Brush With Death (22 page)

“Anything else on your list?”

“All sorts of
fabulous
things.” He fished a piece of paper from his pocket. “Fisherman's Wharf is right at the top. Ooh! Maybe we could take a cable car there, and kill two birds with one stone!”

“If you're buying, I'll go to the Wharf. But we're
not
waiting in line forty-five minutes for a cable car. I'll drive.”

Despite Bryan's desire for what he called the “T.T.E.— Total Tourist Experience,” I nixed his suggestion to park in one of the high-fee garages near the Wharf and instead spent fifteen minutes searching the neighborhood for a metered space. As we walked the long city blocks to Fisherman's Wharf, Bryan read aloud from a tour book.

“Did you know that Fisherman's Wharf is the
third
most visited sight in America? Guess what's first and second!”

“The Frick Museum in New York City. I love that place.”

Bryan snorted. “Disney
World
and Disney
land.
Isn't that something?”

“You bet.” The ocean breeze flung my hair into my mouth and I spat it out.

“Let's see . . . did you know that a man named Henry Meiggs built Fisherman's Wharf to ship lumber? Doesn't that mean it should be called Lumberman's Wharf?”

“Lumberman's Wharf sounds awkward.”

“True. Hmm, it says here that Meiggs was run out of town by a mob bent on revenge. Now,
that's
interesting.” He paged through the book. “Dang it all. It doesn't say what he did. Don't you hate that?”

“Probably slept with somebody's wife,” I suggested as we neared the tourist area, its sidewalks overrun with displays of T-shirts, sweatshirts, key chains, sunglasses, and disposable cameras from the cramped souvenir shops. The wharf was not yet in sight but the caws of the seagulls and the smell of sea air said we were close.

“Or many men's wives. It was a big crowd. Then there were the Chinese immigrants who sold food from ‘junks,' and of course the Italian fishermen,” Bryan read on, undaunted, weaving through the crowds that streamed out into the street. “It says when the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory was opened to the public, the area became more of a tourist destination and less of a working dock.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, listening with half an ear.

“Listen to this. Domingo Ghirardelli, originally from Italy by way of Peru, discovered that cocoa butter drips off bags of ground cacao beans. This technique continues to be the most common method for making chocolate. Huh. Who knew?”

Bryan's reference to the Ghirardellis turned my thoughts to Bayview Cemetery, where the chocolate mogul had built a beautiful crypt near the Locklear Memorial, and I imagined Domingo Ghirardelli watching the crowds in the square that bore his name from his eternal perch on the Oakland hillside. That thought reminded me of the masked ghoul at Louis Spencer's crypt, and once again I wondered what was going on in that place.

But as we walked along, I started to relax. The sights and sounds and smells—especially the smells—of Fisherman's Wharf brought back visceral memories of childhood outings to the City, and I started to relax. I remembered one trip when Georges had insisted on going to the Wax Museum, where he chortled to himself for the entire tour. My older sister, Bonnie, got the willies and went to stand by the exit, but Grandfather and I had lingered, laughed, and critiqued the gruesome displays. Some of those wax artists are quite talented.

The area had been built up in the intervening years, but there were still huge steaming vats of water for the crabs, and street vendors selling shrimp cocktails and loaves of fresh-baked sourdough bread. Several of the Italian seafood eateries that dated to the 1950s had been converted to upscale seafood restaurants. A few of the docks were reserved for working fishermen, but many now offered tours of the bay and rides to Sausalito, while others had been ceded to the raucous sea lions, who lolled in the sun and bellowed at the tourists. Every so often someone tried to get the City to relocate the sea lions, but visitors loved them and so they remained. Besides, those sea lions were
mean.

Bryan dropped a dollar into the hat of a man covered from head to toe in silver paint; the man did a convincing imitation of a robot. We then took a few minutes to watch a long-haired young man spin cans of spray paint to create colorful drawings of the solar system. The throng clapped to show its appreciation.

Consulting his tourist manual once more, Bryan suggested lunch at an unpretentious diner with red vinyl booths and a view of the sea lions. We ordered the house special and iced tea, and broke open a warm boule of sourdough, slathering chunks of the fragrant bread with fresh butter.

