Street Raised

by Pearce Hansen

  The low tables themselves were crowded with bottles of liquor and plastic cups of beer, baggies of weed, powder-strewn mirrors, and ashtrays crammed with cigarette butts. The air was thick and pungent with drifting mary jane and tobacco smoke.

  The forty or so people there were a mixed bag of folk: this being Jingletown the cholos constituted the majority, mainly wearing variations of the inevitable Ben Davis and Dickies ensemble, or maybe County Jail jackets. But there were also leather-clad bikers from various East Bay clubs besides the Dragons, all proudly flying their colors; midnight drag racers clutching beers in grease stained hands; and black players wearing Kangol hats adorned with pounds of the bling bling.

  A lot of the girls were going for the boy-toy gutter flower look – wearing stirrup leggings or Hammer pants, kung fu shoes or Winos; sleeveless turtlenecks with big belts; black rubber bracelets, or lace ribbons and fishnet gloves; hair either big with Aquanet or bleached and untidy; hair with dark roots, hair-bows and head bands. Several of them wore bustiers or other lingerie as outerwear a la Madonna, and there were a lot of beaded necklaces and crucifixes.

  Again, however, the cholas were in the majority here: the low-rider chicks sported trench coats and surreal eye makeup, making them look like runway models getting ready to rob a bank.

  Speedy recognized a few of the people and exchanged nods with the ones that gave him any notice. There were a lot of strangers there too – but Dreamer had always liked to play it loose and wide open, in his social life at least.

  Dreamer was holding court by a keg standing in an aluminum washbasin filled with ice in the little kitchen. Maybe half a dozen people were standing around him, either paying their respects to their host or waiting their turn to pump some beer.

  “Shit yeah,” Fat Bob said, his eyes shining as he made a beeline for the keg, happy as always at the prospect of suds.

  Speedy followed, but went over to say ‘Hi’ to his host first.

  Dreamer still looked pretty much the same as he always had: a hairnet protected his perfect coif from any sort of violation, he was wearing a ‘wife beater’ tee under his flannel button-front, khaki trousers worn loose, and white knee high socks with slip-on house shoes.

  He was smoking a joint with some blood in a red velvet jumpsuit. But when he saw Speedy, Dreamer just smiled and handed the joint over.

  “Speedy has raised, and returns to reclaim his hunting grounds,” Dreamer said, then laughed soft-voiced as he watched Speedy do a polite puff-puff-pass before handing the blunt off to the brother in red. Dreamer’s laughter seemed to die right next to him as if intended only for him and anyone nearby.

  Dreamer started moseying off, beckoning for Speedy to follow. Speedy glanced over at Fat Bob and noted that he’d already finished his first plastic cup of beer and was pumping himself a second – if they stayed here long enough Bob would be doing keg handstand pushups and Speedy would have to drive designee without a license.

  Speedy followed Dreamer away from the front room, down the hallway and deeper into the house. A dim ruddy glow filled the hall, from the naked red bulb overhead. The hallway itself continued past a lit-up open doorway to the left, a closed door to the right, ultimately turning a corner at the end toward what Speedy remembered as being Dreamer’s bedroom

  The doorway on the left led down into a sunken game room with about a dozen people in it. A Native-looking hustler in braids was running the pool table in there, while a white player with military haircut and mirrored sunglasses stood waiting his own shot. A lot of money was perched on the edge of the table, and everyone in the room watched silently as the Indian comboed the nine-ball into the side pocket.

  Past the door to the poolroom there was no one else around. The noise of the party was lower here as well, as Dreamer opened the door on the right side of the hall and they went inside and Dreamer threw the bolt. The two men gripped forearms and patted each other on the back while embracing, each reflexively glancing along the other’s blind side even though they were behind closed doors.

  Speedy was soothed to note that the broom closet sized ‘office’ was the same as ever: a small desk without a chair, a filing cabinet that Dreamer had never been dumb enough to actually store paperwork in, and teetering stacks of odds and ends against the walls.

  “Dreamer,” Speedy said.

  The cholo winced. “It’s Hector now, man. No one calls me Dreamer anymore.”

