Outside the air is cool and I take a deep breath of it, like I’ve been underwater. That building is stuffy, and Rose’s questions didn’t help, the same way a tightening noose wouldn’t. Worse, I didn’t find anything out. But if I can’t follow the government lead, I have another—criminals. I fish the betting slips I found out of my pocket. The mob likes to know where their money is. If Howard or DeeDee were regulars, they could have an idea of where they’d be. Though if the mob decides not to answer my questions, they might do more than just politely ask me to leave.
Fisherman’s Wharf is up north, but first I grab a quick burger at a soda shop for lunch, and go over what Rainmeyer might be able to find out about me, and how. My number is unlisted, so she can’t get my address that way. Same with my office. Only way she’d be able to find me is if she happened on one of my business cards. They were Elsie’s idea—hand them out at gay bars, drum up business. There are two kinds: one that says Amethyst Investigations, above the Ruby, but no name, and then ones with my name, but just a number, no address, not even “PI.” We were very careful about that, making me both easy and hard to find. Sure, Rose could ask around, maybe even find out the reason I left. But no editor is going to let her go to print without more than “gay cop fired, might be a PI now … somewhere…” are they? I’ve got to hope I threw her off the scent of a story. There’s nothing else I can do at this point, aside from keep working the case. So I hop on a trolley to Beach Street.
Fisherman’s Wharf is almost cute. It was probably more authentic fifty years ago, when it was where the commercial fishermen sold their catches from little stalls set up around the docks, or right off the boat. But that grew into Italian seafood restaurants, and stories of the fishermen and their picturesque little boats lined up along the docks brought in tourists, too. It’s something between a neighborhood for locals and fishermen and a sightseeing spot now. The restaurant signs are all painted with bright colors, with fish jumping, or fish in nets, or maybe a shrimp, all of them grinning, happy to be eaten. But down an alley you might still find something less colorful, like the very demurely marked Shore Club, which you would only notice by a shingle on the door with the name, and under that, another shingle: MEMBERS ONLY.
I’ve been here a few times before. The thing about cops and the mob is we don’t just fire on each other every time we lock eyes, like a constant showdown. It’s more like a game for them—seeing what they can evade, knowing their rights, how to skirt laws and then smile to our faces about it. Usually it was the guys with me who were the brutes, eager to beat something out of a suspect. But the Mafia boys would always just nod politely, even answer your questions—though often with lies, or at least half-truths. So, because I wasn’t trying to beat information out of them, but instead talk to them, and trust my gut to spot their lies, some of these guys might call themselves my friends. They would say it with a knowing smirk, but they’d happily say it. It’s good for them to have friends like me. Makes them look like they’re not criminals.
I walk into the small room at the front of the club. It’s painted a dark blue, with a tan rug, and there’s a pair of large blue doors I can hear faint music coming from. In front of them is a very large man whose frown lifts slightly when he sees me.
“Andy,” he says. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been working a different beat,” I say. “I like you guys too much to try to put any of you in prison.”
He smiles, though we both know it’s a lie.
“Bridges here?” I ask.
“Every day,” he says, opening the door for me, and nodding as I go through.
Inside is the real club. The Mafia runs a nicer joint than the Menlo Club that used to be around the corner, until we shut it down a few years back. I was part of that raid, helping out the feds. Shabby place, beige walls, lots of sad middle-aged men sitting around. Bones Remmer didn’t have style. But he wasn’t really Mafia, he just set up clubs with their permission. Bridges is real Mafia, and he has style.
There are no windows, but there are curtains, long velvet drapes, again in dark blue, usually framed by potted palms, so the whole place feels lush. The walls are still a deep blue, and the only light coming in is through skylights or the nice lamps set up around the place. At the far end of the room there’s a small stage, with a quartet and a blond tenor in a tux singing “Pretend.” He sounds good, too. Good enough some patrons are watching him and not focusing on what lies between me and the stage—gambling. Card games at polished wood tables, dealt out by men in plain suits. A roulette wheel—that wasn’t here last time, an upgrade. And a craps table. On one side of the room, toward the back, near the stage, is a bar, painted blue and black. And all around us are gamblers—men and women of different ages, some looking like this is just an illegal amusement for them, some desperate for a winning streak. The air smells like smoke and nervous sweat. And presiding over it all from his stool at the end of the bar is Michael Parisi—Bridges.
When he sees me, he lights up and waves, like we’re old friends. He’s in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, and a tall frame that looks narrow until you see how big his hands are. He’s called Bridges because that’s what he likes to dangle people off of when conversation fails. I put on my best smile and walk over to him.
It’s funny, how I feel less afraid here than I did talking to Rose. Maybe it’s because here I know what I’m dealing with. If they knew about me, the only interest they’d have in my sex life is blackmail, and there’s not much they can squeeze out of me these days. I can’t help them with the cops, I’m not making much money. I’m a poor mark to them. Though, they don’t know that yet. They probably still think I’m SFPD.