“Looks like you have an admirer,” Bryan said, arching an eyebrow as he sweetened his tea with two scoops of snowy white sugar.

“Who?”

“That fellow in class who followed you from the cemetery.”

“Curly Top?” I said, aghast.

“That's his name?”

“His name's Russell. I just can't get past the hair.”

“Okay, he's not what one would order on the Internet, but it's good to have admirers.
Heterosexual
admirers, in your case,” Bryan clarified.

“I have heterosexual admirers. What about Josh?”

“Hmm.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“To tell the truth, I've been wanting to talk to you about him.”

“What's wrong with Josh? He's gorgeous, and sweet, and—”

“Yes, he is. That's the problem, girlfriend—he's
too
sweet. We think you need someone stronger.”

“Who's the ‘we' who thinks all this?”

“Your friends, Annie.”

The red vinyl creaked as I sat back in a huff. “And you're suggesting I hook up with
Curly Top
?”

“Course not, girl, simmer down. I'm just saying, is all.”

“Bryan, you're something else. You're on my case for months to get some, and when I find a perfectly respectable boyfriend you say he's not good enough.”

The waitress gave me a knowing look as she delivered two hollowed-out loaves of sourdough bread filled with creamy clam chowder. The taste of the salty clams and the velvety potatoes made it official: I was on a trip down memory lane.

“Good?” Bryan asked, blowing delicately on a spoonful of soup.

We enjoyed the meal and chatted, Bryan bringing me up to date on his life. As he signaled to the waitress to bring the check, I gazed out the diner's picture window upon the bustling crowd of tourists. Bryan was right: we locals should take advantage of our charming tourist attractions. There were strolling lovers, excited children dashing between the arcade and the carousel, a cluster of Japanese tourists, tattooed bikers, strutting teenagers, Billy Mudd, and Randy Gossen . . .

“Anyway, enough about me. Getting back to you. Annette thinks you're using Josh.”

“What?” I asked, twisting in my seat for a better view. Had Billy Mudd just walked by with Cindy's thesis adviser?

“To avoid getting involved with your landlord.”

Must have been my imagination. How would those two even know each other?

I turned back to Bryan. “Let me get this straight. Annette won't talk to
me,
but she's happy to discuss my love life with
you
?”

Bryan shrugged, his dark, espresso-colored eyes radiating innocence. “She hasn't exactly met him, but from what she's heard, she's not so sure about this Josh person.”

“Bryan, I'm sorry but I've got to go,” I said, leaping up. “We'll finish this discussion later.”

Chapter 11

—Robert Motherwell (1915-1991), American painter

The public history of modern artists is the story of mostly conventional people attempting to be unconventional.
—Georges LeFleur

The moment I stepped into the street I was swallowed up by the surging crowd. I hopped up and down and stood on tiptoe, and at one point thought I spied Billy's platinum-blond head, but by the time I had pushed through the throng and climbed onto a bench for a better view he was nowhere to be seen.

“Annie!” Bryan caught up with me. “I had no
idea
you were so sensitive, baby doll. Not another word about Josh, I promise.”

“It's not that. I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Everything okay, sugar?”

“Yeah. I think so. Everything's fine, but I've really got to go.”

I left Bryan chatting up a family from Dubuque as they waited in the queue at the turn-of-the-century carousel on Pier Thirty-nine. My enthusiasm for the tourist's San Francisco did not include blaring calliope music, and besides, I had a masterpiece to track down.

First, though, I decided to drop in on an old acquaintance. I got the number from Directory Assistance, and his receptionist assured me he would be in the office until four o'clock. Firing up the truck, I headed to the office of Dr. Sebastian Pitts, art authenticator to the stars.

Years ago Pitts had unwittingly certified as genuine several of my teenage forgeries, and for this service earned my grandfather's eternal scorn. Georges besmirched Pitts' career at London's Remington Museum by writing an article documenting Pitts' numerous professional errors, and Pitts returned the favor a few years later by engineering my dismissal from an internship at the Brock Museum, derailing my bid to become a legitimate art restorer. Since then he and I had butted heads on more than a few occasions, and we both walked away with headaches.

