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Kabalyfach
Kabalyfach
Kabalyfach
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Kabalyfach

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The setting is in San Francisco just before the end of the 20th Century and centers on Delawrence Walters, who has created a near foolproof scam where he haunts the various upscale lounges in the financial district in search of men who live double lives.
The perfect crime? Well, almost. This is a case of being too slick for one’s own good because Delawrence finally makes one little mistake: his latest “victim”, Salvatore “Sally” Santini, just happens to be a member of a well-organized Chicago family, organized much like Tony Soprano was organized in New Jersey, and doesn’t take kindly to what Delawrence has done. And thus is the tale where Delawrence finds himself being pursued by Yvon Duval, an uncaring hitman, along with Vinnie “The Meat Cleaver” del Pizzo, the head of a San Francisco “family”, and Ben Jesse, a local entrepreneur who trades in skin and drugs, who Sally has hired.

As Joe Louis once said, “you can run but you can’t hide.” Delawrence does indeed run and tries to hide. The question is will Vinnie’s men find him; or Yvon Duval, the hitman; or Ben Jesse, the drug and skin king? Delawence turns to his lover Dr. Dale Perkins and his good buddy Corky Stevenson because he has kabalyfached—or, to be more specific, really screwed up. And the burning question is does Dee get away?

Read on and find out.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 1, 2011
ISBN9781465840967
Kabalyfach
Author

J. Lance Gilmer

Former sportswriter, columnist and investigative reporter (San Francisco Examiner) and managing editor for the Reporter Publishing Company. Has had four novels published ("Hell Is Forever", "Hell Has No Exit", "The Last Touchdown", and "Kabalyfach") along with having four plays produced ("The Wake", "Dreams Deferred", "The Death Of Bubba Louis" and "Nous Aurons Toujour Paris". Additionally he wrote and appeared in the nine-episode TV pilot "Paul and Paula". Presently working on the novel "Bumfoggled", which is a sequel to "Kabalyfach". Has also performed in numerous plays ("Raisin In The Sun", "Westside Story", "Crystal Palace", "Room Full of Fleas", "Bent", and "Our Lan"," Streets" and "Toujour Aurons Paris", to name a few.

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    Kabalyfach - J. Lance Gilmer

    CHAPTER ONE

    Getting him into the hotel room was so incredibly easy, nearly as easy as it would be to get him into bed. It was like taking candy from a baby or getting laid in a brothel.

    The early evening mating ritual had begun an hour and half ago in one of the bars in the massive open-air lobby of the Hyatt Regency that stood at the base of Market Street and the Embarcadero in San Francisco. It had been just after five-thirty in the evening that late spring day and some of the Bay Area’s movers and shakers were gathering in the hotel’s bars to sip martinis and talk about their financial conquests. It was a great spot to see and be seen. The women were gorgeous and smart and the men were used to accumulating large sums of money in the market or banking or real estate or whatever and were busy attempting to impress the women who were a shade smarter and a great deal more ruthless.

    Everyone knew this and anyone walking through this place knew that most of the people here were very rich and powerful and in many cases would sell their souls to snatch a huge partnership or a temporary long-term relationship.

    Indeed this was a lovely place to pick up a short-lived mate.

    And this is where we find Delawrence Walters, who had glided into the well carpeted and positively smartly lighted lounge with the understated sound of jazz coming through discretely placed speakers. He casually glanced around and caught the eye of a few of the women who marveled at his six-foot-five, two-hundred pound muscular frame enveloped in a rich ebony skin beneath the tan Ravazzolo suit, soft blue button-down collared Canali shirt, Etro pale rouge silk tie and Louis Vuitton shoes, all a very nice birthday gift from his No. 1 fan, professor Dale Collins. Despite the ambiance of the establishment being a tad lighter than midnight, Delawrence was wearing Rayban shades and a hint of a smile. He allowed his gaze to grace the women before moving it towards the bar then the tables and the booths and finally back to the end of the bar.

