American Static

by Tom Pitts

  “I know you dragged me along on this trip because you think that I’m smarter than you. It’s not true. I’m only older.”

  “C’mon, you’re a legend around the department. Nobody knows the job like you do.”

  “Nobody in Calistoga, you mean. And that ain’t saying much.” Carl paused and said, “I’m surprised you got Herrera to sign off on this.”

  “On what?”

  “On this trip. On me going along.”

  “Oh, this ain’t on the taxpayers tab. He said it didn’t bother him none if I went off and chased my tail. I had to take a few personal days. You think he was gonna okay a weekend in San Francisco at the city’s expense?”

  “No, I guess I didn’t. Doesn’t surprise me either. He was never what you’d call a bold thinker.” Carl looked out his window for a moment, then said, “You did tell him I was coming along, didn’t you?”

  “Hell, I’m footing the bill; it shouldn’t matter who’s coming along. Besides, he’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I’m sure he will.” Carl reached for his small tin of mints, popped the lid with his thumb, and shook two into his palm. “You gonna get some heat over this?”

  “Heat? No. Maybe some teasing. We’ll see what pans out. It’d be nice to come back a hero.” Brakes began to light up in front of them and Peters decelerated.

  “Instead of a fool,” Carl said.

  “Right,” Peters said. “Instead of a fool. How about your dog? She gonna be okay?”

  “He? Don’t let him hear you call him a girl. He may look passive, but he got feelings.” Carl cleared his throat and flipped the mints over his tongue. “Buford’ll be fine. Got a neighbor kid that’ll come over. Feed him. Let him out. Buford don’t like the city anyway. Too many freaks, not enough trees.”

  ***

  Quinn and Steven wandered the area around Powell Street Station looking for young people begging for change and sitting on the sidewalk. There were plenty to choose from. Along with the tourists lined up in a huge ellipse bordering the street car turn-around, there were street performers, hobos, cops, street vendors, and business people trying to make an early commute. Woven into the throngs were kids who sat with empty coffee cups in front of them, smoking cigarettes, looking dirty and as hopeless as they were.

  “You want to make fifty bucks?” Quinn would ask them.

  They’d eye him with suspicion, but their need and greed always got them to get up and talk.

  “Okay, here’s the deal: You can have fifty bucks or a punch in the face—or both.”

  Invariably they would choose the fifty and point to another street waif who maybe knew the elusive Teresa. Quinn would hand them a ten. If they complained, he’d tell them the punch in the face was still available and they’d quickly fade back into the crowds.

  After several tries bracing the street kids, they stood smoking cigarettes on the corner of Eddy and Mason. A dirty kid in a heavily studded leather jacket and hair colored with what Steven guessed was spray paint walked up and asked if they were the guys giving out money to find a girl named Teresa.

  “Why are you looking for her? You guys cops?”

  “You know her?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You seen cops handing out money before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I guess we’re not cops then. I need to find her and if you know where she’s at, I’ll put fifty bucks in your hand right now. But if you’re wrong, I’ll come back tomorrow, the next day, the next week until I find you. You understand? This ain’t free money.”

  “I know her.”

  “You think you do.”

  “I do, I know her.”

  “Describe her.”

  The kid did his best. His words jumbled and stuttered.

  When Quinn was convinced it was the right Teresa, he said, “All right, that’s her. What else do you know?”

  “I think I know where she stays.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know the exact address, but I know the house. If you give me a hundred, I’ll take you there.”

  Quinn shot a wink to Steven. “We’ve got a player.” It was getting late and the wind had picked up, bringing the damp cold with it. Quinn and Steven were tired of bouncing between the runaways and tourists.

  Quinn told the kid, “You’re on. Let’s go.”

  The three of them walked to the underground parking garage under Union Square. They piled into the Nissan, Quinn behind the wheel, the street kid in the passenger seat, and Steven in back. The kid asked them if they knew where the Mission was.

