“I never saw such a view in my whole life,” Tony Buffolino told Carla as they sat at a window table in the Top of the Mark. Outside, a setting sun stained San Francisco gold. The city’s fog had begun to roll in over the Bay as if a curtain call; the Golden Gate Bridge was being wrapped in it, adding to its compelling beauty.
“Such beauty is always better when shared,” she said. She’d started speaking with an accent that hadn’t been there the previous day.
Buffolino observed her closely. She’d obviously gone to great lengths to get ready for the evening. Her red hair had been curled and redyed; less black showed at the roots. Her nails had been done, and her makeup was heavy enough to border on the outlandish. Green eye shadow flecked with gold sparkles covered broad, swollen eyelids, and the weight of long black false lashes threatened to pull her eyes closed at any moment. Her lipstick was as crimson as her nails, and she’d created too large a mouth with it. Pendulous gold-plated earrings hung from the lobes of her ears to her broad shoulders, and multiple strands of costume jewelry ringed her neck. The aqua caftan she wore swept the floor as she made her entrance into the Top of the Mark. Buffolino had been embarrassed that he was the one she sought, but reminded himself that he’d better shed such feelings. It promised to be a long night.
She’d ordered a perfect Manhattan. He ordered a screwdriver. They sipped their drinks and made small talk about the splendor of San Francisco, theirs to admire through the window.
“You got the tickets?” Buffolino asked.
“Yes, and with great difficulty, I might add.”
“How come?”
“Because this is San Francisco. We love our opera here. The performance has been sold out for months.”
“How’d you get tickets then?” he asked, not really caring.
“Friends, sir. This lady has friends.”
“I bet you do. Good thing, too.”
She placed her thick hands on top of his and looked deep into his eyes. “Strange, isn’t it, how one person’s misfortune can benefit another?”
“Yeah?”
“Poor Mae. Poor Andrea. Lucky Carla.”
She squeezed his hands hard, and he forced a smile. “I know what you mean,” he said. Heavy, cheap, and very sweet perfume wafted across the table. He freed his hands, sat back in his chair, raised his drink to his lips, stared out the window, and pretended to be seduced into silence by the view. Actually, he was thinking about life’s little ironies.
He’d been headed for certain juvenile delinquent status as a teenager. Born to poor parents in an even poorer section of Brooklyn, he hung around with a bunch of wise guys. By the time he was sixteen, he’d been arrested twice, once for car theft, the second time for assault on a black man who’d wandered by mistake into the neighborhood. Then along came Father Benternagel, Brooklyn’s boxing priest, who told the judge he’d take responsibility for “this kid who thinks he’s tough.”
Buffolino became a good amateur boxer, and made it to the finals in the New York Golden Gloves, losing to a southpaw from the Bronx who threw right jabs so fast, and so often, that Buffolino never saw them coming. It didn’t matter that he lost, however, because two years in the gym and the Gloves with Father Benternagel had given him a different perspective on life, and what he wanted from it.
He even thought about college, but knew that wasn’t to be. While his friends drifted into various criminal pursuits, Tony went in the other direction. He applied for the New York City Police Department, didn’t stand a chance because of his juvenile record, realized he wanted to be a cop more than anything else in the world, and checked into other cities whose requirements weren’t as stringent, who had more openings on their force, and who might not scrutinize his teenage years with as keen an eye as the NYPD had. Washington was it. He took the tests, passed, and lived in a boarding house during his training at the D.C. Police Academy.
He loved it; he wore his uniform with peacock pride, and devoted countless off-duty hours to representing the department in community activities. He didn’t labor under any delusions. He knew he would never rise to management ranks within the department, but his promotion to detective and his assignment to the special narcotics squad represented the cap of his career.
Then, of course, there developed the acute need for money, and the selling out to Garcia, the Panamanian drug dealer; the expulsion from the force; the disgrace; the embarrassment; the countless nights buying sleep with bottles of booze; the lack of self-worth he felt and, worse, assumed everyone else felt about him. How many years since that fateful night in the Watergate? How many years of hiring out as a night watchman at local companies? How many years of avoiding contact with his children from both marriages because he couldn’t stand the look in their eyes, couldn’t deal with the scorn they must feel for him.