    Delawrence was in search of prey and this was the place. Hell, he’d done this—what? —seven times in the last three weeks and was proud of the money he had garnered: five thousand, two hundred and twenty dollars.

    Oh, where or where has my little dog gone, hummed Delawrence when his eyes fell upon Salvatore (Sally) Santini, who was the reason Delawrence’s gaze had fastened itself at the end of his quest. Sally, as he was called because of his positively beautiful face, slender frame and delicate movements, was leaning against the bar staring at the lovely Delawrence, who was just the thing he wanted before he was to head to the airport, hop on a jet and jet back to Chicago where he’d be met by his wife, Constantina. Sally smiled to himself and thought for a fleeting moment that he had never met a finer specimen of humanity or huwomenity that he didn’t lust and he and Delawrence thought as one when their eyes met: Yes, they thought, this is what I’ve been seeking.

    Delawrence floated over to Sally, who was sipping his apple martini and slid into the high backed leather stool, his back to the dark mahogany bar. He positioned himself there to see and be seen. Especially by this cutie sitting just to his left. He didn’t look at Sally nor did Sally look at him, but each knew the other knew that he was there for him.

    Ah, the games people play.

    The barkeep sauntered over and spoke to Delawrence’s back: Can I help you, sir?

    Without looking at the man, Delawrence said with his deep voice coated with a hint of a Jamaican or Nigerian accent, which he never used before and wondered why he went that way instead of his usual affected British speech pattern, I’ll have whatever he’s having. Then nodded in Sally’s direction.

    Apple martini, said Sally.

    Good choice, said the barkeeper.

    A short, pleasant silence as each man formed his plan. Finally, Sally spoke: Come here often?

    Only always, answered Delawrence as he tried to fasten his accent on Africa or the Caribbean or wherever he could.

    From here?

    Why?

    Your accent.

    I don’t have an accent, said Delawrence proud that his attempt at an accent was a success.

    Sally took a sip from his glass. Let me guess: Nigeria?

    Perhaps. Delawrence smiled and turned to face Sally. Cute, he thought, as he studied the man seated near him. Nicely dressed. Fancy watch. Nice ring—ah, a wedding band. Hmm, perhaps I am barking up the wrong fire hydrant? Then he nodded. Yes. Nairobi.

    That’s in Kenya.

    Delawrence giggled. I know that, silly. I just came from there.

    Ah. Sally smiled his best smile. Name is Salvatore Santini. But my friends call me Sally.

    Hmmm, countered Delawrence, as if he was tasting a delicious morsel imported from France. Ahma, uh, Ahma Blackmon, he said and wondered why he used that name instead of his real handle, which, during this particular crime spree, was Matthew which had been given to him when he was pretending to study to become a priest and thought that using one of Jesus’ disciples’ name would had given him more credibility. And my friends call me Ahma. Pronounced with the accent on the first syllable and a whisper on the second. In truth it should have been ahma as in ahma bad mofo and who will whup yo ass—Ebonically speaking, that is. He extended his hand, which Sally took, held it for a beat, squeezed it once and released it.

    Interesting first name, said Sally.

    Only to Westerns, sighed Delawrence, attempting to give the impression that Sally’s impression was offered so often that it had now become boring. It succeeded.

    Does it have a meaning?

    Delawrence nodded as his mind raced for an answer that he wouldn’t forget if this meeting lasted more than a few hours.

    Power. Uh, how would you say it in your language? He looked to the ceiling seeking the best definition. Finding it, he snapped his fingers once and said, Yes, strength. A beat and a decision to change this subject before this man asked him to start speaking whatever language they spoke in Nigeria.

    You live here? Uh, San Francisco, asked Ahma or Delawrence.

    Chicago.

    Business or pleasure?

    Depends.

    On?

    You.

    Well then you are here for pleasure, said Delawrence.

