Before he got out, she handed him another envelope, this one holding a thousand dollars. His silence suddenly felt immature, but he realized that’s exactly how she wanted it. “It’s from Arthur,” she said.
“Well, thanks,” Raymond said. For a moment, he felt, inexplicably, like crying—but it passed.
“Fifty-six Colby,” Gloria said when he got out. “Five-six Colby, C-O-L-B-Y. Got it?”
“Fifty-six Colby,” he said.
“That’s Shadrack Pullman’s address. Go see him tomorrow evening.”
Colby Street was off Silver Avenue. Raymond took a taxi there, which, after four years in prison, felt luxurious. He arrived about an hour before the sun set. The house was plain, a box on a block filled with similar-looking ones. He stared at it for a moment and then made his approach. There was a garage on the bottom, with a gated front entrance beside it and stairs leading up to the living area. Plastic blinds covered the windows on the second floor. The walls were dirty; even on a rundown block, they stood out.
Raymond felt nerves swimming in his stomach as the doorbell buzzed upstairs. After a few moments, he heard the metallic sounds of locks being unbolted, chains being undone, and finally the door—around a corner and out of sight, at the top of the stairs—being pulled open.
“Who is it?” called an angry voice.
“It’s Raymond Gaspar,” he said. “Arthur’s friend.”
Silence. Raymond studied the stairway, noticing dust and hair on the ground, dark smudges on the walls. He felt his heart speed up a little.
“What’s the password?”
Gloria hadn’t mentioned any password. “Arthur,” he said, trying his best to sound confident.
During all the talk about Shadrack Pullman, Raymond had never been told how he looked. The man coming down the stairs now must have been about six feet four, 180 pounds. He wore loose jeans and no shirt, and he had long hair, though the hair up top was receding a little. He was white, Raymond thought, but there was something Asian-looking about his face. No, not Asian, Raymond remembered. Native.
He was angry. Raymond couldn’t tell if he’d heard what he’d said, so he repeated it once the man had reached the bottom of the stairs.
Shadrack came right up to the metal gate and looked down at his visitor. Raymond took a step back.
“Arthur’s not the password,” Shadrack said.
His eyes seemed speedy; he was looking at Raymond wrong, focusing behind him. He held his face tight, scanning the block to see if Raymond had come alone before settling his eyes back behind Raymond.
“They call you Ray, Raymond, or Raymundo?” he asked.
“Well, Ray, or Raymond.”
“Shit, then come on,” he said, opening the gate. “Get on up.”
Raymond walked in past Shadrack and up the stairs, then turned and waited. Shadrack waved him forward. In his mind, Raymond pictured throwing an elbow at his host’s throat if the man tried anything. The doorway led to a living room. The lights were off, but a huge television played a nature show with the volume muted. As Raymond’s eyes adjusted, he saw that the room was cluttered with stacks of books, with boxes and newspapers. A female mannequin leaned against the wall in one corner, bald and white. She had been drawn on with a marker; it looked like a child had scribbled out her breasts and face. The house smelled dirty.
“Shh—turn,” said Shadrack.
Raymond turned. The man held a pistol in his hand. Raymond felt a pulse of fear, but he stayed still, and as he focused on the gun he saw that it wasn’t real, that the barrel was solid. Still, he didn’t like it; his heart beat hard in his chest.
“Give me your driver’s license.”
Raymond reached into his front pocket, felt for the rubber band that served as his wallet, separated his state ID from his money, and handed it over. Shadrack stepped back into the doorway so he could use the daylight to see it. He looked from the card to Raymond’s face and back again. The gun hung loose in his hand.
“Raymond Gaspar,” he said. “You’re the one Arthur sent?”
Raymond nodded. “He told me to check in on you,” he said. “Make sure everything was cool.”
“Do I look like I need help?”
“No, not you,” said Raymond. “You seem all right.”
“What’d you do? You was his bodyguard, in Tracy?”
“Something like that.”
“You don’t look like a bodyguard, though,” Shadrack said.
“Well, I’m more gifted at thinking than fighting, if that’s what you mean.”
“So you’re a deep thinker?”
