Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  A little smoke wafted out of Norcoast’s office. He turned from Sheila and saw Clarence. He quickly closed the door, harder than he intended.

  Ollie stood behind Taco Bell and sized up the short wiry young man dressed in an oversized plaid Pendleton shirt. The dark-blue shirt with its long sleeves seemed to envelop him more like a bedsheet than a shirt. Around his neck, hanging outside the flannel shirt, was a black woven cross necklace.

  “So, Eddie,” Ollie said, “you’re a Four Trey East Coast Crip, that right?”

  “Yeeeah. Four Treys forever, man.”

  The gang detectives had told Ollie that Eddie Pearl, street name Picasso, was probably the most experienced graffiti artist—or vandal, depending on one’s perspective—in Portland. He’d come up from L.A. two years ago.

  “So, what do you make of this, Picasso?” Ollie pointed to the five lines of blue text on the fence. Manny hovered over the boy’s shoulder as if he were an eager apprentice.

  Eddie studied the composition like a master analyzing the work of another master. He looked at it from a distance, then up close. Moments of appreciation were punctuated by moments of puzzlement.

  “This be fresh, ’round here anyway.”

  “You mean this particular tag?” Ollie asked.

  “Yeah, tag’s def. Nobody around here do this tag. But I’m sayin’ the style’s fresh.”

  “Style?” Ollie asked.

  “Every tagger gots his own style. Like the shape of the letters, you know? Some circles, some squares, some diamonds. Some loopy, some wavy. Printed blocks, those easiest to read.”

  “Some of these letters are completely separated,” Ollie said, pointing to the tag. “And some barely touch each other, but a lot of them overlap so much I can’t distinguish the letters.”

  “Yeeeah. Hardest be overlapping wavy ones, like these. Problem is, it be a mixed style. See,” he pointed at another piece of graffiti, “this one’s Four Seven Kerby Bloc. It all be backwards, so it’s easy to read. But this one just has some letters backwards, and they overlap. It’s wavy. Not a full diamond style. Called half-diamond. See the diamond above the i?”

  “Barely,” Ollie said. “Can you translate this piece? In the last line, P is for Piru, right? Blood.”

  “Yeah. And you know 187.”

  “Section 187, California penal code for murder. He’s a Blood killer, so obviously he’s a Crip. But that’s all I can make of it.”

  Picasso nodded. “Next line up is Sur.” It looked to Ollie like a single broad letter, but as Picasso ran his finger over it, he could now see a backward S with a u and r stemming from it.

  “What’s Sur mean?” Ollie asked.

  “Southern California,” Manny said. “It’s Spanish. You see it all the time in Latino graffiti.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. But…the guy isn’t Hispanic, right?”

  “No way, man,” Picasso said. “He be Crip. Lot of Crips and Bloods pick up stuff from Spic gangs.” He looked at Manny tentatively after saying Spic.

  “How about the third line?” Ollie asked, looking at several letters hopelessly overwritten.

  Picasso stared long and hard. “Okay, got it. HC. C’s backwards over the H.” As soon as he lined it out with his finger, it became obvious, like one of those images you can’t see until someone tells you how to look at it, and then you can’t understand why you didn’t see it all along.

  “So what’s HC?” Ollie asked.

  “Hoover Crip,” Picasso said. “He be a Hoover.”

  Ollie wrote it down.

  “Second line be Nine Deuce.”

  “Of course,” Ollie said, seeing the backward two over a forward nine. “A Nine Deuce Hoover.” Ollie and Manny exchanged glances. Both were thinking of the SERT officer’s HK53 lost in the L.A. battle with Five Nine Hoovers, an allied set.

  “Okay, what’s the first line?” Ollie knew what was often on first lines. If he were a praying man, he’d have been praying right now.

  “First line be OG, Original Gangster. Then be his name.”

  “His name? What is it?”

  “Sniper. No, wait.” Picasso ran his finger over the jumbled mass of lines. “Spider. Name be Spider.”

  “Spider,” Ollie said with a gleam in his eye, writing it down. “Now, Eddie, there aren’t any Nine Deuce Hoovers in Portland yet, are there?”