    It took just two additional apple martinis and forty-six minutes before Sally suggested that they retire to his room on the nineteenth floor and get, shall we say, more comfortable, and, ahem, acquainted. During these mating rituals, Sally admitted that he enjoys the company of both genders and confessed a strong attraction to the tall, dark and handsome species. Ones that, oh, resemble, Delawrence AKA Matthew AKA Ahma Blackmon, who in turn and following the script, confessed that he enjoys the smaller figured, Mediterranean-type men to those pasty white members of either gender. If someone had asked—which no one did or would—Delawrence had never savoured the feminine fruits.

    Oh, indeed this was a match made in heaven.

    Sally was not one to rush a good time and Delawrence, who had to laugh at the new name and how it fit so very perfectly since he was a black man and could speak Ebonics with the best of them, was not one to jump too quickly into bed. Besides, Delawrence correctly sensed that Sally had money, lots of money, and would fit just fine into his scheme. Casually glancing at Sally’s very nice and very expensive Rolex, Delawrence saw the time and calculated that he could and would be out of the room in just over 30 minutes and a great deal richer. He smiled.

    You smile, said Sally removing his jacket and tossing it on the sofa by the window. Something funny?

    Delawrence’s smile turned upside down and he said softly, I smile because I feel so, and here he stretched as graceful as a jungle cat, which was how Sally pictured this magnificent creature who he was going to drive wild with passion, comfortable. A beat. It’s been a long and he stretched the word out, time since I’ve been in the company of a man who knows what he wants and is not frighten to show it. Another beat. If you know what I mean?

    He had lost his accent but Sally was too wrapped up in the moment to notice. He would later, but not now. Sally nodded.

    Yes, I know exactly what you mean, he said then glanced at his wristwatch. Dear, I may have to leave soon.

    An appointment?

    Sally smiled. Of sorts. I have to return to Chicago and my…family. He watched Delawrence arch an eyebrow in question. Wife. Two daughters.

    Hmm, said Delawrence.

    Hmm, countered Sally knowing that his time was growing short and his desire longer—physiologically so to speak. I would like to get to know you better. He moved towards Delawrence who moved towards him. They met halfway and Delawrence embraced the shorter, thinner man and could feel Sally’s desire had indeed grown longer.

    Ah, thought Delawrence, now is the time to get the show on the road. He gently stepped back but kept his hands on Sally’s shoulders. He studied the man. Handsome. Very. Could be nice. Hmm.

    "Sally, I have this…this thing."

    Thing?

    He nodded. Before I can get to really know a man, they must—and believe me it’s nothing personal—shower. It’s something about the scent of a man who has just stepped out the shower that excites me. Here he drew the last letter of the word for three beats for effect, sooo much I could scream.

    You’re kidding.

    Darling, I don’t kid when it comes to, you know, really getting to know a man and, he gave his best and brightest smile, having a man really getting to know all the things I can do to and for him.

    Dee, as he was known in some quarters, knew he had old Sally right where he wanted him as he watched the man bite into his bottom lip then smile.

    True? Asked Sally. Delawrence answered with a nod. Then, you get comfortable while I…prepare.

    With that Sally removed his tie, which he had loosened when they first entered the hotel room, slowly unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it from his pants. He turned and walked towards the bathroom. He slipped his shirt off and let it fall to the floor. He stopped by the bureau, took off his watch and placed it on top. Followed by his 22-caret gold bracelet and wedding ring. Sally entered the bathroom, glanced over his shoulders and saw that Delawrence was slowly running his tongue across his full lips.

    Delawrence muttered something that sounded like he had just seen the most delicious meal ever concocted. Sally smiled even brighter when he thought about what he was going to do to the body of Ahma Blackmon—pronounced Blackmoan. He slowly pulled the door closed. I don’t want him to get to much of a view of all the goodies before it’s time," he reasoned.

    As soon as Delawrence heard the shower water come on, followed by the sound of the curtain pulled back and then returned, he went to work. He went quickly to the bureau and deposited the Rolex, bracelet and wedding band into his jacket’s side pockets.

