Fogtown

by Peter Plate

  Standing on his toes, Stiv sniffed the air and checked his bearings. Ninety-foot-tall redwood trees bordered the Victorian’s property. Oleander bushes fronted the sidewalk. The streetlights on Caselli had burned out months ago and the road was pitch-black. Other than the moon and the fog over Kite Hill, he couldn’t see anything.

  Treading over a flagstone path, he walked toward the house. The garden was blooming with red, white, and pink autumnal carnations. A pensive owl hooted in the Ponderosa’s upper branches. A dog with what sounded like bronchitis bayed from inside a neighbor’s house.

  Shuffling up a flight of marble porch steps to the front door, Stiv politely rang the doorbell. A gong chimed, reverberating beatifically throughout the Victorian. When no one answered, he tried the doorknob. Not surprisingly, it was locked. A raccoon squeezed through a hole in the oleanders and turned its manic eyes in Stiv’s direction, and then did a fadeout into the garden.

  Done with the front door, Stiv headed into the backyard. He lurked past a patio with a barbecue grill and an empty Olympic-size swimming pool; a cabana with a wet bar and a hexagon-shaped gazebo ran the length of the fence. A woman’s drunken voice from the next street was pushed along by the wind and drifted over him.

  He held his breath and pretended he was dead. It was a family trait that he’d acquired from his grandmother, a tiny Jewish woman from the Russian seaport of Odessa. She had taught him how to walk on his toes, how to open and shut windows without a sound, how to move in and out of crowded rooms without attracting an audience, and how to walk the streets without anyone seeing him.

  Finding himself at the kitchen door, Stiv finagled a strip of linen cloth from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand. Clenching his fingers, he punched out the door’s window. The glass tinkled to the floor—it was music to his ears. Reaching inside, he unlatched the dead bolt and darted indoors.

  Trespassing was at the core of his personality. It was, as far as he could tell, fundamental to his identity. He’d been breaking and entering into houses since he was nine years old. In the beginning it had been no big thing, a small cottage here and there. Then it became an addiction. He started busting into larger houses. Nothing compared to going in an unlighted window without any regard for what was on the other side. The owner might be waiting in the dark with a gun to kill you. Or there might be a million dollars in a pillowcase under somebody’s bed.

  Once inside the Victorian, certain that no one had seen him, Stiv acquainted himself with the kitchen. He turned on and off the electric stove and the microwave oven, and looked in the refrigerator. There was nothing in the fridge except a gallon jar of organic mayonnaise.

  He sneaked into a long hallway, and groping his way in the blackness—like a dancer with a new partner—he came upon a study with a fireplace. He bumped into an oak desk with a reading lamp. The walls were lined with books in shelves. He went to a shelf, extracted a hefty volume, and barged over to the window to read it. Moonlight underlined the hardback’s cover, a book of fiction, the collected works of the Russian writer Isaac Babel. There was a photograph of the author on the back—a man in glasses with a Mona Lisa smile. Stiv had never heard of the guy and dropped the tome in a chair.

  Plunging deeper into the hall, he floundered into a living room with a high-beamed ceiling. A figure-eight-shaped crystal chandelier hung from brass chains. Chairs upholstered in split-grain cowhide made a half-circle around a coffee table. A handwoven Navajo rug lay on a sofa. Carved wooden Haidu and Seneca Indian tribal masks and four large unframed abstract paintings by Gerhard Richter decorated the walls. The carpeting was plush acrylic piling. A selection of choice liquors cluttered a maple wood sideboard.

  Flitting upstairs Stiv ghosted into the first bedroom on the second floor. It was an adolescent boy’s room, furnished with athletic pennants and several concert posters of Van Halen featuring Sammy Hagar. There were other posters of the Scorpions, a seminal German metal band. In the comforting dark, he searched the closet. Nimble fingered, he dug into underwear, socks, photo albums and ceramic pots, stashes of cigarettes. He unearthed a vial of Oaxacan weed that he put in his jacket, and two pharmaceutical Quaaludes that he considered taking, but didn’t.