  Speedy smiled. “You’ll always be Dreamer to me. But cool, I’ll call you Hector if you’re tired of the other. How’s Flor?”

  Hector/Dreamer laughed his private laugh once more, as ever the soft peals of humor seeming to fade away in midair like magic.

  “She’s passed out, ese,” he said, nodding his head toward the invisible bedroom at the end of the hall. “Bottle of Tanqueray – you know how she loves that stuff.”

  Speedy nodded. “First things first,” he said, pulling Buck’s plastic out of his pockets to toss it all on Hector’s desk.

  Hector looked down at the credit cards without touching them, pursing his lips.

  “I’m supposin you want hardware for this,” he said unenthusiastically. “Plastic goes rancid a lot quicker since you was here last.”

  “Say it’s for old time’s sake and cut me a huss, amigo,” Speedy replied.

  Hector considered for a moment, then opened the middle drawer of the filing cabinet, stuck his hand in and took out a burlap sack. He pulled a 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun and a handful of shells out of the sack, setting them on the desk next to the credit cards. The barrels were sawed off so short the ends of the loaded shotgun shells actually stuck out the muzzles a fraction of an inch. The stock end was sawed off to pistol grip size and wrapped in friction tape.

  “It’s a good piece,” Hector said. “It’s been blooded.”

  Then he bared his teeth in what anyone that didn’t know him would think was a smile.

  Speedy picked up the sawed-off, broke it open and loaded it with two of the shells, then snapped it shut and put the shotgun in the right pocket of his field jacket. He put the rest of the shells in his other pocket.

  Now Speedy felt complete, for the first time since raising. Now the thrill was in his blood again, knowing that he wouldn’t have to duck and bail from anyone unless he wanted to, or unless as a temporary course of action preparatory to making them suffer.

  To Hector, it appeared Speedy had suddenly grown several inches taller. Hector tapped the (probably already worthless) stolen credit cards against the desktop, favoring Speedy with an appraising look. “So how you fixed? You got any work lined up?”

  Speedy shook his head. “I’ve got a little case money. But no, I ain’t got any irons in the fire at present.”

  Even though they were by themselves within the confines of the office, Hector leaned closer. Speedy leaned closer too, in response.

  “I’ve got some things you might be interested in,” Hector said, lowering his voice. “There’s some cat down in the southwest needs to be gone, and they’re willing to pay good money to make it happen. Weapons to be supplied. The rest is pretty much need-to-know.”

  “Who’s paying?” Speedy asked.

  “I’m thinking it’s probably Eye-talians, but they used a go-between as a cutout so I can’t be sure. I don’t know them, that’s what you’re asking.”

  Speedy pursed his lips, shook his head. “So they reach out to strange talent. That means they’re looking for a throwaway and I wind up in a shallow grave in the desert, maybe right on top of the mark. Fuck that. You know I don’t do that kind of work anyways. I’m a bandit, that’s all I’ve ever been.”

  “Just a bandit, sure, whatever you say,” Hector said with a wink. “Yeah, that job sounded kind of hinky to me too. But you always had a way of twisting it back around on the chumps. I thought you might figure an angle on it if you were hard up enough.”

  “And of course you’d get your end off the top,” Speedy observed, grinning in friendly mockery. “It’s all
right though – I know you’d never throw me under the bus, brother.”

  Hector looked at the floor for a second before meeting Speedy’s gaze again. “I only got one other thing cookin. I know this cat, he’s flush. Just split with his old lady, but she got the kid. He’s relocating out of the country big time and he wants someone to snatch his son for him.”

  Hector’s eyes widened at the expression that descended over Speedy’s face. “I know, I know, ese – but it’s his real dad, he’s got money to burn, and I’ll tell you what: I’ve met his old lady and she’s a royal bitch on wheels.” Hector sighed and shook his head as if defeated by Speedy’s mute refusal.

  “So what you been up to, Hector?” Speedy asked.

  “Oh, you know me, this that and the other.” That eternal soft laugh as Hector looked at the floor again.

