by J. L. Abramo
They marked the time walking back through the Tenderloin streets until they reached Big Rich’s place on the worst part of Eddy Street. Deep in the Tenderloin, the streets were lined with vagrants despite the weather. Old men sat slumped, piled in rags, looking like heaps of garbage. Women with stringy whiskers on their chins talked to themselves as they pushed carts filled with garbage only they valued. Every few feet there were drug dealers offering pills of every variety, most of which, Rich and Donny knew, were a rip off. All of these cast offs were out there no matter what time of day or night, lining the sidewalks. Human waste.
The rain had picked up now. Heavy gobs pelted them as they both stood facing the door of the old hotel, waiting for the man behind the front desk to recognize them and buzz them in.
The door buzzed and they walked into the tiny, dank lobby. The small Indian man behind the desk said, “Ten dollars.”
“C’mon,” said Big Rich. “We’re only gonna be here a minute. You know, Donny. He’s here all the time.”
“Guest deposit, ten dollars,” the man said.
“We’re just gonna go up and get my wallet,” Big Rich said.
“Last time,” said the desk clerk, “Last time.”
The boys were buzzed in through the inner gate that separated the lobby from the stairs and bolted up, two steps at a time.
They got to the room and Donny was hit by the familiar funk of his friend’s filth. There were pizza boxes and empty fast food containers piled high on the old dresser. The bed was unmade and the sheets were speckled with blood from Big Rich cleaning his rig after using it. On the nightstand beside the bed stood a dirty glass of water on a patch of black, the dark carbon smudge from where Rich’s spoon sat when he cooked his dope.
Donny ignored the blood on the sheets and plopped down. It was dry blood after all.
“Be right back. Don’t touch nothin’,” said Big Rich as he checked the time on his cell phone and slipped out the door.
Donny nodded and stayed sitting on the bed. He pulled out his own cell to see how long it would take his friend to return. He sat waiting, wishing he had some drugs of his own. He reached into the breast pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a glass stem with a blub on the end. He examined the bulb. It was cloudy and white. He held a disposable lighter to it and rotated the bulb around. Barely a puff of smoke. He sucked it in and held it.
He tilted his head up expecting to blow out the smoke and nothing came out of his lungs at all. On the ceiling he saw more blood spatters. There was so much blood up there it looked like a Jackson Pollack painting. Donny knew how it could be, the rig getting clogged, blood coagulating; you gave it a little pressure to squeeze out the goop and squirt, there it went, half your shot was on the roof. The shitty coke they got from the Mexicans was the worst. It’d gum up your works in a minute if you didn’t find a vein. And no one wanted to squirt out any of that shit.
Donny sat wondering if Big Rich would have the sense—and the gall—to ask for a half-gram of coke from Hector, too. A speedball would really brighten up this rainy day. Hector carried both, but he was the toughest one to get credit from. All these assholes knew that if they said no, you’d do what you had to do to get the money and you’d call them right back. Junkies were incredibly creative when it came to finding money. The dealers gave only a little credit to keep you regular, so you wouldn’t call the next Hector.
Donny heard the key in the door and checked his cell phone. Eight minutes, probably a record for Rich making it back in time.
“Quick, huh? What did I tell ya?” Rich said smiling. He reached into his jeans and pulled out a small balloon and began to bite at it with his teeth.
“How much?” said Donny.
“A full gram. I only paid him twenty. Not bad, huh? Hector’s got the shit right now.”
“You get anything else?”
“What do you mean, anything else? You mean coke? No. Hector won’t front coke. He’d have to front it all day long.”
As happy as Donny was to be getting well on someone else’s dime, it was tough to hide his disappointment. He wanted to feel this shot, he wanted to get high.
“Aw, poor Donny. Tell you what, I got a bit of that raw crank left from Dupree, we’ll put that in the spoon, okay?”
“Yeah,” Donny said. He liked to shoot the raw speed better than the glass anyway. It gave a better rush in the vein.
