Berkeley Noir

by Jerry Thompson

  I thought about rushing him. I knew I could take him physically, but with the gun in his hand it was too big of a risk.

  "I said some smart-ass remark when I walked past them, and they got all pissed off so they tried scaring me. But it didn't work."

  "Hmm. Yeah. You don't look like you scare easy."

  "I don't."

  "Is that Paisan pizza?" he asked, putting the gun back in his pants. "That's some good-ass pizza, yo. Probably cold by now, though." He surveyed my apartment, like he was figuring out where to put his shit from Ikea. "You got this place lookin' a lot better than the last mofo who was up in here. That guy was a fuckin' slob."

  He made his way to the door, keeping an eye on me and his finger on the trigger of his gun. He stopped short of it and said, "Yo, I know you got a job and shit, but I'ma put it out there anyway. You ever want to make some real money, I mean real money, you come talk to me. I could always use someone like you."

  "What do you mean someone like me?"

  "You're a hard-ass dude, bro. I'm sure motherfuckers think twice about messin' with your ass. Plus, you seem like you pretty smart, quiet, clean. Anyways, you know where I'm at. You ain't even gotta worry about fuckin' up your parole either, since I ain't got no felonies or anything like that, you feel me?"

  He finally opened the door, and just as he was about to exit he turned to stare me down again. "Two more things. One: don't let me hear you been talkin' to the cops again, I don't give a fuck what the reason. And two: next time Teena goes out to smoke back there, pretend you don't see her. Have a nice night, Red."

  7.

  Fucking Teena. She must have told him something. This vexed me plenty, sending my mind places I try really hard to keep it from going. Were they toying with me? Did he know Teena and I fucked? Was he the one behind our little afternoon delight? Whatever the hell game was going on, I decided I wasn't playing.

  Turns out it's still pretty easy to get a gun in Berkeley. Everyone I used to know is either dead or doing time, so I was lucky enough to have an acquaintance on the inside who told me about a spot I should visit if anything came up.

  A bar called the Missouri. All I had to do was drop my buddy's name to the doorman, and the process would be underway. I decided not having any money wasn't going to deter me.

  The Missouri is nestled right on the corner of San Pablo and Parker, close enough for me to walk to, check out, and still get to work on time.

  It was the kind of place a guy like me could get into some seriously regrettable shit.

  The fella at the front door was clad in black jeans, boots, a black bomber jacket, and black baseball cap. He even wore black gloves and shades, which seemed like overkill, but hey, I guess everybody has their part to play, right?

  I walked straight up to him and didn't waste any time. "Hey, I'm a friend of Shorty Lee. He told me you could help a brother out."

  He gave me a once-over, and took a look around. I gave him my best poker face. "You want Eddie. He's here tomorrow."

  "Oh," I said, feeling relieved and a little pissed. "Can I give you my number and—"

  "Fuck outa here with that shit, man," he interrupted, sucking his teeth. "This ain't no motherfucking dating service. Bring your ass back here tomorrow and talk to Eddie."

  I nodded in agreement and left. I didn't want to hurt my chances of getting a weapon. I knew like I know we breathe air that I needed it.

  I went to work and did my best not to think about killing KJ.

  8.

  I woke the next morning to persistent tapping on my kitchen window. I sat up in bed and saw Teena.

  "I tried your door but you didn't hear me. Open up and let me in. I have to talk to you."

  "Your boyfriend with you?"

  "You ain't funny," she said. "Get up, I'm coming around. It's important."

  "I bet," I mumbled.

  With some reluctance, not too much, I admit, I got up and opened the door. Even half asleep I noticed Teena's areolas threatening to break through her tank top. I was about to get back in bed but Teena grabbed my arm, pulled me to her, and kissed me, pressing up against my morning wood and making me wince. It was damn near impossible for me to push her away. Damn near.

  "Teena. What the fuck?"

  "What? No more Miss Teena?" she said, feigning hurt and sounding like a cross between a cat woman and a goddamned demon.

  Suddenly my head was burning, thoughts about being played causing a fire whirl inside of me. I could feel my blood boil. I wanted to grab her by the throat and squeeze. I took hold of her hair and kissed her instead, and then we fucked.

