Revolution Number 9

by Peter Abrahams

  Charlie took a taxi into the Mission, looking out at the half-remembered streets, as though clarifying a dream. He got out in front of the house: a three-story Victorian that had been in need of repair when last seen by him and was now beyond it. The house was dark. Charlie walked up to the door and knocked.

  No response. He peered through the little square window in the door, saw nothing. He knocked again, with no result.

  Nine-thirty, too early for bed. The shop was in the basement, the office on the first floor, Mr. Wine had lived on the second with his girlfriend, and Brucie had had one of the two rooms at the top. He himself had lived in the other for three or four months.

  Charlie raised his hand to knock again. The door opened. A woman with a cigarette in her mouth looked out. Charlie hadn’t heard her approach because her feet were bare. As was most of the rest of her: the woman wore only a towel that stretched inadequately around her abundant body, and headphones. It was hard to tell her age by the light of the street lamp; but probably closer to forty than thirty.

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought you was someone else.”

  “Sorry if I disturbed you. I’m looking for Brucie Wine.”

  “If you’re talking I can’t hear you,” the woman said. She took off her headphones, shook her hair. It was wet. A few warm drops landed on Charlie’s face. He smelled chlorine. “You needed me,” she said.

  He took it as a question and answered, “Very briefly.”

  The woman gestured with the headphones. “Anne Murray. I was just relaxing in the hot tub with some tunes.”

  “Then how did you hear me knocking?”

  She drew on her cigarette, giving him a long look. “I felt the vibes. This old dump is like a medium for vibes, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do,” Charlie said. “Does Brucie Wine still live here?”

  The woman flicked on the outside light, studied Charlie’s face. “You don’t look like a cop.”

  “Why would I be a cop?”

  She ignored him. “But neither did the little son of a bitch that busted him. And that question about hearing the knock was like a cop.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “A fisherman. And an old acquaintance of Brucie’s.”

  “Let’s see your hands.”

  Charlie held out his hands. She felt them. Hers were warm and plump. “Yeah,” she said, the cigarette dangling from her lips, “could be.” She let go, her fingernails scratching lightly across his palm. “You know Brucie?”

  “I knew him years ago. I’m passing through and thought I’d look him up. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  The woman frowned. Perhaps she was closer to forty-five. “No more than usual,” she said. “Or maybe a teeny bit more. But it’ll come out all right. Like before. He’s making his lawyer rich is all.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Spics, this time. It never ends.” The towel slipped a little, revealing demiglobes of breast. She did nothing about it. “Wanna come in and wait for him?” she asked. “He’ll probably be an hour or two.” She gave him another look. “At least. Maybe you’d like to relax in the hot tub.” He felt her smoky breath on his face.

  “I’m not an Anne Murray fan,” Charlie said. “And my schedule is tight. Do you know where I can find him now?”

  She hitched the towel up to her armpits and flicked the cigarette out into the night. She’d lost interest in him; perhaps it was his lack of musical taste. “He’s at a meeting.”

  “Can you tell me where? I know he’ll want to see me.”

  “At the usual place, I suppose,” she said. “Polly’s.” She gave him the address.

  “Thanks,” Charlie said.

  She switched off the light. “And tell him not to be late,” she said from the shadows. “Laverne says not to be late.” The door closed.

  Polly’s was a bar beside a Daihatsu dealer off South Van Ness, a fifteen-minute walk. “Beer,” read the sign above the window. “Wine, Liquor, Drinks.” He got the idea. Through the window he could see a dark room with a few human figures in it. The door was open, exhaling a complex mixture of rough smells: perfume for an anti-universe. Charlie was about to go in when a dog barked savagely, right behind him.

  He wheeled around, saw a pit bull lunging at him, jaws open wide. Charlie jumped back. The animal came jerking to the end of its chain, emitting strangled, murderous sounds. Charlie saw that the chain was fastened to a No Parking sign, and his heart rate returned to normal. “Easy, boy,” he said, and to his astonishment the dog lowered its head and sidled back into the shadows. A car went by. Its headlights illuminated the features of a Chinese man sitting in a parked car a few spaces away. His eyes were on the dog and they were murderous too. Charlie entered the bar.

