any number of things.”
“Agreed, but that’s not the point. Americans go right to the worst possible scenario, and a bunch of mini- Ahmadinejads running loose on our shores is one of those.”
“I buy that. But what could this Leon kid have said that tipped them off?”
“Have you ever read any of the government white papers on Iran?”
“Not since I was stationed in the Gulf and they were part of the eyes-only press packets.”
“Profiling has gotten a lot better since then. You know-the kind of stuff we’re not supposed to be doing but are.”
Jack laughed.
“I won’t get into the psychology of it, but here’s the shout-out for the young Iranian male,” Tony said. “Neatly pressed button-down white shirt, long sleeved. Sunglasses, day and night. Beige or light-colored slacks. Loafers, no socks. Expensive gold wristwatch. Think you’d notice those things casing out a carjack?”
Jack nodded.
“That, my friend, is why the FBI thinks this guy is Iranian. Maybe they know more than that, maybe Leon’s report and the explosion dovetailed with something they already knew, someone they were already watching.”
“But it’s enough to trigger a good old-fashioned multiagency cover-up,” Jack said. “A bunch of local wackos seem a lot less threatening than an Islamic terrorist cell. And with only one man dead, people are bound to forget about this the minute some celebrity goes into rehab. It becomes a nonevent. And nonevents don’t threaten political careers unless someone wants them to.”
“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-
