by Peter Plate
Richard Rood assessed the cop and was mellow. He wasn’t sweating it. He had no warrants out on him. No outstanding tickets to pay. No probation violations hanging over his head. He wasn’t going to get busted, not for no penny-ante shit. He wasn’t holding any drugs. No dime bags of indica. No bags of crank. No stolen credit cards. No guns or knives. He was clean, pure as driven snow. Which was wise because his rap sheet was sizable—a grand total of thirty-seven arrests that had resulted in two felony convictions and ten years of court-appointed probation. But staying clean also meant he wasn’t doing any trade. Which meant Richard had no cash.
“All right,” Mandelstam burped, “what are you doing?”
Richard folded his arms, haughtily stuck his nose in the air, and said, “Not a damn thing. I’m out here being all copacetic, enjoying the weather.”
“That’ll be the day. Bring yourself and that fucking red suit you got on over here to the car.”
The black dealer felt his temper go up a notch. “What for?”
“Because you and I are going to have a tête-à-tête.” The policeman palmed the nightstick. “Empty out your pockets, shit for brains. Then put your hands on the hood where I can see them.”
There was a time for resisting arrest and there was a time to submit to a frisk. There was a time for getting thrashed with a nightstick. There was a time for going to jail. And there was a time for calling your bondsman to raise bail. There was a time for everything under the sun. It occurred to Richard Rood this wasn’t a time to fuck around with Mandelstam. He removed his alligator-skin billfold from his pants, threw it on the ground, and deployed his hands on the black-and-white’s hood.
“Spread your legs,” Mandelstam said. “I want to see daylight.”
Rifling the dealer’s jacket pockets, the cop found a pencil, a pack of chewing gum, a ring of keys, an address book with nobody’s name in it, and the measly five dollars that Richard had to his name. With a cheerful grin—now he had cigarette money for the day—Mandelstam tucked the bill in his belt and commented, “Nice suit you got on. You look like a fucking ghetto Santa Claus in it.”
Richard pivoted, looked over his shoulder at Mandelstam. “Say who?”
Mandelstam continued the pat down, running his fingers over Richard’s pants. He came up with a deck of pornographic playing cards, two half-smoked cigarette butts, a nail clipper, and a book of matches. He searched Richard’s legs, pulling down his socks, and copped a bottle of Vicodin. The policeman had a horselaugh at his discovery. He read the label and said, “Fucking opiates. I love them. This stuff gets you so blitzed and constipated, I took it for my legs once and I didn’t have a bowel movement for six days. I didn’t know if I was in heaven or hell.”
The carrot-faced cop was convinced the black man was a junkie. The evidence was the red suit. Richard Rood had to be an addict with that kind of taste in clothes. The only people who wore loud colors in the Tenderloin were dope fiends and whores. “What you taking the Vicodin for?” he asked.
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Yeah, right. And the Pope smokes dope. Let’s see your arms.”
Richard rolled back the sleeves of his jacket with dignity. The cop studied his shiny black skin with the zealotry of a rocket scientist and was visibly angered when he didn’t find any telltale tracks. For Richard the worst part of the ordeal wasn’t having his money taken. It wasn’t having his nuts fondled by Mandelstam. It wasn’t having his Vicodin stolen. And it wasn’t having his suit ridiculed. It was the cloying scent of Mandelstam’s deodorant. The smell had managed to get in his jheri curls. He was standing so close to the white dude, he could see every pore on his cauliflower nose, even the blackheads that ringed his nostrils.
“You’re on drugs.” Mandelstam held the Vicodin bottle up to the sun to prove his thesis. “What do you know about the Brinks money?”
Richard deflected the interrogative. He didn’t know what the cop was talking about. “What money?”
Mandelstam’s riot helmet refracted the sun’s etiolated rays. “Don’t give me that crap, you asshole,” he said. “You’re out here all day long. You know what I’m talking about.”
An asshole was uncool. An asshole was dishonest. An asshole was a perjurer and a back-stabber. An asshole hedged his bets. It was the cruelest of insults. Gnashing his teeth, Richard Rood resisted the urge to sass the policeman. Much as he wanted to start a fight, he saw the wisdom in keeping his trap shut. There was no sense in causing aggravation or a fracas. He didn’t want to get on the receiving end of the nightstick. He didn’t want to go to the hoosegow. He didn’t want to sit in a felony tank cell with nothing to do, and so he was deliberate with his answer. “I don’t know a thing about no goddamn money.”
