At the bed, he tossed the stuff into the overnight bag and snapped it shut.
Over his shoulder, he said, “The rent’s paid to the end of the month. After that, you better look for another place to live.”
She didn’t respond, and remembering his tooth brush, he went into the bathroom for it. When he came out, she was standing there with a .38 in her hand. It was the same .38 he’d once considered killing himself with. That had been the old Frankie, of course.
Not the new Frankie. Death was no consideration in the life of the new Frankie.
“You rotten son of a bitch,” she said.
He laughed aloud and started for her, and he just couldn’t believe it when the slug slammed into his shoulder.
He looked down in amazement at the place where the crimson began to seep, and his incredulous eyes raised just in time to receive the second slug squarely between them.
And, like the night the old man died, it was funny. In the last split second of sight, it wasn’t Taffy standing there with the gun at all. It was the old man again.
The old man with a memory like an elephant.
The old man who always waited until it really hurt.
SOULS BURNING
BY BILL PRONZINI
Civic Center
(Originally published in 1991)
Hotel Majestic, Sixth Street, downtown San Francisco. A hell of an address—a hell of a place for an ex-con not long out of Folsom to set up housekeeping. Sixth Street, south of Market—South of the Slot, it used to be called—is the heart of the city’s Skid Road and has been for more than half a century.
Eddie Quinlan. A name and a voice out of the past, neither of which I’d recognized when he called that morning. Close to seven years since I had seen or spoken to him, six years since I’d even thought of him. Eddie Quinlan. Edgewalker, shadow-man with no real substance or purpose, drifting along the narrow catwalk that separates conventional society from the underworld. Information seller, gofer, smalltime bagman, doer of any insignificant job, legitimate or otherwise, that would help keep him in food and shelter, liquor and cigarettes. The kind of man you looked at but never really saw: a modern-day Yehudi, the little man who wasn’t there. Eddie Quinlan. Nobody, loser—fall guy. Drug bust in the Tenderloin one night six and a half years ago; one dealer setting up another, and Eddie Quinlan, smalltime bagman, caught in the middle; hard-assed judge, five years in Folsom, goodbye Eddie Quinlan. And the drug dealers? They walked, of course. Both of them.
And now Eddie was out, had been out for six months. And after six months of freedom, he’d called me. Would I come to his room at the Hotel Majestic tonight around eight? He’d tell me why when he saw me. It was real important—would I come? All right, Eddie. But I couldn’t figure it. I had bought information from him in the old days, bits and pieces for five or ten dollars; maybe he had something to sell now. Only I wasn’t looking for anything and I hadn’t put the word out, so why pick me to call?
If you’re smart you don’t park your car on the street at night, South of the Slot. I put mine in the Fifth and Mission Garage at 7:45 and walked over to Sixth. It had rained most of the day and the streets were still wet, but now the sky was cold and clear. The kind of night that is as hard as black glass, so that light seems to bounce off the dark instead of shining through it; lights and their colors so bright and sharp reflecting off the night and the wet surfaces that the glare is like splinters against your eyes.
Friday night, and Sixth Street was teeming. Sidewalks jammed—old men, young men, bag ladies, painted ladies, blacks, whites, Asians, addicts, pushers, muttering mental cases, drunks leaning against walls in tight little clusters while they shared paper-bagged bottles of sweet wine and cans of malt liquor; men and women in filthy rags, in smart new outfits topped off with sunglasses, carrying ghetto blasters and red-and-white canes, some of the canes in the hands of individuals who could see as well as I could, and a hidden array of guns and knives and other lethal instruments. Cheap hotels, greasy spoons, seedy taverns, and liquor stores complete with barred windows and cynical proprietors that stayed open well past midnight. Laughter, shouts, curses, threats; bickering and dickering. The stenches of urine and vomit and unwashed bodies and rotgut liquor, and over those like an umbrella, the subtle effluvium of despair. Predators and prey, half hidden in shadow, half revealed in the bright, sharp dazzle of fluorescent lights and bloody neon.
