Property Damage

by James Vachowski

  My face grew warm at the subtle dig. “Listen, Jim. You can imagine what it’s like, doing this job with Jughead for a boss. That guy wasn’t exactly a mental giant to begin with, but ever since his retirement pension began rolling in, the dude’s completely gone and checked out. Between me and Sal Brown, the two of us are pretty much running Team Four now. Somebody’s got to keep all the squad supervisors in line, not to mention everything we do for the beat cops. If you’ve got some advice to offer, then by all means, fill me in.”

  Jim leaned forward, planting both elbows down on the tabletop. The sweet odor of alcohol hung heavy on his breath, and I felt a twinge of regret for not having partaken myself. “So it’s like this, Goosey. You want a quick and dirty explanation, it really comes down to the difference between renting and buying. Take you, for example. You’re still shacking up in that shoebox of an apartment way out on James Island, right? Over off of Camp Road?”

  I nodded. “Nothing fancy, but it’s a place to keep my stuff. Besides, my complex has to be the only one in the city that doesn’t jack up the rent every six months.”

  “Well then, it’s pretty simple. Since you don’t actually own your own place, you don’t pay any property taxes. Because of that, the city of Charleston couldn’t give two shits about you and your troubles. But on the other hand, the minute you lay down twenty percent of your mortal soul to lock in a 30-year, fixed-rate mortgage, well sir, then it’s a whole new ball game. At that point, my man, you’re literally setting down roots. And that’s the thing, it doesn’t matter whether or not you own a particularly nice home, either. You could be buying the slummiest hovel in Ardmore, West Oak Forest, or wherever, but once your name appears on that deed, congratulations, that’s when you officially become vested in the community. So whenever an actual homeowner wants to complain about a problem, their councilman’s got no choice but to sit up and listen.”

  “I guess so. Thing is, Jim, I’m a simple man. Call me a bum if you want to, but I just don’t care. I’m satisfied to live in a run-down pad. Long as there’s a six-pack in the fridge every night when I get home, maybe a fresh bag of chips laying across my lap when I put my feet up on the coffee table and reach for the remote, then yeah, I’m pretty much good. And I’m not even talking about Lays or Doritos chips, you know? Those generic store brands are good enough for me. So all that nonsense you hear new homebuyers talking about ‘pride of ownership’? Yeah, that argument’s never held any water for me.” I paused to dip another onion ring into a shiny pool of ketchup, searching for the right words to eloquently wrap up my argument. “Show me a man who says he enjoys fixing his sink or mowing his lawn on a Saturday morning, and I’ll show you a goddamned liar.”

  Jim leaned back against the bench, smacking his greasy lips together as he gave my words the consideration they deserved. “Yeah, I hear what you’re saying. I mean, first of all, you’re not a person who I’d ever consider to be ‘complicated’. But there’s lots of other people in Charleston who see the world a little differently than you do, especially all those coloreds. Ol’ Mom and Pop Sanford especially, the blue collar types who’ve slaved their entire lives away, all with the goal of breaking through into the middle class. Those hard working blacks are few and far between, mind you, but they’re out there. The type who’ve scraped and saved for thirty years just to meet their bank note each month, so now, in their retirement, they finally own that half-acre lot free and clear.” He took another long swig of Miller Lite, then twirled the glass around on the table, causing the half-inch of remaining suds to slosh up and down along the sides. “Once those people get their hooks into a little patch of land, for some reason or other, they suddenly start paying attention to what’s going on around them. I’m talking about attending church, voting in local elections, almost like it’s their civic duty or something. Most of those old-timers actually know who their city councilman is, and they’re not afraid to pick up a phone and start squawking. Whenever those people start complaining, boy, you can bet we’ll hear about it soon enough. Shit rolls downhill, you know.”

