Scotchman had made his report. He folded up his wafer-phone and slipped it back into his top pocket.
“Gang activity,” he diagnosed. “These are Caldiarres. They’ve been warring over turf with the Eyes.”
All the dead people flew colours. Scarves and symbols and jackets and headbands. The Caldiarres’ badge was a red, angry demon face. From the tribalism, you’d have sworn the Indians had won in the Americas.
“Wouldn’t another gang take the drugs?” Stuart asked.
García looked into the face of the hanging boy and said “Think I recognize this fool. Esquiverra, Escalante, Esca-something . . .”
Scotchman looked around, crossing names off his mental wanted list.
García picked out a squeezer and felt the weight of it. A single hundred dollar pellet of zonk was inside, diluting in liquid.
“Feels like a tit, man. Really does.”
Zonkbrains called their poison Mother’s Milk, and talked about “sucking Diablo’s Teat”.
García gave an experimental squeeze and a tiny gusher of whitish fluid dribbled from the nipple.
“Ever wonder what it’s like, Stuey?”
Stuart had a particular horror of drugs. When his sister was fourteen and Stuart eleven, Dad had caught Brenda with a joint and gave them both a scarifying tour of a rehab clinic. Neither of the Finn kids so much as smoked cigarettes; Stuart worried about the amount of coffee he drank.
“Let’s post the Crime Scene: Keep Out notice and be on the road,” Scotchman said. “The clean-up will be here in minutes.”
“You just leave these people?” Stuart said, astonished.
“They’re not going anywhere. And nobody is going to mess with them.”
Scotchman took a last look around the garage. The smoke had dissipated.
“A message has been delivered,” he said. “Let’s hope it gets to the right people.”
IV From the Corrido of Diego
“My mother had fourteen babies that I know of, at least five with my father. By my twenty-fifth year, I alone still lived. My brothers and sisters were taken by illness and the land.
“My father wished to give me work at the mission. Don Esteban would not hear of a peon being taught to read and write. I was in all but name a slave of the patrón. Under the Spanish statutes of California, I was prohibited from tilling earth or raising livestock for my own table. I was paid six reales (twelve cents, American money) a day. Obliged by law to buy food from Don Esteban, I never saw a coin. Like all peons, I inherited the debt of my family. The debts of my dead brothers and sisters, which fell upon my shoulders, were numbered in thousands of reales.
“This was the way things had been under Spain; this was the way things were under Mexico; this was the way things would be in the United States.
“The mission collected its tithe from Don Esteban, who deducted it from the earnings of the peons. My father taught us to be devout and dutiful, for we would receive our reward in Heaven.”
“One night of the full moon, soon after the change, I hunted down and killed Don Esteban.
“In the stories, Don Esteban might be a tyrant, lashing about with a whip, striping the backs of the peons. Perhaps one of my sisters survived to young girlhood and became beautiful. Or maybe one of the daughters of my neighbours was comely and promised to me in marriage. From his steed, the patrón espied beauty under dust and carried her back to his hacienda to be abused. Or the priest might raise gentle protest against the lot of the peons and be turned away roughly by Don Esteban, falling dead in the dirt with a throwing knife buried to its hilt in his godly back. One night, Don Esteban and his men might become distracted with wine and, as a sport, ride through the village, pulling down the one-room jacales in which we lived, emptying one-shot pistols at random at any human shadow.
“None of these things were the case. By his own lights, Don Esteban was a pious man. He treated his peons as he treated other beasts that he owned, strictly but with care. His wealth was founded upon our work, and you do not slaughter a good horse or ox until it is too old to work.
“Killing Don Esteban was something that came to my animal mind. He was not the first man to feed my night hungers, but he was the first whom I sought out.
“If the patrón’s home was a hacienda, it was a modest one. It was made of stone but its floors were beaten earth. My feet made no sound as I entered. Don Esteban was reading his Bible by firelight. As I stalked towards him, he gripped a rosary tight and stared.
“At the first sight of me, Don Esteban fouled himself. To my snout, the smell was intense and exciting.