  Afterward, lying in silence, I heard a noise coming from the back of the apartment complex. When I looked up, I saw the silhouette of a man moving by the window.

  "We really need to talk," I said softly, as I stroked Teena's face with the back of my hand, pushing away hair from her closed eyes. I wanted her to know that I wasn't angry with her, that I knew she was with KJ out of necessity and survival and circumstances beyond her control, and that I would figure something out so we could be together and—

  The knock on the door startled us. Teena immediately stood up and scrambled for her clothes. I jumped up off the bed, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a steak knife, the only knife I owned.

  "Open up, Red, it's Greg."

  Greg?

  "Uh, now's not really a good time for a house call, Greg. Can you come back later?"

  "Sorry, Red, I can't do that. I've got other appointments today and I can't alter my schedule."

  I couldn't, for the life of me, remember a text message or phone call about a scheduled visit from my PO, but I'd been preoccupied. My first thought was that I'd missed it somehow. But there was something in his voice that turned my gut.

  I looked over at Teena and she was pale. Her bugged-out eyes pleading with me not to open the door.

  "Red? C'mon now, I'm sure whoever's in there will understand. A urinalysis is part of your parole agreement, buddy. Now be a good sport and open the door so I can do my job."

  I always found the phrase against my better judgment oxymoronic. How much better can your judgment be if you're going against it?

  "Okay, Greg, give me a minute," I said.

  "Don't let that motherfucker in here, Red," she whispered, trembling.

  "Don't worry. I won't let him see you."

  "No. You don't fucking get it. I know that voice, Red. I fucking know that voice."

  Just then I heard my door open.

  "Fuck!" said Teena. She dashed into the bathroom and hopped up on my toilet, trying to get the tiny window open.

  I turned back toward the front door and got hit with the butt of a gun on my skull.

  I dropped, barely conscious. Greg stood over me. KJ was right behind him.

  "You just couldn't do it, huh, Red? Just couldn't keep your hands out of the cookie jar?"

  Greg looked inside the bathroom. I wanted to say something, but couldn't. "And you. You had to go and fuck this whole thing up."

  "Yo, Greg, is this really necessary, man? Doing her, I mean?" asked KJ.

  Instead of answering KJ's question, Greg raised his gun, pointed it at Teena, and then I heard the distinct sound of a bullet traveling through a silencer.

  I heard the thump of a body drop. I rolled my eyes and could see Teena on the floor, her tank top already soaking in blood.

  "KJ, it's not my fault you can't control your women. I have enough on my plate dealing with Cindy's OD and keeping your ass out of jail as it is. Go grab the saw and acid from the car. Discreetly, if you don't mind."

  I tried to move. Greg shot me in the stomach.

  "I thought KJ told you there was stuff going on here that couldn't be compromised, Red. I thought you were smarter than this. Then again, I've been known to be wrong about people."

  9.

  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 fucking mouth shut. I s
tayed alive and made it out. One week in West Berkeley and it's all shot to hell. I'm fucking dying here.

  IDENTITY THEFT

  by Summer Brenner

  North Berkeley

  What you are to do without me I cannot imagine.

  —George Bernard Shaw, Pygmalion

  The first thing he did was cut her hair. He cut as gently as possible, but when she screamed and jerked away, nearly causing him to stab her cheek, he gagged her, then tied her hands to the back of a chair and her feet to a table leg. When he finished, there was a pond of hair at his feet. He swept and vacuumed and saved a few strands in an envelope. The second thing, he burned her clothes. The embroidered blouses and shawls, the hand-loomed pants and skirt, the head wraps, he had no choice. They were clothes that looked distinctive. They could easily be remembered. If she managed to get out, someone could identify her. People in Berkeley were curious about all things ethnic. No doubt a handsome young woman in ethnic garb, looking lost and far from home, would attract someone's attention. If she didn't stop them, they might approach her to ask where she was from. They might offer to get her help. Instead of her own clothes, he had bought jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters in the teen department at Macy's. Dresses would have to wait. He'd bought socks in case her feet got cold, two pairs with rubber grips so she wouldn't slip. A salesclerk picked out bras, panties, pajamas, and a fluffy robe. "Nothing sexy," he told her. Later, when it was appropriate for her to go outside, he would get her a winter coat and a rain jacket. At the pharmacy, he purchased toiletries: sanitary napkins, rose-scented deodorant, dental floss, an electric toothbrush, etc. Next, he took away her flimsy plastic shoes. They aroused feelings of disgust in him which he couldn't explain. Barefoot she was less likely to run away. He also locked up her jewelry (the gold earrings and shell and bead necklaces) and documents, including her passport. He couldn't bring himself to destroy the documents. He told himself that entirely wiping away her past existence, like the name of her hamlet and family, was inhumane. He locked up the signed contract with her mother and the sales receipt for nine hundred dollars, which was a way to protect himself—that is, legally. Finally, he taught her yes, no, goodbye, hunger, and thirst in English and sign language.

