Oakland Noir

by Jerry Thompson

  A black Lincoln Town Car stopped in front of the bar and turned on its hazards. It wasn’t unusual to see a luxury cab pick up an individual from the Nitecap. A fair number of professional drivers used it for respite, shooting pool and drinking between shifts. Sean shouted through the door, asking if anyone ordered a ride. A small chorus of “No” came back so he remained in his seat, arms crossed. Both passenger doors opened and Ms. Shirley, escorting a gentleman he didn’t recognize, stepped out. Flashing a crocodile smile, she walked past Sean without introducing the guy. Repeating this tactic as they walked through the bar, they strode confidently into the back room. The door shut quickly, fanning an air of intrigue throughout. Sean never asked Ms. Shirley about the significant other that supposedly had part ownership, but he had at least met him, and the gentleman in the office was not her blue-collared Irishman.

  The bartender whistled for Sean’s attention. “Th’ fuck was that about, you think?”

  “What’m I s’posed to say? Ms. Shirley got friends. Not really my business.”

  “She’s never brought another man since I’ve been around. Just seem like something’s up.”

  “I don’t know, dude, just ask her later.”

  “Hershe and her were in there earlier.”

  “You mean like, whenever Hershe stops by? C’mon, man. Look, tonight is dead, lemme go. I don’t have shit to do, but I’d rather not do it here. Fill me in tomorrow?”

  “All right, get out of here, I will. G’night, Sean. Everyone say g’night to Sean, lucky bastard’s off.”

  He headed toward the door and tossed up his hand, an impersonal goodbye to the few voices that obliged the bartender.

  It was too early to go home. The antiquated Casio wristwatch he wore beeped one a.m. as he walked past the Parkway Theatre, an old 1925 movie house still boasting a Wurlitzer and intricate décor. It had been unused for years, leaving a feeling of urban blight in a neighborhood the city recognized as “up-and-coming.” The sign board that used to list what was playing now simply read, We l-ve you Oakland. The feeling didn’t seem mutual.

  He turned right on East 18th and made for the “gem” of Oakland—Lake Merritt. It had been recently polished, the water glowing as it reflected the string of Christmas lights hanging between old-fashioned streetlamps. They illuminated the fresh landscaping and two-year-old Kentucky bluegrass. It was a pleasant aesthetic: paid for by us to be enjoyed by them.

  Three years ago those lights, had they been there at all, would have shown the bloated corpse of a retired champion pit bull, half-submerged in the shallows by the shore. They also could have revealed the young hood who once snuck up behind Sean and drove a fist into his kidney, a hit that threw him into the dried dirt and used prophylactics. He walked away from that episode with a broken wrist and without the server’s generous fifteen-dollar donation. That type of thing didn’t happen anymore, which he supposed was a positive. It also drove up his rent.

  He reached the lake and turned right; he had his beat. Before he was a junkie, the walk would take him past several bars while he meandered home. After he started using, it took him to Hanover Hill, where you could always score. The top of the little hill held a public restroom which no one used but the addicts. It was a storefront the city occasionally attempted to lock, and the doors were scarred from countless boots which had broken the blockade. Sean’s favorite joke: It houses the world’s most effectual plumbing design. He grimaced as the polluted memories bubbled into consciousness, quickening his pace to avoid an imagined silhouette of the dealer. A Town Car passed as he stepped off the curb and crossed Lakeside Drive. He would walk to the tip of Adam’s Point, sit on his bench, and roll a cigarette. It was a fifteen-minute stroll, time spent attempting to breathe through addiction and loathsome nostalgia. His self-developed methods forced him to have patience and a ritual.

  The odd Greco-Roman structure which marked the Point was shining in the moonlight, growing brighter with each footstep until it was washed in the pale, artificial glow which soaked the interior. The heels of Sean’s boots echoed closely behind, like an assassin’s. Emerging from the other side of the covered embarcadero, he came to a stop in front of his bench—a coated figure lay across it. He was snoring. The first snore brought relief—Sean held an unpleasant notion that every body outside after two a.m. was a dead body; the second brought disgust. It was his bench, his cigarette, his ritual, ruined by this odious breathing overcoat. He gave the bench an angry kick as he about-faced, settling for one of the more exposed and less comfortable spots which lined the promenade.