“Just as a way of saying that I’m not a great fighter.”
Shadrack raised the gun toward Raymond’s head and pulled the trigger. A burst of water hit him in the neck.
Anger spread through Raymond’s stomach and chest. Where he’d been for the past handful of years, that was grounds for a fight. He was ready to rip the man apart. In the darkness, he felt his face turn red.
“I’m just playing, boy,” Shadrack said, tossing the gun to Raymond. “Shoot me if it make you feel better.” He stepped in front of Raymond, holding his hands wide in surrender.
Raymond could smell the man’s underarms. He turned away, and set the gun down on the TV.
“Take your shirt off,” Shadrack said.
Raymond waited.
“You gonna take your fucking clothes off before we talk about anything. You heard me?”
The door clicked, and the room lit up. Raymond turned in time to see Shadrack lock two dead bolts, then set a metal police lock at a 45-degree angle to the floor. Raymond’s eyes swept over the room. A real sawed-off shotgun lay on a table against the wall, closer to Shadrack than himself.
“Let me tell you something,” said Shadrack. “Where I’m from, a stranger show up at your house, it’s the stranger’s duty gotta prove who he is, not the other way around.” His voice dropped down to a whisper. “I’m sure you understand if your shyness is outweighed by my need for caution.”
Raymond watched the man breathe, watched his chest fill up with air and empty.
“I already got my shirt off,” said Shadrack. “Shit, you might be wearing a wire, boy. Feds, Gloria, they all listening. Now take your hands and pull out your pant pockets.”
Raymond did as Shadrack said.
“Pull your pockets out, good. Turn around.”
Raymond turned, and Shadrack stepped forward to pat the back pockets of his pants.
“Put that shit down on the floor.”
Raymond took his room key and money from his back pocket and dropped them onto the carpet. Shadrack reached into his jacket pockets next, then opened the coat and fingered the breast pocket.
“Take off your coat. Drop it there.”
Raymond did as he was told. He moved slowly.
“Now, take off your shirt. Set it with your coat.”
Raymond turned and looked at Shadrack’s face. The man’s expression seemed to say that he just wanted to get this over with, too. Raymond pulled his shirt off and dropped it.
“Take your boots off,” Shadrack said.
Raymond bent down, keeping his eyes on Shadrack, and untied his boots.
“Socks, too.”
“Come on,” Raymond said.
“You’re a stranger, boy. I don’t know who the fuck you are. Said you’re Arthur’s friend, you know me, you know my reputation. You think I’d let you in off the street? Like y’all don’t know who the fuck I’m talking to? Y’all don’t know the fuck I’m dealing with? Shit, don’t make me worry about how dumb you are.”
Raymond felt a little stab of shame when he said this.
“Before I talk to you about anything that me and Arthur might want to talk about, I gotta know you’re not coming in here wearing a damn microphone. Not because”—Shadrack paused and looked up at the ceiling like he was addressing a listener somewhere else—“not because I’m partaking in any kind of criminal conspiracy, mind you, but because I res
pect Arthur’s privacy. Get it? Now take your fucking pants off. Let’s get all this bullshit over with. We gonna do this, or you gonna turn out.”
Raymond took his clothes off. He felt sick. Shadrack looked his body over—made him raise his arms, raise his balls—told Raymond he should be used to it coming out the pen. Raymond felt himself slip into the kind of trance necessary to get through this type of thing. After a few minutes Shadrack went down the hall and returned with a brand-new white T-shirt, still in plastic, like he kept them around especially for these occasions. While Raymond unwrapped it, Shadrack found some used blue sweatpants, held them up to check the measurement, and handed them over. He didn’t give him anything for his feet. Raymond’s own clothes went into a black trash bag while Raymond eyed the shotgun.
Having knotted the bag, Shadrack cleared off a space on a dirty couch across from the TV and told Raymond to sit down. Then he pulled a radio out from under the table, turned it on so that static filled the room, and found a station playing Mexican music. He pointed first to his ear and then to the ceiling, just as Gloria had, as if to say, They listening.
“Tell me exactly now. Why’d Arthur send you to see me?”
