Before Blake knew it the week was over and he was once more telling his parents good-bye. Given his mother’s obvious dislike for Clive, Blake had decided not to tell them he had spent time with him while in Albuquerque. Besides, Blake still wasn’t sure what to make of what he had done. Sure, he had slept with lots of guys, especially since breaking up with Brian, but sex with Clive Damon had almost felt degrading, worse than being called a fraud by the redheaded waiter. Blake found the feeling oddly exhilarating, somewhere between filthy and titillated. If he couldn’t figure it out, he sure as hell wouldn’t mention it to his parents, even minus the sex. He did, however, tell them about all of the spirits he had seen in Old Town, a phenomenon his mother once again attributed to the ley lines.
With the first draft of his manuscript completed, Blake promised his parents he would seriously consider a return visit in the fall, something that seemed to greatly please them. After a quick ride to the airport, Blake boarded the plane and approached his seat, but spied a plump, fortyish redheaded woman seated in his assigned spot. He quickly checked his boarding pass to confirm his seat number and was about to ask the woman if she had the correct seat when she vanished.
Blake sighed and took the recently vacated seat. It was the first time, to the best of his knowledge, he had ever seen a ghost on an airplane. It made sense, though. Maybe the poor spirit had died of a heart attack on a previous flight. Maybe she had been a flight attendant on the plane. Whatever the circumstances, Blake was grateful that she had vanished before he had struck up a conversation with her. Nobody, after all, wanted to be stuck on a flight with a lunatic, and Blake certainly had no desire to be detained by airport security.
Fortunately, San Francisco was sunny and warm when Blake returned. As he vacated his cab, he realized that he was happy to be home. The buildings atop Nob Hill seemed to reflect the brilliant sunlight, and tourists milled about in front of the nearby Fairmont Hotel and in the park across the street. Inside his building, Blake was greeted by Mike, the affable doorman, who welcomed him back.
“How was New Mexico, Mr. Danzig?” he asked.
Although he had asked Mike on numerous occasions to address him by his first name, Mike simply refused to do so. Blake supposed that it was a matter of personal ethics for the doorman, as if deviating from his training was tantamount to failure, and Blake had stopped pushing him long ago.
“New Mexico is beautiful. But it’s really good to be home.”
“It’s always nice to come home after being away on a trip, sir.”
He pressed the button to call the elevator and, once Blake was inside with his bag, bade him good day. The door was just about to close when Mike, remembering something, stuck his hand inside the doors, staying them.
“I almost forgot, Mr. Danzig,” he said, apologetically. “A young guy was here to see you while you were gone. I told him you were out of town, but I saw him hanging around across the street a couple of days later, like he was waiting for you.”
Blake frowned and stepped back out of the elevator. “What was his name?”
Mike shook his head. “That’s the weird thing,” he said. “He didn’t tell me his name. I asked but, instead of answering, he turned and walked out the door.”
“What did he look like?”
“Average height, blond, probably in his twenties.”
Blake ran through a mental list of everyone he’d met over the course of previous months, but nobody came to mind.
“I didn’t call the police,” Mike said, “in case it was somebody legit. But, if you want me to, I’ll take care of it.”
Blake slowly shook his head. Could he have a stalker? “No, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s fine.”
He thanked Mike and reboarded the elevator. Upstairs, in his apartment, thoughts of the mysterious visitor plagued Blake. Certain it was nothing to be concerned with, he pressed the replay button on his answering machine, which announced that he had two new messages. The first was from Donatella.
“Welcome home,” she said. “Meet me in North Beach tomorrow for brunch. Make it eleven o’clock, at Caffe Roma. I can’t wait to see what you’ve written. Ciao.”
Blake chuckled. Donatella’s messages were always to the point. The next message was from Brian. The sound of the familiar voice instantly filled Blake with melancholy, and his heart ached with yearning and bittersweet nostalgia.
