Berkeley Noir

by Jerry Thompson

"Wait, wait! Slow down," the girl said. "Think that's him, Bri?"

  "I don't know."

  "Can we get closer?"

  "Not without spooking him."

  The computer flashed. Shelby leaned toward it. "Wait! They've got something."

  Janssen stretched up to look over the seat.

  "The guy on the street"—Lisa Kozlovski pointed frantically at the window—"what about him?"

  "The jacket!" Shelby said. "They found the coat. Puffy hoodie. Bloodstains."

  Maduri flipped on the flasher and siren and pulled into the left lane. From inside the car it shrieked so loud that Maduri wanted to slam his hands over his ears. "Where'd—"

  "Behind a fence on Walnut. Brown hoodie. Reddish-brown!" Shelby was reading off the computer. "Go! Let's go!"

  Maduri hung a hard U.

  The back door popped open.

  Janssen slid across the seat, grabbed for the cage wire, caught himself.

  Lisa Kozlovski was gone.

  Maduri slammed on the brakes. The crash from behind shocked him, sent Janssen into the cage. Sent Shelby into windshield.

  The EMT van didn't stop. Maduri was trying to make the call; he was cradling Shelby's head. Lights flashed white, red. Sirens screamed.

  A patrol officer pulled up, Maduri didn't get his name. He flipped him the keys, muttered "Witness" toward Janssen, and pushed into the van with Shelby.

  * * *

  Later, after Shelby went into surgery, after Shelby's wife arrived from the distant town she hated, after a wave of cops flooded the waiting room and then another when they got off their shift at eleven, and after the surgeon came out to say that Shelby would live, but not walk—only then did Maduri think of Lisa Kozlovski and how easy it would have been for her to shoot Lampara, circle around through the Walnut Square walkway, chuck her mahogany hoodie, and stroll up to the scene.

  And then—he shook his head—all she would have needed was a way to get clear of the scene, pick up her former boyfriend's car, and drive off.

  WIFEBEATER TANK TOP

  by J.M. Curet

  West Berkeley

  1.

  I survived a ten-year stint at San Quentin. I did exactly what I was supposed to do—kept my head down, my ear to the grindstone, and my mouth shut. I stayed alive and made it out. One week in West Berkeley and it's all shot to hell.

  You hear the cops tell it: I'm probably getting exactly what I deserve. But cops can be sons of bitches. My PO, Greg, hooked me up with a small studio apartment in a run-down two-story complex on 9th and Bancroft and a night-shift janitor job at the pharmaceutical company on 8th Street.

  "You know why I'm sticking my neck out for you, Red?" he asked me.

  "Not really, Greg. I'm just grateful for the vote of confidence, to be honest."

  "I'm helping you because there's something about you. I don't know what it is exactly, but there's something about you that gives me hope. Don't fuck this up."

  I'm not a bad guy per se; I've done some things I'm not particularly proud of, who hasn't? So I've dabbled in illicit drugs, methamphetamines mostly. So I've gotten into some stupid physical altercations with stupid people. But mainly it's been about being at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong fucking peeps. I thought those days were behind me. All I had to do was go to work, piss in a cup every once in a while, and stay invisible. I really thought I could do it too, and then I met Teena.

  I saw her leaning against the shabby wooden fence out back. She had dark frizzy hair that went past her shoulders, and bright red lips. I was taken by the shape and lines of her tanned arms and legs, and by those big brown eyes. She wore a flower-patterned sundress that was on the verge of being obscene, and sandals that exposed the turquoise polish on her toenails. She held a pack of Newports in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. I knew she could see me taking her in, and that suited me just fine.

  "Hello there!" I yelled through the open window. She looked to see if the coast was clear enough for her to speak. That should have been my first red flag.

  "Hello yourself," she said. No smile. No charm.

  "Can you see me?' I asked.

  "Uh, yeah?"

  "I just moved in."

  "You mean you just got out," she said in a nasty tone.

  "Excuse me?"

