Carlucci

by Richard Paul Russo

  16

  TANNER WOKE TO the strong aroma of coffee. He looked at his watch, saw that it was just after noon. Through the open door he could hear trickling water, footsteps creaking wood, and generalized city sounds filtering in through open windows. He had slept deeply, without any dreams that he could remember, and he felt rested.

  Tanner showered, finishing off with cold water to cut through the heat of the day. He dressed, the sweat already dripping under his arms, then walked down to the end of the hall.

  The kitchen was empty. It had a different feel now, light and open. All the windows were open wide, letting in the damp heat and the city sounds. The kitchen table was set for two, including a filter-pitcher of clear water. On the counter was a coffee maker, the pot full and steaming. Next to the coffee, laid out on a cutting board, were eggs, chopped onions and tomatoes, and a pile of grated cheese.

  “Good morning.” Rachel’s head appeared outside the window above the sink. She was smiling. “Come on out,” she said. She gestured to his left. “Around the corner’s a door.”

  Tanner skirted the table, squeezed past the bulky fridge and around the corner to an open door leading out to a wooden platform built onto the walls of the building. An awning of clear plastic sheltered the platform, letting through light but, presumably, keeping off the rain. The platform was covered with potted plants, most blossoming with large, colorful flowers. Rachel, barefoot and dressed in a loose sarong, moved among the plants with a pink watering can, poking at the dirt with her fingers. Tanner was stunned by the bright, lush, unbroken green of the leaves—no brown streaks or spots, no holes eaten away by the rain.

  Rachel set down the watering can and sat on a bench against the wall. Her arms and face glistened with sweat. “Have a seat,” she said.

  Tanner sat beside her. She bent forward to massage her right leg, moving from thigh to calf and back.

  “You like eggs?” she asked. “Cheese, onions, tomatoes?” She turned to him and smiled. “A shot or two of Tabasco?”

  “Sure. If you’ll hold the Tabasco.”

  “Great, I’ll make us an omelet. Coffee’s already done, or I could find some tea if you prefer.”

  “No, coffee’s fine, thanks.”

  She released her leg, stretched her back. “Come on, then.”

  They went back inside, Rachel’s limp more pronounced without the built-up shoes. Now Tanner noticed the six-inch blocks fixed to the floor in front of the stove, counter, and sink. Rachel gathered up the food on the counter and carried it to the stove. With her right foot on the block, she started the omelet.

  “Anything I can do?” Tanner asked.

  “How about pouring us some coffee?”

  There were two glass mugs next to the coffee maker, and Tanner filled them, brought one to Rachel at the stove, then sat at the table with his.

  The coffee was hot and strong, and he drank it slowly as he watched her cook. Soon the smell of frying butter joined the coffee aroma, and then she was pouring eggs into the pan with a loud sizzle. Tanner felt relaxed and almost peaceful. It seemed like such a traditional domestic scene. He thought of mornings like this spent with Valerie and Connie, either in his place or at their apartment in San Jose; usually he had done the cooking. Sour cream French toast and bacon had been his specialty and Connie’s favorite. The last time had been more than a year ago, but it seemed much longer—another century, another goddamn life. Most of the time he doubted he would ever experience anything like that again. This world stinks, Tanner thought.

  Rachel turned off the gas, cut the omelet in half, then brought the pan to the table and slid a half onto each plate.

  “Thanks,” Tanner said.

  She set the pan on the table and sat across from him with a shrug. “Least I could do.” She poured two glasses of water from the pitcher. “Sorry about this morning. You showed up at a bad time.”

  He expected her to go on, explain further, but she didn’t. Instead, she opened a plastic bottle next to the pitcher, shook out three white tablets. She popped all three into her mouth and swallowed them with half a glass of water.

  Tanner looked at the bottle, then at Rachel, but did not ask the question. He knew they were not vitamins, and it was none of his business.

  Rachel shrugged, then gave a short laugh. “Dilaudid,” she said. “Only way I can keep the edge off the pain.”

