Telegraph Hill by John F. Nardizzi Read Free Book Online Page A

newly
minted police officer. The caption read: President Nixon presents award to
Detective Waymon Pierce, May 2, 1971. Nixon’s face, frozen in a smile deeper
than sainthood.
    “Nixon’s about the greatest president this nation
has ever had. He did wonderful things with the Chinese. He walked on the Great
Wall. He looked them in the face and said: ‘Be our friends or we’ll bomb the
whole billion of you back to the Stone Age. Knock down the Great Wall too.’ He
was a great man.”
    Ray listened as Waymon launched into a survey of
Nixon’s foreign policy objectives circa 1971.
    Let him ramble, thought Ray. He moved the
conversation back to where he wanted to go: “Waymon, do you know if there were
any detailed records of the arrest? Did you normally fingerprint or photograph
the girls?”
    Waymon nodded. “Yes, we photographed every girl we
arrested. More of a public service than anything. These girls were lost,
runaways. End up on the bottom of the Bay if they’re not careful. We wanted to
help the families track ‘em down.” He paused. “Let me show you something.”
    Waymon picked up a jagged piece of gray rock from
a table. “This is asbestos in its natural form. I found it once while panning
for gold. It’s completely harmless in nature. But heat it, process it, put it
on the side of your house — one speck in your lungs, you’re one plot down from
the Marlboro Man.”
    Waymon got up. Ray followed him into a tan
kitchen. An eerie mix of old and new haunted the place: a 1950s avocado
refrigerator, a juicer on the counter next to a pile of orange pulp. A woman
hadn’t been in this place in decades.
    They took the stairs down into the cellar. Lights
blinked on automatically, revealing a minor disaster area of cardboard boxes, a
canvas heavy bag, boxing gear, an old table, and numerous filing cabinets of
different sizes and shapes: wood cabinets, old steel behemoths, newer ones in
anodized black. There was a dime store Indian made of wood, various paintings
in ornate gold frames, stacks of old porno magazines, and a Halloween
decoration of a witch on a broom. Waymon waded into the piles, blowing dust,
moving boxes. ”I know it’s here. I knooooow it's here,” he said. After about
five minutes, he dragged out two boxes, looking pleased.
    “When I retired from the force, they were just
tossing old cases, including misdemeanor mugs. Even some of the older felonies,
back to the 60’s, all ready to be tossed away. I took it all! It’s not in any
kind of order, just box loads of criminals and degenerates. You’re welcome to
sort through it.”
    Waymon pointed to a work bench running along one
wall. “You can work there. Just don’t take anything without checking with me
first!” he said. Then he turned and headed back up stairs.
    Ray pulled one box closer to him and carried it to
the work bench. Various nude photos of women decorated the walls, some of them
looking like they had been pinned for decades on the nails of Waymon’s lust.
    Ray opened the box and peered inside. There were
rows of old photos, curled at the sides with graying edges. Snapshots of
grifters, murderers, arsonists, rapists. The faces of men in various snaky,
blunt, angry poses. The overwhelming maleness of crime seeped from the
pictures. It was all neatly cataloged: the local San Francisco purveyors of
vice, labeled with notes and accompanied by a photograph.
    He looked quickly through the box. The pictures
from the 1960s were all black and white, the faces poignant in monochrome
stillness. Some faces peered out with a look of sanctified surprise, as if
asking: “Do my crimes still matter?” Others showed men with a self-conscious
bent of the head as they held up a sign with inmate numbering, forced to assist
in their own degradation. The hardcore felons just glared, bleak and
shark-eyed. Arsonists wore the most disturbing look: a vacant gaze, faintly
sexual.
    The pictures were sorted roughly by year, filed by
a court docket