by Peter Plate
A ticket agent shouted at him, “Hey! You didn’t pay!”
Stiv jogged across Market Street. Resurgent wisps of fog wreathed the eucalyptus trees and the hillside condominiums on Diamond Heights. A red, white, and blue zeppelin bobbled over the office buildings in the Tenderloin. The weekly farmer’s market was in progress at the Civic Center. Azure blue and orangeade yellow clouds hovered over the gray government buildings in the plaza.
The neighborhood where Jeeter Roche dwelled, the South of Market, was populated with live-work lofts, high-rise retirement complexes, shopping centers, factories, and warehouses. The writer Jack London had been born at Third and Brannan. The last comprehensive general strike in San Francisco had been organized here by the ILWU in 1934. The district had been a hub for book printing on the West Coast, but skyrocketing production costs had driven the industry overseas to Korea and Singapore.
The South of Market was also a haven for the city’s leather queens. Bars like the Brig and the Anvil on Folsom Street attracted large mobs on the weekends. Stiv had frequented the Brig; his streetwise scruffiness was irresistible to the leather daddies. One of them, a queen by the name of Robert Opel, developed a crush on him. Usually done up in a black leather vest and chaps and pale-faced with a bushy mustache that masked his sardonic mouth, Robert promoted an ego that took up a lot of room. He’d streaked the Oscar Awards on national television and had become a celebrity. He had a flair for making the people around him seem smaller than they were. The attribute left more than one person wanting to murder him.
History doesn’t repeat itself; it merely predicts what’s been done before. Robert Opel got involved with the wrong people and was shot and killed in a PCP deal that went south. A pimply-faced queen was busted for the deed. One day while going to a preliminary hearing at the Hall of Justice, the shooter escaped from the holding cell next to the courtroom. Dressed in a pair of orange county-jail overalls, he evaded the cops and vamoosed all the way to Florida before he was captured again. Stiv stayed away from the Brig after that.
Walking by the warehouses on Howard Street, he was aware that the residual effects of the Haldol had worn off. His head was clearer than it had been all morning. His hearing was more acute. His sight was stronger. His ability to smell was enhanced. It wouldn’t be long before he had another hallucination.
Hallucinations had a herd mentality. They ran in packs. You had one, others joined in to gangbang your nervous system. Stiv got a hint of things to come when he spotted the wraith of José Reyna on Tehama Street. The outlaw was gauzy, transparent in the sunlight. He was in the saddle of a white stallion. The horse, a muscular brute, reared up on its hind legs and neighed. José waved his sombrero. The poltergeist lasted for all two seconds, enough to worry Stiv.
SIX
JEETER ROCHE’S HOME was in a refurbished twelve-unit Victorian apartment house in Stevenson Alley. Recently painted a pastel blue, the building had a FOR SALE sign on the front door. Stiv rang the bell and was let in through the security gate. Going inside, he had a glimpse of his reflection in the lobby’s mirror. His posture was that of a man who was ill at ease. Plastic frame sunglasses hid his eyes. His hips and legs were toothpicks, smaller than his chest and shoulders. His hair was slick and black. His complexion was gray from the Allen Hotel lifestyle. “You look like shit,” Stiv said to the mirror.
He went upstairs to the fifth floor. A potted palm tree stood sentry in the hall next to a window. The door to Jeeter’s apartment was ajar, and without knocking, Stiv slouched into the place. He tramped through a vestibule reeking with incense into an airy, spacious living room. Five dormer windows let in lukewarm light from the noisy alley.
The walls were packed with bookshelves; paperback novels spilled onto the floor. A Random House dictionary sat on the coffee table, along with a moth-eaten softback copy of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. Beached on a brown lizard-skin sofa were Jeeter Roche and Chiclet Dupont. Jeeter’s pupils were the size of silver dollars. Psychedelic mushrooms, Stiv guessed.
Jeeter savaged Stiv with a dismissive glance. Speaking in a queeny deadpan, the voice he used when relating to an inferior, he tapped Chiclet on the knee with a nail-bitten finger and said, “What the fuck is going on? You didn’t tell me Stiv Wilkins was coming over. What’s up with that? You trying to get me all freaked out and shit? I am unprepared for this. I do not feel in control.”
