by Peter Plate
Table of Contents
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Title Page
Dedication
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
Copyright Page
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Angels of Catastrophe
Police and Thieves
One Foot off the Gutter
The Romance of the American Living Room
Darkness Throws Down the Sun
Black Wheel of Anger.
For Sam the Jazzman, Curt and Robert from the Roxie, Sumiko’s Lounge, and Glitter Doll.
one
It was a bra rash, sweat-patches-under-the-tits kind of a day. Suitable for the commission of manslaughter, and almost perfect for making love at the beach on an old army blanket. But there weren’t any beaches near Mission Street, no white sand or soothing Pacific Ocean breezes. When it was this hot and still, the birds didn’t sing, and the mailman was never on time. The police sirens coming off the freeway were paraphrasing the ringing of the telephone in my cubicle and I lazily reached for the receiver.
“DSS. Charlene Hassler speaking. Who’s this?”
“Hello?”
“Yeah, hello. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“This is Mrs. Frances Dominguez.”
“Are you on my caseload, Mrs. Dominguez?”
“No, Simmons is my social worker. But he’s a culo…we don’t get along too good. He’s mean.”
“Frances, where do you live?”
“On Shotwell Street.”
“What’s the intersection?”
“By where the hardware store used to be.”
I knew the place. It was a block where the roosters woke you up at dawn; the neighbors kept chickens and pigs in the backyards and pit bulls in their ramshackle garages. There were ancient water towers covered with bougainvillea on Shotwell.
“Okay. What can I do for you?”
“Some nasty business is going down, Mrs. Hassler. I don’t have any cash to buy groceries.”
“What happened?”
“Hell if I know. But can you help me?”
Laid back and unbeatable in the eye of the storm, I answered her:
“That’s what I’m here for. Can you hold the line? I’ve got another call, but I’ll be right back.”
A couple of years ago, every other person in San Francisco had been on the dole. You could’ve found these folks pretty much anywhere: trading records at Ritmo Latino, sipping on ninety-nine cent espressos in Valencia Street cafes or mingling with the other shoppers at the Hwa Lei Market, digging in the bins for edible vegetables, and quietly going about their business, not bothering anyone.
Now you could hardly find anybody, not at the Young Kwang Presbyterian Church, not at the Tai Fung Trading Company or at Los Portales Pharmacy; not their skeletons, nor their ghosts, not a trace of them, as if they’d been disappeared. Extinct, like the buffalo.
Maybe our clients had gone as refugees to another nation, to England, to Finland, to some other welfare state haven. But a few years back, when they had been around, I’d found in myself a memory, a single color that painted the entire picture.
A desultory queue was forming next to the ivory pitted walls of the DSS complex on Otis Street. Men, women, and a few children were strung out like a daisy chain on the sidewalk at the corner of Duboce. They were waiting for the side doors of the building to open up so that everyone could get their monthly box of commodities. Dried lentils, orange bulk cheese, canned meat, Caro’s corn syrup, and a sack of white flour infested with weevils.
The weather was sort of nice; boring with that goddamn heat and smog. The men smoked cigarettes when they could. The women gossiped with each other about who was getting married and most of the kids, they didn’t say much. They just looked at the street, at the cars whizzing by.
You could say those people were lucky; they were getting free food. But the way the men slouched against the fence running the length of the place, the way the women talked, whispering in sandpapery tones, and the way the kids were turned in on themselves: you could see they weren’t grateful for anything.
And there I was, the smallest one among them, a chubby, saturnine girl with deep-set eyes, not understanding the plight of my species, but already knowing that to endure was everything. I did so by climbing the ladder to success. I went to college and did all that academic yes-sir-no-sir shit. I was born to be a drone, but nowadays at the Department of Social Services I’m the lady you have to see to get food stamps.
“Mrs. Dominguez?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for waiting. You want to set up an appointment?”
“I’d like that.”
“How about at your place?”
“You’ll come over?”
“Tuesday’s my first open date.”
“That’s all right.”
“How about at two o’clock. Is that okay?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Your address, please.”
“Nine thirty-two Shotwell.”
“Very good. That’ll be our first interview.”
“Oh boy.”
“See you then, Frances.”
two
Bart Rubio slipped into the Zeitgeist behind Simmons, Harry Hendrix and Matt Vukovich. He walked over to the bar, stuck his hand in a shirt pocket, and pulled out a wad of five and ten dollar bills. Then he turned around to yell at the last person coming in the door.
“Charlene! What are you having?”
“Bud Light,” I replied.
I wasn’t sure that he’d heard me. Since Rubio drank with Hendrix and Simmons every night, he knew what they wanted. An extra-dry vodka gimlet for skinny Harry, and a gin and tonic for Simmons. Rubio ordered a Pilsner for Matt Vukovich, and while the bartender hurried to serve us, I excused myself and went to use the pay phone.