  A jukebox glowed silently in one corner. Otherwise Polly’s was dim. It took Charlie a few moments to distinguish the customers: two women in jeans and jean jackets at a table near the front, a fat man in a sleeveless T-shirt near the jukebox, two black men at the table next to his, a Latino in an unraveling straw hat at the table in the back. Brucie Wine’s face was out-of-focus in his memory, and of course he must have changed, but not into anyone Charlie saw here. He approached the bar.

  The bartender, a woman as tall as he was and almost as broad, was reading a paperback romance called Wild Magnolia. She wore black leather pants, a black halter top, and had a black and red Iron Cross tattooed on one forearm. “Somethin’ to drink?” she said, laying the book on the bar.

  “A beer,” Charlie said.

  “Like what?”

  He named one. His eyes grew accustomed to the light. He noticed the decor: unlit Chinese lanterns trailing spiderwebs, blown-up black-and-whites of circus women, a framed poster that read “Impeach the Fucker.”

  The bartender set a bottle in front of him, forcefully. “Buck and a half,” she said.

  Charlie handed it over. “Has Brucie Wine been in?” he asked.

  The bartender looked at him. Her eyes were round and blue; beautiful, possibly, but unsympathetic. “I don’t like trouble,” she said. “But I’m ready for it, believe me.” She glanced down at something behind the bar.

  “Don’t worry,” Charlie said. “I’m an old friend.”

  “The dickhead has a friend?” She pointed her chin at something behind Charlie. “Voilà,” she said. He turned and saw a man coming through a swinging door that read, “Hombres,” zipping up his pants. Potbellied, snub-nosed, splayfooted: Brucie Wine. He had hardly changed, although it couldn’t be said that the years had been good to him. He shook his ponytail, walked over to the Latino’s table and sat down behind a long-necked Bud. Charlie picked up his drink. “Trouble, you mop up,” the bartender called after him.

  Charlie moved to the table nearest Brucie’s, sat so Brucie could see him. Brucie, ten feet away, took no notice of his arrival.

  The other man at Brucie’s table, who had his back to Charlie, said something Charlie couldn’t hear. Brucie sucked his teeth and said, “Dinero.”

  The other man talked some more. He seemed to be arguing, but calmly, reasonably, even deferentially. He removed his straw hat and held it in both hands.

  Brucie said: “Dinero, man, dinero. Capeesh?” He took a long slug from his bottle, avoided eye contact with the other man. The other man rose and walked away. He put on the straw hat, pulling it low over his eyes, but not low enough to hide their stricken look. Brucie noticed Charlie then, and shook his head complicitously, in recognition of their shared white man’s burden.

  “Still writing poetry?” Charlie said.

  “Huh?”

  “ ‘What a cool day for a treat. Lots of chickies really neat.’ Poetry, Brucie.”

  Brucie’s eyes narrowed. Then they widened. He got up, slowly, backed away, carefully, like a hiker encountering a coiled snake. He bumped into the wall. “Don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t?”

  “Oh Jesus God,” Brucie c
ried, his voice breaking. “He’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.” Then he darted around his table, knocking the long-necked bottle on the floor, and bolted outside through the door. Charlie went after him.

  “Hey,” yelled the bartender after him: “Mop up.”

  28

  Brucie Wine, car keys in one hand and the pit bull’s chain in the other, was fumbling at the door of an acne boy’s dream car as Charlie ran outside. Like a desperate figure in a nightmare, Brucie was moving frantically but getting nowhere. He saw Charlie, said, “Oooooooo,” hunched over the keyhole, made still more frantic motions and finally flung the door open, banging it hard against the No Parking sign pole. Then he ducked down to get in the car, bumped his head, entangled himself in the dog chain, and fell on the sidewalk.

