“They’ll have air on top of us inside a minute or two max,” Willy interjected, with a firm shake of his head. “Pig or newscaster chopper, doesn’t matter. If they have even a partial vehicle description their choppers will pick us up easy, then they’ll deploy K-9s to flush us if we have to bail from the car. We can’t make the hit whilst there’s a copter in sight.”
“When they miss us with the initial cordon the Man will still expect us to be amateurs, hop on the freeway to get as far away as we can, as fast as we can,” Little Willy continued, feeling back in charge of himself now. “They’ll swarm on the Macarthur Maze, and on the Nimitz-Grove Shafter Interchange. They might even shut down the Freeway if they can coordinate fast enough with CHP.”
“No freeway for the getaway then,” Speedy said, nodding once more. “That’s more units out of play, and actually gives us more options. We got Peralta, Adeline, Market or San Pablo if we want to bail north – West Grand or 14th Street if we want to head east. Still, when they don’t pick us up on the freeway the Man will like any of those main roads as much as we do, because they can move fast along them, and they’ll have nice, long fields of view to spot us from a distance. We got to hit the back streets ASAP once we’re free of West Oakland. Then? . . .”
Willy cut in. “We’ll lie low at my old squat.”
Speedy looked at him quizzically, wondering just what was so special about Little Willy’s ex-home.
Willy smiled almost apologetically. “It’s on the far side of San Pablo Avenue, and it’s right on the border between Berkeley, North Oakland and Emeryville so jurisdiction’s cloudy. We zig and we zag and we wait there a bit. Once the first excitement’s worn off, we move on when they think we’re long gone. Oh yeah, it wouldn’t hurt to have a swap-out vehicle stashed there in case we’re made at the drug house.”
“I’m thinking it’s do-able,” Speedy said. “What’s your take, Bob?”
Fat Bob had been owlishly nodding at Speedy and Willy in turn as they voiced their scheming.
Now Bob frowned. “I’m biased. I picked this one, remember? I want these fuckers to suffer. Payback’s a bitch – I want it so bad I can taste it. Hell, how often do guys like us get revenge and a paycheck at the same time?”
“So what’s the bottom line?” Speedy pressed.
“Like you’re saying, if we hit them fast and ferocious, don’t get made by neighborhood eyewitnesses, don’t get air on top of us before we’re past the Cypress, and don't get spotted crossing any main streets, we can get away clean,” Little Willy said, with perfect authority and his old assurance.
Nothing was mentioned about what would happen inside the drug house. All three of them knew Speedy and Fat Bob together could handle whatever went down in there.
Bob guffawed. “That’s a lot of ‘don’ts,’ but this just might work. In my experience, folks in West Oakland hear a commotion going on down the block, their first response ain’t to stick their noses out the door to be a witness.”
“Check this though,” Willy said, jerking his chin toward his left, in the direction of 34th Street and West Clawson.
Dusk’s gloom had finally settled in, but they could clearly see several little black kids standing around on various roofs up there, yelling and pointing at something in the direction of the Bay. Bob rolled his window down so they could hear better.
“They’re coming!” the distant piping voices yelled. “They’re coming!” All three men in the car craned their heads around, to get a better look at what was attracting the kids’ attention by the water’s edge.
At first Speedy couldn’t see anything, but then he sensed isolated, widely separated motion – low slung creatures slinking toward the children through the growing darkness. A couple of street lights popped on, and Speedy saw what was creeping up on the child sentinels: an army of dozens of stray dogs the color of the mud flats they’d spawned in, coming up into West Clawson to raid.
Speedy heard hens kicking up a panicked ruckus as a couple of dogs hit a backyard chicken coop in the direction of the New California Barber Shop; from another unseen backyard came the screams of a terrified goat. A man came out on a porch with a hunting rifle and shot one of the dogs as it raced by in the street; he quickly worked his rifle’s bolt, managing to drop another dog before that portion of the pack scattered. Around the way Speedy could hear other firearms speaking: sounded like a couple of pistols and a shotgun.
