CONTENTS
Title
Copyright
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
About The Author
Near-Future Links
THE DEATH OF
DAVID PICKETT
G.A. MATIASZ
The Death of David Pickett
Copyright © 2018 by G.A. Matiasz
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs
CC BY-NC-ND
This publication is free and may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, so long as the author is credited, the contents are unchanged, and the work is not used commercially.
Front cover art and inside art by Jon Hunt who retains all rights beyond first use.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-692-15710-7
62 Mile Press
584 Castro Street #107 San Francisco, CA 94114
www.62milepress.com
For Kay
my broken grace
ONE
David Pickett’s death upset a lot of people.
Jesse Steinfeld heard about it a little before noon on Sunday. He was in that state between sleep and wakefulness in his Mission District shoebox apartment when his smartphone rang with the incessant guitar thrum of Leonard Cohen’s “Partisan.” He fumbled for the phone on the headboard as a breeze played with drapes and sunlight.
“Yo,” Jesse answered.
“Jesse, Dave Pickett is dead.” The shrill voice at the other end belonged to Angie Markham. “Dave was driving back from Baja with friends when their car flipped. His abdomen was sliced open and he was bleeding out. The Mexican authorities tried to medevac him, but he was declared DOA at the hospital. They finally did it.”
“Huh?” He grunted, still chasing the tail end of a dream. “Who did what to whom?”
“Assassinated Dave,” Angie said. “CIA, FBI, NSA, AFL-CIO, whoever. Haven’t you been listening?”
Jesse hung up. He’d never liked Angie’s sharp, accusatory way of speaking, even when he’d had a brief relationship with her two years ago. He eased out of his double bed and walked three steps into the kitchenette, where he turned on the programmed coffeemaker. He walked a half-dozen steps back the other way into the bathroom for a quick shower and shave, washing away the remnants of last night’s Retromingent concert at the Korova Bar.
Jesse knew David from the city’s music scene and the Bay Area’s political milieu. They’d met, in passing, at the Skeleton Club back when he was still sleeping with Angie. At a party, happening, or concert he was aware of Pickett’s crew as the storm on the horizon and of David as the eye of that storm. Jesse had stumbled upon a provocative rally turned street fight staged by David and his cohorts in support of bike messengers’ rights a year ago, and had purchased six doses of a powerful designer psychedelic, jamrax, from David at Stumpy’s six months ago. But Jesse still considered him only an acquaintance at best.
The aroma of Colombian coffee saturated the apartment by the time he had toweled off. He poured fragrant coffee into an oversized Foamy-the-Squirrel mug before he dressed from a tiny closet in the minuscule combination living/dining room. He put on black Converse high-tops, narrow black jeans, classic Catholic Spit black-and-white band T-shirt, and a black Dickies hoodie, then took his coffee onto the fire escape and relaxed.
David Pickett had been a fixture of Bay Area progressive politics for the past decade or so. He had a solid reputation as a community organizer, labor militant, and political powerhouse. Yet David’s notoriety in edge politics was even more pronounced as a commie impresario, a left of the Left raconteur, and an anarcho-provocateur. He was the founder of What’s Left?— an extremely popular website, a volatile social networking site, and a print-version zine with a circulation approaching two million. His powerful speech during the “Fuck Work, Fuck Borders” conference three years ago had gone viral, making him a rising star of the emerging revolutionary Synarky movement. And his popular podcast series “FSU” averaged more than eight million unique monthly subscribers.
Jesse soaked in the afternoon sun as he gradually caffeinated himself. The weather pattern was standard for San Francisco in midsummer; the overcast had burned off, leaving blue skies. The gray fog bank out past Twin Peaks looked like a line of surf threatening to break. The smells from a taqueria down the block wafted up to the fire escape. The thirty-six-ounce mug, having declared “Squirrelly Rage” to the world, was half empty.
