by JF Freedman
“These fucking guys,” he says.
“What fucking guys?”
“These killer fucking guys.”
He’s trying to tell her something.
“What fucking killer guys?”
“Ah, fuck ’em.”
“What fucking killer guys?” she presses.
“They’re all killers. Every fucking one of them. I’m a killer.”
“Your picture isn’t in here,” she tells him. Shit, this one’s so far gone he can’t even tell himself from these pictures.
“I could have. I could have done that.”
That is the point. It could have been any of these people. Any of them could have killed Frank Bascomb, and the next day they wouldn’t remember a thing about it.
“Bunch of fuckin’ Mexicans,” he drawls.
He’s referring to the men in the photos, all of whom are Hispanic. This man isn’t.
It’s a waste of time talking to people like him. That’s what he’s telling her. All the men in the cell with Bascomb were Hispanic. Maybe they were illegals, as she’d earlier thought. All back on the other side of the border. If that’s the case, she can kiss this one goodbye.
With a quick, sudden movement she wrests her arms from his grasp.
“Thanks for your time,” she says.
“They’ve been around here,” he tells her, his arm sweeping the area.
Now what? Is there anything here she can hang something on? He’s a fucked-up junkie; there’s nothing trustworthy about him. It’s a waste of her time.
“They come and go,” he intones solemnly, as only a righteous drunk will do.
She talks to everyone, although she realizes it’s a useless chore. No one knows any of these men, and they all want money.
One old guy, who seems to be a little more pulled-together than the others, has a hard look at two of the pictures. “This one, I think maybe was around here once,” he offers, his filthy fingernail touching the picture of the man who had baited Bascomb in the cell the night before Bascomb died. “I couldn’t say for certain, but he might could have. He might’ve been a pimp, cruising for fresh meat—he had that kind of attitude.”
“How long ago?” she asks. Something in the way he says it gives the declaration a slight ring of believability.
“Wouldn’t know,” he tells her. “Could be a week, could be a year. My mind’s gone, lady,” he admits truthfully.
“You’ve helped. Thank you.”
“You got a dollar on you? I’m dying of thirst out here.”
“Sure.” She digs a couple bucks out of her jeans pocket. “Go crazy.”
“Thanks, lady. Sorry I couldn’t help you more.”
“You helped,” she tells him again as she starts to walk away.
“Ventura,” he calls after her.
She stops, turns back to him.
“What?”
“Ventura. I think I heard he was from Ventura. Or was it Oxnard? Fuck, I can’t remember.”
“But one of them, maybe?”
“I’m full of shit. Don’t believe nothin’ you hear from me.”
She reaches into her pocket again, finds a couple more singles.
“Go take care of that thirst,” she tells the hapless man. “It’s hot out here.”
Haley St., 4:00 P.M. Herrera had said one of the men in the cell might have been a pimp, and the man in the jungle had, too. So she has to check it out.
A handful of women line the south side (the shady side) of the street along the ten-block stretch from Garden to Milpas, miniskirted, halter-topped, their tits pushed up to the nipple out of their thin cotton uplift-padded bras.
These are not your healthy blue-eyed milk-fed Carpinteria flower growers’ daughters looking to make a little extra money over summer vacation, nor are they hot, sexy, voluptuously youthful stroke-dream Latinas supplementing their income to pay for tuition to SBCC so they can get their dental technician’s degrees and be fruitful members of society.
Junkies. They range in age from early teenagers to God knows how old—you age fast living this kind of life, it’s measurable in weeks, literally, a girl drops off the street the odds are she’s dead or on the way. Virtually all of them are HIV-positive, mostly from infected needles, many have already crossed the line to full-blown AIDS, and the rest will follow. All the other sexually transmitted germs and viruses—clap, syph, herpes, you name it—that have been pestilences of mankind for centuries are raging freely inside their systems as well.
They hang out on the corners, waiting for the lights to turn red.
“Pull over, man, do you for a dime.”
Kate works the street doggedly, block by block, cornering each prostitute in turn like a bird dog flushing quail, forcing each one to look at her file pictures. Despite her disclaimers they all assume she’s working undercover and hiss at her to fuck off, leave them alone, she’s messing up their business.
She forces her card on them anyway. “If your memory improves, call me. There’s money in this for solid goods.”
That they hear; not that any of them will call. First law of the street—keep your mouth shut. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. And maybe you’ll survive.
Time is passing. The street traffic begins thinning out. Most of the streetwalkers have departed; they’ll reappear at dawn tomorrow for the morning rush hour.
Kate’s almost to Milpas St., the eastern boundary of hooker territory.
“Can I have a minute of your time? Could I ask you to look at these pictures? It won’t take but a minute.”
The woman looks at her morosely. She has a strong look of Indian blood in her broad cheekbones; most likely Guatemalan or Salvadoran, probably in this country illegally—a solid reason to be suspicious of anyone who smells of authority. She is older than most of the other girls on the street, close in age to Kate, which doesn’t give Kate much comfort.
Her tone is blunt. “My time costs, money.”
“How much have you made today?” Kate asks, knowing the answer. Even in a subterranean society like this there’s a pecking order. A woman of this age and shape is at the bottom. “Take a look. There could be money in this.”