When the boys were done they sat cross legged on the bed smoking cigarettes and sharing an ashtray between them. Now was the time for grand ideas, for false promises. They were warm and high and far from the corner. The subject, as always, came back to money.
“So, Rich,” Donny said. “I know you wouldn’t have brought up that YouTube thing earlier if you didn’t already have someone in mind.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, who is it? Is it someone I’d know, like, a trick I’ve already had?”
“You don’t know him, Donny.”
“You sure? Is it somebody that comes by the corner?”
“You don’t know him, Donny.” Rich sounding more firm this time.
“I’m not gonna steal your idea, if that’s what you think.”
Rich leaned in, lowering his voice even though there was no one who would be listening. “I’m not worried about that, Donny. I just know it ’cause of the kinda shit he likes. He doesn’t like to come by the corner—too dangerous. Doesn’t want to be seen. That’s why I think he could be the perfect guy for this.” Big Rich was nodding his head and raising his eyebrows at the same time. His look said, See, I’ve put some thought into this.
“He’s some kinda lawyer. A fuckin’ big wig. He’s married, lives in a big ol’ house in Pacific Heights. I seen a picture in his house of him and the mayor. He’s got something he doesn’t wanna lose, Donny. He’s perfect.”
“What kind of lawyer is he?”
Big Rich smiled and said, “A rich one.”
Chapter 2
Gabriel Thaxton sat behind the wheel of his Bentley Continental. It was an ostentatious choice for a vehicle, to be sure, but it set the right tone for the associates at the firm. The radio was off and the windows were rolled up. It was silent in the car. He sat looking up at the old, brick, multimillion dollar monstrosity he lived in. It was also ostentatious; too big for him to live in at his age, too many stairs, but it also set the right tone for his neighbors. He’d lived in Pacific Heights for most of his life, having acquired the house just two years out of law school. It was a mansion, a brick and mortar estate. He stared at it. He watched the sun move the house’s shadow across the lawn, onto the driveway, and finally, he waited till its darkness consumed him in his car.
He’d worked late at the office, even though he didn’t need to. In fact, he really didn’t need to go into the office at all these days. He had no upcoming cases, no prospective clients; the firm was quite efficient—and just as profitable—running itself. As long as his respected name was at the helm of the brand, the firm was going to prosper.
Thaxton, Spreckle, and White had been doing business in San Francisco for close to forty years. The three partners had built their reputations as risk-taking, media-savvy, criminal defense attorneys who weren’t afraid to take on cases the public viewed with distaste. In the mid-eighties, they took on several capital cases that became the focus of national news. Vilified by the public and the press, the firm’s client base exploded after three of their capital cases ended in acquittal. Since then, he’d been the go-to guy for high profile criminals of every variety.
In recent years, he’d begun to feel the weight of his contribution to the world. Gabriel wondered what kind mark he’d left. Contemplation only served up guilt. It was a feeling he never experienced early in his career. In the eighties, and even on into the nineties, he was invigorated by the job, his successes. But now, he couldn’t avoid that ominous feeling that there would be a terrible price to pay for the legacy he’d left behind.
He wanted to go inside and pour h
imself a single malt scotch and forget about everything, but the house was no longer a home, no longer the sanctuary it once was. He’d let his base desires, his weaknesses, take a forefront in his life, and, in doing so, had let an evil into his house. He couldn’t face going in.
Gabriel put the key back into the ignition, started the Bentley, and pulled out of his driveway. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He just didn’t want to be home.
The sun was dipping down and the headlights of other cars flashed on as he zigzagged through the steep streets of Pacific Heights, working his way through rush hour traffic toward Nob Hill. Gabriel thought about going for that single malt in a bar, perhaps a nice anonymous hotel bar, but he just kept driving. On some level, he knew where he was going; he just didn’t want to admit it to himself. He was heading toward Polk Street, where the boys stood on the corners. He wanted to see if his newest young friend, Rich, was there. He wouldn’t stop. Gabriel just wanted to see if he was out there. Catch a glimpse before he moved on with his night, a mental image, a memory he could take home with him later.