  "That piece-of-shit studio you're in is for ex-cons, who usually become ex-ex-cons pretty damn quick, so more than likely, and hopefully, you won't be around too long." With this she flicked her cigarette stub on the ground and stomped it out, both gestures done rather violently. She was spunky. I liked her.

  "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm planning on sticking around for a while. You might want to reconsider. I can almost guarantee you'll gain dividends."

  "Yeah? Well, you should be real careful about who you talk to around here. And by the looks of you, I can guarantee you're going to end up like every other loser that's lived in that studio."

  "You don't have a clue about me."

  "You can't fuck with tried-and-true. The odds are against you."

  "Poetic. You're deep. You're wrong about me, but you're deep. My name's Red, what's yours?"

  "Is that why you did time? 'Cause you got red?"

  "It's a long story. I'll tell you if you give me your name."

  She let out a heavy sigh, put her pack of cigarettes in her front pocket, and walked to the staircase door leading to the apartments above. Just as she opened it, she looked over at me and said painfully, "My name is Teena, two e's. When you see me around with my man, don't act like you know me because you don't. It'll be best for everyone involved."

  "Got it. I don't know you and you swear you know me, Miss Teena."

  "If I were you, I'd move. ASAP."

  I showered, shaved, and headed for work. Teena was out in front of the building, still in that merciless little dress. She was talking to a female who couldn't have been older than seventeen and already looked like her best days were behind her. "Hello again, Miss Teena. Twice in one day. There is a god," I said. After a few steps, I turned to look back and noticed she was smiling.

  "Damn! He's pretty fine," said her friend.

  "He's all right," Teena scoffed.

  The way she said it that made me feel warm and fuzzy all over. I thought I had a chance.

  2.

  I barely slept and spent the following afternoon hoping to catch Teena out back. I was mad at myself for how many times I peeked out my kitchen window and for feeling disappointed every fucking time. Later that evening I saw her. She was being strapped to an ambulance gurney, blood trickling down her face. She had a bloody rag on her head, and was screaming at the top of her lungs,

  "You motherfucker!! You're gonna fucking get yours, you'll see!! Hit a woman?! You're not a fucking man!"

  The four police officers on the scene stood around, looking aggravated.

  "Just tell us who did this to you so we can do our job," said one of the officers towering over her as she was being placed in the back of the ambulance.

  "Fuck you too, pig! You ain't shit! Fuck all y'all!" she yelled.

  She was hauled off.

  I immediately figured she was protecting her man. I felt a knot in my stomach realizing what she was willing to go through to shield someone who beat on her. I felt my face flush and I wanted to find out who this fucking guy was so I could put a dent in his skull.

  I scanned the crowd. I tried picturing the kind of man who had what it took to conquer and keep Teena, the kind of guy who would hit a broad.

  "Any of you upstanding citizens want to tell us something?" asked one of the officers. Nothing. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Have a nice night, everyone." The boys in blue got in their vehicles and drove away.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Yo! Mind your fucking business, jailbird!"

  Everyone dispersed like roaches when the lights came on. I glanced up quickly and couldn't make out a face. The voice came out of the dark. I put my hands in my jacket pockets and hea
ded for work.

  "Yeah, that's right. Step the fuck off and mind your business. You'll live longer," came the voice again.

  Now Teena's man knew what I looked like and this gave him an advantage over me. This pissed me off and I wasn't scared. That was the problem.

  Seeing Teena with her head busted only morphed my dislike for this joker and stoked the flames of my yearning for her.

  I shook it off and went to work half hoping I'd never see Teena again, and half hating myself for it.

  3.

  Imagine my surprise the next afternoon when I spotted Teena smoking a cigarette, barefooted, leaning against a beat-up Toyota Camry resting on four cement blocks directly in front of my kitchen window.

  She wore a wifebeater tank top without a bra, denim shorts more risqué than the dress from the day before, dark shades, and an A's baseball cap. I decided to tempt fate and take out the garbage.

