In reality, they were living on the western outskirts of the sprawling city. They’d staked out a forty foot square plot in one of the city parks and carefully tended it. They grew only tomatoes, and had way more than they could ever eat. So they traded their excess to other gardeners for squash, beans and corn.
They weren’t thriving, but they were surviving.
And they were never going back to the courts.
The accommodations were rather sparse, but then R.J. didn’t require a lot.
There was a nice barbeque grill out back, and he needed that more than anything else.
He was a sight indeed those first days, when he showed up in a police car driven by John Castro. The trunk and back seat of the car were stuffed with forty bags of mesquite charcoal briquettes they’d liberated from a home improvement store in east San Antonio.
There were also three cardboard boxes of… something.
Several residents watching from a distance assumed the boxes contained food. For in the new world, that was the only thing worth exerting oneself for.
A very bold and very hungry teenaged boy walked over to R.J. and asked if he’d be willing to share whatever was in the boxes.
R.J. knew he likely wouldn’t be believed if he merely claimed the boxed items weren’t edible.
So he opened them up to show the boy what was in them.
Two of them contained rat traps. One hundred twenty traps in each box. The third box contained an assortment of spices.
“What are you going to do with all them traps?” the boy asked.
“I’m going to catch rats. Lots of them. Hundreds of them. I’m going to turn them into jerky. Come back in three days and I’ll let you sample some.”
“Rat jerky? No way, man. I’m not gonna eat no damn rat!”
“You don’t like rat jerky? I’ll tell you what. I’ve got some other jerky. You can have some of it if you like. Wanna try some?”
“I ain’t got no money.”
“That’s okay. There’s no charge for it.”
The boy wasn’t quite sure whether he was being had. In the projects, nobody offered nothin’ for nothin.’ There was always a catch.
He was suspicious, but his hunger pangs forced him forward.
“Yeah, sure… I guess.”
R.J. took a zipped plastic baggie from a backpack and took out a long piece of jerky.
He handed it to the boy, who examined it and determined it was safe to eat.
“Oh, dammnnnn… this is good stuff.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“Oh I do, I do. What kind of animal is it?”
“Rat.”
The boy stopped chewing momentarily. He was unsure whether to be disgusted, unsure whether to continue to chew or to spit the meat onto the sidewalk.
He continued chewing.
But he wasn’t happy with R.J.
“Oh, man! You frickin’ lied to me.”
“Did you like it or not?”
“Well, yeah… but you lied to me man.”
“If lying to you is the only to get you to try it, then I don’t mind lying to you. You’ll get over it.”
“Can I have some more?”
“Yes. Yes you can. But only if you make me a promise.”
The boy raised an eyebrow and grew silent. Here it comes. There was always a catch.
“Oh, calm down,” R.J said. “This is easy.”
He held out the ziplock bag and said, “You can have this. But you can only eat half of it.”
“Huh?”
“Eat half of it. Pass the other half out to your friends. When they see you eat a piece they’ll be willing to try it too.
“If they try it and like it, tell them to come and see me for more.”
“Where you gonna be?”
“I’m gonna be right here.”
The boy thought about it. He looked at the bag, licked his lips and R.J. could read his mind.
“Remember, you have to give half of it to your friends. If you eat it all yourself, you’ll never get any more from me.”
“Okay. Deal.”
-3-
It was just by chance that John was even at the station, since he only stopped by a couple of times a week.
Detective Cassell almost didn’t bother knocking on the office door.
But he did anyway.
The Deputy Chief of Police had a luxurious office, which John hated. He thought it was way too pretentious, for he was a simple guy with simple tastes. He was authorized a secretary as well, and the city council offered to hire him one.
“What happened to the old one?” he’d asked.
“She quit just after the power went out the first time. She said with no phones, no lights and no visitors we no longer needed her. She went home to be with her family.”
“And what’s changed since then? We still have no phones, no lights and no visitors.”
“Good point.”
So it was just John in an office large enough to play a pickup game of basketball. It seemed such a waste of space.
He was only there because he’d brought back the squad car and was heading over to the motor pool to turn it in and pick up his horse.
He thought that since he was there anyway, he might as well check his desk and read whatever notes had been placed there.
It was the usual stuff. A Form 121, required each time one of his men discharged his weapon. In this case an officer on the far east side came under fire for an unknown reason and returned fire. The perp got away and no one was hurt.
Another form was from Officer Martinez, requesting a new duty weapon. His had jammed twice on the range, and he didn’t want the same thing to happen in a firefight.
The only other paper on his expansive desk was a note from Chief Parrish, reminding him of a scheduled meeting the following Monday.
He was headed back out when he heard a knock on the door.
“Hey John. What are the odds of actually finding you here? This must be my lucky day.”
“Or my unlucky day. What’s up, Cassell?”
“I struck out on one of your suspects. Either he was never arrested in Bexar County, or never arrested at all.