“Inspector Mills,” Bridges says, confirming it. “I haven’t seen you in such a long time. What a pleasure. Here, sit.” He snaps his fingers and the man behind the bar comes over. “I believe the inspector’s drink is whisky soda, am I right?”
“I’m not particular,” I say.
Bridges laughs and claps me on the back so hard I flinch. He’s got a deep voice, and a laugh like a drumroll. When he leans back, I spot the gun holster under his jacket.
“And I’m not an inspector anymore.”
“Oh? Has your absence been because of a promotion? We should drink to that.”
“I quit the force,” I say.
His eyebrows shoot up in what I would normally say was surprise, but I know Bridges. He keeps his feelings under lock and key, then displays what he decides, like a magician holding the real card behind his back. It’s not that he’s unreadable, it’s just that he chooses exactly what you’re reading—and it’s usually fiction. Once you know that, though, it becomes a whole new game. “Well, that’s even better to drink to.”
“You knew,” I say, keeping my voice friendly.
His gray eyes are unreadable; his small smile never slips. “If I did, let’s drink to your telling me.”
The bartender puts two drinks in front of us. The glasses are dripping. Gene would never allow that.
“Do you know why I left?” I ask, taking my eyes off the glasses and looking back at him.
He shakes his head. “I noticed your absence, and I asked around, and heard you were no longer a member of San Francisco’s finest. Why? No one would tell me. I hope you haven’t gone to work for the feds.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just myself. I’m a PI now.”
His expression remains neutral for a moment, before he decides what to do with it—mildly impressed, the jutting lower lip, the slow nod as he takes a sip of his drink. “I like it.”
“You like it because I can’t arrest you.”
He shrugs, not denying it. “I like it for you, too. You seem…” He waves his hand, gesturing up and down me. “Happier.”
The side of my mouth tips up at that. “It’s good to be in control, let’s say.”
He turns to watch the crooner on stage and I take a sip of my drink, then do likewise. The singer is a slip of a thing, hair so blond it’s nearly white, pale as fine china, and looks as breakable, too. But his voice is strong, aching as he sings.
“My sister’s kid,” he says.
“Who?” I ask. “The guy with the mic?”
He nods.
“He’s good. Really good.”
He smiles. “She married some Frenchman. They named him Merle, if you can believe it. He inherited too much of his dad, he’s not really fit for the family business, but he sure can sing, so I put him up here. Hoping some record label might come in here one night and hear the talent. He actually tried to go out on his own, auditioned for an agent, but…” He shakes his head, sighs. “Kid fainted during the audition. Too nervous. Had to find him an agent through my connections, but … I don’t know if he has the chops to make it. So I take care of him. He might be a little soft, but I love the kid, would do anything for him.” He’s quiet and we both watch Merle sing. “My Maria, she never could have any, y’know?”
“I didn’t,” I say, surprised by the admission. “I’m sorry.”
“Now that you’re not a cop, we can talk like real friends,” he says. “I always liked you. Smart. I like smarts, even when they’re across from me, but then you’ve got to be careful. But you never pushed more than you needed to, or tried to go after anyone big when we let you have some small fish who had fucked up. Smart.”
“I only went after who the evidence pointed me at,” I say, which is a half-truth. I only went after the ones the evidence would stick to, and the way he says it, like I was an obedient little kid, feels like a smack across the face I need to smile through. My last big case before I got caught, the one Rose interviewed me about, that was the mob. Some low-level kid had gotten his girlfriend hopped up when she said no to taking dirty pictures, and then took them anyway. Technically, it was all for the Mafia, but they didn’t sign off on anything that stupid. So they were happy to be done with the kid, and I was happy to send him across the bay. I couldn’t go after Abati with that, or add to Lima’s charges, couldn’t pin anything on the big bosses. I was ambitious, but not a fool.
Sure, I could have always come in here, declared I was shocked to find illegal gambling, and then taken them all in, but they paid the chief well enough that he would have kicked them loose and fired me. I remember once listening as a pair of uniforms came back from checking out this place after someone had claimed there was gambling here. The chief had asked them if the reports were true, and without even blinking, the senior of the two of them said, “We went down there and asked the owner if there was any gambling going on, and he said no.” That’s how you police Fisherman’s Wharf.
“And what evidence are you looking for now?” Bridges asks. “Or are you just here for a little gambling?”
I shake my head. “I was never lucky enough for that. But I am here on a case. I’m just wondering if you knew a guy named Howard Salzberger, or a woman named DeeDee Lamb? I found some betting slips at their shop, your seal right on top.”
He nods, slowly, still watching his nephew sing, then turns to me. “I know Howard. He in trouble?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I can’t arrest you either way, so I’d appreciate you being straight with me—did a collection go wrong?”
He grins, widely, not a planned expression but genuine amusement. “Howard? No. We all like Howard. How long has he been missing?”
“About a week,” I say.
He shakes his head. “That’s a shame. He’s a very nice gentleman. I didn’t know him very well myself, but he was friends with Joe. And then Merle here, Howard was a big fan of his. Always clapped the loudest after every song. Do you know what happened to him?”
