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Authors: John F. Nardizzi
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spicy tomato sea, Ray ordered scampi fra diavolo. Dominique
ordered butterfish. They split a salad.
“Interesting salad,” said Dominique. “What would
life be without Sonoma greens?”
“That’s what a salad evolves into when it costs
$15.95,” Ray said.
The food matched the exotic atmosphere of the
restaurant. The Grand Cafe was resplendent, with pale yellow walls, soaring
pillars and chandeliers with amber-hued glass. The pillars did not obscure
Ray’s view of two Asian men sitting at the bar. They rolled in shortly after he
and Dominique. Both men were in their 20s, with dark jackets, hair cut short.
One gazed over once too often to make it a coincidence.
He said nothing to Dominique—why spoil the
butterfish? The waiter came by to refill the minute amount of water Ray had
consumed.
Ray told her about Waymon and his odd collection.
They ordered a nightcap of tea and Sambucca before calling for the check. The
two Asian men continued to drink at the bar.
Ray walked behind Dominique and headed for the
door. As they walked by the bar, the two Asian men continued to banter. Neither
guy looked familiar. Ray slammed one man a hard look. The guy gave no response.
Ray and Dominique continued walking. He held the door open, gazing back inside
the restaurant. If the men had been tailing him, they were making no attempt to
follow now.
Outside, the theater crowd, overdressed and
hungry, was milling about and battling for cabs. Ray and Dominique stepped in a
taxi that pulled curbside. Dominique directed the driver to Pacific Heights.
Ray watched the rearview mirror to see if they were tailed, but no lights followed.
“Thanks for dinner.”
Ray paused. “How are you for tomorrow?”
“Call me. Maybe we’ll do something late,” she
replied.
“Good.”
The cabbie met his gaze in the rearview, eyebrows
raised slightly.
The cab drove down Jackson Street, and pulled next
to a large white Mediterranean home. The rear of the house commanded a view of
San Francisco Bay. Dominique stepped out. “I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow.
Don’t work too hard.” She stepped out and walked toward her front door.
“Wait until she gets inside please,” Ray said to
the driver. He watched her walk into the foyer. After she stepped inside, Ray
had the driver head back downtown. Bush Street was a row of green lights, and
Ray was downtown within five minutes.
He was pleased with how things were going. Would
have been nice to have been asked up to her place. But that way was madness.
Slow was best.
“I’ll get off at the corner of Jones.” The taxi
sagged to a stop, Ray got out, and paid the driver.
The night air was chilled with fog. He checked his
watch: 11:10 PM. He walked down Jones, headed right on Sutter to the hotel. He
passed a narrow alley and looked up, following the cramped passage up the hill,
where it ended on the edge of California Street. Behind loomed the bluish black
sky.
At the very edge of sight, where the street cut
away from the dark sky, Ray saw a figure standing. Medium height, legs apart.
Arms bunched in front. He saw a sudden flash of light, and then another. His
gut coiled instinctively. But he quickly realized it wasn’t gunfire. It was the
flash of a camera. The figure stood facing downhill and took a series of
photos.
The figure bent down, and Ray heard a tinkling
sound as of coins dropping on concrete. As if beckoned offstage, the figure
turned, walked quickly to the left, and disappeared behind the building.
Not moving, Ray stood and watched the hill. He
thought about following, but he was 50 yards away and the hill rose at a steep
angle. He would be hard-pressed to chase down someone one block ahead and
uphill. Plus the streets at the crest of Nob Hill broke off in numerous
directions. And what had the person done other than take a picture? He did not
dwell on the fact that someone was taking photos just before midnight.
He crossed Sutter and walked back to the hotel,
ordered butterfish. They split a salad.
“Interesting salad,” said Dominique. “What would
life be without Sonoma greens?”
“That’s what a salad evolves into when it costs
$15.95,” Ray said.
The food matched the exotic atmosphere of the
restaurant. The Grand Cafe was resplendent, with pale yellow walls, soaring
pillars and chandeliers with amber-hued glass. The pillars did not obscure
Ray’s view of two Asian men sitting at the bar. They rolled in shortly after he
and Dominique. Both men were in their 20s, with dark jackets, hair cut short.
One gazed over once too often to make it a coincidence.
He said nothing to Dominique—why spoil the
butterfish? The waiter came by to refill the minute amount of water Ray had
consumed.
Ray told her about Waymon and his odd collection.
They ordered a nightcap of tea and Sambucca before calling for the check. The
two Asian men continued to drink at the bar.
Ray walked behind Dominique and headed for the
door. As they walked by the bar, the two Asian men continued to banter. Neither
guy looked familiar. Ray slammed one man a hard look. The guy gave no response.
Ray and Dominique continued walking. He held the door open, gazing back inside
the restaurant. If the men had been tailing him, they were making no attempt to
follow now.
Outside, the theater crowd, overdressed and
hungry, was milling about and battling for cabs. Ray and Dominique stepped in a
taxi that pulled curbside. Dominique directed the driver to Pacific Heights.
Ray watched the rearview mirror to see if they were tailed, but no lights followed.
“Thanks for dinner.”
Ray paused. “How are you for tomorrow?”
“Call me. Maybe we’ll do something late,” she
replied.
“Good.”
The cabbie met his gaze in the rearview, eyebrows
raised slightly.
The cab drove down Jackson Street, and pulled next
to a large white Mediterranean home. The rear of the house commanded a view of
San Francisco Bay. Dominique stepped out. “I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow.
Don’t work too hard.” She stepped out and walked toward her front door.
“Wait until she gets inside please,” Ray said to
the driver. He watched her walk into the foyer. After she stepped inside, Ray
had the driver head back downtown. Bush Street was a row of green lights, and
Ray was downtown within five minutes.
He was pleased with how things were going. Would
have been nice to have been asked up to her place. But that way was madness.
Slow was best.
“I’ll get off at the corner of Jones.” The taxi
sagged to a stop, Ray got out, and paid the driver.
The night air was chilled with fog. He checked his
watch: 11:10 PM. He walked down Jones, headed right on Sutter to the hotel. He
passed a narrow alley and looked up, following the cramped passage up the hill,
where it ended on the edge of California Street. Behind loomed the bluish black
sky.
At the very edge of sight, where the street cut
away from the dark sky, Ray saw a figure standing. Medium height, legs apart.
Arms bunched in front. He saw a sudden flash of light, and then another. His
gut coiled instinctively. But he quickly realized it wasn’t gunfire. It was the
flash of a camera. The figure stood facing downhill and took a series of
photos.
The figure bent down, and Ray heard a tinkling
sound as of coins dropping on concrete. As if beckoned offstage, the figure
turned, walked quickly to the left, and disappeared behind the building.
Not moving, Ray stood and watched the hill. He
thought about following, but he was 50 yards away and the hill rose at a steep
angle. He would be hard-pressed to chase down someone one block ahead and
uphill. Plus the streets at the crest of Nob Hill broke off in numerous
directions. And what had the person done other than take a picture? He did not
dwell on the fact that someone was taking photos just before midnight.
He crossed Sutter and walked back to the hotel,
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