Read Online Telegraph Hill by John F. Nardizzi - Free Book Online
Authors: John F. Nardizzi
Ads: Link
watching. She opened her eyes. A black
shape stood at the edge of the dell. One of the triad soldiers. He peered
through the trees, but he wasn’t sure where to go. Locked his dark eyes on a
clump of trees and undergrowth where she lay. He stepped toward Tania.
Then a siren came closer, some distance to the
right. The solider paused, uncertain, looking off into the distance. He looked
back down, then a cold smile slashed across his face. The siren blared closer.
The man stepped back, turned right and disappeared.
Chapter 12
Ray walked back to his hotel. Windy and cool now.
He and Dominique had agreed to meet for a late dinner. He called her at work.
“Well, good afternoon.”
“Let me take you to dinner at the Grand Cafe at
the Hotel Monaco.”
“Two calls in one week, Ray.”
“You were an agreeable dinner companion last
night,” he said.
“You were somewhat agreeable yourself.”
She always had a wonderful sense of humor, he
realized, a trait he had somehow forgotten.
“Did you see Waymon?”
“Yes, I did. Ornery old coot, but he panned out
big-time.”
“Tell me.”
“He’s a pack rat. Never tosses anything,” Ray
said. “He had mug shots of the girl I’m looking for.”
“That's great. I knew he’d help you.”
“I’ll fill you in at dinner, if you can meet.” Ray
picked at some lint on his pants.
“What time is good for you?” she asked.
“7:00 PM. I’ll meet you there.”
“See you then.” They said goodbye.
Ray hung up the phone. He flicked on his computer
and logged into the locator databases. He needed to find Moran, the guy who had
lived with Tania. And deal with whatever was happening at the apartment on
Jones Street. Jettison into the vagueness, bang on people’s doors. Decipher a
person’s eye-blink, the way they intoned the word “No”.
He ran several searches for Steven Moran, finding
five different individuals with that name within the city limits. In Marin, he
found three more. But only one of the guys had a past address on Jones Street
in San Francisco—Steven H. Moran, age twenty seven, currently at 49 Vallejo
Street, Apartment 1. He felt certain that this was the right guy. It was late.
He would pay a visit to Mr. Moran tomorrow.
After clipping the .32 semiautomatic on his belt,
Ray walked down to the lobby and out to Jones and Sutter. He headed west and
stopped at Last Man Standing Saloon, a local place where he had spent many
nights. He loved the stripped-down blues bands that played here. A poster
advertised a band he had seen many times, The Acolytes, playing for the next
three nights. A guitarist, a bassist, and a heroin addict drummer who drifted
into the world of the living just long enough to bestow his percussive
blessings on a drumbeat crowd. He would have to take Dominique here.
The evening had grown bracingly cool. The last
rush hour traffic burst through the intersection, horns blaring. He walked a
few blocks to the Hotel Monaco, and saw Dominique standing in the entrance. She
wore a muted leopard skin outfit that fit her well.
“I envy the leopard,” he said.
She smiled. “You like it? A bit wild, I know.”
“Very few women can carry that off.” He nodded
approvingly.
He told her about his earlier visit to Tania’s old
Jones Street apartment.
“Be careful Ray. Don’t you have someone with you
when you go to these places?”
“Sometimes. But this place was fine.”
Inside the restaurant, the host guided them to a
table. They ordered a bottle of wine, a fine Malice.
“So how does it feel to be back?” Dominique asked.
“Strange. It’s not my city anymore. I had a weird
feeling today while I walked, thinking I might recognize someone. Like I always
used to when I walked in the city. But I never saw anyone. And then it hit me
that it’s been ten years since I lived here.”
The waiter returned to the table with the wine. He
was efficient and unobtrusive. After reading the menu description of shrimp
swimming in a
shape stood at the edge of the dell. One of the triad soldiers. He peered
through the trees, but he wasn’t sure where to go. Locked his dark eyes on a
clump of trees and undergrowth where she lay. He stepped toward Tania.
Then a siren came closer, some distance to the
right. The solider paused, uncertain, looking off into the distance. He looked
back down, then a cold smile slashed across his face. The siren blared closer.
The man stepped back, turned right and disappeared.
Chapter 12
Ray walked back to his hotel. Windy and cool now.
He and Dominique had agreed to meet for a late dinner. He called her at work.
“Well, good afternoon.”
“Let me take you to dinner at the Grand Cafe at
the Hotel Monaco.”
“Two calls in one week, Ray.”
“You were an agreeable dinner companion last
night,” he said.
“You were somewhat agreeable yourself.”
She always had a wonderful sense of humor, he
realized, a trait he had somehow forgotten.
“Did you see Waymon?”
“Yes, I did. Ornery old coot, but he panned out
big-time.”
“Tell me.”
“He’s a pack rat. Never tosses anything,” Ray
said. “He had mug shots of the girl I’m looking for.”
“That's great. I knew he’d help you.”
“I’ll fill you in at dinner, if you can meet.” Ray
picked at some lint on his pants.
“What time is good for you?” she asked.
“7:00 PM. I’ll meet you there.”
“See you then.” They said goodbye.
Ray hung up the phone. He flicked on his computer
and logged into the locator databases. He needed to find Moran, the guy who had
lived with Tania. And deal with whatever was happening at the apartment on
Jones Street. Jettison into the vagueness, bang on people’s doors. Decipher a
person’s eye-blink, the way they intoned the word “No”.
He ran several searches for Steven Moran, finding
five different individuals with that name within the city limits. In Marin, he
found three more. But only one of the guys had a past address on Jones Street
in San Francisco—Steven H. Moran, age twenty seven, currently at 49 Vallejo
Street, Apartment 1. He felt certain that this was the right guy. It was late.
He would pay a visit to Mr. Moran tomorrow.
After clipping the .32 semiautomatic on his belt,
Ray walked down to the lobby and out to Jones and Sutter. He headed west and
stopped at Last Man Standing Saloon, a local place where he had spent many
nights. He loved the stripped-down blues bands that played here. A poster
advertised a band he had seen many times, The Acolytes, playing for the next
three nights. A guitarist, a bassist, and a heroin addict drummer who drifted
into the world of the living just long enough to bestow his percussive
blessings on a drumbeat crowd. He would have to take Dominique here.
The evening had grown bracingly cool. The last
rush hour traffic burst through the intersection, horns blaring. He walked a
few blocks to the Hotel Monaco, and saw Dominique standing in the entrance. She
wore a muted leopard skin outfit that fit her well.
“I envy the leopard,” he said.
She smiled. “You like it? A bit wild, I know.”
“Very few women can carry that off.” He nodded
approvingly.
He told her about his earlier visit to Tania’s old
Jones Street apartment.
“Be careful Ray. Don’t you have someone with you
when you go to these places?”
“Sometimes. But this place was fine.”
Inside the restaurant, the host guided them to a
table. They ordered a bottle of wine, a fine Malice.
“So how does it feel to be back?” Dominique asked.
“Strange. It’s not my city anymore. I had a weird
feeling today while I walked, thinking I might recognize someone. Like I always
used to when I walked in the city. But I never saw anyone. And then it hit me
that it’s been ten years since I lived here.”
The waiter returned to the table with the wine. He
was efficient and unobtrusive. After reading the menu description of shrimp
swimming in a
Similar Books
