Free Telegraph Hill by John F. Nardizzi

13
     
    The next morning, Ray awoke to another sunny day
in California, the kind that keeps the myth alive. His entire body throbbed
with pain. He gulped down some ibuprofen. He put on a blue dress shirt with a
dark blue patterned jacket, set off with a gold tie and tan pants. Then he
dialed room service. An overly polite waiter set a table with scrambled eggs
and a pot of black coffee.
    Ray ate quickly and then got ready to see his
witness. He put a notebook in his leather bag, along with two pens—the weaponry
of conversation. He planned to stop in North Beach and interview Steven Moran
this afternoon. Most witnesses talked when approached for an interview. They
were concerned or curious or bored. Some wanted to test wits; others needed a
break from their padded lives. Even when their self-interest cried out for the
quietness of the grave, they talked. And if the questioner donned a jacket and
tie, worthiness was beyond question.
    He exited the hotel, walked up the hill, and
caught a cab on California Street. The city was in the throes of morning rush
hour. He directed the driver to Vallejo Street in North Beach.
    North Beach was the old Italian neighborhood of
San Francisco. Over the years, North Beach had turned into an annex of
Chinatown: Chinese residents were now a solid majority. But the Italian flavor
remained in the commercial area, diluted but lingering, the scent of garlic and
tomato sauce wafting from the restaurants lining Columbus Street. Dressed in
coats and ties, old Italian men tossed crumbs to pigeons in Washington Square
and drew on an endless reservoir of gestures, hands swooping like brown doves.
They patrolled the perimeter of the park; they held ancient grudges; they sat
for three hour lunches and played bocce near the library. They were the last of
a generation that had not renewed itself.
    Ray got off at the corner of Vallejo and Grant and
walked to 49 Vallejo Street. The house was midway up Telegraph Hill, a six unit
Georgian-style building with a view of the concrete canyons of downtown. The
small yard was dominated by an enormous century plant, its green spiky leaves
scarred with the carved initials of passersby. ‘Moran’ was listed on the
mailbox, apartment 2. He rang the bell. No one answered. He rang again.
Nothing. He waited for a minute and then walked back to North Beach.
    Ray headed over to Cafe Trevi, owned by his old
friend, Nino Pescatore. The 68 year old still served his signature dish of
spinach ravioli at the Cafe on the corner of Stockton and Columbus. He was a
legend in the area, holder of special titles, privy to neighborhood secrets. He
embodied the old neighborhood as North Beach underwent a creeping metamorphosis
from Italian to Chinese.
    As head of the Italian American Sports Club, Nino
was the honorary chairman of the Columbus Day Parade, a position that included
the right to play Christopher Columbus during the celebration. Things had gone
roughly as of late. A few years ago, he had expected to land a replica of the
Santa Maria at Fisherman's Wharf in a reenactment of Columbus’s landing in the
New World. Unfortunately, his landing was met by protesters decrying the
destruction of Native American culture. Despite Nino battering several
protesters with a foil-wrapped replica of Columbus’s sword, he was ultimately
prevented from landing. He had vowed to land—whatever the cost—this year.
    Nino sipped a cappuccino with Ray at a small table
near the window. “This year, there will be no problems. I have everything accounted
for.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “We are going right for the top. Cut off the
head.” Nino smiled.
    “Sounds drastic.”
    “Go for the jugular. Choke ’em out early. I told
the nuts if they don’t screw around with the landing, we’ll send something over.
Give ‘em a big envelope.”
    “An envelope?”
    “A donation. For their cause. Why not?” Nino
shrugged. “Listen, I’m Sicilian, I feel for these guys. The Lucchese in