  The excited clamor of a startled flock of geese could be heard from the unlit interior of Lakeside Park, a final frontier for activities that appreciate the cover of darkness. Further listening divulged a muffled argument.

  His cigarette burned to the butt, Sean stood up. Back down the promenade and homeward bound. As he approached the intersection of Brooklyn and Lakeshore, a flock of geese burst from the darkness and flew, shrieking, into what was left of the evening. He looked up to watch them form a ghostly chevron, the flashes of white from their exposed chests blinking like so many eyes. Crossing the street drenched him in fluorescent light from the now-closed Quikstop, and he quickened his pace till he reached the softer light of the streetlamps.

  He began the ascent up Haddon Hill. A Venetian child tailed him for twenty feet, skipping behind his steady gait. He turned around to catch a glimpse of a romantic city built over water, threatened by an innocent leaning tower. “Leaning Tower of Pizza,” he said aloud as the mural ended.

  It was a childish and misguided piece of art that always captured his imagination: hope, romance, anonymity; a fresh start that guaranteed success. He would never get there. “Santa Lucia” spilled from his pursed lips and carried him to the hill’s peak. He wheezed as it leveled, cutting the song short. The terrain began to slope in his favor, restoring the energy needed to roll another cigarette.

  The traffic light which marked the intersection changed and then changed again: stop, go. An inane ode to structure and authority at such an untrafficked hour. The squeal of tires announced another presence, and Sean jumped over the low concrete wall of Smith Park, out of the way where he was able to watch the show. The car spun a donut and roared toward the hills. He applauded the driver’s reckless abandon and turned; Smith Park was empty and unlit.

  Walking through the moist, dead grass, he glanced over his shoulder, imagining the sounds of a potential assault. There was a picnic table in the center of the park. A quiet place to lie and look at the city’s few stars. Sean’s refuge for his last cigarette and final bowl of the night. Sitting down and rolling up, he sparked his nightcap. A shining object reflected the moon, diverting his attention. Fast money, he hoped.

  Instead he found a single stiletto, useless to him and everyone else, not worth a dime without its partner. He picked it up anyway. Fuck, it was Gucci. If he could find the other one he could make an easy twenty-five dollars.

  Sean scanned the grass around him using the light from his phone. Looking up, he saw he was near Smith’s plastic mules, locked in their perpetual train to the Mojove. Then he noticed that he was not alone; there was a sleeping body lying comfortably in the dirt behind the mules, with a small bundle near its head. This bundle could contain the missing shoe.

  Sean crept toward the body and braced for a reaction, but there was none, so he bent down and dragged the package to a safer distance. He reached inside, immediately jerking his hand out in violent surprise and falling backward. He scrambled to his feet. It was soaked, sticky, and warm. Gathering his wits, he waited to see whether his reaction had disturbed the sleeping individual, but it had not. Regaining confidence, he approached again, this time inspecting his mark thoroughly.

  Her legs barely stuck out from under the overcoat, and just one black-stockinged foot covered the other—which held the missing shoe. Sean froze. He then listened for breathing, and hearing none, he gave a hard shove on her shoulder. As the body rol
led over, the overcoat fell off. Sean stood shocked; he recognized that face. Or what was left of it.

  “Hershe!” he cried, shaking the body. It was cold—she was dead.

  He looked for her purse and found it under her knees. It snapped open with genuine Gucci ease. Pulling out the matching clutch, he removed its cash contents; as an afterthought he looked at the ID.

  Lic. No. D400-7686-1285

  D.O.B. 08/13/1979

  Expires: 08/14/2001

  Issued: 08/24/1995

  Karl Malone

  1846 Fifth Ave. Chicago, IL 60612

  Male 6'1" 189 lbs. Brn. eyes

  “Karl.”