  In advance of her arrival, he'd had a portion of his attic renovated. The new soundproof walls had been painted pale blue, a color reputed to induce calm. He'd debated about a window, knowing that to gaze at trees and sky and hills was a great pastime, a source of spiritual renewal, especially for a child accustomed to the natural world. But in the end, he thought a window would only make her sad. The bed and dresser were new. The sheets were pima cotton, the duvet goose down, the pillows hypoallergenic. The bathroom had hot running water and a flush toilet, luxury conveniences for her. He'd considered installing a tub with the shower, but he feared she might try to drown herself. He placed a small bookshelf in the corner of the room with early readers, a pictorial dictionary, a simple atlas, and copies of National Geographic. He put a clock radio on the console and tuned it to KDFC, the classical music station. As far as he knew, she never changed the station or turned it off.

  Most of the day, he sat near her at a small library table. They didn't attempt to communicate, only sat. He read. He graded his students' papers. He worked on the outline of a presentation he was to deliver at a conference in July. He wasn't sure what she did. Eventually, he would find a way to have her tell him her earliest impressions. But for now, he hoped his presence was reassurance that he was taking care of her.

  He prepared her meals himself. In the future, he might have to resort to frozen food, veggie burritos, Cheese Board pizza, or soup from Poulet, but the homemade fare was part of the way he welcomed her. He was a good cook, an avowed vegetarian since he read Lorca's Poet in New York in college (". . . the terrible cries of crushed cows fill the valley with sorrow where the Hudson gets drunk on oil . . ."). His students loved to be invited over for mushroom stroganoff and shepherd's pie with green lentils. It was during his own lifetime that the preoccupation over food provenance had gone from fringe co-ops to mainstream. Berkeley had been in the vanguard of the food revolution. In the vanguard of many revolutions, he often said with pride.

  She wouldn't touch any of it. That he expected. His food and customs of eating were foreign. The last time he gave her something to eat, she'd slept for eighteen hours. Hoping to counter her fears, he set the table in her room for two. Two plates and bowls, two forks and spoons (no knives), linen napkins, glasses of water, cups of coffee at breakfast, iced tea at lunch, and a carafe of red wine at dinner with a single glass for himself. In the center of the table, he put a hand-painted vase with daffodils (in his humble opinion, the most cheerful flower in the world). At every meal, he demonstrated how to use the napkin and utensils. As he ate, he smiled. He made a grunt or two of pleasure. For three days, she ate nothing, but on the fourth morning, she unfolded her napkin and put it in her lap, then dipped her spoon in a bowl of hot buckwheat cereal that he'd mixed with manuka honey and roasted almonds. One spoonful, then another. After she finished, he patted her hand, conveying both approval and gratitude.

  Meanwhile, he documented the details of their encounters in a database. He planned to write a book with the current working title of Pygmalion's Paradox. But whether it was ultimately called Paradox or Plight was unclear. It was she who would determine the course of the relationship, and thus, the final title. She was the variable, he was the constant.

  The long weekend was over. The days had passed without dramatic incident. She'd decided not to starve herself, which alone counted as success.