  Dilaudid. It reminded Tanner of McMurphy, who had been Freeman’s prime snitch. McMurphy used to take Dilaudid for “headaches.” Last time Tanner had seen him, the crazy son of a bitch was getting headaches three or four times a day, popping those things and dry-swallowing them. McMurphy hated needles.

  They did not talk while they ate, which was fine with Tanner. The omelet was good, and he was enjoying it. He was even, for some reason, enjoying the heat. The water, too, was good, tasted clean but not sterile. He pulled the pitcher close and looked at the filter. Braun.

  “It was expensive,” Rachel said. “But it’s worth it. I’ve got a larger one for the plant water, too.”

  That explained the lush green color, the absence of dead brown streaks on the leaves. Some of the plants were visible in the windows, the deep green and bright reds, yellows, and blues taking some of the harshness out of the heat. Maybe that was why he was enjoying it.

  When they were done eating, Rachel cleared off the table, poured fresh coffee, then took a set of keys from under the upper cabinets and handed it to Tanner. “How long will you be staying?” she asked.

  Staying. Yes, he guessed he was. It seemed all right now. “I don’t know,” he said. “A few days at least. Maybe longer, if that’s all right.”

  “However long, it doesn’t matter.” She paused. “You weren’t too sure about it this morning, were you?”

  “No.” He still wasn’t sure, but he felt better about it now. Again he thought she was going to explain, but again she said nothing. “That stuff taped onto your door,” he said. “The quotes.”

  Rachel smiled, shaking her head. “I’m not a Purist, if that’s what you’re asking. But there are some in this building, the people who run the place. Putting that stuff on the door makes life a lot easier. And safer. They leave me alone.” She shrugged. “And we all need to live somewhere, right?”

  Tanner nodded. They took their coffee out onto the back platform and sat on the bench seat. Although the sun was high, the building gave them a narrow strip of shade so that only their legs and feet were exposed.

  “Why are you here?” Rachel asked. “Alexandra didn’t say.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Someone who’s trying not to be found, I assume?” When Tanner shrugged she said, “Then you may be staying here a long time.” After another pause, she asked, “You know the Tenderloin at all?”

  “When I was a cop, I worked the Tenderloin.”

  Rachel snorted, a half laugh. “Cops don’t work the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin works them.”

  Tanner nodded. “True enough. We did what we could.”

  “That’s reassuring,” she said, grinning. Then, “I’m sorry, I suppose that wasn’t nice.”

  “That’s all right. I understand.”

  “What part of the Tenderloin?”

  “I started working the Asian Quarter.” He could not keep the smile off his face, thinking of Nguyen Pham, his partner at the time. The guy was certifiable, the grandson of some old-timer Vietcong hotshot who had been a hero during the war. Pham was big on practical jokes that often nearly got them killed, and the one time Pham did get shot up he laughed all the way to the hospital. But Pham’s sister and her husband were killed in some gang power struggle, and Pham took his two nieces back to Vietnam. Tanner had never heard from him again. Which was how he ended up with Freeman as his partner. Tanner stopped smiling.

  “Then I switched to the Afram and Euro Quarters.”

  “Black partner?” Rachel asked.

  Tanner nodded, then shrugged. “Those days are over. I’m not a cop a
nymore.” He did not want to talk about anything else, and Rachel seemed to sense that because she did not ask him another question, did not say a word. He shifted positions and leaned his head against the windowsill, a heavy yellow blossom brushing his cheek. Tanner closed his eyes and breathed in deeply the cool, clear scent. He was in no hurry to move from this spot. He was relaxed, and it was probably going to be a long time before he felt this way again.

  The teenage Nazis were still crowded around the building entrance when he left. Once again they opened a path for him, though he thought it was a different group this time. Across the street, strung out on second-floor balconies and wearing their trademark khaki jumpsuits and black headbands, half a dozen Daughters of Zion kept vigil.

