Luck and Death at the Edge of the World, the Official Pirate Edition

by Nas Hedron

  He heaves a sigh, playing along, but I suspect it’s partly real.

  “Don’t I know it. Sooner, Gat.”

  “Sooner, amigo.”

  I leave the two of them together. Or rather I leave the two of them in the same room, Carmen with her head in the clouds and TJ with his heart on his sleeve. Finding my way through the ghostly, lifeless house, I leave. Out front I start up my bike and drive down to the gate. Despite the efficacy of the L.A.P.D., I can’t just sit around and leave things in their hands, and it occurs to me that there’s some investigating I can do on my own.

  It’s obvious that the men who attacked me weren’t really homeless, but it’s still possible that they posed as homeless for a while before the attack, waiting for the right opportunity to take me out. If they did, then someone in L.A.’s genuine homeless population might know something about them. It’s a slim chance, but I can’t afford to ignore any possibility and at the moment and I have no other leads to follow.

  The thing is, I can’t just start approaching homeless people in the street and asking them if they know anything. First, they wouldn’t talk to me. They are rightfully both resentful and afraid of people from my world. Second, there are simply too many of them. I could question people for a decade and never find the person I was looking for, the one person who knows something helpful.

  There might be a way, though. The homeless aren’t a cohesive unit, god knows, but they aren’t just scattered individuals either. They have their small societies, their friendships, families, and networks. They are interconnected by their desperate need and their limited resources. They share information with each other about food, shelter, and threats. There are even, to some extent, leaders amongst them, and there are a few points where their world actually intersects with the L.A. that I know and live in.

  I direct the bike to one of those points. Calvin Hearn is another ex-forces acquaintance, but he’s as unlike Felon as it’s possible to be. I first got to know him in boot camp, where he would talk to me whenever he could find me away from the others. He was never really a friend, and was sometimes a bit annoying in the way a dependent younger brother can be annoying, but I felt bad for him. He was eighteen years old, and insecure. The shell he’d been dropped into had skin a shade lighter than mine, a lean, ectomorphic physique, and large eyes that reflected his fear. He’d joined up because he couldn’t find a job but once he was in he’d realized he was far from shore and didn’t have the first clue how to swim. He was desperately treading water and fearing the worst.

  “I don’t think I’m up to this Gat,” he’d say again and again. “I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

  He was right to avoid the other soldiers in these confessional moments. Most of them would have laughed in his face and repeated every word to the brass. I liked to think I was different. I’d tell him that he was doing all right, that everything was going to be okay, but the truth is I was lying. He was making it through basic training, but there was no way he was going to be okay. He was going to fall apart at some point, to break in some essential way, and it was obvious. I just didn’t know what else to say; I couldn’t think of any way to make him feel better. You can’t just quit the Forces because you’ve decided you made a mistake signing up. Once you’re in you're in, and you stay in until you get killed, you get invalided out, or your contract is up.

  Cal made it through basic training and even did all right on our first few missions. He was never a stellar soldier, but he surprised himself by not cracking under the pressure of combat and started to gain confidence in himself. At that point he stopped coming to me and I didn’t seek him out. He didn’t seem to need my help any more. Then came Tijuana and no one could have helped him.

  I have no idea where Cal was during that op, but by the time we finished stomping all over the city in our big combat boots and regrouped back in California, he was catatonic.

  Ironically it was Felon who’d pulled him out and gotten him into the Jenny, because Cal would never have made it on his own. Felon came across him at sunset, long shadows stretching out across the ground everywhere you looked as evening began to creep up. Cal was sunk to his knees in the middle of a street littered with bodies and body parts, wounded children, dead fathers, dying mothers. His hands were clasped together, big eyes shut tightly, praying in a feverish stutter amidst the carnage, the burning buildings, and the endless smoke and screaming. Felon had nothing but contempt for weakness, but he was loyal to the Forces and would never have considered leaving another soldier behind. He picked Cal up, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him back to the landing zone, firing his weapon all the way even though there was no one fighting back. That was just how Felon was, and pretty much still is. Any chance to fire off a round.

