“Who is he?”
“Club owner. He's got a string of four, all over the city, including Club Turk. Three of them are very hip and upscale, but that one … there's something wrong about it.”
“What?”
She shook her head, eyes still focused on the fire. “I don't know exactly. But in my job, you hear things. Clients talk to you and each other. It's like you're not there or you don't count, so they can say anything in front of you. A few weeks ago I overheard two of my society ladies discussing Club Turk. One said she wouldn't want to get caught there in a police raid. The other laughed and told her the police wouldn't come near the place, because if they raided it they'd end up embarrassing half the city's
and
the state's power structure. When they realized I'd overheard, they stopped talking.”
“Where is this club?”
“The back of Nob Hill where it borders on the Tenderloin.”
A rough area. “Have you ever been there?”
“Not a chance! The club scene's not for me.”
“What does Lee say about it?”
“That she hangs there a lot, and she's got something going with Auerbach.”
“An affair?”
“Could be, but I think it's more than that. When she talked about it, she got really excited—more excited than she ever does over a man. In fact, the only time I've seen her that way was about the job with you.”
“Did you ask her what was going on at Club Turk?”
“Uh-huh. She said I'd know in good time.”
Interesting. I'd have to check out the club scene; with the exception of the evening on the town on Valentine's Day— when Ricky had taken us to two exclusive clubs frequented by celebrities and to one private club—I'd been away from that particular rapidly changing milieu for several years.
Misty Tyree was watching me, expecting some kind of response. When I didn't offer one, she said, “You know, Ms. McCone, I'm kind of a vanilla person. Was born and raised in Marysville and never would've left if my husband hadn't gotten a job down here. We're divorced now, share custody of our little boy; he needs to be near his father, or I would've gone home a long time ago. That side of the city—the one Lee's into—I just can't understand. And Lee, I like her a lot, she's got so much to offer, but this other life of hers … I mean—why?”
“But you're her friend anyway.”
“I try to be. She doesn't have any women friends except me. But sometimes I get so mad at her for wasting her time on something that's so meaningless—and maybe dangerous.”
I wanted to tell her that Lee D’Silva wasn't worth wasting her emotions on, but I couldn't. Against my better instincts I found myself feeling for Lee, too. Maybe that old syndrome was kicking in: prisoner identifying with her captor. D’Silva had held me captive long enough that I was beginning to understand what drove her.
Well, that wasn't all bad. Knowing one's quarry is essential to the successful hunt.
T
he sidewalks of the Eleventh Street corridor between Folsom and Harrison in the South of Market area gleamed wetly, reflecting the neon lights of the city's liveliest nightclubbing district. A break in the rain had brought out the crowds, who lined up in front of Slim's, the Paradise Lounge, Twenty Tank Brewery, and the DNA Lounge. Rock music from a live band boomed through the door of Eleven Restaurant & Bar, where they were really packing them in. At ten forty-five, the evening had not yet reached its peak.
I moved through the knots of well-dressed people, keeping my eyes on Russ Auerbach, the club owner with whom Lee D’Silva “had something going.” I'd kept him under surveillance for two hours, since he'd put in an appearance at Napoli, his North Beach jazz club, and now he was crossing Folsom on his way to End of the Line, a similar establishment.
After I'd left Misty Tyree's flat, I'd put in a call to my old friend Wolf, who runs a two-person agency, hoping to co-opt him to run a surveillance on the upper flat on Mariposa Street. I didn't really expect D’Silva to return there—not now that I'd visited it—but I wanted it watched all the same. Wolf, however, was about to leave town on another job.
“Anybody you can recommend I use?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. You've met Tamara Corbin?”
“Uh-huh.” Wolf's assistant was a bright young African American whose computer skills were a close match for Mick's. She had brought Wolf, an avowed technophobe, kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.
“Well, Ms. Corbin has decided that the P.I. business isn't as demeaning as she first thought and that it might be a career option for her. ‘A way to scam some of the big bucks’ is the way she puts it. Of course, she's looking at the high-tech end, but as I keep telling her, some low-tech fieldwork is necessary for an all-around education.”
From his joking tone, I knew Tamara was there and listening to his end of the conversation. “Absolutely necessary,” I agreed.