In a sense, Mac Smith represented another Father Benternagel, another “priest.” Buffolino had argued long and hard with Smith about the disposition of his case. Smith had said he could make a deal with the local prosecutor: no criminal charges if Buffolino would accept departmental punishment. “No deal,” he told Smith a hundred times. Finally, Smith had thrown up his hands and told him to find another lawyer, which Buffolino intended to do. But he knew down deep that Smith was right, that he was lucky to escape a jail term. He left his dream with his head bowed, and his belief in himself, and in mankind, on a par with his belief in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.
Now things had come full circle again, even if temporarily. He was living better than he’d ever lived before. A thousand a week. A suite in the Watergate, where, if he could keep his mouth shut, he could entertain his ex-wives and children in a style that had to make a statement to them—Tony Buffolino was somebody again. He was needed by one of the top legal minds in the land, and was being paid accordingly. He had new clothes (Smith had seen only one of three suits he’d bought in the fancy men’s shop downstairs at the Watergate). The frozen dinners and cans to which he’d become so accustomed had been replaced by beef Wellington, crab cocktail, chocolate mousse, and caviar. The cheap whiskey with which he used to lull himself to sleep had been replaced by top-shelf bottles, although because he didn’t want to appear too greedy, he’d settled for the Watergate’s own brand of liquor instead of the Beefeater, Stolichnaya, etc., that headed the room-service menu.
Here he was in San Francisco, staying in a fantastic hotel, money in his pocket, the jewel of a city spread out before him.…
He looked at Carla Zaretski, who seemed about to cry. This time, he joined hands and asked, “Hey, babe, what’s the matter? How come so sad?”
She answered with regal dignity, “One who has lost a promising career in the opera is not destined to be happy.” That prompted a fifteen-minute encore of the story of her failed operatic career, most of it going back to high school musicals. If she ever did have a portamento, it was gone by her first year of college.
When she was finished, Buffolino said, “Well, I’m ready for dinner. Got any ideas?”
“Yes, I have given it considerable thought. A man of your taste would be satisfied with nothing less than the best.”
Even though Buffolino knew it was a silly thing for her to say, it puffed him up a little. “It’s your city, my dear,” he said.
“And it shall be yours,” she said, standing and slowly turning so that those at adjacent tables would see her. She led him through the room, down to the lobby, and into a cab.
Minutes later, they entered a restaurant on Montgomery Street that immediately reminded Buffolino of every movie he’d ever seen in which the action took place in a Barbary Coast bordello. It was called Ernie’s. Carla had told him during the short cab ride that it represented San Francisco’s finest dining experience. Buffolino had his doubts, based on his theory that as opulence increased, so did prices, with a corresponding decrease in portions.
They swept in and were led to a table in the smoking section to accommodate Carla. The table was set with silver and crystal. Surrounding them were walls covered with mahogany paneling, red silk tapestries, and huge, gilt-edged mirrors. Carla stayed with Manhattans and chain-smoked as they studied the elaborate menu.
“What’s good here?” Buffolino asked.
She took his hands across the table, something she would do with repeated frequency throughout the evening. “Allow me to order for the both of us, dear man.”
She outdid even Buffolino at the Watergate. They dined on an hors d’oeuvre of preserved black turnips under foie gras in a port wine sauce; sliced loin of lamb with breast of rabbit garnished with eggplant and roasted garlic cloves; a salad of chilled slices of Maine lobster and squab with black truffles and vinaigrette spiked with Dijon mustard and green herbs; and, for dessert, a frothy lime soufflé flavored with a dash of acacia honey. He had been in the mood for a hamburger and fries, but had to admit everything tasted good, if a little operatic.
Over coffee and cognac, Buffolino made another attempt to bring the conversation around. “What a shame Mae isn’t here to enjoy dinner and the opera with us,” he said.
Carla, who had begun to show the effects of the wine, clutched her bosom. “Oh, my God, how true. Poor darling, she’s had so much trouble in her life.”
“Yeah, that’s what Andrea told me. Funny, I never could get Andrea to talk about her father. It was like he didn’t exist.”
Carla’s face turned serious as she again touched his hands. “Oh, yes, that is exactly what happened. He doesn’t exist.”