  The story was the same in the other bedrooms. There was nothing of value and an unpleasant feeling crept over Stiv. Ransacking bureaus and dressers, he shredded pants, socks, and sweaters with his switchblade. He went through the medicine cabinets in the bathrooms and located five ampoules of Demerol, Dilaudid and morphine, and a prescription bottle of phenobarbital, but came across no money. Irate, he broke a terra cotta lamp against the wall. What was wrong with these people?

  There was a ringing in his ears; the hallucinations had left behind an auditory residue, a sign that heralded their inevitable return. Stiv redoubled his efforts in the two bedrooms on the third floor. He went to work on the beds with his blade and slashed the mattresses and pillows, hunting for secret caches. All he found was a box of Japanese porno magazines, worth no more than a hundred bucks at the flea market in Oakland.

  Disgusted with his luck, he kicked an antique rocking chair and was rewarded with a sprained toe. He pogoed up and down on one foot and tumbled onto a bed. He lay back, dumbfounded by the mattress’s softness. There wasn’t any question about it: rich folks slept better than he did.

  Lacing his hands behind his head, Stiv stared at the ceiling. Market Street’s far off lights did a minuet on the knotty pine–paneled walls. Through a part in the curtains, he had a glimpse of the house across the street. A simulated plaster-and-wood Tudor that had an imitation thatched roof and a Japanese maple sapling in the front yard; two BMWs and a Land Rover were in the driveway. The 1960s acid jazz of Gene Ammons was blasting from the living room.

  A paunchy white male was undressing a younger woman in a second-floor dormer window. She had her hands around his bullish neck. He rubbed her heavy breasts as they kissed. His countenance was dignified. Hers was hopeful. He put his finger in her vagina, moved it, and said something in her ear. Then he pulled the woman by her wrist to a king-sized bed. The sheets were in knots, blankets on the floor. A print by the Spanish painter Goya was framed on the wall above the headboard.

  Together they fell on the sheets. He got on top of her and mauled her breasts. He kneeled, his hairy ass above her, and sucked on her neck, biting and kissing the tender skin around her hairline. His hand shot out to grab a condom off the nightstand; she reached between his legs to manipulate his cock.

  Tired of watching their lovemaking, Stiv uncoiled and wearily rose to his feet. His mood was bleaker than a lunarscape. Taking a matchbook from his jacket, he lit a match. It sparked in the darkness, burning down to his fingertips. In the meager light he saw his grandmother’s wizened face. She was saying, I knew you’d turn out like this.

  He threw the matchstick on the blankets. For a second it didn’t catch, and then a flame erupted from the bed, spiraling waist-high, tinting the ceiling magenta and salmon pink. The fire, newly born and ravenous, laid into the mattress and sheets like it was starving, broiling the pillows into marshmallows. Stiv sat down on the bed and waited for the flame to reach his feet. But it moved away from him toward a wall overlooking the garden. The fire climbed onto a window; the pane was blown out in a cream of glass—Stiv flung himself to the floor as white-hot shards shrieked by his ears.

  Putting his head down, he wormed his way out of the room and into the hall. Unable to see where he was because of the growing smoke, Stiv butted his nose into a cabinet. Securing the staircase, he hurdled the steps to the second floor. The fire had eaten through the floor upstairs and had burned a hole in the ceiling. Fist-sized embers were raining into the rooms below. A cinder slashed him in the face, instantly blistering his cheek. Another cinder fizzled in his quiff.

  He tripped and did a belly whopper down the next flight of stairs to the ground floor. Knocking aside chairs, he vaulted through the hall into the kitchen and scrammed out the back door, swan diving onto the grass as
the Victorian’s roof imploded in a mushroom cap of flames.

  Trampling through the garden to the street, the first thing he saw was the woman and the man that had been making love in the Tudor. They were standing naked in their driveway and gawking at the burning Victorian. The woman’s breasts were mirrored orange with the fire. The man’s flaccid penis was enveloped in a condom.

