Free Telegraph Hill by John F. Nardizzi Page A

North
Beach, they were here first. Goddamn Italian blue-bloods. They called us
Sicilians the mud people when we came here. I know how people get. Just don’t
protest when I land. That's the message that was delivered.” Nino paused. “They
protest that hard when the real Columbus came, maybe we never have this
conversation.”
    “Did you really smack someone with that sword?”
    Nino gave him a look of mock horror. “The guy
slipped. Salt water, people spill things.” He sipped his cappuccino daintily,
three fingers jutting like antennae.
    “Why do you sip like that?” Ray asked.
    “Like what?”
    Ray mimicked Nino’s splayed fingers.
    “What? You want to talk about fingers? That’s how
it’s done. Balance the cup. Ergonomics.”
    Ray nodded. “Nino, I’m trying to reach a guy who
lives up the street. Steven Moran. Do you know him?”
    “Yeah, I know Steven. Came in this morning.”
    “Any idea where he works?” asked Ray.
    “He’s working at home, I think. He’s a researcher
or something. He should be there now.”
    “OK, I’m heading up there again. I already tried
him, but no one was there.”
    “He’s there. Funny guy, probably saw your mug and
decided he’s not answering,” said Nino. “Try him again.”
    The two men watched street action, the usual city
plumage. A blond entered wearing a black dress and open-toed heels.
    “I don’t like long middle toes on a woman,” said
Nino, smoothing the air with his fingers. This was obviously a topic close to
his heart. “But she looks good. She has the toes to carry off the look.”
    “All-star toes,” said Ray. “If the middle toe
slithers off the shoe, that’s it for me.”
    “Yes. I know exactly what you mean,” said Nino.
“I‘m seeing a lot of second-tier toes.”
    “Too many women are not paying attention to this,”
said Ray.
    “Tell me about it,” said Nino. “And young guys
wearing these cheap sandals. Brutal, these guys. I’m serving the best expresso
in the city to who? Some kid with plastic feet. The things I see.”
    The men said their goodbyes. Nino unshifted the
charm and went to serve the blond.
    Ray left the cafe and headed back up to 49
Vallejo. He rang and rang, leaning on the bell. This time the intercom came alive.
    “Hello?”
    “Steven Moran, please.” Said Ray.
    “This is him.”
    “Steven, my name is Ray Infantino. I’d like to
speak with you regarding Tania, Tania Kong.”
    A long pause. “Who are you?
    “I’m trying to reach her on behalf of a family
member.”
    “Who?”
    “It’ll just take a few minutes.”
    A few seconds passed. Then a buzzer sounded and
the front door unlocked. Ray entered a brightly lit hallway devoid of any
decoration. He heard a door open somewhere down the hallway and saw a head jut
from the right into the hallway.
    Ray walked toward the head. The head moved. Then a
thin man with unkempt brown hair entered the hall. His jaw line had little
definition, sloping into his neck, giving it a hoggish aspect, pink and soft.
He wore a white tee-shirt and faded blue jeans.
    Steven Moran shook Ray’s hand, and invited him
inside. Steven was in his forties, and wore his hair long in back. His bearing
tilted toward the deferential—a guy who apologized after farting in an empty
room. Originally from the East Coast, he gave off an aura of stumbling
amazement, as if his soul had yet to adjust to the open spaces of the west.
    “How did you find me?” Steven asked.
    “I knew Tania once lived on Jones Street. You were
listed there as a co-tenant.”
    “No, I mean here?”
    “On Vallejo? Databases. If you spend money, then
you are probably in the data.”
    Steven gestured to a seat, and Ray sat in a large
green chair with a matching ottoman. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” Ray said,
knowing full well he was, and not caring at all.
    Steven grinned. “Tania, what a blast from the
past. I haven’t seen her in years.”

Chapter 14
     
    The room smelled stuffy. Ray glimpsed a dingy