“… Almost had them.”
“… Told you … bad idea. Shoulda called the cops.”
“Poor little things … back tomorrow night … try again.”
Won’t be back, Greta told herself as she and Hank hurried down the escalator, heedless of bumping the customers who stood still on the moving stairs. Not safe anymore. Too bad. She hated to lose any shelter, however temporary.
It had started to rain while they were inside the store. Hand-in-hand, Greta and Hank rushed along the wet pavement, until they found themselves heading up Market Street, pushed along with a tide of people. At Sixth they crossed Market, wet and cold, and headed farther away from the bright holiday glitter of the city’s main shopping area and into the dingy, neon-pierced blocks where the Tenderloin collided with the area south of Market. Here were lots of people sitting in doorways, bundled up against the rain. Music blared from bars. Hookers, some of them barely older than Greta, called to the passing cars.
These grown-ups scared Greta, and she quickly detoured down a side street where it was much quieter. She found a wide doorway, recessed from the street. It looked like a good place to spend the night. She set the nylon bag down to use as a pillow. But then she spotted the man in green coveralls, back the way they’d come and moving toward them. He was close enough so that she was sure she could hear the clink and clatter of the bottles and cans in his garbage bag, the squeaking wheels of his shopping cart.
They kept moving, Hank stumbling along sleepily at her side. The nylon bag seemed as heavy as lead, and Greta was so tired she thought she couldn’t put another foot in front of her. Still she thought she could hear the shopping cart following them, squeaking and rattling as they fled through the wet curtain of rain.
Then she saw something flicker. Was she imagining it? No, it came from inside a big, dark two-story building with broken glass windows. Greta crept closer and peered through the nearest window. But she couldn’t see much, just something red and gold glowing farther back in the dark building. She squinted and could just make out some figures nearby.
A fire, she thought. Just the word sounded like a sanctuary, warm and inviting. But there were people, and they could be bad people.
She heard a squeaking noise somewhere back the way they had come, and made her choice. Quickly she boosted Hank up to the window, then followed him through, dragging the nylon bag with her. She held her finger to her mouth and tiptoed forward, trying not to make any noise as she moved closer to the fire.
She saw three grown-ups, two men and a woman. They’d spread big pieces of cardboard on the concrete floor of the empty warehouse to cut the chill. On top of these the grownups had constructed their nests of sleeping bags and blankets. In the center they’d built a fire with whatever fuel they could find. Now it danced, red and gold, crackling and popping and hissing. The grown-ups talked in low voices, occasionally laughing as they drank from a bottle, its neck visible at the top of its brown paper bag wrapping. They passed it among themselves, and one of them leaned toward the fire to stir something that was bubbling in a big, shiny kettle, something that smelled rich and savory like the soup Mom used to make.
Greta’s foot encountered a piece of broken glass and sent it skittering across the concrete. The resulting tinkle heralded their arrival. The grown-ups grouped around the fire turned, seeking the source of the noise.
“Well, what have we here?” a voice boomed at them. It belonged to a big man with a white beard, bundled up in several layers of clothing, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “A couple of little angels with very dirty faces?”
“More like a couple of pups looking for a teat and a warm place to sleep.” The woman who spoke had a hard face and hard eyes, but she reached for a tin mug and the ladle that protruded from the kettle on the fire. She spooned some of the hot liquid into the mug.
“Don’t be feeding strays,” complained the second man, a pale, skinny fellow dressed in a dirty gray sweater. He reclined on a gray duffel bag and folded his arms in front of him.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped. Then she held out the mug and beckoned at the children. “Come here. It’s vegetable soup. We made it ourselves and it’s damned good, if I do say so myself.”
