Carnivores

by Richard Poche

  “I want our protests resonate with people,” Miranda said. “I want actual change to take place.”

  “But what if we can't change things? What if all we have is idealism? And what if they are the wrong ideals?”

  “How do you mean?”

  Miranda continued to drive and two black youths crossed the street without looking. She stepped on the brakes hard and the car skidded so as not to avoid them.

  “Can't you drive, bitch?” one of the men said as he pounded on the hood with his palm. His friend laughed.

  Hank's head jerked up in a frightened reaction. His heart began pumping blood as if it were a sinking lifeboat.

  Then the men continued walking.

  Miranda hit the gas.

  “Maybe we don't belong here,” he said after more silence.

  “We can't afford to move,” Miranda said. “You don't make enough money.”

  She had finally said something that hurt him. She sounded just like Diane. He knew very little about Miranda's past. She had landed a teaching job at Fremont and that's how they met. After the lay-off, she dropped down to teach pre-school. He dropped down to delivering papers and selling knives at the flea market.

  “We don't even know our neighbors,” he said. “Most people have their neighbors over for dinner. Our neighbors don't even speak English.”

  “That's elitist,” she said.

  Still, Hank knew that his excuse for not ratting out Javier and his boys had nothing to do with his progressive politics and distrust of police. It had to do with cowardice. The fear of facing them in court. The fear of their retaliation. He thought of what they might do to Miranda.

  “People are not going to change,” he said. “No matter how nice or good or well-meaning you are. Our pastor has been killed. A police officer was murdered, what, two weeks ago. And now I've been beat to within an inch of my life. We don't belong here. No matter how much we protest and preach, people won't change.”

  Miranda parked the car in front of the apartment. The bitter blue light of the moon flooded the street.

  “See that?” she asked, pointing up at the white rock in the sky. “The moon changes everything. It pulls the tide and changes the water. It breaks the inertia. It pulls things out of people. And makes them change. Makes some people change even when they don't want to.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Hillview Baptist Church stood three miles down from the Mormon Temple in Oakland Hills.

  Spinks and Lopez exited the vehicle and looked up at the tall pines swaying in the wind. They looked as if they would fall on the church any minute.

  The door to the church had been splintered open. There were numerous scratches in the wood.

  Spinks looked at the scratches in wonder. “What do you think could have done that?”

  “I don't know,” Lopez said. “A rake, maybe?”

  Spinks pushed the door aside and they entered the church. Papers were strewn on the ground. The same deep scratches were found on the walls and pews. A rough caricature of a wolf had been spray painted on the sidewall. They went down one of the long hallways. Purple carpet with seven glass stained windows along the wall. They had deep sills. A doorway stood at the end of the hall and the officers entered.

  The window on the wall was broken, but the desk and computer remained.

  “Looks like someone had it in for our preacher,” Spinks said. He called in the break-in to dispatch and continued to look around the church.

  “They weren't looking for something,” Spinks said, peering inside the Pastor's ransacked office. “Whoever did this was looking for someone.”

  Hank sat on the couch and turned on the news. The reporter spoke of two more murders in Oakland before cutting to a break.

  “Did you still want to go to the protests?” Miranda called out from the kitchen.

  “Yeah,” he said. Hank idly took out one of the knives that he had in his pocket. He wondered what would have happened had he used it against his attackers. Would he have killed one? Or maybe they would have used it against him?

  Maybe his problem was that he asked too many questions and didn't act on his base impulses.

  He closed his eyes and imagined slicing at the thugs. He imagined Javier putting up his hands to protect himself and his knife penetrating through the man's palms. And then his throat.

  “I had this strange guy talk to me at the flea market. Gave me a sack full of silver and told me to melt it down.”

  “What for?”

  “Knives,” Hank said. “He wants silver blades.”

  The newscast came back on and the announcer spoke of a “bizarre murder in Oakland Hills.”

  “Turn it up,” Miranda stepped into the room but she grabbed the remote control on her own and turned up the volume.

  “Police are baffled as they investigate a grisly murder that took place in Oakland Hills. The victim was found mauled to death by what they believe to be some kind of wild animal.”

  “It looks like the victim was attacked by some kind of grizzly bear,” Detective Arnold Barr said as he appeared on the air. “We'll reveal the victim's identity pending notification of next of kin. We're asking all residents to stay indoors at night and remain vigilant until we get things figured out.”

  “Remain vigilant,” Hank scoffed. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Means the world is going to hell in a hand basket,” Miranda replied. “And Oakland can't afford hand baskets. I thought they were going to talk about Pastor Kosmovich?”

  Hank poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back.

  “I guess that is already old news.”

  “How's your head?” Miranda asked, taking his arm and putting herself underneath it.

  “It's fine.”

  “It's been awhile since, we, you know.” She began to stroke his groin area.

  “Not tonight,” he said. Hank did not feel very virile after he just got his ass beat. The more he thought about that, the more he thought about getting revenge.

  Miranda took Hank's glass out of his hand and downed it herself. Without another word, she got up and walked to the bedroom.

  Hank turned the channel and they showed the protests taking place downtown in a live shot.