  I shook my head in confusion, not following Jim’s logic. “The Sanfords? Back up a second, boss, you lost me somewhere back there. What the hell is it about buying a house that would make people act any differently?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder, probably more out of habit than from any real concern that somebody might have been listening in. Even if there actually had been anyone besides us and those lonely old biddies in the place, the clatter of the mechanical pin setters would have made eavesdropping impossible. “I’m talking about those old-timey residents, man, the ones living down towards Pierpont and Cross Creek. The blue-collar folks out that way literally built those neighborhoods, some of them with their own hands, back in the days before hip-hop music and crack cocaine came along and destroyed the black race. Believe it or not, my friend, there was once a brief period in history when Negroes actually aspired to get in on the American Dream. Those days are long gone, though— me, I place the entire blame on that damned Martin Luther King, Jr. Him and his no-good band of Freedom Riders. Once that guy came along and said his piece, his generation’s kids and grandkids just aren’t content to hold down an honest job anymore. Nowadays, it seems like the only thing these kids are interested in is running around town with their pants sagging on down.”

  “Ah.” I began tuning out at the familiar sound of Jim’s monologue, a treatise on the ills of modern society that I must have heard at least a thousand times before. By my estimate, that dude could have easily run on for at least half an hour about how much better off the United States would be if only the civil rights movement hadn’t happened. In Jim’s opinion, anyway, law enforcement had been a much more noble calling back in the days when segregation was still the law of the land. As he rambled on unchecked, I used the time to search my mental hard drive, trying to recall any of the neighborhoods he’d just mentioned. The places all sounded familiar, but only some sort of Rain Man savant would be able to recall every single subdivision from memory. There were only so many hours in the day to drive around on patrol, after all. And besides, I normally tried to focus on the hot spots, places like Andolini’s pizza, or the one Starbucks that still honored the police discount with free cups of coffee.

  Finally, once Jim’s well-worn tirade had reached its natural conclusion, I took a shot at changing the subject. “So I guess all those old-timey neighborhoods must be pretty nice places, huh? Big lots with picket fences, two kids running around in every yard?”

  Jim laughed. “Not hardly, dude. At least, not anymore. See, the real problem with the blacks, the one that scientists still haven’t solved yet, is that all those damned people just seem to breed so quickly. So as all those original homeowners have grown up and retired, you’d think that their hard-working values might have rubbed off on the next generation, right?” He slammed a huge fist down against the tabletop, sending our plates and glasses shaking in a terrifying clatter. “Hell to the no, man! Those good-for-nothing brats went on to become adults by virtue of age alone. So instead of sitting back and enjoying their golden years in comfort, these old-timers are still having to scrape nickels together to support their brood, along with any other little bad-ass cousins or bastard nephews who might need a place to stay. Trust me, man, I’ve seen it all before. Once those people start taking in all the little shits who make up the extended family, the entire block starts heading downhill, and fast. Take a ride around this afternoon, you don’t believe me. With a lot of these communities, it’s almost as if they’ve just up and gone to seed.”

  I shook my head and took a leisurely sip of soda, savoring the tangy syrup as it slid down my throat. “I’ll take your word for it, boss.” His opinion sounded reasonable enough, and besides, I wasn’t about to go out on patrol unless it was truly necessary.

  “Damn shame, really.” Jim gave his plate a final glance, searching in vain for any stray crumbs which might have escaped his grasp. “Listen, man, if you an
d your Little Miss ever get serious about settling down, I wouldn’t recommend doing your house hunting around these parts. Sure, being that close to the river would make for some good fishing, and a few of them old houses still have pretty good bones, but the crime rate over here is just ridiculous. Even near my own condo, I probably should have been packing heat all those times I took the dog for a walk after dark.”

  I frowned at the warning. “Appreciate the concern, Jim. Hey, how’s that old dachsund of yours doing, anyway? What’s his name again? Spike? Sammy?”

  “Salami.” Jim let loose with a deep sigh as a wistful gaze washed over his wide face. “Finally had to let the boy go, man. Sad story, real sad. At fifteen years old, the poor little guy finally got to the point where he just couldn’t hold his bladder no more. I kept coming home after lunch to find pee puddles all over the place, even on my good carpet. It was a damn shame. Other than the incontinence, little Salami was one hell of a dog.”

