by Ian Bull
Something catches his eye at the far end of the aisle. A woman strides towards him. She’s a brunette around his age, dressed in a blue business suit with a snappy skirt and jacket, a dark red silk shirt and matching red barrette in her hair, set off with a pearl necklace. She’s also wearing running shoes, like women do in 1980 in the Financial District. They walk fast from the BART stations to their office buildings, wearing their runners and carrying their office high heels in their bags. Her purse is also open. Does she notice her purse is open?
She drops a pair of brown leather gloves into her purse and snaps it shut, all while in full stride. As she gets closer they lock eyes for an instant and she smiles – and time slows. The three seconds it takes for her to walk past Sam are more like three minutes, like she's being filmed with a high-speed camera and then played back for him in slow motion, so that every muscle twitch and dangling hair curl is brought out in high relief. Her brown eyes sparkle with flecks of gold, and her smile is warm and kind. Then she's gone.
Loneliness sweeps over him. That was the moment he’d been waiting for. He doesn’t need new clothes, he needs to see her smile again. He tries to catch up to her, and spots her moving through the perfume department and out the door and up Stockton Street, weaving through the afternoon shoppers. He catches up to her alongside Union Square.
She spots him in a side micro-glance but doesn’t slow down.
“You have a fantastic smile.”
“Leave me alone.”
“You took those gloves in Macy’s. But I won’t tell anyone.”
“I am trying to get back to work. Leave me alone.”
“You’re not going back to work. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
The woman crosses Post Street and stops on the corner. “And you’re not a security guard for Macy’s, so bite me,” she says, looking at him from head to toe, catching every stain and wrinkle of his dirty blue suit, then laughs and rolls her eyes. She lets it sink in, then keeps walking up Stockton Street past the Marriott Hotel. Sam could admit humiliation and quit now, or he could ignore her stinging insult and double down. He’s feeling lucky and decides to gamble. After all, he’s 3 for 3 with the universe right now. He catches up with her as she heads past the Green Door Massage Parlor towards the Stockton Street tunnel.
“I’m not a security guard. I’m like you.”
“No, you’re not. Go away.”
The woman pulls her purse tight to her. Sam knows she’s scared, but he’s in too deep now, which makes his mouth run faster. “I don’t want to bother you, I just thought we have a lot in common.”
The woman turns right and heads up the narrow cement staircase that leads up to Bush Street, which runs above the tunnel. She halts midway up the stairs, and Sam tilts back so he doesn’t collide into her. She spins to face him, two steps above.
“Really? You mean like maybe you and I share a spiritual connection?”
She exhales on him, like she’s blowing cigarette smoke in his face, which surprises Sam and he blinks – and she kicks him in the balls, slams his head against the wall, pulls mace from her purse and squirts him in the eyes. He grabs his face and sinks onto the dirty cement stairs.
“We’ve got shit in common.” She steps on his ankle and Sam howls. She pats his jacket and pulls out his wallet and empties it of cash. “You’ve got quite a roll here, Slick.”
“Give me a break. That’s all I got,” Sam says, rubbing his eyes.
“Give me that watch too,” the woman says when she spots the Omega Seamaster on his wrist.
“My father gave me this –"
She steps on his other ankle until he straightens his arm. She unclasps the watch, slips it in her purse, and disappears up the stairs.
“I just wanted to meet you!” His voice just echoes off the white tile. Blind, Sam rubs his eyes, aware that pedestrians are stepping over him. One of them drops a quarter in his lap.
His vision returns enough for him to stagger to the Sutter Stockton garage where he finds a drinking fountain. He runs water on his eyes until he can see again, but now the entire front of his suit is wet. He’s also missing a shoe. As he shuffles up Sutter Street he passes a homeless man pushing a shopping cart, but he’s dressed in clean jeans, a shirt, shoes, and a Giants cap. The homeless man laughs at him and Sam wishes he’d just accepted his loneliness and bought the clothes in Macy’s instead.