Only seconds after it had begun, it was over as quickly as it had started. The handful of surviving dogs loped back toward their mudflat dens, one of them with a bloody rooster dangling from its mouth. Speedy could see an injured dog howling in the gutter down by and the House Of God Spiritual Temple, left behind by its pack mates and taking its own sweet time to die. Apparently impatient, a man from a nearby house trotted out with an axe and finished the dog off.
“Hence West Clawson’s real name,” Willy said, sounding as pleased as if he were personally responsible for this little show. “Dog Town.”
Speedy looked around the neighborhood as if considering it anew. Ultimately, he shook his head. “Bob’s still right. We won’t be here after their kids, or their livestock. This is a drug spat, a fire fight. They’ll mind their business.”
Chapter 25
Fat Bob was rattling on a mile a minute as they walked down the street, his round face joyfully fierce at the team being together and back in the saddle again; ready to inflict their collective will on the world one more time: “This will give us hella fire power. I mean, when we first go through the door, this will show them we mean business right off, you know?”
Speedy nodded without listening, not even looking at his be-bopping partner as they walked. Fat Bob was aces when the chips were down; he’d never snitch you off or leave you in the lurch. But sometimes Bob was in love with his own gravelly voice. When Bob ran off at the mouth like this, Speedy had learned to just keep the tongue still and nod occasionally like he was paying attention.
They were up off Macarthur in a residential area filled with dilapidated houses, and an endless procession of rusting seventies gas-guzzlers hibernating at the curb like they had nowhere to go. Their own dinosaur of a Valiant fit in perfectly, parked half a block behind them next to Mosswood Park on Broadway, across the street from M-B Center Mall and Kaiser-Permanente Hospital.
Speedy hadn’t been to Mosswood Park since he was kid. He remembered the old black dudes that used to play congas there on the weekends, dressed in their red black and green dashikis, the colors of Black Power. Where were they now?
“There’s the Baron’s house,” Fat Bob said loudly, pointing his stubby forefinger at a white bungalow a couple doors down.
Speedy winced inwardly, though no expression marred his pale hatchet of a face. Anyone tailing them could see what Fat Bob was focusing on, maybe figure out what they were going to do next.
The house was set back from the street behind a dead yellow lawn; it needed a coat of paint, bad. A California Republic state flag hung upside down in the front picture window, serving as curtain; the golden bear on the flag looked like he was dead, lying on his back with his paws in the air like that.
The warped gate in the low chain-link fence squealed as Fat Bob pushed it open and led the way up the short concrete walk. Speedy followed him close as his shadow.
He could hear some trailer park trash anthem playing softly somewhere inside the house, some redneck going on and on about flirting with disaster. As they mounted the porch steps Speedy saw someone twitch back a curtain at a window next to the door, and the music switched off. Speedy pretended not to notice the unseen scrutiny.
The door was quietly pulled inward a little, and a man stood in the narrow opening blocking Speedy’s view of whatever lay beyond.
The man’s gray, thinning hair was drawn back into a frizzily split-ended ponytail. He was shirtless, exposing the physique of a tanned gymnast, with no body fat whatsoever to blur his rippling bronzed muscles. Both his nipples were pierced,
with thin golden hoops.
His exposed upper body was covered in crude jailhouse tats: the Vikings and swastikas and lightning bolts to be expected on any old-timer white boy that had done a jolt of heavy time. The Baron’s ink spoke to the invisible color lines you had to walk between inside, where fraternizing with a brother, even one you’d known from the hood, meant being shanked or punked either by your own or by the bloods. The Man had done an excellent job of turning the caged males of America against each other, and keeping the cons’ own hands wrapped around their own throats.
The Baron’s tats also reminded Speedy that if he took another fall it would be much longer than his previous (first) one. He knew he’d have to cover his own hide with the same kind of racist ink this old-timer was sporting here. Speedy had dodged the bullet his first time in, but he’d have to go Aryan Brotherhood for survival if he went inside for another stretch.
From the shoulders up the Baron was a much older man. The bones of his skull lay close to the surface, barely concealed by the tight-drawn seamed leather skin of his face, a face that revealed nothing as he stared at them flatly. The whites of his eyes were as yellowed as the dead lawn in front of his house – this guy had the jaundice up, for sure.