    Next he moved across the room to the desk and lifted the wallet. He opened up and removed the bills—several hundreds and many twenties. He stopped for a moment and thought. Hmmm, don’t want to leave him high and dry. Delawrence returned two twenties and a hundred. There were three cards: Platinum MasterCard and America Express and a bank Visa card from some Meat Packer Credit Union in Evanston, Illinois. Don’t want to be greedy," thought Delawrence. He left the MasterCard and America Express. As for the Visa bank card, well, that’s another matter and he would keep that because he knew he could use it for a while before it would be reported stolen.

    He placed the wallet back to where he thought it had been. He won’t notice that the cards and money are gone, Delawrence thought, if he sees it still sitting here nice and neat. The watch and stuff, yeah, he’ll miss that. But hell who’s he gonna call? The police? Yeah, right and tell them what? This man was in my room and I was about to screw him and he stole my things. No way. No one had turned him in in the past so why now?

    Walking over to the bathroom door, Delawrence said: Sally, baby, are you getting clean for me? Sally shouted something. Perfect. Rise good, baby, and dry off completely cause I’m gonna lick you wet. His accent totally gone. Can you dig it? Sally said yes, yes, yes, he’ll be right out. Take your time, darling, it’s gonna be a long night. Delawrence closed the door and patted it twice. He then saluted, turned and exited.

    Like stealing candy from a baby, he sighed gliding to the glass elevator to his left. Hell, he reasoned, even easier.

    Upon finishing his shower, where he lavished used his Equipage body shampoo over his form, he spoke softly towards the closed door: Ahma, are you in bed yet? Nothing. He’s playing coy, thought Sally. I have such a treat for you, young man. Still nothing. No problem, he thought. He’ll be making sweet sounds in just minutes. Sally grabbed a large white towel off the rack and wrapped it around his waist. As soon as he exited from the shower, he had switched on the overhead fan and wiped the moisture off the mirror. Now he gazed into it and himself and thought how wonderful he looked. Not too much hair on his body. Slim. Muscular. Yes, he reasoned, nice. No wonder he wanted to come up here with me. If I were he, I certainly would.

    He came out of the bathroom and noticed the lights were out and that the curtain was one-quarter open allowing some of the night light from the street below filter into the room.

    Are you ready? asked Sally in the direction of the bed that…was… Empty?

    Sally moved over to the night table and switched on the light. Yes, empty. No Ahma. No nothing.

    What the hell, said Sally. Then it hit him. He looked over at where he left his wallet and saw that it was right where it was before he entered the bathroom. Did I frighten him with all my…? He looked over to the bureau again and saw that his Rolex was not there. Nor his bracelet and, goddammit, his wedding band. Did he leave it there? Damn right he had and Salvatore Sally Santini knew he had been had.

    Down stairs in the lobby, Delawrence smiled to himself as he patted the prized watch, no, not a watch, a Rolex. Must be worth ten thousand dollars, he mused. He had underestimated the value by fifteen thousand dollars. Oh, yeah and the bracelet (cost Sally forty-two thousand U.S. dollars in Paris) and the gold band, valued at eighteen thousand, two hundred from Peacocks in Chicago. And let’s not forget the bankcard, which Delawrence reasoned he should use right now as a little present for his good fortune.

    Thus, he stopped at the men’s fine boutique that proudly displayed sweaters, suits and slacks in the well-appointed window. If Delawrence had had any sense he would have taken his buns out of the hotel and back to his house as quickly as his long legs would have carried him. But that’s one of the problems with success—one gets a shade cocky when one has done a job too well.

    The salesman, a nattily dressed thirty-one-year-old Omar Denton, smiled brightly at the equally nattily dressed Delawrence.

    Good evening, said Omar and ran his tongue over his thin pink lips. My, he thought, what a fine specimen this is. Delawrence smiled and arched his right eyebrow. Hmm, he thought, nice. May I help you?

    Yes, said Delawrence and let the yes come out as a hiss. Omar quivered. Something nice. Another hiss to the s.

    Anything in particular?

    Delawrence was now standing at the glass counter and placed his hands on top of it and stretched out his long, manicured fingers. Perhaps. The accent was British. He played his eyes over Omar’s form. Delawrence was such a whore. I…want…something…nice. Again he spoke the last word as if it were a hiss, For someone very…special.

