Pam shakes her head. "Jesus, what a maze!"
Torrance Hill is the oldest Italian section of the city, also geographically one of the city's highest points. Southern Italians, who came to Calista with the great waves of immigrants early in the twentieth century, clustered here, built houses, churches, stores, and restaurants. And as in other ‘Little Italys," along with the carpenters, masons, culinary, and construction artisans, there arrived a small number of underworld characters.
Calistians loved hearing tales about these men, soon dubbed "The Torrance Hill Mob," tales that romanticized their influence and power. When I was a kid, I was excited to dine at restaurants where mobsters allegedly hung out, characters with monikers like Tony ‘Machete’ deCapo, Johnny ‘The Priest’ Romano, and Jimmy ‘Big Lips’ Franchetti.
Enrico's, the restaurant Pam likes, was one of these hangouts. And though the ambience here is the same as when my parents took me, the food's now a good deal more sophisticated. Instead of gross platters of veal parmigiana accompanied by meatballs and spaghetti, Enrico's now serves genuine Sicilian specialities, Pasta alla Norma and Pasta col Nero delle Seppie.
After we order, Pam turns to me with a question.
"You said Waldo and this ex-cop Maritz had a blackmail racket. Why would Waldo get involved in a thing like that? I thought he had lots of money."
"Jurgen thinks Waldo went into it for sport. He liked to play games, mess with peoples' heads."
I tell her all I know about Waldo, his career and also his decline, how he lost most of his influence near the end.
"How do you know all this?" Pam asks.
"For years I've been an out-of-town subscriber to The Times-Dispatch."
She shakes her head. "Just couldn't let it go, could you?"
"I guess not. Also I kept hoping I'd open the paper one day and read that they'd solved Flamingo. It was years before I realized that if that's what I wanted, I'd have to come back and make it happen myself."
As we drive back downtown from Torrance Hill, I again check my rearview mirror. There are a lot of cars, it's difficult to tell, but one set of headlights seems to be sticking with us.
"Hold on tight," I tell Pam. "I'm going to make some moves."
"What's going on?"
"I think we're being followed."
I swerve into the right lane of Thurston, do a hard turn onto Lester, make another right onto Fairlane, then do a quick U-turn, pull in front of a paint store, and cut my headlights.
"Hey! Is this a joke?"
"the guy who was asking about me over at the Flamingo – I'm pretty sure he's been in my room poking through my drawings."
"I can't believe-"
"Shhhh. Here he comes. Slide down in your seat."
As the car, a dark, nondescript sedan, sails toward us, I can't decide whether its headlights show the same signature. As it passes, I try to get a look at the driver, but I can't make out anything except the silhouette of a hated figure hunched over the wheel. After he's gone, I try to make out his license plate, but by then he's too far away.
"Shit! I guess I should follow him, get his plate at least."
"Sure, go for it, David! This is fun!"
I make another U-turn, then speed up, hoping to catch him at the next stop sign. But the car, which should be ahead of me, isn't there.
"Where is he? Do you see him?"
Pam twist in her seat. "Could be him," she says, indicating a car parked in the opposite direction across the street.
"Jesus! He did the same maneuver!"
"Well, you got him now. Make another U and pull up behind."
But I keep driving. I don't like the neighborhood, it's dark and lonely, and I don't feel like playing games.
"You're sure that was him?"
"I'm not sure, no."
"Do you think I was cowardly not to double back?"
"I think you played it smart. But if he was following you, now he knows you're onto him."
"I wish I knew how long this has been going on. He could've been tracking me for weeks. If the folks at Flamingo hadn't told me, I never would have noticed."
It feels good to be back in Pam's arms, feel the warmth of her body, inhale her fresh sand-and-sun scent, run my fingers along her silken skin. It does my soul good to make love to this gorgeous woman, whom, I'm certain, is going straight to the top.
"How far is L.A. from San Francisco?" she asks, when we settle back.
"An hour by plane. Six by car."
"So you could visit me anytime."
"And you could visit me."
"But will either of us do it, that's the question?"
She goes silent. When she speaks again, it's in a different voice.
"I'd like this not to be over so soon," she says. "I'd like this not to be, you know, my ‘Calista affair’."
"Yeah, that could definitely sour it for you – thinking of me whenever Calista comes to mind."
"You really hate this place, don't you, David?"
"How could I? It's the Athens of the Midwest."
"This is where your early life came apart."
"Please, let's not talk about it. Let's talk about you and your brilliant future."
'I'd like it if you'd be part of it."
"God, that's so sweet-" The ironic pose I've been assuming dissolves in an instant. Tears spring to my eyes.
"I wish I could learn to love," I whisper to her.
"You already know how. It's just a matter of allowing yourself."
"I don't get it. You're supposed to be the hard-assed reporter and I the cool forensic artist. So now here we both are talking about not wanting this to end. Pretty funny, huh?"
"Maybe it is funny," she says, "but the thing I've discovered about out-of-town affairs is that you can't accurately evaluate them till you're back on your home turf. Then, back in the rhythm of your life, you either miss the person or you don't. Truth is I've never missed ‘the person’ very much, though I've always thought fondly of him if he happened to come to mind. But after just a few days in New York, I started missing you. That tells me something. And soon, when this stupid trial's over and you go back to San Francisco, it'll be your turn to discover how much you miss me… or not."
Early in the morning, when Pam goes up to the hotel gym, I borrow her tape recorder, take it down to my room, and listen to her full interview with Susan Pettibone.
The content is just as Pam described, as is Susan's emotional investment in memories of Tom. No question she loved the guy. I don't dare hope any of my old girlfriends will speak so kindly of me. What comes through most keenly is her regard for his personal integrity. "He had integrity to burn," she says.
Seeing Tom through her eyes, I shiver at the thought of him falling into that nest of Calista vipers – Barbara Fulraine, Jack Cody, Waldo Channing, and God-knows-who-else – a fall that cost him his life.
14
Wednesday
2:30 p.m.
I gesture to Harriet to follow me out of the courtroom, tell her I have an appointment, and ask her to cover for me. If anything extraordinary happens, I tell her, she's to call me on my cell phone. Then I'll execute drawings based on her reporting and get them to her in time for broadcast.
"Where do you go all the time?" she asks, annoyed.
"I'm not a journeyman sketch artist, Harriet. I can't sit here all day on the off chance something's going to happen."
"I understand, but-"
"Listen, am I mopping the floor with the competition?"
"You're definitely mopping the floor with them."
"So what more do you want?"
She waves her hands. "You're right! Go wherever you go, do whatever you have to do."