  Charlie came forward. The pit bull puffed up its muscles and growled. Brucie, lying on his back, repeated, “Oooooooo,” and aimed a kick in Charlie’s direction. At the same moment the dog lunged at Charlie, jaws open wide. They closed on Brucie’s upraised calf.

  “Flipper!” Brucie screamed. “It’s me, it’s me!” Flipper wagged his tail, but didn’t let go.

  “Flipper! Flipper!”

  “That’s enough,” Charlie said. Did Flipper hear something simpático in Charlie’s tone or had he simply realized his error? The dog released Brucie’s leg, trotted back the length of his chain, raised his leg, pissed on the rear wheel. Brucie stopped screaming, looked up at Charlie in terror. “What’s wrong with you?” Charlie said. “Don’t you remember me?”

  “I’m sorry. Really and truly sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry. Don’t hurt me.”

  “Why would I hurt you?”

  “Please. Don’t. I’m already hurt. Flipper hurt me.” Brucie moaned and grabbed his leg, letting go the chain. Flipper knew at once that he was free. He scuttled off down the street on his stubby legs, dragging his restraint behind him like a chain-gang felon on the lam. The Chinese man in the parked car rolled up his window as Flipper went by.

  Charlie knelt, rolled up Brucie’s pant leg. Brucie shrank from his touch. “You’re going to live,” Charlie said.

  “I am?”

  “Unless your pet has rabies.”

  “But what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Are you gonna let me live?”

  “Brucie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you got me confused with someone else?”

  The terror faded slowly from Brucie’s eyes, replaced even more slowly by craftiness, undisguised. “Should I?”

  “Should you?”

  Brucie bit his lip. “Never mind.” He bit it some more. “Hey,” he said, almost cheerful. “So you’re really not mad at me?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “No matter who I think you are?”

  “Who do you think I am, Brucie?”

  “A draft dodge—resister, right? I got you ID, didn’t I? Way back when.”

  “Right. So why would I want to kill you?”

  “Maybe I overcharged you or somethin’. Mistakes happen.” He rolled over, reached for his wallet, withdrew money. Blue cards came spilling out, fluttered down through a grating and out of sight. “Shit,” said Brucie.

  “What was that?”

  “The mortgage,” said Brucie. “No big deal.” He held out some bills.

  “Put it away,” Charlie said. He took Brucie’s hands, pulled him up. The Chinese man was watching from his car. “Let’s go for a drive.”

  Brucie cringed. “What kind of drive?”

  “A spin.”

  “A spin like to where?”

  “Somewhere fun.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you want an affidavit?”

  “Hee-hee,” Brucie said. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember it.”

  They got in the car, Brucie behind the wheel, Charlie in the passenger seat. Brucie turned the key, stalled, tried again, steered onto the street. Flipper was half a block down, his snout in an overturned trash can. They got him into the tiny backseat and drove on. A motorcycle growled behind them. “Where to?” said Brucie. “Like some real place, right, with lights and people?”

  “Berkeley.”

  “Across the bridge?” Brucie made it sound like some fraying thing over a jungle gorge.

  “Unless there’s a better way.”

  “Well, we could go down to San Jose and then maybe …”

  They took the bridge. Looking back, Charlie saw Candlestick Park, lit up like a hot spot on an X ray. Not the usual baseball image, Charlie thought. Baseball was romantic, especially to journalists who had never hit a curve, hit a cutoff man, hit behind a runner. Or been hit with a high rider in the face. It wasn’t as romantic at field level.

  They parked on Telegraph Avenue, outside a shop selling peasant clothing from South America, and walked to Sproul Plaza. The night was warm and the plaza crowded, but it no longer made Charlie think of an Oriental bazaar. It was just a college campus, U.S.A. Either the magic was gone, or it had become part of ordinary life, and unremarkable.

  They sat on a bench. Two men went by. One said, “My white count’s borderline.” The other didn’t know what to say. A woman glided past on rollerblades. Brucie glanced around briefly.

