The Sourdough Wars Read online

  “I can barely afford to pay my gas bills—Bob and Tony are millionaires. Or Bob is anyway, and Tony’s got a Mercedes.”

  “And you think if you had the starter other people would think your bread was special?”

  She nodded.

  “What we came for,” I said, “is to tell you there’s a second batch of starter. Whoever stole it didn’t get it all.”

  She looked like a woman who’d just been told her child wasn’t on that wrecked school bus after all. While I explained the situation, tears ran down her face. “There’s a chance,” she said. “Oh, God, there’s still a chance.”

  “You want that starter in the worst way,” I said. I’ve often noticed that if you just say what you’re thinking about people, they somehow get the idea they owe you an explanation.

  The kid came in for a bite of pâté and saw his mom crying. “Mommy, what’s wrong?”

  She wiped her eyes. “Nothing, Bobby—go watch TV, okay?” She turned back to us. “Or nothing new, anyway. You’re right, Rebecca—I really do want that starter in the worst way. I want to be the biggest, best, most important sourdough baker in the history of the world. I want to go down in history that way.”

  “You’re probably already the best.”

  “Not good enough. No one knows about me. Do you know where I learned to bake?”

  “You were married to Robert Tosi, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right. He taught me the business. I think he thought it was cute, or I was doing it to be supportive or it was a hobby or something.” She broke off another piece of bread for herself. “I guess it was at first. I was an ace cook—I mean I still am. I made the pâté as well as the bread, by the way. I was a good little wife who always did the wifely thing, and cooking was wifely. But I was really good at it. So I thought it might be fun to learn to bake sourdough. Bob gave me a job—actually paid me to work at the bakery till I’d learned what I wanted to. When we split up, I had to be a baker. It was the only trade I had.”

  Chris asked, “Did you plan it that way?”

  “In a way I did. I wasn’t very happy married to Bob—I mean, after Bobby was about three. I needed something else. I have a degree in sociology, but—I don’t know—being a social worker didn’t appeal to me. I needed something I could do on my own—and I was already a great cook. Bob was a baker, and it was just sort of there.”

  She looked down at the floor. “I don’t suppose I was consciously thinking about leaving him then, but I guess it was in the back of my mind.”

  “You were the one who left?”

  Sally nodded. Her eyes filled up again. “It was awful. He wanted me to do nothing but stick around the house. He had no sense of my needs at all.”

  Chris patted her hand. She had all the sympathy in the world for anyone who’d suffered at the hands of the Dread Tosi Monster. “You’re nice,” said Sally suddenly. “Were you seeing Peter?”

  “Yes. I was very fond of him.”

  “I guess he told you about me?”

  Chris shook her head. “Peter wasn’t like that.”

  “How could I forget? Of course he wasn’t. He wouldn’t tell you his name if he thought he could avoid it. We hardly ever saw each other, the last year or so, but he was a wonderful person. Who’d want to kill someone like that?”

  She sipped some wine and went into a little reverie. “Peter was the reason I left Bob. I mean, I needed to leave. I wasn’t happy with Bob. But I just didn’t have the courage. Peter courted me. He took me on picnics and things, at first just acting like a good friend, and then we became lovers. He simply took me away from Bob. He wouldn’t be stopped.” Chris looked as if she was about to lose consciousness. “I guess I used him, in a way, to give myself the courage to leave—I leaned on him. But he fell too much in love with me.”

  Obviously Chris couldn’t speak, so I did: “You didn’t love him?”

  “Oh, I guess I did, in a way. But not—you know—the way I’d really like to love somebody. I just couldn’t open up to him. And I always thought it was silly the way he fought with Anita. I like Anita a lot, and I didn’t think it was right, a brother and sister being estranged like that. I tried to get him to make up with her, but he wouldn’t.”

  “That was why you couldn’t fall in love with him?”

  “It sounds odd, doesn’t it? But I think it had something to do with it. He just wasn’t emotionally mature.”

  Chris sighed and nodded. Apparently, she identified with Sally.