  Quinn said, “Yeah, of course.”

  Before they got out of the parking garage, Quinn rolled down all four windows. The street kid stank. His musty body odor hung in the car even with the foggy air blowing in, a chemical tang layered with filth and mold. In back, Steven lit a cigarette to mask the stench. The kid was unaware of his offensive odor. He sat, smiling, enjoying the ride. Probably the first time he’d been in a car in months.

  ***

  The Hall of Justice was a huge, gray slab. A full city block, still and unchanging. It was the way Carl remembered it. Always a beehive of activity in front, the building stood like the largest tombstone in the city. They’d added a new corkscrew-shaped jail on the backside, a McDonalds had sprung up on the corner, and the traffic was worse than it’d ever been, but the bold certainty of the Hall of Justice was there waiting for them.

  They locked their guns in the trunk of Peters’ car and kept their badges with them. They crossed Bryant Street and walked in between three news crews doing live remotes on the sidewalk and stairs.

  “What’s all the hubbub?” Peters asked.

  “There’s always some kind of somethin’ happening here. It’s the big city. If there ain’t no news, they’ll make some.”

  They waited as the security line slowly moved toward the metal detectors. They passed their badges and keys to the officer on duty, but he didn’t glance at them and handed both badges back when they passed though the detector’s arch. Inside, the lobby was loud and chaotic. Footsteps and voices reverberated off the marble walls and floors. They made their way to the large back-lit directory. Carl extended his finger up to H—Homicide.

  “Fourth floor, let’s go.” Carl pointed toward the elevator bank and Peters followed.

  They found their way to Homicide on the fourth floor. Carl told the officer manning the front desk they were there to see Detective Panzer.

  The clerk squinted back. “You’re not reporters, are you?”

  “No, sir, we are not.”

  “You better not be bullshitting or we’ll ban you from the building for good.” The clerk leaned back on his swivel chair. “Bill, you got company.”

  Bill Panzer stood up from a cubicle near the windows farthest from the door. He was heavier than Carl remembered, grayer, too. He figured he’d weathered the years pretty well considering how he must look to Bill.

  “If it ain’t the Calistoga Task Force.” Panzer grinned and extended a hand first to Carl and then to Peters. “Call me Bill.” Before the conversation could go any further, he said, “Let’s go across the street and grab a coffee or somethin’. It’s a crazy day in here.”

  The three exited the building the same way they came in. Peters noticed four news crews now planted on the wide front steps.

  “Big story today?” he asked Panzer.

  “Found a body in the Marina district this morning. Right on the fucking sidewalk,” shouted Panzer as they dodged traffic and skittered across Bryant Street. “TV news love that shit.”

  “Somebody important?” Carl asked.

  They reached the sidewalk across from the Hall of Justice and stood under the awning of a bail bondsman’s. Both Carl and Bill were panting from their jag across the street.

  “I don’t know who the hell it is, or where he came from. But you leave a body on the sidewalk in a rich neighborhood at seven in the morning and the reporters will have a field day. We d
on’t know any more than they do, as usual. Let’s go into this place,” Bill said, pointing to a café a few doors up the street. “The coffee’s pretty good and the pastries are better.”

  They settled in at a round wood table by the window. They sipped their coffees out of paper cups. After the obligatory comments and compliments, Carl said, “What’d you find out about our friend Tremblay?”

  “Ah yes, the French Connection.” Panzer took a bite out of a large, round cheese croissant. “I talked with a few of the guys in vice and one guy in narcotics. Your boy doesn’t have too many friends left on the force, I can tell you that.”

  “It’d be nice if we could speak to just one.”

  Panzer plied the plastic cover from his paper cup. “Well…there is one guy.”

  Carl leaned in, but didn’t say anything.

  “He’s a younger guy from narcotics. You know how these narco guys are—cagey as fuck. He says he’s still in touch with him. When I ask him why, he dodges, says Tremblay still has his ear to the ground. Comes in useful. I dunno whether they’re in bed together or if Tremblay’s feeding information, or what.”

