by Tom Nelson
~~~
Tom returns to LA after his drive to Tempe. Bruno has been replaced by the Peruvian man from Juan’s house in Chino. The buffed dude with the MAC-10.
Tom parks the BMW in its space and heads for his apartment door. He can see something tucked inside the screen and figures it’s another blow-job offer. But, as he gets closer, realizes it’s a card. In a red envelope. Attached to a single red rose. Tom’s name on the envelope appears to be in a woman’s handwriting. He sits down on the sofa, and Cookie immediately jumps onto his lap. He opens the card and reads,
“Dear Tom,
I know you won’t be happy with me for this, but I couldn’t let you watch me dying . . .”
Tom springs up from the sofa, knocking Cookie to the floor, and races out of the apartment as fast as he can. He smacks his BMW into a wall getting out of the parking structure, but hardly notices.
“You are the only man who has ever treated me with kindness, respect, and what I always fantasized love would feel like. And, you are the only person in the world whose opinion of me matters.”
He arrives at Red’s apartment in no time and knocks on the hard, wooden door. It makes a loud, thumping noise. He knocks again, then goes for the key that Red always leaves outside. It isn’t under the doormat, as many people might do, but on top of a decorative light that is outside of her apartment. He locates the key and uses it in the lock.
“I want you to remember me as the girl on the beach . . .”
He is immediately hit with the smell of death and knows he’s too late. Red lies on her bed with a couple of spoons, cotton balls, and several syringes on the nightstand beside her. There are numerous small pieces of plastic wrap that once contained heroin. The smell of feces, urine, and puke are in the air, and Tom can see a small trail of vomit on one side of Red’s mouth.
“I want you to remember the good times.
Please, forgive me.”
He is saddened by this tragedy. He will miss her. But she went out on her own terms, Tom thinks, and almost envies her. He wonders if there is an afterlife and whether he will find Red there running naked on an endless beach.
“I love you, Tom.
Forever yours,
Kimberly.”
Red’s hair looks like beautiful burning flames in the light coming through the open front door and Tom is reminded of the first time he saw her. And, for the first time since he was thirteen years old, tears run down Tom’s face.
1992
Tom and Johnny are in his Aliso Village crack house. The neighborhood Johnny and King once rolled in has been overrun by crackheads and strawberries. There isn’t any money to be made there anymore, because everyone sold everything they owned years ago to buy crack. South-Central LA is an impoverished part of the city now.
“Man, you see these motherfuckers running around with their smoker’s pants on,” Johnny is saying, “they can’t even keep ’em up!” He laughs. Johnny fires up a blast of cocaine and hands the hot pipe over. Tom adds more dope to it by turning the pipe upside down and using the hot screen to pick up another rock. It sizzles as Tom brings the pipe up to his mouth and starts pulling on it.
He puts the pipe down and sits back in his chair to enjoy the rush. Johnny is complaining about how the crackheads in LA started a fashion craze by smoking crack and not eating. What people are calling “sagging” today was known as “smoker’s pants” in the early days of the crack epidemic.
“Crazy, huh?” is all Tom says.
“Yeah, man,” Johnny carries on, “how’s a motherfucker ’posed to get away from the po-po with his pants ’round his knees?!”
Johnny is on a good one. Tom laughs. He likes to see his friend get worked up because Johnny Dollar is one funny motherfucker. He can always make Tom laugh! And tonight will be no exception.
“Are you bitchin’ ’bout motherfuckers and their smoker’s pants again?” Tom asks. Egging his buddy on a little. It never takes much.
“Yeah!” Johnny says, almost defensively, then he starts going off some more. “Can you believe dat shit has become a goddamn fashion statement?! The world is so fucking crazy that they make crackhead clothes into fashion!”
“Shit, Johnny,” Tom responds. “Same thing with the heroin chic bullshit all the jeans companies been pushin’.”
“Same shit! Crackhead! Heroin addict! Same fucking thing!” Johnny agrees.
“I’m surprised either one of us can remember that far back with all the dope we smoked!” Tom says. “Especially you!”
“What you mean, motherfucker?” Johnny asks playfully, offended.