Chiclet fidgeted, a twitch that was exaggerated by the two five-milligram Valiums she’d just taken. She was in the zone where she was getting high, but not fast enough, and protested with vigor. “I did too tell you, Jeeter, damn it. You weren’t fucking listening.”
Stiv removed his motorcycle jacket and swung it over his shoulder. His steel-toed engineer boots scuffed the hardwood floor. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, rested his weight on one leg, and challenged Jeeter with a snarl, “You got a problem with me being here? I can leave if you want.”
Jeeter’s eyes were dark with the promise of conflict. His forehead was punctuated with a rill of tension. His overdeveloped arms strained against the sleeves of a hemp-fiber yoga shirt. His feet were bare and missing two toes. He dropped the book he’d been reading, Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, and said, “No, man, it’s cool. I’m not sweating you. Just checking out what comes in the door, you know what I’m saying?”
“I heard that.”
“Damn right, dude. Have a seat.”
Acknowledging Stiv with a wan smile, Chiclet was curled up in the sofa’s pads. She was clad in a polyester imitation sarong and an orange suede halter-top, and her hair was dyed bright cadmium yellow. In the late morning light her unlined, pockmarked face was ashen from a lack of sleep. A tic was working overtime on her right cheek. She was busily picking at the scabs on her newly tattooed forearms.
The living room was equipped with a pair of overstuffed velveteen chairs, white woolen drapes, walnut bookshelves from IKEA, an ersatz Turkish carpet, and a solid glass side table. A boom box on the table burbled a report about the Brinks money case. The police were now saying that, pending further notice, information to the public would be limited.
Stiv brushed a book of Picasso prints from a chair, deposited himself in the cushions, and made polite talk. “Fine place you got here. Pretty swell.”
Jeeter’s face was puffy and pallid; his lips were scarlet red and glistened with saliva. He accepted the compliment with typical gracelessness. “I’ve been doing real well this year. Selling weed is booming.” He confirmed this with Chiclet. “Ain’t that right, honey?”
Chiclet uncrossed her legs and started to get up. “That’s right, Jeeter.” She adjusted her halter-top, giving both men a candid shot of her alabaster breasts. She said to Stiv, “You want something to drink? We’ve got filtered water, beer, and Pepsi. Or you want to smoke a joint?” Her flat eyes sparkled. “I’ll roll a fatty with this here primo Canadian bud we’ve got.”
Jeeter motioned for her to sit back down, holding his hand up, palm out. His muscle-bound body radiated excitement and disharmony. He said with a slur, “Later with the smoke. We’re doing business, darling.”
Chiclet flushed, the pocks on her cheeks lighting up with embarrassment. “Gosh, I’m sorry.”
Ignoring his wife, Jeeter riveted Stiv with a paranoid stare, giving his guest a sample of his prison glare. It was a grimace that he’d acquired during a six-year stay in San Quentin. He didn’t say a word, just looked bald and mean. Then he asked, “So you brought me a cheap piece? Something inexpensive?”
Stiv got cocky. “Yeah, I did. The cream of the crop.”
Jeeter said, “I’m pleased to hear that, mighty pleased. Show me what you’ve got.”
Parting his jacket, Stiv dragged out the Saturday night special from his belt. It was a chrome-plated .25 caliber eight-shot semiautomatic that could fit in a child’s palm. The grips were mother-of-pearl. The finish around the pistol’s muzzle was tarnished. The barrel had nicks all over it. The gun’s appearance let you know t
hat it would blow up in your eyes when you put your finger on the trigger. Not worth more than twenty bucks in the street, its only virtue was in being concealable, which made it an excellent tool for crime.
Stiv said with a straight face, “It’s a beauty, ain’t it? La mera mata. The real deal.”
Hearing the Spanish, Jeeter brightened. “You’re bilingual, ain’t you?”
“I’m not,” Stiv said. “I’m from Oregon. From Portland.”
Jeeter eyeballed the pistol. His doughy features were impossible to read. There was no color in his cheeks and no zest in his eyes. You would’ve never known he was alive if it hadn’t been for his lips, which wouldn’t stop moving. He said, “Please, let me see that thing.”
Handing the weapon to him, Stiv said, “This is the finest you can get, guaranteed.”