Hank and Greta stared, mesmerized by the smell and the sight. Then they moved into the warm circle around the fire and sat at the foot of the woman’s sleeping bag. Greta reached for the mug, felt the warmth on her hands, smelled the broth. Then she held the mug out to Hank. He drank noisily, hungrily. Yet he was careful to leave half the soup for his sister. He handed her the mug and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“You take care of him, don’t you,” the woman said, as Greta sipped warm soup from the mug. “Bet you do a good job, too. My name’s Elva. This here’s Wally.” She pointed at the big man with the beard. “And this bag of bones is Jake.”
Jake snorted, and sank farther into the folds of his sleeping bag. He took a long pull from the bottle, then passed the libation to Wally. “What the hell you kids doing out here all by yourselves?”
“What are any of us doing out here?” Wally boomed, his voice echoing in the dark recesses of the warehouse. “Trying to stay warm, dry, and fed.” He tipped back the bottle and grinned at the two children across the glowing heat of the fire. “Look how skinny these little angels are. Stick with us, kids. We’ll fatten you up.”
Wary as she was after weeks of living on the streets, Greta was also tired. She felt exhaustion creep over her as the warmth of the soup and fire crept over her body. Already Hank was asleep, his little body burrowed into her side, like a puppy pillowed on its mother’s belly.
“Look at ’em,” Elva said. “Just babies. What you got in that bag, girl?”
“Clothes.” Greta’s tongue was getting tangled up in the word.
“Not even a sleeping bag, and winter coming on.” Elva shook her head. She pulled a raggedy square of cloth that looked like a piece of an old blanket from the depths of her sleeping bag. Then she scooted forward and used it to cover Hank, fussing with the edge as she tucked it around his neck, just the way Mom used to. “Where’s your folks?”
“Gone,” Greta said, and the word seemed to echo around the warehouse.
Elva frowned and looked at her companions. “All alone? How long you been out here, girl?”
Greta found that she didn’t have strength enough to answer. She felt all her caution fall to the onslaught of sleep.
“We can’t be baby-sitting a couple of kids.”
Greta’s eyes were shut, but she identified the voice. It belonged to Jake, the skinny one.
“No one’s asking you to look after ’em. They can go with me.”
That was Elva, the woman. Greta opened her eyes just a little bit. It was morning, cold gray light filtering into the warehouse. The fire was out, cold gray ashes swirling along the concrete floor. Greta felt warm, though. The children were tucked into Elva’s sleeping bag. Hank was next to Greta, curled up in a ball and still asleep.
“Just slow you down,” Jake growled as he rolled up his sleeping bag. “Make you a target for the cops. They don’t even look like they’re yours.”
“What the hell do you know?” Elva scowled at him. “All anybody’s gonna see is some poor homeless woman with a couple of kids she can’t feed. Which ain’t far from the truth. With Christmas coming on, people feel generous and guilty. I’ll just park the three of us out in front of San Francisco Centre where all those rich people ride that fancy curved escalator up to Nordstrom. You just see how many handouts I get. Take my word, these kids’ll be worth their weight in greenbacks.”
“More trouble than they’re worth, you ask me,” Jake grumbled as he tied his sleeping bag with rope.
“Nobody asked you,” Elva shot back.
“Now, friends, friends. Let’s not come to blows, whether with words or fists.” That was Wally, the big guy with the beard. “I agree with Elva. We should care for these little angels. I’m sure we’ll be handsom
ely rewarded. Yes, indeed.”
Wally laughed. He was pretending to be nice, Greta decided, but he wasn’t. She didn’t like the way his eyes glittered when he looked at her and Hank. She abandoned all pretense of sleep and sat up. The nylon bag was no longer beside her, but next to Elva, who had rummaged through its contents. Greta snatched up the picture of Mom and hugged the frame to her chest.
“That your mama?” Elva asked. “She was real pretty.” The woman reached over and shook Hank awake. “Let’s put another layer of clothes on you, ’cause it’s cold out there this morning.”
The three grown-ups stashed their sleeping bags in a small room in the bowels of the abandoned warehouse and set out with the two children. In the bleak daylight the south of Market neighborhood didn’t look as scary as it had last night, just dirty and down at the heels.