  “So I had to let him down gently,” Sally continued.

  “But surely that wasn’t all,” I said. “Did Peter seem slightly cold to you? I don’t know how to ask this gently, but did you get the feeling he might have been bisexual?”

  “Peter?” Sally laughed. “Never. He was crazy about me and showed it in every way. I mean, every way. He took it kind of hard when I stopped seeing him. I don’t think he had another girl friend until you, Chris. I think you must be a very special person.” She gave Chris a very warm smile. “It wasn’t easy to get Peter’s attention.”

  Chris started puddling up, so I changed the subject. “If Anita decided to sell the starter, you’d want to bid, is that right?”

  “I don’t think she’d want to sell it. But maybe, just maybe—”

  “Well, going back to the original auction—the others must have stacks of money at their disposal. I don’t mean to be rude, but could you really have hoped to outbid them?”

  “I’d have tried, anyhow.”

  “You’re awfully brave,” I said, and meant it.

  “Thanks.” Sally smiled. “It’s hard to keep my nerve up. I don’t think I could have done it without support.”

  “Support? You mean from your friends?”

  She looked flustered. “I have someone who believes in me.”

  “Ah. A backer.”

  Her cheeks were slightly pink and she smiled like a teenager. “You might call it that. But if I didn’t believe in my product so much, I couldn’t possibly have accepted help. It’s so hard for me—it’s something I have to learn. Anyway, this is a good friend, but our arrangement was also a good business deal for both of us—I believe that or I wouldn’t have been in it.”

  Bobby came into the kitchen, dragging an old worn blanket and rubbing his eyes. “Hi, young man,” said Sally. “Time for you to go to bed.”

  Chris and I stood up, recognizing our exit cue. “Did you really like my bread?” asked Sally.

  “It’s wonderful,” said Chris.

  “Well, you must take some with you.” Sally went to a cabinet and produced two loaves. “One for each of you. Fresh-baked.”

  Headed south in the Volvo, Chris said, “I like her.”

  “She’s disarming, isn’t she? Tony was honest, but he seemed on the ragged edge. Sally just seemed kind of confused and not very bright. Things seem to pour out of her because that’s the way she is.”

  “I felt very sorry for her when she talked about Peter.”

  “If I were you, I don’t think that would have been my reaction.”

  “She’s kidding herself, Rebecca. I think she’s remembering Peter as a great deal more ardent than he could possibly have been—remember, I knew him pretty well. Sort of.”

  “Maybe she was lying. Bob Tosi said Peter dumped her—maybe she’s telling it the other way around because she doesn’t want us to know she’s got a murder motive.”

  “Listen—knowing Peter, he’d never have told anybody who dumped whom—it just wasn’t his style. And Bob would assume Peter dumped Sally because he’s macho and macho men always dump their women.”

  “But Sally dumped him.”

  “Well, he’d like to think men dump women. It’s pretty odd, don’t you think, that of the four potential bidders he’s the only one who’s really accepted the fact there’s probably not going to be a new auction? I think he’s got what he wants. The auction’s stopped and the Tosi Bakery remains on top.

  “When you think of it,
he has the best motive of the four of them. He doesn’t need the starter to stay on top—he just needs to see that no one else gets it.”

  “You think he stole it?”

  “One of them did.”

  As we were crossing the bridge, Chris said, “I can’t get Sally out of my mind. She’s so sad.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She wants to be an independent woman so badly—and she has a lot of talent; no question she makes the best bread of them all. But she seems so dependent on men.”

  “That’s been bothering me, too. Her husband was a baker, so she became one. Then she couldn’t leave him till she had another man. And now she’s got a backer. You know what’s the saddest part of it? Did you notice the way she kept asking us whether or not we really liked her sourdough? Deep down, she doesn’t really believe in that bread.”

  I dropped Chris off, found my parking place taken, and finally managed to get another one (no mean feat in North Beach). Then I stumbled up my stairs, exhausted, and turned on my message machine. What I heard didn’t make me happy.