The black Lincoln pulls into a bus zone ahead of Sam, and the large Samoan gets out and opens the rear passenger door. Sam considers running, but the street is too crowded and he’s only got one shoe. He opts for conversation instead.
“Who are you guys, anyway?”
“I’m Cliff. That’s Dozer,” the Samoan says, and points at the large white man sitting behind the wheel. Sam peers inside but Dozer doesn’t turn around. All Sam sees are the thick rolls of skin on the back of his neck, like football padding. They almost look like a smiling face, if he added two eyes to one of the top rolls.
“What’s with the 49er’s shirts?” Sam asks, gesturing at the football jerseys that Cliff and Dozer are wearing. “You think they can actually win?”
“They will if they let the new kid, Joe Montana, play more this season,” Cliff says.
Dozer turns in his seat. “Mr. Barnes wants to see you, get in the car.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
D ozer drives through China Basin and over the Lefty O’Doul Bridge and into the Mission Bay part of town. There are a few colorful ramshackle houseboats in Mission Creek under the 280 freeway, but as they drive south it’s all decaying warehouses, long empty cement piers, and abandoned shipyards with gigantic empty ship locks that are bright red with rust.
Dozer turns left and drives into the ground floor of an old warehouse on the water that looks fresh with new windows and new green paint. A large banner stretches above the entrance: Mission Bay Health and Fitness – Grand Opening Soon.
Dozer and Cliff lead Sam through a maze of Nautilus equipment and shiny weights and barbells, all so new most of it is still wrapped in plastic. They lead him down a hall to a wall with a tiny door that is only three feet tall, and there's a constant whacking and thumping from the other side. They point for Sam to go in, so he opens the door, bends down and steps into –
– a pure white room. He stands up just in time to see a squash ball screaming at his face. He ducks, but the ball careens off the wall and almost hits him again. Paul Barnes darts in front of him and whacks the ball with his squash racquet. He’s a short man, about five feet and six inches tall, but he’s muscular and six-pack fit. He wears a tie-dyed Grateful Dead t-shirt and sports a long brown hippie ponytail. He’s a 70s free-love hippie turned 80s sociopathic capitalist, a type common in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Paul aims for Sam as he swings his racquet, and the ball stings Sam on the back of the thigh. Sam dodges a few more hits, then catches the tiny ball as it rebounds off the wall. Paul walks over and takes the ball from Sam’s hand. Paul is a half foot shorter than Sam is, but the bigger man is still scared.
“Long time no see, Sam. You got bigger in prison.”
“It’s weird, Paul, you seem bigger too.”
“I am bigger. I am a full inch taller.”
“Really? How did you manage that?” Sam asks.
“Rolfing. Let me show you.”
Paul leads Sam out of the squash court and through an unfinished hallway to a blue massage room where New Age Muzak plays on the stereo. A tall muscular blonde Nordic woman lights a candle and rubs oil on her hands. Paul points for Sam to sit in a leather chair, then pulls off his Grateful Dead t-shirt and lies down on the table.
“This is Inge. She is a certified Rolfer. Structural reintegration has re-aligned me with the gravity of Earth, releasing so much compressed stress in my skeleton and muscles that I’ve gained another inch in height.”
Inge grabs the flesh on Paul’s back, lifts him off the massage table and slams him back down, working him like bread dough. Paul and Sam both g
rit their teeth and moan – Paul from pain, and Sam from empathetic fear. Inge grins, enjoying their noises.
“Inge is the best bone cracker I’ve ever had. I call her the Enforcer. I even send her out with Cliff and Dozer sometimes, for guys who are late on their loans.”
Thirty minutes later, Paul sits up and wipes his sweat off with a white towel. Sam shifts in the chair, uneasy.
“Found a job yet, Sam?”
“I got some leads.”
“That’s bullshit. Look at you. You’re one step up from a street person.” Paul laughs, and Inge joins in but laughs too loud, like she wants to please Paul. Sam smiles to hide his humiliation.
Paul gets up, puts on a fresh Dead Head shirt and gestures for Sam to follow him.