The hooker nervously scrutinizes the open folder. For a brief moment her eyes narrow as they scan the photos, then quickly look away, back up the street into the sun.
Kate notices the moment of possible recognition. She looks at the pictures. One seems to be looking back at her, almost mocking her in silence.
“Do you know any of these men?” she asks, planting herself in the woman’s path so she can’t escape.
“Why the hell should I know any of them?” the woman asks defensively. “I don’t know any one of these dipshits,” she proclaims aggressively—too much so, Kate thinks.
“Okay, fine.” Kate knows when to push and when not to. This is not a time to push.
She hands the hooker her card.
“If you remember anything, you call me. There’s money for solid information.”
The woman’s eyes drift down to the pictures again.
“How much?”
“That depends on how good the information is.”
“Well …”
Kate leans forward.
“No, I don’t know anything,” the woman says with forced certainty. Fingering Kate’s card, she can’t resist: “A lot of money?”
“Could be.” Kate plays her. “For solid information.”
The woman nods, as if something just came to her. “Maybe … I don’t know … maybe I might know somebody that knows one of these guys. One of the girls on the street. Probably not, but maybe someone knows something.”
She recognized one of the men in the photos; Kate’s sure of that.
Kate has no more use for this woman, not right now. She has cast her bread upon the waters, now she’ll have to wait to see if anything washes up.
“Call me if you want to strike it rich.” Tapping her card, she stands face to face with the pathetic creature,
giving her both a friendly warning and a nudge. “First come, first served,” she cautions, making sure the woman understands her. “There’s no prize for calling second.”
7
WEDDING BELL BLUES
LAURA DRIVES WITH THE top down. Her hair is blowing in the breeze, pulled together in a long braid hanging halfway down her back. Dorothy sits next to her. She’s taken the wise precaution of putting on an old-fashioned sunbonnet, the kind you see in butter ads from the 1940s, which is tied securely under her chin.
Both women are decked out in light summer party dresses, fancy ones. The difference in the dresses is that Laura bought hers earlier this summer at Wendy Foster’s and has worn it exactly once, while Dorothy bought the one she has on forty years ago, and has worn it countless times. And long after the dress Laura’s wearing has been lost in the back of her closet, or been consigned to a secondhand dress shop, Dorothy will still be wearing this dress she has on today.
Nestled on the backseat behind them is a large, gaily wrapped package. It contains a wedding present—the attached card, which has been securely Scotch-taped onto the top, has a picture of a grinning Cupid blowing his trumpet on the front, with the cursive inscription “On Your Wedding Day” prominently embossed underneath.
“This is going to be weird,” Laura says. “This is going to be so weird.”
They’re driving along Coast Village Road, heading for the beach.
“It’s going to be fun,” Dorothy declares.
“I didn’t say it wouldn’t be fun,” Laura answers defensively. “But don’t you think it’s going to be weird, too? Do you really think ‘till death do us part’ has any meaning for these people?”
“These people? What does these people mean?”
“You know what I mean,” Laura replies peevishly. She hates it when her grandmother accuses her of expressing feelings that everyone else has.
“Yes, and I don’t like it.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
“I think ‘till death do us part’ is an outdated phrase that has very little meaning for anyone nowadays,” her grandmother says. “This is going to be a festive and lively occasion, that’s what’s important. How long it lasts is in the future, which is always murky, so it doesn’t really matter. Especially at my age.”
“I suppose,” comes Laura’s reply. There isn’t much conviction behind it. God, but it’s a pain in the ass sometimes, having a saint in the family.
“Don’t be such a snob, Laura.”
“I am not a snob.”
“Oh, of course you are. How could you not be? It’s not your fault, it’s a condition of your existence.”
“Well, I try not to be.”
“Yes, you do try. I’ll give you that. It’s not my place to tell other people how to live, or to judge them because of a lifestyle that’s different from mine,” Dorothy informs Laura.
Because they’re too fucked up on drugs and alcohol to hold a job, Laura thinks. Or crazy. They should be in mental institutions, most of them, not out on the streets. It would be the humane thing to do.
The little convertible winds around the big, expensive beachfront houses, plunging down the road as they pass by the cemetery and the bird refuge. They head west on Cabrillo Blvd., the shimmering, placid ocean spreading out to their left. It’s the height of tourist season—across the wide roadway, the grassy area paralleling the beach is jammed up with bike riders, runners, skaters, sunbathers, and folks just out for a stroll. Up ahead a few blocks, the old hobo jungle, where many of the city’s homeless population now live, comes into view.
Dorothy can’t resist asking one more question. “Have you told your mother yet? About hiring a detective?”
“No, I have not.”
“Don’t take too long to tell her,” Dorothy cautions. “She’s going to be upset about your doing it regardless, but if she finds out about what you’ve done from someone else … you know how your mother can be.”
“Thank you for caring and sharing.” Laura, unable to restrain her peevishness, answers in the hip-bored-sarcastic voice of the crowd she runs with.
Dorothy tries to keep the hurt from her voice. “I’m trying to help, Laura.”