  Cal was discharged based on his breakdown, invalided out, and I lost track of him. I assumed that he would simply stay the way he was, incoherent and babbling prayers, for the rest of his life. Felon let me know otherwise, though. An L.A.P.D operation targeting a series of break-ins had focused on a small group of homeless who the P.D. thought were behind the thefts. Felon had gone to a small Christian mission that a couple of the suspects were known to frequent, showing up for free food each evening. When he arrived, Felon looked for the pastor in charge of the mission. What he found was Cal.

  Apparently Cal, who’d been placed indefinitely in a Forces psychiatric center, had returned to the world by degrees. His obsessive prayers had stopped, although he had obviously undergone some kind of personal revelation because he still prayed, in a more normal fashion by this point, at least four or five times a day.

  Eventually the chaplain at the center had taken Cal under his wing. And why not? The Forces was just about the most atheistic organization in California and the chaplain didn’t have much else to do. Most of the men he approached with his offers of faith and guidance told him to go to hell, by which they meant a place like Tijuana, or maybe Bowling Green, not some anemic theme park with pitchforks and lakes of fire. So he and Cal had studied the Bible together and prayed together, and under his ministrations Cal had slowly become more and more functional.

  Ultimately, when Cal was well enough to be discharged from the hospital, the chaplain had suggested he study theology. Cal had his Forces pension and education credits and did just that, attending a small Christian college. When he graduated, he started the Saint Francis Mission, using seed money from the college to rent a small store-front on Yucca Street near Vine, at the core of one of the largest populations of homeless in L.A.

  But the man Felon found wasn’t the same boy he’d once ridiculed. Felon knew the street names of the men he was after. He wanted legal names if Cal knew them, and he wanted Cal to help arrest the suspects. Not that he expected Cal to actually lay hands on them, simply to wait until they came to the mission and then point them out. He had started in on Cal by reminding him that he’d saved Cal’s life. When that approach failed, Felon naturally defaulted to threats and intimidation, expecting Hearn—the cowering mess, the weakling—to capitulate quickly. To his surprise that didn’t work either.

  “Damndest thing Gat,” he told me. “That fucker used to hide under a chair if I yelled ‘boo,’ but I couldn’t get him to budge, no way, no how. He was totally calm, and you know what he says to me? He says ‘I’m ready to die for my flock if I have to.’ I’m telling you Gat, he really believes this God stuff.”

  To Felon that was like believing in a flat Earth, or peace, or something equally absurd.

  I stop the bike in front of the Saint Francis Mission, hoping I might have better luck than Felon did. After all, I’m not looking for actual homeless people to arrest or harass, I’m looking for assassins who pretended to be homeless in order to kill me. I’m hoping that Cal might be upset, not only at the notion of murder, but at the fact that his flock is being used as a cover.

  Taking off my helmet I dismount. The mission is ramshackle, one in a row of storefronts, with dull green paint peeling off the woo
den door. Orange curtains are drawn in the windows, which are protected behind large metal grates, permanently bolted into place. A sagging plastic banner hangs above the windows, with the mission’s name in the middle and a stylized dove on either end. Outside, a couple of men in raggedy clothing sit on the sidewalk, leaning against a lighting pole and eying me suspiciously.

  “The fuck you want?” one of them calls out as I make for the door.

  “I’m here to see Pastor Hearn. He’s an old friend of mine.”

  “Hmf,” the man grunts, clearly not believing me but having no way of stopping me from entering.

