt flames wing along his neck and the surge almost ran the circuit. Stepping to the side, he flashed on an image of an elbow snapping into Cherry’s head, the bony tip smacking the soft spot on the temple. Cherry making soft baby sounds and holding his busted skull.
But Ray just turned away, pushing back on the rage surging in his gut. He took a deep slow breath.
“Tell me about the bombing at that apartment.”
“Don’t know ‘bout no bombing.”
“Now we know that isn’t true. All the White Aryan groups talked about it.”
“Not with me.” Cherry remained rigid.
“What do you think should happen to the person who bombed that apartment. How would you punish them?”
Cherry sat still in the same position. “Don’t know. Depends on the evidence.”
“I know you didn’t plan it, design it. Bomb making is a specialized skill. But I want to hear it from you. Who else was involved. Who planned it. Who made the weapon. They used you to put it there, Bobby. That’s the word on the street. You didn’t even know what it was.”
Ray put his voice into it. The room drummed in pulsing heat. Cherry looked at the floor again. Ray let the silence build, the room falling in on itself.
The men looked at each other. “I don’t know nuthin’ about no bombing,” said Cherry sullenly. Then he shifted and resettled his bones.
“You were there,” Ray began. “You delivered. Remember the name of the man who lived there? Infantino?” Cherry looked at him blankly.
“That’s me. That was my apartment.” Cherry’s mouth began to work a bit. His eyebrows pinched in and up, the sclera of his eyeballs showing.
“All the evidence points to you. We have a witness, Bobby. She saw you, described you perfectly. And there’s something else. Someone in your group is cutting a deal on a gun case. Major time. He’s talking to the government about this thing in San Francisco. He’s giving up lots of names. Yours was one. This is your time to sort this out. With only me here. You and I can work this out. By ourselves.”
“I don’ wanna talk no more,” Cherry said. “I’ll call—”
“Bobby, you are not calling anyone.” Ray stood up and walked around the room. A poster of an Aryan Knight caught his eye. This was not your typical white sheet an
d burning cross motif; this picture showed a knight in full armor astride a dapple-gray horse riding through a pristine forest clearing. His cloak was drawn back. The face was turned away, looking out toward a blazing gold horizon. Wording in the corner said “Protecting and Educating the Children of White America.”
This was the new Aryan Knights: open, ecological, the white rangers protecting the trees. Ray smiled. “Look at this, Bobby. The new Aryan Knights takes care of its own. Impressive. It really is. More effective than anything else they’ve done in fifty years. They’re like a family. Like a big daddy to little boys from fucked-up families.”
Cherry launched a glance at Ray. Ray walked back to his chair and sat down. “Tell me about the South, Bobby. Where you from?”
Cherry said nothing.
“Alabama right? I love the South. This sounds funny, but the South is like New England in a weird way. No two areas of the country honor the past like New England and the Deep South. Patriots Day is a major deal in both places. In Boston, we shoot the Redcoats as they march through the fields in Lexington. Reenactments of the battle. 4th of July—massive fireworks in both places. In the South you’ve got the Confederate flag all over. Big Sunday dinners, just like New England.”
Cherry looked tremendously disinterested.
“What was your father like?” Ray asked.
“What in the hell does this . . .” Cherry trailed off. He stared out the window.
“Southern fathers are like New England fathers: they commence with a whuppin’ early on. Did your dad hit you when you were a kid?”
Cherry said nothing.
Ray walked behind Cherry. “My dad was tough. Medieval temperament. Spare the rod, spoil the child—that’s the motto. He believed in the physical.”
Ray sat down and moved his chair close. Cherry was scratching the back of his head now.
“Some fathers scare the shit outta their kids. Playing on the old fears. Black men who chased white girls behind the shed.”
Cherry shook his head, frowning.
“Teaching like that can cripple a young mind,” Ray continued. “It happens everywhere. The limits of our parents. Passed on like a sickness, a disease. It sets in quick, Bobby. You were just a kid, and this guy is ripping out all your courage. Making you afraid. Probably a drinker too, wasn’t he, sitting on his porch at night. Smashing you down so you felt as little as he did.”
Telegraph Hill Page 17