  I hadn't really been there long enough to accumulate any significant amount of trash, so I filled up a Grocery Outlet plastic bag with shit I could gather from around the pad: a few empty bottles of St. Pauli Girl, some charcoal sketches I'd been fucking with when I was locked up that were doomed from the start, and the ripped-out pages of a Spanish-English dictionary some other inmate gave me as a getting-out present. I topped it off with bunched-up paper towels and toilet paper. I left my door slightly open thinking it wouldn't take long.

  As soon as Teena saw me step through the back door of the building, she eyed me, blew smoke from her mouth the same way one might blow a kiss into the wind, and put her cigarette out. For a split-second I thought she'd bolt, but she lit another Newport and stayed put.

  "Looks like a heavy load you got there, Red," she said placidly while I threw the bag into the dumpster.

  "Well, hello there, Miss Teena. You remembered my name. "

  "It's an easy name to remember."

  "I'm happy you're here. I didn't think I'd see you so soon."

  I expected some witty banter or even a fuck you, but instead we stood there in awkward silence, me by the dumpster in my sweatpants and UC Berkeley T-shirt, and her a million miles away looking small and vulnerable and beautiful.

  "Are you okay?" I asked heartfelt, my voice almost quivering.

  She tossed her cigarette and used her hands to push herself off the car and walked toward me. My heart raced. I started sweating. She grabbed my right hand and led me back into the building and straight into my studio. Once inside, she let go of my hand and started to undress.

  "You sure you want to do this?" I asked.

  "I could ask you the same thing, but I don't really feel like talking, or thinking. Do you have a condom?"

  I nodded yes. She removed my shirt and without untying the strings pulled down my sweats, bringing my boxers down as well. Kneeling before me, gently, she took me inside. Her mouth a continent of tenderness, her lips awakening the stars in me. I felt like I would come and pass out at the same time. Then she stopped abruptly. "Don't," she said.

  I thought I was going to have a stroke. I grabbed her hips, raised her to me, and kissed her for what felt like three days. I could taste the long night on her busted lip, like crumbs of bitter and sweet dried blood, raw, like heaven.

  4.

  I laid her on my mattress, took her cap off, kissed the cut on her forehead, and worked my way down the length of her body, stopping at her breasts. I then lost myself between her legs. Next thing I knew, I was lying naked, drained and dreary, with my hands locked beneath my head, hoping she'd never leave.

  She got up and grabbed her shorts.

  "This can't ever happen again," she said as she dressed.

  I didn't understand. But then again, it made perfect sense. "Yes," I said. "You sure run hot and cold though, Miss Teena."

  "Whatever. And stop fucking calling me Miss Teena, you sound like a fucking retard."

  "Did you like it?" I asked.

  "What just happened here was a mercy fuck, and a fuck you to my poor excuse of a man," she said, sidestepping the question.

  "Are you sure this is one-and-done? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you enjoyed it. I know I did, but I'm betting you enjoyed it too."

  "Red!" Teena yelled. She turned to me, her face softening. She whispered, "Shut the fuck up, okay?"

  I knew then I'd see her again, so I shut the fuck up.

  She left and I felt hungry. I still had a few hours to kill before my shift, so I figured I'd get a pizza pie, eat a few slices now, and save the rest for later. I chose not to wash up. I wanted to keep Teena on me.

  5.

  I grabbed a slice of pizza from Paisan, and walked back, taking Dwight. As I turned onto 9th, I could see the flashing lights of the Berkeley PD, three squad cars strong, right in front of my building. I picked up the pace imagining the worst possible scenario—Teena's man murdered her and dumped her in my apartment. I thought maybe I should have taken that shower after all. But it wasn't Teena the cops were trying to resuscitate. It was her friend slumped over on the sidewalk, some nasty shit coming out the side of her mouth. She was being questioned and slapped around by a couple of police officers. I could hear the sirens of the ambulance on its way.

  There were a lot of curious people about. I looked around for Teena, but she was ghost, and rightly so.

  As I passed the cops and the girl, I said, "Never a dull moment, huh, fellas?"

  "What did you say?" asked one of the officers.

  I kept walking.

  "Hey!" came another voice. When I turned to look, two cops were headed toward me. "My partner asked you a question. We heard you say something and we'd like you to repeat it. Can you do that for us?"

