by Seth Harwood
And now he doesn’t think about leaving San Francisco. The facts change just like that.
He takes a last drag and then stubs out his cigarette against the side of the drinking glass. Next he picks up his cell and dials Joe Buddha.
Buddha’s wife comes on the line, saying “Yes, hello?” in a small voice.
“Hey, Yuko. This is Jack Palms, a friend of Bu—uh, John’s.”
“Yes,” she says. “Mr. Jack Palms from Shake ’Em Down. The movie star.” She laughs.
Buddha comes on the line, says he’s finishing up his afternoon meditation.
“I’m back from the road,” Jack says, and brings Buddha up-to-date on the condition of his house and the shooter in his yard.
“Your bed, Jack? That’s not right.”
“No shit.”
“You’re not home, are you? Want to come by and stay here for a while?”
“No, thanks. I’m at a hotel. You got anything on Victoria?”
“You don’t need to worry about Victoria burning your bed. She’s been making the rounds in LA again, got some new boy toy, the guy who just wrapped El Camino Royale, that picture about the family of Mexican bank robbers with the trar. Word is it’ll gross more than fifty mil.”
“Yeah. I saw the ads for it: ‘Like James Bond, only more Mexican.’ Real nice.”
Buddha coughs. “Yeah. She’s doing her thing again. Whatever that means for her health and well-being.”
“Right. We don’t need to get into that. You hear anything about Freeman Jones?”
“Yeah. He’s been around the new spots a little. I saw him in Japantown one time at the Golden Pagoda, but he’s not there like he used to be. There’s a new strip club in North Beach that’s getting a lot of action. You might find the big man around there.”
“Appreciate it, Joe. See you in the movies.”
Jack flips his phone closed, tosses it onto the bed, and stands up. In the full-length mirrors beside the TV, he can see he looks like hell. His clothes are wrinkled from sleeping in them, and his hair looks like he needs another shower. For where he’s heading, he’s going to need to look good.
7
With a clean pair of dark linen pants and a crisp white shirt on, Jack heads down to the lobby to get a cab for North Beach. A guy like Freeman, if you can find the area he’s in, you can find him. Not like he’s easy to forget, not with his size and the big tattoos across half his face.
By the time the cabdriver asks Jack where he wants to be let off, they’re at the intersection of Columbus and Broadway, more or less the center of North Beach. “This is good,” Jack says, reaching for his wallet.
On Columbus, the night is starting to come alive. People stand smoking outside the bars, already waiting in lines. A few kids call out Jack’s name, saying “Shake this man down!” and pointing at him with both hands like they hold six-shooters. He got recognized on the road a few times, in Phoenix and Las Vegas especially, but it was never anything bad, only an autograph or a kid wanting to take his picture. Here, people are aggressive when they’re drunk. They make Jack tense. Without the Czechs, he has no protection, no entourage to fend people off; he’s out on his own, shaking hands and smiling for camera-phone mug shots whether he wants to or not.
He jumps the line at a club that looks hipper than most, one with a blue neon sign above the front entrance, a word written in unreadable script. The guy behind the red ropes is bigger than anyone Jack’s seen in a while, but not bigger than Freeman. He’s got a gelled-up flattop, tanning-booth skin, and big jaw muscles clenching at his temples as he chews a wad of gum.
Through a smirk, the guy says “What can I do to you?” in a British accent. Jack’s confused for a moment; he expected the guy to sound like a typical thick-neck.
“You know me?” Jack says.
The bouncer shrugs. “I seen you in a movie. You know.”
“Good. You know Freeman Jones?”
“Jets lineman. Not bad. Yeah. I seen him around.”
Jack still can’t get over the accent, but he pushes forward. “Know where I can find him?”
A guy sticks his ID in the bouncer’s face, and the big man shoves him back into the line with one arm. “You wait,” the bouncer says. “Ever hear of patience?”
A strong hip-hop beat thumps from inside the club.
“Sorry about that.” The bouncer looks at Jack and closes one eye like he’s thinking hard while a suit goes to the front of the line, looks at the ID of the guy the bouncer pushed away.