“You smoke more crack and more weed than anybody I know,” Tom says. “I’m surprised you can remember your name half the time.”
“Nigga,” Johnny says to Tom, addressing him as he would one of the brothas from the ’hood, “I ain’t forgot shit! I got a photostatic memory!” Tom busts up, laughing a good, hard belly laugh.
“Really?” Tom asks sarcastically, laughing his ass off at Johnny’s photostatic-memory bullshit. The process of photostatic copying was done decades earlier, so Johnny has his technology right. Only, he’s about fifty years behind the times!
“Dat’s right, nigga!” Johnny says, not understanding why Tom is laughing so hard about what he just said. “Ax me anything!”
“Okay,” Tom responds. He thinks of something to ask Johnny. “What da fuck is Biggie’s real name?” Tom had gotten to know Biggie very well during the year or so before the drive-by, and he knows Biggie’s real name, just as Biggie knows his. Biggie would laugh and tease Tom when he said his middle name, but Tom didn’t care.
“Uhhh,” Johnny starts. He is doing his best to think back to his conversations with Biggie. He comes up with, “James.” Johnny seems very pleased with himself.
“Okay,” Tom continues, “James what?”
Johnny rolls his eyes and seems to go into some sort of thought mode, then says, “Washington. Or Williams.” He’s guessing.
“Nope,” Tom says.
“I know it starts with a W!” Johnny proclaims.
“Okay, fool, but what happened to your photostatic memory?” Tom asks, then bursts into laughter again. That shit is funny!
“Fuck you, man!” Johnny says. “You know I know his name!”
“No, I don’t!” Tom defends his position. “You just said two names that ain’t his.”
“Okay, then, you fuckin’ smart-ass honky,” Johnny starts, now playfully insulting Tom with the old reference, “what da fuck is it?”
“Walker,” Tom says. “James Walker.”
Johnny looks at Tom like he has never heard the name Walker before and asks, “You sho?” He makes a funny face, his gold tooth displayed. “You mean, like the dy-no-mite guy? Dat shit don’t sound right.”
“Photostatic!” Tom laughs and teases his old friend, “photostatic!”
“Man, fuck you!” The two men laugh for a few minutes, then the conversation gets much more serious. These two are super fucked-up! When they’re high on cocaine, weed, and alcohol and start to philosophy, they’re super fucked-up!
“You ever think about quittin’ this shit, Johnny?” Tom asks as he exhales smoke and watches the coke resin move through the pipe he just hit.
“What?” Johnny asks. It is an extremely general question, after all.
“You know,” Tom says, “smokin’ cocaine and gettin’ high. Ever think about quittin’?”
“Of course, I have, fool,” Johnny responds, “but it ain’t dat easy. You obviously been thinkin’ ’bout it too.”
“Yeah,” Tom replies, “but, like you said, it ain’t that easy.” The resin hardens in the pipe as it cools, going from liquid to solid. “It ain’t that easy.” He sets the pipe on the table in front of him. Tom isn’t only a cocaine addict, he is a trafficker, which means he knows far too much to simply quit and walk away. He will be considered a liability to the people he works for, and Tom knows how the Peruvian’s deal with liabilities.
&
nbsp; ~~~
Traffic sounds, street noises, people yelling. A cacophony of sound! Tom is walking down an LA street toward his parked car. He just left a decrepit Mexican restaurant that is his drop-off location for the cocaine he drives from Arizona to California. He sees reflections in building windows as he walks.
Tom is twenty-nine, has medium-length blond hair, and a muscular physique. He carries himself with confidence. The type of confidence that makes him stand out and get noticed. Of course, this can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the situation.
He knows the guy reflected behind him is pacing him. He can feel his presence. Now, he can see the guy reflected in the windows on the street. Tom’s view shifts across the street and he sees another black dude with a shaved head, wearing an army jacket, and watching him with crazy, unwavering eyes. The guy reaches up and places a hand inside his jacket, an involuntary action to ensure his gun is accessible. His eyes never leave Tom.