  The focus of the crowd shifted.

  "I said, Never a dull moment, huh?"

  The cops looked at each other. They'd done this before.

  "You just moved in, right? Apartment 5?"

  I didn't answer.

  "Is this one of Greg's?" asked the smaller cop.

  "Yeah. I'd say two, three days, if even," answered the other. Then, directing his attention toward me again, "You were out here yesterday."

  "That true?" asked his partner.

  I said nothing. I felt like spitting in their fucking faces.

  "What's the matter? Nothing smart to say?" said the taller cop.

  "Can I be excused, Dad? I'd like to eat my pizza before it gets cold, and I need to get ready for work." As I scanned the crowd, I noticed a few people holding up their phones. This was not good.

  "A workingman," he said, like he was impressed.

  "Thanks for your help, sir! You know how to get ahold of us if you have any more information. G'night," said the smaller cop loud enough for everyone around to hear.

  Motherfucker. I wanted death to take them both right then and there.

  6.

  I opened the door to my apartment and the disheveled sheets on my bed and the lingering scent of Teena had an intoxicating effect on me. I closed my eyes until it passed. I hadn't even made it to the kitchen when I heard the knock. I was hoping it was Teena, but the knock itself told me otherwise. I opened the door anyway.

  "What up, jailbird?" said the man I assumed was her man. "Mind if I come in?"

  He didn't wait for my response; he just moved around me and entered. He had two long braids in his very blond hair, and a few gold teeth scattered in deliberate locations in his mouth. His jeans were hanging low enough to show red basketball shorts. I was surprised by how white he was. I mean, I know the hood has all types and poverty and hustle can be colorblind, but this cat epitomized the definition of caricature. I just wasn't expecting it. I figured it would take him all of two hours inside to get with his Aryan brothers.

  He walked straight into the kitchen and sat on the counter. "Damn, dude. It smells like you just got freaky up in here. Was she good?"

  "I'm sorry. Do I know you?" I didn't want to give anything away.

  "Yeah, motherfucker, you know me, just not officially."

  I waited for
him to say he knew about Teena and me. I clenched my teeth and stopped myself from clenching my fists. I could see the butt of his Glock 9 protruding from his waistband.

  "I'm the one who told you to keep walkin' yesterday. Remember?"

  Between the cops and now this piece of shit, I wanted so badly to beat him into oblivion and dump his body at Aquatic Park.

  "Yo, you better stop lookin' at me like that, jailbird. I didn't come here to hurt you, but you keep givin' me those dirty looks like you wanna do me harm, I will sure enough end you right here, right now. You feel me?"

  I wasn't feeling him at all. "What do you want?" I asked.

  "I want to know what you and the po-po talked about out there. I saw you was chattin' 'em up."

  "What business is that of yours? I don't even know you, and I couldn't give less of a fuck."

  He hopped off the kitchen counter and tried staring me down, pushing his chest out. I didn't budge.

  Through my window I noticed Teena walking out into the parking lot. She lit up a cigarette. She was checking us out and I suddenly felt brave.

  "Whatever you're going to do, I suggest you do it quick. I'm fucking hungry and really need to get ready for work."

  He grinned. "I know you just got out and shit, and you don't really know how things work around here, so I'ma fill you in. My name's KJ. I live upstairs in 15. I'ma talk straight and keep it a hundred: this ain't the joint, my brother. Out here you will get done in a motherfuckin' heartbeat and it'll be a few days before your body's found, if they find it. I got too much shit goin' on up in here, shit that can't be compromised, you feel me? So when you, or anyone else around here, be talkin' to the cops, it gets me a little nervous. And when I get nervous . . ." He touched his pistol for effect. "So, I'ma ask you one more time, nice-like. What were you talkin' to the cops about?" And now he pulled the Glock from his jeans and held it in his right hand.

  "Hey, baby! What you doin' in there with that ex-con, baby? He fuckin' with you?"

  "Mind your business, Teena. Go upstairs."

  "Okay, baby. Don't get all crazy though, there's still people out front."

  "Don't tell me what to do, bitch! Go upstairs!"