Shakedown on Hate St

by Matthew Copes

  Shakedown on Hate St.

  Matthew Copes

  Published by Matthew Copes, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SHAKEDOWN ON HATE ST.

  First edition. December 25, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Matthew Copes.

  Written by Matthew Copes.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  1

  THE FIRST TIME I SAW her was in a coffee shop on the Old Baltimore Pike. It was nestled between a porn shop and a liquor store in a black neighborhood generally considered a no-go-zone for outsiders: especially white ones like me. That morning I'd been driving aimlessly, contemplating the desperate state of things when a mysterious force ushered me into that parking lot. Exiting the car and walking through the front door took balls. I knew mine would be the only white face in the place, but I was way beyond caring.

  The chunky hostess greeted me with thinly veiled contempt, then led me through a barrage of dagger-like leers to a corner table under an autographed picture of Malcolm X. Noting the irony, I ordered a coffee and pretend-read the three-day-old sports page I found wedged between the cruddy window and a gooey bottle of artificial blueberry syrup.

  She was sitting to my left with a 30-something, fat, black man. His hideous brown pants were so long they nearly obscured his feet. Only two slivers of white tennis shoe poked out from under the fabric bunched at the bottom of each leg. A partially unbuttoned shirt revealed a gold chain and Crucifix resting between pointy man-breasts.

  She was striking, poised and from a culturally diverse family I guessed. Whatever her ancestry, all those genes worked well together. Her moderate afro was round, but her features were more European than anything. Her stylish jeans and mustard turtleneck revealed a slender but curvy figure, and she wore sexy brown leather boots. She was tall too. Maybe five-seven.

  Fat Man was laying it on thick trying to impress her. When the waitress tried to refill his water glass he waved her away like King Farouk to a clubfooted servant. He was going for casual and cool. As they talked he touched her hand, and when he did her body stiffened almost imperceptibly. He was too clueless to notice, but I saw it. It looked like unpleasantness bordering on revulsion. She didn't move her hand, but she didn't reciprocate either. Her self-control was impressive.

  I wondered what it was that brought such an unlikely pair together. My hunch was he'd lured her there on the pretense of business but secretly considered it a date. That's the kind of guy he was. I could spot his type from a mile away. I knew what he wanted from her. I also knew he'd never get it. Not that I blamed him for trying.

  As I contemplated my next move Fat Man stood and lumbered out. His pants were dangerously tight around the waist, like they'd burst if he sneezed or ate another doughnut. She stayed put. I drained the dregs of my bitter coffee and walked over.

  “Mind if I sit down?” I asked. Thick streams of sweat seeped from my temples and neck like somebody had lit the broiler. The tingly trails they left on their way down my torso and back itched to the point of pain.

  “It's a free country,” she said, nodding at the empty chair indifferently.

  I sat and looked into her big cocoa eyes.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  It caught me off guard. I was staring.

  “I was wondering where your family blood comes from?” I managed, but it sounded cheesier than hell.

  “Everywhere. What's your next question?”

  I asked when I was going to see her again. The words resonated uncomfortably between confidence and arrogance, closer to the latter than I'd hoped for. I held my breath.

  “I'm sorry, did you ask if you're going to see me again, or when?”

  “When,” I said. I told her it looked like she'd be leaving soon, and that I wasn't one to leave things to chance.

  She reached into her purse, pulled out one of those long, thin women's cigarettes and lit it with a silver Zippo with a black lacquer fist on the side. Smoking makes some people look ugly. It made her more appealing than she already was.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I am leaving, but before I go I’d like to know where your blood’s from.”

  “England and Wales,” I told her, though I wasn't sure.

  “I would've guessed Spain or Italy,” she said. “Meet me right outside on the corner tomorrow night at nine o'clock, and don't be late. I won't wait, and lateness makes such a poor second impression, don't you think?”

  She strutted out trailing a stylish wisp of smoke before I had time to answer.

  2

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING I strolled across the street at ten after nine. Needy men are early, and I refuse to start off behind the eight-ball.

  The inside of the shuttered coffee shop was dark except for a faint light illuminating the pie display case. The specials were painted in massive, pink and chartreuse letters on the big rectangular window overlooking the litter strewn lot. Pumpkin Pie! Banana Cream Pie! $4.99 each. Not a bad deal.

  I scanned up and down the street. It was dark in both directions and there wasn't a soul in sight. The place had a menacing vibe that made me question the wisdom of accepting her invitation. I leaned against the base of a streetlight, turned my collar up to block the swirling wind and lit a cigarette.

  “Hey Englishman, you made it.” It came from behind, like she'd emerged from the cosmos.

  I turned to face her, still leaning. She walked like a runway model and it was all natural. Her mid-thigh length navy pea coat and jeans fit snugly, and she was wearing the same pointy brown boots from the day before. She looked good. I grinned. The corners of her mouth curled too, like she was trying to hide a smile.