“Hi, Blake,” he said. “Melody said you were in Albuquerque visiting your parents, so I didn’t want to call your cell phone and risk bothering you. Listen, when you get back give me a call. There’s a case I think that you can help us with.” There was a pause. “I miss you.”
Brian’s final statement cheered Blake a little. At least, he told himself, the feelings surrounding their breakup seemed to be mutual. Still, he decided to wait and call Brian on Monday. After all, he was still attempting to process what had happened between him and Clive, and seeing Brian certainly wouldn’t do anything to help clarify the way he was feeling. Was he even the same person? Or had he crossed some sort of invisible bridge, one that took him to a different sexual level, one on which he allowed himself to be used by other men with no regard for the possibility of a real relationship?
As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Blake wanted to be with Clive again, if only to feel what he had in Albuquerque. Even the humiliation of fucking Clive Damon had provided Blake with the feelings he so desperately longed for, an attachment in some way to another man. He shrugged off the notion and quickly dialed Melody’s number.
“You’re back,” she said, by way of answering.
“Just a few minutes ago. Anything going on I should know about?”
“Brian called. He said something about a case.”
“I know. He left a message on my machine. Did anybody else call?”
“Hmm. Nobody important, why?”
“Did anybody come by looking for me? My doorman, Mike, said a guy was hanging around the building.”
“No, nobody.” Melody laughed. “Think you’ve got a crazed fan stalking you?”
“Not funny, although the thought did occur to me.”
“Listen, if Brian has a new case I can wait and take another week off.”
“No, enjoy some time off. I’m sure I can handle whatever Brian has for us. Besides,” he added, teasingly, “when was the last time you got laid?”
“What year is it?” Melody deadpanned.
Although Melody knew Blake was joking, she seemed to be immune to long-term relationships. Her last girlfriend had been hot enough and was certainly interesting. Unfortunately, she had never been quite comfortable with the whole witchcraft thing, an attitude that Melody had found quite puzzling coming from a dominant butch lesbian into S&M. And she wasn’t alone. Another one, so into her space as an alternative lesbian painter, might as well have been a Baptist minister by the way she reacted when she learned Melody was a witch. Even a lesbian performance-artist extraordinaire had run screaming for the hills. Where the hell were all the lesbian goddess worshippers, anyway?
Nevertheless, Melody had never run from a challenge, and she planned to do a little barhopping during her week off. She wished Blake a good night and made him promise to call her if he needed anything.
Her cat, Pyewackket, rubbed against her legs and she picked up the sleek Siamese male.
“Want to help Mama find her soul mate?” she asked, stroking the cat’s head.
Pyewackket, whose whiskers were fanned out, purred in reply.
Melody walked to the small table she used as her altar and put Pyewackket on the floor. From a drawer in the table she retrieved a map of the city, which she folded in such a way that only a section of the Mission District, her neighborhood, was visible. Because it was also home to most of the city’s lesbian bars, the Mission was the focus of her magic, and she pulled a crystal attached to a small length of silver chain from the drawer.
“Now, help Mama concentrate,” she said to her cat, who was watching her with his big blue eyes. “Which bar will be the one tonight?”
As she concentrated, not on a particular bar or even a particular person, the crystal began to slowly rotate above the map, moved by unseen forces. Melody ignored the clockwise spinning and focused, instead, on what she imagined to be the perfect partner: a professional, slightly older than her, a nice body, blond, maybe. And she would definitely not be afraid of witchcraft.
The sound of the crystal making sudden contact with the table top caused Melody to open her eyes, and she cautiously consulted the map. She considered the location indicated by the crystal, furrowing her brow as she contemplated the location. She laughed, suddenly recognizing the intersection and the bar located there.
“Looks like it’s the Kitty Kat Lounge tonight,” she announced to Pyewackket. “At least I can walk there.”
Pyewackket meowed his approval and Melody replaced the map and the crystal pendant in the drawer. She then retrieved two candles from a cupboard on the other side of the room, the first one pink for true love and the second one red for passion. She placed them in candle holders on her altar and went to the bathroom to prepare for what she hoped was Fate.