  The second thing Stiv saw was his own right arm. The motorcycle jacket was in flames. The sleeve was roasting, the leather getting cooked from black to red. Before he could douse it, the sleeve fell off his jacket and onto the sidewalk. It lay there as if it were a carcass. Fire engine sirens jingle-jangled from over the hill. Stiv didn’t see any purpose in hanging around, so he started toward Market Street.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE PAY TELEPHONE on the Allen’s fourth floor was ringing off the hook. Five times. Ten times. Twenty times. Jeeter Roche heard it on his way downstairs. He was in his church clothes, a three-piece kelly green corduroy suit and brown wingtips. His rugged face was sweaty, his shaved scalp was pomaded; he had four ounces of uncut synthetic heroin and a copy of Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage in his jacket. Jeeter related to the protagonist in the novel, a kid with a clubfoot. He’d met several guys in prison like that—dudes that he’d celled with.

  In a mad rush to meet a customer, Jeeter didn’t want to tarry and answered the phone brusquely. “You have reached the Allen Hotel. If you’re looking for a vacancy, we don’t have any and don’t expect any in the future. So don’t call back, okay? You’ll only be wasting your time.”

  The person at the other end was bossy and demanding. “I wasn’t looking for a room. I’ve got my own place, thank you. Who is this, anyway?”

  “Who am I? That’s a very good question, mister. Let’s start at the beginning. This is Jeeter Roche. I’m the building manager over here at the Allen, the man in charge. Who are you?”

  “Jeeter?”

  “Yeah, Jeeter Roche. So what can I do for you today?”

  “I want to talk to someone.”

  “Really? This is an SRO hotel. Nine million people live here. There are a lot of folks to talk to. Now let me ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You calling the Allen, not many people do that. It’s a rarity and I’m suspicious. Are you a telemarketer? You selling something?”

  “No.”

  “You the cops?”

  “No, I’m not the police.”

  “Okay. How about from the probation department?”

  “No.”

  “You a collection agency?”

  “No.”

  “You say you want to talk to a tenant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I can let you. That’s private information. I can’t give it out.”

  “I’m looking for a client of mine. His name is Stiv Wilkins.”

  Jeeter wished a pox on Stiv and hee-hawed, “Yeah, so what about him?”

  “May I speak with him?”

  “That punk? What for?”

  “You know him?”

  “Maybe. He’s overdue on the rent. That makes him my business.”

  “I need to talk with him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Me? I’m Deflass from the mental health clinic on Shotwell Street.”

  “Who?”

  “Deflass from the mental health—”

  “I’m not deaf. I heard you the first time. I know the place.”

  “You do?”

  Jeeter digressed. “I was there for counseling back in the day when I was on parole. Of course you understand that was before I got my shit together.”

  Deflass was unsympathetic and said, “Can I talk to Stiv?”

  “Why?”

  “We need to discuss something.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He ain’t available.”

  “Do you know when I can get hold of him?”

  “Not really. He’s being evicted.”

  The social worker persisted. “But I just spoke with him this afternoon.”

  “Is that so? Maybe you did, I can’t say, but he’s gone.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Beats me. I’m not his keeper.”

  “But you do know him?”

  Jeeter was irritated. “Like I said, maybe.”

  “But you’re the manager.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean shit. It’s not like he and I are friends or anything.”

  “You interact with him, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t. I just take his money.”

  “Then you know what room he’s in. Can’t you leave him a message?”

  “I don’t have the time.”

  “Please?”

  There were too many people making demands on Jeeter’s time. He wanted to sell the heroin, get it done with, then go home and read Somerset Maugham. A cockroach tried to sneak by him and he mashed it under his heel into the carpet. “No,” he said, and hung up the phone. Striped woolen drapes banked the drug room’s windows. An Indian tapestry was thumbtacked to a wall next to an autographed poster from the country and folk singer Steve Earle. The rug was one of those hundred-dollar jobs from Target. Kilos of brown Mexican mota bulged from metal shelving. A butcher-block table was overrun with a seventy-five-pound bale of marijuana from Sonoma County. A three-paper spliff smoldered in an ashtray. A set of speakers blared King Tubby’s signature dub reggae; the thud of the bass was shaking the windowpanes.

