Echoes of a Distant Summer

by Guy Johnson

  Tree suggested with a smile, “Them police boys is probably coming for their weekly payoff!”

  Jackson turned and looked at Tree. “Before he died, Fletcher told us all about you. You’re the one who always brags about setting my father up, aren’t you?”

  Tree’s eyes narrowed. “You know where Jesse is?”

  Jackson smiled. “Good old Jesse. He and Fletcher are feeding the fish.”

  “You done killed my nephew?”

  Jackson confirmed, “Damn straight!”

  The man sitting across from Tree stood suddenly and shouted at Jackson, “You goddamn motherfucker!” Tavio shot him before he was all the way erect. The man jerked as the bullet hit him then crumpled to the floor. Tavio walked around the table to make sure that he had made a killing hit. The man was still breathing, but not for long. The bullet had just barely missed his heart. This time neither the body nor the blood held any fascination for Jackson. He felt no remorse for this man. He was ready to move on to the next. He began to pace around the table once more. “Once again, where is Deleon DuMont? Where can I find him?”

  “You fuckin’ pieces of shit killed Dwayne! I ain’t tellin’ you a goddamn thing!” Tree declared. His face, with the scar tugging at the right side, was a lopsided snarl. He pointed at Jackson and taunted, “You just a jive-ass punk with a gun! Shit, if I was to go hand to hand with you, I’d eat you up like I did yo’ daddy! Whachoo think of that, punk?”

  He could not be sure at what point he stopped hearing Tree’s voice. Jackson had never considered the anger he might feel toward a man who had actually participated in his father’s murder. The heat of indignation flared out across his thoughts, filling his mind with blazing color, like flames rising in the wind above a raging fire. He had no sensation. All he knew was that his fingers were tingling and his mouth was dry. He turned and stared at Tree, who was mouthing some words which Jackson could not even hear. Jackson had no conscious awareness of when his hearing returned, but suddenly he smelled cigar smoke and was back firmly in the room with his enemies. He glanced around the room for the source of the smoke and then his gaze fell on Tree.

  For the first time in his life Jackson felt true hatred. He tasted its bitterness and it completely erased any thoughts of compassion and sympathy. Suddenly, everything that his grandfather had said became clear to him, and with that realization came the understanding that he would be the one to collect on the family’s debts. But more than that, he now wanted to be the one to collect. He went over to where the confiscated weapons lay on the floor and picked up one of the knives. It was a switchblade. He tossed the knife at Tree’s feet. “Get up, asshole!” Tree said nothing. He looked down at the knife but made no move toward it. Jackson prodded, “You’re going to die one way or the other! I’m giving you a chance to die with a weapon in your hand!”

  Tree stared around the room at Carlos, Diego, and Tavio. “Yo’ peoples is just gon’ shoot me if’en I gets up!”

  Jackson shrugged. “If you’re afraid to fight me, you can die by torture.”

  Tree bent down and picked up the knife, flicked it open, then launched himself right at Jackson. The knife flashed in his hand as he stabbed for Jackson, but his fifty-two-year-old body could not match the reflexes of the younger man. Jackson was prepared and eluded his charge easily. He held up his hand as a signal for Tavio and Carlos to hold their fire.

  Tree, who had landed on the floor, got to his feet slowly and bellowed, “I’m gon’ kill you like I did yo’ mama and yo’ daddy!” He brandished the thin, six-inch blade in his right hand.

  Jackson handed Carlos his gun and turned to face Tree. “Come on out here where there’s some open floor,” he beckoned to Tree as he backed away from the table.

  “Not a good idea. We don’t have time for this,” Carlos admonished.

  “Give me two, three minutes,” Jackson replied. He knew that Carlos was warning him again that a bulletproof vest wouldn’t stop a knife thrust. Jackson didn’t care. He had already palmed the knife like his grandfather had taught him and had the blade hidden in his grip. He felt the primal call of revenge; it spoke to the core of him, the tribal man, and its fundamental intensity swept him away. Everything that the old man had taught him came rushing to the surface. It was a ritual. He would repay this part of the debt with the spilling of Tree’s blood. He would stare into Tree’s face as he delivered the killing stroke and watch death take him. He beckoned Tree closer.

