“Anybody ever tell you you’re a cynical bastard?”
Jack smiled and was about to respond when a voice rang out from across the dining room, calling Tony’s name.
They both looked up to see Danny Pescatori emerging from the kitchen with a grin on his face-a short, squat, powerful Sicilian who, along with his brother Carlo, had been running Pagliaci’s for over thirty years now, ever since their parents had retired.
Pagliaci’s on the Wharf was a San Francisco institution. It had been standing on this very same spot for nearly a century, serving Sicilian seafood that made your mouth water just thinking about it. It didn’t hurt that it boasted a view of two dozen bobbing fishing boats, Alcatraz Island, and the bay, stretching past the Golden Gate Bridge to the Headlands.
Jack had been coming here for longer than he could remember, and always found it difficult to say no to the shrimp. The Pescatoris made sure that he got the “A” shack supply, which was reserved for family and friends. Shrimp that always smacked of the sea. Briny, not slimy.
But it was Tony who was the mainstay here. He’d practically grown up in the place and the Pescatoris always treated him like a brother. He knew more about the wharf and wharf politics than anyone really should, and had once said to Jack, “If I told you even a third of what I know, I’d be in cement shoes before you could peel one of those shrimp you love.” In San Francisco, almost all Italians of a certain generation knew each other like extended family.
As Danny Pescatori emerged from the kitchen, he made a quick side trip to the front counter, then crossed the dining room toward them, waving a small card. “Hey, hey, Cousin, what did I tell you?”
Despite his mood, Tony’s eyes lit up. “The gala?”
Danny reached the table and dropped an invitation in front of him. “Next Saturday night, VIP entry.”
It was a black-tie dinner at the Legion of Honor that promised appearances by the governor, the mayor, two senators, a roster of movie and rock stars that would make Woodstock look like a block party-and the President of the United States himself. At $7500 a plate, only the top tier would be there.
Tony had been angling for this invitation for months. Not because he particularly cared about going-he wasn’t a fan of the current occupant of the White House-but because Darleen was hot to go and Tony knew he had to try to get them an invite.
Not surprisingly, Danny Pescatori had come through.
“I owe you, Cousin.”
“Shut up, you. The day you owe me anything is the day I retire.”
The sight of the invitation must have perked Tony up, because he suddenly declared that he was hungry.
As usual, they both ordered off the menu, Tony asking for Carlo’s special seafood sausages, while Jack decided to stick to the “A” shack shrimp, drenched in marinara. He also ordered the pup his usual hamburger.
The little guy actually licked his chops as if he knew exactly what was coming.
When Danny went to put in the order, Jack said, “So where were we?”
Tony sobered, pocketing his invitation. “Trying to pin down exactly what the FBI wants to cover up.”
“Well, whoever’s behind it is crazy if they think they’ve heard the last of it. We know their story’s bull, and if there’s any truth to Leon Thomas’s statement, I need to find out. I owe that much to Drabinsky.”
“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”
“Same way I always have. Keep whacking at the pinata until it finally breaks.”
“You may not like what you find inside,” Tony told him. “Or worse yet, it may not like you.”
“I’ve never let that stop me.”
Tony nodded. “Fair enough. So what’s your next step?”
Jack thought about it a moment. Then he said, “I think it’s time to call Bob Copeland.”
8
The Beat Cafe seemed like an odd place for a meet.
It was located next to a strip club in North Beach, and Jack thought of it as really nothing more than a hamburger joint with a gimmick. Done up like an old 1950s coffeehouse, its walls were adorned with huge photographs of beatniks, now long forgotten.
Pay a small fee and you could walk through the restaurant to the back, climb a set of wooden steps, and find yourself in a tiny “museum” full of more photographs, newspaper articles, and even furniture, all centering around the prehippie Beat Generation.
The museum had a kind of quiet, reverential charm, but was the last place Jack would have picked to rendezvous with a source. If anything, he would have chosen the Etna Cafe, which was just around the corner. At least you could get a decent drink there.
He checked his watch, a vintage Hamilton Gilbert he’d inherited from his father that could well have been part of this museum.
It was nearly nine P.M.
He stood staring at a stark, moody portrait of an attractive blonde when he felt a presence next to him.
Bob Copeland.
“It’s always about the girl, isn’t it?” asked the rough, smoky voice. “Carolyn Cassady. She was the real driving force, you know. Married to Neal Cassady and sleeping with Jack Kerouac.”
Copeland was a stout man with a bulldog face who had always reminded Jack of one of his heroes, Winston Churchill. Without the accent, of course.
“That must’ve made for an interesting home life,” Jack said.
Copeland waved an arm. “All this nonsense destroyed Kerouac. He was a true American literary giant who despised the so-called Beat Movement that hacks like Ginsberg ruthlessly promoted.” He looked at Jack. “Did you know Kerouac voted for Nixon?”
“I had no idea.”
Copeland shrugged. “It’s all ancient history. Which is what we’ll both be a few years down the line. Think anyone’ll ever erect a museum in our honor?”
“Doubtful,” Jack said.
A former Defense Department official, Vietnam combat veteran, and a leading proponent of cyberdefense, Copeland was a member of a conservative think tank who divided his time between Washington and San Francisco-Jack’s most reliable “anonymous” source back in the days of Truth Tellers. He had a direct line into the D.C. nerve center and Jack had been all too happy to mine that connection.
The man also had a love affair with clandestine theatrics, which was why he always chose their meeting places. That usually meant the Museum of Modern Art, or the Academy of Sciences, but maybe Copeland was looking for a change of pace these days.
Jack couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t seen or heard from the man in over two years.
“You’re looking pretty good, Jack. How you been?”
“Can’t complain.”
Copeland chuckled. “The hell you can’t. You still getting death threats?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“At least you’ve still got the old self-confidence. That and a pocketful of cash is all a man really needs. Everything else is dead weight.” He shot Jack a glance. “Speaking of which, you see much of the ex these days?”
“Not really.”
Jack didn’t exactly think of Rachel as dead weight, but he had no interest in seeing her. Jack met her while doing a segment for one of his shows, The World of the Runway Model. She was tall, almost five foot nine, with raven hair and green eyes. After interviewing her for the program, he took her for a quick coffee at a local cafe in North Beach. She immediately struck him as more than just a body.
“What did you learn from your parents?” she asked him-out of nowhere, it seemed, but that was the way she was. Inquisitive in ways he never quite fathomed. And she was direct. There was nothing she would not ask.
They quickly became inseparable, joined in body and in mind. But they were also talkers, big-time, who hashed everything out-or talked it to death, whichever came first. In the end, they realized that neither of them was really listening to the other, two alphas competing for the same turf. At least he and Rachel had always had a wonderful time in bed, which is more than could be said for a lot of married couples. But they clashed just about everywhere else. After the divorce, he vowed never again to mistake an orgasm for a declaration of love.