Buffolino laughed. “Some miracle,” he said. “Second time. Does the Church know about it yet?”
She shook her finger at him as though he were a naughty boy in school who’d used a four-letter word. “It wasn’t funny.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Not what you said, dear man, but the circumstances surrounding Andrea’s birth.”
“Do you go back that far with Mae Feldman?”
“Yes. We were friends in college.”
“You were friends back then, but you don’t know who Andrea’s father was?”
Carla sadly shook her head. “No, Mae refused to tell anyone. They weren’t married, you know, and she didn’t want the poor fellow to suffer the embarrassment of fathering a child out of wedlock.”
“What about her embarrassment?” Buffolino asked.
“Mae, embarrassed?” She laughed. “Mae was never embarrassed about anything. She proudly carried that child through nine months, three days without a whimper, and brought her up as though Andrea had been born into a normal family.”
Buffolino shook his head and finished his espresso. “I still don’t understand how you could go nine months and never know anything about the man who knocked up your best friend.”
“Nothing strange about that, dear man. I told you, Mae did not want to identify him. Oh, I know she met him in New York. He was …”
“Was what?”
“Was a young law student, I believe, passionate and impetuous. Mae was such a beautiful young woman. They fell head-over-heels in love. Then, as such things will happen, passion bred pregnancy. What time is it?”
Buffolino checked his watch and told her.
“Good Lord, we’ll be late for the overture. Quickly, dear, pay the bill.”
Buffolino had eaten in some fancy restaurants in his life, especially lately, but nothing equaled this one. The tip alone was bigger than his previous month’s food bill. He used his VISA card, grumbled as he signed the receipt, and nodded curtly at everyone as they left the restaurant, severing all diplomatic relations.
“The War Memorial Opera House,” Carla told the young taxi driver, “and please be quick about it.”
She snuggled next to Tony in the backseat. He put his arm around her shoulders because he didn’t know what else to do. She cooed in his ear, “You are so handsome. Many women must have told you that.”
“Well, yeah, one or two.” He thought of his two ex-wives and the women he’d dated since his second divorce, not counting the one-night flings that came with the territory of a cop. He was glad when the driver pulled up in front of the opera house and he could disengage from Madame Zaretski.
They were ushered to their seats just as the lights dimmed, and the orchestra began the opening bars of Il Trovatore.
So, that’s Roseanna Gateaux, Buffolino thought as scene two began with the diva performing the role of Leonora. Great-looking woman, he said silently as, to his surprise, he slowly lost himself in the powerful and poignant music of the soprano’s first aria.
At intermission, Carla insisted on having drinks at a small bar in the lobby. “You sure you want another?” Buffolino asked.
“From my father, I inherited an enhanced capacity for spirits,” she said imperiously.
They stood off to the side observing the crowd. Most of the men wore tuxedos, the women formal dresses, although there was a contingent in jeans. One group in a corner dominated everyone’s attention, a dozen people who were obviously being shielded from the rest of the crowd. “Who’s the hero?” Buffolino asked a security guard.
Buffolino turned to Carla. “You know who he is?”
“Yes, he’s one of our senators from California.” She stood on the toes of her purple satin heels to get a better look at the senator.
“Your other senator is Ewald, the one Andrea worked for.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did Andrea ever talk about the campaign, about Ewald?”
“Not to me, although she probably did with her mother. Mae was very interested in politics.”
“They say Andrea had an affair with Ewald’s son.”
“Filthy lies, garbage,” she snapped. “Andrea was a sweet girl, not the type to sleep around.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what they say. The son admits it.”
“A liar, too, like his father. Fetch me another drink,” she said from her tiptoe perch.
“Fetch you …? You’ve had enough. Come on, let’s get back to our seats.”
She came down off her toes. “You darling man,” she said, “caring about my health.”
“Huh?”
“You are absolutely right. The time for drinking is after the performance. We shall go to Tosca and extend this glorious night.”
Buffolino followed dejectedly behind her as she reentered the auditorium and slowly walked down the aisle, her caftan gliding silently over the carpeting, her head held unnecessarily high, looking left and right, a queen entering her castle. Enough of you, lady, Buffolino thought as he held his head low, eyes to the floor, and slipped into his seat with a sigh of relief.