It was a mean street, Sixth, one of the meanest, and I walked it warily. I may be fifty-eight but I’m a big man and I walk hard too; and I look like what I am. Two winos tried to panhandle me and a fat hooker in an orange wig tried to sell me a piece of her tired body, but no one gave me any trouble.
The Majestic was five stories of old wood and plaster and dirty brick, just off Howard Street. In front of its narrow entrance, a crack dealer and one of his customers were haggling over the price of a baggie of rock cocaine; neither of them paid any attention to me as I moved past them. Drug deals go down in the open here, day and night. It’s not that the cops don’t care, or that they don’t patrol Sixth regularly; it’s just that the dealers outnumber them ten to one. On Skid Road any crime less severe than aggravated assault is strictly low priority.
Small, barren lobby: no furniture of any kind. The smell of ammonia hung in the air like swamp gas. Behind the cubbyhole desk was an old man with dead eyes that would never see anything they didn’t want to see. I said, “Eddie Quinlan,” and he said, “Two-oh-two,” without moving his lips. There was an elevator but it had an OUT OF ORDER sign on it; dust speckled the sign. I went up the adjacent stairs.
The disinfectant smell permeated the second floor hallway as well. Room 202 was just off the stairs, fronting on Sixth; one of the metal 2s on the door had lost a screw and was hanging upside down. I used my knuckles just below it. Scraping noise inside, and a voice said, “Yeah?” I identified myself. A lock clicked, a chain rattled, the door wobbled open, and for the first time in nearly seven years I was looking at Eddie Quinlan.
He hadn’t changed much. Little guy, about five-eight, and past forty now. Thin, nondescript features, pale eyes, hair the color of sand. The hair was thinner and the lines in his face were longer and deeper, almost like incisions where they bracketed his nose. Otherwise he was the same Eddie Quinlan.
“Hey,” he said, “thanks for coming. I mean it, thanks.”
“Sure, Eddie.”
“Come on in.”
The room made me think of a box—the inside of a huge rotting packing crate. Four bare walls with the scaly remnants of paper on them like psoriatic skin, bare uncarpeted floor, unshaded bulb hanging from the center of a bare ceiling. The bulb was dark; what light there was came from a low-wattage reading lamp and a wash of red-and-green neon from the hotel’s sign that spilled in through a single window. Old iron-framed bed, unpainted nightstand, scarred dresser, straight-backed chair next to the bed and in front of the window, alcove with a sink and toilet and no door, closet that wouldn’t be much larger than a coffin.
“Not much, is it,” Eddie said.
I didn’t say anything.
He shut the hall door, locked it. “Only place to sit is that chair there. Unless you want to sit on the bed? Sheets are clean. I try to keep things clean as I can.”
“Chair’s fine.”
I went across to it; Eddie put himself on the bed. A room with a view, he’d said on the phone. Some view. Sitting here you could look down past Howard and up across Mission—almost two full blocks of the worst street in the city. It was so close you could hear the beat of its pulse, the ugly sounds of its living and its dying.
“So why did you ask me here, Eddie? If it’s information for sale, I’m not buying right now.”
“No, no, nothing like that. I ain’t in the business any more.”
“Is that right?”
“Prison taught me a lesson. I got rehabilitated.” There was no sarcasm or irony in the words; he said them matter-of-factly.
“I’m glad to
hear it.”
“I been a good citizen ever since I got out. No lie. I haven’t had a drink, ain’t even been in a bar.”
“What are you doing for money?”
“I got a job,” he said. “Shipping department at a wholesale sporting goods outfit on Brannan. It don’t pay much but it’s honest work.”
I nodded. “What is it you want, Eddie?”
“Somebody I can talk to, somebody who’ll understand—that’s all I want. You always treated me decent. Most of ’em, no matter who they were, they treated me like I wasn’t even human. Like I was a turd or something.”
“Understand what?”
“About what’s happening down there.”
“Where? Sixth Street?”