    A special friend? asked Omar, disappointed that this handsome creature was involved with another. Damn, he thought.

    Absolutely.

    Well, everything here is…nice. Now Omar had joined the hissy choir and dragged the word nice out for a full three seconds. He was such a whore, too. With only special people in mind.

    This person deserves only the best, you understand, said Delawrence, because he only likes the best. He glanced around then returned his gaze to Omar literally devouring him with a lusty stare. Because that special person is…me.

    Ah, Omar was beaming. Perhaps his Prince Charming finally had come. I am sure I can satisfy your wildness dreams.

    Five minutes and fifteen hundred dollars later, Delawrence not only had purchased a few special items but also had agreed to meet Omar at the salesperson’s Pacific Height apartment at nine o’clock that evening. He blew a kiss to the young man and floated out of the shop. He didn’t want to stay around too long just in case Sally had decided to go looking for him, which he had but not in the fashion that Delawrence had suspected. You see, Sally was not just some very attractive bi-sexual man visiting San Francisco. No siree. The slightly feminine Sally was an under-boss to one of the Families—and here one should think of the fictional Tony Soprano, but in Sally’s case this be real real—in Chicago and quite capable in the ancient art of eliminating one’s enemies in a not so nice fashion.

    Sally was fuming because he could not telephone the police, which never was an option in the first place, about the robbery. He telephoned directory assistance and got the number of the credit union then rang it up only to learn that the place was closed and that he should call back in the morning during normal business hours. It wasn’t the five thousand dollars Sally had in that account that made him angry, it was the fact that that African som-bitch had played him for a fool and Sally was nobody’s fool.

    Staring out the window and looking down at the lights that dotted Market Street, Sally said softly, Ahma, or whatever the hell your name is, you can run but I’ll be damned if you can hide.

    Then he sat on the bed’s edge, sighed once, inhaled then slowly exhaled. Relax, he thought, as he picked up the telephone and dialed a number he knew by heart.

    CHAPTER TWO

    "So, what you’re sayin’ is that you want a tall, very dark, African guy for…?"

    That was the question Luigi Leone, AKA, The Finder, was asking Sally, who was sitting on the sofa, legs stretched out, hands behind his head, and staring at the ceiling. Over to the side near the armoire sat a tray that contained what was left of Sally’s breakfast.

    The silence hung for a few seconds, then Luigi spoke again, Sally—

    Mr. Santini.

    A beat, then: Mr. Santini, said Luigi and leaned forward in his chair. His large hands draped down towards the floor showing his extremely neat, and, might we add, very professional manicure, you want this individual for what?

    Sally took his time answering. He wanted to establish that he was the boss of this job and would not explain beyond what was necessary to an underling. When he spoke, Sally spoke to the ceiling.

    "This is a confidential matter and is of no concern of yours why I want this…person found, only for you to do your job. Once you locate him you are to go no further than contact me with the information. You are not to touch him, speak to him or in any way bring harm to him. Your only job is to point me in his direction and I will take care of it from there.

    Understand that this creature is not in our business, but has personally offended me, therefore, anything that will be done to him will in no way be disrespectful to Mr. Del Pizzo or any of the San Francisco families. Is that understood? Nod if you do. Luigi The Finder nodded once. Excellent. I expect to hear from you in eight hours. Will I be disappointed? A beat because Luigi nodded again. Then, I want this son-of-bitch found and found quickly. Or do I have to telephone Chicago and have someone sent out who is capable of finding him?"

    No, Mr. Santini, said Luigi who understood why this little man resting on the sofa was a person one did not dare cross, if he is alive and any where in the Bay Area we’ll find him.

    Of course he could find this guy. That was his job and his boss, Vinnie del Pizzo, who ran prostitution in the City of Lights, American Style, a dabbler in the drug market, a tad of gambling, and a little bit of trouble elimination as in you are one dead sucka if Vinnie The Meat Cleaver de Pizzo wanted you dead, had sent him over here to assist the man from Chicago. It was a gesture of courtesy and respect. Luigi merely did not like Sally because, well, quite frankly, he was—or appeared to be—a shade on the sweet side and Luigi had no use for guys who were not men. Odd since he lived in a city that was a haven for sweetcakes.

