Three

Mario’s Deli is a hole in the wall that native San Franciscans don’t like to tell tourists about. But if you walk down the right street, your nose will lead you directly to it.

The owner kneads and boils his own bagels before baking them in a wood-fired brick oven. He also smokes his own meat and ships in giant jars of the tastiest dill pickles from New York. His cream cheese comes from a local farm where no calories are left behind, and he blends it by hand with such wonderful ingredients as fresh scallions, local steamed crab, roasted elephant garlic, heirloom tomatoes, and a variety of Napa Valley wines.

Mario’s food is an enemy to every woman’s hips and the greatest lover to her lips. His business partner, Eddie the Wolf, occupies the red vinyl booth farthest from the front door, where he sips coffee and practices frowning beneath an abused plaid woolen cap.

It would be easy to dismiss Eddie as a cranky old-timer until you notice the way his fingers dance across the keyboard of a modern aluminum laptop and the smooth juggle he does between four constantly vibrating cellphones. The man’s a maestro in a wolf’s jacket.

He frowns when I approach, but it’s not full on, so I know he’s actually pleased to see me.

“Come to rob an old man?” he asks.

I slide into the booth across from him and flash one of my golden smiles.

Behind Eddie is a door that leads to a back room. I’ve heard stories about what goes on behind that door, but so far I’ve never been invited through. One of the stories says that Eddie doesn’t travel anywhere without his minder—a bull-headed guard who is so loyal he wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet, spit it out, and then break your neck if you dared attack his boss.

The story continues that the minder is always just behind the door, watching on a monitor, ready to react at the first sign of trouble. If true, it’s no wonder Eddie always seems at ease.

“How old are you anyway?” I ask.

“Twenty-six.”

I laugh. “Is that in dog years?”

“Live fast, die young.”

“You never leave this booth.”

“Give me a reason.”

“There’s a big, beautiful world out there,” I say.

“You can keep it. I got everything I need right here. You want a sandwich? Onion bagel with lox is today’s special. Not sure what Mario did to the onion, but man it’s spectacular.”

I look to my right and see Mario beaming at me with delight.

“It’s true.” Mario kisses the tips of his fingers. “Spectacular.”

My mouth is watering so much I have to swallow the drool. “I’ll take one to go.”

Mario winks at me. “Eccellente.”

When I turn back to Eddie, he’s holding an envelope out to me. I reach to take it, but he continues to hold one end.

“Double or nothing?” he asks.

“On what?”

“Name it.”

I grin. “You just can’t help yourself can you?”

“I’m a generous man. What can I say?”

I shake my head. “Generous men don’t play on people’s weakness.”

“Of course we do. The only difference between rich and poor is that rich people don’t rely on luck. We seize opportunity. I offer people the opportunity to be lucky.”

I tug the envelope out of his hand and slide it into my pocket.

“If I start placing five-hundred-dollar bets, I hope you’ll have the decency to tell me I’ve lost my goddamn mind.”

Eddie shrugs. “Who am I to tell you not to take a flutter? But tell you what, I’ll take fifty that you make such a bet before the end of the year.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You make another five bills.”

I hesitate for just a moment—10:1 odds are a beautiful and rare thing—before pulling the envelope back out of my pocket and removing a $50. I slide it across the table and watch it vanish with barely a flicker of his hand, like a magic trick.

“Anything else I can do for you today? Horses, dogs, baseball, soccer, boxing, reality shows—”

“Reality shows?” I ask.

“Sure. People place bets on who’ll be voted off American Idol or Survivor, even the number of times Sheldon will say ‘Bazinga’ on The Big Bang Theory.”

“Do you even know what those shows are?” I ask.

Eddie shrugs. “I have people who do. Odds are odds.”

“And poor people want to be lucky,” I add.

He nods. “The great American dream: get famous, sue somebody, or win the lottery.”

“I don’t think that’s quite what the Founding Fathers had in mind.”

He shrugs. “They owned mansions and slaves—what the hell do they know about microwave dinners for one or selling your ass to pay the rent?”

My eyes grow wide. “Jeez, Eddie. You sound like you’re about to rush out and join the Occupy Wall Street movement.”

“Me?” Eddie nearly grins. “Nah. I may not like people who run a rigged game, but you gotta admire the gumption.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

I slide out of the booth and cross to the counter to pick up my bagel. Warmth oozes from within its waxed-paper wrapper.

When I turn back to say bye to Eddie, he’s busy chatting on one of his cellphones. His frown has deepened and his voice is gruff, which makes me think the schmuck on the other end of the line has bet too big and come up short.

I hit the street, unwrapping the bagel as I go. Eddie’s right; whatever Mario did to the onion, it’s spectacular.

Finding a pay phone in San Francisco can be tricky, but I’ve been resisting the cellphone trend for so long that I have the inside track on most of them.

Stoogan has warned me the company is planning to make it mandatory that all reporters carry a cell—especially since the cameras have improved so much that they now shoot print-quality stills and web-ready video—so I told him to let me know when they have an app that tells me where all the pay phones are, then I might consider it.

I wipe my greasy hands on a napkin and dial the NOW morgue.

Lulu answers with, “What you eating, Dix?”

“What makes you think I’m eating something?”

“You’re not in the office.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re eating. You’re always eating.”

“I am not.”

“What was it?”

I sigh and tell her about the bagel.

“That’s my girl, one nostril for news and another for grub. I just don’t know where you put it all. If I ate like you, I’d be the size of a horse.”

“They’re vegetarians,” I say. “That’s why I’m not.”

Lulu laughs. “Good point. Who knew hay and apples could be so bad for you?”

“Don’t tell Kellogg’s.” After she finishes snickering, I ask, “Did you get a name and number on that ad?”

“Yep, no sweat. She paid by credit card. Name is Bailey Brown. I called the number on file and her roommate told me she works days at Scissors & Sizzle on California Street, you know it?”

“I’ll find it. Thanks.”

“Anytime, sweets.”

My next call is to Mo, who runs my favorite independent cab company. We chat about the rigors of the chemo he’s undergoing for throat cancer, while he dispatches a cab. As someone who’s never known how to relax, Mo hates how tired the treatment leaves him, but he’s also discovered some interesting people.

“We talk to pass the time, you know,” he says in a guttural Bronx accent that’s been sandblasted into a perverse whisper. “And some of these guys have done things with their lives. This one, I swear to God, he’s Indiana Jones. He’s discovered mummies and real buried treasure. Imagine? The only mummy I ever seen was in an old Abbott and Costello movie. But this guy—Wilfred is his name—this guy dug one up. Crazy.”

“Sounds cool,” I say.

“Yeah, you should talk to him. He donated a bunch of archeological stuff to the museums here. Interesting guy.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

I can hear phones ringing mercilessly in the background.

“Gotta go. You keep safe, Dix.”

“Always.”

Mo snickers. “Yeah.”

When the cab arrives, the driver already knows where to drop me.