Jeeter scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Stiv. It looks old.”
“It ain’t.”
Hefting the gat, Jeeter aimed it at the floor. He aimed it at the ceiling. He aimed it at Chiclet. He aimed it at Stiv. Pointing the gun at himself, he pressed the trigger five times in rapid succession. The firing pin sounded no more substantial than a paper clip and there weren’t any bullets in the magazine. The bullets—slugs that were no bigger than a grown man’s thumbnail—would cost Jeeter extra. They were a dollar apiece and were in Stiv’s pocket.
Three vertical lines terraced Jeeter’s brow. There was a question mark grooved in his tightened lips. You could see the dollar signs in his bookworm eyes, how he was already angling to drive the asking price downward. He stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. “It ain’t hot, is it?” he asked. “I want a clean gun.”
All guns are born with a blank slate. The Saturday night special had a legacy. It had been used by a junkie acquaintance of Stiv’s to rob liquor stores in the Tenderloin, the last one being at Turk and Hyde. During the heist, the junkie, suffering from withdrawals, had panicked and fired several shots at the clerk. The bullets took out a Gallo wine display case. The robber’s face and the gun were captured on video—the police were searching everywhere for him and the weapon. So he unloaded the pistol on Stiv for ten dollars.
Stiv was getting desperate and lied to Jeeter without remorse. The truth would get him zip. Nor would it earn him any money. “It’s fresh from the manufacturers. Never been used for nothing. It’s virgin.”
“You sure? It doesn’t look it.” Jeeter toyed with the pistol, turning it over in his hand. He said to Chiclet, “What do you think, babe?”
An artificial smile flickered on his wife’s mouth and died in her eyes. The rictus enslaved her face in a harlequin’s grin. Chiclet didn’t know anything about weapons, and she was getting too high to care. “Buy it if you want it, sugar. Just make sure it’s a deal.”
A scowl crossed Jeeter’s irregular features. “It ain’t right.”
Stiv would’ve been retarded if he hadn’t noticed Jeeter’s hesitation. He said, “What ain’t?”
Jeeter baited him. “The gun, damn it. It don’t look new to me, man. I’ll give you fifty bucks for it. That’s a fair price.”
“Fifty dollars?” Stiv snorted. “You’re fucking unreal. Shit, it’s worth at least a hundred.”
“No way. You’re fantasizing. I’ll give you fifty. No more than that.”
Stiv whinnied, “Unh uh, cowboy. You have to give me at least sixty-five bones.”
“I can’t do that,” Jeeter complained. “I’m already being too generous. You have to lighten up on the price tag. You know me … I can get anything, anytime, anywhere. If you don’t give me what I want, someone else will. Now you want to do this thing or not?”
“You’re taking advantage of my largesse.” Stiv got sulky. “I’m only asking for sixty-five shitty bucks. That’s chicken feed to a player like you.”
Jeeter rasped, “Fifty dollars. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
Stiv pleaded. “How about sixty-four?”
“Nope. You’re way off.”
“Sixty-three?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“Sixty-two?”
Jeeter smiled. “You’re out of my league.”
“Sixty-one.”
“You’re getting closer.”
“Sixty?”
“Keep coming down.”
“Fifty-nine?”
Jeeter hunched his shoulders and said earnestly, “Can’t do it.”
“Fifty-eight?”
“No.”
“Fifty-seven?”
“No.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re killing me. Fifty-six?”
“Nope.”
Chiclet begged Stiv’s case with Jeeter. The Valium was finally hitting, charging her with a blast of unfocused energy. She bent forward on the couch, elbows on her knees, hair in her eyes. “Sweetie, let’s give him five extra dollars. I have it in my purse. Stiv’s got a baby and shit to deal with. He needs whatever he can get his hands on.”
Jeeter didn’t tolerate kibitzing from the sidelines. Buying guns wasn’t a spectator sport. It was for seasoned men only. He whirled on Chiclet; his cheeks were eggplant purple from hypertension. “You hush up, chick. This is commerce. It ain’t welfare.”
“Fifty-five bucks, Jeeter, c’mon,” Stiv cajoled.
“No, fifty.”
Stiv was galled. He was doubtful and said, “I don’t know about this.”