  “No way, man. He be from L.A. No doubt.”

  “So…you’re telling me the guy who wrote this is an L.A. Nine Deuce Hoover who goes by Spider?”

  “That what the soldier say. Art don’t lie,” Picasso said.

  “Eddie,” Ollie slapped the master on the back, “it’s all the Taco Bell you can eat, on me.”

  Clarence lay sleepless again. Unfortunately, he couldn’t sleep without shutting his eyes. And every night lately, lying in wait for him on the back of his eyelids was a boy whose name he didn’t even know.

  Fourteen-year-old Clarence was hanging with Rock and Shorty in Cabrini Green. His father didn’t think they were good influences and told him to stay away from them. So he had to steal away to meet them over by the junkyard, which made the friendship as tasty as forbidden cookies.

  “Say, you look at that? Tell me what you see.” Shorty’s voice was young and cocky.

  “See a white boy,” Rock said in a steady measured tone, “wanderin’ where he don’t belong.”

  Young Clarence followed their gaze. Sure enough, there was a white boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, riding his beat-up red Schwinn, a confused and frightened look on his face.

  “I think honky’s wantin’ to get licked,” Rock said.

  Before Clarence could say anything, Rock and Shorty were running full out toward the intruder. Clarence looked behind him. No one else was around. He looked ahead to see his friends overtaking the white boy. In an instant he made the decision that would haunt him. He ran to join them. They’d just rough up this boy, teach him a lesson.

  The boy lay frozen on the ground. Rock was stretched out on top of him, letting spit dribble from his mouth onto the boy’s forehead.

  “What’s wrong, white boy? Too scared to fight the niggas?”

  Rock punched him hard in the side. Shorty let loose with a short kick. Unsatisfied with that, he moved back like a field goal kicker and ran at him five feet before he let one loose. Clarence thought he heard ribs crack. The boy choked and grimaced.

  After a few more blows, the shellacking got too boring for Rock. He looked at Shorty and Clarence and said, “Let’s take him to the dump.”

  When Rock told him he’d urinate in his mouth if he didn’t, the boy marched in front of them like a prisoner of war in the Bataan Death March.

  Run, white boy, Clarence kept saying inside himself. He’d seen Rock and Shorty feisty before, but never so mean. He kept thinking what his daddy would say. He knew he should go home or talk the other boys out of it or get help. But he couldn’t do that. These were his friends. This was their neighborhood. White people owned the whole rest of the world. They needed to stay away from here. Besides, Clarence had vivid memories of black boys who’d wandered into white neighborhoods. They’d come back beaten and cut up, sometimes with broken bones, hanging their heads like little whipped dogs, recounting stories of humiliation. Maybe this white boy had beaten up black boys. Maybe he deserved this.

  By now the boy was sobbing, and he couldn’t get out a full sentence. He kept saying, “I’m sorry”, and “I just got lost.” Rock came to an old bedspring propped up on its side. He tucked the boys hands into the big coils, and then tucked his feet in too. The boy couldn’t pull out his hands without cutting them. His eyes were full of fear.

  Rock punched him in the groin like he’d seen in some movie. When the boy cried harder, Shorty got in on it, taking a swing at his face. Clarence felt as though he was going to throw up. He saw his friends looking at him. It was his turn. Suddenly he did something he would rehearse every day for the rest of his life. He jumped up a little and kicked the boy in the
stomach. A karate kick, like on TV. Then he jumped and kicked him again. He yelled obscenities at him, any one of which his daddy would have whipped him for and washed out his mouth with a bar of soap.

  But Daddy wasn’t there. No one was watching. Just he and his friends. Clarence kicked the boy first because he was probably a rich kid, although his bike wasn’t very fancy and his clothes looked kind of poor. He kicked him because he was probably a nigger-hater, although he hadn’t called them any names. He kicked him again just because he was white. And that much was undeniable. He kicked him again because they wouldn’t let his daddy play in the majors. Again, because his favorite aunt had died after she’d been turned away from a white hospital in Mississippi. Another kick because he had to live in the poor part of town while this boy probably lived in a big mansion with colored house help. He kicked him again even harder, because of those Mississippi white boys who pummeled him and Dani with the broken beer bottles, leaving scars on both of them. He kicked him again because the Mississippi cops tortured his daddy. He kicked him again because his mama cried when they wouldn’t let her family into the restaurant. And again and again and again for a hundred other reasons, running out of kicks long before he ran out of reasons.