    Luigi’s the name, correct? Luigi said yes and was thinking that he should change his name to Louie or Louis so he would sound more American, this person is around six-feet-six, weighs in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. His hair is cut close but not shaved. He has large brown eyes that are slightly slanted up and he speaks with an accent, which was probably affected. His skin color is nearly the same as your dark brown loafers. I figure he’s in his thirties, but you never can tell about these jigs—

    They go by African American nowadays, corrected Luigi whose girl friend and soon to be fiancée Tina had explained that this is the way she and her black brothers and sister wanted to be referred to nowadays. Luigi was sensitive to what Tina said because, hell, she was beautiful, intelligent, a lovely paper bag brown and, perhaps best of all, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he might even be in love with her.

    Jig, said Sally. That’s what I call them. You have a problem with that?

    Yes, thought The Finder, but he said no.

    Well then?

    The Finder shook his head all the while thinking about Tina. He liked Sally that much less and swallowed away the desire to ram this little prickhead’s head in the toilet and flushed it twice.

    "This jig, said Sally and placed a strong emphasis on the word and moving on without hesitation, is probably gay although I am not certain about that. And don’t bother asking why I think he’s gay, just… He waved his hand in dismissing the thought. He continued: Therefore my suggestion is that you begin with the premise that he is gay and go from there. They probably all hang out together so it shouldn’t be a problem finding him. I plan to depart for home and my beautiful wife and children the day after tomorrow at nine in the morning.

    I would suggest you start your quest at the men’s shop in the lobby. According to my bank, a purchase was made there last night of some rather expensive articles, which I did not authorize.

    Sally thought about the recent conversation he had with his bank in Chicago this morning when he called to have all purchases halted. He was not a pleasant customer since he was unable to get through last night because, unfortunately for him, bankcards cannot be cancelled except during banking hours. The bank manager was only too happy to tell Sally about the purchase at the men’s shop in San Francisco, along with a dinner at a restaurant at the Fairmont Hotel which came to the tidy sum of three hundred and fifty dollars. Oh, and the twenty-eight gallons of gasoline purchased at the Shell station on Fell Street. Damn, he had thought, did that smuck drive a Hummer?

    Sally sighed and chased away the anger that had welled inside. He continued speaking in a monotone. Dull. Uninteresting. Precise.

    I expect to hear from you by then with the name, address and anything you think is relevant before I head to the airport. A beat. Understood? Luigi mumbled yes. Excellent, now I believe you have a very important job to do so you shouldn’t waste this valuable time sitting in my hotel room staring at me. I am told that you are called ‘The Finder.’ I trust that is accurate and not an attempt to inflate your ego. A beat. Luigi, it’s been a pleasure.

    Sally then closed his eyes and sighed.

    Luigi sat there for a beat, shook his head, suppressed the desire to toss this skinny, girlie guy out the window, stood and left.

    Asshole, thought Luigi as he stepped into the elevator.

    Asshole, said Sally when he heard the door softly close.

    Crossing the cavernous lobby, The Finder glanced to his left and looked into the men’s shop and the rather gay salesman, who was staring out the glass with his hands on his hip, his head leaning to the right and an odd look in his eyes. Hmm, thought Luigi, you think? He walked into the shop.

    Omar Denton gave this tall, well-built, dapper man his brightest smile.

    May I help you, sir? said Omar.

    Maybe, said Luigi walking over to the counter and looking down as Omar looked up and into the bluest eyes he has looked into since, well, since that cutie pie Nelson Hopkins three months ago. Were you working last night?

    A cop, wondered Omar. Naw, too, polished. Cops all the time wear white socks and brown shoes with a blue suit when they’re undercover. Omar’s response was a shrug.

    Is that a yes?

    No, said Omar, that was a shrug like I don’t remember.

    Cute, said Luigi and reached out and took Omar’s

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