David Pickett had also founded Drinkers United International, an anti-union of sorts inspired by Oscar Wilde’s quip that “Work is the curse of the drinking classes.” Under his leadership, DUI gained prominence through its tireless relief work for and armed defense of the poor and homeless after the 2021 earthquake. Its various front activities included mobile hiring halls and interest-specific social clubs. DUI became infamous, however, for a number of wildcat actions involving software coders, fast food workers, day laborers, sex workers, and the like—actions with a flair for the spectacular that often turned violent. The violent assault on the Bohemian Grove in Monte Rio by DUI was the stuff of legend.
Jesse rinsed the empty mug in the sink and set up next morning’s drip, then took the stairs down to the street. He had a freelance archiving job tomorrow but nothing that interfered with his boho lifestyle. First stop, Sam’s Sons Deli for their Reuben sandwich. Second stop was Stumpy’s Pub for a pint or three of Belgian ale. Jesse suspected that David’s comrades and friends, perhaps even some of his frenemies and enemies, were already beginning to gather at Stumpy’s. David’s political milieu was Jesse’s by acquaintance and happenstance. He started on a refreshing walk up Guerrero, past the homeless encampment stirring to life at the corner of 24th.
After the 2021 tech bubble collapse, out-of-work techies fled the Mission District, which effectively halted the neighborhood’s contentious gentrification. But the popular movement to declare autonomy for the Mission District, and to call itself the “Mission Commune,” had so far failed. The City of San Francisco disregarded petitions, referenda, elections, demonstrations, and street violence. Instead, it increased surveillance and harassment of the indigent and destitute, especially around rich areas. The Liberty Hill Historic District ahead was just such a tony neighborhood of mini-mansions and upscale condos in the midst of the Mission that escalated in wealth from east to west until it was virtually a walled enclave catercorner to Mission Dolores Park. No surprise that its residents paid dearly for a variety of private security services to protect themselves from the rabble living and breathing a mere street corner away. Top among them were patrols by unmanned aerial vehicles.
Jesse saw the drone whir around the corner from 22nd Street onto Guerrero toward Alvarado bearing logos for Ambassador Security and Bank of America. “Fucking PUD,” he said under his breath. UAVs were often called PUDs, an acronym for the public—or private—urban drones deployed with increasing frequency in and around the Bay Area. Like the word drone itself, PUD was a somewhat rude term that had entered the vernacular. People who lived in the Mission had an explosive antipathy for PUDs, public or private, which went beyond the general dislike for being watched in public spaces. Except during riots, however, few people messed with heavily armed law-enforcement UAVs. Private urban drones were another matter, even though more of the private ones were allowed to carry and use weapons, thanks to California’s castle doctrine. This one did.
The reason that the drone v
entured beyond its turf was not immediately evident. The response to its intrusion was immediate and violent. Two powerful green lasers from farther down Guerrero pinned the PUD, barely visible in daylight, yet effective in causing the drone to react. Instead of retreating, however, the UAV held its ground, hovering above the LED streetlight.
“Cease and desist,” a mechanical male voice boomed from the drone. “You are in violation of section—”
Five more lasers targeted the drone. Rioters used wrist-rocket slingshots, power catapults, stone bows, and human power to hurl rocks, pieces of brick, bottles, marbles, ball bearings, nuts, and bolts at the drone. Blinded by lasers, pummeled by projectiles, again the drone refused to retreat, for whatever reason.
“Cease and desis—” The PUD crackled, lost the final consonant, listed, then dropped a meter. A distant police siren sounded. The drone got off two wild shots before spiraling down to smash into two parked cars.
A roar of triumph greeted the PUD’s crash and two dozen street people ran for the drone’s twisted wreckage. An SUV with Ambassador Security markings skidded into the intersection and three men brandishing guns piled out. But the crowd brandished firearms, too. The dozen individuals not holding guns began dragging the broken drone down the street, screaming “Our streets!” and “Back the fuck off!”
The crowd moved toward a pickup truck that had just pulled up. Three armed men hauled the drone into the truck as the security guards yelled, “Stop, motherfuckers!” By the time two cop cars arrived on the scene, the truck sped off and the other armed civilians melted into the neighborhood with the rest of the crowd, leaving both public and private cops frustrated, talking to each other.
