by Hailey Lind
“True. Let’s go.”
We hurried a few bucolic tree-lined blocks away to check out Goldberg’s address. With my newfound knowledge about local disreputable lawyers and boy gangs, probably I should have been dissuaded from wanting to make my home in Crockett. But it sure was a charming town. Big trees shaded the streets and supported rope swings. The houses were relics of a more prosperous age, marching up the hillside, with views of the strait. Down closer to the water the train chugged by, blowing its horn. Cute as all get-out.
The Goldberg home was a simple clapboard saltbox. The driveway was empty of cars, and peeking in the windows we saw that the place looked abandoned. There was a fair amount of trash on the floors and cupboard doors gaped open, not in a ransacked way...more in a “we’d better get the hell out of here” way.
“Well. Crockett has been something of a bust,” I said as Michael and I headed back toward the main drag of Pomona Street.
“Except that we now know Kyle Jones’s lawyer and friends were in on something, or are afraid of something.”
“Aren’t we all.”
I leaned against my dusty truck, waiting while Michael went back into the diner and worked his magic with Sandy. I could see him gesturing and smiling through the plate-glass window. He was so freaking gorgeous, so at home in his body, so confident. And the weird part was, I really believed that he liked me for me, not for some cleaned-up version of me. Then I thought of Frank and my stomach clenched. What did Frank offer? Escape? Or a trap? Could Frank really love me as I am, or would he expect me to stay on the straight and narrow?
Leave it to me to choose now to worry about my love life.
I was a mess.
I pondered moving to Siberia again, but I realized I would need a really good coat. We Bay Area folks don’t really do coats.
“Stafford hangs out at Toby’s Tavern,” Michael said as he trotted across the street to join me. “Might be worth coming back tonight, asking around.”
“Sure. Super. Can’t wait.”
Michael looked down at me.
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. A man was killed last night, practically right in front of me. My Uncle Anton might not pull through. I can’t figure out how Kyle is connected to a forgery, stolen paintings, and now a stolen sculpture. I put my friend Bryan on the line with the police to keep a maid safe....” I trailed off and looked down Pomona Street. No way was I going to mention that I’d slept with Frank last night. Instead, I took the offensive. “And you’re an ass.”
He leaned back against the truck and crossed his arms over his chest. To my great relief he didn’t say a word, just stood there with me for a long couple of minutes. I closed my eyes and sighed.
“Why am I always so clueless?” I whined. “Why does all this stuff happen around me, but I never have any idea what’s going on?”
He smoothed my hair back, resting his large palm on the nape of my neck and giving me a little massage.
“I think you’re being a little hard on yourself, there, tiger. You do tend to attract trouble, I’ll give you that, but it seems to me you always get your man—or woman—eventually. You just do it in your own special way.”
“Why did you turn and walk away from me?”
“What?”
“You saw me clear as day yesterday in North Beach, and you turned and walked away from me.”
“I have no recollection of that event.”
“Who was that woman you were with?
“She’s shy.”
“She didn’t look shy.”
He smiled. “What did she look like?”
“She looked like a smart lingerie model. A nightmare to every normal woman in the world.”
“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”
“Hunh. Jealousy would imply that we have some sort of relationship.”
“I think we’re dancing around one, aren’t we?”
I shook my head. “Only a business relationship.”
Michael put his hand under my chin again, and I met his gaze.
“You can’t possibly be this obtuse. You know I want more, have wanted more since the day I met you.”
“Sex, you mean,” I said, pulling away.
“That’s always a good place to start.”
“It’s a moot point, anyway. I don’t believe in dating co-workers.”
“That’s easy enough: I quit.”
“Besides, it’s...”
“What?”
“Things have changed. Between me and Frank...”
He snorted. “Oh yes, your sainted Frank.”
“Frank’s a good man, Michael. You should give him a chance.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“I mean it. You two could be...friends, maybe.”
He peered at me for a long moment, so intently that I looked away.
“You slept with him.” It was more an accusation than a statement.
“I...uh...” Strictly speaking, there wasn’t a whole lot of sleeping going on. But it seemed a sore point to bring up at the moment.
Michael stepped back, shook his head, and let out a mirthless chuckle. He ran his hands through his hair. “I cannot believe this. I really can’t. Among other things, when did you possibly find the time?”
“Don’t be a such a hypocrite. You’ve probably slept with half the women in San Francisco by now.”
“I don’t judge you for having a love life, Annie. It’s your choice I quibble with.”
“I know he’s law-abiding, but being a man of honor is considered a positive trait for most people.”
“A man of honor. Oh, that’s a good one.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You want to know the truth? That woman you saw me with yesterday was my sister.”
“Sister? For real?” No wonder they looked like a matched set of demi-gods. I could only imagine what their parents looked like—what kind of DNA must they be carting around?
“My sister, Ingrid.”
“Wow, I can’t believe you have a sister. Wait, her name’s Ingrid?”
“She also happens to be your precious Frank’s wife.”