  Rob had called. He was furious that I hadn’t told him about the second starter. The worst of it was, he was right. And he didn’t even know I’d failed to tip him on another hot story. I dialed the familiar number. “I forgot you, pussycat. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t ‘pussycat’ me, you traitor. This is a huge story, don’t you understand? And it’s my story. And you’re my girlfriend, and you forgot me.”

  “I’ve been kind of busy. Did you hear about the brawl on Castro Street?”

  “Hear about it? I covered it. Some idiot yelled something about a gun and all hell broke loose.”

  “Did anyone have a gun?”

  “No. But the guy who was supposed to has a broken jaw. And half the pretty boys in the Castro got their noses smashed.”

  “I was there.”

  “You were what! Rebecca, where’s your loyalty? Why didn’t you call me, dammit?”

  “Listen, you don’t need me. You got both your stories, right? The second starter and the brawl. How’d you do that?”

  “Sources. I’m a reporter, remember? I’m supposed to know how to get information.”

  “My point exactly. Now shall I tell you about my day?” Naturally, he was all ears. The part that intrigued him the most was Clayton’s claiming the man in the leather jacket was trying to mug him. The man told police he’d simply asked for the time, and had chased us into the bar because Clayton threw a bag of groceries at him for no reason.

  “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you if you were a mugger?”

  “I guess so. Want to come to dinner tomorrow?”

  I said I did. I had to argue a divorce case the next day and I could use a home-cooked meal.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rob lives on Cathedral Hill in a weird building with a great view. What makes the building weird is that it’s round. Otherwise, it’s just a characterless modern building. But it does have that view, and as for its banality, Rob says a person with an overactive imagination—such as himself—is stimulated by the ordinary. I’m not too sure what he means by that, but I’ll tell you one thing—if we ever decide to formalize our acquaintanceship, it’s not going to be there. I can tolerate it just about long enough for dinner.

  We had chicken that night. I happen to remember that because it’s all Rob ever makes. I know he knows how to make at least four or five things, because every once in a while he has. But usually he just pops a chicken in the oven with some potatoes and onions. This he serves on an oak table that also doubles as his desk and fits into a corner of his very masculine living room.

  Why do single men always have fake leather sofas? Do they think the Bachelors’ Union will drum them out if they sit on velveteen or corduroy? Rob’s got one just like all the others, and also a lot of books and a terrific painting of kachinas by a Hopi artist. When you turn off the lights and light a couple of candles, it’s quite a cozy place for dinner. If you also open the curtains, it’s one of the wonders of the world.

  We had a nice Chardonnay with our dinner, and after coffee I felt a lot like curling up on the fake leather sofa, maybe watching the lights for an hour or two. I am not what you call a night person.

  Rob, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t go to bed at all if he could find anyone who’d stay up and keep him company. He gets his second wind after dinner and then wants to dance the night away. I planned to put my foot down tonight. It was going to be a quiet evening or he was going to spend the rest of it alone.

  He reached over and tweaked my chin. “Wake up there.”

  I closed my eyes and let my shoulders sag. “Uh-uh. Not on your life.”

  “Uh-huh. Absolutely. We’ve got places to go and things to see.”

  “Rob, honey, I just don’t feel like—”

  “Yes, you do. This you’ll like, I promise you. We’re going to a secret hiding place.”

  My eyes came open. He was already up and putting on his coat. “Beg your pardon? Did you say secret hiding place?”

  “I did. We’re going to have an adventure.” He held out my new charcoal-gray suede jacket, which I’d gotten half price for $150 and which I loved so much I put it on automatically.

  “I thought only kids had secret hiding places.”

  He turned out the lights and held the door open. “Kids and some grown-ups.”

  We were in the elevator before I thought to ask, “Why do we need to hide?”

  “We don’t. At least I don’t think so.”

  “Then why are we going there?”

  “I told you. To have an adventure. It’s somewhere neither of us has ever been before.”

  “Don’t be too sure. I’m a Bay Area native.”