“It was great,” he said when they left the opera house. A cab took them to Columbus in the North Beach section. The Tosca Cafe was crowded, noisy, and festive, and it took some deft maneuvering to get a place at the bar, where Carla ordered cappuccino laced with brandy for both of them. An ancient jukebox played familiar arias, and individuals burst into song in every corner of the room. Buffolino nursed two cappuccinos, while Carla downed hers as though they were soft drinks.
An hour later, the evening took its final toll. Carla leaned heavily on the bar with one elbow, put her arm around Buffolino’s neck, pulled him close, and said with a thick tongue, “The time for us to exit has come.”
Buffolino helped her outside and directed the driver to take them to the public garage in which he’d parked his rented Lincoln. Once in it, Carla immediately fell asleep, leaving Buffolino to find Santiago Street on his own. He had better luck than he anticipated, parked in front of her house, and helped her inside, tripping over cats before allowing her to sink with great flourish onto the tattered chaise. He looked down into her blotched and weary face, makeup askew, one eyelash partially off, and, oddly, felt a profound sadness. She’d fallen asleep again, her mouth an open, crooked chasm, a series of snorts and snores coming from it. He was pleased the evening had ended this way—that there was no need to continue it. He debated attempting to get her into the bedroom, but thought better of it. “Sleep it off here, baby,” he whispered as he slowly went to the front door, cast a final glance back, and returned to his car.
He sat behind the wheel and contemplated what he’d managed to learn that evening. It wasn’t much, but in one way it was more than he’d planned on.
Staring at the adjoining house that was Mae Feldman’s home, Buffolino was gripped with an overwhelming urge. First, he analyzed the situation: Carla Zaretski was passed out next door and likely to stay that way for a while. It was late; a few houses on the block had interior lights on, but not the ones on either side. He looked up and down the street, saw no one, started the engine, drove around the block, and parked a dozen houses removed from number 21.
He sat quietly again with the lights off until he was satisfied that no one was paying attention to him, got out of the car, pressed the driver’s door closed, and casually walked up the street until arriving at the door marked 21B. He cast a final glance to the right and left before going around to the rear of the house, where a small, unkempt yard served both sides of the dwelling. There were two first-floor rear windows on Mae Feldman’s side. Buffolino chose the one to his right, the one furthest from where Carla Zaretski slept. He tried to look inside, but the window was covered by heavy drapes. He surveyed the glass for signs of a security-system tape, saw none, placed his fingers beneath the top sash bar, and pushed. Nothing. He almost laughed aloud for thinking he’d be lucky enough to find it unlocked.
Squatting, he ran his hand over the ground until his fingers came to rest on a small rock. He wrapped his handkerchief around it and gently tapped against one of the panes. The second time, he hit it a little harder. His third attempt succeeded. The glass shattered, shards of it falling at his feet, the stillness of the night magnifying for him the sounds of the glass hitting the ground. He gingerly reached inside, turned the simple window lock, raised the window as high as it would go, and pulled himself over the sill.
He stood in blackness and waited until his eyes adjusted. Soon the outline of a bed was visible in a shaft of moonlight slicing through where the drapes had parted. The last thing he wanted to do was to turn on a lamp, but it hadn’t occurred to him to pack a flashlight to go to the opera. He closed the drapes as tightly as he could, found a small table lamp on a dresser, and turned the switch. Perfect, he thought; the three-way bulb put out minimal brightness at its lowest setting. Now, everything in the room was visible.
He opened the door to a small closet and peered inside. A few pieces of clothing hung from the rod, most of it male, including two men’s suits. An assortment of shoes was on the floor. Again, the majority of them were men’s.
Buffolino pulled a jacket from one of the hangers and held it up in front of him. “Must be a damn gorilla,” he mumbled. He replaced the jacket, ran his hand along the empty shelf at the top of the closet, and closed the door.
He got on his knees and looked under the bed for boxes. Nothing there. He quickly went through the dresser drawers and discovered that, like the closet, they contained a mixture of clothing, mostly male.