  “I'm just a boring American now,” I said. “All that other stuff is ancient history.”

  As she approached I looked down, dropped the butt of my cigarette between my feet and ground it out with the toe of my boot. When I looked up a distinct change had washed over her face. Her lips had gone straight and her eyes had opened wide. The reflections I saw in them were, quick, erratic, and in sync with the ominous thuds bearing down on me.

  I spun 180 degrees and planted a nasty, straight-right into a black man's face. Maybe Fat Man from the diner, but I wasn't sure. His wrecked nose erupted and he went down like a sack of hammers. Then a thundering crack from behind slammed into the meat and bone between my head
and neck. A blast of light blinded my eyes, and the sidewalk hurdled toward my face at 1,000 miles an hour. Then things went black.

  “WAKE UP MOTHERFUCKER,” an unmistakably black voice said. Somebody was pouring water on my head and I smelled mildew, like a rusty drain pipe in the basement of a condemned house.

  “OK motherfucker, I'm awake,” I said. Probably the world's most ill-advised response under the circumstances, but that's the kind of guy I am. My reward for insubordination was a full-force slap that smashed my face against the concrete. Then I was yanked up and pushed down onto a small stool, but my hands were bound behind my back and I fell off helplessly.

  “Will somebody please get a bigger chair?” the same authoritative voice asked.

  Again I was picked up, and this time more gently placed onto what felt like one of those folding beach chairs with aluminum frame and crisscrossing plastic straps on the seat and back. For the first time I opened my eyes and was instantly sorry I did. A harsh light bored into me and I dropped my chin onto my chest. A strong hand grabbed a fistful of hair and snapped my head back.

  “It's time to open your eyes. We need to talk.” Mr. Authority again. He was running the show.

  “OK,” I said. “What are we talking about?”

  “About you. What else?”

  So we talked about me. The standard questions one can expect after an abduction. What's your name? You a cop?

  I answered each question truthfully and even told them my real name. I knew they had my wallet and the business card inside it, so it was all just a test. I told them I wasn't a cop, that I was an importer of high-end silverware from Europe and the Middle-East. The next question helped me start connecting the dots.

  “Why you hangin' around ratty coffee shops tryin' to pick up black chicks?”

  So that was it. I was where I was because of her. Set up, like a bowling pin...

  After a brief moment of clarity I decided I was done answering questions. I wasn't in the mood, and even if I had been, I doubted they'd have bought the twisted tale that led me to that coffee shop on that day. That I, Dutch Jameson, was on a mission. That the crux of my existence had been condensed into one, all-important purpose: finding peace in my hopelessly fucked-up life. That I'd do anything to get it, but after nearly two decades of searching I was more shattered and hopeless than I'd ever been. That driving by that coffee shop that morning, I had the strange sense that salvation lay within.

  “I just like my coffee and chicks black,” I said, opting for the path of maximum defiance. It was the first lie I'd told all night, and it felt great. I rarely drank black coffee and I'd never even kissed a black girl. It was a great big, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I braced for a smack that never came. First silence. Then, a deep guttural snicker began a slow crescendo into a booming guffaw. Like that bald, black guy who used to do the 7-Up ads. Or was it Sprite?

  When it was silent I said, “I'd like to ask a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It's for the girl from the coffee shop. I want to know when I'm going to see you again.”

  A strong arm wrapped around my neck and pressed a rag over my nose and mouth. Then things went black. Again.

  3

  WHEN I CAME TO I WAS back on the same corner, only this time I wasn't in such good shape. The swagger from the night before was gone. I was crumpled between a trash can and a fire hydrant, dehydrated, dazed and delirious. Like the nastiest hangover you've ever had only worse. I had to shit, piss, and puke, and if I didn't get some water down my throat I didn't think I'd live. I sensed it was that time of morning when the sun was just about ready to come up, but before most normal people were on the street. I rose, staggered half a block and hailed the only cab in sight. Why the driver stopped I'll never know. I must've looked like I'd been gang-raped and left for dead by a posse of outlaw bikers from hell. Maybe he thought I'd been mugged and took pity.

  When we got to my place I realized with delight that my keys and wallet were in my pocket. Leaving them was a noble gesture on the part of my abductors. The cash and driver's license were gone, but all things considered I was lucky. I tried to explain to the stout, Polish cabby that I had cash in my apartment. He wasn't following, so I opened my wallet, pointed to the empty billfold, then motioned for him to follow me upstairs. That did the trick. I got two twenties from the desk drawer and gave him both for an $8 fare.

  When he'd gone, I went straight to the kitchen, twisted the tap, bent over and sucked that sweet water for two minutes solid. Two handfuls on my face and two more over my head and I was feeling almost human again. I fumbled in the cabinets and started dripping a pot of coffee, then went to the bathroom and relieved myself. From the nightstand I grabbed a pack of smokes, limped back to the dining table, sat, lit one and inhaled deeply. I didn't usually smoke inside, but the burning in my lungs, the smell of coffee, and the view of the harbor under the overcast sky filled me with an unfamiliar contentedness. A hot shower and a day in bed and I'd be almost as good as new.

