Promises Kept, The Story of Number Two

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  Before long, I fell asleep, and didn’t wake until I heard Mick’s voice.

  “Time to get up, girl. They’ll be here to roust us soon, and we don’t want to give them cause to toss us out of here. If we don’t cause trouble, they won’t bother us.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  “Bein’ here when customers show up. Gettin’ in the way of the people who work here. Things like that. Stay out of their way and they won’t bother you.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “So, how do we stay out of their way?”

  “Get up early. Clean up. Don’t beg from the customers. That’s probably the most important rule; they hate it when you mess with the customers.”

  “Where do you beg?”

  “Not where you sleep. You’ve heard the saying, ‘don’t shit where you eat.’ Well, ‘don’t beg where you sleep’ is even more important for people like us.”

  We went a lot of places that day. He got me a coat and a few clothes and an old sack to carry them in.

  “The sack has to look dirty,” he said. “If it’s new, somebody’s gonna steal it from you. And while they’re stealing, they might do more.

  “What’s your name again?” Mick asked.

  “Can’t tell you,” I said. “It’s not safe. He’ll get me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be safe.”

  “I’ll make up a new name. I’ve been living with new names all my life.”

  Mick stared with a sensitive look. “Here’s the plan. I’ll take you to the center and tell them I found you wandering the streets.”

  “No way.”

  “All you have to do is say that you don’t remember anything, not even your name. They won’t have any way to find out—unless your fingerprints are on file.”

  “But what if they—”

  He shook his head. “If you keep telling them you don’t remember, soon they’ll stop trying.”

  “What good will it do? Going into a home, I mean.”

  “They’ll find people who want you. People who will care for you, and keep you fed and clothed. They’ll make sure you go to school. And take you to the doctor when you're sick.” He turned me to face him and looked into my eyes. “You can't ask for more than that. Not in this life.”

  * * *

  I lasted six months in the center—until the assistant director noticed me ‘blossoming,’ and decided I should have company when I slept. I left the next day and found Mick.

  “Didn’t work out,” I said. “Had the same problem as before. Seems like everyone wants to screw you—literally.”

  Mick nodded. “That is a problem.” He spread out a blanket and patted it. “You can stay here,” he said. “Nobody will bother you.”

  Pretty soon, Mick taught me the ins and outs of the streets—how to beg, how to steal purses, and what kind of scams worked on what kind of people. He also taught me about daytime gangs, and nighttime gangs. During the day, the pickpockets, purse snatchers, and hard core beggars were prevalent, but at night—that’s when the real gangs roamed.

  They took down anyone for anything. The only things they cared about were the cops, and they didn’t care much about them. So, when the sun went down, Mick made sure we were tucked away safely. It wasn’t just the gangs either, but the cold. San Francisco got damn cold at night—even in the summer.

  About one month later, the cops came looking for me, asking everyone if they’d seen me. Fortunately, this wasn’t a law-abiding group, so the cops received no cooperation. Mick questioned me that night.

  “What did you do? Cops are looking everywhere for you.”

  I shrugged.

  He got a hard look to him, one I’d never seen before. “If I’m going to protect you and risk my ass, you need to be straight with me.”

  I sat silent.

  “Still waiting,” he said, and his look hadn’t changed.

  I thought about what Mom said, but figured Mick deserved some trust.

  “I might have killed a guy,” I said.

  “Might have? Might have is an odd way to put it when you’re talkin’ about a killin’.”

  “I’m not sure if I did or not.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  I thought about what Mick asked, and decided I had to trust somebody, sometime. “My mom was seeing a guy named Marc. He was an asshole and I’m pretty sure he was married. I wouldn’t have minded that as much, but he treated my mom and my sister like shit.”

  “Tell me how,” Mick said.

  I felt my disgust curl my lips. “He beat my mom. And he…”

  Mick waited.

  “And he raped my sister. Turns out he killed my mom, so I killed him, or I think I did.”

  “How did you kill him?”

  “He was doing that to my sister, so I stabbed him in the back with a big pair of scissors."

  “In the back? You sure you killed him?”

  “I’m not sure, but I saw the ambulance carry him out, like they did my mom.”

  “What about your sister? Where’s she?”

  “I don’t know. When they stop lookin’ for me, I’m gonna have to find her.”

  Mick rubbed my hair and held me close. “I know you won’t like this suggestion, but you should let me take you to the cops. They can’t blame you for what you did. If you just tell them—”

  I pulled back. “No way! I’m not trusting anybody.”

  Mick patted my back and rubbed it. “Okay. Don’t worry. You can stay right here, but if you’re gonna stay, we have to teach you,” Mick said.

  Before long, I was earning twice as much as he was. No surprise. A nice, young girl on the streets was bound to get more ‘tips’ than an old guy.

  Mick had good advice, though.

  “Always smile,” he said. “People will give money to you a lot more often if you’re smiling. And always thank them. Also, try to remember who gave you what. If someone gives you a dollar, and you thank them the next week and tell them how much it meant to you, you’re more likely to get more. You might get two dollars the next time. Hell, you might even get five.”

  Mick was right. I got to know all of my “customers,” even the ones who only gave a quarter. In three months, I was bringing in more than fifty dollars a day, almost three times what Mick brought in.

  Mick had contacts at a few restaurants and hotels where we got scraps and leftovers, so we never had to worry about food. Sometimes, we’d get a dish where the patron wasn’t hungry, or didn’t like what they ordered, and we’d have a feast.

  At other times, there was next to nothing, and we’d have to combine it with others. On rare occasions, we’d go hungry.