“With my long fingers, I gripped the patrón’s head firmly as I tore out his throat. I chewed through the fine lace of his collar. My teeth hurt as I bit down on a silver button. His muttered prayer cut off sharply.
“When finished, I found my hooked thumbnail had cut a zig-zag-zig into Don Esteban’s cheek as he struggled. A red letter stood out in the brown skin above his beard. The letter Z.
“A servant found me squatting over Don Esteban. As often after tasting human blood, I had fallen into a reverie, distracted by patterns in the flames of the hearth. The servant gave the alarm and I was chased into the hills.”
“Next morning, when I returned exhausted to my jacale, the peons mourned the passing of the patrón. Many loved Don Esteban as a dog loves its master. The mission bells tolled for his death. By this time, my father was dead of fever and a young Jesuit, Fray Molina, had taken his place.
“A cousin of Don Esteban sold his lands, and we had a new patrón, Don Luis. He was much like the old patrón and, after some years passed, I took the opportunity to kill him also. Of course, there would always be patrónes. This was understood. I could not exterminate the breed. Also, I killed Fray Molina, whom I knew troubled the young boys of the village. And I killed Capítan Cordoba, who hanged Tío Pancho for speaking against the Church. I killed many. Still, I kill many.
“With my long finger, I took to leaving my zig-zag-zig on my kills. Others took to using my mark. Often, I saw it cut into the bark of trees or the adobe of a wall.
“By now, there was much talk of a curse and a demon. The old women, more Indian than Spanish, said the curse was always upon the land. In the times before the conquistadores, when the Apache preyed upon the Pueblos, the demon fought the raiders. It was a fox, a wolf, a bear, a wild man . . .
“Some said the demon was an angel, that only the unjust were struck down by its hand. I was drawn to certain men: cruel officers, venal priests, murderous bandits, harsh overseers. If I chanced upon one such by daylight in the period just before the full moon, their flesh seemed to glow like the moon through my altered eyes. I would be certain our paths would cross by night.
“By day, I took a wife, Dolores, Lolita. She grew old and died in short years. I did not grow old and die. My sons seemed to me like my brothers, then like grandfathers, then they too died. Few remarked upon my situation, but other peons kept their distance from me. After I buried my Lolita, I could find no other to wed me. My grandchildren avoided me. I was no longer welcome at the mission.
“Eventually, I would have been driven from the land. Those who sang of the Fox of the Night wished to deny the Diego of the Day. I became as a phantom, entirely invisible to those among whom I lived. If I did not work the land, no overseer reprimanded me. If I found my sustenance by night, no one questioned my well-fed appearance. My jacale fell into disrepair, but that did not trouble me.
“Each month, the Fox had five or six nights, immediately before, during and after the full moon. Only then did I live. I hunted, I found lovers, I struck. Sometimes I wished Diego would disappear forever into the Fox. Then I could depart for the hills, there to live away from the cares of man.”
V
“Be a blue moon tomorrow, man,” García said, thumbing up at the sky.
Stuart looked up through the wide window, puzzled. The moon above was silver, as usual.
“A moon can be called blue when
it’s full twice in a month,” Scotchman explained. “It was full on the first and we’ve a couple of days to go ‘til September.”
So that was what “once in a blue moon” meant. Stuart guessed you got a better education on the streets of LA than at Sexey’s School for Boys. Maybe night patrol was so boring, you picked up all this trivia.
Of course, tonight hadn’t been boring.
García and Scotchman were known at the Coffee Stop. An 80-year-old counter girl with a jet-black beehive served them without being asked. She might have been eighteen when the sun set and aged through a long graveyard shift. No greeting, no conversation.
They didn’t talk about the zonk house. Stuart, stomach empty, was hungry but found the idea of food repulsive. He dunked a doughnut, then sucked coffee out of it.
Stuart felt gimlet eyes on his back. Now he knew what it was like to be with the Heat. Even at 4.30 a.m. the Stop was crowded. Thin old people and restless young ones. Night people. One or two teenagers wore discreet colours, almost as quiet as AIDS remembrance ribbons. Scotchman was the only anglo in the room. Stuart wasn’t quite the only black guy, but he was the only one who felt as though he were from outer space.