Richard was telling the truth. He didn’t know squat about the Brinks paper. But it was plain to see by the scornful look on Mandelstam’s mug that honesty would get him nowhere. The realization was bitter and deepened his belief that lying was the only way to get through life.
Mandelstam trained the nightstick on him. “My ass, you don’t. You’re probably the dick who ran off with it. Where else would you get the cash to buy that shitty vinyl suit you got on?”
Rood was taken aback. Bile rose in his throat. Pink lights danced behind his eyes. The punk was saying his suit was made from plastic? He would allow no man or beast to disrespect his vines. He’d paid four hundred dollars for them at Kaplan’s army-navy surplus store. The cop had crossed his Rubicon—he just didn’t know it yet. Richard cursed him softly, “Fuck you, man. If I had that Brinks money, you think I’d be out here dealing with your shit? Hell, no. I’d be in a penthouse, kicking back in style.”
His opinion hung uncomfortably in the air. It hadn’t been a smart thing to say. The sentiment guaranteed him a trip into a wilderness of misery. The words had barely escaped from his mouth when he had to deal with the cop’s response.
Each policeman utilizes a nightstick differently. Some use an overhead approach. Others swing it like a bat. Still more policemen wield their billy clubs as if it was a pike. Mandelstam had been schooled in the traditional thrust and jab technique. Quick as a snake, he peppered Richard Rood’s ribcage with the tip of the stick.
It was curtains for Richard. His legs gave out, and he couldn’t swallow. He turned blue in the face and his eyes did a circuit in their sockets. Then he collapsed to the pavement, and had a flash through the pain about the first man he’d ever kissed.
Armed with a forged identification card, he’d been hanging out in a Fillmore district bar. The neighborhood was a historic black community that had been ninety square blocks before gentrification whittled it down to nil. An older hustler in a dapper silk suit motioned for Richard to join him. They smoked a medium-sized joint in the back by the pool tables and talked about the people they knew in common. It so happened the dude knew Richard’s mother. After a while they ran out of things to say. The hustler put his hand on Richard’s shoulder, turned his head so that his face was shining white from a lamp. He hooked his other hand behind Richard’s neck and drew him close. He gently kissed the younger man’s lower lip, saying, “That’s nice, ain’t it?”
Richard’s face rushed to meet the ground. His last meal, clam chowder and a Greek salad with an espresso from the deli on Ellis Street, gushed out of his mouth and splashed down his suit. He went out like a light.
Rood roused himself five minutes later. His head was on the sidewalk and his legs were in the gutter. Pedestrians were walking around him, making as if he wasn’t there. He jackknifed to his feet, got his billfold and slipped it back in his jacket. Getting harassed by the police was no big deal. But it killed his spirit every time. Like he was a square of toilet paper they could wipe themselves on. That cop was going to suffer for messing with him. Richard brushed off his pants and jacket and made a decision. He was done waiting for his money. It was time to proceed to phase two of his plan. He had reached a verdict: track down Stiv Wilkins and regain what he was owed.
The problem was, the task wouldn’t be simple. It required a strategy, an umbrella of ideas that fit together. Richard had his limits. He had his phobias. The nitty-gritty was he didn’t want to leave his patch. The strip of Market Street between Van Ness Avenue and Octavia Street was all he had.
Whenever he left the four blocks that constituted his universe, Richard felt as if he was heading off-planet. Traveling to a foreign solar system. What with all the trouble going down, the cops acting loco about the Brinks money, things were just too hot. So he had a decision to make. Was the four hundred dollars worth the effort?
The clock tower above the Goodwill store on Mission Street said it was a few minutes after eleven. Richard peered up the road at the Allen Hotel. That’s where Stiv lived in a room no bigger than a refrigerator. The walk to the Allen was lengthy, maybe three blocks. A journey that was too long for a man of Richard’s importance.
He couldn’t be seen walking around like some low-rent dunce—his credibility was at stake. His stature would be diminished if anyone saw him taking a stroll to the Allen. Only suckers and folks with no class tooled up Market Street on foot. Beggars, panhandlers, winos, and junkies walked. The better classes drove cars. But the debt had to be collected.