  I push the door open and enter an empty room. The inside is in better repair than the outside, at least. There is a motley collection of worn chairs in place of pews, no two the same, but the interior is spotlessly clean. The walls have been carefully painted with cheap yellow latex, the front windows admit a light that is weak and orange through the filter of the curtains. The curtains don’t quite meet in the middle, though, and a thin shaft of bright, pure sunlight cuts through the gap, illuminating dust motes in the air and splashing itself garishly across a narrow strip of worn wooden floorboards. There’s a smell of cleanser or disinfectant in the air. At the front of the room a simple lectern serves as a pulpit, behind which a large, plain, metal crucifix hangs on the wall. Aluminum by the look of it. To the right of the lectern is an ill-lit passageway into the back of the building. I stand at its entrance and call out.

  “Pastor Hearn?”

  I hear a shifting sound, then a door opening. At the end of the hall I see the silhouette of a head emerge from a doorway.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Gat Burroughs, Cal,” I say. He emerges from the doorway and walks down the hall toward me, his face becoming recognizable as he advances from the gloomy interior. He’s a tall man and his body is still as slim as I remember it, his face narrow. His curly hair has grown out from its Forces buzz cut and, at the same time, receded a little.

  What shocks me are his eyes, still huge, but now serene. His face is lined, but Cal Hearn still looks better than I’ve ever seen him. He wears jeans and a black T-shirt. There are sneakers on his feet and a smaller version of the aluminum cross on a chain around his neck. My gaze returns to his eyes. In the Forces he looked perpetually around him, as though he might be attacked from any angle at any time. Even when his head was still his eyes constantly tracked imaginary threats in his surroundings. Now his gaze stays fixed calmly on me. There may even be a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Gat Burroughs,” he says, ruminating. His voice is as soft as ever, but it lacks the edge of nervousness it used to have. “It’s been a long time. Come to find salvation?” He smiles as he said it, obviously certain that I haven’t come to meet Jesus.

  “’Fraid not Cal. I’m just not wired that way.”

  He leans against the wall in a relaxed pose and shrugs a small shrug.

  “Well, I have plenty of souls to tend to as it is, though I’d have welcomed you of course.”

  “I’m sure you would Cal. I’ve heard you’re very dedicated to your calling.”

  He nods, waiting for me to go on.

  “I’m actually hoping you can help me out.”

  “What line are you in these days?” he asks, looking pointedly at my military clothing.

  “Personal security, saving lives.”

  “Private cop. Police aren’t popular here, I’m afraid, P.D. or private.”

  “Listen Cal, I’m not looking to do harm to anyone here, okay? I heard about Dave coming here and trying to push you around and get you to snitch on your flock. This isn’t the same thing.”

  He eyes me with a level gaze.

  “Felon,” he says. “I don’t suppose he’s changed at all.”

  “That would be a lot to hope for.”

  He grins and actually rolls his eyes. Once again I’m taken aback by the ease in his manner.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Maybe one day. So tell me what brings you here.”

  “I’m not looking to bust any homeless, Cal. I have a client. Someone wants him dead. Whoever that someone is, they’ve decided to add me to their list. When I left my home the other day, over on Jung Jing Road, they were waiting for me. They were dressed up like homeless, but it’s clear that they weren’t. For one thing they had guns and motorcycles. They tried to kill me.”

  “If they’re not genuine homeless then how can I help you? The real poor are the only ones I know.”

  “They may have been posing as homeless for a day or so, waiting for the right moment to put me down. I thought that maybe some of the real homeless might have noticed them, might be able to tell me something about them so I can catch them.”

  “And you’d like me to convince my people to talk to you.”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  He looks down at the floor, then back up at me.

  “You’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “Cal, they didn’t manage to kill me, obviously, but they killed a lot of innocent people trying. Why won’t you help me?”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t, I just said you’d come to the wrong place. Chinatown is too far away from here. I don’t know anyone there.”

  “Can you put me in touch with anyone?”

  He grimaces slightly.

  “I can try, but I can’t guarantee they’ll know anything, or tell you if they do.”

  “When it was over I saw at least ten, fifteen bodies in the road, Cal, and I could be next. This lead is all I’ve got.”

  “You need to talk to Chen. I can try to set up a meeting, if he’ll allow it.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Wait here.”