He could tell the night people knew he wasn’t a cop. He sensed eyes searching for a gun bulge under his pullover. Not being a cop wouldn’t be any protection if that black van cruised down the street and someone rolled down one of the reflective black windows to spray automatic gunfire at the Coffee Stop, shattering the window and perforating García and Scotchman as inconvenient semi-witnesses. Stuart would get just as many bullets.
A screen-fronted sphere above the counter gave out a smog forecast in Spanish. The golden-skinned weather-girl was one of the CGI simulacra so popular this season. It had only taken America fifteen years to catch up with Max Headroom. Traffic and crime stats stuttered across the image, those with an immediate effect highlighted in pulsing red.
A young Chicano walked over to the cops. He wore silver-tipped cowboy boots and tight black jeans. His hair was covered by a tied-at-the-back black bandana. If he slipped the bandana over his eyes, he would look like a masked avenger. Though clean-shaven, his eyebrows were slicked and teased like a Douglas Fairbanks moustache.
“Buenas noches, Vega,” Scotchman said, quietly. No doubt Vega merited his own file card.
The kid said something to Officer García and the cop inclined his head to think. Remembering GCSE Spanish, Stuart gathered the cops were invited to talk with someone called the Alcalde. “Alcalde” meant “Mayor”, but Stuart guessed Vega didn’t mean Krystina Jute, the controversial Mayor who wanted to change the city’s name to Las Angelas.
“The Alcalde is concerned about what went down this night with the Carriares,” Vega explained, diplomatic but forceful like an ambassador of an overconfident superpower. “He would like to discuss this matter.”
García looked at Scotchman, who gave no signal. As one, the cops stood.
“Who is this Alcalde?” Stuart asked.
“Could call him a community leader,” García said.
As they all walked across the checkerboard floor, people at the tables cringed to give them air-space. The cops had a special saunter, probably from lugging all the iron around on their belts. The Colt Police Python on one hip was balanced by the multi-use stunstick on the other. Stuart, taller than García and within an inch of Scotchman, felt he was trotting in their wake like a tolerated younger brother.
At a table in the farthest alcove, the Alcalde held court. He was a white-haired man whose unlined face was adorned with a neatly-trimmed goatee beard, black but undyed. He wore a white jacket over a sparkly black shirt, and had a necklace with an animal-tooth fetish. Clustered around him were serious-looking kids like Vega, sharply dressed but without obvious gang colours. All were latino, save a girl with oriental eyes and a braided queue who might be half-Korean or Vietnamese.
If the Alcalde’s party had eaten or drunk anything, the waitresses had long ago cleared away the washing-up. The Alcalde smoked a thin cigar. He smiled at the cops and, speaking Spanish so slowly Stuart could follow with no trouble, invited them to sit with him.
Stuart found himself crammed on a squeaky seat between Scotchman and the half-oriental. He was aware of the cop’s holstered gun, pressing into his thigh as he was crowded against the girl.
“This is a bad thing that has happened,” the Alcalde declared. “Blood spilled, lives wasted . . .”
Stuart expected Scotchman to comment on the occupation of the dead kids, but the cop said nothing.
“The Eyes are evil fools,” García said. “This was coming for months.”
The Alcalde waved the comment away. “This was not the work of the Eyes. They themselves suffered a similar attack three nights ago. A black van was seen.”
“We saw . . .” Stuart began, then halted as Scotchman tapped his knee.
“The Caldiarres and the Eyes have made cases to me,” the Alcalde continued. “They say there will be no war.”
“As long as they’re in the zonk business, there’s war,” Scotchman said.
The Alcalde shook his head. “This is regrettable. This zonk is a poison, the Devil’s Milk. It is right that your Chief Ryu should wish it vanished from our streets.”
Vega nodded, eyes on the Alcalde. The kid reminded Stuart of Deal, the boy in Shadowstalk. The boy who shows the policeman where the evil comes from.
“But there are other poisons.”
Dawn seeped into the Coffee Stop, dispelling the grubby corpse light of crackling ceiling panels. Shadows appeared on the Alcalde’s face. Back in Britain, it was getting near bed-time. Stuart was exhausted to the point of dropping.