“However, I hit the jackpot on the other one. Lamar Taylor, AKA Big Boi. He’s got a boatload of priors, and has been in and out of TDJC for years.”
“You got a photo of him?”
“Yes. It’s not current. Three years old. But it’s the only paper photo I could find.”
He handed it over.
“Address?”
“311 Suerte.”
“In the heart of the Victoria Court projects?”
“Yes, sir. You gonna get a task force together to go after him?”
John laughed.
“Are you kidding? We don’t have half the men we need to patrol the streets. Where in heck am I gonna get a task force?”
“Then who’s gonna go get him?”
“This one’s all mine.”
-4-
On Baker Street John was visiting his friend Rhett Butler for the first time in over a week.
“I was starting to think you didn’t love me anymore,” he whined as John walked in.
“Are you kidding,” John deadpanned. “You still owe me the honeymoon you promised me way back when.”
Scarlett, sitting on the edge of Rhett’s bed, rolled her eyes and said, “Gee, should I leave you two alone so you can swap spit or makeup tips or something?”
John wouldn’t be outdone.
He grabbed Scarlett by the hand, pulled her up, and pulled her toward the door.
He said, “Thanks for understanding. You’re a real sweetheart,” then pushed her out the door and closed it.
She stood in the hallway for a moment wondering what had just happened.
Then she opened the door and asked merely, “Just how old are you guys, anyway?”
They looked at her and laughed for a few seconds until Rhett held his side and winced.
&n
bsp; “Ouch, that hurt,” he said. “But it was worth it. That’s the first time I’ve had a real laugh since the day I got beaten.”
“Speaking of that,” John said, “there’s been a break in your case. We’ve identified one of the men who assaulted you through his fingerprints. Lamar Taylor, AKA Big Boi. Word on the streets is he used to be a Crip until they kicked him out of the club.”
“Wow. Exactly what do you have to do to get kicked out of the Crips? Do something kind for somebody?”
“I know, huh? I suspect he helped a little old lady across the street or something.”
“Maybe he saw somebody drop a dollar and picked it up and returned it to them.”
“Or went too many days without doing a drive-by.”
Scarlett cleared her throat to get their attention and to stop the nonsense.
“Excuse me. You two are supposed to be grown men. Exactly how does making fun of the creeps who damn near killed my husband help his cause?”
John and Rhett felt like two school boys just reprimanded by a teacher and sent to stand in the corner.
“Sorry,” John said.
Rhett was afraid to say anything.
“So you have a name,” Scarlett said. “What next?”
“Unfortunately, we only have one copy of his mug shot and no way to make more copies.
“Now that we have a name, though, we were able to find two members of our old gang task force who know Mr. Taylor. They dealt with him back when he was a Crip. They know what he looks like.”
“So they’re out looking for him?”
“Yes. But not in the Crip areas. It seems that Big Boi went his own way after a falling out with the Crips. He’s now a member of the 34th Street Boiz.
“Since it’s a new gang, we’re not sure of all its members. Or its territory. But our men are out there looking for him, yes. That’s their full time job.”
“Sounds like a tremendous waste of manpower to me,” Rhett remarked. “Those two would be better served helping protect the community than looking for my assailants. The damage is already done.”
John shook his head adamantly.
“Not your call to make, Rhett. After you’re healed enough to take my place, it’s your call. Now it’s mine. And I don’t think it’s a waste of manpower at all. You are a citizen. And as a citizen you’re entitled to just as much protection as any other citizen. The fact that you’re also a cop is irrelevant. Those three attacked a uniformed and armed police officer to steal his horse. What chance do you think an unarmed citizen or a little old lady would have against them if they had something Mr. Taylor wanted?”
Rhett said nothing.
“That’s right,” John concluded. “No chance at all.”
He’d made his point and won his case.
It was time to change the subject. He really hated arguing with good friends.
Especially when he knew he was right.
-5-
John turned to Scarlett and asked, “So, did you and Bill have a falling out?”
She looked surprised at the question.
“No. Why?”
“I saw him on my way in. He was carrying a broom handle and looking like somebody stole his ice cream cone. I asked him what was wrong and he stuck out his lower lip and said, ‘Miss Scarlett is mad at me.’”
Scarlett smiled and said, “It’s nothing. I had to delay his first hunting trip again, that’s all. I’ll find him and tell him I’m not mad. That I was just disappointed in him.”
John looked to Rhett for explanation.
Rhett said to Scarlett, “You have to start at the beginning, honey. John doesn’t know about your latest scheme to make Bill more independent.”
“It’s not a scheme, Rhett. It’s my way of training him to be a hunter. I think I can teach him to hunt and fish and whatever else he needs to learn to survive on his own. But if he can’t learn the basics of weapons safety we’ll never get there.”
John skewed his face as though he’d just bitten into a lemon and offered his best Archie Bunker impression.
“Ha’ah?”
Rhett explained.