  Tanner spent several hours wandering through the Euro Quarter, checking out old haunts, getting the feel of the streets. He did not really feel at home—he had never felt “at home” in the Tenderloin, even after working in it for several years—but he felt comfortable. The streets were that way, which was a funny thing. People who did not know the Tenderloin thought the streets were dangerous, wild and uncontrolled, where you would get mugged or killed or mauled because they were always so crowded, jammed with people, loud, bright with flashing lights and chaos. But the streets were the safest part of the Tenderloin. Inside was the real danger—in the warrenlike mazes of rooms and corridors that wormed through so many of the buildings; in the fortified below-ground basements and tunnels; in the vast, open attics run by the gangs and co-ops. Inside, things could get bad. People disappeared. Killed, certainly. You just didn’t see the bodies most of the time; except for the occasional window fliers, they didn’t show up in the streets or anywhere else. There were organ runners and crematoriums here in the Tenderloin to take care of that. For now, Tanner would stay in the streets, but he knew that eventually, if he was going to find Rattan, he would have to go inside.

  He had a beer at Stinky’s, but Stinky had died or moved, no one was sure, and Tanner did not know the new owner—a loud, obnoxious man called Rooter who smelled a lot worse than Stinky ever had. No one in the place looked familiar, and he left.

  He stopped by the Turk Street Fascination Parlor and watched the old Russian women roll pale pink rubber balls up into the machines, numbers lighting silently on the vertical displays. But Lyuda was not in, and Tanner returned to the street.

  A couple of bars, hotel lobbies, Tin Tin’s Video Arcade, a transformer shop, two music clubs, and Mistress Wendy’s House of Pain and Shame. Nothing, nobody he knew other than several people he wanted to avoid.

  Just as the early-evening rain began, Tanner caught the last seat at a sheltered snack counter. He had a plate of curried bratwurst and french fries, and a tall glass of warm lemon soda that was too sweet. He sat sideways on the stool, watching the street as he ate, but still saw no one he recognized. When he was finished, he resumed walking the streets.

  He bought a couple of changes of clothes, shaving gear, vitamins, and a few other things, and a small duffel bag to carry everything, then took it back to Rachel’s. He had hoped to talk to her some more, but she was gone, so he went back out into the Quarter.

  Darkness was falling when Tanner passed a window display that caught his eye outside a nightclub called The Open Gate. In large blue letters was:

  RED GIANT AND WHITE DWARF

  Beat Poets of the Twenty-First Century

  TONIGHT 10:00

  There was no picture of the beat poets. White Dwarf. Max? It seemed probable, if White Dwarf was an accurate physical description. Max was a poet of sorts. And if it was Max, Tanner had lucked out far sooner and closer to Rattan than he had hoped. He entered the club.

  It was nearly full, the stage empty and dark. The floor consisted of table-covered platforms set at various heights. Spider lights hung from the ceiling in sheets, fluttering gently with the air currents. Cocktail jazz played softly from speakers mounted in the corners.

  Tanner found an empty table near the back, on one of the higher platforms, five or six feet above the stage. A waiter dressed in a deep blue floor-length coat and wearing an eye patch over the center of his forehead approached the table.

  “Here for the show?” the waiter asked.

  Tanner nodded.

  “Two-drink minimum before they start, two drinks at the break.”

  “How soon does the show start?”

  The waiter grinned. “Five minutes.”

  Tanner ordered two scotches. Then, as the waiter turned to go, Tanner asked, “What’s with the patch?”

  The waiter swung around, still grinning. “My third eye went blind last week.” He turned back, and left.

  Tanner scanned the club, searching for familiar faces. It was a strange crowd, ranging from people in their twenties to some quite old, dressed in everything from SoCal casual to metallic Asteroid Gear. But he did notice that there were no metal add-ons, no fake prosthetics. No Faux Prosthétique here, and probably very little anywhere in the Tenderloin.

  Just behind him, against the wall and only partially hidden by shadows, a woman was on her hands and knees under a table, her face buried in a man’s lap. There was no pleasure on the man’s face, only a grimace of pain.