“A lot has happened since you went in. I bought this property for the long term, waiting for the neighborhood to change. I’ve up-scaled. I move half the stuff I used to. Nothing big. I love electronics and these personal computers people are buying. I think that’s going to be big. And I buy exercise equipment. I love being in shape. Fitness will be huge too.”
They walk back into big open gym area. Light streams in through the wide warehouse windows, shining off the bright metal of the exercise machines, barbells, and weights.
Talking about computers while walking past exercise equipment gives Sam an idea. “Maybe someday they'll put computers into actual treadmills, combining your two big loves. The computer will be on the treadmill and tell you how your workout is going."
Paul scoffs. “That’s stupid. Still love being the smartass, eh Webb?”
Sam blinks. He wasn’t joking; if a computer can be on a desk, why can’t it be in a machine, or a car, or a stove or a refrigerator? Sam chooses to flatter Paul instead. That’s always worked better than trying to communicate with him.
“What you’re building here is amazing. You’re legit,” Sam says.
“Not quite. I’ll go totally legit when I have ten million. That’s what the Kennedys did. I want to be mega-rich before I’m middle-aged. You don’t want to middle-aged with no gravitas, Sam. And money is how you gain power and authority.”
Paul leads him out a sliding glass door onto a balcony that overlooks a line of broken Southern Pacific rail cars rusting on railroad tracks that run alongside the water, from the era when ships and railroads intersected here. Paul leans against the railing and stares across the bay.
“I want you to work for me again. You were a great safe cracker.”
“I’m pretty rusty. I’m sure I’d mess up.’
Paul laughs. “Like you did last time, you mean?”
Sam sets his chin and stares hard at Paul. “That’s exactly what I mean, Paul. Except I didn’t mess up. You did. The information you gave me was wrong, and I got caught and went to San Quentin for two years.”
“There was $500,000 in that safe. Half a million dollars. I need that cash,” Paul says. He stands as tall as he can, twisting the towel in his hands as he stares up at Sam.
Sam straightens his own spine, trying to get taller too. “And I deserve my cut. But the safe was empty and the cops were waiting for me. Someone tipped them off.”
“What are you saying? Are you accusing me of something?” Paul asks.
The salty wind from the bay blows across their faces. They stare at each other like two twitchy gunfighters ready to explode.
Dozer and Cliff appear on the interior side of the sliding glass door. Sam glances at them and they cross their arms and glare, letting Sam know that if he shows any anger towards Paul he will be punished. Sam smiles and waves back at them.
“At my trial, the lawyers said I stole $500,000 from that safe, money that insurance paid back to the company, money that was never in the safe anyway. Maybe you told the company your plans to rob them. Maybe you planned it all with them. Maybe they took all their cash out of the safe before I showed up, and then insisted I stole it. I go to prison, and you split the insurance money with them," Sam says.
“That’s a good story.”
“I had plenty of time to tell it to myself over the past two years. But I never said it out loud. I kept my mouth shut. Not one peep.”
Paul leans against the balcony and looks down at the red boxcars and the green water of the San Francisco Bay. He puckers his lips, calculating. "It's true, the police found you kneeling in front of an open safe with nothing inside. After hours of hard work, they happen to walk in at the precise moment that you opened the safe? You didn't hear them coming? And it's empty? That's hard to believe. I think if you had the time to get it open, you had time to pass off everything inside to someone, who disappeared with the money. Like Rose. That’s the story I’ve been telling myself for two years, and now I’m telling it to you.” Paul looks back over his shoulder at Sam, to see his reaction.
Sam shrugs. “That’s a good story too. But they investigated Rose and found nothing.”
"You went to her old place. It's the first place you went," Paul says. "I knew you would, too. That's why I put Cliff and Dozer out front, and the day after you got out of prison you show up there. Why would you go visit your ex-wife anyway? I thought she dumped you."
“She’s the only family I got. I was hoping to see them again.”
“You think she’d take you back?”
“I don’t let myself think that way.”