*
Freshly bathed and ready to meet the woman of her dreams, Melody blew out the candles on her altar. She quickly appraised her reflection in the mirror and felt good about herself. She had purposely worn a pentacle necklace, figuring it would be best for everyone to put all her cards on the table. She kissed Pyewackket before locking the door to her apartment behind her and stepped out onto Valencia Street, alive with shoppers and sightseers. Melody loved her neighborhood, which bustled with its shops—a mixture of boutiques, corner groceries, and Latino businesses. Music, reminiscent of other places far removed from San Francisco, floated on the air like a welcome visitor.
At the corner of Valencia and Twenty-first Street she took a right, heading toward the Kitty Kat Lounge. Suddenly, Melody felt that she was being followed. Without trying to appear distressed, she calmly turned her head to determine who was behind her. She was surprised to see a young, blond guy—probably in his twenties. She remembered what Blake had told her about his potential stalker, so she turned around and walked toward the stranger. He stopped as she approached him.
“Hey,” she called, refusing to allow herself to feel threatened, “are you the guy who’s been stalking my friend?”
Upon being challenged, the blond turned and began to stride in the opposite direction.
“Hey,” she called. “Come back here!”
She jogged to catch up, but just as she was about to reach him, he ducked into an alley. Melody hesitated, truly wanting to bust the stalker but not wanting to end up in the hospital. She considered the cell phone in her hand for a moment. She could call the cops, but what would she tell them?
“Shit,” she muttered, peering into the alleyway. She couldn’t spot the blond, but with all the Dumpsters and discarded boxes, he could have been hiding anywhere. As she turned to go, having recognized the stupidity of risking her life chasing a total stranger who might or might not be stalking Blake, something struck her in the back of the head and she fell.
Melody didn’t know how long she had been lying on the sidewalk when she heard a voice somewhere above her.
“Ma’am,” the voice said. “Are you all right?”
Melody blinked and the back of her head throbbed as she attempted to sit up.
The voice belonged to a policewoman, and through blurry vision, Melody could see her cruiser pulled over at the curb, lights flashing. Melody rubbed the back of her head and felt a tender bump.
“Somebody hit me in the back of the head,” she stammered, fumbling for her cell phone, which had fallen nearby.
“Did you get a good look at them?”
“Yeah, a blond guy, in his twenties, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Did he take anything?”
Melody slowly rose and felt in her pocket for her cash. She shook her head. “I still have my cash and cell phone.”
“You’re a lucky girl. But I’d feel better if you went to the hospital to have that bump looked at.”
Melody, her blurry vision fading, saw the officer clearly for the first time. She was probably in her mid to late thirties, pretty and blond. And she was definitely a professional.
“I’m fine,” Melody said, smiling. “I just feel a little silly.”
“The jerk was probably some homophobe who assumed you were headed to the Kitty Kat Lounge and thought he’d screw with you.”
Melody’s face warmed. Even though she had been headed to the lounge, she was embarrassed to admit it to the cop.
As she offered her hand to Melody to help her to her feet, Melody smiled again. A pentacle was tattooed on the cop’s forearm. “I like your tat,” she said, and motioned to her own pentacle necklace.
The cop offered her hand. “My name’s Hope.”
*
Blake was in his kitchen tossing a salad when Melody called him with the news. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I can come right over.”
“I’m fine, really. But you might want to watch out for this mysterious blond…if it’s the same guy.”
“It could be a coincidence. I mean, the city’s full of blond guys.”
“Still, you better watch your back.”
“I will, and I’ll let my doorman, Mike, know about it.”
“Something else happened.” Melody was barely able to conceal her excitement.
“What is it? Don’t tell me you met someone.”
“She’s a cop. She came and helped me after the…incident.”
“How romantic,” Blake kidded her. “Are you going to see her again?”
“She’s off work at eleven thirty,” Melody said coyly, “and she offered to come by and check on me.”