It was a credible bar, the Zeitgeist. The bartender was this taciturn Pakistani kid who’d give you a beer on the house now and then. The main room, dark and lowceilinged, had a functional pool table, sofas and chairs, places where you could sit and drink without anyone persecuting you. There were some bay windows so you could look out at the traffic on Valencia Street.
The Zeitgeist was conveniently located around the corner from the DSS. If you were a caseworker who needed a quick drink, this was your pit stop. Of course, there were other types of people in the bar. The rich punks from Orinda with their Euro-cycles parked outside, and the working-class queens who lived upstairs in the rooming house. I put three dimes and a nickel into the telephone and dialed my number, seeing brown eyes and the obstinate pug of my nose reflected on the surface of the metal phone box. It rang six or seven times: was nobody at home? Finally, I got an answer.
“Yeah, what?”
“Frank, it’s me. I’m at the Zeitgeist with Simmons, Rubio, and Hendrix. Why don’t y
ou come over? Rubio’s buying drinks for everybody.”
“You gonna be there for sure?”
“Yes.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
When I got back to the bar, Hendrix was on his second drink. The portly Simmons had walked off to talk to a couple of guys who were sitting in the corner. My beer was waiting for me, and I sat down to take a gulp of it. Rubio watched me slake my thirst, then asked, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Got to do the laundry. You?”
“I need some sleep,” Rubio moaned. “I’m a-glad it’s Friday. This week has been a killer. What do you do for headaches?”
“Vitamins help,” I said.
He was dubious. “Don’t fuck with me, Charlene. Anyway, what did they do for you?”
He was commenting on my height. At work, they called me the human spark plug. Some people thought I was a midget, but that wasn’t so: I was five feet tall.
I was a woman with a 34-D cup and straight auburn hair that looked special when I used a conditioner on it. I finished off my Budweiser and got another one. Rubio was a smart guy but he didn’t take care of himself. He was underweight, a single man who lived in a hotel room. I don’t know if he liked women, and he had a reputation for being homophobic. We debated the pros and cons of nutrition, minerals, other supplements and health food for the better part of fifteen minutes. As I wondered where Frank was, Rubio looked over my shoulder and smiled.
“You should see this queer who walked in the door.”
“Describe him to me.”
Rubio arched an eyebrow. “Well, he’s got that rangy, weathered look, you know, like he’s been in the streets, turning tricks. He’s about six foot and blue-eyed. And he’s walking over here.”
I took another guzzle of my beer, hunted in my purse for a cigarette, and saw that my nail-bitten fingers were yellow-brown from nicotine. It was time to let Rubio know the truth.
“That’s my husband, Bart, and he’s no queer.”
Frank sat himself down gingerly on the stool next to me and asked, “Who said I was a queer?”
“Rubio did, but he’s willing to buy you many drinks as an apology.”
“Gee, Frank, I didn’t know it was you. Sorry,” Bart gushed.
Nonplussed, my spouse turned to the social worker and gave him a militant look from head to foot. “Happens frequently. Don’t sweat it. Just get me a glass of wine, okay?”
Wagging his head in disbelief, Rubio got up to fetch us more alcohol. Simmons and Hendrix were playing a game of darts in the back. Vukovich had gone across the street to get a pizza. Because it was Friday night, people were steadily trickling into the Zeitgeist. Frank put a calloused hand on mine and gave me a kiss. “How do you put up with these guys?” he asked.
“It’s not their fault. What do you expect? None of them are getting laid.”
Hendrix began to quarrel with Simmons about who owed money for the drinks. Harry’s voice was high-pitched and could travel long distances. Meanwhile, Rubio came back with our beverages: wine for my husband and another beer for me.
“Here you go, kids,” he said to us, setting the bottle and a glass down on the bar. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I gotta take a piss.”
Frank picked up his wine and drained it in a swallow. I killed my cigarette in an ashtray, and looked up just in time to see three policemen at the door. The cop in the lead draped a gauntlet-clad hand on his holster and the two patrolmen behind him, flanking him to the left and right, already had their guns drawn.
One of the guys Simmons had been talking to earlier, a Mexican dope dealer sitting at a corner table, saw the cops and dashed out the side entrance onto the pavement. He went into the street, dodging the cars and sprinting across Duboce.
The three lawmen went back through the front door, lumbering onto the sidewalk waving their guns. They went to the corner, thinking they’d ambush their man there. But the dealer saw them waiting for him at the stoplight and he scooted, turning right on Woodward Street. The policemen, certain the guy was on Valencia, went running in another direction.
Vukovich came back with a pizza heavy on the pepperoni. He dropped it on the bar, went over to the jukebox, and fed the machine a quarter. A band struck up a song with lots of strings and horns, then Tony Bennett began to croon about how he left his heart in San Francisco. Rubio, fumbling with his pants, came out of the john and asked, did I want another beer? Frank said it was up to me. I clawed a comb through my hair, making sure my bangs were falling just so and replied, yes, please.