  Tree was hesitant. He looked from Carlos to Tavio, but they backed out of his way. He came toward Jackson more confidently. He carried his knife underhanded so that it was positioned out in front of him. He gave Jackson a toothy grin. “It’s just you and me now, ain’t that right?”

  Jackson circled to his right, so that his left shoulder was turned toward Tree. “That’s right, just you and me.” Tree feinted then slashed at Jackson, who stepped out of danger with minimal effort. He was watching Tree’s footwork as he adjusted his position. Tree trotted forward, hoping to cut off Jackson’s evasive action. Jackson seemed indecisive. Tree charged, thinking that with his greater weight he would drive Jackson back against the stacks of furniture, but Jackson feinted a move to his right and when Tree swerved to cut him off he evaded Tree again by moving quickly to his left. This time Jackson did not try to move away but stayed close. Tree turned suddenly and slashed at Jackson, who instead of evading stepped in and blocked the knife arm. Jackson smashed Tree in the nose with the hand that was carrying his knife. It was a heavy punch and it knocked Tree on his heels. Jackson followed it with a hard left hook to the side of Tree’s head. Tree staggered into a stack of chairs and fell to his knees.

  Jackson waited until Tree regained his feet then closed with him again. Tree was staring down at Jackson’s right hand. He had seen the big-bladed knife in Jackson’s hand just before the punch arrived. For the first time there was concern on his face. He now knew that Jackson knew how to fight. Unless he was able to lure Jackson into something, he was a dead man. In his day, Tree had been good with a knife, but in the last ten years he had slowed down considerably. He pretended to have hurt his leg and limped toward Jackson. His intent was to get close enough to fling himself upon Jackson and with his weight bear him down to the floor. Jackson accommodated by stepping in front of him. Tree lunged, holding his knife arm back, seeking to grab Jackson with his left hand. Surprisingly, Jackson did not move away.

  Tree started to smile as he reached for Jackson’s collar, but his hand got knocked away. The inertia from the lunge caused him to lose his balance. He stumbled but didn’t fall. Jackson had stopped his lunge with a shoulder then had grabbed his knife hand in an iron grip. Tree tried to turn to face Jackson but a tremendous pain seared through his abdomen. He looked down as the long, bloody blade was withdrawn from his stomach. Then he felt more numbing as the knife was stabbed through his intestines. He stood for a moment, the world hazing over in red, the pain ringing in his ears. Then Jackson stabbed him again in the stomach. Even though he saw the knife enter his flesh, Tree could not feel it. Jackson loosened his hold and stepped away. Tree could not control his legs. He couldn’t stand up. He sank to his knees. He saw a foot come up and shove his face backward. He fell over on his back and lay looking up at the ceiling. His vision was darkening around the edges and the darkness was increasing rapidly. He saw Jackson’s smiling face as if it were on the other side of a tunnel of shadow. He wanted to shout curses at the face, but he couldn’t speak. He could not turn his head.

  Jackson stood over Tree’s body and felt the exhilaration of a victorious gladiator. It was a primal feeling which coiled like a spring within him, giving bounce to his step. Yet there was more than that: He felt as if he had truly tapped into the meaning of blood and the obligations that came with it. It was not the death of Tree that was important, but that a wrong done to Jackson’s family had been avenged and that vengeance had been wrought by a Tremain. It was the ancient way of balancing the scales. He felt intuitively that the
souls of his mother and father could now rest easier in the ether knowing that retribution was being meted out for the injustice of their deaths. He looked down at the body at his feet and spat on it. He raised his bloody knife to the ceiling and shouted, “I hear you, Grandfather! Everything will be paid in full! Everything!”

  Jackson turned and walked over to the table and looked at the attorney and the remaining man. He stabbed the knife deep into the table’s plywood. “Who’s next?” he growled.

  Both men flinched when the knife was stuck into the table, but neither said a word. Jackson motioned to Tavio. “Bring my machete! I feel like chopping some parts!”