“I thought you were coming by yourself,” the Baron said, speaking to Fat Bob but staring dead at Speedy.
Fat Bob nodded and grinned as if it were important to stay in the Baron’s good graces. Speedy was reminded of one of those porcelain dogs bouncing their spring-loaded empty heads up and down on the dashboard of a car.
“It’s cool, Baron, my friend’s cool,” Fat Bob said.
Speedy leaned past Fat Bob to interrupt.
“It’s for me,” Speedy said, staring right back at the Baron, letting his demeanor be his bonafides with this guy. “I don’t buy any piece I ain’t checked out first.”
The older man broke eye contact and looked beyond Speedy at the presently empty street. He smiled meaninglessly as he stepped back out of their way.
“Not on the porch, guys. C’mon inside.” The Baron was trying to sound friendly.
Fat Bob stepped past the Baron into the house, and Speedy followed. The Baron shut the door behind them and bolted it.
They were in what passed for a living room: a tiny cubicle littered with Harley parts and filled to overflowing with mismatched furniture. It was dim after the bright sunlight outside and Speedy blinked a few times as he let his eyes get used to the gloom. The renter’s carpet was dotted with oil stains large and small. Something somewhere stank, faintly, with a rancid odor that hadn’t been apparent out on the porch.
The Baron gestured them to a couch sagging against the far wall and they sat. Speedy perched on his haunches at the edge of the cushions. Fat Bob squirmed to get semi-comfortable on the other end.
The Baron sat on a tall bar stool by the front door opposite them. There was a long bundle wrapped in a wool blanket leaning against the wall behind him.
“Your friend says you might need something fully automatic,” the Baron said, speaking directly to Speedy this time.
“I’m looking for click clack,” Speedy said, nodding. “He told me you maybe got a Tommy gun.”
“I do.” The Baron grabbed the bundle.
He hefted it a few times, and then folded back one corner of the blanket. The end of a gun barrel peeked out, all blue and shiny.
Like a striptease, the Baron slowly peeled back the blanket and let it drop to the floor, revealing the bluntly functional shape of a Thompson submachine gun. She was the good kind, with the old-fashioned fat disk-drum magazine hanging down from the bottom like in a gangster movie.
Speedy relaxed, his visit to this skuzz-hole suddenly worthwhile.
“You got the money?” the Baron asked.
Speedy pulled the wad of bills from his pocket and set it on the end-table next to him. The Baron stood and brought the Tommy gun over for Speedy’s inspection.
Speedy took the antique piece with reverent hands and laid her across his lap – she was heavier than he’d expected. He detached the weighty drum magazine and inspected the gun thoroughly, trying not to grimace in disgust.
The Tommy gun was filthy, and rusted in places, but fortunately the corrosion was only on the surface. It’d take him hours with a toothbrush and about a gallon of cleaning solvent but he could get her gleaming again.
Fat Bob and the Baron were attempting diversionary small talk but Speedy wasn’t listening and didn’t care. He squinted down the barrel. The lands and grooves were half worn away. He figured the lack of rifling was no problem – Tommy guns were never known for accuracy and in the close quarters of the Mexicans’ house he couldn’t miss if he tried, even with this almost-a-musket.
Finally, the full automatic sear, the tiny piece of metal that determined if the Thompson was truly a machine gun. Speedy broke the gun down to reveal the firing mechanism. He worked the fire selector control on the side while examining the complex mechanical innards of the Thompson. He swiveled the selector from ‘Safe’ to ‘Semi’ to ‘Auto’, carefully watching to see how the top of the sear interacted with the other internal workings.
Sure enough, she was a full automatic; the Baron wasn’t trying to sell him a ‘machine gun’ that could only fire one round at a time.
Speedy leaned the gun next to him against the couch and grabbed the heavy drum magazine, held it up to get the Baron’s attention. “You got the magazine key?” Speedy asked.
The Baron lifted both hands, palms toward the ceiling. “What you see is what you get pal. ‘For sale as is, for parts’ – know what I mean?”