“He’s big,” Jack says. “Samoan. Got a tattoo on half his face.”
The bouncer nods. “Yeah. Yeah. He bounces at the Pretty Lady. Few blocks up Broadway.” He points toward the Bay. “That’s where I seen him.”
“Thanks.” Jack hits the guy on the shoulder.
“Tell him he should’ve played two more years. Pussy move to retire like that.” The bouncer tilts his chin at Jack. “Speaking of pussy, what’s up with your next movie?”
Jack shrugs and throws the bouncer a wave. Answering the sequel question got old two years ago. But people still want to know. He walks back up to Broadway and turns right. Up the block he can see signs for three or four clubs, and down at the end of these, across the street, a tall vertical sign in the shape of a woman’s leg reads: the pretty lady.
Someone walks right into Jack, bumps him hard on the shoulder. The guy’s on his cell phone and not paying attention. He turns, glares at Jack, and says something into the phone in another language, one that sounds thick and full of consonants. Then his eyes narrow. The guy has dark hair, wears a gray suit with a white shirt, its collar out over the suit’s lapels. No tie.
They stare at each other for a breath and then keep on. When Jack looks back, Gray Suit says something into his phone and slides it closed. He stands in place, eyeing Jack.
Ten yards later, Jack crosses the street and looks back: Gray Suit’s no longer there. Jack looks up and down the block, doesn’t see him anywhere now.
Up the block and past the second club, Jack sees Freeman standing in front of the Pretty Lady, arms folded, hair pulled back into a ponytail that makes the tattoo on his face seem even more prominent. Jack can’t tell what it represents; it’s a pattern, like the black tribal tattoos he’s seen on people’s shoulders and backs, but this one covers the whole right side of Freeman’s face and creeps down his neck into his shirt. It’s got to be something from Samoa, representing where Freeman’s from, but still. When he was in the NFL, they called him the Beast and Freakman because of it.
Two other bouncers outside the Pretty Lady wear suits, but Freeman has on black sweats, a baggy velour combination with a zip-up top. He sees Jack from ten feet away and a big smile cracks his mug.
“Oh, shit,” Freeman says, stepping over the club’s ropes to come toward Jack. “Look who’s back in the motherfucking city!”
Jack smiles. He can’t help himself.
Freeman claps hands with Jack and pulls him in for a big one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you. Good you back around.”
“How are you?” Jack coughs after the tight embrace and backs a step away from the bigger man to get his breath. Even at six foot three—or six four on a good day—Jack has to look up to meet eyes with Freeman, who must stand six foot seven or eight. He’s all size, all bulk, and definitely hasn’t gotten any smaller since Jack last saw him. “How’s the leg?”
“I was on a cane for a little while there, but that gave me something to hit people with, you know? Scared the motherfuckers.”
Jack nods. Freeman needing a cane to scare someone has to be a joke.
“I’m all right now. Standing on my own two. Not running any five-second forties, but shit, those days been gone.”
It’s hard for Jack to imagine anyone as big as Freeman ever running a five-second forty, but he’s not about to question him on it.
“So, yeah, I’m doing fine.”
Jack nods toward the club. “And I see you got some new employment?”
Freeman makes a face. “Shit with Junius was definitely more free-form, you know? We did our own thing. But this all right. Not too hard.”
“Anything else taking up your time?”
Freeman shakes his head. He pats his biceps like he’s cold. “This my deal now. Business reshuffles, things change. I’m trying not to be too involved with the traffic.”
“So you wouldn’t want to get into something with me?”
Freeman looks back at the other bouncers in front of the club: both suits, both chewing gum and wearing dark sunglasses. Nobody’s gone inside since Jack got close. It’s the slow part of the night, will probably stay slow until the regular bars and clubs close at two. Freeman turns back to Jack, his eyebrows pressed together. “Like what?”
Jack shrugs. “What time you here until?”
“Four, five. I could stand to get involved in something,” Freeman says. “But it has to pay. You got money?”
