Free Death in North Beach by Ronald Tierney Page A

would be in next week’s Fog City Voice. Maybe that was good. Maybe not.
    â€˜Who do you think might want Mr Warfield dead?’ Carly asked.
    â€˜Shifting gears, I see,’ he said. He was enjoying himself.
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Who might want him dead and who might be willing to do it are two different things. Warfield’s son hated his father. We don’t know why. Maybe just being in the man’s shadow was enough to piss off young Warfield. Maybe it was that Whitney cheated on his mother. Whatever it is, his intense dislike of his father was known around town.’
    â€˜Who else?’
    â€˜Who else do you have on the list?’ he asked.
    If it were going to be tit for tat, she would offer up one.
    â€˜Samuel McFarland.’
    Brozynski thought a moment. Nodded. ‘Sure.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜A host of reasons. McFarland was for the new North Beach hotel. He and Chiu.’ Brozynski thought for a long time and Carly was happy that she got a second on the Chiu inclusion. ‘But McFarland was trying to lay low in public on the issue. It was one of those deals that would piss off half his constituency. If he came out against it, he’d piss off the other half. The money half. It opened up the whole debate about North Beach as a thriving viable neighborhood versus honoring its history and leaving it as part of authentic San Francisco. Whitney was opposed to anything that would change things in North Beach. North Beach was a shrine. He bled at each change. He snarled at tourists too. He was vocal. And he had some pull.’
    Brozynski seemed to tire after navigating his last answer. His eyes lost focus. He was either drifting off to his own thoughts or was bored. He excused himself, though he didn’t get up. It was clear, Carly was expected to leave.
    She got up to leave.
    â€˜By the way, I’ve been on many lists,’ Brozynski said. ‘Better ones than Warfield’s – mayors, bikers, hospitals, corporate executives. I was probably on Nixon’s.’
    Carly met her friend Nadia at Delfina’s on 18th Street near Valencia. The two of them got together at least once a week for a little light chatter. And Nadia’s office – she ran a non-profit organization that helped artists – was in the Mission, where many of the younger, struggling artists congregated. Low rents. But that was changing, as it always did, and part of the Mission was no longer low rent. Trendy restaurants, like Delfina’s, popped up all over on Valencia and Guerrero. Eventually, the Mission, like all San Francisco neighborhoods, would be gentrified.
    Carly found Nadia sitting at an outside table at the restaurant’s recently added Pizzeria – a more casual and less expensive place than the highly recommended dining room. Two glasses of wine were on the table.
    Nadia smiled.
    â€˜I took the liberty of ordering you the cheap wine,’ she said.
    â€˜You know me too well,’ Carly said, settling into the chair and looking at all the young and mostly hip folks seated at sidewalk tables or walking by. ‘What’s up?’
    â€˜Putting together a show. I’ve rented a gallery for three weeks and we’re pressing on new work in all media.’
    An attractive woman came out to take their orders. They ordered Monterey Bay Sardines and a Margherita pizza. They would share. With Nadia, one always shared, which meant that any time they dined together, it would be a negotiation worthy of ambassadors and international trade.
    â€˜Sounds exciting,’ Carly said after the server left, ‘the show.’
    â€˜It is. I can’t tell you how energizing it is to work with all this young talent.’
    â€˜Just working?’ Carly asked, an edge in her voice. Nadia was often more than a little taken with her discoveries.
    â€˜Just work.’ She smiled. ‘Just work.’ But the way she cocked her head suggested that the situation