Raymond’s stomach knotted up. He thought about it for a moment and then said, “The man’s happy with the situation you and Gloria got going here. It’s a good relationship, works good for everybody. But Arthur’s been hearing things from certain people.” Shadrack’s eyebrows shot up and he began to speak, but Raymond raised a finger and quieted him. “He’s been hearing that you’ve been acting a little on the strange side.” Raymond paused for a moment, let it sink in. “Not the fun kind of strange, either. Strange enough that people are starting to worry. That’s why I’m here. He sent me to check in on you. That’s it. See what your status is, nothing else. Make sure you stay on track, just for the week. Get everything taken care of—let me tell him everything’s fine. He’s just worried that if you keep making everyone nervous …” He left the sentence unfinished.
“And he believes you can communicate with the Seven Gods because of what?” asked Shadrack.
“I don’t know what that is,” said Raymond. The stereo continued to blast its Mexican music. The nervous feeling in Raymond’s chest had connected to his breath and grew with each inhale. He felt scared. Shadrack stood over him, his face angry. The energy in the room had shifted.
“You thought you could come in here and communicate with me using human words?” Shadrack said. He pointed at his chest and tapped at it a few times, a gesture Raymond didn’t understand. Then he mumbled a few indecipherable sentences. It sounded like he was speaking backward, talking in tongues.
“You don’t speak Seven-L, do you?” asked Shadrack. He stood there, rocking from one foot to the other.
“I’m afraid not,” said Raymond. He felt nauseous. His forehead started to sweat. Shadrack was looming over him, blocking his way.
“And you’re just a boy, too,” said Shadrack. “How old are you? Fifty-five?”
“I’m thirty-two, now.”
“So, the—the—the—” Shadrack stuttered and then seemed to change tracks. “Are we friends?” he asked, looking truly concerned.
“I’d like us to be friends.”
Shadrack sat down beside him. Raymond noticed a sheen of sweat on the man’s face. He took a few deep breaths, like he was trying to steady himself.
“Remind me one final time,” said Shadrack. “What services are you offering?”
“I’m just a friend. Someone to help, help make sure everything goes smooth.”
“Like a helper?”
“Exactly,” said Raymond.
“Oh,” Shadrack said. “I see. Hold on.” He jumped up and left the room. Raymond looked at the door, then at the shotgun; he thought about walking out, but something told him to stay. He took a deep breath and tried to relax.
Shadrack came back into the room. He stood in front of Raymond and held out a bottle of Visine. “Open your mouth,” he said.
“Nah, I’m good,” said Raymond.
“Open up, friend!”
“What is it?”
“It’s LSD. Come on. Open up.”
“I got a piss test next week,” Raymond told him.
“They don’t screen for acid,” Shadrack said. “Come on, punk.” He was smiling now; Raymond saw his teeth. They were gapped and pointed, the molars capped in gold.
“Look, it ain’t nothing,” he said, squeezing a few drops into his own mouth. “Now open your damn mouth. We gotta celebrate your ass getting sprung.”
Raymond opened his mouth. Shadrack squeezed the bottle so that a solid squirt hit Raymond’s tongue. He tried to spit it out.
“No, don’t spit it out!” Shadrack yelled. He jumped around, laughing. He jumped on Raymond and hugged him. “You a crazy son of a bitch!” Shadrack said. “You’re fucking crazy!”
Shadrack wanted to go to a party after that. He let Raymond put his own clothes back on, and then he got himself dressed: black pants and a wrinkled black suit coat over a white V-neck T-shirt. He sprayed some hair spray into his hair, ate gum, gave Raymond gum, grabbed a black doctor’s bag, and led them downstairs to the garage.
“You sure you should be driving?” Raymond asked.
“Sometimes I am, sometimes I’m not,” he answered.
Shadrack’s car, a silver Toyota, was so normal looking that Raymond’s mind was put somewhat at ease. He couldn’t feel the drugs yet, but despite his nervousness he felt somehow happy, too. They were getting along. They were friendly now. He would be able to handle this job after all. Shadrack pulled the garage door open and the outside world—cold air, concrete, and street light—was suddenly right there.
