“My sister, Katy, struggled through school and took a stab at college but never finished. She’s married with a couple of kids but has a lot of emotional problems. Her husband’s a bank manager. He’s a damn nice guy who has tried everything to make her happy, but nothing he does seems to do any good. Quite honestly, I don’t know how he can stand being with her. I would have left a long time ago.”
“Damn, bro, I’m sure sorry. Your life’s even more messed up than mine, and that ain’t right being as you did all the right things and I didn’t.”
“Thanks, Sal. I appreciate your sympathy but save it. I came here tonight because I’m on a mission and I need your help in assuring it succeeds. If you’re interested, listen to what I’m about to say and then give it a thumbs-up or -down. Either way, we’ll still be friends.”
“Okay, brother, have at it. What can I do for you?”
Ryan began by telling Sal about the events of the past few days. He told him every detail about the killing of Professor Bill Delgadillo, his wife, Brenda, and their nephew, Hugo. He filled him in on the role the professors had played in the bombing murder of his grandfather in the parking lot of Park Station, and how it was just one of the many bombings they had perpetrated throughout the country during the late sixties and early seventies.
He covered it all, vividly describing the bombings, the murders, the ties to foreign agents, and the ongoing campaign that the professors had waged in their quest to cultivate young minds for their future Marxist utopia.
“Do you remember that cop who used to come up and volunteer at the Dawn?” Ryan asked.
Sal thought for a minute. “Yeah, I remember. He was a short, balding little fella, right? His name was Jack, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, Jack Oldham. Do you remember how we used to joke that he was too nice to be a cop?”
“Yeah, I do,” Sal replied. “We thought that he was more cut out to be a priest. He was kind and gentle and never had a bad thing to say about anyone. Most of all, he’d listen to our concerns for hours and try to give us reassurance and advice on how to cope with the adversities that had consumed our young lives. He was very patient and understanding, almost to the point of being spiritual.”
Ryan agreed. “He and his wife took a special interest in me when they found out I was Mort O’Hara’s grandson. Turns out they knew each other quite well and had worked together early in their careers.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember the connection between Jack and your grandpa. He spoke about it a lot. Another thing I remember is that they let me tag along when they came up and took you out for Easter dinner in 1980.”
“I’m glad you remember, because Jack’s the reason I need your help.”
“How so?” asked Sal.
“Do you remember that, all of a sudden, Jack and his wife stopped coming around?”
“Well, I can’t remember giving it any thought, but now that you mention it, the last time I recall seeing him was on the Fourth of July in 1980.”
“You’re right. That was the last time. Father O’Rourke never told us why Jack didn’t come back. I guess he figured we were troubled enough and that telling us would just send us off the deep end. So he kept it from us.”
“Kept what from us, bro?”
“His murder.”
Sal looked surprised. “His murder? Are you telling me someone killed that nice old guy?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“Who the hell would kill someone like Jack? The guy was harmless. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Yeah, I know, but that didn’t matter to those Black Socialist Army and Lenin’s Legion motherfuckers who killed him.” Ryan paused and studied Sal’s face as he finished the last of his beer. “How about another drink, partner?”
“Yeah, sure, but don’t stop now. Tell me what these bastards did to Jack and what it all has to do with me.”
“I will, but let’s order another round first.”
Ryan motioned for the waiter and ordered more drinks. After the waiter brought them to the table and left, he continued, “Jack was a sergeant at the old Potrero Station. That’s the one out in the Bayview District that was across from the American Can Company, on Third Street.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with it. It was just up the block from the old Bethlehem Shipyard, right?”
“That’s it.”
“Go on. I’m listening,” said Sal.
“It was a Saturday night in late July. Jack had volunteered to trade days off with another sergeant, who had a family commitment. He was one of the section sergeants that night and was supervising patrolmen on the street. Some white broad came into the station and told the station duty officer she’d just been gang-raped by a bunch of black guys up on Hudson Street. She was crying hysterically and appeared very traumatized.
“A couple of patrolmen responded into the station to take charge of the initial investigation and decided to go to the scene and see if they could apprehend the suspects. They contacted Jack over the radio and told him what they intended to do. He came into the station and okayed the plan. Like any good street sergeant would do, he decided to accompany them. He grabbed a couple more patrolmen and responded to the location of the alleged rape. The woman went along to show them the house.”
After a pause, Ryan continued, “Upon arriving at the location, the woman was told to stay in the car. Jack sent a couple of patrolmen around to the rear of the house—in case someone tried to flee out the back door—and started up the front steps with the other two cops. That’s when all hell broke loose.
“One of the patrolmen knocked on the door and announced their presence. When he didn’t receive an answer, he turned the knob, and as he pushed the door open, the porch blew up. Jack was killed instantly and the two patrolmen were critically injured. One of them sustained a spinal injury when he landed on his back at the base of the steps. Paralyzed from the waist down, he’s been in a wheelchair ever since. The other cop sustained a fractured skull and lost his eyesight. After lengthy hospital stays, both officers retired on disability.