“Not yet. There’s a lot going on. Could I talk to Joe?” It’s not a name I recognize.
“No, no, Joe left.”
“Left?”
The tenor, Merle, comes to the end of “Pretend,” and Bridges starts clapping loudly, his heavy hands coming together like stones. I join in, and watch Merle as he takes a small bow before walking offstage and coming toward us. Up close, I can see his eyes are red, and he’s sweating. The bartender gives him a glass of ice water and he presses it against his neck.
“The lights are so hot up there,” he says to Bridges. His speaking voice is a little higher than his singing voice, but softer, too. Almost flimsy.
“You want me to tell the guys to dim them?”
“No, no…” Merle shakes his head. “Spotlights should be bright.” He almost sounds sad saying it, and takes a long drink of his water. When he looks up, he stares right at me, then quickly looks away. His eyes are gray like his uncle’s, but too large for his slim face, like a pixie’s.
“This is former inspector Evander Mills,” Bridges says. “We’re just catching up on old times.”
“Former?” Merle says nervously.
“Just a PI now,” I say. “You sing real well, kid.”
“Thanks.” He smiles, and looks down demurely, his long eyelashes reaching down his face.
I turn back to Bridges. “So, Howard.”
“Mmm.” Bridges nods, then looks at the empty stage. On his other side, I see Merle stiffen slightly, his eyes flashing to me, then to the bar again.
“When did you last see him?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bridges says. He sips his drink. Merle is still frozen, like a cat caught in a car’s headlights. “Merle, you know Howard? When did you last see him?”
Merle thinks for a moment, before saying “Who?” unconvincingly.
“You know, your biggest fan—the old guy who always sits up front and claps.”
“I don’t…” He looks at me, still thinking. He’s like the opposite of his uncle; every thought in his head shines in his eyes like a movie screen. Right now they’re playing panic, and deciding how much to lie. “Oh, him,” he says finally. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in here in … eight days.”
I nod. “That lines up.”
“With what?” Merle asks.
“He’s missing, and some folks have asked me to find him.”
“Oh,” Merle says, drinking his water too fast, all the ice clanging in the glass like someone dropping all their change on the bar.
Bridges nods. “So there you go. Eight days.”
“Eight days,” I say with a nod. Not a week, more specific than that—eight days. Like Merle has been counting. “And you said he was friends with Joe?” I ask, wondering if I can get more out of him about that.
“Yep. They were always chatting, drinking, laughing. Good friends, I’d say.”
“And where is Joe?”
“Like I said, he left.”
“For where?” I ask.
Bridges shrugs. I take a long sip of my drink. I’m not going to get anything else out of him.
“I’m going to go outside,” Merle says, standing suddenly. “Cool off.”
“Don’t forget, that radio host is coming in today. Take it easy on yourself until he shows up.”
“I will,” Merle says, walking away. He doesn’t look at me.
“I’m doing the best I can for him, you know?” Bridges says when Merle is out of earshot. “I just don’t know if he has the stamina to be a star.”
“He’s got the talent,” I say.
“Yeah.” Bridges smiles, proud.
“So you won’t tell me about Joe,” I say, and pause, but Bridges says nothing. “So can you tell me about Howard? How much was he into you for?”
“Oh, hardly anything. He wasn’t unlucky, he wasn’t lucky, so he usually ended up paying us a little every week, but he was never more than a week or two late, and it was never so much money we were offended by his withholding of it.”
“Could he have gotten a loan from someone else?” I ask.
“It wasn’t more than a dollar or two a week,” Bridges says, shaking his head. “Maybe five, if he went for a round of craps. He really just liked socializing, I think. Listening to music, betting on some games, talking with friends…”
I need to find out who Joe is.
“All right,” I say, standing. “Well, if you see him, let him know his friends are worried about him, would you?”
“Of course, of course.”
I take out my wallet to pay for my drink but he pats my hand.
“Andy, no, on the house. You’re welcome here any time.”
“Well, thanks,” I say with a nod.
“And, perhaps … since you are a private investigator now … you might be willing to do some work for me? I’m sure I can pay your hourly rate.”
I swallow, suddenly feeling warm. You don’t say no when the mob asks you to work for them, but I also really don’t want to work for the mob … or have them coming around my office. The amount of blackmail they could get on my clients would be like a gold mine.
“I’m still building myself up,” I say carefully. “It’s just me, working from home. Even this case is really just a favor. But when I’m up and running, and can handle bigger cases, like I’m sure you’d have, I’ll be sure to stop by.”
He smiles, and I can’t tell if he’s angry, which scares me. He claps me on the back. “Sure, sure, get set up first. Then come by again. The offer is standing. Like I said, you’re smart. I like smart.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“See you later,” he says with a slight nod. I turn and weave my way back out through the card and dice tables, back to the alleyway outside, where the air smells like fish, but at least it’s cool.
“There you are,” says a soft voice. I look up. Merle is standing at the corner, peeking into the alley. He puts out his hand and gestures at me, a soft curl of his fingers toward himself, and I walk over. “I’ve been waiting for you.”