“The broom handle he’s carrying isn’t really a broom handle. It’s a rifle. Or, at least, a simulated AR-15. Scarlett presented it to him a few days ago. She took a piece of black duct tape and wrapped it around one end.
“That’s the end of the barrel.
“She put more tape around the center of the stick. That represents the hand grips on the rifle.
“She’s got everyone on Baker Street watching him. To make sure he doesn’t wave the barrel of his gun around. To make sure he carries it pointed at the ground, but makes sure it never makes contact with the ground.
“To make sure he secures it in a rack every time he enters a building, and remembers to look at the word safe she wrote on the stock. That’s to simulate he clears it and renders it safe every time he puts it up.
“She told him to practice carrying the weapon with him every time he’s outside. And she taught him the correct way to handle it.
“She told him everyone on Baker Street would be watching him, because it was important he learn to handle the weapon safely. She said someday he’ll carry a real rifle, and if he’s careless he could kill or hurt one of his new friends. So it was critical he learn proper handling.”
John was impressed.
“What’s his payoff?”
“She told him when he can go seven straight days without messing up she’ll take him to the old firing range a few blocks west of here and let him fire a few rounds.”
Scarlett continued for Rhett.
“I once had a very good friend who was much like Bill. People like Bill thrive on specific tasks. They dislike change, but love routine, where everything follows more or less the same schedule each and every day. There are many things they can’t do. They’ll never fly an airplane, for example. But there are a surprising number of things they can do, given a chance and the right training.”
“And you think you can train Bill to use a rifle safely?”
“Not only use it, but hunt with it and eventually to be self-sufficient.”
She could see the doubt on John’s face.
“Look, John… when you lost your leg there were plenty of people who doubted you. They tried to keep you off the police force. They said a one-legged man couldn’t be a policeman. That too many things could go wrong.
“What would have happened if you’d accepted that answer and not even tried?”
John smiled and said, “Well, for one thing I wouldn’t be standing here arguing with you.”
“And you wouldn’t have been a cop. You wouldn’t have proved them wrong. You’d have walked away with your head down and your tail tucked between your legs and felt just a bit like a failure.”
“I don’t have a tail, Scarlett.”
“Oh, shut up. I’m trying to have an adult conversation with you, you sap.”
“Look, I get your point. But Bill and a loaded weapon…”
“Apparently you don’t get my point, John. Bill deserves a chance, just like you did. If he can’t master it, then at least we can say we’ve tried. But I think he’ll master it, one baby step at a time, and I think someday he’ll take great pride in bringing home game for himself and for everyone else.
“Imagine how that will boost his self-esteem, John. Imagine how proud he’ll be that he can do some of the things everybody else does.”
“So how long has he been able to carry a broomstick without dragging it through the dirt or pointing it at somebody?”
“His record is just over a day.”
“That’s not very long.”
“Baby steps, John. Baby steps. He’ll get there.”
Rhett said, “That’s why he thinks Scarlett is mad at him. Because she told him an hour ago someone saw him sticking the barrel of his rifle on the ground and leaning on it. She told him she was resetting the clock and he was back at square one.”
“I’ll
go find him,” Scarlett said. “I’ll tell him it’s okay. I’ll hug him and tell him I believe in him, and that he’ll get there.”
John said, “You know, Scarlett, with you as his instructor, I’ve no doubt he will.”
“Damn right he will. One baby step at a time.”
-6-
Bill Stewart wasn’t the only young man in full time learning mode.
Young Charles was still an emotional train wreck, but was adapting well to life at the Junction compound of Scott Harter and his family.
That was partly due to his having a strong support system for perhaps the first time in his life. People who seemed to care for him and wanted to help him, seemingly without wanting anything from him in return.
Of course, he’d seen people like that before. People who pretended to have his best interests at heart, when all they wanted was for him to do things for them. Or, in the case of several of the men he’d encountered since the blackout, to do things to them.
There was a chance this situation would turn out like the others, so he’d be careful not to let his guard down.
Or his hopes up.
Just in case.
He always kept a bag packed, under his bed, just in case he had to slip away some night and use the darkness to cover his getaway. In the bag were a few cans of food he’d pilfered from the downstairs pantry, a P-38 can opener, and several pairs of socks.
Charles wasn’t the most hygienic boy in the world. That was true before the blackout and became especially true after. He’d found that one of his molesters was repelled by the sight of his unwashed body and backed away. Although it was only temporary reprieve, Charles took away a valuable lesson. He washed only when forced to.
The people at the compound weren’t aware of the reason Charles hated to bathe. Although Charles confided many things regarding his abuse to Millicent in recent months, that wasn’t one of them.
They just assumed Charles was a slob and were constantly on him to wash his body each night, his hands before each meal, and to wear clean clothing.
As each week went by he became a little bit less resistant to their efforts to, as Sara put it, “change you from a monkey to a boy.”
An Acquired Taste Page 2