19
From the dimmest corner of the Kasbah, to the grittiest New York dive bar, to the raunchiest bordello in Amsterdam, never neglect humble establishments, for there is some great art to be found. Believe me. This is the voice of experience talking.
—Georges LeFleur, “Craquelure”
I couldn’t speak for a full minute. Michael was a habitual liar, but I couldn’t imagine him fabricating something like this.
“Excuse me?” I finally croaked. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“My father and I have been...estranged for a few years. I haven’t been in close contact with my family for some time. I only found out about this recently, myself.”
“But I don’t understand...how could Frank possibly be married to your sister?”
“The world is a strange and frightening place.”
And mine was tilting on its axis. I couldn’t process this. Couldn’t deal. Not with everything else going on.
“We’d better go,” I said, pushing away from the truck. My voice sounded hollow to my own ears. “I want to get to the hospital, check on Anton.”
* * *
I dropped Michael downtown before proceeding to the hospital. Anton was still sedated, but the doctors seemed pleased with his progress. The process of chelation would be completed soon, and then all that was left was to wait and see, hoping that Anton’s prior health and spirit were enough to bring him back from the brink.
By now word had gotten out about Anton’s condition. The ICU’s waiting room was filling with a steady stream of Anton’s friends and associates, from artists and art aficionados whom he’d met at galleries and museums, to drinking buddies from the bars where he’d been a regular for twenty years. There were even a few upstanding citiz
ens, for Anton was a man of cosmopolitan charm when he wanted to be.
I sat in the sole remaining chair, glum and uncommunicative. A cell phone rang, and for an instant I thought it was mine. Before I could stop myself, I hoped it was Frank calling. I blew out a breath, envisioning Frank’s deep, espresso-brown eyes. The eyes that had always seemed, though guarded and often disapproving, brutally honest. And now this latest revelation.
What was it with me? Was I a magnet for lying, charming, worthless men? That and random crime?
To distract myself, I flipped through the case file Jarrah Preston had given me, it seemed a lifetime ago. I reread the article on the Odibajian brothers to see if I’d missed anything the first go-round. Nothing jumped out at me from the text, but in the black-and-white photo of Balthazar with a woman on each arm...one of the women was none other than Catrina Yeltsin. No big surprise. It could have been taken at any Fleming-Union function. Still, I remembered the old man in the fireworks shop tapping the photo. Could he have recognized Catrina rather than Odibajian? Or did all white women look the same, as well? Or was he merely a fan of spectacular cleavage?
“Annie?”
“Nicole, hi.” I looked up to see my Cameron House tour guide standing in front of me.
“The kids made Anton a bunch of get-well cards.” She held up a brown paper grocery bag. “I volunteered to bring them over. I wanted to see how he is.”
“He’s still sedated, so he can’t really respond. But so far his vital signs look good. The doctors are hoping he’ll be coming back to us soon.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
“He’ll be cheered to see the kids’ cards, I’m sure. Hey, I wanted to show you something.” I fished around in my bag until I found my digital camera. I pushed buttons until I found the photos of the symbols etched on the tunnel walls. “Do you have any idea what these mean?”
“They’re names, and dates, and the names of...villages, maybe? I only recognize one or two.” Her dark eyes looked up at me. “Where did you get these?”
“I saw them written on a wall. In a tunnel.”
“A tunnel. Where?”
“Under the Fleming-Union.”
“You found tunnels? How?” She gave me a shrewd look. “Hold on, you didn’t happen to break in last night...never mind. I don’t really want to know. But tell me—you found this written on the walls, like graffiti?”
“Like very old graffiti.”
“I have to see this in person.”
“It’s not all that easy.”
“Do you have any idea what this means? The girls, the mui tsais, must have written this. I can look up the records, see how the village names correlate with the areas they were coming in from.”
“Wouldn’t the girls have been illiterate?”
“Most of them, sure. But many knew how to sign their names, at least. And a few of them might have known how to write, or just to copy the village symbols from their papers.”
I took a moment to think about these youngsters, so far from home, brought through these tunnels to work as housemaids, or worse, as prostitutes. They had managed to leave traces of themselves nonetheless. And some of them had even survived, helped perhaps by Donaldina Cameron, or other characters lost to history, or through their own superhuman efforts. Some of their descendants had gone on to contribute to the crazy tapestry of humanity that is San Francisco.
“Do you realize how big this is?” Nicole asked, excitement in her voice. “This is proof of the Fleming-Union’s past.”
“It’s remarkable, but I’m not sure it proves anything.”
“Knowledge of these tunnels, along with the oral histories we’ve collected over the years, handed down from grandmothers, and these characters...at least it’s enough for supposition. After all, this isn’t a court of law, it’s a court of public opinion.”
“I guess you’re right about that,” I said.
“For years the Fleming-Union members have been denying any part in this sort of thing. Anton was looking into it when he got sick.” With a determined look on her face, Nicole said, “There will be no more denial.”