Jeeter pointed the Saturday night special at Stiv. He put his other arm around Chiclet’s shoulders and snuggled her to his chest. He quipped, “What’s there not to know? Think of it this way. You have something and I want it. It’s a war of wills. Now what’s it going be. Fifty dollars or nothing?”
Smelling Jeeter’s feet from where he sat, Stiv said, “Fifty bucks?”
“You heard me right, bucko. Take it or leave it.”
Stiv was disappointed. His whole life it had been like this, big fish eating the little fish. There were only two kinds of people in the world, winners and losers. He had the dreadful feeling he was in the second category. “I’ll take it.”
Payment was five shabby ten-dollar bills—even Jeeter’s money was insulting. Stiv had half a mind to ask him if the cash had been dug up from a grave. The bills stank of death and decay. But he kept his opinion to himself. There was no point in egging on the bastard. You were only asking for more damage. He waltzed to his feet, smiled icily at his hosts, and said, “Nice doing business with you. I’ll let myself out.”
Heading home to the Allen Hotel, Stiv swung over to Market Street. He sauntered by the fashionable Zuni Café. Smart little tables with crisp white tablecloths had been set up on the sidewalk to take advantage of the Indian summer weather. Patrons resplendent in chic black business suits were eating and drinking while waiters bustled to and from the bar.
A hundred yards away from the café was a homeless encampment. In the center of the camp a man was asleep. Surrounded by cardboard and goose down sleeping bags, he was enjoying the sunshine. His young-old face was serene. His pencil-thin legs were crossed, and his feet were emblazoned with bloodstains. His wrists bore the marks of recent contusions. A circus of green flies whirled around his head. Buried in rags, he was no more substantial than a pile of leaves fallen from a tree. A tiny sparrow with brown wings and a fluted beak pecked at the blood on his feet.
The civil defense siren went off, as it did every Tuesday at noon.
The Brinks money had been gone for six hours.
SEVEN
RICHARD ROOD GAVE the farmer’s market in the Civic Center a hard look. The brick-paved plaza was swamped with sea gulls. Winos were sitting by the fountain. Senior citizens from Chinatown swarmed around merchants selling Fuji apples from Sonoma, mushrooms from Mendocino, fish from the bay, and almonds harvested near Firebaugh.
The place gave Richard the creeps. It reminded him of his days as a drag queen. Back when he was a man-child in an ash blonde wig, a satin gown, and a cashmere stole, hustling businessmen from suburban Marin in the bars
on Geary Street.
He was in a dive one night in 1979, a balmy May evening with no fog or wind. Spring was only a week long in the city and Richard had been enjoying the rare warm weather. A guy came in, ordered a whiskey with water, and said the faggots were rioting on Market Street because of Dan White.
A former policeman turned politician, Dan White was from a working-class neighborhood known as Visitacion Valley. He had shot and killed the mayor and a gay public official at city hall the previous November. He had been put on trial for two counts of first-degree murder, but the jury had let him off easy, and he was sentenced to eight years in prison.
Hearing the news, Richard ran down the hill from Geary in his stocking feet, holding his high heels in one hand. At the corner of Turk, drag queens were trashing a liquor store. The ground floor windows of the State Building on McAllister had been wrecked. Eleven police cars in a row were burning in the Civic Center. Sirens were going off. Windshields were exploding. Richard skipped over to the first cop car in the line, broiling inside a casket of flames. He tore the wig from his scalp and threw it in the fire.
That had been a long time ago. He was different now. Wasn’t a womanish boy, didn’t get up in drag. Didn’t waste his time stealing from drunken old white men in bars. The town had changed along with him. You just can’t kill the mayor without a backlash. There was less housing, no jobs, and a permanent army of homeless.
Wending past a fruit stall laden with twenty-pound bags of oranges, Rood drifted through the Civic Center to Market Street. An assortment of police vehicles, several battered vans, three bullet-pocked Humvees, and a dozen patrol cars, barricaded the boulevard’s four lanes. A repairman in an asbestos jumpsuit was climbing a ladder to rewire the telephone lines that had fallen down during the Brinks crashing. A platoon of cops in powder blue combat overalls and white riot helmets were stationed behind a sandbagged control point at a Muni bus stop.