They got in the car and fastened their seat belts. Shadrack slowly backed out, watching carefully to make sure the mirrors stayed clear of the door. Raymond asked again if he was sure he could drive, and Shadrack said he could do it with his eyes closed.
They worked their way down Mission Street. Raymond was still just nervy, not high, but the neighborhood had taken on a more festive atmosphere. The people looked happy, dressed up; bright colors and music seemed to be coming from everywhere. Even the bums were laughing. Shadrack was driving with a focused expression on his face. It seemed, to Raymond, like a perfect way to celebrate getting released from the penitentiary.
The party was right off Dolores Park. “This man you’re gonna meet is a true child of the Seven Gods,” Shadrack said, once they’d parked. Raymond couldn’t tell if he meant it or not. They walked up a steep hill to reach the house, which to Raymond seemed like a pleasantly odd thing to do. He breathed in deep. His chest felt open. The drugs were setting in.
He hadn’t taken acid since he was a teenager. The house looked like a palace, looming straight up from the sidewalk three stories high, its surfaces new and clean. Shadrack rang the bell and pointed at a camera above it. Raymond felt a shyness pass over him.
A voice came on the speaker. It sounded like a man pretending to be a woman.
“Who is it?”
“Special delivery,” said Shadrack, looking into the camera.
They stood there and waited. Shadrack set his bag on the ground, ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath.
The door swung open so fast that Raymond almost had to jump back. A regular-looking guy, a businessman, stood on the other side. He wore a blue button-up shirt, tucked in like he was at an office. He had a softness around his cheeks and gut. He smiled big at Shadrack.
“The Doctor has come!” he said. He was in his forties, white.
“We’re both doctors,” said Shadrack, flicking his thumb toward Raymond. Then he stepped forward and the two men hugged and slapped each other’s back like a secret handshake.
When they’d separated, the man turned to Raymond. “How are you? Brendan Moss,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. His eyes were wide open, like he was playing around. Raymond shook his hand and flinched—it was soaking wet.
> “I was washing dishes!” the man yelled.
“Come on,” said Shadrack, waving them up the stairs. When Raymond passed him he whispered, almost like a preemptive reprimand: “Handle your high, brother.”
They stepped into a large room. Raymond gawked at the height of the ceilings, the glass windows, everything clean and modern. He’d expected some kind of biker party, not this. People turned their heads and stared, and Raymond froze until the heads swung back, the noise of conversation resumed. Moss grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward a bar. “Get this guy a drink,” he yelled out. People smiled as they passed. Raymond felt gripped by the realization that just three short days earlier, he’d been wearing a blue uniform, living in a packed gymnasium, eating canned tuna on special occasions.
The bartender, an Asian man, was wearing a white shirt and black tie. They smiled at each other and Raymond was briefly certain he knew him from somewhere. When he tried to admit this his voice sounded strange in his ears. The bartender’s smile faded a little, and he turned toward Moss for help. But Moss—his hand still on Raymond’s arm—was looking somewhere across the room.
“Get him a drink,” said Moss.
Raymond looked back at the bartender. He seemed annoyed.
“What can I get you, sir?” he asked.
“Budweiser?” Raymond couldn’t think of anything else.
“We only have Peroni, sir,” said the bartender.
Raymond nodded, uncertain. He could still feel the heat of Moss’s hand on his arm, but when he looked, he saw that Moss had left him standing there alone. He searched the room for Shadrack, but he couldn’t see him either. The lights had been turned down, and the room felt candlelit now. Everyone’s clothes looked beautiful. It was a costume party, Raymond thought. He took a breath and turned back toward the bartender, who was holding a bottle of beer out for his examination. It looked fine. The man poured it into a glass.
Raymond’s hands were sweating. His ears popped. Where had Shadrack gone? Where was Moss? There was a fireplace at the other end of the room, and he walked toward it.
He had been lost in the blue and orange tangles for God knows how long when someone grabbed his arm. He turned, expecting Moss, but instead found a young woman asking if he’d walked there.
Every Man a Menace Page 2