  With the money I was bringing in, we could afford to splurge. Once a month, we got a loaf of bread from the bakery. On those days, we stuffed. Coffee was another luxury. Mick had an array of customers at the coffee shop, so we were never in need of a good cup of coffee, even if it was only half a cup at times.

  One night—a holiday—we retired early and talked. I asked Mick what he was doing out there.

  “Lost my job,” he said. “Then I lost my wife and my house. Next I knew, I was out here begging. My daughter wasn’t much older than you when this happened.” He looked the other way. “Sure do miss her.”

  Then he turned to me. “How about you?”

  “Just lookin’ to kill a man—if he’s not dead,” I said, and for the thousandth time, I thought about what I’d do to Marc when I found him.

  Life on the Streets

  Mick wasn’t a typical homeless man. He didn’t drink and he didn’t do drugs. Besides that, he was damn smart. Not only did he know about everything there was to know on the streets, he knew about book smarts, too.

  Every night he’d teach me: reading, math, finance, all of it—even history. By the end of the second year, I was probably ahead of the kids at school.

  Things were going fine on the streets. Mick protected me, and made sure I was fed and clothed, although I b
rought in most of the money now.

  Mom had long ago passed away, and Rosanna wasn’t getting any better. I hadn’t gone to visit, but Mick knew a guy who worked in the kitchen, and he checked in on her.

  I had taken on the name Millicent, as suggested. Mick and everyone else called me Millie, and as far as anyone but Mick knew, that was my name.

  One day, Mick asked me to run an errand for him to the Tenderloin. It was only a ten-minute walk from Union Square. It’s not like anyone would want to go to the TL, but if they did, it wasn’t far.

  I headed out around ten o’clock and figured I’d be back by eleven. Near the Uptown Market, at the corner of Ellis and Larkin, a group of Asian gangbangers were hanging out.

  Three of them stepped in front of me, blocking the way.

  “Please move,” I said.

  One of the guys, dressed in tight pants and wearing a cheap leather jacket with obnoxious zippers, said, “Binh, she wants us to move.”

  The one who appeared to be the leader of the group stepped forward. “We’re not moving. Ain’t happening.”

  “Fine,” I said, “then I’ll go around you,” I moved toward the curb.

  Two of the gang members blocked my way, and Binh said, “You’re not going anywhere, bitch.”

  “Great, then you can buy me a cup of coffee,” I said with bravado, though I was scared to death.

  Binh laughed. “Girl’s got balls, I’ll say that. Where you get them?”

  “The guy I live with—Mick.”

  A frightened look came over all their faces. Binh said, “You live with Mick, up on the Square?”

  “Have been for a few years,” I said.

  He eyed me up and down. “Damn! Got more respect for the Mick now than I did before.” He signaled to the rest of them, then stepped aside. “I’m gonna check this out. If you’re lyin’, you’re in shit. If you’re bein’ straight, you’re welcome here any time. In fact, you’ll be safe anywhere down here.”

  I nodded. “I’m not lyin’,” I said, and went on my way.

  The respect they showed Mick got me curious, and I found out he had killed a few people who were messin’ with him. Seemed like Mick knew his shit from his time in the service and he wasn’t afraid to use it.

  Anyway, it wasn’t long before the word got out. “Millie” was under Mick’s protection. Also, “Millie” was under the protection of the AZN Boyz. The gang consisted of Chinese and Vietnamese members, mostly younger ones, and they were fierce rivals with the Wah Ching, a more organized, older gang.

  Knowing Binh and his friends were in the AZN made me even more curious. Why did they care about what Mick thought? Why would a tough street gang give a shit about a homeless man? Then I found out that two of the guys Mick killed were in the Wah Ching, and he had killed them for messing with the AZN.

  I told Mick about the situation later that night, and I asked him about it. He said he’d tell me sometime. One week later, I woke up and found a knife in his chest. He was dead. I could only assume the Wah Ching had caught up with him.

  I found Binh and Duong hanging out at a coffee shop early in the afternoon. “Did you kill Mick?” I asked, knowing my tone was demanding, but I needed to verify my suspicions about the Wah Ching.

  The news shocked him. “Not only did I not kill him, I’m going to find out who did,” he said, and he and Duong left the shop and turned to go up the street.

  It didn’t take Binh long to get the information. A guy named Tran, who ran a bookie joint on Larkin, had him killed. Seems like he owed Mick a lot of money.

  “Don’t worry,” Binh said. “I’ll get revenge, and I’ll get the money, too.”

  True to his word, Binh found me one week later—after Mick’s funeral—and handed me an envelope bulging with cash. “Here’s what Tran owed Mick,” he said. “And by the way, Tran is dead. Fell out a window.”

  I nodded, then said, “Thanks. I thought it was the Wah Ching.”

  “Me too,” Binh said. “Which is why I went lookin’. Needed to settle scores no matter who it was.” He gave me a sideways glance.

  “You got a place to stay?” Binh asked.

  I thought for a moment, then said, “Not permanent. They kicked me out of where we were, because of Mick gettin’ killed. I’ve got to find a new place.”

  “We’ve got an extra room,” Binh said. “You can use it if you want. No foolin’ around required.”

  I liked what he said, and I believed him. Besides, it would be nice to be recognized as truly under their protection. “Deal,” I said. “I’ll move in this week.”

  I was still mourning Mick’s death, but I found time to pack the few things I had and head down to Binh’s apartment. That night, I went to bed and felt safe for the first time in many years.

  I pulled out the letter Mick had written me. The cops had given it to me at the funeral, but I hadn’t found the courage to open it yet.

  * * *

  Dear Millie:

  You have been like the daughter that left me. I haven’t seen her in years, so your company has been more than appreciated.

  There were many things I did that I shouldn’t have, but I did them for her. