Young Americans

by Josh Stallings

  In South San Francisco they passed the place where Candy had been shot. It sucked the air out of Jacob. “Do you think she’s alive?”

  “I don’t know.” Sam chewed on her lower lip. “How do you take that much life and just make it disappear?”

  “Maybe we could swing by the hospital, just check and see if she’s breathing. We owe her that.”

  “What the living owe the dead is to keep fighting to stay alive. We don’t catch these pukes, they’ll sic the mob on our whole crew.”

  “Dead? You think she’s dead.”

  “Yes, I do. If she was alive she would have called Mom’s crib. You know that.”

  “Moms wouldn’t let us answer the phone.”

  “Right, so maybe she’s fine, recouping it up in a satin nightgown. We go poking around the hospital we will get our asses locked up. And we’ll be sitting ducks for any hitter trying to make his bones.”

  “We don’t know anything. The cops could have her under surveillance. She could be in a coma. We don’t—you don’t—know.”

  “No I don’t, kid. I do know we have a gig to do if we want to survive. If she is alive they will come after her, same as us. So, no, we won’t be heading to any hospitals today.”

  “You’re not—”

  “The boss of you? What are you, ten?”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “What? What were you going to say, smart boy?”

  “Drop it,” Jacob said, then went silent.

  They rolled up the bay and into San Francisco. Traffic kept them at a reasonable speed. Not a problem. The way Sam figured it, Sardine and Cracker were driving a van full of instant felonies. Add one nosey cop and they were headed to big-boy jail. If the mob didn’t have them killed in lockup, they would still go down on a firearms beef and the bag of cash would connect them to the Taxi Dancer heist. Surely they were bright enough to keep the needle pinned at five miles over the limit—just enough to show they weren’t scared of being stopped. She, on the other hand, didn’t give a fuck. She was driving to save her family.

  Once she cleared the Golden Gate Bridge Sam let it rip. She told Jacob to keep a steady lookout for CHP. All of her attention was on flying past or around anything in front of her. Roaring along she scanned for the van.

  “All they have to do is stop for gas or to take a piss and we’ll blow past them,” Sam said.

  “This Breeze fucker?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is his office on the main highway or up a smaller road?”

  “His office is a strip club with a brothel just across the road. Why?”

  “Is it a ways off the main road? Yes or no?”

  “Yes, it is. Why?”

  Jacob explained that they might get lucky and catch the hillbillies out on the highway, but then what? On a country road in Humboldt they could easily spot them and bushwhack the sons of bitches. Sam looked at her brother, then back out the window. She was proud of him, but she wasn’t about to show it.

  • • •

  It was after five when they arrive at the Humboldt County line. Fog was coming in when they passed through Eureka and Arcata. Crossing Mad River, they took the North Bank exit. They drove twenty minutes into the hills and found themselves on a gravel road surrounded by giant redwoods. Three miles of sliding around tight corners, Sam found the dirt road she was looking for. It was several miles before Rapunzel’s strip joint. She backed behind a thicket of Scotch Broom. The yellow flowers screamed color in the green and red forest. She popped the trunk, unlocked the hidden compartment and took out the M16 and Jacob’s .38. “Something has been bugging me,” she said. It was the first they’d spoken in three hundred miles.

  “Just one thing, huh?”

  “The trunk. How did they unlock it? How’d they find the hidey-hole?”

  “That is a conundrum, maybe—”

  Tires speeding on gravel and the low rumble of a Detroit V8 breathing through glass packs ended their conversation. Sam knelt by the front fender, motioning Jacob behind her. She took aim at the road. The plan was simple: when the van crossed in front of them they would open fire.

  • • •

  In Mountain View, Valentina blew the steam off her coffee and took a sip. “Just the way I like it, Esther, black as night, hot as hell and rich as a woman’s love.”

  “That’s an old John Wayne line. What film?”

  “I don’t remember. My father loved him. ‘Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.’ He had that quote on a framed poster of the Duke in our living room. Dad was a real man’s man.”

  “Was? When did he pass?”

  “Seventy-two. I was back in the world, but a mess. Anywho, I haven’t been home since. Don’t think those fools in McLennan County Tex-ass would know what to do with all this amazing fabulousness.”

  “I don’t guess they would. Their loss is our gain.”

  “Thank you, Esther.” She drank another sip of coffee. Terry had fallen asleep in the living room, his gun aimed at the door. For reasons only he knew, he hadn’t been able to meet Valentina’s eyes. She tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t. It was as if now, here, what had happened between them was a ghost in his closet. Valentina didn’t push it. It hurt, but she refused to be anyone’s dirty secret. Besides, she had her hands full trying to keep them alive.

  “Esther?”

  “Yes, Valentina?”

  “I really want you two out of the way. If they come for us, they may need killing. I don’t want Terry caught up in this mess.”

  “They’re coming after my kids, Terry included.”

  “True. But best way to keep them all safe is for you to take Terry out of here and let the queen of bad-ass put in some work.” Valentina’s flippant flamboyant ways were gone. She was steel now.

  Humboldt.

  On the gravel road in the redwoods Sam moved her finger onto the trigger. Jacob was pressed behind her, revolver in hand. “Don’t shoot me in the excitement.”

  “OK.”

  Aiming at the road, Sam focused on where the car would be. The tires could be heard spitting rocks as they rounded a corner, close.

  Sam was ready. Just a few pounds of pressure on the trigger and she would empty the 30-round magazine in seconds.

  A competition yellow 1970 Mustang matte black racing stripes flew into view.

  Sam swung the M16 down. With her free hand she motioned for Jacob to do the same. No good killing some civilian just looking to drive out to the whorehouse and get his hood ornament polished.

  Turning back, Sam saw the driver, mustache and all. Callum. He was fully concentrating on wrestling the brute of a car down the road. Only at the last moment did he see the Firebird and his ex with a machine gun. He stomped on the gas. Gravel and dust roaster-tailed out behind the Mustang, spraying Sam. Before she could wipe the dirt from her eyes the Mustang was gone.

  “Son of a goddamn bitch.” Sam pulled a full-on Starsky, jumping and sliding over the hood. Landing on the driver’s side, she was in and cranking the key before Jacob was even in the passenger seat.

  “Who the hell was that?”

  “A dead man.” She nailed the gas. The car powered onto the road, the back end fishtailing wildly. The rear end slid and clipped a tree. There was a screeching thudding noise. Sam hit the gas and kept going. All that was left of the Mustang was dust that hung in the air, killing the visibility. Pushing way past safe, Sam hit a tight switchback. The Firebird left the road and careened into the brush. Sam locked the brakes, slammed the Hurst pistol grip shifter into reverse.

  For two miles Sam played bumper-pool with the flora. It wasn’t until she hit the wide spot in the road that lead to Rapunzel’s parking lot that she saw the Mustang. Callum wasn’t in it. Sam started to pull in when a big, bare-chested man in overalls came running out of the club, a lever-action Winchester 30/30 in his hand.

  Sam blew on past the strip joint.

  Over the roar of the engine a rifle fired.

&
nbsp; The rear window blew out.

  Sam kept the car careening down the road.

  She didn’t let up until they were deep in the forest, down a fire road and headed back down the mountain. She looked over at her brother for the first time since the chase began. He was ashen white.

  “That was fun, sis.”

  “Wanna go again?”

  “No. Your boyfriend is a dick.”

  “Very true. He’s a dick who has our money.”

  “Had. Your ex-boss has it by now.”

  “We are well and truly screwed.”

  “Yes we are.”

  “Callum never stole any of Breeze’s product.”

  “Who’s Callum?”

  “The dick with a mustache.”

  “Then, no, he didn’t. Breeze set you up from the jump.”

  “I’m a fucking idiot.”

  “That would be my assessment.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  CHAPTER 20

  * * *

  “Dolemite is my name, and fuckin’ up motherfuckers is my game!” —Dolemite

  Jacob sat at the counter in Paterson’s coffee shop on the square in Arcata. He had to convince his sister that they needed food. He wasn’t hungry, but it had been twelve hours and low blood sugar was making his thinking fuzzy. He fought to keep from thoughts of Candy. He had called the hospital, but they wouldn’t give him any information. He said he was her brother, but that only got him an offer to speak to her parents. He hung up fast. He needed to focus on the present situation, to come up with a plan. Sam was little to no help. She was in the parking lot, chain smoking, talking into a payphone and pacing in tight circles. Jacob closed his eyes and wrote imaginary notes in his head. No cash, they had no hope of clearing their names with the closeted mobster. Even with the cash he might kill them, but at least they had a shot at bargaining. Kill the mobster? Nope, that would lead to more mobsters and death. They needed the cash. They needed a lever.

  The clatter of dishes opened Jacob’s eyes. A skinny Mexican busboy was picking up several plates he had dropped. The coffee shop was old. Hell, the grease on the walls was probably older than he was. The patrons were a mixture of hippy stoner college students and loggers, the latter identifiable by their uniform of jeans, lug boots and Pendleton shirts. The sawdust on their trucker caps and smell of fresh-cut wood also tipped Jacob off to their vocation.

  The waitress, an aging Earth momma stuffed into a 1950s diner uniform, set down two burgers then topped off his coffee. “You alright, sunshine?”

  “Fine, yeah. Burger looks good.”

  “You don’t look fine, you look like a scared, unhappy, white rabbit. Alice break your teacup?”

  “I’m good, just been a long couple of days.”

  “If you say so.” She stepped in close and whispered. “If you need some weed to calm you down, I have joints for sale. Maui Waui.”

  Jacob shook his head, while his brain screamed yes.

  The waitress moved down the counter refilling coffee mugs and joking with the locals.

  A small bell rang when Sam came in from the parking lot. No one took much notice of her. She sat down beside Jacob. Her eyes roamed the crowded room.

  “What did Valentina say?”

  “I warned her that we hadn’t seen the nitwit cousins up here. She said all was quiet on the home front, but if it got loud she was locked and loaded. She sounded . . .”

  “What? Scared.”

  “No, never. She sounded butch.”

  Mountain View.

  Creekside Apartments.

  Valentina was dressed in a tight tank top. She’d taken off her sweater. Cute as argyle was, she needed freedom of movement more than style. She never showed bare shoulders; she was embarrassed by her thick biceps and the tattoo of a bulldog with U.S.M.C. on its collar.

  “What’s the tat about?” Terry asked two nights back, when they’d been in bed.

  “It’s a Marine thing, baby doll.”

  “You were a Marine?”

  “I was a lot of things. Now crawl back over here and give momma some sugar.” They made love again and didn’t speak of her past anymore. She respected Terry for letting her keep her secrets. Then again, maybe he was just too freaked out to ask any more questions, or too lust-driven to care.

  Now in the silent apartment, Valentina’s mind strayed back to Saigon.

  Girls in long white dresses and black pants rode their bicycles through the crowded streets. Henry, as she had been called back then, and Jerome took a scooter-powered rickshaw to the red-light district. The tattoo artist used the cherry of his cigarette to sterilize the bamboo needle. By hand he drove the needle in and out, leaving black lines in Henry’s puckered flesh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to smack the guy causing him the pain. Instead, he took it like a man. The bar girls sat drinking Number 333 from the bottle and watching. They giggled when Jerome winced at the tattoo needle. No one laughed at Henry’s stoic expression.

  Things Henry did to prove to his dad he was a man:

  Played football, Pee Wee league on through high school.

  Dated a cheerleader. She’d thought it noble that he never tried to have sex with her. It was the Summer of Love, but that was in California. In Texas in 1967, only bad girls and boys were doing it.

  Joined the Marines. In boot he learned to channel his frustration into rage. He was an animal.

  Gone to Nam.

  Killed the enemy.

  Got a tattoo.

  Gone with a bar girl to a room only big enough for a mattress. The door was hanging beads and did nothing to block out the busy street beyond. Through thin walls he could hear Jerome’s rhythmic grunting. Henry was flaccid. The bar girl, who said her name was Jane, took him in her mouth, but nothing. He felt a rage growing. She put her small breast in his mouth, letting him suckle her nipple while she stroked his cock. He felt nothing but anger. When he heard Jerome’s victory yell at orgasm, Henry wanted to smash the girl’s face, wanted to smash his own face. He paid the girl. Ashamed. Sad. Furious.

  Back at base he drank himself to sleep.

  In the jungle he let the beast out to play.

  The close, wet heat. The smell of rotting vegetation and unbathed men. He was black in a mostly white unit. He walked point. He would have volunteered for it if they hadn’t ordered it. Men walked point. Men rocked ’n’ rolled full auto. Men turned their enemies into pink mist. Men killed until the jungle was silent except for the buzzing of flies as they lit on the dead. Men refused R&R leave. Men stayed in the battle until they became one with it. After a month in the bush, Charley, booby-traps, malaria, gonorrhea and dysentery had taken over half their unit. Henry didn’t really care. He wore the ears of his victims on a cord around his neck. He didn’t cry when Jerome was blown apart by a Bouncing Betty. Henry was a man.

  By his nineteenth birthday Henry was a skilled life taker. Gun, knife, rock, fist—all the same to him. It won him medals and the respect of his leaders.

  Until it frightened them.

  They found him in a hooch having an argument with the severed heads of six Viet Cong regulars. If several of them hadn’t been women, if he had saluted his sarge, if a reporter from the Times hadn’t witnessed it, they would have kept him in the jungle. Killing was their business and he was good at it. Problem was, he was twenty-four-seven crazy. They section-eighted his black ass and shipped him stateside.

  The MPs delivered him to the VA hospital in San Francisco. They doped him to the gills. They put him in therapy. They slowly decompressed him. In a drug-slurred voice he shared in group with other soldiers. He was not alone they told him. He was not a bad man. He didn’t believe them, but it felt good to hear them say it.

  The country around him was divided. The promises of Martin Luther King Jr. had been pushed back. The black power movement scared the hell out of Richard Nixon and his cronies.

  Henry knew he couldn’t go back to Texas. It held nothing but
bad memories.

  As he returned to semi-sanity, they cut his drugs.

  And then on Saturday, June twenty-fourth, nineteen seventy-two, his life changed irrevocably. At daybreak he received a telegram informing him his father was dead. He didn’t cry, or even feel sad. He felt numb, with a strong undercurrent of freedom. He spent the morning wandering the streets of San Francisco. He drifted into the Haight. The Summer of Love was well and truly over. LSD had been replaced by heroin. By ten that morning he was near Market Street. The closer he got the more people he saw. Without knowing it, he was being swept up into the second annual Pride parade. The first was held in Golden Gate Park—four hundred people attended that one. But after the Stonewall rebellion all bets were off. The queer community had had enough of hiding in the shadows. A crowd of fifty thousand came together to march, listen to speeches, sing and dance. It was colorful. It was a giant street party. It was a blast. Henry stumbled through the crowd feeling like Dorothy arriving in Oz.

  Watching a man in biker leathers kissing his boyfriend, Henry knew he should feel revulsion. But what he felt was released from a bondage he didn’t know he had been caught in. He was turned on. It would take a year of therapy to fully integrate that day’s feelings.

  Valentina didn’t arrive fully formed. She was birthed in a slow and sometimes painful process. But once she was there, she was never going back. She had put Marine Private Henry Calhoun away in a tightly sealed footlocker.

  Until now.

  • • •

  Valentina left the lights off, letting the apartment slip into shadows with the setting sun. She sat in an overstuffed easy chair in the living room. An M16 sat on her lap, the fire selector set to full boogie auto.

  At ten thirty-two Valentina heard someone break the glass in the back door. She knew the exact time because she had been meditating on the mantle clock since dark. Her eyes had focused on it while her mind tripped back to the jungle. It was time to let the beast off its leash. Silently, she rose.