It’s two on a Tuesday afternoon in Downtown LA. There’s a reasonable number of people out on the streets at this time of day. Tom has connected the dude in the reflection behind him and the one across the street. Son of a bitch! he thinks. His 9mm is at his car.
Tom tries to walk casually as he takes a few deep breaths, then bolts at top speed. The man behind him is surprised by the sudden burst of speed, and it gains Tom a couple of seconds while the other men recover from their shock. The man across the street starts running and reaches into his jacket but seems to have trouble getting his gun out.
Tom makes it to his IROC-Z and throws open the driver’s side door. He reaches under the car and retrieves a Beretta 9mm. Before anyone can blink an eye, Tom has the gun in his hand! Using the car door as a shield, Tom points his gun at the dude behind him. The man across the street gets his gun out. Tom’s view shifts. He aims and fires two shots in rapid succession above the head of the dude across the street. Brick pieces fly into the air as the bullets strike the building.
Everyone on the street screams. Passersby, shoppers, business people. Everyone hits the deck and scrambles for cover. They’re in Downtown Los Angeles in the middle of the day with shots fired—it’s panic time!
The dude on the street behind Tom bolts down an alley. The guy across the street finally gets his gun out, but Tom’s shots seem to have deflated his courage quite a bit. The would-be robber ducks and bolts in the other direction. Tom takes advantage of the panic and confusion and leaps into the Chevrolet Camaro IROC-Z and zooms off. He is lost in the smoke from the furiously spinning tires.
~~~
There are sounds of people shouting, basketballs bouncing, and distant traffic noises. Gangsta rap is being played on a boom box nearby. Tom walks into Cahuenga Park. He is looking for a fight today. Therapy is what he calls it. Tom has developed the need to punish himself, it seems, for being born. He hates himself, what he has become, and the horrific damage his choice of careers is doing to others.
Thankfully, Tom’s time in the boxing ring with Arthur, as well as other fights he has gotten into, has prepared him for this. He can focus his hatred for himself on someone else by putting himself in extremely dangerous situations.
Tom has recently started racing motorcycles on the Willow Springs International Motorsports Park track out in the desert. He can pump himself with adrenaline while cheating death at 140 mph. Tom also took up skydiving, which he enjoys, but after five jumps, he’s had enough. Riding his motorcycle or fighting in the park is where he feels the most alive!
At a couple of picnic tables in the park, a large group of Mexicans have set up spreads where they share food, drinks, and have terrible Mexican music playing intermixed with gangsta rap. This park is dominated by the infamous 18th Street gang, Tom is aware, so he knows he will get exactly what he’s looking for: a fair fight where he won’t be bum-rushed by twenty brothas. The Mexicans won’t allow it. Not because they give a shit about Tom, but as part of the unity between southern Mexicans and whites throughout the California jail and prison systems.
As Tom enters the park, several of the Mexicans can be seen elbowing each other, smiling, laughing, and passing money around as bets are placed. They’ve seen this before! Tom has an undefeated fight record in the park, three wins and no losses, so he is considered a pretty safe bet. But, of course, the big money isn’t bet until Tom’s opponent for the day is determined. That’s the wild card in the deck! Even Tom won’t know who he’s fighting until the last second. That will be determined by which dummy takes his bait and actually stands up and fights him in the middle of Cahuenga Park.
As Tom walks through the basketball game being played, all action ceases as the dumbfounded brothas watch in confusion. What the fuck does dis white boy think he’s doin’? is going through every one of their heads. Of course, a couple of the players have seen this before and know what’s coming next, so they move toward the side of the court and away from where the action is about to be. They don’t want to be the one getting called out in front of all their homies!
“I said what da fuck you think you doin’, white boy?!” the man is demanding of Tom. Apparently, it isn’t the first time he has asked.
“Fuck you, you little bitch!” Tom shouts. That usually does it! Now, of course, the dummy who took the bait has no choice but to fight. Otherwise, he will be labeled a punk ass bitch and not allowed to hang out or play b-ball again. He will be disgraced.
Tom is looking the guy square in the eye. He can tell that his response is the last thing the other man is expecting to hear. Hell, it would surprise Tom too, if he weren’t the one saying it!