Jake set off on his own, heading up Mission Street, but Wally stayed with Elva and the children until they reached Market. Then he bid them an elaborate and flowery farewell, lingering until Elva told him to get the hell on with it. He bowed, crossed the street, and headed for the Tenderloin.
Then Elva took Hank and Greta another block down Market and did just what she’d said she’d do. She took a position in front of the San Francisco Centre and started cadging handouts from well-heeled shoppers. Soon she had enough money to send the children across Market to the fast-food burger place. Hank ate two cheeseburgers and a big order of French fries all by himself.
“I like Elva,” he declared, wiping ketchup from his mouth.
He doesn’t know things the way I do, Greta thought. He’s just a baby, not experienced, like me. I’m not so sure but what we’re better off on our own.
She brooded as she finished her hamburger. Then she cleared off the table and stepped up to the counter to buy another one, for Elva.
But even if Greta had her doubts about staying with the trio from the warehouse, it was easy to slip into the routine, the next day and the day after. They worked the streets with Elva during the day, going from store to store, hotel to hotel, then met Jake and Wally back at the warehouse. Wally found a sleeping bag for the two children to share, and each day the three grown-ups managed to find enough food to put into the kettle. It was so easy to feel comfortable and safe, huddled in the warm circle of the fire on the warehouse’s concrete floor. In the morning they’d roll up their sleeping bags and stash their gear in the little room, then head out for a day on the streets.
The two children had been staying at the warehouse for a couple of weeks when Greta saw Wally talking with the tall man from the Tenderloin, the pimp who had all those hookers working for him. She and Hank and Elva were working the Geary Theatre that day. It was a natural, Elva told them. Theater patrons left the comfortable confines where they’d seen a seasonal matinee of A Christmas Carol, and stepped onto the dirty city streets and came face-to-face with a couple of contemporary urchins.
“Guilt and generosity,” Elva said confidently. “It’ll do it every time.”
After the matinee Elva led them down Taylor toward Market Street, through the Tenderloin, where Greta saw Wally. He spotted the children and waved. Why was Wally talking to that awful pimp man? Why did Wally’s eyes glitter like that, above his white beard? She didn’t like it. Especially since Wally came back to the warehouse that night with a big bottle of brandy, evidently the kind Jake and Elva liked a lot, because they drank the whole bottle that night, laughing loudly and acting silly, so drunk they finally passed out and Greta had to finish making dinner under Wally’s watchful eyes.
When she woke up the next morning, her head pillowed on the nylon bag, Jake and Elva were still asleep, a couple of lumps in their sleeping bags, snoring like they were sawing logs.
But Wally was gone. So was Hank.
Greta kicked her way out of the sleeping bag and put on her shoes. “Hank?” she called. There was no answer. She darted around the bottom floor of the warehouse, looking for her brother, getting more frantic as she looked in all the shadowy places.
On her third circuit she encountered Wally, who was making his way back into the warehouse with a bag and a large container that smelled like coffee. “What’s the matter, little angel?” he asked jovially.
“Hank’s gone,” she cried.
“I’m sure he’s just wandered off.” Wally waggled the bag at her. “Doughnuts, little angel. Jelly doughnuts and chocolate bars. I know you like chocolate. Want one?”
“He wouldn’t wander off,” Greta said stubbornly. “He knows he’s supposed to stick close to me.”
Greta ran back to where Jake and Elva still lay snoring. She shook Elva, but the woman wouldn’t wake up.
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” Wally said, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. “When those two get a snootful of brandy it would take an earthquake to wake them. Maybe two earthquakes. Have a doughnut. We want to fatten you up.”
Fatten me up for what? Greta glared at him. “I don’t want a doughnut. I have to look for Hank.”
“Have you looked on the second floor? Maybe he went exploring up there.”
“How would he get there?” Greta knew there was another floor above this one but she hadn’t seen any stairs or an elevator, not that an elevator would work in this place.