He quietly opened a door and stepped into the living room. He was reluctant to turn on a light that would be visible from the front of the house, but he didn’t have a choice. Drapes were drawn across the front picture window; that would help. He turned on a floor lamp in a corner and quickly surveyed the room, which presented him with nothing of immediate interest.
An archway led to a small foyer. Buffolino passed through it and opened a closet door. There was just enough light from the living room for him to see a metal chest about eighteen inches wide, a foot deep, and fifteen or sixteen inches high, with a handle on either end. He slid the box toward him, and was surprised at how heavy it was—some sort of fireproof metal container. He returned to the living room and placed the box on a chair beneath the lamp. The box was locked. He reached in his pants pocket for a small pocket knife and tried to jimmy the lock. No luck. He thought for a moment, then decided to take the box with him, find a way to open it in the car, check its contents, and, if all still looked peaceful, return it to the house.
He’d just switched off the lamp when he heard a noise outside the front door. He stiffened and cocked his head. Someone was inserting a key in the lock. Buffolino quickly positioned himself just inside the door, drew his .22, and waited, watched, as the lock was released and the doorknob turned.
A man, small in stature, stepped into the foyer. He held a revolver in his hand. Buffolino struck, the weight of his right hand and weapon coming down squarely on the back of the man’s neck. The intruder fell to the floor, and Buffolino leaped on top of him, twisted the arm that held the revolver and brought it up sharply behind the man’s back, causing the revolver to fall, and the intruder to shout in pain.
Buffolino never saw the second person come through the door, only felt the thud of a heavy object against the base of his skull. He pitched forward, semiconscious, his .22 sliding across the tile foyer floor. He desperately reached for it, but the second man drove his foot into his temple. A sudden burst of brilliant white pinpoints of light preceded blackness.
* * *
He was out for only a few minutes. He sensed that, got to his hands and knees, blinked against the pain in his head, and was aware that his revolver was gone.
He pulled himself to his feet and made a quick decision to leave the way he’d entered, through the back, reasoning that whoever had attacked him didn’t know he’d come through a broken window in the rear. He passed through the living room, saw that the metal box was no longer where he’d left it, and cursed every step that sent a spasm through his skull. He entered the bedroom and listened at the window. It occurred to him how lucky he was. Whoever they were, they were armed. They could have shot him instead of just roughing him up. Small blessings. “Count ’em, Tony,” he muttered as he placed his left leg through the window. Once that foot was secure outside, he dragged his right leg behind him, the one whose injury had almost prematurely ended his career as a cop. He’d hit the floor in the foyer pretty hard, and that knee ached.
Now he was outside, maybe not with what he’d gone in for, but he was out—and alive—aching knee and head be damned.
He placed his hands on the windowsill, drew a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. It was when all the breath was out of him that he became aware of someone behind him. He slowly turned to see the moon’s rays reflecting off the barrel of a shotgun. “Hey, wait a minute,” he started to say as the face belonging to the shotgun came into focus. Carla Zaretski stood there, the gun shaking in her hand, her face the same weary, swollen mess it had been when he’d brought her home.
“Carla, it’s me, I—”
The shotgun discharged with a roar, the pellets from the shell tearing into the flesh of his right thigh from just below his crotch to his knee. Her second blast, which resulted from an uncontrollable spasm in her fingers, missed him and sprayed the wall with pellets. The force of the first shot blew his right leg out from under him and spun him around. He fell against the house and slid down it, a broad crimson smear tracing his descent. His only words before passing out were, “Not the knee, not the goddamn knee …”
Fifteen minutes later, two uniformed policemen and two paramedics placed Tony Buffolino on a stretcher after taking emergency measures to stop the bleeding. Carla Zaretski sobbed between swallows of straight rye from a tall kitchen glass. “I heard noise and went into the backyard,” she said for the tenth time. “I saw the broken window and called the police. I didn’t know who it was.”
“Will he make it?” one of the cops asked a kneeling medic.
“Yeah, but he’s lost more blood than the four of us own. Come on, let’s move.”
“You have any idea why he’d break in like this?” one of the cops asked Carla. “You live next door, right?”
“Yes. No, I don’t know. Maybe it was …” Had he been after her in a fit of passion? That question comforted her long after Buffolino had been taken away and the police had completed their questioning.