  Seated on a high stool by the window, Chiclet was collating money. More accurate than an adding machine, she bagged a grand in twenties. Setting it aside, she had a toke off the spliff. She was attired in a long black skirt and a sleeveless peasant blouse, and her mouth was painted carmine red. Her hair was smothered in jasmine oil and her eyes were sprinkled with kohl powder. Gold studs were affixed to her earlobes. Her shoes were open-toed suede pumps with tassels. The cash she was counting came from the Allen’s tenants. It was a collection of down-at-the-heel five- and ten-dollar bills. Rent money had less appeal than drug money. It never looked sexy. Dope money always did.

  Dreamily, she looked out the window. The fog was phosphorescent in the car headlights on Market Street. She saw Mama Celeste at the corner and thought the harridan was familiar. Must be in the cleaning crew that Jeeter had temporarily hired to spiff up the building. Paid them five dollars an hour under the table. Gave them coffee and stale doughnuts for lunch.

  But the longer Chiclet got a load of Mama Celeste, the more she was convinced the lady was shedding money from her army coat. Paper was falling on the sidewalk and getting blown into the gutter. Chiclet couldn’t decide which one of the substances in her system was causing the mirage. It might have been the Valium. Maybe it was the Placidyl or the weed.

  A tap on the door brought her to her feet. You could always judge someone by their knocking. Jeeter knocked like he was leading an army. This person sounded timid. With the elephantine spliff in hand, Chiclet bumbled over to the spy hole, fastened her eye to it, and chuckled when she recognized who it was. A miserable-looking Stiv Wilkins stood on her welcome mat. She opened the door a wee crack and asked, “What in the fuck happened to you?”

  Half of Stiv’s quiff had been singed to the scalp. Both of his eyebrows were gone. The blister on his cheek had ballooned into a sizeable lump. His motorcycle jacket was missing a sleeve. Shrugging his shoulders, he was in no condition to divulge his most recent misadventure. He said, “Some bad juju.”

  “You’d better come in before someone sees you.”

  It was Stiv’s first time in Jeeter’s sanctuary and he was impressed with the ornate atmosphere. The only lighting in the room was a brace of votive candles. Sandalwood incense was burning in a copper dish. A bouquet of roses adorned an end table. The overpowering stink of freshly harvested late summer marijuana opened Stiv’s nose down to his
feet.

  He gumshoed it over an antique Persian carpet to the window and had a glance outside. Nighttime had turned the city into a ghost town—if it weren’t for the winos, there would be nothing in the streets. Chiclet followed Stiv across the room and while puffing on the spliff, she said to him, “Listen, Stiv, we have to talk. No bullshit.”

  Conscious of her at his back, how close she was, he was guarded. “Please, no questions.”

  “Forget that. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  The pinging in his ears increased its tempo. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t wanna go to my room yet.”

  “You look totally like shit. I mean, really.”

  The joint she was smoking smelled tasty. It was hydroponic chronic, homegrown indica with the highest THC content known to humankind. Stiv wanted some, but it was obvious that Chiclet wasn’t going to offer him any. She liked her weed too much to share it. He turned around to stare at her, but she was taller than him. It was useless trying to meet her eyes.

  His motorcycle jacket looked like someone had been murdered in it. Removing it, he said, “Sorry to bug you. I’ll leave in a minute.”

  Chiclet expelled a magnificent plume of smoke in his face. “Do you know what else?”

  “What’s that?”

  She took her time. “You’ve got a problem.”

  Stiv scratched his head. “Who says I do?”

  “Me.”

  “That’s wonderful. What is it?”

  “This guy has been looking for you.”

  Talking to Chiclet was like pulling teeth. You could tell she and the English language weren’t on friendly terms. Not even close. And the weed had her moving so slowly, Stiv would be a hundred years old before she was done speaking. He said, “What guy? Can you get more specific?”

  “Your friend.”

  Stiv was skeptical. “My friend?”

  “Yeah, a dude came around to our house asking me about you.”

  “Who the heck was it? The man on the moon?”

  “No, it was this dealer Jeeter knows. He was a fucking asshole.”