San Francisco, 1945
As soon as Tony cleared the troop ship, he knelt and kissed the ground. After a long tour in the Pacific theater that included the Philippines, all he wanted was to feel terra firma under his feet and have an authentic Italian supper. But first, he craved a well-deserved libation to celebrate his homecoming.
Unlike some of the guys, he had no perfumed sweetheart throwing herself into his waiting arms, no family cheering as he disembarked. Antonio Baldini was nearly alone in the world.
Other buddies had crowded into the first cheesy dive bar they found on the docks, but Tony wanted his first celebratory drink back on American soil to be special. Although he was proud of his service, he’d waited a long, long time for this moment.
While the Iowa and Nebraska farm boys on the corner were trying to figure out where to go, Tony shot out his arm and whistled for a Yellow Cab. “Just like back home in New York.” He grinned and slid into the back seat. “Take me somewhere classy. Not the joints around here.”
The taxi driver glanced in his rearview mirror and then did a double take when he saw Tony’s scarred face. “Rough service, kid?”
“Don’t feel much like a kid anymore,” Tony said, drawing a hand over the ugly scars on his face. Sure, he was self-conscious sometimes. Who wouldn’t be? But he was damned lucky to be alive. Instead of turning into a wallflower—not that he’d ever been that—and hoping no one would notice him, he was determined to make the most of the life he had left.
He had plans. Big plans. For sure he had the moxie, but at this moment, he had no idea how to make his plans happen—or keep himself out of danger. He’d joined the army in ‘41 right after Pearl Harbor to escape a risky situation that wasn’t going to end well for him—one way or another.
Never again.
Before that, he’d poured his heart into going to college and making something of himself—what were the odds of anyone getting out of the tough neighborhood he’d been born in? But he’d done it.
For a while.
As the driver shifted into gear and eased into the dockside traffic, Tony stretched his legs in the back seat. “How about Nob Hill? I heard the Fairmont is pretty ritzy.”
“For a young guy like you?” The cabbie shrugged. “It’s had its day. Lot of old folks there now. Say, need some new threads? Got a cousin with a shop off Union Square. Fix you right up.”
“Maybe later. Any swell places to get a glass of champagne?” Yeah, that’s what he’d start with.
The driver pushed his flat wool driving cap back from his forehead. “Well, la-di-da,” he said, chuckling. “Bubbly’s pretty rare, what with the war in France. But we got good wines out of Napa and Sonoma valleys, just up the road. That or beer. I got a beer budget, know what I mean?”
Tony watched the city unfold before him, amazed at the gaily painted Victorian architecture and sparkling blue bays. The mighty Golden Gate Bridge soared above it all, connecting two rich bodies of land. What a city.
The cab driver turned onto Market Street. “How’s the St. Francis Hotel? Fancy bar there. Lots of classy dames.”
“That’ll do.” Tony eased back. That’s exactly what he had in mind.
He’d keep a low profile here on the west coast until he figured out if it was safe to return to New York.
He had tried to leave his old gang behind. He’d juggled three soul-destroying jobs while studying to be a pharmacist. After graduation, he’d scraped together the money to open a new pharmacy with a partner near his old neighborhood. However, that money came at a big cost and the well-organized gang had a long memory.
One night, when he had tried to resist his old gang buddies who had turned up demanding drugs and cash, they’d cleaned him out and left him reminders—his permanently droopy eye and a slashed eyebrow. Soon he discovered that if he wanted to stay alive, he had to do what they wanted and supply them with drugs.
Tony hated his duplicity. Worse, his partner confronted him. Volunteering for the war effort provided a quick way out of a hot mess.
He wasn’t anxious to return now. There had to be another way, another place, to build a life. He stared out the window. San Francisco looked pretty good.
After the taxi driver let him out, Tony strolled under the big clock at the St. Francis Hotel and into the lobby bar. Still wearing his officer’s uniform, Tony hadn’t even gotten to the bar when a man in a similar uniform offered to buy him a drink. Battle scars probably brought on pity. He’d gotten plenty more of those in his military service.
“What’re you drinking?”
“I’m celebrating,” Tony said. “Champagne.”
“I like your style.” The man spoke to the bartender.
Tony settled for a bubbly white wine from California, though he couldn’t tell the difference. Damn, this is good.
“Just returned two weeks ago myself,” the man said. Tall and well proportioned, he held himself with an aristocratic bearing and took a genuine interest in Tony.
Tony could tell this man had real class. “You’re Italian, too, right? Tony’s my name.”
The man smiled. “Friends call me Doc.”
“You a doctor?”
“I was in medical school when I decided to enlist and serve a greater, more pressing need. Were you in the Pacific?”
Tony nodded. “You?”
“Most recently. Do you have any plans for civilian life?”
“Besides a good Italian dinner tonight? Just the American Dream, my friend. Like every other guy coming home.”
Tony had big goals, but he needed a safe place to work. If he couldn’t make that happen back in New York, maybe he’d stay here. Meet a beautiful woman, get married, have some kids. Build a business, buy a home. A fresh start, that’s what he wanted. But he’d heard the gangs had west coast operations now. Would he be safe anywhere?
Tony sipped his drink. “So how about you? Staying here?”
Doc shook his head. “It’s time to move on.”
“Awfully nice here. Where you headed?”
“I like to travel. I’m leaving for South America.”
Tony let out a low whistle. “Brazil, Argentina? Beautiful women, I hear.”
“You seem to have good taste.” Doc chuckled and drained his glass. “I had something else in mind.”
“No kidding? What?”
Ignoring his question, Doc stroked his chin. “I know a good restaurant in North Beach, Fior D’Italia on Mason, if you like the food of northern Italy. Should be able to get in tonight.”
“As long as they serve osso buco and a good Barolo wine, count me in.”
“Indeed they do,” Doc said as he paid the bar tab. “On the way, I’ll introduce you to the best chocolate maker—a chocolatière—in San Francisco. I want to visit one last time before I leave.”
“So you’re serious.”
“Tomorrow morning. My passport’s ready.” He tapped his breast pocket. “I’ll share my plans with you over dinner.”