  A moment of hesitation gave rise to a strong, sickly emotion which he suppressed. I was a favorite, she’d understand, he thought. Tossing the wallet back near the body, he began to run in the direction of home. His knees collapsed. Doubling over, he vomited through choking sobs. It didn’t make sense, he’d seen her hours before, broadcasting her contagious charm throughout the neighborhood. Her neighborhood. There wasn’t a soul in their lowly underworld who didn’t like or respect her. Sean gathered his wits and rose to his feet, forcing them once again in the direction of home.

  * * *

  At the foot of the old staircase he changed his mind, crossed the street, and dashed down a road he hadn’t used in six months. Taking a sharp right up the driveway of a solid old Craftsman, he found the hole in the fence and crept through, heading straight to the neighbor’s recessed garage. Greg was awake, at the very least half-alive, and Sean needed his advice and company.

  Greg was an old friend, a moderately successful artist whose philosophies stank of France. Sean pounded the door with the bottom of his fist, hearing a snap of rubber and a groan from the tired mattress, followed by the soft opening of a drawer.

  “The fuck?! It’s three o’clock. Who is it?”

  “Sean, Greg. It’s Sean. You need to let me in, some fucked-up shit, man.”

  “I haven’t seen you in months, you’re square, right? We’re square? I’m not opening this door till you promise you’re not here to steal my contentment.”

  “I promise, Greg! It’s nothing like that. Fuck you, man, open the door!”

  The dead bolt clicked and Sean pushed his way in. The place hadn’t changed—a pack of needles lay next to the sheetless mattress on the floor, along with tinfoil and a half-burned candle. Greg’s silver spoon hung on the bleach-white plaster wall by two rusting nails, one of which held a corner of his latest piece: A Chaotic Nightmare of Purples. He stepped over the mess of strangled tubes of acrylics and fell into the lone piece of furniture, an ugly old yellow rocking chair with shredded upholstery, and began to sob.

  “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Greg moaned, picking up a heavy brush and firing it into Sean’s chest. “What is wrong with you?”

  Sean choked his pitiful version of the recent events through a refried cig he’d found on top of a beer can.

  “It’s Hershe, man. She dead. Face all smashed to bits, teeth missing. Damn, I’ve never seen anything like that before. She’s wrapped in a giant coat under the donkeys. I went to the park, you know, for a nightcap, maybe see a star or two. Anyway, I found this shoe—her shoe, I guess—and went looking for the other. I found it. I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Shit” was all Greg said for several minutes; by the fourth minute Sean was growing impatient and began frantically asking what they should do.

  Greg gave him an annoyed look, silencing his outburst, and looked back down at his feet. “Did she have anything on her?”

  “Like clothes? She was definitely wearing those . . . Uh, her bag was between her legs, full. I grabbed her wallet, Greg. License said Karl. She only had eighty bucks in there, I have that here.”

  “The wallet? You took her fucking wallet?!”

  “No, no. The cash. See?”

  “Christ! A bizarrely rational reaction. Still kind of fucked, though . . . Then, it wasn’t misplaced tranny-bashing. Nothing, we can’t do anything.”

  Sean was appalled. “We can’t just leave her there, man, can’t you call someone? Can’t we give an anonymous tip to the cops? Something?!”

  “No, idiot. First: there’s no such thing as anonymous anymore; and second: this was a hit. You don’t get involved in a hit.”

  “A what? What’d she do?”

  “She was big-time. Damn, you’re slow. Big-time Chicago. Her and Ms. Shirley been doing big business in the neighborhood for years, and you don’t do big business without making enemies.”

  Sean again looked appalled, and dropped his head into his hands—contemplation wasn’t his strong suit. He didn’t change position until he heard the snap of rubber. Greg had just tied off and was attempting to light a pine-scented candle while his right arm still had motor function. Sean watched the lighter spark with each attempt until it finally took. He stared into the flame.

  “Can you spare any black, Greg?”

  “What? No, Sean, I knew you were after my contentment. You’re clean, remember? I’m just gonna take this hit and try to mute all the fucked-up shit you walked in with. You, go home.”

  Sean watched the white powder dissolve into a silver pool of serenity. “Please, Greg, I know it’s been a fucked night, I’m the one that found her. Look, I’ll buy it from you, I have money.”