“Besides, you'd be doing me a favor. This job I've got may keep me away for a week or so, and if she's stuck here in the office all by her lonesome, she'll probably do something else to make it impossible for me to find anything around here without her help. As things stand now, it's a toss-up as to which of us is running the operation and which of us is the scut worker.”
“Consider her hired, then.”
Wolf put Tamara on the phone, and after she made a few kidding remarks in response to his, we discussed the details of the surveillance and settled on a fee. Then I went to Mick's office, where he was waiting for Keim, whom Rae had assigned to a new corporate undercover job.
“What d'you know about the nightclub scene here in the city?” I asked him.
“Everything.” He smiled self-importantly.
I regarded him sternly. “How come you're so in tune with it?” Mick was only nineteen—two years short of the legal drinking age here in California—and while he looked and acted older, most clubs carded anyone who appeared to be under thirty.
His grin faded. “I thought you and I had agreed to the principle of don't-ask, don't-tell when it comes to our private lives.”
“Only because
you
agreed to don't-take-risks, don't-get-hurt.”
“I'm not, and I won't.”
Which probably meant he'd come into possession of an extremely good and complete set of fake ID. I sighed and gave up on playing the interfering aunt. Mick had been raised with somewhat loose supervision under conditions that would make most experts on parenting wince, but he'd also inherited his parents’ basic good sense. He didn't do drugs, I'd never seen him drunk, and he was his own man in every respect.
“Okay,” I said, “first give me a rundown on what clubs are hot.”
“Hot depends on what you're after. You've got four areas of the city: SoMa, the Tenderloin, the Mission, and North Beach. You'll find different kinds of people and clubs in each.” He began a description of individual ones so detailed that I stopped him before he finished with SoMa.
“Let's shorten the process. Have you ever heard of Russ Auerbach? He owns Club Turk, among others.”
He thought for a moment. “Is that the guy … Yeah, he owns Napoli in North Beach. Little guy, curly brown hair, his face kind of reminds me of a chipmunk's. Likes to play host, circulates from table to table—oozes from table to table, Sweet Charlotte would say. I think he's got a club in the Mission and End of the Line in SoMa, but we don't go there. And the one you mentioned in the Tenderloin—Club Turk—has a weird reputation.”
“How so?”
“Nobody talks specifics, but a lot of movers and shakers frequent it.”
“Strange area for the power brokers.”
“Strange area, period. We steer clear of it.”
“Can you describe Auerbach in more detail?”
“Well, he's really kind of ordinary. Glasses? No. But he squints, like he might be wearing contacts that irritate his eyes. No facial hair or distinguishing marks. Dresses Italian-casual, lots of jewelry.”
“Who does?” Keim's voice asked.
Mick looked toward the door. “About time. We're talking about Russ Auerbach.”
“Who?”
“The oozer from Napoli.”
“Oh, him. Why, for God's sake?” She came into the office and perched on the arm of Mick's chair, slipping her arm around his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he said, “why are you interested in him?”
“A neighbor of D’Silva's says she's got something going with him, hangs out at Club Turk. Can you think of any way I can recognize him?”
Keim said, “Why not go to one of the clubs and ask for him?”
“I'm hoping to establish a surveillance on him, see if he'll lead me to her.”
“Well, I don't know where you can get a photo, at least not tonight, but… Of course!” She looked at Mick. “You remember that night last month when we were waiting outside Napoli for Jessie and Matt, and Auerbach drove up?”
He frowned, shook his head.
“Well, he did. I remember because you'd just had your hair cut and kept complaining that the fog was ruining an expensive styling job. Anyway, Auerbach left his car with the club's valet parker. Black Porsche—about the same vintage as the one your dad drives. I got a look at its vanity plate— RUSS A 1.”
Mick ran his hand over his blond head. “I was not complaining about my
hair
”
“Yes, you were.”
“Charlotte, thanks,” I said. “Mick, when it comes time for the clubs to open, will you call all four of Auerbach's and ask when they expect him tonight? And then call me at home with the information?”
“Sure. In the meantime, what'll you be doing?”
“Getting ready for a hot night on the town.”