“Or maybe she has my money. You could have been paroled to another city, but you came back here.”
Sam gestures at the renovated building. “Look at this place. You’re doing better than ever. And me? Rose divorced me and she and Carl disappeared. I lost everything for you, Paul. Can’t we just leave it at that?”
Paul motions for Cliff and Dozer to come outside. They slide open the glass doors and step onto the balcony, and the wind snaps at their football jerseys as they move into place on either side of Sam. Inge then moves into the doorway, blocking Sam’s potential exit. Paul smiles. “If that’s the truth, I have to help you get back on your feet.”
“That’s okay. Let’s just never see each other again. My parole officer would prefer that.”
Paul gestures for Inge, and she steps out wearing just her white jeans and white t-shirt, her blonde hair back in a ponytail, which the cold wind whips. Goosebumps appear on her skin, but she doesn’t shiver. Her Nordic blood loves the cold. She stands next to Sam, two inches taller, staring down at him.
“I insist that I make it up to you. I’m offering you a job,” Paul says.
“I can’t. I’m going straight.”
Inge pinches Sam’s shoulder nerve so hard that Sam drops to his knees to try to escape her, but she just tightens her grip.
Paul sighs. “Who are you to refuse my charity? If you live in this city, you work for me.”
Sam motions that he accepts his offer. Inge releases him and steps back, letting Sam rub his injured shoulder. “How long will this charity last?” Sam asks.
“Until you get on your feet. I owe you that much for being such a stand-up guy.”
“Thanks, Paul.” Sam pulls at each metal rung of the balcony railing, hauling himself to his feet.
“I can even help you find Rose again, if you miss her that much,” Paul says, and then gestures to Cliff, who pulls out a thick envelope and hands it to Sam. “In the meantime, that’s my gift to you. Go buy yourself some decent clothes.”
Sam opens the envelope, and inside is a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, the favored legal tender for criminals around the world. Sam smells that weird dirty scent that hangs on cash that been touched by too many people. He puts the envelope in his suit jacket pocket. Next, Paul holds out a gun for him to take. Sam shakes his head, refusing to touch it. Paul waves it under his nose, even pushes it against his face.
“Take it.”
Sam glances at Dozer, Cliff, and Inge, and they all stare back at him with stone faces. Sam takes it and becomes one of them. Four days out of prison and he’s already holding a gun.
CHAPTER NINE
S am admires the new clothes laying across his hotel room bed – s blue striped suit, dress pants, and dress shirts, plus dress shoes in brown and black. He wears black jeans, boots, a white shirt and a cool black leather jacket. He smiles at his purchases, then glances at Paul's gun on the bedside table, next to Sam's wallet, thick with cash. His smile disappears. He picks the suit off the bed and little pieces of pink cotton from the old bedspread stick to the wool on the back.
“I’m so sick of this dump,” he says out loud, but inside he’s grateful he’s not in prison.
He hangs the clothes in the closet, pulls off the bedspread and throws it in the corner, and then falls back on the bed. The gun gleams on the side table, inches from his head, forcing him to look at it. He runs his hands through his hair and exhales hard. It doesn’t help. Then he notices the Magic Massage unit on the headboard behind the gun, finds a quarter in his pocket and drops it in.
The bed vibrates. He lays back and closes his eyes, trying to relax…and the man next stores bangs on the wall again. Again, the bed sputters to a stop after only a few seconds.
“I’m trapped!” Sam screams.
“We’re all trapped, asshole! Shut the fuck up!” the voice yells through the wall.
A car honks. Sam looks out the window and sees a white van parked in the bus zone across the street. Dozer sticks his hand out the driver side window and waves for him to come down.
Five minutes later, Sam is driving the car while Dozer sits in the passenger seat. A small black box the size of a deck of cards vibrates in Dozer’s hands.
“What’s that?” Sam asks.
“It's a pager. It's got a phone number. People call it, then punch in the number they're calling from, and their digits show up on the screen here, and I call them back," Dozer says, pointing at the green-lit pager screen. "Have you been living under a rock?"