Richard recalled something he’d heard about Stiv, some gossip. Hearsay about a woman the punk was involved with, the wife of a dope dealer. That made him even angrier. He had no use for women, including any that were connected to Stiv Wilkins.
Fighting the wind, he began his march to the Allen Hotel.
Mama Celeste flailed past him going the opposite way on Market Street. Her left shoe was untied. The baseball hat was cocked at a jaunty angle. A stream of dreadlocks plunged down her shoulders. The army jungle coat rustled in the breeze as she walked. Talking out loud to herself, she didn’t see the frowning black man in the red patent leather suit.
Richard Rood recoiled, narrowly avoiding a collision with her. His nose was running. He had goose bumps up and down his back from the flu. His mouth tasted of vomit. A cop had taken his money and his Vicodin. An old biddy with a beat-up Reebok shoebox was the last thing he needed to lay eyes on.
“Damn crone,” he lamented. “Ought to be in a rest home and shit.”
FIVE
WHILE SHARONA SUNBATHED on the hotel roof with the baby, Stiv sat on the bed in their room and dry-shaved himself with a disposable razor. Having no mirror or shaving cream, he did it by feel, gliding the blade across his chin. Sweat glittered on his forearms. His big boned feet were pronated, the toe nails yellow and uncut. His eyes were glacier-blue and heated. He finished the task with a couple of bloody swipes at his neck.
He put his toiletries in the sink, got down on his hands and knees, and ferreted a tartan-red suitcase out from under the bed frame. He unzipped the case and removed two handguns. The first gat was a generic Saturday night special. The other weapon was a Colt revolver. He dusted off both guns with a handkerchief and put them on the window’s sill. His intention was to sell the Saturday night special.
Needing to pee, he lumbered out of the room and trod barefoot through the gloomy hall to use the communal toilet. The overhead water pipes were clanging. The walls swayed from the traffic on Market Street. The carpet was treacherous and he managed to avoid stepping on a gargantuan cockroach. Stiv went up a flight of wobbly stairs and almost collided with Jeeter Roche’s wife.
Gussied up in a floral-patterned muumuu dress and eight-inch white leatherette platform shoes, Chiclet Dupont had her business face on, replete with a titanic embellishment of mascara and rouge. She carried a notepad in one hand. A pen was tucked behind her ear. A clove cigarette was sticking out of her mouth. A Dell laptop in a Barnes and Noble book bag was slung over her shoulder. She was in the process of collecting rent from the tenants.
“Good morning, doll,” he said. “What’s up with you?”
The platforms gave Chiclet a ten-inch advantage in height over Stiv. She was courteous, but reserved: he wasn’t the only person having doubts about their relationship. She said, “The same as usual. I’m getting the rent money from everyone. You got yours for me?”
He was vague. “Uh, not yet.”
“You aren’t going to be late with it, are you?”
“No, of course not,” he said hastily. “I’m good for it.”
“I hope so. Jeeter gets weird otherwise and then he takes it out on me.”
Stiv played it smart and didn’t say anything about his money problems. Chiclet wouldn’t want to hear it. The mere mention of it would turn her against him. She didn’t like her men weak. But Stiv had a plan and he needed to meet with Jeeter. Was this an appropriate time to bring it up? He wasn’t sure—the dank passageway was so impersonal. But he forced himself to do it. “Tell me,” he inveigled, “you doing anything?”
“Why?”
“You got any weed?”
Chiclet looked down her nose at Stiv. “What for?”
“I want to get smoked out. I’m stressing something ugly.”
Getting high wasn’t a bad idea. But business took priority. Chiclet held up the notepad, letting frustration colorize her voice. “I can’t smoke no dope now. I’m getting revenue for Jeeter. It’s rent day, damn it. You know how he is. He watches every penny. And you better have your check for me soon.”
Stiv hated being hounded for the rent—he was no better off than a hamster on a treadmill. “Yeah, sure, later,” he said. “Give me a couple of hours.” He lifted his arms. As the elastic in his lime-green boxer shorts was stretched out, the motion caused the underwear to slide off his bony hips and drop to the floor. His pimpled buttocks were luminous in the hallway’s murk. He put a hand on Chiclet’s arm and said, “Listen.”