  “Let's go out!” he said.

  Miranda ignored him.

  Hank heard the refrigerator door open. Then watched as Miranda left the apartment with her coat and a large brown bag.

  Spinks studied the rivulets on the door before receiving a call on his cell phone.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I found something interesting on your guy,” the medical examiner relayed. “There were some hairs on the pastor's coat and wounds.”

  “Can we get a DNA?”

  “Sure did,” the coroner continued. “But the hairs ain't human. They're wolf hairs. And not just any wolf. These belong to Canis dirus. Prehistoric wolf.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I don't know. Maybe the local museum is missing an exhibit of a wolf that hasn't been around for a million years. And that thing came to life and didn't like what our pastor friend was saying up in his pulpit.”

  “Huh?”

  “Right,” he said. “Doesn't make any sense. I figure it is some kind of symbolic gesture, putting wolf hairs on the guy.”

  “Anything else on those wounds?”

  “No,” he said. “Just the striation patterns are exactly what I found on Laguardia. So it is the same weapon, whatever the hell it is.”

  Spinks hung up the phone abruptly. He looked around the preacher's office, a pale blue painted room with a worn table and two steel-and-canvas chairs. Even the computer looked old. But there had to be a clue here. Somewhere.

  Spinks looked out the window. A playground stood behind the church, complete with a swing set and slide. No doubt used to entertain the kids as their parents took in the Sunday sermon. In the distance, silvery gray rain clouds threatened but didn't bring water. Spinks pressed his forehead agai
nst the cold window. Thinking. Thinking. How is innocence lost?

  “I remember going to church when I was a kid,” Spinks said as he began shoveling through the paper in the drawers. “I was friends with the pastor's son. And his son knew where the old man kept his porn stash. Right in the bottom desk drawer, hidden behind a bible. But nowadays, we don't have to be so clandestine.”

  Spinks turned the pastor's computer on. The lapel of his sleeve dipped into an overstuffed ashtray on the side. The entire room smelled of cigarette smoke; Pastor K's scent still remained after death.

  He clicked into the search button and typed “*.jpg”. A whole bunch of photos came up.

  Then he began clicking on them. Pictures of a nude Latina girl came out. Each photo showed her in various stages of undress, teasing the camera as she slowly peeled off a lace bra.

  “Porn,” Lopez said. “Big deal.”

  “Big deal because this is homegrown,” Spinks said. “And I know this girl.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Look at this shit,” Spinks said as he surveyed the graffiti strewn walls of the train tracks. “This shit has been goin' on since the dawn of time. You think these mother fuckers would find something else to do.”

  “I had friends that used to do this,” Lopez said. “Some of the artwork is pretty good.”

  “Yeah,” Spinks said, point to a crude depiction of a penis. “DaVinci was here.”

  Most of the tags were indecipherable to the untrained eye, but Spinks recognized a few as belonging to a few graffiti artists he busted in the past. There was “V” for a guy who called himself “Visions” and another one called “JAT” which was the work of “Justa Thug” who also doubled as a rapper on YouTube.

  “There's a girl that comes through here. Believe it or not, she services people near the train tracks or on San Pablo. They call her the Train Girl. I can't imagine why.”

  But they didn't see any girls here.

  Only Jocko.

  The man they saw was shaking a marking pen about twenty yards in front of them.

  One of the more jovial homeless people on the train strip, Jocko did not hear or see the officers coming toward him. Or perhaps he didn't care.

  He shook the marking pen again and began drawing on the wall. Then he took a step back and admired his work.

  “Dude,” Spinks said.

  Jocko turned around, startled at the sight of the cops. A light-skinned Creole, Jocko had a red nose from all of the alcohol he had consumed over the course of four decades.

  “This is Jocko, sometimes known to his fellow inmates as J.C,” Spinks said. “But no, those initials don't stand for Jesus Christ. They stand for Just a Criminal. Or in this case, just caught.”

  The homeless man looked at them in earnest. He wiped sleep rocks from his eyes and rubbed his red nose. He clutched a brown paper bag in his left hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Ain't botherin' nobody,” Jocko took another long swig and belched.

  “Botherin' the damn wall,” Spinks said. “All this shit is an eyesore, man.”

  Jocko backed away from the wall to reveal his drawing. It was small compared to everything else, but the artistic rendering and detail made it stand out.

  He had drawn the head of a werewolf. Everything about it was finely detailed from the hair on its head to the red in its eyes.

  “Damn,” Spinks said. “Did you use a paint brush or something?”

  “Acrylics,” Jocko muttered, holding up his marking pen. “Learned that in art school a long time ago. I do my shit the old-fashioned way. Not like these ignorant spray can painting mother fuckers.”

  “Shit, you let the city officials look at your work and maybe they'll let you draw something legal. Maybe even make some money.”

  “I don't draw for money,” the man said.

  “Ah,” Spinks continued. “The starving artist type. Wish I could say I admire that, but I don't. See, it takes money to buy the booze you got addicted to. Tax payer money. That money could be used to give young officer Lopez and me a raise or fatten our retirement pension. In other words, it is money that could be used for good.”