  Peters cut in. “Does he know where to find him?”

  “I think so, but he wouldn’t say shit. I told him about you, Carl. Asked if maybe he’d sit down, have a word. Said to call him later tonight. He’s on duty ’til eight.”

  “Set it up,” Carl said.

  Chapter Eight

  “That’s the place,” the kid said. They were on Treat Street, a one block dead-end at the outer edge of the Mission District that sat above Precita Park. He pointed to an old Victorian in need of a paint job. The house was sandwiched between two nicer houses that looked as though they wanted to recoil from the gray shabby dump.

  “You sure?” Quinn said.

  The house had junk piled beside the front door. Bicycle parts, old TVs, big black rotting garbage bags with objects poking out their sides. The door to the place was covered in colorful stickers slapped on at odd angles, leafed over one another.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Quinn scanned the street for parking. He spotted a space behind them and threw the Nissan into reverse. Once they were wedged in and Quinn was sure they still had a bead on the front door, he killed the engine.

  “Now what?” Steven said.

  Quinn reached over in front of the street kid and popped open the glove box. The kid’s eyes went wide when he saw the chrome-plated .45 inside. Quinn took the gun out and, with his finger on the outside of the trigger guard, backhanded the kid in the face. The barrel of the gun connected nicely with the kid’s forehead, but not too hard.

  “Ouch. Shit, dude, what the fuck?”

  Quinn bent his elbow and let the butt of the pistol come down on the side of the kid’s head. The boy cried out.

  “Is she in there?” Quinn said.

  The kid held his head down near his knees. “I don’t know if she is. I just know she stays there.”

  “Sit up.”

  The kid stayed down, still covering his head with his hands.

  Quinn poked him in the ribs—hard—with the muzzle of the .45. “Sit up.”

  The kid sat up. “Dude, please.”

  “You want your money?”

  The kid nodded. He was whimpering now, like a child.

  “You want to wait here and see if she’s in there? You want to sit with us a while and see what happens next?”

  The kid didn’t move. He wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “You sure this is the place?”

  The kid nodded.

  “You sure?” Quinn jabbed him again with the barrel of the gun. His top lip curled up, exposing a row of perfect white teeth.

  “Dude, I’m sure.”

  “Stop calling me dude. It’s annoying.” Quinn pressed the barrel against the boy’s cheek. He pushed until the boy’s head connected with the glass of the passenger side window. “I got forty bucks for you, so you can leave and go get high or whatever the fuck you do. You’re not going to say shit about this. If you get in the way of me rescuing this little girl, I’m going to come find you. You hearin’ me?”

  The kid tried to nod his head. The barrel dug into his face.

  “Don’t fucking move, this thing might go off.”

  Steven sat quiet and still in the back, afraid any movement on his part would also cause the gun to fire. The sight of the gun scared him, seeing Quinn’s personality flip again scared him too, but there was an undeniable power there. It was hard to ignore. A thin smile appeared on Quinn’s face.

  “If you’re smart, you’ll go back to where we found you,” Quinn said. “If she’s here and I can get her and take her home, I’ll come find you and give you the rest of your hundred. How’s that sound?”

  The sound that came from the kid’s mouth was barely a breath. “Good.”

  “You’d like that, huh? Some extra dough? Get high for a day or two. Sounds nice.” Quinn pulled the gun back. “Lemme see your wallet.”

  “What?”

  “Your wallet, your ID.”

  The kid reached under himself and pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to Quinn.

  Quinn took it and flipped it open with his free hand. He thumbed out the ID. “California ID? You don’t even have a real driver’s license? No wonder you’re on the fucking street. You should get your shit together.” He paused to read the name on the card. “Phillip Cardasos.”

  The kid nodded silently.

  “What do they call you, Phillip?”

  “Why do they what?”

  “What. What do they call you? On the street. You go by Phillip or Phil, or what?”

