Death in North Beach by Ronald Tierney

subject.
    â€˜I’m seeing everyone,’ Nadia said. ‘And you, my little precious?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Peter hasn’t called again?’
    â€˜No.’
    The rest of lunch was light gossip centering around Nadia and her young artists and about a planned trip to a hill town in Mexico where she would hook up with the best artists designing silver jewelry.
    At home, Carly dodged the sprinklers Mr Nakamura had on a timer for the dry summer. It hadn’t rained since February. Not really. In less than two months though, the rains would begin, and they would seem never to stop. That’s how it was in San Francisco most years.

Eight
    As Carly left Delfina’s in the Mission, Lang was across town, waiting at a table just inside the broad opening at the front of Enrico’s in North Beach. He was waiting for Whitney Warfield’s mistress. The restaurant was one of Lang’s favorites and for a short time was doomed to the dustbin. Some said the assaults and killings in the neighborhood – most of them late at night on the same stretch of bawdy Broadway as Enrico’s – might have dampened the enthusiasm of the restaurant’s clientele.
    But it was back, a little whitewash on the walls, some great jazz, and good food. Marlene Berensen was only twenty minutes late. She didn’t apologize. Noah Lang could have forgiven her several more sins. She stepped out of a forties movie, a standard mistress. She might have been fifty. Then again, if she was, she was a pretty spectacular fifty. She and her clothes had attitude, a kind of casual attitude, the knowing, ready-for-anything look on her face complemented by something expensive she slipped on without thinking too much about it.
    â€˜Mr Lang?’
    â€˜Noah. And you are Marlene Berensen.’
    â€˜If not I’ve been living a lie,’ she said, her smoky voice sounding like the crunch of dry leaves.
    â€˜You know Humphrey Bogart?’ he asked.
    She sat down. She got it. She didn’t like it. The waiter came over immediately.
    â€˜Should I bring you a Scotch?’
    She nodded.
    Not a big surprise. It was her idea to meet there. But it was all playing too cool. In the real world and considering the number of years they were together, Lang thought, Warfield’s mistress should look like Aunt Bee. She didn’t.
    â€˜You wanted to talk about Whitney?’
    She looked like she wanted a cigarette.
    â€˜I do. I’m trying to locate a manuscript he was writing,’ Lang said.
    â€˜And if he was writing something, how do you figure you are entitled to it?’
    â€˜We think it might lead to his murderer,’ Lang said, giving up the ruse since it didn’t make a whole lot of sense after Marlene’s question.
    â€˜And who is we?’ she asked.
    Here we go again, Lang thought.
    â€˜I’ve got this problem. I keep losing control of the interrogation. You’ll help me out, won’t you?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Did you kill him?’ Lang asked. If subtle conversation failed, maybe sudden rudeness would work.
    She laughed. ‘Where’s my Scotch?’ she asked the universe. The universe answered.
    â€˜Here, Ms Berensen,’ the waiter said.
    â€˜You don’t look devastated by his death.’
    â€˜I’m sorry. But I’m not devastated. Every night we slept together, I prepared myself to wake up to a corpse in the morning. He was overweight, ate and drank too much, never exercised, and had high blood pressure. Type A personality, full of anger and frustration. I’m surprised he lived as long as he did.’
    â€˜With all those qualities, no wonder you were attracted to him,’ Lang said.
    â€˜He was also sweet, generous, frightened, creative and he loved me unconditionally.’
    â€˜Qualities he was careful to hide.’
    â€˜All men are babies,’ she said. ‘These silverback apes yell and beat their chests, but when