  Jocko took another swig from his brown bag. “What can I do you boys for?”

  “Tell us about your painting.”

  “It's a wolf.”

  “You think?”

  “It watches over me,” Jocko said as he took another sip of his wine. “They watch over me.”

  “They?” Lopez asked.

  “You guys wouldn't understand anything about wolves. They take care of their own. When a member of the pack is weak or hurt. They move to protect it. They're not like humans. They take care of their own when they're down.”

  Jocko moved toward his drawing. He tenderly ran his finger over the outline of the wolf's head.

  Crunching footsteps in the dirt drew the officer's attention to their right.

  “Oh,” Miranda said. “Excuse me.”

  “Can I help you?” Spinks asked.

  “Just here making my rounds,” Miranda opened up a backpack and handed Jocko a sandwich.

  “Thank you,” Jocko said. “Thank you so much. This is better than caviar, believe me. Better than caviar, steak, lobster and the finest aged wine. Why? Because it was made by your lovely hands.”

  He took Miranda's hand and kissed it. She could not help but laugh.

  “I see you already have something to drink,” Miranda said.

  “I'll take what I can get,” Jocko said.

  Miranda took out a Pepsi and handed it to Jocko.

  “I have a few more,” Miranda said. “But you guys look well-fed.” Miranda eyeballed Spinks's ample potbelly.

  “Ham and cheese,” Jocko said. “Damn, this is good pig.”

  “You know anything about this guy?” Spinks said, losing patience as he took out a picture of Pastor K from his wallet.

  “I remember him,” Jocko chewed on only one side of his mouth, a golf ball forming in his cheek. “Used to run the shelter over on Seventh.”

  “He's been murdered.”

  “Yeah, well. No one is immune to violence around here. Not even a preacher man.”

  “Do you know anyone who might have done something to him?”

  Jocko shook his head. “He was a prick. A real self-righteous dickhead. Always talked to me as if I were a little kid.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Jocko held up the sandwich and took a few more bites. “I came to the shelter one day. In the beginning. I told him I had this thing inside me. This demon. See, there are spirits that are out there. And I don't give a shit if you think I am crazy. There are spirits that are out there that if they get into your soul, you are fucked. And sometimes you have to become an alcoholic just to keep the voices away.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  “Of course!” Jocko said. “I came to the shelter. I told Pastor K that I needed an exorcism. And he told me that only priests do that. Baptist ministers don't bother with that shit.” Jocko laughed hard. “Damn fool! So he prayed over me and look what happened?”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Jocko said. “Not a damn thing. I still hear the voices. They tell me to paint shit. Like wolves.”

  Jocko got up and slammed the palm of his hand on the wolf painting. “This didn't come from me. It comes from something inside me. We all got something dark inside us. Just like your Pastor K He spent a lot of time up on San Pablo Avenue, if you catch my drift.”

  “How about the Train Girl, you see her around?”

  “You mean Lita?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Man, if I could afford her sweet ass do you think I would be hanging out at the train tracks painting walls?” Jocko shook his head as if that were dumbest question he'd ever heard.

  “You finish up your work,” Spinks said. “I'll come back to see the finished product.”

  “Cheers, officers.” Jocko took a long swig of the Pepsi and belched. Then he gave Spinks
a toothless grin.

  Miranda watched as the two officers walked off.

  She whistled softly as other homeless men emerged from behind the wall. Miranda began handing out sandwiches one by one.

  “Nothing like a ham sandwich,” she said as she her fingers ran tenderly over Jocko's painting.

  “How do you like it?” Jocko asked.

  “Absolutely beautiful,” she said.

  CHAPTER 11

  Spinks drove the squad car past the gas station and a food mart. Then they watched a man hustle out of a building with no windows and “Adults Only” written across the top.

  Lopez thought those kinds of places didn't exist anymore.

  “Here's the thing ‘bout these little sugar babies,” Spinks said as they cruised down San Pablo Avenue looking for Lita. “Most of them do their business online, but some still take to the streets. It is part of the excitement for the john. Patrolling for poon. That was what it probably did for our preacher friend. He liked to be driving around, like a hunter after his prey. Waiting for that sweet little thing to pop up on the street corner.”

  Almost on cue, Lita turned the corner and bopped down the street. There was a switch in her walk, attitude with every step. Her blue jeans spray-painted on and her push-up bra sending her ample cleavage all the way up to her chin.

  Spinks rolled the squad car up on her before she saw them coming.

  Startled for only a microsecond, Lita stopped walking and rolled her eyes.

  “Get in,” Spinks said as Lopez bounced out of the car and opened the backseat door for Lita. She looked at Lopez as if he had some kind of leprous disease.

  Lopez returned the favor as he eyeballed the girl's arm of tattoos. She had one of a spider making a web on her right elbow. On her left bicep she had what Lopez thought could be either a gargoyle or a wolf, with long curved ears and a sinister face.

  But she smelled nice. Her perfume was a mixture of lavender and rose perhaps. Lopez thought himself a connoisseur of perfume, as his ex-girlfriend sold cosmetics. And he noticed that all of Lita’s baby fat was in all the right places.