  “You really are fucking screwy if you think I want stolen money from a dead friend. Fuck you, you know where it is.” Greg pushed the plunger and fell slowly into his mattress.

  Sean opened the drawer and unwrapped a moderate-sized rock. He laid the requisite tools at the foot of the chair as he sat back down and cut a piece of foil. Everything set, he tipped his plane and chased the dragon.

  * * *

  He awoke just after dawn. Greg was snoring painfully, and Sean moved the needle from the bed to an overflowing Schlitz bucket. He pinched another small rock from the drawer and tossed a tenner in its place. Cops were swarming the park as he walked up the short hill. He could just make out the now-covered body of Hershe through the throngs and police tape. The sight made him pause for only a second. He was exhausted, terribly confused, and still very high. The night had been too much, the following would be worse, and he would have to disguise his using again. He fingered the rock in his pocket as he unlocked his door, stumbling up the stairs and into bed.

  The alarm went off at five thirty p.m. Just a small hit, he thought, finding his foil and lighter where he’d left them, between the bed and wall. His shift started at six thirty—an hour of oblivion before he talked to Ms. Shirley. He figured the news had already saturated the block. A car alarm went off in the distance, rousing him enough to begin clawing away the sheets. Accomplished, he got dressed and locked the door behind him.

  Sean trudged down the block toward the bar, heavy legs sticking in the black. As he turned the corner the clarinetist looked him dead in the eye and played a single, long note that followed him into the bar, ending when he was greeted with an unfamiliar, “Hello there!” He waited for his eyes to adjust. A man, the same man Ms. Shirley had with her yesterday, sat at the bar with Danny.

  “You must be our beloved doorman. I’m Rich, new owner, pleasure to meet you.”

  Sean shook the hand held before him and without a word sat on Danny’s other side. This was too much, too soon. Danny looked at him with a gentle, knowing gaze and asked if he’d heard about Hershe. He responded with a solemn nod.

  “What happened to Ms. Shirley?”

  “She came back last night after you left and told me, told us, that she was taking an impromptu visit home, dead aunt or something. She didn’t mention she’d sold the place though, I found that out when I walked in the bar about a half hour ago. Cops are saying it’s a hate crime, just another tranny killed because—”

  “Fuckers.”

  “Anyway, Shirley must’ve made a tidy profit from the sale. I’m surprised though—her and Hershe had a good thing going, and after all these years I never would’ve guessed she would
. . . Well, this is New Oakland, I can’t even guess anymore.”

  WAITING FOR GORDO

  by Joe Loya

  Hegenberger Road

  On May 1, 2016, Hazard&Transgressions.com received from an anonymous source the attached two copies of actual court trial transcripts. They appear to be police audio surveillance of Mexican mobsters in East Oakland.

  The first transcript follows two men, John Bañuelos and Rudolfo Gomez, after Gomez picks up Bañuelos from a sheriff substation following his release from custody. The second transcript records Rudolfo Gomez and Harry Gong-Lerma in conversation at the Gomez residence in Oakland, California.

  During the month following we received twelve additional recordings of surveillance events leading up to the violent episode captured here.

  Sincerely yours,

  Student Gallette

  CEO and Founder, Hazard&Transgressions.com

  SUPERIOR COURT OF CALIFORNIA, COUNTY OF LOS ANGELES

  —o0o—

  THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF )

  CALIFORNIA, )

  )

  Plaintiff(s), ) Case No. 01x45728b

  vs. )

  RUDOLFO “PRETTY RUDY" GOMEZ )

  Defendants(s) )

  _____________________________________ )

  AUDIOTAPE

  AUTOMOBILE CONVERSATION BETWEEN

  JOHN BAÑUELOS, aka “JETHRO JOHNNY,"

  RUDOLFO GOMEZ, aka “PRETTY RUDY,"

  and HARRY GONG-LERMA, aka “SILLY CHINO,"

  8:30 PM, January 5, 2016

  Transcribed by:

  POMPTON X. GALA REPORTING SERVICES

  9694 San Fernando Road, Suite C