  “One thing I been doing, every once in a while I’ll throw a rent-kegger, post some flyers up by UCB, and put on an ‘outlaw party’ for all the college students. Sometimes I’ll even stage a fake fight, or have some mayate brother wave a gun or a knife around yelling, let the college students think they’re getting a taste of the wild side.” Hector laughed once more.

  “So you’re running a low-rider theme park?” Speedy grinned.

  “Pretty much. Any of the white bread fools wander off though, the neighborhood kids get lucky.”

  Speedy thought about the little daughter of rage he’d met on the way in – her and all her little homies on their expensive custom bikes – and nodded in understanding.

  “Oh yeah, one other thing,” Hector said in a casual tone, staring past Speedy at the wall. “I heard tell Chatter’s looking for you. He’s been talking a lot, saying you offed Shannon in the joint. I’d watch it.”

  Speedy grunted, and then shrugged. “Talk’s talk.”

  “That’s as may be true, homes. Still, I think you better keep a sharp watch on your six.”

  “Yeah, and my three and my nine too.” Speedy tried to keep a troubled look off his face and failed. “Is everyone else pissed off at me? Are all my bridges burned?”

  Hector’s expression was equally cloudy for a moment, before he erased it with a grin. “Hey, you’ve got me, right? And the others, well . . . once cash flows again and deeds are done, they’ll forget the past soon enough. I mean, Reseda . . .” Dreamer stopped short, looked at Speedy from under. “They know how a woman can get under a guy’s skin, maybe prompt him to do shit he’d never pull in a million years.”

  Speedy grunted. “Hey, Hector,” Speedy said, voice gone nonchalant. “You seen Little Willy around?”

  “Yeah. He’s up Emeryville way, off San Pablo in Paradise Park. Actually he’s just a few blocks from Chatter’s place in Gaskill, you remember where that’s at? There’s these three abandoned houses, Willy’s in the middle one. I heard he squats in the basement, you can’t miss it.”

  Hector managed to appear uncomfortable as he gave the street address. “Willy’s not looking good amigo.”

  Speedy grunted. “You haven’t been selling him that shit, have you?”

  “You know I would never do such a thing,” Hector said, though less than convincingly. Then, baring his teeth and changing the subject: “Well fuck, homes, let’s get back to the cervesa and the grifa, run you by the rucas and see if we can get your dick wet.”

  Speedy grinned in reply – he wasn’t averse to letting his hair down a little, maybe even pretend to be social a bit.

  Tower of Power’s ‘You’re Still a Young Man’ was playing as they exited the office. Hector laid his arm across Speedy’s shoulders as they started back toward the party. In the direction of the bedroom a woman screamed, and then screamed again.

  Hector’s straight razor appeared in his hand as he turned to face that direction. Speedy pulled his sawed-off and leaned over Hector’s shoulder, waiting to see for himself what was going on down that ruddily-lit hallway.

  Around the corner, Hector’s unseen bedroom door slammed open against the wall. Three white boys came around the corner, one of them cramming himself back into his pants as he shouldered into the other two from behind in an attempt to drive them faster.

  “Go,” he barked, zipping up on the run. “Go.”

  When the three strangers saw Hector and Speedy standing together to confront them in the hallway, the trio skidded to a halt to stand paralyzed. Their eyes locked on the steel gleaming in the Mexican’s hand, the oiled blue shotgun barrels jutting from Speedy’s.

  Speedy raised his sawed-off to aim in on them.

  Flor appeared at the far end of the hall behind the men, emerging from Hector’s unseen bedroom crazy-eyed and shaking in a torn red lace negligee. If her long black hair wasn’t hanging lank and if not for the ghastly expression contorting her face, she could have passed for the subject of a Playboy centerfold shoot. As it was, lit by the red light from the overhead bulb she looked like a newly risen vampiress.

  Flor pointed a trembling finger at the three strangers. “They fucked me Hector. They fucked me. I thought it was you til I woke up all the way.”

  Speedy had instantly pointed his sawed-off at the ceiling as soon as Flor loomed behind his three targets. Speedy knew from experience that you didn’t shoot a sawed-off in the direction of anyone you liked, that double-ought pellets would go through most everything in front of them. If he threw down in these close quarters Flor would be all over the wall behind her like a burst blood-filled water-balloon.