“The two patrolmen who’d been watching the back of the house came running around to the front just in time to see the white broad getting into a maroon Cadillac with three black dudes. The suspects had been lurking nearby and had picked her up when they heard the explosion. The officers unloaded their guns at the car as it sped away and were able to get a partial license plate number, which they put out over the air.
“Within minutes, the Cadillac was spotted by couple of cops in the lower Mission District. The ensuing car chase went on for about ten minutes, during which time the suspects fired out the back window at the pursuing cops. The cop in the passenger seat of the police vehicle leaned out the window and fired off fifteen rounds from an M-1 carbine, hitting the suspect vehicle several times. The driver was hit and lost control, crashing into a telephone pole.
“Two of the black dudes bailed and took off running. They escaped into the warehouse area, but it was quickly sealed off by responding units. They were soon flushed out and taken into custody after a dog from the canine unit located them hiding in a railway boxcar. The driver of the suspect vehicle, Junius Livingston, was dead at the scene. The white broad, a bitch named Janet Hanoian, died from multiple gunshot wounds a few hours later at San Francisco General. Before she expired, she made a dying declaration acknowledging that she was a member of Lenin’s Legion and that the bombing was a joint operation between her organization and the soldiers of the Black Socialist Army. She also warned that ‘the pigs’ hadn’t seen anything yet.
“The two pukes who fled from the car were a couple of BSA members by the names of Albert Jefferson and Anthony Upton. They’re the reason that I need you,” Ryan finished.
“Need me for what?” asked Sal.
“Because of the line of work that you’re in, you have access to people that I don’t.”
Sal laughed softly and said, “I must say, old buddy, you flatter me. That’s the f
irst time I’ve ever heard my vocation referred to as a line of work. But thanks for the compliment. Please continue.”
“The two punks who survived the chase and shootout were tried and convicted of Jack’s murder. They were also convicted on six separate counts of attempted murder of a police officer. They’re currently serving life sentences at San Quentin with no possibility of parole.”
“Okay, so what’s this got to do with me, bro?” asked Sal.
“I’m assuming that you have connections with guys in the joint.”
“Your assumption is correct.”
“I know that in order to survive inside those walls, guys have to join gangs. It’s the only way they are able to protect themselves from either becoming someone’s wife or winding up dead.”
“You got that right,” Sal acknowledged.
“When Jefferson and Upton first went to Quentin, they became members of the African Guerrilla Brotherhood. They started at the bottom but over the years moved to the top of the heap and are now two of its most powerful leaders. They didn’t get there by attending Bible classes with the supposed born-again Christians who are trying to con their way out of the joint.”
“How do you know all this, bro?”
“One of my friends is a screw and he told me. He also told me that Jefferson and Upton are suspected in several murders. Their traditional targets belong to a Mexican gang called Hijos de Zapata and a Caucasian gang called the White Alliance. The Mexicans and the Caucasians have a cooperative arrangement within the walls and watch each other’s backs. If one group is attacked, the other one comes to their aid. Both groups are suspected of bumping off blacks from time to time in a sort of tit for tat that will probably never end.”
Sal studied his friend before replying. “Okay, partner, now I know you are up on the politics of prison gangs, a topic that I am well versed in. You seem to know a lot, so where do I fit into the overall scheme?”
“I’d like you to get someone on the inside to take out Jefferson and Upton. It could be someone who owes you a favor or maybe just someone who will need one when they get out.”
“Why would I want to do something like that?” Sal asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought you’d like to help me set things straight in memory of Jack. He was, after all, one of the few people who ever treated you like a human being when you were a kid,” observed Ryan.
The two men sat in silence for several minutes as they drank. Ryan waited as Sal pondered the proposition he had just been presented with. The gangster thought about it and weighed the risks, tossing around in his mind the fact that there was absolutely nothing in it for him, except maybe the satisfaction of causing the deaths of two deserving black-militant bastards who had killed a kindly mentor from his youth.
Sal was the first to break the silence. “I’ll think it over, brother.”
“When will you let me have your answer?” Ryan asked.
“I won’t. Whatever does or doesn’t go down is no longer your concern. It is out of your hands now and is solely my business. As you know, my business isn’t yours, capisce?”
Ryan called the waiter over and the two of them ordered a lobster-and-steak dinner.
They spent the remainder of the evening engaging in small talk and reminiscing about their days with Father O’Rourke at the Dawn of Light.
At nine o’clock they parted company.
“It’s done,” Ryan thought as he watched Sal disappear into the night on his bike.
PART 3
Pablo
CHAPTER
7
“Pinche puto, bendejos. All those jive asses are good for is talking shit, intimidating the weak, and flexing their muscles. Soon those dumb, ignorant cabrones will know what real intimidation is all about.”
Pablo Mendora was the leader of Hijos de Zapata. The focus of his disdain, as he spoke with his lieutenants, was the large gathering of muscular blacks who were pumping iron in their little corner of the exercise yard.