“You’ll have to tell me all about it tomorrow.” Blake was happy that Melody seemed so excited. The fact that Melody’s new interest was a cop reminded him of his failed relationship with Brian, but he didn’t voice his doubts.
Melody, however, had already considered the parallel and could sense his hesitation.
“Listen,” she said. “I know it might not work out, but she came after I cast a love spell, so I have to give it a shot.”
“Of course you do,” Blake said. “It’s just that I worry about you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After hanging up, Blake dialed the front desk and left instructions with Mike that if the blond reappeared, he was to immediately call the police.
*
The next day was a beautiful, sunny Sunday and Blake awakened earlier than usual, having slept better the previous night than any other in recent memory. He showered, shaved, and quickly dressed, donning jeans, a tight-fitting pullover, and simple black loafers.
In the living room, he carefully placed the first draft of his manuscript into a messenger bag and headed out the door.
Out on the street, the sun just beginning its ascent in the morning sky, Blake was greeted with the sound of a cable car announcing its approach as it climbed nearby California Street. Travelers were just beginning to emerge from the Fairmont Hotel, their cameras strapped around their necks and maps clasped in their hands. Blake could feel their excitement, happy to be in what he considered the most beautiful city in the world, and he enjoyed the enthusiasm they radiated. He turned left on Mason Street, descending the steep hill for his trek to North Beach. On the way he passed the Cable Car Museum, one of the few places in San Francisco he had not investigated but assumed housed spirits. He made a mental note to check out the museum, an easy enough task considering he passed it daily on the way to work.
As he continued, the pungent smell of burning incense filled his nostrils, and he assumed it was coming from the Chinese American family association building across the street. Though he enjoyed Chinatown, with all its shops and restaurants, it was this part of Chinatown—just on the outskirts and mainly residences—that Blake truly loved. This was the true Chinatown, not the carnival-like version peddled to tourists on Grant Avenue. The Chinese Americans lived, played, worked, and died here, and to Blake it was a place of wonder. Little mirrors hung above doorways, meant to deflect evil from the houses they guarded. Foo dogs and lions stood like sentinels at entryways, and oranges sat spiked with countless incense sticks, offerings to the ancestors. Aged grandmothers, stooped and tiny, cautiously made their way down to corner markets in search of fresh produce. As with every other place in the city, spirits wandered the streets here, too.
At Broadway, Blake crossed the street along with the throng of locals and tourists and headed east, in the direction of Columbus Avenue. Here Chinatown merged with the Italian community of North Beach and, in Blake’s opinion, was the most vibrant part of the city. Heavy traffic poured out of the Broadway Tunnel, heading toward the bay, and the shops along the wide avenue were alive with the cries of exotic birds and the pungent smells of strange herbs. Warmed by the sun, Blake was almost literally swept along by the human mass surrounding him and, at Columbus Avenue, he turned left. When he entered North Beach proper his senses were stirred by different smells, the smells of coffee and pastries, bars and restaurants. Almost every café in North Beach had tables and chairs placed on the sidewalk in front of it, and, typical of a sunny Sunday in North Beach, nearly every table was packed with customers.
Blake crossed the street at Green and glanced up at his old apartment building, located above the Irish pub. That first year in San Francisco seemed so long ago. How had he ever survived not living in a city? This was his city, and he couldn’t conceive of leaving it. On the other side of Green Street, where Green, Columbus, and Stockton streets all intersected, creating a star pattern, Blake spied Donatella, seated at a table in front of Caffe Roma. He crossed Columbus and returned her wave. Given the difficulty in finding unoccupied seats at cafés on weekends, she had probably charmed the table away from some poor, unsuspecting man.
She partially rose and kissed Blake lightly on each cheek. “Welcome back,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Please, sit. I took the liberty of ordering you a latte.”
“Thank you.” Blake sat, took a sip of the warm, foamy drink, and placed his messenger bag in his lap.
“Here’s the manuscript,” he said, patting it. “I think you’ll be pleased.”
“I’m sure I will be. Let’s just hope the publisher is, too.” She winked at Blake, as if to let him know that she was only joking. “So tell me,” she said, changing the subject, “how were your parents?”