I braked at the corner of Taylor and Washington and waited for a packed cable car to clear the intersection. Passengers hung from the sides of the car, snapping photographs and shouting the Rice-A-Roni jingle. It was corny, but it made me laugh. Maybe Bryan was on to something with his tourist's view of San Francisco. Maybe I should have joined him on the carousel instead of dropping in on someone who had caused me so much grief.

Sebastian Pitts had left the Brock Museum's employ to open his own art authentication business on Geary, off Union Square. Fortunately for the supercilious British sycophant, art was a wide-open business in which the “experts” incurred little or no penalty for giving bad advice. It was legal to sell some sucker a three-dollar, garage sale painting as a four-hundred-thousand-dollar Paul Klee as long as the expert could reasonably claim to have believed it to be genuine.As Frank DeBenton once told me, when it came to purchasing a van Gogh on eBay—or anywhere else—the law of the land was caveat emptor.

I left my truck at the Ellis-O'Farrell Garage, walked three blocks to Pitts' office building, and took the stairs to the fourth floor, hoping to mitigate the effects of yesterday's samosas and today's sourdough extravanganza. Panting, I paused at the landing to admire the hallway's travertine marble floor and barrel-vaulted ceiling and the French plaster finish in a sublime shade of bisque. I had used the technique on half a dozen living rooms in chichi homes in the Berkeley hills and had charged through the nose for each one, in part because the process was so time-consuming to apply, but also because my grandfather had taught me long ago that rich people don't value anything unless it costs them dearly.

The rents in this building must be astronomical, I thought. Pitts was moving up in the world.

Just beyond the men's room I spied WINDSOR ART AP-PRAISALS—DR. SEBASTIAN PITTS, PHD, ESQUIRE stenciled in gold on the frosted glass of a closed office door. A woman in her twenties rested her pen on her cherry-wood desk and smiled at me as I entered.

“Good afternoon, ma'am,” she said, her blinding white teeth framed by ruby-red lips. Her straight brown hair was parted on the side and swept her shoulders in a fashionable flip. She must have emptied an entire can of hair spray on it this morning because not a single hair was out of place, and when she moved her head the flip swung in a coordinated fashion. I watched, fascinated. Those of us with naturally curly hair found stick-straight hair intriguing. “How may I help you?”

“I'm Annie Kincaid. I'm here to see Sebastian Pitts, if he's free.”

“Certainly, ma'am.” She picked up the phone. “Dr. Pitts, an Annie Kincaid is here to see you.” She turned away from me, ducked her head, and lowered her voice. “No, I'm not kidding. Yes, I'm positive. She said ‘Annie Kincaid.' ”

The receptionist set the phone down and gave me a curious look. “Dr. Pitts will be right with you, ma'am. May I get you something? Tea? Gingersnaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“I just brewed a pot of excellent Earl Grey. It's wonderful with fresh organic milk.”

Yuck.
“I'm fine, thanks.”

I settled into a soft ecru leather sofa, picked up a copy of
Burke's Peerage
from a side table, and skimmed lists of the Queen of England's third cousins twice removed.
What's the deal with the anglophilia?
I wondered. San Franciscans, like other Americans, were not immune to the appeal of a British accent, but in general we were rabid antimonarchists.

The receptionist's telephone buzzed. “Dr. Pitts will see you now, ma'am. It's down the hall and to the right.”

Feeling as if I were about to have blood drawn, I shuffled along a Persian wool floor runner to a closed office door. When I touched the brass handle I received a small shock. It seemed a fitting metaphor.

“Why, Annie Kincaid,” Sebastian Pitts oozed as he rose from his oversized leather desk chair. Five feet six inches tall, Pitts was round and pasty, with muddy brown hair, shaggy eyebrows, and crooked yellow teeth. He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored three-piece gray suit, but he still reminded me of the snake-oil salesmen of yore. “I could scarcely credit it when my girl told me you were waiting.”