While Bart went to get the drinks, Simmons procured a knife from the bartender and divided the pizza, giving away oily slices drenched in cheese to anyone who wanted them. I was about to thank Rubio and Vukovich for the food and drink, when Hendrix, who’d been surly all day, telling people to fuck off if they didn’t like it, got into an argument with my husband. Harry said because Frank wasn’t a social worker, and because he didn’t feel like getting drunk tonight, he had no right being at the Zeitgeist. I told Harry to shut up or pay me the money I’d loaned him, and that was the beginning of my weekend.
three
Three homeless men were standing next to me at the intersection of Sixteenth Street, near Kragen’s Auto Parts and the Burger King. One of them was sucking on his dentures, moving them back and forth across his tongue. Geriatric dope fiends were shuffling about in their bedroom slippers, looking like they’d emerged from the Hallmark greeting card series for the undead. The palm trees on the sidewalk were rustling with Norwegian rats. Across the way, a quartet of Salvadoreño evangelicos were preaching at the corner. One of them was playing an accordion, two more were singing in harmony, and the fourth was handing out badly printed leaflets that smudged ink on your fingers if you were stupid enough to take one.
Someday, I said to the fairy princess inside me, a change will come like a flower in a shitpile to make life sweet for all of us. The light turned to green and I crossed Mission Street.
Rivers of clients and social workers were pouring through the smoked glass front doors of the DSS complex. I joined them effortlessly without thought, and as I went inside, smelling the tobacco on the men and the Dippity-do hair grease the women used on their kids, I looked at the brass-lettered quote riveted into the concrete by the entrance.
“The task of each family is also the task of humanity—this is to cherish the living, remember those who have gone before, and prepare for those who are not yet born.”
The sentiment was attributed to the writings of Margaret Mead, the cultural anthropologist whose name graced the bottom of the inscription. It defined my job down to the last detail, and was a compass to guide me.
“Charlene! What’s shaking?”
Some men came on strong; some didn’t come over at all. Somebody was saying my name, saying it with fake cordiality. That would be Rocky Harlan, the chief of security. His profile: an astute, ebony black man in a navy blue Pinkerton blazer, fifty-three years of age.
The name of his employer was well-known in the textbooks of industrial history. The Pinkertons at Ludlow in Colorado during a miner’s strike, machine-gunning women and children; Pinkertons at the Phelps Dodge strike fifty years later, truncheoning strikers.
He smiled at me with half of his mouth, transmitting feelings he wasn’t conscious of. I was interested in his body language and observed it closely.
The Pinkerton wanted to be decent to me, but that required dishonesty. He had no great love of my profession, and in this, he wasn’t alone: most people didn’t. I tugged at my skirt and continued walking. If it had been music, what went on between Rocky and myself would have been a retardando when he swaggered down the hall with me.
“Let me ask you, Charlene. Your husband, he’s not a criminal or anything, is he? Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not making any accusations. But hasn’t he been in trouble?”
“Yeah, so?”
“That’s all. I was just asking. So what does he do these days?”
“He ta
kes care of the house. Cleaning and stuff.”
“What else does he do?”
“Most of the cooking, that’s about it.”
“And what do you do?”
“I bring home the bacon. I don’t have time for anything more than that.”
“He’s your wife, is that it?”
“It’s one way of looking at it, Rocky, but I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Boy, you got it easy with him, don’t you?”
Rocky tilted his head back and gazed at the heft of my breasts, the swell of my hips. My lush figure didn’t hold any allure for the security guard, his look was automatic, impersonal. I didn’t know what he was driving at, but I couldn’t afford to have the Pinkerton cramping my style, so I rearranged my attitude.
“You’re right,” I said to placate him, doing what I had to do with every insecure male I’d ever met. “I’m blessed.”
He angled his head closer to mine, and then, aware of how close he was to touching me, he shuddered, as if he was revolted by the prospect. He pulled back, pouting, “But working here, you’ve gotten a chip on your shoulder.”
It was untrue and I was not taken with his evaluation. “So what if I have? What’s it to you?”
“I don’t know why you have to be like that. You make more money than me.”
When an envious man looks at a woman, something always evaporates. When Rocky stared at me, I got nervous. Money was a touchy subject; it would’ve been great to be more relaxed about it. But that was never going to happen. Emanating a disciplined calm, I said to him, “You know what I do to earn my check?”
And then I paused to see if he’d let me proceed, and when he didn’t try to stop me, I just stood there glaring, and said, “I’m here to make a difference. You got that?”
“For what?”
“Don’t get sullen on me, Rocky. You know what I’m talking about. For those suckers out there in the waiting room, hoping to get some benefits. Samoan, Guatemalan, whatever.”
“Well, you would.”
“I don’t particularly relish their company, but unlike you, I don’t hate them,” I said toothily without mirth. “And that’s where your troubles begin.”