  Seizing a desperate opportunity as Speedy pointed the sawed-off away from him, the now-zipped-up lead rapist leapt forward and kicked Hector in the groin. Hector hunched over in pain, his face contorting. He took a wild swipe with his razor that zipperboy easily dodged as the three bulldozed forward and bum-rushed between Hector and Speedy.

  Speedy swiveled to the side and out of their way as they slammed through, but managed to buffalo one of the rapists upside the head with the sawed-off’s barrel as the asshole passed. The asshole fell to the floor and lay twitching.

  The other two managed to surge past Speedy and Hector, not bothering to stop for their fallen friend. Speedy spun to give chase.

  Behind him Flor gave throat to another scream, this one savage with rage and humiliation that her victimizers had punked her man, too.

  The other two assholes ran even faster, shoving past people as Speedy followed. The rapists spilled out into the living room but then had to slow as they began jamming their way through the main party room. Splotches of light crawled across them and everyone else in the room, from the disco ball spinning overhead.

  All the partygoers had heard the screams, many had risen purposefully to their feet to approach and investigate the commotion, and everyone was staring with unfriendly eyes at the two fleeing strangers now. Several of the men converged on the rapists through the press.

  Zipperboy stiff-armed people to both sides as he charged for freedom, his friend close behind. Tower of Power died with an amplified scratching sound on the turntable, the needle dragging across the album. Speedy got hung up in the clusterfuck of the crowd and had to watch as the two clawed their way toward the front door.

  A Dragon threw a heavy glass ashtray at Zipperboy’s head, cigarette butts spewing out as the ashtray whirled through the air. Zipperboy ducked out the way, then jumped onto a coffee table and did an end run around the crowd down the length of it, his butt-hole buddy close behind.

  Zipperboy kicked bottles and glasses in the faces and laps of the people sitting on the couch, as powder-laden mirrors crunched under his shoes. The people on the couch shielded their faces against the flying liquor and glass, crying out in anger and dismay as the spilled fluids soaked their clothes.

  The two rapists leapt off the table’s end and dodged through the front door. Speedy could see Fat Bob ahead of him amongst the other partygoers, part of the crowd lurching and shoving its way outside in pursuit.

  As he exited the house, Speedy saw the rapists had a slight lead on their twenty-or-so pursuers. The two
men fled past the people in the yard and down the sidewalk in the direction of Fruitvale, but now most of the men in the party had clawed their way out the door and were after the rapists in a mob.

  Speedy heard the crack of a small caliber pistol shot and saw the trailing rapist turn to look behind him. He had a dopey, surprised expression on his face, like he couldn’t believe anyone would actually be popping caps at him. He recovered from his shock enough to spin and continue sprinting after Zipperboy, who had already started his car, a red Firebird Trans-am.

  The black player in the red velvet jumpsuit was the shooter. He stopped to aim his .38 snub-nose at the trailing rapist, and fired another round.

  The trailing rapist cried out and fell full-length onto the sidewalk, clutching his right butt cheek where the round had hit. He lay sprawled, half stunned, holding the bleeding bullet-hole in his ass as he watched Zipperboy floor the Firebird into a burnout.

  “Garrett,” he cried after the departing car.

  His friend bootlegged the sports car into a donut U-turn and gunned away down Glascock and around the corner toward Fruitvale. The fallen rapist lay on the sidewalk staring at the red taillights of the Firebird as it made its clean escape. The mob caught up and swirled to surround him in threatening silence.

  “Hold up, hold up,” Hector said, shoving people to either side as he bulled his way through the mob and glared down at the cringing chump on the ground.

  The mob parted and Flor stalked through to join Hector. She was holding his straight razor, tapping the flat of the blade against her leg.

  The rapist pushed himself up onto his knees, knelt before Flor with his hands pressed together like a supplicant.

  “I didn’t even touch you, I swear,” he said, all out of breath. “Please, I’m not the one that did it to you, it was Garrett. I promise I’ll tell you where he lives.”

  “Of course you will,” Hector said. “Bring him inside with the other.”