“Look at it,” he said. He reached over and tapped the window; stared through it. “Look at the people … there, you see that guy in the wheelchair and the one pushing him? Across the street there?”
I leaned closer to the glass. The man in the wheelchair wore a military camouflage jacket, had a heavy wool blanket across his lap; the black man manipulating him along the crowded sidewalk was thick-bodied, with a shiny bald head. “I see them.”
“White guy’s name is Baxter,” Eddie said. “Grenade blew up under him in ’Nam and now he’s a paraplegic. Lives right here in the Majestic, on this floor down at the end. Deals crack and smack out of his room. Elroy, the black dude, is his bodyguard and roommate. Mean, both of ’em. Couple of months ago, Elroy killed a guy over on Minna that tried to stiff them. Busted his head with a brick. You believe it?”
“I believe it.”
“And they ain’t the worst on the street. Not the worst.”
“I believe that too.”
“Before I went to prison I lived and worked with people like that and I never saw what they were. I mean I just never saw it. Now I do, I see it clear—every day walking back and forth to work, every night from up here. It makes you sick after a while, the things you see when you see ’em clear.”
“Why don’t you move?”
“Where to? I can’t afford no place better than this.”
“No better room, maybe, but why not another neighborhood? You don’t have to live on Sixth Street.”
“Wouldn’t be much better, any other neighborhood I could buy into. They’re all over the city now, the ones like Baxter and Elroy. Used to be it was just Skid Road and the Tenderloin and the ghettos. Now they’re everywhere, more and more every day. You know?”
“I know.”
“Why? It don’t have to be this way, does it?”
Hard times, bad times: alienation, poverty, corruption, too much government, not enough government, lack of social services, lack of caring, drugs like a cancer destroying society. Simplistic explanations that were no explanations at all and as dehumanizing as the ills they described. I was tired of hearing them and I didn’t want to repeat them, to Eddie Quinlan or anybody else. So I said nothing.
He shook his head. “Souls burning everywhere you go,” he said, and it was as if the words hurt his mouth coming out.
Souls burning. “You find religion at Folsom, Eddie?”
“Religion? I don’t know, maybe a little. Chaplain we had there, I talked to him sometimes. He used to say that about the hard-timers, that their souls were burning and there wasn’t nothing he could do to put out the fire. They were doomed, he said, and they’d doom others to burn with ’em.”
I had nothing to say to that either. In the small silence a voice from outside said distinctly, “Dirty bastard, what you doin’ with my pipe?” It was cold in there, with the hard bright night pressing against the window. Next to the door was a rusty steam radiator but it was cold too; the heat would not be on more than a few hours a day, even in the dead of winter, in the Hotel Majestic.
“That’s the way it is in the city,” Eddie said. “Souls burning. All day long, all night long, souls on fire.”
“Don’t let it get to you.”
“Don’t it get to you?”
“…Yes. Sometimes.”
He bobbed his head up and down. “You want to do something, you know? You want to try to fix it somehow, put out the fires. There has to be a way.”
“I can’t tell you what it is,” I said.
He said, “If we all just did something. It ain’t too late. You don’t think it’s too late?”
“No.”
“Me neither. There’s still hope.”
“Hope, faith, blind optimism—sure.”
“You got to believe,” he said, nodding. “That’s all, you just got to believe.”
Angry voices rose suddenly from outside; a woman screamed, thin and brittle. Eddie came off the bed, hauled up the window sash. Chill damp air and street noises came pouring in: shouts, cries, horns honking, cars whispering on the wet pavement, a Muni bus clattering along Mission; more shrieks. He leaned out, peering downward.
“Look,” he said, “look.”
I stretched forward and looked. On the sidewalk below, a hooker in a leopard-skin coat was running wildly toward Howard; she was the one doing the yelling. Chasing behind her, tight black skirt hiked up over the tops of net stockings and hairy thighs, was a hideously rouged transvestite waving a pocket knife. A group of winos began laughing and chanting “Rape! Rape!” as the hooker and the transvestite ran zig-zagging out of sight on Howard.