Now I watched Auerbach enter End of the Line, then joined the queue waiting for admittance. Conversations swirled around me; from them I gathered that the majority of clubgoers were suburbanites or tourists. The couple ahead of me were describing to friends the great house they'd just bought in Walnut Creek; behind me two women were marveling at how cool this scene was compared to Saint Paul. Many of the younger people expressed concern about their ED standing up to the carding at the door.
I hadn't even thought of presenting ED, should I get close enough to venture inside. I'd never be carded again in this lifetime. The thought made me feel both smug and a little sad.
For reassurance, I glanced down at my clubbing outfit—a form-fitting little silver sequinned dress and black velvet coat that hadn't seen service in so long that they were right back in style. The sadness vanished. They fit as well as they had the last time I'd worn them. Not bad for an old broad of forty, as Mick was fond of calling me.
Behind me the line grew. If Auerbach ran according to the rather loose schedule Mick had put together by calling his clubs, he'd come outside very soon and head for the Mission.
The man in front of me turned, looked me over, and said, “Sure glad the rain's quit.” He was handsome, if you cared for the drug-lord look.
“Uh-huh,” I replied.
“It's hell when you've got to stand in line in the rain.”
“Pure hell.”
“Supposed to clear tomorrow, though, I saw it on the news. They're predicting—”
“They can't predict.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because the weather gods jam their radar. They send out these rays, similar to what you get when you bounce a signal off a cellphone site, only more powerful. They hate us, you know.”
“Uh, sure.” He smiled nervously and turned away.
Sometimes clear evidence of insanity is a great way to deflect a man's interest without bruising his feelings.
At a few minutes before midnight I stood in the dark outside entryway of an apartment building on Guerrero Street, indulging in a largely unwarranted attack of nostalgia while watching the door of Auerbach's Mission district club, Bohemia. The owner had come directly there from SoMa. The club was small, so I'd decided against going inside and calling attention to myself. Auerbach still had one stop left to make—at Club Turk—and if he was to rendezvous with D’Silva, that would be the place.
Newspapers and flyers littered the entry's floor, and the overhead bulb was burned out; several of the mailboxes flapped open, their locks broken. I'd rented a studio in this building near the intersection of Guerrero and Twenty-second Streets from the time I graduated from U.C. Berkeley till I bought my house. One of my first big cases had played out here. I'd walked these cracked sidewalks and dark alleys thousands of times, yet now I was a stranger.
In those days the Mission wasn't the greatest place to live in the city, but parts of it weren't that bad, either; ethnically mixed and solidly working class, they harbored a nice sense of community. At this intersection there was a corner grocery, a Laundromat, a small bakery, and Ellen T's Bar & Grill; I patronized them all and knew their proprietors. Parking was always a hassle, but I felt safe leaving the MG on the street, and on the way to and from it I exchanged greetings with many a neighbor.
But after I scraped together the down payment on my house and moved away, I'd heard that even this pleasant little pocket had deteriorated. Drug deals, which usually went down in the Devil's Quadrangle section bisected by Mission between Sixteenth and Twenty-fourth, went down here as well; winos lurched along the sidewalks and urinated publicly; buildings became blighted by graffiti as gang activity escalated; one by one businesses that had catered to the district's solid citizens closed their doors; and those solid citizens who could afford to move away began a rapid exodus.
But now the character of this intersection had changed again. My old grocery store was still there, but it had changed hands and looked to be ripe for a takeover by the adjoining bar. There was an upscale restaurant on the opposite corner; the Laundromat had been replaced by a gift and card shop. A succession of clubs, the latest being Bohemia, had occupied the space that used to be Ellen T's, since the day when the dreams of the congenial couple who owned it were shattered by a robber's bullet. Tonight I'd felt disoriented and had to take a look at the number to make sure this
was
my former building. And no one had greeted me but a well-dressed drunk who mistook me for a hooker.
The neon lights of the club and the soft glow from the bar and restaurant offered me no false reassurance as to my safety. The establishments catered mainly to neo-bohemians who lived in other neighborhoods or, more often, outside the city, and I hoped they were aware that this was still rough territory where simply making eye contact the wrong way could create a volatile situation.