  It was nine o'clock when I succumbed to exhaustion, and I didn't move until seven that evening. It was one of the best sleeps of my life. Getting abducted and beaten does have its advantages. As I lay in bed I caressed the tender goose egg on the back of my head. My right eye was swollen badly too, but I was still able to see a sliver of hazy light through it. I got up and made my way into the bathroom, and as I stood urinating I looked down at my abdomen. It was covered in bumps, dents and ridges in indigo, black, and an awful ochre.

  As depressing as all that physical damage was, things were about to get worse. Foolishly replaying the previous night's events was what triggered the episode. I should've known better. It was familiar ground. It was something I’d been dealing with ever since my days in Vietnam. A nasty disorder with no known cure. It started like it always did. A distinct and unpleasant heat ignited in my abdomen. Phase one. The blood drained from my face, sweat rolled like the dam had burst, and my limbs shook uncontrollably. Phases two, three, and four. I grabbed the porcelain sink for support. The floor was where I needed to be. Where I'd end up anyway, and if I got there on my terms before I lost control I might avoid breaking my jaw or splitting my head open when I fell. There was just enough mind-body control left for me to snag the big plastic shampoo bottle from the shower as I dropped to the floor. The idea was to sacrifice it so that something more rigid and expensive could live. My hands squeezed, twisting in opposite directions, my muscles taught. It ruptured, shot from my slippery hands, and I smashed my right palm into the tile floor with enough force to crack the grout. Then I withdrew into a tense ball and stayed that way for nearly an hour.

  When I reemerged from the darkness I was soaked and rattling from the cold, but I instinctively initiated the recovery phase of the ugly scene. I've found over the years that controlled breathing eases the transition from that world to this. The key is to inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Like yoga for the mentally defective. When it was all over I hoisted myself into the shower and worked the knobs until the water was scalding.

  After the water's curative powers had done all they could do, I toweled myself off and assessed the damage. The shampoo bottle was DOA but the sink and mirror weren't destroyed, and there wasn't a blood trail. Nothing a trip to K-Mart and two bucks wouldn't fix. The skin in the meaty part at the base of my right thumb was torn badly but that was the worst of it. It would hurt like hell, heal slowly, and I wouldn't be able to get an accurate palm reading, but those are the breaks. On my one-to-ten scale the whole thing was no more than a three. Child's play.

  I'd had all I could handle and got back into bed. The last, and perhaps most important step was to think of pleasant things. Things that didn't stir much emotion. Things that just were. I chose my apartment. I looked around thoughtfully, admiring. It was tastefully decorated in the minimalist style. Nice but not fancy. Lots of white and grey. Contemporary, just the way I liked it. I'd worked hard to get where I was. I could affor
d a bigger place, but this was home.

  The evening was spent in recovery, nourishing my weak body on leftover lasagna, Entenmann's coffee cake, and ice cold milk. I tried reading an old newspaper and watching the news but nothing interested me, so I slipped on my ratty terrycloth bathrobe and went out onto the balcony for a smoke. Even that was no good. Before I gave up and got back into bed I reached for the wallet on the nightstand to see if my driver's license had miraculously reappeared. It hadn't, but in an empty corner of the billfold was a pink dry cleaner's receipt I hadn't noticed before. Not one I'd ever used. I turned it over. Two lines only, written in the most beautiful cursive I'd ever seen. Feminine, but bold.

  Maxine's on 43rd St.

  This Friday 9:00 PM

  Hey man you still awake?

  I'm awake Jimmy.

  What the hell happened to you? Goddamn, somebody whip your ass or what?

  No Jimmy. Two guys whipped my ass. Jumped me from behind, but I broke one of the motherfucker's noses. You'd have been proud.

  Probably all over that pretty black girl you tryin' to mess with right? That girl got trouble written all over her.

  You worry too much, and anyway, she's gorgeous.

  If you go meetin' her at that jazz club you best be careful. You ain't 22 no more.

  I'll be careful.

  Speakin' of not bein' 22 no more, you know what I was thinking about the other day?

  Nope.

  About the time you dropped the 60 in that muddy ass rice paddy. Boy was I pissed. Took us half the day to clean that thing. Shit man, anybody can drop a 60, but remember why you did?

  Ya I remember, but go ahead, I know you're gonna tell me anyway.

  You dropped it because you couldn't hold it with two hands. Too busy scratching your balls. That cute Vietnamese hooker you fell in love with in Saigon gave you the crabs. What was her name?

  Mai. Her name was Mai.

  You swore up and down she loved you. Faithfull too. How many times did I warn you about that girl? Damn man, why didn't you listen? You always were a sucker for the pretty ladies. You watch yourself with this one. She might not give you crabs, but she might get you killed.