  “Filthy.”

  “Filthy?” Quinn turned to look at Steven. “I couldn’t imagine why.” He poked the boy with the barrel of the gun once more. “Listen, Filthy, I’m going to hang on to the ID for a while, in case I got trouble finding you. You can get out now, go back downtown. And keep your fingers crossed that Teresa didn’t move or disappear.”

  Quinn flipped the wallet onto the kid’s lap. The kid picked it up and opened the car door and got out. He started walking straight down the sidewalk, away from the house, away from the car.

  Quinn climbed out of the driver’s side and called to him. “Hey, Filth, don’t you want your forty bucks?” He held two twenties folded between his fingers.

  The kid stopped, turned, seemed to debate it for a second, then scurried back to the car. He snatched the bills from Quinn’s hand, turned again, and strode quickly away without saying anything.

  When Quinn climbed back into his seat, he turned to Steven and gave him a broad white smile. “What about you? You’re going to stay and help me, right?” He patted the seat beside him.

  ***

  Teresa Alvarez didn’t even notice the pale brown Nissan parked on the block. She and her friend, Paul, walked by quick and determined. She kept her hands together, right squeezing the left as she walked. She didn’t see the young man’s head leaning against the lightly fogged window, his mouth agape and his eyes fluttering deep in a dream state.

  “He’s gonna be home. He’s always home. He doesn’t go anywhere. He’s got that bitch, Simone, running to the store for him, like, ten times a day.”

  “What the fuck does he need from the store?” Paul said. “The fucking guy never eats.”

  “Cigarettes and strawberry milk. He loves that shit. I think it’s disgusting.”

  “Is he fucking Simone?”

  “Probably. She shows up two weeks ago and hasn’t left. He better not let me catch ’em. I hate her. She’s probably diseased.”

  They made it to the front stoop of the peeling, grayed building. Paul pulled a small silver rectangle box from under his denim jacket. “You think he’s gonna go for it?”

  “Why not?” Teresa said. “He buys computer stuff all the time.” She frowned at the inert box. “What is it again?”

  “It’s a hard drive. An external one. It’s got, like, five hundred gigs
or something. They’re over a hundred bucks in the store; it’s got to be worth fifty or something to him.”

  “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “Looks are deceiving.”

  Quinn sat up straight in his seat and jabbed Steven in the shoulder. “Wake up, kid. That’s her.”

  Steven pulled his head from the window and licked his lips and teeth. His tongue was dry from sleeping with his mouth open. His neck was kinked and he had to pee. For a moment, he forgot where he was. He turned and saw Quinn, wide awake and excited.

  “I’m thinking, fuck the original plan. Just go to her now and say her dad is in the car. Get her to come over here.”

  “Who’s that she’s with?”

  “I got no idea. Doesn’t matter, I’ll take care of him. Go, go. Quick before she goes inside.”

  “I thought you wanted her to go inside. That was the plan.”

  “I changed my mind. This’ll be easier. Don’t worry, you’ll still get paid.”

  Steven thought about the gun in the glove box. He thought again about the fork wagging in Joe-Joe’s belly. He gave in with an almost imperceptible nod.

  As they discussed their move, they watched the two young people on the stoop of the house discuss theirs.

  Paul was pleading. “I can’t go in. I still owe him money. You go, get whatever you can and meet me down at the park. I trust you.”

  “What am I supposed to tell him? He’s gonna ask where I got it; I don’t even know what it is.” She took one step up. She stood a little taller than her friend now.

  “I told you. It’s an external hard drive. Just see what you can get and take it. I’ll be at the park down the street.”

  Teresa practiced saying it. “An external hard drive.” She took the silver box from her friend. “I don’t know how long it’s gonna take. You know how he is.”

  “Fuck. Do I ever.” Paul thrust his hands in his pockets and started back down the street. Before he got twenty feet he turned and said, “Don’t forget about me. I’ll be waiting.”