  The man who sat across from the attorney began babbling. “I-ain’t-a-part-of-this!-Whatever-it-is!-I-just-do-a-little-coke-and-some-crank!-I-don’t-know-nothing-about-why-you-killin’-peoples!-I-works-here-baggin’-doin’-final-cleanup-and-checkin’-the-final-tally-each-night-but-I-don’t-know-nothin’-about-no-guns!-Shit,-I-use-my-knife-to-line-out-coke-or-to-cut-hash!-I-ain’t-thinkin’-about-stabbin’-nobody-with-that-knife!-But-I-do-remember-a-dude-name-DuMont-I-think-I know-where-he-he-he—” The man fell silent and his eyes grew bigger as he watched Jackson pry his bloody knife out of the table.

  “Speak slowly and go back to that part about the dude named DuMont,” Jackson said as he pulled his knife free. He walked over to the attorney and wiped both sides of his blade on the man’s face, then checked the sharpness of the blade by cutting open the breast pocket of the man’s herringbone jacket. “Start talking!” he demanded as he continued to clean his blade on the attorney.

  “You talkin’ to me?” the man asked as he touched his chest. “My name Harold! If you talkin’ to me all you got to say is Harold and I be johnny-on-the-spot! If you talkin’ to me!”

  Jackson pointed his knife at the man and ordered, “Talk, Harold!” Jackson went back to cutting pieces off the attorney’s jacket. Every time the knife came near the man’s face he flinched.

  “I made a delivery of some keys to a DuMont. I remember ’cause he cursed me out for coming there. He was yellin’ that Tree should’ve come himself. I couldn’t do nothin’ about that! Tree sent me, so I went!”

  “What’s the address? What part of town?” Jackson demanded.

  “It was out in Potrero Hill. I don’t remember the name of the street, but I could show you. I remember the place because the guy had three, maybe four Doberman pinschers behind a high chain-link fence.”

  Jackson demanded, “What were the keys for?”

  “Uh … uh …” Harold looked guiltily at the attorney.

  Jackson kicked his chair. “It’s me you have to worry about, not him!”

  “Uh! They was keys for another house. Mr. Phillips here, he leased the house for that DuMont fellow. He know where it’s at!”

  Jackson turned to Carlos. “Bring the van around. I want to be out of here in fifteen minutes.”

  Carlos replied, “We’ve got cleanup problems to deal with first. We need to cover our tracks and you need to make a decision regarding these two.” He gestured in Phillips’s and Harold’s direction.

  Jackson pointed at Phillips and said, “Find out everything he knows, including all of the different bank accounts. There is no reason Tree’s estate should have any money, when we could give it all to some organization that’s doing solid community work! Take your time torturing him, then we’ll give him the old ride out the Gate.”

  “You don’t have to do this!” Phillips pleaded. “I’m sure we can work out something amicable. All we have to do is talk!”

  “What’s the address?”

  “It’s 5757 Lawton, just off Dolores Street! You see? I can tell you lots of things!”

  Jackson nodded and smiled. “You’ll talk! You’ll do all the talking! When you’re screaming think of me!” Jackson turned to Tavio. “Tape him and roll him!”

  “Noooo—” Phillips’s scream was cut off as a gag was forced into his mouth.

  “What’s gon’ happen to me?” Harold wailed.

  “If this is the right house, I’ll set you free.”

  “Not a good idea!” Carlos countered.

  “I’ll take the risk,” Jackson averred. He turned to Harold. “Furthermore, if you show us where Tree keeps his money and his stash, I’ll let you take half of his stash. We’ll burn the rest to make it look like a drug deal gone bad. What do you say?”

  Harold nodded enthusiastically and asked, “Can I get up? I’ll show you where it is. I even know where he keeps the numbers to his safe. Sometimes he gets so loaded, he can’t remember the number, then I get it for him.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Wednesday, July 14, 1982

  Pain was the only sensation. It was so severe that Braxton could not tell where in his body it originated. He knew only that every time he tried to move, there was agony. Colors appeared before his eyes and there was a loud ringing in his ears. It hurt so badly that he couldn’t tell whether he was lying, sitting, or standing. Yet he knew he didn’t dare scream out. He didn’t want to bring attention to himself. His only chance of escape lay in avoiding detection. Fear caused him to lie quietly.