Eddie pulled his head back in. The flickery neon wash made his face seem surreal, like a hallucinogenic vision. “That’s the way it is,” he said sadly. “Night after night, day after day.”
With the window open, the cold was intense; it penetrated my clothing and crawled on my skin. I’d had enough of it, and of this room and Eddie Quinlan and Sixth Street.
“Eddie, just what is it you want from me?”
“I already told you. Talk to somebody who understands how it is down there.”
“Is that the only reason you asked me here?”
“Ain’t it enough?”
“For you, maybe.” I got to my feet. “I’ll be going now.”
He didn’t argue. “Sure, you go ahead.”
“Nothing else you want to say?”
“Nothing else.” He walked to the door with me, unlocked it, and then put out his hand. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate it, I really do.”
“Yeah. Good luck, Eddie.”
“You too,” he said. “Keep the faith.”
I went out into the hall, and the door shut gently and the lock clicked behind me.
Downstairs, out of the Majestic, along the mean street and back to the garage where I’d left my car. And all the way I kept thinking: There’s something else, something more he wanted from me … and I gave it to him by going there and listening to him. But what? What did he really want?
* * *
I found out later that night. It was all over the TV—special bulletins and then the eleven o’clock news.
Twenty minutes after I left him, Eddie Quinlan stood at the window of his room-with-a-view, and in less than a minute, using a high-powered semiautomatic rifle he’d taken from the sporting goods outfit where he worked, he shot down fourteen people on the street below. Nine dead, five wounded, one of the wounded in critical condition and not expected to live. Six of the victims were known drug dealers; all of the others also had arrest records, for crimes ranging from prostitution to burglary. Two of the dead were Baxter, the paraplegic ex–Vietnam vet, and his bodyguard, Elroy.
By the time the cops showed up, Sixth Street was empty except for the dead and the dying. No more targets. And up in his room, Eddie Quinlan had sat on the bed and put the rifle’s muzzle in his mouth and used his big toe to pull the trigger.
My first reaction was to blame myself. But how could I have known or even guessed? Eddie Quinlan. Nobody, loser, shadow-man without substance or purpose. How could anyone have figured him for a thing like that?
Somebody I can talk to, somebody who’ll understand—that’s all I want.
No. What he’d wanted
was somebody to help him justify to himself what he was about to do. Somebody to record his verbal suicide note. Somebody he could trust to pass it on afterward, tell it right and true to the world.
You want to do something, you know? You want to try to fix it somehow, put out the fires. There has to be a way.
Nine dead, five wounded, one of the wounded in critical condition and not expected to live. Not that way.
Souls burning. All day long, all night long, souls on fire.
The soul that had burned tonight was Eddie Quinlan’s.
THE SECOND COMING
BY JOE GORES
San Quentin
(Originally published in 1966)
But fix thy eyes upon the valley:
for the river of blood draws nigh, in which boils every one who by violence injures other.
—Canto XII, 46–48, The Inferno of Dante Alighieri
I’ve thought about it a lot, man; like why Victor and I made that terrible scene out there at San Quentin, putting ourselves on that it was just for kicks. Victor was hung up on kicks; they were a thing with him. He was a sharp dark-haired cat with bright eyes, built lean and hard like a French skin-diver. His old man dug only money, so he’d always had plenty of bread. We got this idea out at his pad on Potrero Hill—a penthouse, of course—one afternoon when we were lying around on the sun-porch in swim trunks and drinking gin.
“You know, man,” he said, “I have made about every scene in the world. I have balled all the chicks, red and yellow and black and white, and I have gotten high on muggles, bluejays, redbirds, and mescaline. I have even tried the white stuff a time or two. But—”
“You’re a goddam tiger, dad.”
“—but there is one kick I’ve never had, man.”
When he didn’t go on I rolled my head off the quart gin bottle I was using for a pillow and looked at him. He was giving me a shot with those hot, wild eyes of his.
“So like what is it?”
San Francisco Noir 2: The Classics Page 8