Could the F-U boys have come after Anton, simply because he had seen the writing on the wall? Surely if they had found it themselves, they would simply have destroyed it, wouldn’t they? In any case, a few Chinese characters were pretty slim evidence, and they didn’t prove anything. Unless Anton had further proof somewhere, somehow. Besides, Kyle might well have been shot by hired muscle, but Anton and Elijah—those seemed much more personal crimes, committed by someone who knew something about both art and chemistry.
I looked up to see Frank come into the ICU. Dressed impeccably, as always, he carried an expensive-looking bouquet of flowers and gave me a warm smile. It was hard for me to see anything but red.
I stormed down the hall, away from him.
“Annie?”
I whirled around.
“Bastard. Asshole. Piece of crap.”
“Sorry?”
“You bet your ass you are. A sorry character. So, Frank, buddy, how’s the old ball-and-chain?”
He stared at me for several beats. I noticed his jaw clenching.
“It’s been in-name-only for some time. Over two years now.”
My heart sank. Though I really didn’t think Michael was lying, I had been hoping against hope for some sort of explanation. Talk about your worlds colliding.
“Why do you think I’ve taken things so slowly with you?” Frank continued.
“Slowly. Is that what you call it? What I remember, with great clarity, is you telling me to break up with Josh, and then to stay away from Michael.”
“I take it Michael’s the one who told you?”
When I didn’t answer, he cleared his throat and continued. “She had legal reasons to continue with the marriage. But we’re divorced in any significant sense of the word.”
“All except the eyes of the law.” Speaking of eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to meet his.
“Hey,” he said, voice husky. “I’m still the same man. It probably sounds hard to believe at this moment, but I was going to tell you when I got you to stop moving for an hour. This isn’t the sort of thing a person can blurt out at the office, or while being thrown out of the Fleming Mansion.”
“How about while rolling about in bed?”
“You’re absolutely right. I meant to, but you were naked under that robe... I got distracted. I’m only a man you know.”
“I’m not so sure. A man would have told me the truth.”
Frank inhaled deeply through his nostrils as though trying to calm himself down. “Could we talk about it now?”
“No. I’ve got to go faux a railing at a strip club.”
“Is that a euphemism for something?”
“Yeah. It means I don’t want to talk to you.”
I stopped off to buy a carton of Marlboros for the doorman, then had Mary gather supplies and meet me at the club off Broadway. We “rustified” their railing in record time. Nothing like misery to spur on a work ethic, I always say.
* * *
That night I slept at Sam’s again, hiding from Frank more than the threat of Odibajian. The next day Michael and I headed back to Crockett. According to Destiny, there was to be a memorial service for Kyle Jones at the Community Baptist Church, right on Pomona. Michael dropped me at the church while he returned to Jim Stafford’s place. He thought he might find the attorney there, or if not, he could use the opportunity to look through the house with more care, just in case we missed something.
I stood in the back of the church while I listened to the preacher, and the call-and-response of the congregation, feeling like a fraud. I wasn’t exactly one of Kyle’s fans in life. Still, I was genuinely sorry for his passing, and couldn’t quite shake the idea that I played a role in his death. Kyle’s mother may have raised two no-good kids, but she was experiencing the kind of grief no parent should ever have to face.
I’ve been lucky so far;
though I’d seen more dead bodies than anyone should have to, until now they had never been anyone I was close to. Until Anton. I said a little prayer for him. His age was a mark against him, but his love of life was a definite boon.
When the service wrapped up, I watched a newly shorn, suit-clad Perry Outlaw assist his weeping mother from the pew. She was soon surrounded by several aging women, and Perry extricated himself and headed for the door.
I followed, watching as his wife and daughter joined him. They exchanged hugs. Then the young woman took the girl by the hand and they wandered over toward the church garden.
“Perry,” I said.
“Hi, oh, he-ey.” He reared back from me as he drew out the last syllable, and I figured he was remembering where he knew me from. The smile dropped from his face and his eyes looked wary.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Perry,” I said. “I know this is bad timing. And I’m really sorry about your brother. But I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“I, er...”
“Look, I’m not a social worker; I’m not a cop, either. I’m just looking into a missing painting, and I think it might have something to do with your brother’s death.”
Perry looked over at his mother, still surrounded by relatives. He then glanced at his wife and daughter, who were picking tiny daisies from the lawn and making a fairy chain.
“They look great,” I said.
“They do, don’t they? Fresh air and all that. You know, this whole thing with Kyle.” He shook his head. “It’s actually what decided me to try and straighten up, know what I mean? I mean, he was just getting so strung out over everything.”
“What happened?”
“I guess it don’t matter anymore. No more secrets, right?” Perry paused and kicked at a brownish weed in the sidewalk. “For years now, Kyle was always going on about some big score with a painting he lifted, but then it turned out he couldn’t figure a way to sell it.”
“They say that’s the hardest part,” I said.
“Yeah, right? Seems like the stealing would be tough, but seems like that’s the easy part. Then you can’t unload it.”
“Did he ever mention anything about a forgery?”
“Like, a copy of the painting?”