“Money’s a lock. I just need someone to watch my back.”
Freeman smiles. “Yeah. I can see that. You lost a few pounds out on the road, huh?” He catches Jack’s arm by the bicep and squeezes. “Yeah. You lost a little, didn’t you? Better get back in that gym.”
“Not like I can’t handle myself, though.” Jack throws a fake punch at Freeman’s middle, and the big man reacts fast, knocks Jack’s arm away before Jack can even pull it back.
“No,” Freeman says. “But then you couldn’t handle yourself before, as I remember. Out here in the real world, that is.”
Jack tilts his head. “I do all right.”
“Yeah.” Freeman squeezes Jack’s bicep a little harder. “But this ain’t make-believe. This real-world shit, Jack. This what I get paid for. And I get paid well.”
“That’s why I came.”
Freeman lets go of Jack’s arm and fishes a business card from one of his pants pockets. “Call me tomorrow at this number. Not too early.”
Jack goes through the motions as Freeman claps his hand again and pulls him in for the one-arm hug.
“When your next movie?” the big Samoan asks.
“Everybody with that question.” Jack gives him a wave, turns, and, as he does, notices Gray Suit ducking into one of the pizza places up the block.
8
Jack keeps walking, makes a right on Columbus and heads toward Washington Square. He needs to think, an act he does best with his legs moving.
A block up Columbus, he starts to get a weird feeling like he’s being watched. He ducks into a late-night coffee shop, one with fancy desserts along the counter. Through its front window, he sees Gray Suit standing in front of a bookstore, straining to look interested.
Jack heads out, crosses the street to double back on the guy. Up a block, he crosses back to the same side, checks to see if the suit is still at the window. He’s not. The guy’s completely gone. Jack stops.
“Shit,” he says, then heads toward Broadway, planning to hop a cab and get his ass back to the hotel. But he considers what an encounter with Gray Suit would be like if the guy were to follow him to his hotel room. He stops again, caught by his own uncertainty, standing still on the cement, and decides to head back to the Pretty Lady, determined to hire Freeman right away.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees Gray Suit across the street, walking straight at him. The guy disappears in a crowd of kids eating pizza, but then he’s there again.
A chill touches every vertebrae down Jack’s spine; he wonders if he should’ve made for the East Coast.
Instead, he takes out his cell and dials the number on Freeman’s card.
“Free,” he says, when the big man grunts his answer. “I got a dude tailing me. Coming your way. I want you to start working with me right now. I need you.”
There’s a pause on the phone, then Jack hears Freeman talking to someone at the club. When he comes back, he says, “Where you at?”
“Columbus and Grant. Check the dude in the gray suit not far behind me when you get close.”
“On it.”
Jack flips the phone closed. He doesn’t see Gray Suit but keeps walking, knowing he’s there somewhere.
When he reaches Broadway, Jack hears a voice over his shoulder. “Mr. Palms,” it says in a thick accent. “Why don’t you come with me? I would like chance to talk.”
Jack turns to see an alley: dumpsters, some back entrances to restaurants and clubs. Gray Suit stands beside him, too close, holding a black revolver. A second guy steps in front of Jack. Another suit, this one in black but similar to the gray, like they came from the same cheap shop on Market.
Black Suit waves toward the alley. “Why don’t we step in here.”
Jack takes a last glance at the people in front of the clubs and a car going past—a police car. He tries to make eye contact with the cop in the passenger seat, but the cop’s not watching, has his eyes to the windshield, intent. In a moment, the car’s roof lights come on and the cops speed away.
Gray Suit smiles. The other one, too pale and with bad teeth like a row of overlapping tombstones, cracks his knuckles. “Like we tell you.” He points down the alley.
What else can Jack do? He walks into the dirty alley. It’s not a place he wants to go with two guys in slick suits and rough accents—especially with one of them holding a gun.
“So what’s this about, fellas?” Jack asks, his hands raised, trying to stall for Freeman. “What can I help you with tonight? Maybe an autograph?”
The suits both laugh. “Ha,” Black Suit says. “He is funny comedian, no?”