  I shook my head in sympathy. “Sorry about your troubles, Jim. I mean that. It’s got to be hard, having to put down an old friend like that.”

  “Come off it, Goosey” he snorted. “I might be a tough old son of a bitch, but I ain’t heartless. What I did was, I cut out of work early one morning last week, drove me a ways up the Interstate, out there past Jedburg. Found a nice, quiet spot in the woods near the offramp, and just left the pup there, scampering in the grass all free and easy. This way, he’ll be able to spend his final days frolicking among the pines, pissing on anything and everything he has a mind to, not a care in the world.”

  I raised my glass, tilting the rim forward in recognition of Big Jim’s selfless sacrifice. “Just shows you care, Jim. I can’t believe you went through all of that trouble and didn’t mention a word about it. I guess it just goes to show, no matter how good you think somebody’s got it, everyone’s dealing with their own problems. And then now, as if either of us really needed one more thing piled on our plates, here comes this hurricane blowing into town.”

  Jim nodded along to a rhythm only he could hear, stretching his big, bulky legs out straight beneath the table. His long limbs extended all the way across the booth, crowding uncomfortably close to my own. I pulled them up into a protective crouch, doing my best to maintain a bubble of personal space. Jim raised his arms high overhead, pushing his soft, flabby triceps out as far as they could go before easing them back down, and finally planting his hairy hands at the base of his neck. “Listen, kid, it is what it is. I’ve already come to terms with the fact that things’ll be a little crazy around here for the next couple days, so what I’m about to do next is, I’m fixing to lean back right here in this booth and catch me a couple hours of sleep while I still have the chance. If I were you, I’d do the same damn thing. But you know what, if you’re still so concerned about what Jughead might think, maybe you ought to just take your happy little ass home early and get your rest in privacy.”

  I nodded at his sage advice, picking up on the subtle dismissal. Lunch had officially ended, so it was definitely in my best interests to make scarce before it came time to toss down a tip. Pulling myself upright, I cast one more longing glance down at my empty plastic basket. All that remained of the onion rings was the grease-stained sheet of wax paper, but at least I still had the memory of an absolutely delicious meal. “Not gonna argue with you on that, boss. And hey, thanks again for lunch. I’m not tired just yet, but I guess I probably should stop by the Piggly Wiggly on my way home. Pick up a couple essentials, you know— bread, milk, beer.”

  Jim tilted his head ever so slightly, not even bothering to crack his eyelids. “Yeah kid, whatever. You do that. Assuming the Pig’s even got anything left on the shelves at this point, you better get in there and grab those groceries before the looters do.”

  The rain beat steadily down overhead, its heavy drumming inspiring quiet among the troops packed inside the small convenience store. The bland, one-room market on the corner of South and America Streets was unnamed, perhaps intentionally so, and most outsiders drove past it without a second glance. For the young men inside, however, the shop’s central location made it a community hub. Twenty young men— boys, really— made up Antoine Brown’s loyal army of foot soldiers, and their youthful energy buzzed through the small space.

  At noon exactly, not a minute before nor after, the front door swung open and their leader swept through. Antoine took a long, slow look around, taking attendance from a mental list of names. A thoroughly meticulous leader, he’d long ago acquired the habit of running his less-than-legal enterprises without the aid of written notes. The crew’s Saturday morning meetings had continued even after he’d matriculated off the block, his team taking pride in their professionalism.

  “Wha’?” Antoine finally asked, breaking the tension. “Y’all ain’t evacuated by now? Ain’t you seen the news reports, they’s a storm comin’. We got to go!”

  The chuckles that followed were nervous ones. No one in the group could have afforded to evacuate their families; even if any of them had the funds to rent an upstate hotel room for a week, they wouldn’t have gone. This block was their home, their territory. Their turf. These boys were creatures of habit, and most felt uncomfortable whenever they got too close to the city limits. Despite the fact that this group lived a mere twenty minutes’ drive from the shore, most of them had never gone to see the waves roll in. Outside of their element, the boys tended to grow anxious and suspicious. Thankfully, though, this incoming storm carried with it a chance for hard work. The crew knew from experience that all they had to do was follow Antoine’s directions, and everything else would fall into place. As always, their leader had a plan.