Literal-minded Chiclet didn’t hear anything. The hall was as silent as a cemetery. She said, “Listen to what?”
“No, no, listen to me. I want to see Jeeter.”
“What for?”
“I’ve got a deal for him.”
Chiclet wasn’t enthused. “We don’t need any more drugs, Stiv. We have everything under the goddamn sun.”
“It ain’t drugs that I’m talking about.”
“Yeah? What is it then?”
“I have something extra special.”
She was wary. “Oh?”
“Yeah. A piece.”
“A gun?”
“Yup. Cheap, too.”
Chiclet was solemn. She thought about Stiv’s proposal for a moment, running it through the corners of her mind. She saw nothing wrong with it, saying, “You’re in luck. Jeeter’s been looking for one lately. I’ll tell him you have something for him. Come on over in an hour. Can you do that?”
“Sure can.”
“You know where we’re living these days?”
“Near the Otis Street welfare office, right?”
“Right.”
Chiclet bussed Stiv on the cheek and said good-bye. She proceeded downstairs to deliver an eviction notice to a tenant on the fourth floor. Stiv watched her descend the staircase and touched the spot on his skin where her lips had been. Then he pulled up his boxer shorts and went back to his room.
Getting dressed was easy. Stiv leaped into a pair of silver-buckled engineer boots, his favorite T-shirt, and the motorcycle jacket, and then stuffed the Saturday night special in his waistband. Leaving the room was harder. He opened the door, slithered into the hall, shut the door, and bolted the lock. He checked it, did it again, and two more times after that. He took a couple of steps toward the exit and went back to check the doorknob a fifth time. His agoraphobia was getting out of hand.
Tearing himself away, Stiv bounded down the rear stairs to the ground floor and burst out of the emergency exit onto the sidewalk. Walking in the tepid sunshine to the Muni bus stop at Franklin Street, he finished a joint, the last pinch of what he’d taken off Richard Rood.
A turn-of-the-century F-line car from the Castro pulled up to the stop. Jumping aboard, Stiv looked around the overcrowded carriage. The
only vacant seat was in a compartment by a quartet of armed transit cops with two German shepherd guard dogs, and he decided not to sit down. The train conductor’s disembodied voice wafted over the car’s loudspeaker: “Next stop … Civic Center.”
Rattling toward the Civic Center, the trolley pitched from side to side. One of the cops attempted to make eye contact with Stiv. He looked the other way and paid close attention to the street as it whizzed by the train. A Public Health Service ambulance was at the corner of Larkin and Market; medics were loading a homeless man onto a stretcher.
Getting Sharona pregnant had been a colossal accident. The stupid things you did when you were lonely were amazing. You’d sleep with anyone without a rubber on, so long as they were warm and breathing. And having a kid had become an error of monumental proportions. That became evident on the night the baby was born. Straight out of jail, Stiv visited Sharona and the brat in the welfare maternity ward at General Hospital.
Holding the pointy-headed creature that was supposed to be their son in the crook of her elbow, Sharona said to Stiv, honeyed and dulcet-toned, “I need to tell you something.”
The triumph in her voice made Stiv paranoid. “What is it?”
“You have to become a responsible parental figure.”
She might as well have been speaking in Hebrew. He said, “What in the hell are you barking at?”
“It’s like this,” Sharona lectured. “Are you going to be a daddy or a father?”
It was mumbo-jumbo in his ears. “Huh?”
“A daddy just hangs around. A father goes out and gets a job and takes care of his family.”
Sharona’s edict had been a major bring-down. Stiv had never met his own father, didn’t even know the man’s name, so what the fuck was she saying? He didn’t have a clue. Here he was, twenty-five years old, fathering a child way too soon. Now he had to step up to the plate for Sharona and the kid and deliver the things he’d never known.
The trolley shuddered to a halt at the Civic Center station and the coach doors opened. Stiv disembarked and muscled a path through knots of school kids, junkies, suited office workers, and Nicaraguan women selling food. The line of passengers struggling to get out of the station was lengthy. A surveillance camera embedded in a wall gazed unblinkingly at the crowd. Keeping an eye on two overweight Muni cops guarding the entrance, Stiv cut to the front, bestraddled a turnstile, and hopped over it.