  Clarence didn’t know how many times he kicked the boy, but he heard Shorty and Rock calling his name. “Clarence! Stop it, man. He’s out. He’s out. Okay?” It was Shorty, looking scared, glancing every which way and saying, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Rock and Shorty took off. Clarence was left alone, collapsed now from exhaustion and dizziness. He looked at the boy just hanging there limp, a red spot in his side growing bigger and bigger on his stained white T-shirt. He looked like a religious icon, as if he’d been crucified. The longer Clarence looked at him, the more he saw just a boy. Clarence started crying. He gently touched the boy’s face.

  “Come on, white boy. Wake up, now. We was just scarin’ you, that’s all.”

  He carefully removed the boy’s hands from their bedspring prison, cutting them a little as he pulled them out. It bothered him about the cuts. The boy was dead weight. Clarence lowered him to the ground, clearing away junk so he could lie flat. He bent over the still body. He thought he saw the boy barely breathing, or maybe it was just the wind rustling his T-shirt. It scared him worse than anything had ever scared him. The boy lay beside an old refrigerator, butted up against the bedspring.

  Suddenly Clarence stuck his head in the refrigerator and vomited. He looked every direction. He took off running and didn’t stop until he came to his house. He knew he should tell someone, get help for the boy, but he was afraid of what they’d do to him, maybe put him in jail for the rest of his life.

  To this day he didn’t know who the boy was and whether he’d lived or died. For the last thirty years, he’d relived those memories while taking a bike ride or seeing a bedspring or opening a refrigerator. Frequently the boy came to him at night when there was nothing to keep him away.

  Clarence had always been taught God could forgive everything anybody ever did. All his life, he’d believed this was true for every sin he could think of. Every sin except one.

  A man’s skin color is no more a predictor of his character than is his height, his blood type, or his cholesterol level. Racists exist in every group in America. Some whites who pride themselves on not being prejudiced against blacks can’t stand Hispanics. Some blacks who pride themselves on not being prejudiced against whites can’t stand Asians. So it goes. Prejudices aren’t a function of skin color but of small minds among men of all colors.

  Clarence’s telephone rang at the Trib, answered by the machine. “Mr. Abernathy? This is Ranae Maddox, assistant district attorney.”

  Clarence picked up the phone immediately.

  “Yes, Mr. Abernathy, I just wanted to inform you that I followed up on the affidavit filed by Floyd Kost. I interviewed him personally, and even though he’s a bit quirky, I’m convinced he’s telling the truth. Based on that, and on the fact that our case hinged primarily on Gracie Miller, our office is dropping all charges against you.”

  “You mean,” Clarence spoke the words slowly, “I won’t have to go to court?”

  “No, you won’t. And we’re sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you.”

  Inconvenience? Try humiliation.

  Clarence called Geneva, just getting out the news before he choked up.

  “I’m so happy, baby,” Geneva said. “Let’s go out with Janet and Jake tonight and celebrate!”

  “That sounds great,” Clarence said. “And thanks again for…standing by me.”

  “I’d never consider doing anything else. I think there was something about that in our wedding vows, wasn’t there? I love you, baby. Get home early as you can, okay?”

  Clarence felt deeply thankful for the news and for Geneva. But it’d been so long since he’d thanked God for anything, he felt as if he’d forgotten how.

  Clarence went to Dan Ferrent’s desk, taking with him the names and numbers of Ranae Maddox, Floyd Kost, and Ollie Chandler. He wanted to make sure Ferrent wrote a follow-up story on him being exonerated. Even so, he knew many people would never read the follow-up and some who did wouldn’t believe his alibi. They’d always believe he’d gotten away with something.

  The reputation he’d worked so hard to build was no longer under attack. Yet it would never be fully restored. Like the tide coming in and out, his emotions vacillated between relief and resentment.