“Why, there’s some stairs down at the other end, next to what used to be the elevator shaft.” Wally laughed and pointed into the dark bowels of the warehouse. “Wait, I’ll come with you.”
Greta ran ahead, frantic with worry about Hank. She found the stairs and clambered up them, calling for her brother. She heard Wally behind her, chuckling to himself as he climbed the stairs.
Hank wasn’t on the second floor of the warehouse. Or if he was, he wasn’t answering her. Greta felt tears prickling behind her eyes as she searched the big empty space, skirting the hole near the stairs, where Wally said there used to be an elevator.
“Why, look at this,” Wally said. She looked in the direction he was pointing. There was a doorway, open, with blackness beyond. “There’s rooms back there. Maybe that’s where your brother’s gone.”
She didn’t trust the bearded man, but she had to find Hank. She walked toward the doorway and peered into the dimly lit chamber, her eyes adjusting, picking out shapes. This part of the warehouse had been used as offices, about a quarter of the floor carved up into cubicles by partitions. There was a door on the far side next to a dirty window.
“Hank?” she called, her voice echoing against the walls.
Was that a voice she heard, just a whimper? Maybe he had wandered in here and gotten hurt or something. She moved into the divided-up room, heard Wally step in after her, then whirled in alarm as she heard the door shut. Wally laughed. A few seconds later this portion of the room was brightened by the circular glow from a big flashlight.
In that instant she saw Hank. He was under an old metal desk, his hands tied to one of the legs with a length of rope. He’d been crying, but he stopped when he saw Greta.
She ran to Hank and scrabbled at the rope with her fingers. It wasn’t tied very well. If she had enough time, she could get it loose. But did she have enough time?
She turned and shouted at Wally. “What have you done to him?”
Wally laughed, a nasty sound. “Caught me a pair of plump little partridges, that’s what. You and him both.”
“What are you talking about?” Greta demanded.
“Been talking to a man. The kind of man who’ll pay good money for a couple of fat little angels like you. Oh, yes. The kind that likes little boys will have a good time with your little brother. Then there’s the kind that likes sweet little virgins like you.”
Wally shifted the flashlight from his right hand to his left. Greta saw his right hand go into his pocket and pull out a handful of greenbacks. “This is just seed money. I get the rest when I deliver the goods, when the man comes through that fire escape door in a few minutes.”
A few minutes. That’s all the time she had. Wally was between her
and the door. Greta squatted and tugged at the rope securing Hank’s hands, her fingers working the knot. There, it was loosening. Just a little bit more, that’s all she needed.
“Look at him,” she cried, making her voice teary. “You got it so tight it’s cutting his hands. That’s why he’s been crying.”
Hank didn’t need to be told twice. He started to wail. Greta joined in, still fumbling with the rope.
“Shut up, both of you,” Wally said, shoving the money back into his pocket. “Shut up, I tell you.”
Wally walked to the desk and knelt, setting the flashlight aside so he could adjust the rope. Quick as lightning, Greta scooped up the flashlight and brought it down hard on Wally’s head. He bellowed and grabbed for her as he tried to get to his feet. She slithered from his grasp, then hit him again, and he went down. She hit him a third time, and he moaned. Then she turned to Hank and helped her little brother pull free of his bonds.
She seized her brother’s arm and tugged him toward the door. When they reached it, she jerked it open and they ran for the stairwell. Hank had just reached the top step when Greta was caught from behind. Wally was cursing in her ear as he lifted her off the floor. She wriggled in his arms, almost gagging at the smell of him, and sank her teeth into one of the hands that held her. He screamed as she tasted blood. He dropped her.
She regained her balance and turned to face him as he came at her again, aiming her fist at the crotch of his baggy pants, at the place Mom said it would hurt if you hit a man. He screamed again when she hit him, falling backward. But he didn’t fall onto the floor. He kept going back, and down, into the open elevator shaft.
“He went splat,” Hank said when she found him at the bottom of the stairwell.
San Francisco Noir 2: The Classics Page 17