Peter Maravelis - San Francisco Noir

“Would you really do anything for me?”

“Double back-flips on a high wire.”

“I’m not joking,” she hissed. Without breaking her lock on my eyes, she held the burning tip of the cigarette an inch from my skin. When I didn’t pull back, she pressed the hot ember against my forearm and held it there for a quick second, just long enough to leave a red ring tinged with ashes. I didn’t flinch.

“Do I pass the test?”

She sat back and took another hit of the cig. “Why don’t we just leave? Turn over the evidence and get out of Dodge?”

“I don’t have it on me. The photos are stashed on Twenty-fourth Street. I’m thinking that’s what those thugs were after. And who would follow up on it? No, I have to stay.”

“Then I’ll stay with you.”

I flicked away the ashes on my forearm and grabbed her hair. I knew this scene. Knew it very well.

“Now it’s my turn, cariño .”

I pulled her to me, and she was on fire. Our mouths kissed, hot and angry.

I finally let her up for air and she said, “I’ve never kissed a man with a mustache before.”

Then I unzipped her dress, stopping my hand on the curve of her nalgas . She turned to face me and shrugged the top half of her dress off her body. She was naked above the waist, without a bra; a string of candlelight danced around her breasts, small as pomegranates. I placed one in my mouth and sucked the juice from it. We undressed each other before rolling onto the rug, the two of us twined together like serpents. I slipped my hand under her back and flipped her on her stomach, pulled her hair, and hissed in her ear-“I want you to be my puta .”

She didn’t hesitate in answering-“Make me do what you want.”

And I did, over and over, all night long.

I woke up alone in her bed Sunday morning. I didn’t have time to relish the night before. There was a note on the pillow and the morning paper. Call me on my pager -and her name scrawled in red. The headlines sent a shock through me: La Jessica had been found stabbed to death in her hotel room. The paper speculated that a john, angry at having discovered Jesus instead of Jessica under the wig, had taken out his rage with a twelve-inch blade. Somehow I was left unconvinced. La Jessica had struck me as flamboyant, a tease, maybe even a tramp, but not a whore.

I still had to wait for Miss Mary to open, so I went to the little hotel down the alley from Esta Noche. That’s where La Jessica had lived, and I wanted to hear what the street had to say about her murder. There was an altar set up in the hallway and her friends were there, weeping and sobbing. They all knew me and they spoke frankly.

“Those cabrones , why did they have to kill her?”

“Because she saw too much. Everyone knows that building was torched. And that’s why they killed her, Mr. Morales.”

“She went home alone that night. Pobrecita. So there wasn’t any john, that’s just lies. Puras mentiras.”

I left the mourners to their grief and called Sofia but could only leave a message on her voice mail. “I turned up some interesting info. Meet me where I told you. Bring the documents.”

I waited in a café till about 6 p.m., Miss Mary’s opening time, and then hurried over to Twenty-fourth Street. As soon as I reached the bar I sensed something wrong. The door was ajar and the lights were off. I stepped in and Johnson and another cop were waiting for me. The place had been turned upside down and Miss Mary was in a corner, frightened to death.

“Lady’s going to lose her license. Receiving stolen city property.” Johnson had my camera and briefcase under his arm.

“The camera’s my personal property, Johnson. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s evidence now. Her license is gone. We’re merely retrieving what belongs to the city. Boy, Morales, did you ever fuck up.”

They left. I had just cost Miss Mary her gig. And I had a pretty good idea who had turned the cops on me.

I practically ran over to Dolores Street, and when I saw her roadster parked outside, I took the steps two at a time. I caught Sofia on her way out, with a little attaché case, all ready to go. I snapped. “You double-crossed me.” SMACK! I bitch-slapped her hard as I could. She stood her ground.

“You think I would do that?”

“You did.” And I let her have it again. SMACK!

“Then why did I bring you this?”

It was the señora’s little black book, listing all the contributions, legal and illegal, to the mayor, the D.A., and the chief of police.

It wrenched my heart that I’d been so cruel to Sofia. “I’m sorry.”

“Let’s leave now, Roberto. Please, before anything else happens.”

“Wait. There’s something I don’t understand. If you didn’t tell them about Miss Mary…how did they know my files were there?”

I led her back inside and started throwing the cushions around, tearing out the stuffings. Nothing. She thought I was crazy. What was I looking for? The lamp? Yes. I tore off the shade. Nothing. Then I saw the painting, the gift from the aunt, La Anima en Purgatorio. And there it was in the frame. The wire I was looking for. I ripped it out.

“Your aunt bugged you. She heard everything we said last night. What do you think of that?”

“You mean everything? What a degenerate.”

“We don’t have a minute to lose.”

“What should I pack?”

“Nothing but your lipstick. Leave no clues behind.”

Night had already fallen as I took the roadster out Dolores Street and onto the freeway headed south. I knew a little cove out by Half Moon Bay, where a friend of mine ran a motel by the beach. We could hang there for a few days, gauge the fallout, figure out our next move. I took Highway 1 to Pacifica and right away we came upon fog. It was rolling in quick and thick, and as I started heading up Devil’s Slide I could tell the ride over would be dangerous.

I put the fog lights on and looked in the rearview. Coming up behind me was a white SUV. I nudged the roadster and it rose like a bird. I lost them momentarily, but at the same time I couldn’t risk hitting eighty or ninety on those twisting curves, blinded as I was by the fog. Headlights were creeping up again-it was the SUV and it didn’t look like it wanted to pass me. It wanted to ram me.

We were going uphill but would soon come to a peak that flattened out before dropping again. With the SUV a few feet from my ass, I revved the roadster and flicked on the bright lights, creating a mirror effect, then snapped them off and did a hard brake onto the narrow right shoulder. The SUV had a choice: Pull over and smash into me, sending us both over the three hundred foot cliffs, or pass me by. It passed me by, but not without a burst from an Uzi. Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta !

“Duck!” I shouted, and pushed Sofia down. The windshield broke into spider webs, the impact of each round making the roadster tremble. Then I heard the SUV fade. I stayed down till several more cars had passed. In case there were more than one of them.

That’s when I saw the blood. Sofia had been hit. The bullet had missed me but had found her right shoulder. She was bleeding in a bad way and her eyes were frightened.

“I’m going to get some help,” I said through clenched teeth. I pulled out her little cell phone but there was no signal in this area, cut off by the sheer mountains. With my coat, I made her as comfortable as I could, but I knew she was in terrible danger.

I found a flare in her trunk and sparked it. Since the roadster was close to the cliff’s edge, I walked back toward the oncoming traffic so I could be seen in the fog and drizzle. Then headlights approached, a car with two guys bullshitting instead of paying attention. And me out there swinging the flare at them in the middle of the road. Till at the last second, the driver saw me and swerved suddenly to the right, onto the shoulder; lost control, bounced fifty feet, and smashed broadside into the roadster. KABONG !