“Has he said anything about his niece since you evicted her?”
The landlady frowned in thought. “Once, last year. They had some kinda falling out. She must of stole from him, that’s the kind she is.”
“Did he tell you that was the reason for the falling out?”
“No. You want to know, maybe he’ll tell you. But I wouldn’t count on it if I was you.”
“What’s his last name?”
The woman shrugged. “Tony’s Fish Stand, that’s all I know.”
And with that, she shut the door in Sabina’s face.
The open-air California Market, known far and wide as San Francisco’s “entrepot of foods,” ran for an entire block from Pine to California streets between Montgomery and Kearney. Founded in 1867, when an Irishman nicknamed The Oyster King began selling oysters harvested from the bay tidelands near Burlingame, it was now a vast bazaar of stalls dispensing meat, fresh fish and shellfish, produce, and flowers to hotels and restaurants as well as private individuals.
Sabina had been there a number of times before, to shop and once with Callie to have a meal at another of the market’s prominent features, Sam’s Grill. It was an enticing place, filled with a tantalizing mixture of aromas stirred and carried by a breeze from the bay. As always, the aisles were crowded with women carrying shopping baskets, men pushing handcarts loaded with a variety of goods to and from the vendors.
She stopped one of the men to ask where Tony’s Fish Stand was located. He informed her it was near Pine Street, midway within the marketplace. She made her way through the throng of shoppers, ignoring the entreaties of sellers hawking their wares. Poultry, lamb, beef, seafood. Pineapples, alligator pears, papayas from Hawaii, and great bunches of ripe bananas from Mexico. Locally grown fruits and vegetables. Freshly baked breads, cakes, pies. Freshly roasted coffee beans. And such appetizing cooked foods as grilled sausages, Indian kabobs, and fried calamari.
The aroma of cooking sausages reminded her that it was past lunchtime and she was hungry. And sausages, in her opinion, were one of man’s greatest concoctions. The thought of a grilled bratwurst on rye bread made her mouth water. Her appetite, always healthy, had returned with a vengeance once she’d come to terms with Stephen’s death. She never gained a pound, however, no matter how much she ate; her slender waist was the same as it had been on her wedding day. Sometimes she thought it unseemly to be so fond of food, but as John had said to her once, God would not have put so much of it on earth if it wasn’t meant to be eaten. How could she do less than her part in obeying His will?
Tony’s Fish Stand was a large and thriving enterprise, its ice bins displaying a wide array of fresh fish and seafood. The filets of smoked salmon looked particularly good; Sabina thought she would purchase a piece for her supper.
Three employees were serving customers and restocking bins. Sabina pushed up to the nearest of them. When she asked if he was Tony, he shook his head and called to a handsome, mustached man with graying black hair, “This lady wants you, Mr. Antonelli.”
Tony Antonelli’s eyes sparkled when he saw Sabina. But his examination was appreciative only, without either guile or leer. He filled a tiny paper cup and held it out to her. “Bay shrimp, bella signora,” he said. “Best anywhere in the Market.”
She smiled and took the cup. The shrimp were indeed fresh and succulent.
“You like to buy some for your supper?”
“I was thinking of a piece of smoked salmon. But yes, a quarter pound of the shrimp as well.”
“Come right up.”
He chose one of the best-looking fillets. As he began wrapping it and the shrimp, Sabina said, “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, Mr. Antonelli?”
“Mr. Antonelli … pah. Tony the Fish Monger, that’s what everybody calls me. Questions about my fish?”
“No. Your niece, Clara Wilds.”
Tony’s cheerful demeanor disappeared. He frowned, and one of his mustaches twitched. “Why you want to know about her?”
“I’m very anxious to find her.”
“Why? What you want with her, bella signora like you?”
Sabina debated the wisdom of identifying herself, decided to take the chance, and presented him with her card.
His frown deepened as he studied it. “Lady detective,” he said, but not in the way so many did, as if the concept was difficult to grasp. He hesitated, then motioned her off to an uncrowded side of the stall. In a low flat voice he asked, “Clara, she’s in trouble again, hah?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What she do, steal money?”
“Yes. By picking pockets.”
“Dio mio! You sure?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That Sally woman, that’s where she learn that game. Sure.”
“Sally?”
“Friend of Clara’s aunt Bess,” Tony said disgustedly. “Some friend-a thief. Used to be pickpocket when she’s younger, before her hands go bad with artrite.”
“Sally Tatum?”
“That’s right. You know her?”
“I know of her.” Dippin’ Sal, one of the more famous cutpurses who had plied her trade in Virginia City in the early days of the Comstock Lode. She must be in her sixties now, and long retired if her hands had become crippled with arthritis. “Is she still living in Nevada?”
“No, she’s come live down here now.”
“Do you know where?”
“With her son Victor. Another crook, that one. Whole family of truffatori.”
“What’s Victor’s last name?” Dippin’ Sal had been married twice.
“Pope. He owns hardware store, but hammers and nails, they not all he buys and sells.”
“Stolen property?”
Tony shrugged elaborately, then made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t have nothing to do with crooks like him.”
“Do you know where his hardware store is located? Or where he lives?”
“In the Mission district. I know because my niece say so when she works for me last year, before she…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he scowled and muttered something in Italian under his breath. “You think maybe that’s where you find Clara?”
“It’s possible.”
“And then what? You arrest her?”
“If I don’t, the police will.”
He nodded. “Cosi sia. You tell her something for me, eh?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t come to her uncle Tony for money to get out of jail. She’s no longer la familia, you understand?”
“I understand, Mr. Antontelli.”
“Tony. Tony the Fish Monger.”
12
SABINA
The hansom clattered along bustling Mission Street, past shops and sidewalk stands and the oldest building in the city, Mission Dolores, the adobe church having been established by Father Junipero Serra the same year as the Declaration of Independence was signed.
A few blocks farther on, the driver turned off onto Twenty-second Street and urged his horse uphill. Victor Pope’s house was on Jersey Street between Sanchez and Noe, a fact Sabina had learned by stopping off at the agency long enough to consult their office copy of the city directory. She had also gleaned the address of the hardware store Victor Pope operated, but it was much more likely that his mother would be at his home than at his place of business.
The small clapboard house was in the middle of a block lined with similar dwellings. Rosebushes bloomed in the front yard behind a white picket fence. Even among those who trespassed frequently across the boundaries of the law, the Popes were probably considered better-than-average citizens in a respectable working-class neighborhood such as this. The crime of buying and selling stolen property was a relatively inconsequential one in a city where many more serious felonies occurred on a daily basis, and if Victor Pope were accused of being a fenceman, he would no doubt claim he had no knowledge that the items he traded in were stolen property. As for Dippin’ Sal, he would present her as an honest but poor elderly relative.