  Clarence walked the sidewalk, bundled up heavily. All the shops were decorated for Christmas, and holiday music permeated the city. He entered the Justice Center, realizing for the first time in his life he no longer felt nervous being in a building filled with cops.

  “You really think the killers would leave graffiti behind Taco Bell?” Clarence asked Ollie. “Wouldn’t that be incredibly stupid?”

  “To us, maybe,” Ollie said. “But the key to solving crimes is to stop thinking like yourself and start thinking like the perps. Put yourself in their place. Assume they’re from a heavy gang area in California, where graffiti is everywhere. It gets crossed out and painted over all the time. They rarely get caught, and even when they are, they never get more than a hand slap. You always keep spray paints in the car. Tagging becomes a habit, like spitting on the sidewalk. A guy does it long enough, he does it without thinking. Taco Bell’s a mile from what’s going to be the crime scene. They figure nobody’d recognize their tag up here. And even if they did, so what? Where’s the link between a Taco Bell wall and a shooting a mile away? What’s the risk?”

  “More than they realized, obviously,” Clarence said.

  “These guys don’t think about tomorrow,” Ollie said. “They think about the moment. They’re killing a few hours by a Taco Bell dumpster in a strange city, waiting for witnesses to get off the streets and the intended victim to be in her bedroom. They can’t do drugs, because they want to be sure they’re sharp for the hit. They get bored, real bored and jittery. So one of them pops the trunk, takes out a spray can, and lays a little tag on the wall. Why not?”

  “So what can you do with Picasso’s translation?” Clarence asked.

  “I’ve linked in with the L.A. gang cops and their network. I’ve asked for any info they’ve got on a Nine Deuce Hoover named Spider. They’ll come up with something.”

  “But a Nine Deuce? Didn’t you say the HK53 was taken from the cop by Five Nine Hoovers?”

  “I figure the Five Nines thought the cops would put the pressure on them, look for any excuse to search their cribs, even their safe houses. In fact, one of the L.A. cops told me that’s exactly what they did. Never found the HK. My guess is whoever nabbed it originally either sold it or traded it for drugs or weapons. And who would they deal with? An ally. The Hoover sets are confederates. A lot of Five Nines and Nine Deuces are going to know each other.”

  Ollie’s phone rang. He answered, “Ho Ho Ho…Homicide. Ollie.” Clarence rolled his eyes.

  “Oh,
hello lieutenant,” Ollie said, feet suddenly shifting as though he needed to go to the restroom. “Yes, sir. I agree, sir. No, it certainly wasn’t appropriate. I’ll get the word out to the guys. Yes, public image is important, sir. We have to keep that in mind. No, not a laughing matter. I should say not, sir. Yes, sir, I’ll take care of that for you. Merry Christmas.” He put down the phone.

  “How do they put up with you?” Clarence asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ollie said. “Sometimes I can hardly put up with myself. But then I take a good look in the mirror and remember what an amazingly handsome fellow I am.”

  “I have a suggestion, Ollie.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Get a new mirror.”

  He had no name here. No new name, not even the old names. Not Raymond Taylor. Certainly not Gangster Cool. There was nothing to distinguish him from anyone else. In fact, there was no one else at all. He felt like an isolated piece of litter blown helter-skelter on the fringes of a dump. His existence was arbitrary and pointless now. The rep he’d worked so hard for meant nothing here. It was no longer a reward, but a punishment.

  “Where is everyone?” He heard the loneliness in his voice, and it frightened him. Where were his homeboys who’d died—Buzzard and Stick Man and Li’l Capone and the rest? He knew they must be here, but where? What about his brother and cousin and grandma? They too had left the old world, but he knew instinctively they were not in this one. They’d chosen a different path while in the land of choice and opportunity. He would never see any of them again.

  I’ll never be able to touch Mama, he thought, locked behind the invisible bars of eternity, serving an eternal life sentence. He could see occasional images, catch fleeting glimpses across the divide to the old world. He could see his mama’s tears, her grief, but also her faith in God. Seeing it did not comfort him.

  Segregation ruled here. Not just segregation of the races, but each man eternally segregated from all others. Isolation. Loneliness. Parched and barren souls living alone, separate, unable to communicate with each other.