killed, and thought he’d seen it before. It was a boxy Ford SUV, the Flex, silver bottom, black top, parked on
the south side of Brannan. He might not have thought all that much about it except he saw a guy sitting in it. From his vantage
point on the second floor, he couldn’t get a clear view into the car, but the window was cracked enough to see a beefy arm
and shoulder and an occasional flash of the side of the guy’s face.
Before the guy could see him standing at his window, gazing down upon him, Richie retreated a few steps back and sat down
on the couch and turned on his TV. The studio apartment was only about five hundred square feet, with a counter separating
the kitchen from the living area and a bathroom and large walk-in closet off to the right of the kitchen. His furniture was
minimal: a futon couch, coffee table, two bar stools, and a 32-inch LCD TV that sat atop a simple black IKEA media stand with
a cable box and PlayStation 3 inside its two shelves. With the shades drawn, he could still catch enough of the street to
keep an eye on the car.
About ten minutes went by and he noticed a second guy came back to the car with a couple of coffees in a tray along with some
food. It was probably from Crossroads, a café around the corner, a neighborhood mainstay. Richie only caught a glimpse of
the secondguy, but it was enough to see that he wasn’t white or black but something in between. Hispanic or maybe Pacific Islander.
Not tall but thick, with a tree trunk for a neck.
They didn’t leave once the coffee arrived. Watching the car sitting there got Richie’s heart going a little faster. At one
point he was sure the guy in the passenger seat was looking up at his window. It was hard to say for sure, because as soon
as the guy looked, Richie turned his eyes back to the TV and pretended to watch.
Finally, he got up and went to the kitchen to make a bowl of cereal. He tried to convince himself he was being paranoid; there
were plenty of reasons two guys in a Ford Flex would be parked outside his apartment building. He decided to take a shower.
If the car was still there after he got dressed, he’d plot his next move.
Fifteen minutes later he found himself on the phone to Howard Kantor, an unemployed programmer who looked just enough like
Dean Martin to impersonate him. Kantor’s Dino didn’t get nearly as many gigs as Richie’s Frank. For starters, he wasn’t good
(he couldn’t sing worth shit), but more often than not, to keep costs down, a company preferred to hire one person—Sinatra—not
the whole Rat Pack.
Even though he was unemployed, Kantor, who was originally from outside Boston, had cobbled together a living through a combination
of odd jobs that included focus groups in which he had no right to participate (“Dude, do you know where I can get my hands
on an owner’s manual for a BMW? Need to bring one Tuesday night”). He also managed a building in Pacific Heights, in return
for which he paid a reduced rent for a ground-floor apartment in the building. A disciple of the radio host Tom Leykis, who
was famous for preaching how to get laid as cheaply and effortlessly as possible, he’d been mourning the loss of the
Tom Leykis Show
, which had ended a few years ago. Lately, however, rumors that the show was being resurrected had Kantor’s spirits up.
“What’s up?” Kantor said when Richie called.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“I need you to drive over here and park over on Brannan and keep your engine running.”
His plan was pretty simple. Get a picture of the license plate, emailthe photo to himself, then confront the guys. He wanted Kantor there in case he needed to make a quick getaway—or just be
a witness.
“Now?”
“Yeah, now. I’ll pay you to drive over.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m with this nice young lady here.”
She must have been right next to him because his voice became muffled
the south side of Brannan. He might not have thought all that much about it except he saw a guy sitting in it. From his vantage
point on the second floor, he couldn’t get a clear view into the car, but the window was cracked enough to see a beefy arm
and shoulder and an occasional flash of the side of the guy’s face.
Before the guy could see him standing at his window, gazing down upon him, Richie retreated a few steps back and sat down
on the couch and turned on his TV. The studio apartment was only about five hundred square feet, with a counter separating
the kitchen from the living area and a bathroom and large walk-in closet off to the right of the kitchen. His furniture was
minimal: a futon couch, coffee table, two bar stools, and a 32-inch LCD TV that sat atop a simple black IKEA media stand with
a cable box and PlayStation 3 inside its two shelves. With the shades drawn, he could still catch enough of the street to
keep an eye on the car.
About ten minutes went by and he noticed a second guy came back to the car with a couple of coffees in a tray along with some
food. It was probably from Crossroads, a café around the corner, a neighborhood mainstay. Richie only caught a glimpse of
the secondguy, but it was enough to see that he wasn’t white or black but something in between. Hispanic or maybe Pacific Islander.
Not tall but thick, with a tree trunk for a neck.
They didn’t leave once the coffee arrived. Watching the car sitting there got Richie’s heart going a little faster. At one
point he was sure the guy in the passenger seat was looking up at his window. It was hard to say for sure, because as soon
as the guy looked, Richie turned his eyes back to the TV and pretended to watch.
Finally, he got up and went to the kitchen to make a bowl of cereal. He tried to convince himself he was being paranoid; there
were plenty of reasons two guys in a Ford Flex would be parked outside his apartment building. He decided to take a shower.
If the car was still there after he got dressed, he’d plot his next move.
Fifteen minutes later he found himself on the phone to Howard Kantor, an unemployed programmer who looked just enough like
Dean Martin to impersonate him. Kantor’s Dino didn’t get nearly as many gigs as Richie’s Frank. For starters, he wasn’t good
(he couldn’t sing worth shit), but more often than not, to keep costs down, a company preferred to hire one person—Sinatra—not
the whole Rat Pack.
Even though he was unemployed, Kantor, who was originally from outside Boston, had cobbled together a living through a combination
of odd jobs that included focus groups in which he had no right to participate (“Dude, do you know where I can get my hands
on an owner’s manual for a BMW? Need to bring one Tuesday night”). He also managed a building in Pacific Heights, in return
for which he paid a reduced rent for a ground-floor apartment in the building. A disciple of the radio host Tom Leykis, who
was famous for preaching how to get laid as cheaply and effortlessly as possible, he’d been mourning the loss of the
Tom Leykis Show
, which had ended a few years ago. Lately, however, rumors that the show was being resurrected had Kantor’s spirits up.
“What’s up?” Kantor said when Richie called.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“I need you to drive over here and park over on Brannan and keep your engine running.”
His plan was pretty simple. Get a picture of the license plate, emailthe photo to himself, then confront the guys. He wanted Kantor there in case he needed to make a quick getaway—or just be
a witness.
“Now?”
“Yeah, now. I’ll pay you to drive over.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m with this nice young lady here.”
She must have been right next to him because his voice became muffled
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