“WHAT?!” comes the incredulous response. “What da fuck did you say?!”
“I said fuck you, you little bitch!” Tom repeats in a more clear, concise, and much louder voice. And, yes, that gets Tom the fight he is looking for. It delivers the punishment he feels he deserves for being alive. It gets him therapy.
~~~
Tom and an athletic young African American begin fighting. There is an exchange of blows. Both men are bleeding. Both men are focused to a point where everything else seems unreal, part of a different dimension.
“Come on, man!” a guy in the crowd yells. “Don’t let that white boy come up in here like that! Fuck him up!”
“Yeah, come on, Troy,” another man yells, obviously a friend or acquaintance of the man Tom is fighting. “You got this motherfucker!”
Tom can barely make out the voices of the crowd screaming for his defeat. He is focused on Troy, who is a pretty damned good fighter, Tom is discovering. Tom takes a punch to the side of the head and sees a flash of light. He has never been knocked out in a fight and isn’t about to let that happen today.
Tom is a pretty damned good fighter as well. As he is recovering from the blow, Tom is flashed back into the prison boxing ring fifteen years earlier. He can hear Arthur’s voice saying, “What you doin’, white buuooooooyyy? Don’t let him hit you like dat!”
With the voice of his former coach in his head, Tom steps forward and throws a flurry of punches, pushing the other man back. Troy drops back into a defensive position, fakes a punch, and throws a kick right at Tom’s head. Tom ducks beneath the other man’s swinging leg and punches him on the inside of his other leg. He had been aiming for Troy’s balls, but is slightly off target. Troy lets out a yelp of pain.
Tom and the other man size each other up again, then lunge toward one another at the same time. Tom, however, stops short and raises his foot in the air. He brings it down on the top of Troy’s foot as hard as he can. The other man howls in pain as he grabs the injured foot. Tom moves in for the kill. A combination of punches to Troy’s head and face put him down. Tom turns and walks out of the park, his entire body energized and flowing with adrenaline. Hmmm. Arthur Jackson would say, “Dat ain’t boxin’, fool!” But it worked!
~~~
Tom and Johnny are sitting across from each other. It’s New Year’s Eve and the two are at Johnny’s Downtown LA crack house in the Aliso
Village projects. Tom is seated on a couch with the African American man across from him in a chair. Between them is a shabby coffee table that has a pound of cocaine, $12,000 in cash, and a few doves on it.
The man takes a big hit of cocaine from a pipe and hands it over to Tom who uses the hot pipe to pick up a rock from the table. He picks up an entire dove, which is a nice chunk of crack that sells for twenty dollars. It sizzles as Tom takes a hit and hands it back.
“Man, you musta scared da shit outta dem niggas!” Johnny says laughing, exhaling smoke as Tom relays the story of the two thugs in Downtown LA a couple of days earlier.
“Yeah” Tom replies, “it was pretty fucking crazy. Everyone on the street hit the ground fast and all at the same time. It was kinda funny, really!”
“Man, only you would think some crazy ass shit like dat’s funny. You one fucked-up white boy!”
“I know that, Johnny.” After a moment, Tom says, “Thanks, man,” as he exhales the toxic smoke from another hit of the pipe, stands, then picks up the cash and stashes it in his front waistband, “it’s always good to see you.”
Tom puts a hand around behind him. The 9mm pistol in the back of his waistband feels heavy, but nice and comfortable. It’s also a little bit scary at the same time. Tom knows he doesn’t have to worry about anything here at Johnny Dollar’s house. Johnny will never let anything happen to the man who literally saved his ass . . .
“Man, you still packin’?” Johnny asks.
“Fuck yeah, man,” Tom replies, “you live in the goddamn projects. This ain’t fairyland. Motherfucker gotta watch his ass out there.”
“You know I’d never let anything happen to you, T. You saved a motherfucker from gettin’ busted and helped a nigga get rollin’ again! You’s a badass white boy!” Johnny reflects on their first meeting and his dramatic leap through the window of a Hollywood apartment building. The two men laugh about it in their conversations. Johnny loves telling that story.