  Antoine smiled as he surveyed his troops, contented by their punctuality. Of course none of them would have dared to miss out on this opportunity. The shop’s owner was the only absence, having entrusted Antoine with the keys before falling in behind the long line of cars heading west. The crew’s rent was steep, five hundred dollars a week, cash, plus the promise to keep any and all trouble far away from the business. As Mr. Regan had pointed out, however, those overhead expenses were simply the cost of doing business. It was an investment, really, one that brought in an astronomically high return. Antoine made a mental note to leave behind a particularly large tip that weekend, and also to have his crew pull down the plywood and sweep out the building once the storm had cleared. Never pass up an opportunity to build goodwill— that was another one of Duke Regan’s tenets.

  “All right, y’all. Listen up.” The room instantly fell silent. “It might be pouring buckets outside, but if you couldn’t tell already, these streets have gone dry. Our usual ‘heads have taken cover inside the shelters, and if that’s not bad enough, it’s lookin’ like there gon’ be a cop posted up on every corner. That means the store’s closed today, probably tomorrow too. I mean that— I don’t want any of y’all goin’ out there and doin’ something stupid, get yourself pinched when you’re not going to make a sale anyway. Cops sitting up in their patrol cars gon’ be so bored they’d jus’ as soon lock you up for one bag of weed. No, it ain’t worth the risk. Hate to say this, but ev’erbody’s earnings might take a hit this week.”

  There was grumbling, of course, but no more than could be expected. In any case, Antoine had often coached his team on the need to maintain a cash reserve for circumstances like these. Of course Hurricane Tradd would have an impact on his bottom line, but unlike many legitimate business owners, Antoine was confident that his operation could weather the storm.

  “But don’t you worry” he continued, a thin smile creeping across his face. “I anticipated this, so I went out and found us a coupla’ more short-term business opportunities. Who’s ready to make some money?”

  The collected heads nodded in unison, smiling in sincere appreciation of their leader’s vision.

  “Awright then, here we go. Everyone already got themselves a warm jacket like I told you to? If not a raincoat, at least a hoodie or something? Well, t
oo late now if you don’t. We got to get on the move before these here streets flood over. We’ll be moving out in five minutes, rolling the operation over to my cousin Melvin’s house off Evergreen and Locust. Might be there for a couple days, all said.”

  “Ardmore? What you got going on over there?”

  It was one of the younger foot soldiers who’d posed the unexpected question. In any other crew the brazen interruption might have merited a slap from one of the more senior lieutenants, but not here. Antoine’s calm leadership presence, a style which could even be described as patient, was a key factor which distinguished his team from all the other, less successful, street gangs. This group was a business, plain and simple.

  Antoine raised an eyebrow, yet still grinned. “That run-down dump of a neighborhood? Man, come on. Ain’t nothing going on that side of the river, ‘cept for my auntie’s got a house over there. Before she left town, that lady said we could park a couple cars up in her drive if we needed to get out of the East Side. Even sleep on the floor if we had to— long as none of you clowns don’t go raiding her fridge.”

  He looked around at the group once again, allowing another long moment for the laughter to subside. “No, boy. All I got is some more of the same work y’all been doin’ — hell, a lot more. While all these cops are tied up lookin’ after the grocery stores and the check cashing joints, we gon’ pay a visit to some folks out there in West Ashley. It’s an easy job, five hundred bucks a man, ‘long as everybody can keep up the pace and tear through enough houses. No heavy lifting, neither— break down the door, bust up a couple windows, and we call it good. You know, there’s probably a lot of them houses down by the marsh that’s already flooding up pretty good by now. Our job is just to, you know, help them along some. So long as the homeowner comes back to a hefty repair bill, our job’s done.”