Death in North Beach Read Free

it.
    â€˜There,’ Lang said.
    She moved it left and right.
    â€˜There.’
    â€˜Could you hold it here while I mark it?’
    He did. She put two pencil marks and he put the painting down. She reached in her purse to get two sturdy nails and one tiny hammer.
    â€˜You borrow that from the Keebler elves?’
    â€˜I did. By the way, they don’t like you.’
    She pounded in the nails. It was slow going, but eventually she got the job done.
    â€˜Seems as if you live in a miniature world,’ he said. She didn’t answer.
    Lang looked down at the newspaper. It was a late city edition, a rarity these days.
    As Lang left Carly’s office, his eye caught a photograph of San Francisco legend Whitney Warfield four columns wide and above the fold. The headline read: ‘Warfield Dead in the Water’. Lang didn’t know Warfield, but knew of him. Who didn’t? The headline was a surprisingly playful reference to one of his books, Dead in the Water , one of the many books Lang hadn’t read.
    Lang was more of a movie guy. In fact, tonight, he was going to have crab cakes and beer and watch three of his favorites – Blood Simple , Blood and Wine and Red Rock West – all gritty little films about nasty people.

Two
    One could guess his age and be off ten years either way. Maybe more. On this sunny morning, Thanh wore a straw hat, a white silky shirt open two buttons at the neck, light, sharply creased slacks, and something of a cross between shoes and sandals. He – and Thanh was a ‘he’ today – looked a little pimpish or just maybe in the wrong town. This was fog city, not sin city. But it was also September. Essentially summer. That San Francisco is in California is a myth – except during the warm and sunny months of September and October.
    Thanh stood just inside Lang’s office this beautiful morning, not only wearing cool but being cool.
    â€˜There’s a guy here looking for Carly.’
    â€˜Do I look like Carly?’ Lang asked without looking up.
    â€˜No, I guess not. But maybe if we did something with your hair . . .’
    When Lang looked up he got the full ‘Thanh in the tropics’ effect.
    â€˜You thinking about moving to Manila?’ Lang asked him.
    â€˜You going out for a game of touch football?’ Thanh said. ‘You’re one to talk. Look at you. You’ve worn the same sweatshirt for three days.’
    â€˜This week. All last week as well.’
    â€˜When was the last time you washed your jeans?’
    â€˜Oh, you’re supposed to wash these things?’
    â€˜Now, take our guy waiting for Carly,’ Thanh said. ‘Good-looking guy. Expensive clothes. Sharp crease in his pants. Asked for her by name.’
    â€˜That’s all very nice. I’m happy for him, but why are you telling me?’
    â€˜She isn’t here.’
    â€˜Give him a magazine.’
    Thanh sighed and left. One couldn’t predict who Thanh would be tomorrow. It wasn’t a game, this endless supply of identities. It was a way of life.
    Lang looked at his watch. Carly was late. There were no posted hours, but during their relatively brief period as partners, she almost always beat him in.
    He heard a door shut, conversation, introductions. All was well with the world. He went back to his computer, and his Netflix page. He was hungry for more of the kind of movies he watched last night. As he scanned a list of noir choices, he dialed up his iPod for ‘Tony Bennett Sings Duke Ellington’. He would call around to see if he could dig up business, but he’d wait until ten. Meanwhile, he’d play. After all, he was his own boss and a very lenient one at that.
    â€˜Do I call you Sweet William?’ Carly asked when they were seated in her office. To say she was aware of his green eyes would be an understatement.
    â€˜If you want to, but only Anselmo calls me that, a name he gave me years