  “Haven’t been here in a Jesus-long time,” he said. He began tapping his foot, like a patient in a waiting room. “What do you wanna do?”

  “Talk.”

  “About what?”

  Charlie turned to him and smiled. “What are you up to these days, Brucie?”

  “Same old shit.”

  “How’s your father?”

  “Pops? Passed away.” He checked Charlie from the corner of his eye. “What about you?”

  “I’m a lobsterman.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone who traps lobsters.”

  “Any money in it?”

  “Not much.”

  Brucie grunted. The crafty look returned. “And you haven’t had any more trouble?” he asked.

  “Trouble?”

  “Whatever the trouble was that I helped you with.”

  “No.”

  “So,” Brucie said. He tapped his foot for a while. “You been safe then.”

  “Safe?”

  “Like no visits from the law, or nothin’.”

  “I’ve been safe. How about you?”

  “Oh, yeah. I changed my, you know, lifestyle.”

  “Then it’s not really the same old shit, is it?”

  Brucie blinked. He opened his mouth, to be ready when his brain formulated a response. None came.

  “I want you to think back to that summer, Brucie.”

  Brucie’s mouth closed.

  “The summer that you and I met. And the months that followed. Do you remember that period?”

  “Sure. You lived upstairs. Then you split. Right?”

  Charlie nodded. “What else?”

  “Let It Be. Wasn’t that the summer of Let It Be? There was the Summer of Love, then the next summer and the next and then Let It Be.” He bit his lip. “It all depends on when the Beatles broke up.”

  The woman on rollerblades glided by again, like a visitor from a world where only grace mattered. “Did you sell ID to anyone else?”

  “When?”

  “That summer, or later. Into the next spring, say.”

  “Sure. That’s my gig. Was my gig.” Brucie jumped a little, as though he’d been startled. “You’re not workin’ for the cops, or nothin’?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Brucie thought. “You’re right. And anyhow why would the cops be bugging me now? It’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “For me. Unless there’s a miracle, he said.”

  “Who said?”

  Brucie waved a tired arm. “This brainy dude I’m makin’ rich. You wouldn’t know him.” His eyes went to Charlie again, narrowing into the crafty look. This time he made an effort
to disguise it. It was as though he had had an idea.

  “Sounds like you’re the one in trouble,” Charlie said.

  “Me? Nah. Just the cost of doing business.”

  “What business?”

  “Pop’s business. Printing. You know. Engraving.”

  “Let me ask you something, Brucie.”

  “Ask away.”

  “About that summer. Or the period after.”

  “Right. The period after.”

  “You said you supplied others with ID.”

  “Sure, I said it. If you’re not a cop.” Brucie giggled. “Shit,” he said. “Life’s a gas.”

  “I’m wondering whether one of your customers might have been a woman.”

  “They need ID too. Women’s lib and all that shit.”

  “The woman I’m interested in would have been about twenty then.” He described Rebecca, the way he remembered her.

  “Don’t ring a bell.”

  “Her name was Rebecca Klein, although she probably wouldn’t have used it.”

  “Don’t ring a bell,” Brucie said; but his eyes shifted toward Charlie, then rapidly away. He had little control over his body language.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “You seemed to react to the name.”

  “The name. Yeah. Rebecca. I reacted to that, yeah. I knew a Rebecca. But it was in the eighties and she was a whore over in Daly City. That’s the only bell it rang. I got the clap. Some bell. Christ.”

  Charlie considered other approaches. None seemed promising, not with Brucie. Brucie had been a long shot in the first place. He rose. “See you, Brucie.”

  “Huh?”

  “Good-bye.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Check.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away.”

  Brucie raised a hand, as if to somehow bar his way. Charlie turned, crossed the plaza, passed through the gate and onto Telegraph. He walked for several blocks, paused in front of a comic book store. A blow-up of a blue-faced big-brained being from another galaxy hung in the window. He was saying, “The clue is somewhere in the anti-universe, my dear Xanthanza.” Charlie decided to approach Hugo Klein again, this time more obliquely.