“They were fine.” Blake gazed across the street at the bakery where he had once worked. “They’re older.”
Donatella laughed her loud, infectious laugh. “That, my dear boy, is a condition we will all eventually have to face.”
“I suppose, but it made me feel guilty for not having visited them sooner.”
“Now you will go more often.” She took Blake’s hand, her expression sympathetic. “And how are you? Are you feeling better about the breakup?”
Blake squeezed Donatella’s hand. “I guess, but I’m still disappointed things didn’t work out with Brian. I mean, he was such a nice guy.”
“There will be others, believe me,” Donatella said.
“I suppose, but what if they have a problem with the ghost thing just like Brian did? Sometimes I wish I’d never been born with this stupid gift.”
“Do you remember the night we met?” Donatella had a coy smile on her rouged lips.
“Of course. How could I forget? We were right over there at O’Reilly’s.”
“That’s right. And do you remember what you told me?”
He nodded. “About your grandmother’s china?”
“I spent years harboring bad feelings for my sister, not because she took the china, but because I truly believed my grandmother wanted her, and not me, to have it. I assumed that I had somehow angered my grandmother, and it truly hurt me.”
“But now you know the truth.”
“Now I know the truth, because of you, Blake Danzig.”
Blake knew he was blushing, and he nervously toyed with his cup of coffee.
“Don’t ever deny your gift. You use it to help people, and they’re grateful for that.”
“Well,” Blake said, uncomfortable with the flattery, “at least Brian and I are still working together. In fact, he’s got a new case he wants my help with.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ve been married three times, and the only one of my former husbands I would care to see again died.”
Blake laughed, and once they had finished their coffee, he walked her to her car, parked around the corner on Union Street.
“I’ll look over the manuscript and call you in a couple of days,” Donatella said, strapping herself into her seat belt. “Good luck with whatever Brian has for you.”
*
The next morning, as he had promised, Blake phoned Brian at work.
“Hey,” Brian said, warmly, “how was New Mexico?”
“I had a good time, but it’s good to be back in San Francisco.”
“I’ll bet. Listen, are you interesting in helping me with another cold case? We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Sure. What is it?”
Instead of explaining over the telephone, Brian suggested that they meet at a location in the Tenderloin, where he would give Blake a rundown on the situation. Blake agreed, and headed down the hill on foot, toward the intersection of Hyde and Eddy streets. Blake loved the Tenderloin, despite its reputation for being a dangerous part of town. With its old architecture, a mixture of Gold Rush style and the later Art Deco, the Tenderloin was what Blake had always imagined a city would be like. And, true to its reputation, the area was home to drug dealers, prostitutes, and countless homeless people. But none of this bothered Blake. As a city dweller, he had quickly learned what everyone referred to as “street smarts,” and he knew how to take care of himself. Besides, the Tenderloin was home, too, to a huge immigrant population and it boasted some of the city’s best restaurants.
Brian was just parking when Blake arrived, and Blake couldn’t help but notice how well he looked. Once again, they exchanged a clumsy hug and Brian led Blake into a nearby apartment building. A sign on the door announced that the building had been condemned. Together they climbed the rickety wooden stairs and finally arrived at the third floor, where Brian led the way down a dark hallway.
“Sorry,” he called over his shoulder, “this building is empty and there’s no electricity, so watch your step.”
The smells in the building, a mixture of urine, backed-up toilets, and rotting food, assailed Blake’s senses and he had a coughing fit. A rat scurried by, undeterred.
“You all right?” Brian returned to Blake’s side and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s pretty rank in here, but we’re almost there.”
“Sorry. I’m okay.”
Brian removed his hand from his shoulder and they continued down the darkened hall. Finally, Brian stopped in front of a door and shined a small penlight on it, which illuminated a tarnished number, 308.
He pushed the door open and light from a window inside flooded into the hallway. Blake followed Brian into the barren unit, happy to be able to see clearly again.