  He opened his eyes wide with an effort and saw darkness. Then after a few moments he realized something was pressing against his face. He pushed with his arms. There were sharp stabbing pains, but as he moved there was the barest glimmer of light coming from behind him. Something was on his back. He had to get his legs moving. He pulled up his knees and pain exploded in his left leg. Involuntarily, he moaned. It hurt so bad that his face burned and he began to perspire. He lay quietly for a few minutes, gathering his strength. He had to get away from the building. There would be people checking the alley for him and they would be coming soon.

  He remembered now. He had jumped into a pile of black plastic garbage bags to escape Tremain’s grandson. He turned over gingerly and pushed the plastic bags off him, then bent down to check his left leg. It was swollen and throbbing. He couldn’t touch it without igniting explosions of pain. It was too dark to make anything but a general assessment, but from the way it was bent it looked like he had a compound fracture in the lower shin. Still, he had to get moving.

  Cautiously, he looked out around the bags and saw a policeman from a patrol car pissing on a telephone pole. He made no effort to call him. He could not afford to be linked to Tree, not while he had all that drug preparation paraphernalia stashed in his building. The policeman finished urinating and returned to his car. Braxton got to his knees and crawled in the direction of the patrol car, but he kept in the shadows. By the time he had crawled twenty feet to the fence at the back of an auto repair garage, he knew that he would have to find another way to move around. There were too many foreign objects on the ground. His hands and knees couldn’t take it. Plus, even if his left foot just barely brushed something it was excruciating.

  The patrol car at the end of the alley turned on its siren and roared off to some crime or emergency in progress. Braxton sank back into the shadows behind the repair shop’s garbage cans. Once the police were gone, Tremain was sure to come looking for him; a quick death would be the best he could expect. He wedged himself into the darkest corner he could find and pulled a newspaper over his head. A large cockroach fell off the paper and landed between his legs. It scuttled away while he watched it. He sat absolutely still and forced himself to take light, shallow breaths. He didn’t have long to wait. He heard the sound of people coming down the alley toward him. He heard the sounds of the garbage bags being thrown aside. Some trash cans were moved around then there was silence. Braxton was cautious. He remained where he was for nearly thirty minutes after they had gone.

  He pushed the paper off his head and pulled himself erect using a fence as support. He could see flames in Tree’s second-story window. He figured if they had set the building to match, they would be long gone and he had better follow suit. He didn’t want to have to answer a whole lot of questions from law enforcement. Plus this was surely going to be an ars
on as well as a homicide case.

  Lying by the fence was a long piece of plumbing pipe. Braxton bent down and picked it up. Holding on to it with two hands, he was able to use it like a crutch. He pushed his sixty-six-year-old body to the point of exhaustion, but he made it to Gough Street by the time Tree’s building blew up in a rush of flames. Sirens were blaring on nearby streets when he finally got a cab to take him to a small private hospital which he had used often during the years of his medical practice. As he lay on a gurney in the emergency room waiting to have his leg tended to, he began making plans. The reality was, if he needed surgery, he wouldn’t be able to travel for some weeks. Plus, it would take that long to get his finances straight. It was likely that they would be watching both his home and his office. Once he was released from the hospital he would go down to his secret weekend hideaway on the coast near Half Moon Bay. From there he could arrange to transfer his bank accounts and set up his departure.

  His first problem was how was he going to replace his identification and credit cards, which had been left in his jacket at Tree’s? It was too much to worry about. He was exhausted. The tremendous pain in his leg throbbed, sometimes causing him to shiver involuntarily. Braxton knew now that he had underestimated Jackson Tremain. In the back of his mind there was a grudging respect for King Tremain. Even though King was in the grave, his plans for protecting his family were unassailable.

  Braxton fell into a drug-laden stupor as he was wheeled into surgery. The last thing he remembered seeing was King Tremain’s evil smile.

  Thursday, July 15, 1982

  Fisherman’s Wharf was crowded with people attending an evening street festival. Several streets were blocked off and strung with lights. Booths were selling a variety of crafts, jewelry, paintings, and food. Costumed clowns, jugglers, and magicians strolled through the crowds giving impromptu performances. There was even a small stage set up on the green slope of Aquatic Park near the cable car turnabout. A five-piece band had just finished playing a set of loud rock music and were in the process of packing up their equipment.