It was already dark by the time he reached the intersection of Polk and Sutter. The corner was near empty. The wind was blowing and it looked cold. Regular foot traffic: people with their collars up hurrying home from work, homeless derelicts pushing carts, transsexual hookers in outrageous clothing heading back to their roosts on the next block. No young men out there. Gabriel sat at a red light wondering why he’d bothered. He had the boy’s cell number, he could easily call and set up a meeting, a date, but he wasn’t up for a face to face encounter, not tonight. A horn blared from behind and startled him from his thoughts. The light had turned green while he was staring at the corner. He didn’t even want to be seen down there. Embarrassed, he hooked a right and headed back toward Pacific Heights.
Donny and Big Rich woke simultaneously from a deep nod. The window of Rich’s hotel room had been darkened by the night. It was cold in the room, but both of them felt warm and comfortable.
“Shit, we passed out,” said Donny.
“Only for a minute.”
“What time is it?”
“I dunno, but it’s time we got back out there,” said Rich.
“Fuck, I don’t wanna go. It looks like it’s freezing outside.”
“It’s not as cold as I’m gonna be in a few hours if I don’t hustle up some dope.”
“You don’t have anything?” said Donny.
“We did most of it. I need a hit when I get home. If I don’t get to work, I’m not gonna have a wakeup either.”
For Donny, the situation was more dire. He only had eleven dollars in his pockets, not enough to cop with. Nothing else. Not a late night hit, not a wakeup, nothing. Withdrawals would set in before midnight and if he didn’t get his ass in gear, he’d be fucked.
Rich got up off the bed and stretched. He walked to the shabby dresser and began to rifle through its top drawer. He pulled out bits of clothing and pieces of paper.
“What are you looking for?” asked Donny.
“Some raw. I know I left another piece in here somewhere.”
“We put it in the spoon,” Donny said.
“Naw, that was just a teaser. I still have another chunk.” Big Rich hunched over, looking desperately. He’d begun to toss items over his shoulder when he said, “Ah, here it is.”
He returned to the bed with a lump of unwashed speed pinched off in the corner of a plastic baggie. Donny produced his pipe, a long glass stem with a bulb on the end where the speed went. The two sat in silence while Rich readied the pipe. When the yellowish chunk had been stuffed through the hole in the bulb, Rich held a lighter underneath, waited for that familiar bubbling sound, and drew deeply. He passed the pipe to Donny so his friend could do the same. Back and forth. Now they’d be ready for the street.
They both lit cigarettes before they left the room and then marched toward the lobby. The manager was able to say, “No smoking, no smoking!” before they hit the door.
“It’s okay,” said Rich, “he’s used to being ignored.”
The boys hit the sidewalk and headed west toward Polk Street. The wind had died down with the onset of night. Prospects were good by the time they hit the corner. There was almost no one else there. The other boys were either out turning tricks or at holed-up already, high and forgetting. Traffic was heavy and several cars slowed, but none stopped. The two stood waiting, checking the headlights on each passing car. Twenty minutes went by. No takers for either of them.
“It’s the fucking internet that’s killing this shit,” Big Rich said.
“I know,” said Donny. “Everyone makes their dates off Craigslist. We should get one of those fancy phones and take out an ad.”
“Fuck that. I like to know who I’m dealing with. Some asshole answers your ad and you go meet him. Who knows what the fuck he’s gonna do?”
“Yeah,” said Donny. He knew that getting into cars with strangers was really no better. Freaks were freaks, and they wouldn’t be out here trolling if they weren’t freaks. He’d only been out on the corner for a few months and he’d seen enough to last him a lifetime. Every night brought some kind of drama, some experience he’d just as soon forget.
Twenty more minutes went by. Still no takers. Donny lit a cigarette and passed it to Rich.
“There’s got to be an easier way,” said Donny.
“There is, I’m telling ya. We got to look at taking off this guy I told you about.”
“What’s his deal?”
“What do you mean? What does he like? Company. He likes to be around me. Likes to listen to me talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“Street shit, petty crimes. I make stuff up. He doesn’t seem to care.”
