“Somehow, I think the company helps, don’t you,” she said, giving the maitre d’ a quick smile as he discreetly whisked away the tray.
Banks shared the last of the wine between them and set the bottle down on the red tablecloth. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it certainly does.”
“What’s wrong?” Teresa said. “You suddenly sound sad.”
“Do I?” Banks shrugged. “Maybe because it’s my last night here.”
“You mustn’t think that way.”
“I mustn’t?”
“No, of course not.” The waiter returned with the credit card receipt. Teresa added a tip and signed it with a flourish. Then she picked up her purse. “Let me just visit the powder room,” she said, “then I want to show you something.”
Banks nodded. While she was away, he sipped his wine and glanced at the slightly garish commercial painting of Lake Como on the wall opposite him. Annie wouldn’t like it, he thought, finding it odd that he should suddenly think of Annie when she was thousands of miles away. Maybe it was time to go home. But he was certainly enjoying his evening with Teresa. She was recently divorced, she had told him over dinner, with grown-up kids and grandchildren, and she worked as a child psychologist back in Boston. This trip was a present to herself on her decree absolute coming through, and an excuse to visit her family. She was also, she told him, thinking of moving permanently to California and had been making a few exploratory calls regarding jobs and accommodation.
The little restaurant bar was to the right of Banks, and he could see out of the corner of his eye the rows of bottles gleaming. Should he suggest a Cognac? Perhaps it would be best to wait until they got to the hotel bar. After all, Teresa had already paid the bill here. And there was something she wanted to show him.
Teresa took his arm as they walked out on the quiet side street and made their way toward Columbus, busy and brightly lit, past the Condor on the intersection with Broadway. Instead of taking Grant, with its arches, pagodas, restaurants and cheap souvenir chops, they walked down Stockton, a street of small grocery stores with piles of exotic vegetables and dried goods out front. Even at ten o’clock it was still crowded with shoppers haggling over their purchases and testing the quality, spilling from the sidewalk onto the road. Banks remembered his old sergeant in London, Ozzy Albright, telling him that San Francisco had the biggest Chinatown outside of China itself. They had been in the London Chinatown at the time, much smaller, during his last case down there in 1985. It was a case that had come back to haunt him just before he came away, as such things often did, which was why he thought of it now. You might have to wait a lifetime for justice, but sometimes you got it in the end. Like karma.
Teresa was chatting away at his side, and Banks realized he hadn’t been listening, had been drifting into times past. “Where did you say we were going?” he asked.
She gave him a sharp glance. “I didn’t,” she said. “It’s a surprise. I told you.”
“Right.”
Soon they left the crowds behind. There were fewer shops and the street became darker. “This is the Stockton Tunnel we’re walking on,” Teresa said. “And what we want is…” She looked around her, as if verifying something with her memory. “Over here.” She pointed to a small alley over to their right atop the tunnel off Bush Street, running parallel to Stockton. It was called Burritt Street, Banks noticed as they approached. “Sorry,” Teresa said. “It’s been a long time.”
“What is it?” Banks asked. “Are you leading me down a dark alley?”
Teresa laughed. “Not very far down,” she said. “It’s here. Look.”
And she pointed to a plaque on the wall. Banks could just about read it from the ambient streetlight. ON APPROXIMATELY THIS SPOT MILES ARCHER, PARTNER OF SAM SPADE, WAS DONE IN BY BRIGID O’SHAUGHNESSY.
Banks stopped and stared. So this was the place where it happened. He turned to face Teresa and grinned.
“Well, you did say you were a detective,” she said. “I just thought you might find it interesting.”
“I do. I’ve just started reading the book, too. I’d never realized…
I mean, I know the story isn’t true, but the city is so vivid in the book, almost a character in its own right. I never thought I’d…I’m stuck for words.” He read the plaque again. “But it gives away the ending.”
“Yes, it does, rather, doesn’t it? But is that so important?”
“I’ve never thought so,” said Banks. “Besides, I’ve already seen the movie, and so far the book is following pretty closely.”
“I think you’ll find it was the other way around. Here,” Teresa said, fumbling in her purse. “Stand right next to it. I’m going to take your picture.”
Banks stood. First came the flickering of the anti-red-eye, then the flash itself. While Banks was still blinded by the light, a voice came from the end of the alley.
“Would you like me to take one of the two of you together?”
By the time Banks could see again, Teresa had handed her camera to the man, whose wife, or girlfriend, stood looking on, smiling, and she took her place next to Banks, resting her head on his shoulder by the plaque. The camera flashed again. The man checked the display to see that it had come out all right and handed the camera back to Teresa, who thanked him.
“How did you know he wouldn’t just run off with your camera?” Banks asked as they went down the steps beside the tunnel.
“Oh, don’t be such a cynic. You have to have a bit of trust in people sometimes or it’s hardly worth living.”
“I suppose so,” said Banks.
“Besides, they were walking along hand in hand. People like that aren’t usually petty thieves.”
Banks laughed. “Maybe you’d make a good cop after all,” he said. Teresa smiled. “Surely it’s just common sense.”
They continued down Stockton Street, crossed Union Square and walked along Geary back to the hotel. A cable car bell dinged up Powell toward the Mark Hopkins, where Banks had drunk his martini on his first night in the city, and a crowd was coming out of the Geary Street theater as they passed. They were staging Noel Coward’s Brief Encounter, Banks noticed. There were a few of the regular street people around-Banks recognized the black man in rags and the old woman-but nobody bothered them.
When they got to the Monaco, Banks asked, “How about a quick nightcap in the bar?”
Teresa paused, still holding on to his arm. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Too many people. They would spoil the mood. Too noisy. I’ve got a bottle of good Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon in my room. Why don’t you come up with me and we’ll have that nightcap?”
There was no mistaking the promise in her eyes. Banks swallowed. “Well,” he said. “That would just about make the perfect end to the perfect last day of a perfect holiday.”
7
JAFF?”
“Yeah, babe, what is it?”
“What exactly is going on?” Tracy asked. “I mean, why are we doing this? Why are we on the run? Why do you want to go to London and get across the Channel so badly?”
“It’s better you don’t know too much,” Jaff said. “Like I said, it’s my problem, not yours. I’m only grateful you’ve found me a place to lie low for a few days while I get things in motion down there.”
“But it’s my problem, too, now,” said Tracy. “Besides, I won’t say anything to anyone. I won’t talk. We’re in it together now, aren’t we? I’ve helped you so far, but I’m still in the dark. Sometimes you make me feel like a prisoner. Maybe I can do more to help.”
“You’re not a prisoner. We just have to be extra careful, that’s all, and I know how to do it. It’s better if you listen to me. You’ve already been a great help, Fran. Don’t think I’m not grateful. That’s why I don’t want to burden you with too much knowledge. You know what curiosity did, don’t you? Just believe me. It’s safer this way. Okay? Now come on, babe…”