Speedy shrugged, figuring he could wind up the magazine spring with a screwdriver, or even a butter knife if he had to. He looked into the magazine well opening on the top of the drum and his eyes widened in disbelief: the drum magazine was loaded. That was why it weighed so much.
He glanced at the Baron, who was still making small talk with Fat Bob. Speedy shrugged again after a moment, his face not changing expression after his initial surprise. This just saved him some case money. 50 rounds of .45 ACP would’ve been a little spendy no matter how he picked it up, not to mention the paperwork he’d have to lie on if actually forced to buy the ammo in a gun-shop.
If the Baron was stupid enough to sell a loaded weapon, that was his lookout. He was just lucky Speedy was an honest thief.
Speedy continued his inspection of the loaded magazine. The blunt copper-tipped .45 rounds lay next to each other like sleeping hornets, disappearing from view beneath the edge of the magazine’s opening. Speedy pushed gently with his thumb and the rounds slid over with a metallic creak; he felt resistance as he pushed and the bullets returned immediately when he released pressure. The magazine spring was good then.
The Thompson was a clapped-old veteran but there was still some life in her. All she needed was some TLC from an expert. And Speedy was just the man for the job.
Speedy stood. “Okay,” he said, picking up the wad of bills and handing them over to the Baron.
Speedy grabbed the blanket from the floor and wrapped the Tommy gun as the Baron counted his cash.
“All there,” the Baron grunted in satisfaction. “This warrants a peace pipe.”
He looked toward a dank doorway on Fat Bob’s end of the couch leading into the further depths of the house, and called out hoarsely, “Deb.”
A woman materialized in the room with them. She had frizzy blonde hair with black roots, and wore tight elephant bell jeans and a tube top that left her pale midriff bare. Even if she was dressing like a 15-year-old from more than a decade past, her makeup wasn’t spackled on quite thick enough to conceal the deep lines carved into her face from too many years of hard living.
‘Deb’ was holding a pipe and a baggy of weed. She glanced once at Fat Bob before staring at Speedy.
She stood there for several seconds not looking away from Speedy until the Baron shouted at her: “Bring it here, woman.”
Deb stared at Speedy one lo
ng moment more before finally obeying her old man.
The Baron finished tamping the bowl and offered first hit to Speedy. Speedy shook his head, preparatory to leaving. Maybe the Baron wanted everyone to be buddies after business having been concluded, but Speedy wanted nothing more than to get out of this dump now that he had the Thompson. He had work to do.
Fat Bob leaned forward out of the couch, reaching for the pipe.
“I’ll take that hit,” Bob rasped with a crooked leer, and the Baron handed over the pipe.
Speedy cursed inwardly, resigning himself to waiting while Bob copped his buzz – Speedy wasn’t about to walk home carrying a submachine gun.
Fat Bob hit the bowl, holding his lighter to the weed and sucking it down in a long hissing inhalation before passing it to Deb.
“Here you go,” Bob said, voice tight as he held in his burning lungful of smoke.
She took the pipe and recommenced staring at Speedy as she inhaled, then let out an explosive series of repressed coughs even as she tried to keep her own hit in. Deb passed the pipe on to her old man, who hit it in turn.
The Baron sat on his stool, tattooed muscles rippling as his chest expanded to contain the smoke. He sat for a moment, eyes closed, and the smoke trickling dragon-like from his nostrils to frame his skull-face in a tracery cloud.
Speedy heard a furtive rustling from around the corner through the same doorway Deb had appeared from, and his eyes narrowed as he keyed into that direction. The Baron opened his own smoke-reddened eyes to look at something back there out of Speedy’s field of vision.
The Baron smiled. “C’mere, baby,” he said, pot-smoke billowing from his lips to punctuate each word like closed-caption-by-smoke-signal. “Come to Poppa.”
A baby tottered into the room. It was a little girl maybe two years old, with wispy copper-colored hair drawn up into two pigtails. She was naked except for one of those huge lunar-excursion-looking disposable diapers, the kind Speedy had seen some mothers leave on their kids for a day and more without changing.
Street Raised Page 25