  “Here’s a hint: It’s near China Basin.”

  In that case, he was almost certainly right about my not having been there—it’s not the sort of place a lady lawyer goes unless she’s lunching at Blanche’s, an eccentric but much-favored restaurant in the warehouse district. Which is what the area around the China Basin is. All of a sudden I had it: “It’s where the second starter is.”

  He tapped his nose. “On the schnoz.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  He shrugged. “Sources.”

  “Come on. What sources?”

  “Well, actually, I just kept asking around until I found someone who had a friend who works at Fail-Safe. One of the copy boys.”

  “And?”

  “And it turns out it’s no big-deal secret at all—they have two warehouses, and some things are stored in one, some in another. If the control starter wasn’t in the main building—which it wouldn’t have been, because then it wouldn’t have been a control—it had to be in the other. The company’s just being tight-lipped because they figure they’ve got a security problem.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Something tells me,” I said, “that I didn’t get a full and complete answer to one of my previous questions. So I repeat: Why are we going there?”

  “Well, I’m doing a little story about cryogenics—sort of a sidebar to run with the ongoing sourdough saga—and I thought I’d like to see what the place looks like.”

  “Why don’t you just ask for a tour?”

  “I did. No dice.”

  “So you’re going to describe it from the outside—‘in a rundown warehouse near China Basin’ sort of thing?”

  “If that’s all we get, sure. I thought we might check out the security, maybe—who knows? At least we can see what’s around it and I can describe that.”

  “Are you going to publish the address?”

  He didn’t answer for a while. When he spoke, it was in kind of a clipped way, designed to discourage further probing: “I haven’t decided yet.”

  I wasn’t sufficiently discouraged. “What purpose would it serve?”

  He sighed with the air of a person who has explained a thing to a child a hundred times. “Credibility, Rebecca. If I
give the address, I really saw it, not just any rundown warehouse in China Basin.”

  “But maybe the thief will see it and get the control. Or maybe he’ll try and some innocent guard will interfere and get killed.”

  “That’s not a journalistic problem.” He spoke in the same clipped tone, and I wanted to shake him. Reporters never seem to care what kind of chaos is unleashed as a result of their handiwork; every day they open a new and different Pandora’s Box and don’t give a damn about the consequences. It was the main problem I had with Rob; if he weren’t a reporter, he’d be perfect.

  I kept my mouth shut until we pulled up in front of a properly rundown warehouse. It’s a hideous neighborhood, that one, a place of things, not people. There’s a spooky old railroad switchyard there, and the San Francisco RV Park, where the old Southern Pacific Station used to be. Also, there are two bridges across China Basin itself, which is a little finger of the bay. The Peter R. Maloney Bridge, hard by Blanche’s, is really part of Fourth Street, and my personal favorite, the Francis “Lefty” O’Doul Bridge, is part of Third.

  Mostly, there are a lot of warehouses of varying sizes and conditions of decay. The place always seems dead, even in the daytime, when occasional human beings and dozens of cars dot the landscape. At night, it can oppress you like a paper bag over your head. What little light there is gets swallowed up by a large and mighty blackness.

  So we couldn’t see much after Rob turned off his headlights. “Is this it?” I said.

  Rob shook his head.

  At first I thought he was making fun of me for asking such a dumb question, but no—he pointed down the block to our left. “I don’t want to alert the guard if there is one. Let’s walk over quietly.”

  We both had on jogging shoes, so quiet was easy. We were a couple of cats slinking on fog feet, and suddenly I was having fun again.

  I forgot I was mad at Rob. I forgot everything except being in that great, black, quiet place where nothing moved and nothing ever would—or so it seemed. Rob ought to be getting lots of colorful details for his sidebar—a desolate crisscross of railroad tracks; a pitiful thicket of neglected buildings, shabby, uninhabited, squat, full of things that would leave soon; a quiet that was thicker than blood. I almost giggled at that one, knowing Rob would die before he’d put his byline on a phrase like that. But I didn’t because it would have been such a travesty to shatter the quiet.