Straight along Divisadero to Oak, right turn, west four blocks to Fillmore, left turn on Fillmore. The Western Addition, one of the few neighborhoods that had survived the 1906 earthquake, once a black ghetto but integrated and Yuppified now. After a couple of blocks the Beamer slowed, eased over into the right lane. Tamara did the same, hanging back. Small businesses and apartment buildings strung out along there, most of the businesses closed.
In mid-block, brake lights flashed crimson and the BMW came to a quick stop. Getting set to park, and in the only available space. She had no choice but to swing around into the inside lane.
There was a bus stop on the corner; she cut over into it. In the rearview mirror she could see the Beamer backing up into the space. She shut off the headlights but not the engine. Roland finished his park job and the BMW went dark; she watched his big shape get out, circle around the front onto the sidewalk. He stood there for a couple of seconds, doing something with his coat, and then moved upstreet about fifty yards before stopping again at one of the dimly lighted storefronts. So what was he doing, window-shopping?
No. He stepped forward, disappeared inside.
Tamara stayed where she was, watching, for five minutes. Roland didn’t come back out.
A Muni bus was headed her way; she put the headlights on, drove around the corner. No parking spaces. Circled the block—still no spaces—and came back slow on Fillmore. Most of the stores looked closed, but several showed night lights and she wasn’t real sure which one Roland had gone into.
She pulled into the bus zone again. Leave the car here for a couple of minutes, she thought, not much of a ticket risk now. She got out the notepad and pen she kept in her purse, then walked quickly to Roland’s Beamer. When the street was clear she stepped out in front to peer at the license plate. 5XZX994. She scribbled the number on the pad before she moved on up the sidewalk to check the storefronts.
Barbecue take-out restaurant, dry cleaners, card shop—all connected parts of a single building, all closed now. A row of apartments made up the building’s second story. The storefront next to the card shop showed light through a gap between wine-colored curtains drawn across its front window; lights were on in the apartment above it, too. Propped between the curtains and the window glass was a large printed placard. Tamara eased up close enough to read the lettering.
PSYCHIC READINGS BY ALISHA
Palm Tarot
Yes!
This was the place Roland had disappeared into, all right. Tamara risked a quick peek through the lighted gap. All she could see was part of a sparsely furnished room, a table with a red-shaded lamp on it, more dark red curtains drawn over a doorway at the rear. No sign of Roland, no sign of Alisha.
But Tamara didn’t need to see the woman to know who she was. Alisha was Mama’s name. Roland had led her straight to Mama.
And where Mama was, her miserable son was sure to be nearby.
12
TAMARA
She called Deron Stewart back and arranged to meet him on South Park, outside the agency. Seemed like the best place; she didn’t want him coming to her apartment on Potrero Hill, and anywhere else, even a neutral public spot, thinned out the strictly business atmosphere she’d established with him. Last thing she needed tonight was him hitting on her.
All the way to South Park, she felt a grim elation. So Mama was a psychic. Or pretending to be one. There were plenty of honest card and palm readers in the city, but Tamara would bet her bank account that Alisha wasn’t one of them. Not with a down-low thief for a son.
And what about Lucas? Was he still living with Mama—in that apartment above the psychic shop, maybe?
If he was living there, he’d be keeping a low profile. Real low, if he and Mama were setting up a scam and he’d been the one to steer Roland, a believer who trusted to “readings” before he acted on important matters, to Alisha. Made sense that way. This investment fund Roland and Doctor Easy were involved in figured to be the scam; Lucas had told James his business was “investments.” A con designed to bilk cash out of at least two and maybe the rest of the down-low clubbers. A score big enough to warrant weeks of setup and expense—the kind of score small-time grifters dream about.
Tamara didn’t need psychic powers to know she was reading it right, or close to right. It explained everything, including why Lucas and Alisha were still hanging on in San Francisco. Make the big score and then vanish—poof!—to someplace thousands of miles away before any of the vics knew what’d hit them.
She parked the Toyota in the South Park garage, waited for Stewart in the little park across the street from the agency’s building. Restaurants, a couple of clubs in the area, so there were people around and music throbbing in the cold night. Funny, but as she stood there by the playground, the elation she’d felt earlier drained away and left her feeling edgy. Celebration was premature. Still a lot to do, still things that could go wrong.