  Cal disappears down the hallway. I hear his voice, muffled by the distance, and assume he’s calling Chen, whoever that is. He returns a few minutes later, carrying a battered kaikki several years old.

  “Did you talk to Chen?”

  “Chen?” He looks confused for a moment, then smiles and shakes his head. “No, no. Chen’s homeless, he doesn’t have a kaikki Gat. I talked to Father Wen. He’s a Catholic priest who runs a mission on New High Street in Chinatown. Chen comes in there pretty regularly.”

  “If you don’t know the population in Chinatown how do you know about Chen?”

  Cal fixes me with those big eyes.

  “You really have no idea how this world works, do you?” he says mildly. “The homeless world, I mean.”

  Despite his soft tone I feel like I’m being accused of something. Maybe I just feel guilty because I’ve ignored the homeless as much as anyone else, until now, until I need something from them.

  “No,” I say, “I guess I don’t.”

  “Every community has a few well-known people. Some of them are natural leaders who can organize people to help themselves. Some are particularly dangerous, people to watch out for. Others have done something at one time or another that made them stand out, something they’re remembered for, and they become part of the local history.”

  “So which one is Chen?”

  Cal looks more serious suddenly.

  “A little of each, I think. I don’t know much about him, but from what I hear he’s charismatic and something of a leader at times. At the same time, he’s no saint. The thing he’s known for is killing three L.A.P.D.”

  “Self-defense?” I ask hopefully.

  “No. Protection of his people. L.A.P.D. can get pretty rough with the homeless at times, sometimes for a reason and sometimes not. Chen may have been protecting innocent people. On the other hand he could have been protecting some racket he had going. I have no idea.”

  “And he’ll talk to me?”

  Cal shrugs.

  “Father Wen will talk to you,” he says, emphasizing the difference. “He’ll try to set something up with Chen, but Chen might just ignore him. There’s no way to know.”

  I nod silently, taking in the unfamiliar situation.

  “So where on New High Street?”


  Cal takes a business card out of his back pocket and writes the address on the back. He speaks as he’s writing, still looking down at what he’s doing.

  “Gat, I never really said thank you.”

  “For what Cal?”

  “For helping me out when we were in the Forces. For talking to me.” Now he looks up. “There really wasn’t anyone else I could talk to. It made a big difference and I should have told you so.”

  “It’s okay, Cal.”

  “Thanks. The bitch of it is that I should really thank Felon too, for getting me out of there, saving my life, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve prayed on it, but I still can’t get myself to call him and do what I should.”

  “You hate him, that makes it hard.”

  “I try not to hate him, you know. Hate the sin but not the sinner and all that, but…” he trails off, not knowing how to finish his sentence.

  “Felon doesn’t make it easy, Cal. I wouldn’t worry about it. First of all as far as he’s concerned, he didn’t save you, he saved a fellow soldier. Secondly, your thanks wouldn’t mean anything to him. He wouldn’t value it.”

  Cal looks thoughtful.

  “Maybe not now, but you know there’s hope for everyone. Maybe when he’s old, or when he’s dying, it would be nice for him to look back and say ‘I did something good.”’

  “Cal, I hate to disappoint you, but that moment’s not going to come. Most likely Felon will get shot on duty and die in a split second. If he doesn’t, he’ll die still thinking Tijuana was right, that the Forces are all that matter, and that firing off a round is the best feeling in the world.”

  Cal grins.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re still trying to make me feel better, trying to say the right thing, even after all this time.” I realize he’s right and don’t know what to say after that. I thank him and walk back out into the sunshine, blinding after the gauzy haze of Cal’s world.

  Eleven: With No Disrespect, So What?

  Father Wen being Catholic, I suppose I expected a cathedral, or something more imposing than another storefront anyway, but that’s what I find. New High Street is just around the corner from my home and office. I once bought cleaning supplies from a discount store there, but I’ve never given it much attention.