  On Monday morning after breakfast, he made the sign for walking. On his fingers, he counted out the hours he'd be gone. Five or six. Then he pointed to the clock and tried to explain with the numerals when he would return. As he left, he bolted her door on the outside. It was a risk, he knew. If there were an earthquake, or fire, or landslide, she might not survive. Fire season was over, but with the recent heavy rains and flooding, and the ground hard from several years of drought, the runoff was tremendous. Two nearby streets had recently been blocked with debris. Asphalt had cracked and caved. A neighbor's foundation had been compromised. Around town the roots of a dozen large trees had loosened, causing them to fall. There'd been one fatality when a tree crashed onto the roof of a moving car. Above Tilden Park, six families were ordered to evacuate before their houses slid down a hill. Where he lived, there were several tiers of houses above him, road after road that circled through the hills, each positioned with steep slopes into its downhill neighbor's yard. And his house, built in 1898, was positioned at the lower end of the spiral with only brick pilings for a foundation. However, his house had survived earthquakes, fires, and landslides for over a hundred years. He trusted it would survive another day.

  He put the Times into his satchel and walked down the hill, turning once to wave at the large brown-shingled house as if she could see him and wave back. From La Loma, he dropped onto Virginia Street where he paused to view the sparkling bay and dark hills of Marin. From where he stood, he saw almost nothing manmade. No sign of highways or blocks of commerce and housing, only the Golden Gate Bridge and perhaps a ship or barge. Bridge and barge were not enough to mar the view. Prelapsarian, he called it.

  He entered campus through the North Gate. Rain-washed, it looked especially beautiful, everything shimmering in the cold blue air. The sylvan paths, the towering redwoods, the bare knobby limbs of the plane trees, and the Japanese magnolias dotting the grounds with their voluptuous winter blossoms. When the long, solemn chimes of the Campanile rang out like a muezzin's call to prayer, he felt summoned to a higher purpose. The chimes, the brisk air, the pungent medley of bay laurel and wet leaves, the students on skateboards and bikes, the fresh, smiling faces, he was buoyed by their insouciance as if he'd fallen in love. He guessed it was the nearness of her.

  His buoyance typically terminated at the entrance to Tolman Hall and the elevator ride to his office on the third
floor. It galled him that the magnificent discipline of psychology, whose discoveries rivaled twentieth-century physics in its understanding of the universe of human behavior, was housed in one of the ugliest buildings on campus. And that mining, the most destructive of all human endeavors, should occupy the university's most elegant building with palladium windows and a pantile roof. He took it as a personal affront, but when he remarked on this "disgrace" to the department head, his comment was deemed a joke. A good joke that passed among his colleagues so that they started to mutter disgrace under their breath whenever they passed him, and break out in laughter.

  He was popular with students, his courses famous for their eccentric syllabi. The readings for this semester's seminar, The Psychology of Slavery, included Story of O. In his generation, no other book was so eagerly devoured (except Laing's The Politics of Experience). Now, it was a rarity to find a student who'd heard of it.

  Today's question under discussion—Are there happy slaves?—sprang from a chapter in Frederick Law Olmsted's The Cotton Kingdom. Before Olmsted became the country's premiere landscape architect, he was hired by the Times to chronicle the South and its peculiar institution. He wrote as a journalist, an agronomist, an abolitionist, and periodically described the plantation of a "good" master, whose slaves lived in sturdy housing with adequate food, bonuses in dollars and provisions, and free time to cultivate their own gardens and engage in crafts to earn extra money. Consequently, they worked harder, with fewer whippings, for their good master than their fellow immiserated slaves.

  One student suggested that "happy slaves" was inherently racist. Another countered that slavery was colorblind until Europeans invaded Africa. A third remarked that in ancient texts, citing the Iliad and Gilgamesh, slaves were honored to serve a noble master, causing another to protest, "Those were servants, not slaves." At one point, he suggested they unload the terminology of master-slave, and substitute it with free versus unfree. At the lowest end of "unfree" were war slaves, work slaves, prisoners, orphans, captives, even a battered wife or child. But what actually constituted free? What were its physical, mental, and ontological parameters? Or was it easier to define freedom by its restraints on the individual or collective, such as prejudices, expectations, prohibitions, impositions, desires, customs, and laws? These were questions that had absorbed him for the last two decades.