Jesse left as police reinforcements arrived. He circumvented the confrontation’s dénouement with Sam’s Sons Deli once again in mind, replaying the fight as he picked up his sandwich. A flock of iridescent green-and-red parrots squawked in the palm trees above him as he walked along Dolores.
Stumpy’s was a dive bar, pure and proud, in the Lower Haight east of the Wiggle. Featuring a selection of sixty-plus draft and ninety-plus bottled beers, it had been unofficial headquarters for DUI, and David Pickett, for the past four years. Angie Markham also kept propaganda at the bar for her more staid Precarious Union, which was a direct reaction to DUI and to David’s bold, rabble-rousing political style. The rivalry between them often tried loyalties. Angie was eighteen years older than Jesse, and their relationship had been rocky. She drank heavily, and was often passed out by evening. He found her in her apartment one night raving, frantically brushing off imaginary spiders, desperately searching for her car keys and the money to buy more alcohol. Shaken and unnerved, never having seen a case of the DTs, Jesse nevertheless had the presence of mind to hide her purse.
Blatz’s “Fuk Shit Up” blasted from the open door in the red-and-black facade. Jesse entered the dark bar, the atmosphere stinking of beer, sweat, cigarettes, and vomit, found a stool at the bar, and placed the sandwich on the worn wooden countertop.
“What’ll it be?” the heavily tattooed bartender asked.
“Pint of Lucifer,” Jesse said, and unwrapped his sandwich. As he suspected, a sizable crowd in the back was talking up David Pickett’s death and the radical demo in Dolores Park later that evening. That and the takedown of the PUD. He didn’t recognize anyone so he started eating in peace. The pint arrived. Sam’s Sons’ Reuben Combo was perfection. The pint was beyond perfection. When Jesse looked back up, Stenny Amps had materialized on the barstool next to him.
“Long time, Jesse,” Stenny said. Jesse noted the covetous glance toward the sandwich and the lengthy longing look at the beer. The stench of Stenny’s crusty clothing assaulted his nose. “Free Speech” by Citizen Fish played in the background.
“How’s the band going?” Jesse asked, quickly draining the pint. “What’s the name again?”
“Dead Girls Can’t Say No,” Stenny said, and watched as Jesse started in on the other half of the Reuben. “We’ve got a gig next Friday, at the Chatsubo.”
“Good to hear it,” he said between bites. “So, what’s your take on David Pickett?”
“Nothing to say,” Stenny said, with a dismissive wave of a hand. “He was off-roading with a bunch of his Drinking United cadre in the Sonoran Desert. Fancy Yamaha motocross bikes. He took a spill, sustained a lot of damage from rocks, had a lot of internal injuries. Died from an internal hemorrhage in the abdomen. End of story.”
“Nothing untoward?”
“Not a goddamn nefarious thing about it.”
“Wow.” Jesse finished up the sandwich. “Glad to hear the real story. Lots of rumors going round.”
“Well, I got the genuine report,” Stenny said. “You heard about taking down that PUD? I was right there—”
“I was half a block away, watching the whole thing.” Jesse crumpled the sandwich paper and stuffed it into the bag.
“Oh, wasn’t that something.” Stenny offered a weak grin, then dodged Jesse’s eyes. “Ya know, I’m a bit strapped for cash until our show, and I was wondering—”
“Hold that thought,” Jesse said, and stood up from his stool, abandoning an empty pint glass and crumbs. “I’ll be back. Got to take a wicked leak.”
When Jesse got to the unisex bathrooms at mid-bar and turned back, Stenny had evaporated. Fucking moocher. There wasn’t much of a line, and he didn’t have much of a pee. Just as he was about to turn back for another beer, Ari Moser came out of one of the toilets.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Jesse the Zionist,” Ari said, with a sly smile. “How’s Romi these days?”
Romi was Jesse’s pretty younger sister whom Ari had been eager to sex up a while back. The man’s desire to sleep with her had been inflamed by her making aliya and then joining up with the IDF for her mandatory military service, where she served in the joint US/Israeli nuclear operation Wrath of God.
