Peter Maravelis - San Francisco Noir

But at 3 a.m., when La Jessica was out of costume, she looked like any other vato hanging around waiting to pick up a drunk to bounce or bed for money.

She smoked a filtered cigarette and the apple in her throat bobbed with each phrase.

“Mira, I was standing right here, mismito . And the flames just shot up at once, dios mio, it was like a woosh , licking up the side of the building.”

“The flames didn’t come from inside of the hotel?”

“No, chulo, from the outside.”

“What else you see?”

“Two men running away.”

“You sure of that?”

“I’m sure they were men. As sure as I’m La Jessica.”

That was proof enough for me. That and the burned-out hulk of the building across the street, standing like some pre-Hispanic ruins in the jungles of the city.

“These men, could you identify them?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Did you get a good look at them?”

“Well, they had big muscles, they were you know, muy fuerte.”

I thanked La Jessica and went home to Alabama Street. I would have to return the next day, sift around for evidence. I walked into my loft without turning on the lights, without checking for messages, just letting the glow from the street fill up the emptiness inside me.

I had nightmares, screams and bodies burning, people leaping from buildings to their deaths. I woke up early and reached for my file. There wasn’t much there-kinda like Oakland. The notes on my three visits, including the one Wednesday, three days ago, described the minor stuff I’d cited. The listed owner was F. Delgado, et al . The address was on South Van Ness, one of those old Victorian mansions in the heart of the barrio. It was on my way to the ruins of the Apache Hotel, so I dropped by on the off chance F. Delgado might be around. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I can look someone in the eye and right away tell you if they’re up to something evil.

In another century, the nineteenth to be exact, South Van Ness was millionaire’s row. Victorian mansions lined the blocks, ornate ladies in wood lace and wrought-iron curlicues. Even old man Spreckles, the sugar baron, had his digs here, on the corner of Twenty-first and South Van Ness. Later, after the earthquake, most of these notable scoundrels parked their hats on Snob Hill, leaving the best weather to us poor folks in the flats.

At the door of one of these mansions from that era, all restored and pretty, I knocked once, twice, nothing happened. After I leaned on the doorbell, a maid finally cracked the door, but kept the security chain latched.

“Look lady,” I said, “I carry no stinking badges.”

She blinked once but didn’t budge. So I repeated: “No soy policía. Busco a un tal F. Delgado.”

“No Delgado here…this Señora Lopez house.”

Then a voice came from behind the door: “What’s the matter, Carmen?”

A woman I had not seen in years and thought I would never see again stepped out. Sofia Nido was beautiful as ever. And seeing her brought back that summer in Puerto Escondido, so long ago it seemed like another lifetime. Ten years ago we had spent a torrid summer together, dancing on tables, making love on the beach, living like the apocalypse was here. But to her it had been a fling; she had come back to her fiancé, and we had gone our separate ways. I had never gotten over her and had drunk many a beer in her memory.

“Roberto-what are you doing here?”

“I guess I could ask you the same thing. I came to see a certain F. Delgado. Ring a bell?”

“Can’t say that it does. But maybe my aunt might know. I’m her attorney.”

“Any chance I can talk to her?”

“What’s this about Roberto? Are you with the police? That is so unbecoming of you.”

“It’s a bit complicated.”

“I see. My aunt is very ill. She really can’t see anyone right now.”

“Maybe when she feels better?”

“Perhaps. But Roberto, excuse me, I’m late for an appointment. Can I give you a ride anywhere?”

“I’m on my way to Sixteenth and Valencia.” It didn’t faze her, which was a good sign. I wanted to see how she’d react to the fire scene. But I forgot all about that watching her drive, her profile like an Indian goddess, her eyes big and dark.

She drove a red roadster and moved smoothly into traffic headed down South Van Ness. “I hardly recognize you, Roberto. So, you’re with the city?”

“Department of Building Inspection. I go after deadbeat landlords who don’t provide habitable housing. And with rents so high, many landlords are ripping someone off. Especially in this barrio. And you-why such short hair?”

“I’m between men. Short hair makes me feel in control.”

“Yes…and my girlfriend just left me.”

“You mean you’ve lost your touch with women?”

“It happened when I lost you.”

She looked at me hard and I wished I hadn’t said that.

But she didn’t slap me, so I changed the subject and took a crazy chance. “Say, there’s a band playing tonight from Nueva York. You feel like maybe…?”

She shook her head, in exasperation, I guess. “I can’t believe you asked me that. I guess I’m an idiot, but sure, why not? Haven’t gone salsa dancing in years.”

I bailed out at Sixteenth and Valencia. “Pick me up around 9:00, in front of the old can factory. Later, alligator.”

I watched her drive away. My emotions were so tangled up knowing how dangerous it was to be involved with her. And yet, that was exactly what I was doing. It wasn’t till later that I realized I’d forgotten to check her reaction to the smoldering remains of the Apache Hotel.

A chain-link fence surrounded the area. Two cops were guarding the site, looking bored. A big tractor inside the gates was headed for the burned-out walls. I whipped out my camera, but one of them jumped in my face.

“Morales-what the hell you want?”

“Photos of the site.”

“For your scrapbook? Get outta here.”

Then the tractor slammed into the building and knocked down half a wall.

“Hey, you’re destroying evidence. Who gave you the right?”

“You’re a day late. The D.A. has all the photos they need.”

“How can he, if you’re knocking down the building?”

“Are you doubting me, you flat-assed Mexican?”

“Look, Johnson, I know you hate my guts, but seven people died here. I want to know why.”

“I bet you do. It’s on your ass, isn’t it? You’re the one that overlooked the fire hazards. This is on your conscience. If liberals like you have a conscience.”

“Have it your way, pin-head.”

The word was already out on the street, the frame was on. The bulldozer had knocked down the side of the building facing Valencia Street, but the fire had started on the Sixteenth Street side. I stood in front of Esta Noche and shot a whole roll, clearly showing the charred side of the building where La Jessica claimed to have first seen the flames. It was obvious to me what had happened. Something had caught on fire in the passageway, right underneath the fire escape. The bastards could have spared the fire escape, giving those inside a chance to get out.

I saw Johnson on his walkie-talkie, so I made myself scarce.

I wanted to meet with La Jessica again. Show her the photos and have her mark where she saw the two men and the flames.

I went back to the bar on Twenty-fourth Street to drink a beer with the yellow dot on the neck and mull over the file. I went over my notes and wrote down everything that had happened. It was clear someone was trying to bury this thing, and quick. It was too messy for them. But who were they? Who was F. Delgado and the et al ? They owned the Apache Hotel; their business address, the one on South Van Ness. I figured Sofia’s aunt was part of the et al , and Sofia was lying to protect her. Or, Sofia didn’t know anything about it-but as her aunt’s attorney, that seemed far-fetched. As a precaution, I left my files, my notes, and my camera with Miss Mary, and just kept the empty briefcase.