Plaster hung precariously from the ceiling. Faded, water-stained wallpaper hung in strips from the walls, and a broken window allowed in cool, fresh air. From the droppings on the ruined floor, it was evident pigeons roosted there at night.
“The building is supposed to be condemned,” Brian explained, “but the homeless and the drug dealers sneak in through the basement and sleep here.”
The thought of being the only two people in the building besides a bunch of drug dealers frightened Blake more than any ghost could, even if Brian was carrying a gun. “What’s the deal with this place?” He started at a sound from the hallway.
“Relax. It’s probably just the rats.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Back in eighty-four, there were a series of murders in this area,” Brian said. “One of the victims was killed here in what was once her apartment.”
“And the case was never solved?”
“No, not officially. The story was fed to the newspapers that the killings were part of a drug war in the Tenderloin, a war that the SFPD finally got a handle on. But the killer was never officially found and the case was closed.”
“Why reopen it now? If people believed it was all part of a drug war, why pursue it?”
“Chief Norris was impressed that we cracked the Doodler case, and he wants us to do the same with a handful of other ones.”
Blake nodded and walked into a neighboring room, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. The room, its condition as dismal as the first, was long and narrow.
“That was the bedroom,” Brian called, “where the victim was murdered.”
Blake turned to face Brian and, as he did, noticed movement in his peripheral vision. As he peered back into the room, he saw that a closet door had partially closed. Cautiously, he approached the door, his breath visible in the air.
“It just got really cold in here,” he told Brian, who remained standing just outside the door to the bedroom. It reminded Blake why their relationship hadn’t worked out.
Blake grasped the cold doorknob and slowly pulled the door open. There, standing in the shadows, was the ghost of a young woman, her hair short and dyed bright red. She was dressed in a black T-shirt, a black leather miniskirt, red fishnet stockings, and patent-leather ankle boots. Her black T-shirt had long, horizontal slashes across the front, and Blake wasn’t sure if this was part of eighties fashion or of the crime itself.
At first, the spirit looked terrified, but apparently when she realized Blake meant her no harm, she began to speak. Unfortunately, there was a problem.
“Um, Brian,” Blake said, turning away from the spirit, “there’s a ghost here, all right, but she’s not speaking English.”
“Shit. The victim was Ukrainian, an immigrant. It never occurred to me—”
“Can we get a translator? I can try to repeat what I’m hearing.”
“I’ll put in a request tomorrow.” The frustration was showing on Brian’s face.
Without saying another word, they began the long, dark walk back through the deserted building, leaving the pitiful spirit alone.
Once they were back outside in front of the building, Blake grabbed Brian’s hand.
“Listen, it’ll be fine. I mean, there is a ghost there and, if she’s willing to talk, you’ll get your killer.”
Brian nodded and said, “I’ve missed your optimism.”
“How would you like to have dinner tonight, Brian?”
Brian’s hand went limp in Blake’s, and he averted his gaze to the sidewalk. “Listen, Blake,” his voice was low, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
Blake stared at him, unsure of what was coming next.
Brian cleared his throat and looked him right in the eye. “I’m seeing someone,” he said, almost apologetically. “I met him a little over a week ago. I meant to tell you, but just didn’t know how.”
Blake released Brian’s hand and hoped his voice wouldn’t betray his disappointment. Even though he had done his share of sleeping around since their breakup, Blake still hoped he and Brian might somehow reconcile. Now, with three little words, it seemed as if it was gone.
“Oh, that’s great,” he lied, trying to act as if he had just heard good news.
“I’m really sorry—”
“Brian, don’t apologize. I’m happy for you.”
“If you don’t want to work on this case, I totally understand.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Blake said, a little too harshly. “We’re broken up, right? That’s all there is to it. You’ve moved on and I need to get used to it.”
When Brian didn’t reply, Blake nodded, realizing what he said was true. It was time to move on. “Call me when you find an interpreter. I’ll be here.”
He began his long trek back up the hill, leaving Brian standing beside his car.