“No, André,” the other one says and shrugs. “He not so funny as he think.”
“What do we want with you, Jack Palms?” The one named André comes closer to Jack, touches the collar of his shirt. “These are nice clothes, Mr. Palms. You are dressed very nice. You go to the clubs?” He slaps Jack lightly on the side of the face once, then twice. “We too like these clubs.” Then he slaps Jack again, harder.
“Do I know you guys?”
“No.” André pushes Jack farther down the alley and comes after him. “You do and you also do not. But you know our friends. Yes. Them you do.”
“You mean Vlade and Al?”
“Oh, no. These are not our friends.”
Gray Suit comes forward, his gun trained on Jack, but the alley is tight; if Jack slides to his left four inches, André will block any possible shot.
“You guys wouldn’t be friends with a big bald Russian fuck, would you?” Jack asks. “A dumb asshole who I last saw cuffed to a pool table?”
André hits Jack in the stomach, hard.
Hard, but not hard enough that Jack can’t think straight. Still, it hurts like someone sapped half his energy. Pain runs down his legs. He doubles over, buying time to catch his breath.
“Yes, that is our friend whom you know,” André says. “And if you keep up this joking, we will have more of these violences.”
Jack shuffles over a couple of inches as he spits on the ground.
André pulls Jack’s head up by his ear so the two of them see eye to eye. “Yes. We think you know our friend. And our friend, he knows you.” Jack can feel the guy’s breath hot on his face, smelling like pepperoni mixed with vodka. “How was your bed when you arrived at home from your road trip?” He pronounces “road trip” like it’s the worst sexual act he can imagine.
“You two love birds know something about my bed?”
André nods, way too close now, lightly hitting Jack in the forehead with his own. He smiles wide, showing Jack his jagged teeth and more than a few nose hairs that need trimming. “We made your bed for you. Did you like that?”
“That was you fucks?” Jack counts his breaths. He wants to punch this shithead with everything he has. Anyone who comes into his house and burns his bed to the floor deserves nothing less.
“Ta ta,” André says. “You should be more careful about whom you make angry. Your bed was present from Alexi Akakievich.” He stabs Jack in the chest
with a stiff finger. “That was your warning, Jack Palms. Alexi Akakievich is not usually so kind.”
And that’s when he hauls off and hits Jack under his ribcage, doubling him over again. Now suddenly nauseated and with a mouth full of saliva, Jack lets it go, leaving a stream of spittle and bile across André’s leather shoes.
Jack catches his breath in time to see a right hook coming at his temple. He flinches so it lands on his shoulder instead. Gray Suit hasn’t moved; he’s still standing behind André, watching the action. Jack picks his spot: He punches André with an uppercut to the balls and runs into him, pushing him back toward his partner. Both of them fall back against the wall between a Dumpster and a line of garbage cans. The gun goes off, its muzzle pointed up into the night. Jack hears the ring in his ears that he knows too well and comes up swinging.
He throws wild punches, trying to get off enough of them to stun the Suits before someone starts shooting. A big right connects to Gray Suit’s head. Jack punches him again in the face, a quick combo, and the guy smiles at Jack for a second. It’s in this moment, after Jack has hit this guy with everything and produced a smile, that one thought rushes through Jack’s mind: Oh, shit.
Gray Suit hits Jack with a chopping right that plants the butt of his revolver in Jack’s cheek.
Jack gets his hands up, but the Suit hits him again, this time with a fast jab to the nose. The pain comes on like a wall of red.
Gray Suit says, “You are not so smart, Jack Palms.” The square nose of the gun presses against Jack’s temple. “And you have not learned to fight like in your movie. You are only actor. I can see now that the Hollywood effects are all the bullshit.” He pulls Jack up by the hair so Jack is looking right at him. Jack can see the same smile, only more vicious now, a thin trickle of blood running down the side of the Suit’s mouth.
To his left, Jack sees André straightening up, taking a few breaths to regain himself after the shot to his balls. Then he rushes at Jack, and Jack flinches, expecting the worst.