García and Scotchman stood, ending the audience. Stuart, reluctant to unbend from the soft seat, got up too. Formal farewells were exchanged. The cops walked to the door and the patrol car outside.
For an odd instant, Stuart stayed behind, looking at the faces of the Alcalde’s entourage. Vega, the oriental girl, others. He saw an intensity that touched a chord. Something he could use for the script.
Throughout the audience, the Alcalde had not seemed to notice Stuart. His followers, though, took turns to stare at him until he had nowhere to look away. Now the Alcalde looked straight at him and said, in precise English, “Take care, black man. This is a jungle.”
VI From the Corrido of Diego
“On February the 2nd, 1848, at the end of the Mexican-American War, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was executed. Mexico ceded to the United States territory greater in size than Germany and France combined. Aside from giving up claim to the Republic of Texas, which was taken promptly into the Union, Mexico yielded New Mexico, Arizona and California.
“By that time, I had walked away from my village. Runaway peons were traditionally hunted down and punished, returned in chains like the slaves of the Southern States. But the patrón, like everyone else, had come to regard me as invisible. I left the graves of my family and the ruin of my jacale to the dust and wind and followed the paths of the beasts. I drifted from place to place, never settling. Diego lived long months of hunger for the nights of the moon.
“I was greeted with suspicion by those I chanced across. I still saw the strange glow and I made my kills. Bandits, mostly; renegados, bad men. Some understood my situation; I was given shelter and food in the homes of the pobres, but never for long. For some years, I was with the Pueblo Indians, my mother’s people. They were less unsettled by my presence. A few even commented upon my situation with humour.
“Fox was known to them of old.
“Some moon nights, young girls would couple with Fox. With Diego, these girls were respectful and obedient, as if with the father or elder brother of a lover, but with Fox, they were passionate, enthusiastic, delighted. They wore zig-zag-zig scratches like badges of honour. I noticed some old women wore similar, long-healed marks, and thought occasionally of the viejo.
“In giving away California, Mexican negotiators believed they
were disposing of an Indian-plagued wilderness inhabited by only 7,000 Christian souls and an indeterminate number of savages. They were unaware that nine days earlier an anglo by the name of James Marshall had struck gold in the Sacramento Valley. Within three years, 200,000 people had flooded into the territory. Not all the newcomers were anglos from the States; many were gambussinos, experienced Mexican prospectors who headed North from Sonora to swell the population of the gold-fevered land.
“The anglo story has Marshall rushing into Fort Sutter shouting ‘gold, gold, gold!’ In truth, the word he used was ‘chispa’, Spanish for ‘bright speck’. In everything concerning gold, the anglos followed the Spanish. Conquistadores named California for the gold they believed they would find, and Mexicans were prising precious poisons from dirt long before Marshall got on his mule. In Nevada, the anglo Comstock was about to abandon an unsuccessful gold strike when a passing Mexican miner told him the bluish stuff he’d been discarding signalled that he’d hit upon the richest silver mine in the world.
“Gold and silver are poisons. This I know; once, much later, an Americano named Reid put a silver bullet in Fox. Sometimes, I limp still, after more than a century.
“Like a sudden wind rising, the empty lands were crowded. Rarely was I alone on the trails. I fell in with gambussinos, and, from boredom rather than need, took to prospecting.
“Many speak proudly of their ‘Spanish heritage’, as if their ancestors were ricos, born on silk sheets in Madrid and sent to the colonies to win fortunes. It is a fact that when California became a state in 1850, over one-half of the Spanish-speaking population had arrived within the previous two years, gambussinos in search of gold. To be Chicano has nothing to do with the Dons of Aragon and Castile; it is to be the sons of miners and peons and Indians.
“I have been a miner, a peon and an Indian.
“With gold came guns. The rich flow of metal attracted men and women whose business was to dig their goods out of the purses of the men who had dug it from the ground. Mining camps bristled with vice and violence, then turned to ghost towns as a strike petered out. Cities were founded and abandoned. Deserts were littered with possessions cast away when they became too heavy.
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 59