“I know, I know.” If there’s one person in the world whose feelings Laura doesn’t want to bruise, it’s her grandmother, who has always been there for her; many times when her own mother wasn’t. “I can’t help it, I’m just tired of always being told what to do. But you’re right—I’ll tell her. The next time I see her.”
“Good.”
They turn into the jungle, down a gutted dirt road that doesn’t see many cars.
“No more questions,” Dorothy says, forcing the smile back on her face. “Let’s have a new experience and a wonderful time.”
Despite her anger at her stupid loose tongue Laura can’t help smiling, too. “With you, Grandma, every day is a new experience.”
The wine is flowing like water. Actually, there’s no water to be found anywhere near here, at least no potable water, everything liquid that’s drinkable is alcoholic. The beer is flowing smoothly, two full kegs are currently tapped, and they’re draining at a fast, steady pace. There’s no shortage of cheap vodka and blended whiskey, either.
This is a very special occasion; it’s not every day any of the people down here get a paid-for party. Today is Tiny and Luther’s wedding day, and Dorothy Sparks is footing the bill.
“It’s nothing,” she explained to Laura, who was incredulous when Dorothy told her, a few days before, about this wedding, to which she had been invited as the guest of honor; how fascinating it would be, how decent these people were underneath. And why, when she figured out the ramifications, she had insisted on paying for it.
“They’re using you,” Laura had protested.
“So what?” Dorothy had rejoined. “Everyone uses everyone, one way or the other. I have more money than I can ever use in ten lifetimes—why not make their sad lives happy, just for one day?”
Laura had no good argument against that. She’s an advocate for the homeless herself, in an abstract way. Her newspaper takes up their causes with regularity and fervor. In the real world, though, things aren’t so black-and-white.
Laura parks her car at the edge of the clearing. They start walking across the field.
“Hey, Mrs. Sparks!”
A very large woman comes running towards them. She throws her big meaty arms around Dorothy. “God damn! You came!”
“Of course I came, Tiny,” Dorothy says, comfortable in the woman’s embrace. “I wouldn’t have missed your wedding for the world.”
“That sure is a pretty dress you have on, Mrs. Sparks,” Tiny says, stepping back and appraising first Dorothy’s and then Laura’s choice of apparel.
“Thank you. I only wear it on special occasions.” She pulls Laura forward. “This is Laura, my granddaughter. Laura, allow me to introduce you to my friend Tiny.”
“Hi.” Laura extends a cautious hand.
“Yeah, I can see that, you look just like her,” Tiny gushes, looking from Laura to Dorothy. “It sure was nice of you to come.” She shakes Laura’s hand vigorously.
“Thank you. I’m … looking forward to it,” Laura says diplomatically, retrieving her hand—the woman has a grip like a lumberjack! She also notices that the bride needs a bath. And a good shampooing, manicure, and facial wouldn’t hurt, either.
“Well, come on and party down!”
Tiny leads them into the middle of the gathering. She is wearing super-tight cutoffs from which her abundant cheeks protrude, and a man’s T-shirt with no bra. Her breasts, almost the size of small watermelons, sway loosely to and fro.
“Hey, everyone!” she sings out. “The guest of honor’s arrived.”
“Hey, Mrs. Sparks! Mrs. Sparks!” Calls of greeting ring out.
There must be over a hundred brown people here, Laura calculates, getting her bearings while trying to avoid being engulfed in this unsavory sea of humanity, and at l
east half as many children, many of whom are running around stark naked, even though some have long passed the toddler stage. Almost all the men have tattoos, she notices, some of them covering virtually every inch of skin, and many of the women have been decorated with the needle as well. Ankle tattoos are particularly popular among the girls.
She sees these people all the time. Up and down State St., begging, hanging out, dragging their mean-looking dogs by long leashes of clothesline. But she rarely notices them, certainly not as individuals, each one different from all the others.
“Hey, have a drink.” A matted-haired man, thin as a rail, his forearms a melange of primitive jailhouse ink tattoos, presses a bottle of wine into Dorothy’s hand.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Tiny cries out, immediately snatching the bottle from Dorothy’s hand. “Mrs. Sparks don’t drink out of the bottle!” She turns to a young girl of about six. The girl is wearing an old thrift-store dress that’s filthy. “Get that special glass I put in my pouch, angel face,” she says to the child.
The girl turns and disappears into the throng, returning a few seconds later with a wineglass.
It’s clean, Laura notices. Spotless.
“I bought this this morning,” Tiny tells Dorothy. “At Jordano’s. So you would have a decent glass to drink out of.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate that,” Dorothy thanks her. “I wouldn’t want to toast the bride without a proper glass.”
Tiny pours some white wine into the glass, filling it to the brim. Dorothy brings it to her lips, careful not to spill a drop, and takes a sip.
“Very nice,” she says in approval. “Here, Laura, have a taste.”
Laura takes a healthy mouthful, which she instantaneously regrets. Her mouth is on fire, her eyes start watering like a four-alarm hay-fever attack. She would spit it out, it’s so terrible; but she knows that would be a mistake. It could screw up the entire afternoon.
Somehow, she manages to swallow the putrid potion.