“Romi is out of the Army,” Jesse said. “She’s married and has a baby.”
“Shame,” Ari mused. “Buy you a beer?”
They were still on the edge of the scrum in which Pickett’s death was discussed and debated. Amenity’s “This Is Our Struggle” roared over the sound system. Cigarette smoke rolled from one end of the bar to the other. Ari had a Racer 5, Jesse a Black Damnation VI. They faced the mirror behind the bar, with Ari clocking every passing female.
“Too bad about the fourth Intifada,” Ari said, after a gulp. “What with Hezbollah still mired deep in what’s left of Syria and the rest of the Middle East reduced to nuclear chaos, it looks like Gaza is going to get razed.”
“Dude, I’m not playing that game,” Jesse said, and drank. “You win. I concede. You’re a better anti-Zionist Jew than I am.”
“Hey, dude,” Ari smirked. “No more pissing contest, okay? Your sister is still one smoking hot chick, Israeli or not. Married or not.”
“So, what do you make of Pickett’s death?”
“Way I heard it, he was down in Baja, working with the PRD-affiliated Authentic Labor Front.” Ari watched the ass of a voluptuous redhead as she sashayed toward the bathroom. “And there was something definitely not kosher about his demise.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing, it appears that the Arellano-Félix Cartel had a hand in helping the Federales run him off the road. For another, no hospital on either side of the border has any record of admitting him, alive or dead. For a third, US authorities are remarkably reticent about the circumstances around Dave’s death.”
“So, you’re saying this was political.”
“No doubt about it,” Ari said, finishing his pint. He caught the wink of a stunning brunette in the mirror from behind him. “So, dude, gotta run. Give Romi my regards.”
Jesse ordered a dark Armageddon ale and considered what he’d been told. Two for and one against David Pickett’s death being political. And yet he considered the odds to be even, he thought as he systematically worked on the pint. Stenny Amps was a freeloader and
a bum and loved to exaggerate his own exploits. But he was not prone to wild conspiracy theories. Ari Moser’s more reasoned, if darker, analysis of the political implications of Pickett’s passing was more than offset by the tinfoil-hat idiocy of Angie Markham’s alcohol-fueled conspiratorial ruminations. Speaking of which…
“Stay fucking right there, Jesse Steinfeld!” Angie’s piercing screech cut through the dense barroom din, even as L7’s “This Ain’t the Summer of Love” blared above it all. She was small, barely over five feet, but Jesse could see her from across the room trying to shove her way through the unyielding throng. He guzzled the rest of his beer in record time as he lost sight of her, but he could still hear her. “Don’t you fucking leave!”
He ducked down from his stool, then wove his way, crouching, toward the dazzling light of the open door. An agonizing minute later, he reached the door, the day, and freedom. He looked back to see Angie standing at the doorway, distraught. Jesse raced down the sidewalk and turned the corner on Fillmore. He ran past the grocery store murals, past Laussat Street, and past more murals adorning a Cambodian restaurant. Only then did he stop to catch his breath.
It was late afternoon, approaching evening. His smartphone kept ringing, so he turned it off. An airbus wheezed down Fillmore. He grabbed a ride by swiping his phone’s Clipper app and settled into a seat next to an elderly man dressed in a suit and tie and reading audibly from a Bible. Jesse was enjoying the effects of his three pints of strong ale, so when he switched to a Muni train at Church headed for the park and the demonstration, he was feeling no pain. The sun was nestling into that fog bank above Twin Peaks.
The Muni rattled up along the west side of Dolores Park, giving Jesse a view of the rally in progress on the green soccer fields. He disembarked. Parrots wheeled overhead, chirping and shrieking. He saw Toby Barnabas get off the train, too. He was a tall lanky Mohawked man he knew from hanging around the periphery of Pickett’s militant circles. He was dressed in black with a leather jacket sporting the familiar Mohawked skulls of The Exploited’s Fuck the System album. Toby walked, chatting with his über-Goth girlfriend, Cynthia, “Tank Girl” on her leather jacket. They did not see Jesse.
The Death of David Pickett Page 1