Presiding over the group were Albert Jefferson and Anthony Upton. Jefferson and Upton insisted that their subordinates in the African Guerrilla Brotherhood engage in daily conditioning. They understood that in order to effectively carry out their enforcement duties, their members needed to be bigger, stronger, and more intimidating than the other cons. The business of murder, extortion, and drug flow required physical strength. Jefferson and Upton practiced what they preached and took an active part in the daily workout sessions. Although both in their mid-fifties, they could still bench over three hundred pounds.
Pablo’s hatred for blacks went back to his days as a kid growing up near the Army Street projects in San Francisco’s lower Mission District. His first encounter with them was as a fourteen-year-old, when he was jumped by six of them and stomped nearly to death as he walked home from school. The last words he remembered as he lay on the pavement being kicked into unconsciousness were “Kill the muthafucka. Kill that little wetback muthafucka!” He still remembered the sadistic laughter of his attackers as their feet pounded his head and thrust into his gut. Yeah, he hated these bastards, and nothing pleased him more than fucking them up whenever an opportunity to do so presented itself.
Pablo often thought back to the time he’d spent in the hospital after the beating. While recovering from a fractured skull, broken jaw, and ruptured spleen, he decided it was time to accept the invitation of his pals to join their street gang.
He’d managed to stay away from gangs and the trouble that came with them up to the day he was put in the hospital. The gang members in the neighborhood had left him alone. They liked him, probably in large part because the flat on Twenty-Fourth Street where he lived with his parents, Orlando and Inez Mendora, served as a sort of gathering place in the large Latino community that surrounded it. Anyone, especially kids needing a hot meal or a place to crash for the night, could always count on Señora Mendora to have a pot of beans and fresh tortillas waiting for them should they drop in unexpectedly. The generosity and giving nature of the Mendoras reflected their Latino culture. “Mi casa es su casa” was the way people were greeted by Orlando and Inez, no matter what their standing in the community. People in need could always depend on la familia Mendora.
Orlando worked as a janitor in a downtown high-rise. He was known as the alcalde of Lower Twenty-Fourth Street and was always accompanied by four or five of his amigos when making the rounds of the many bars and restaurants that made his neighborhood, to the east of Mission Street, the hub of social interaction in the barrio.
The elder Mendora mediated local problems, represented his neighbors at police community-relations meetings, and even ventured to city hall on occasion to discuss problems within the Latino community.
Orlando and Inez were not happy when their only child, Pablo, joined Los Hermanos Bandidos. They tried to reason with him. Señor Mendora believed the police would protect him, but Pablo’s reasoning was that the cops couldn’t be everywhere. And besides, they hadn’t done him any good when those bastards from the Army Street projects had almost killed him.
No, he wanted protection and he would have it under the umbrella of Los Hermanos Bandidos. Besides, he had the added assurance that those responsible for his beating would be harshly dealt with if he became one of them, and he wanted to see the bastards pay.
When he was brought into the gang, the first thing that its president, Rigoberto “The Blade” Uribe, told him was, “Now you’re one of us, ESE. We’re gonna find los putos Negros who jumped you and we’re gonna show them what happens to brothas who mess with Chicanos.”
It didn’t take long for Rigoberto’s promise to play out. On a Friday night about a week and a half after Pablo joined, he and a couple of older gang members, Estefan Escobar and Ramon Encinias, were summoned to the gang’s hangout on Folsom Street.
Rigoberto had information from one of his moles in the projects that two of the guys who had jumped Pablo were hanging out in Garfield Square Park, drinking and smok
ing dope. According to the informant—who was spotted some free grass for the information—they were with a couple of girls.
“We’re gonna go over and slice them up in front of their women. We’re gonna send a message. Any black muthafucka who messes with us is goin’ down. We’re gonna have a little brown-on-black race war. When we’re done with those muthafuckin’ mayates, they gonna know that this is our turf and that they best stay in that fuckin’ zoo they call a housing project. You with me, hermanos?”
“Yeah, we’re with ya, homes. Let’s do it.”
“Good. Estefan, I want you and Ramon to round up the rest of your crews and position them around the park. Put a few over on Treat Street and some on Harrison. Put the rest on Twenty-Fifth and Twenty-Sixth. Tell them not to make themselves too obvious. I want the kid here to have some fun. But if things start going south, I want your guys to move in and cover his back, comprenden?”
“Comprendemos, jefe. Cuando?”
“Yesterday,” Rigoberto replied.
Within half an hour, Rigoberto and his two captains had their gang dispersed inconspicuously around the park. Rigoberto looked at Pablo and asked, “You ready to rumble, little one?”
“Yeah, Blade, let’s do it.”
Rigoberto handed a switchblade to the young gang member and said, “No, you do it. Vamanos.”
Rigoberto, Estefan, Ramon, and Pablo entered the park and split up into the shadows. Pablo’s mouth was dry and he was shaking. His heart pounded against the inside of his chest as if it were trying to bust out of his body. He hoped his fear didn’t show. This was his initiation into the gang, and what better way to prove himself than to be able to do in someone who had done him harm?
The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara Page 5