  The waiter brought Tanner’s drinks and took his money without a word. A minute later all the lights went out, plunging the club into darkness. The jazz cut off; the audience went silent. Spots came up, lighting the stage and revealing Red Giant and White Dwarf. Red Giant was just that, a hulking man around seven feet tall with flaming red hair and beard. Rimless mirrorshades were grafted over his eyes, and he wore a black beret. White Dwarf was indeed Max—an albino dwarf also wearing grafted mirrorshades. He sat on a stool with a set of bongo drums in his lap.

  A minute or two of silence followed, then Max tapped out a brief, loud intro on the bongos, followed by more silence. A smooth, woman’s voice came over the speakers.

  “Red Giant and White Dwarf,” the woman’s voice announced. “Stars at the end of their life cycles. Beat poets of the twenty-first century, of the future and the past.”

  More silence. Then Max resumed on the bongos, a slow syncopated rhythm, and Red Giant began to recite. His voice boomed, resonating throughout the club. The first piece was called “White Fountains and the Death of Angels.” Tanner did not understand most of it—something about the arrogance of man’s ventures into space, he thought, with a lot of vague references to relativity, the space-time continuum, and various astronomical objects like black holes and white fountains. When they finished, the applause was loud, but not extreme. Red Giant and White Dwarf followed with “Dancing With a Black Hole,” “The Blue Light,” “You burn Me Up, Baby, I’m a Cigarette,” and several others. Red Giant did all the speaking, and Max kept the beat. After they finished “Party in My Head,” they announced a break, and the lights went out again. When the spider lights came back up, the stage was empty.

  Tanner took out one of his business cards—LOUIS TANNER, IMPORTS AND EXPORTS—and wrote on the back: Max. Let’s talk. Tanner. When the waiter came by, Tanner handed the card to him.

  “Will you give this to Max? I’m a friend of his.”

  “Max? Max who?”

  “White Dwarf.”

  The waiter hesitated, said, “You’re a friend of Max’s?”

  “Sort of.”

  The waiter grinned. “That’s the only kind of friend Max has. So what’ll you have?”

  “Two drinks?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Make it two coffees this time.”

  The waiter shook his head. “No courage.” He pocketed the card and moved on to the table behind Tanner. The woman was no longer on her hands and knees; now she sat next to the man, apparently asleep with her head on the table.

  Tanner searched out the men’s room and joined the line for the urinals. He could hear moaning and grunting from one of the stalls, and the click of vein injectors from another. A graying man all in black leather stood at the mirror carefully appl
ying mascara. Another man, in a powder blue leisure suit, stood in the corner with his huge cock drooping out of an open zipper, but he wasn’t getting any takers.

  Tanner had just stepped up to one of the urinals when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked into Dobler’s broken face. Most of the muscles in Dobler’s face did not work anymore, so Tanner couldn’t be sure, but he thought Dobler was grinning.

  “Dobler,” he said.

  “It’s been too long,” Dobler said.

  Not nearly long enough, Tanner thought.

  “You just finish things here, Tanner. I’ll be waiting for you outside.” He released Tanner’s shoulder and turned to the man in the leisure suit. “You goddamn faggot, you’re lucky I don’t go over there and bite that fucking monster off.”

  The man smiled, and Tanner realized the guy had no idea Dobler was capable of doing just that. Dobler growled, then turned and walked out.

  When Tanner came out of the men’s room, Dobler was waiting in the hall, his face worked into something resembling intense concentration.

  “I heard you ain’t a cop no more,” Dobler said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Your partner gets it, and you gets out.”

  Tanner didn’t reply. He considered just walking away, but he knew Dobler wouldn’t let it go like that.

  “I’m sorry Freeman got killed before I had a chance to do his face the way he done mine,” Dobler said. He leaned forward, bringing his face to within an inch or two of Tanner’s. His breath was warm and foul. “If I’d got to that damn nigger, it would’ve looked a lot worse than this.” He pulled back a little. “Maybe I’ll do your face since I can’t do his.” Something close to a smile worked its way onto his lips. “You think about that, Tanner. Think about this face when you go to sleep at night. Think about your face.” The smile twisted, then Dobler marched down the hall and out the rear exit.