“No sex?”
“Oh, yeah, he likes me to pull out my dick, jerk it for him. He wants me to jerk him, too, sometimes. Sometimes we take a drive in his car up to Marin County. He’ll ask me to pull down my pants and jerk it while he’s on the freeway. Nothin’ too weird. He’s almost shy. That’s why I figure he’s good for this. He doesn’t want any direct contact because he’s afraid of bringing crabs or some shit back home to his wife.”
“No oral?”
“Nope, not yet, but I can tell he wants to. That’s how I wanna get in his house. Tell him I wanna take it up a notch.”
“Where’s he live?” said Donny.
“Out on Pacific Street. Where all them huge houses are? He left me in the driveway once ’cause he had to run in to piss or some shit. I walked in the house anyway. It’s a fuckin’ palace.”
“What kind of car does he drive?”
Big Rich gave Donny a look.
“I ain’t telling you.”
A Lincoln Continental pulled up and Rich said, “Ah, one of my regulars.” The car stopped in the bus stop across the street and the driver side window lowered just enough for the face of an older man to show. He was smiling at Big Rich.
Rich looked at Donny and said, “This guy just wants to be pissed on. Easy money, a hundred bucks. If you’re still here when I get back, we’ll go back to the hotel and cop. Call it a night.”
Donny nodded. It was hard not to feel a little envious. A hundred bucks for taking a piss. Easy money.
Back to TOC
Here’s a short story from Jen Conley’s Cannibals: Stories from the Edge of the Pine Barrens.
Home Invasion
It was a cold winter night in 2001 when Keon Dell did his very first and only burglary. He had robbed before—held up a store by gunpoint (no bullets in that gun)—but he’d never broken into a house, much less a house owned by people who could afford a cleaning woman.
Just nineteen, the boy was tense and uneasy as he sat in the backseat of the dark sedan while Ramone—one of those roughened-up white guys who had done hard time—was in the passenger seat, giving directions to James, the one doing the driving. James and Keon were from the same neighborhood, but didn’t know each other well. The guy steered the car wi
th his left hand, his grip loose and relaxed, like they were heading out for pizza instead of a break-in.
Ramone wasn’t referring to their plan as a break-in or a burglary. He referred to it as a home invasion, mocking the term used in newspapers these days. James had done a handful of them, he said, a couple of years back, and there was nothing to it. But this one wasn’t James’s idea—it was Ramone’s baby. Ramone had a girl who lived out here, on the border of Burlington and Ocean counties. She knew about the house because she had been the cleaning woman; around here it was mostly woods and lonely back roads where the Jersey Devil was rumored to roam.
James smoked while he steered the car along the twisting and turning roads. In between giving directions, Ramone told the story about the Jersey Devil: how after Mrs. Leeds found out she was pregnant, she cursed the child because it was her thirteenth; how after it was born, it grew into a devil with horns, hooves, and bat wings, and then it beat everyone in the room bloody with its forked tail; how after the gory thrashing, it screeched a horrific cry and flew up the chimney.
James was originally from South Carolina, so he had never heard the story before, but Keon knew it well. He had been brought up in New Jersey and it was something all kids learned in school. “It’s just culture. New Jersey culture,” Keon remembered his fourth-grade teacher saying. But the story had scared him enough to press her about it. “Will the Jersey Devil come to my house?”
His teacher shook her head. She had thick brown freckles on her nose and cheeks. “No. He only bothers the people in south Jersey, in the Pine Barrens. We live in central Jersey.”
Still, the story frightened little Keon and gave him nightmares.
Keon wasn’t so little anymore—standing almost five-eleven. He was lean but muscular, not bad looking in a wiry sort of way. He was also the only one in the car who hadn’t done time, although that was stupid-ass luck. Recently, he and TJ Jones had robbed an Indian man by gunpoint. Keon just walked right into the convenience store, put the gun to his head, and demanded the old man open the cash register. TJ grabbed the cash. “Thanks for following directions,” Keon said to the man before they fled. And they were never caught.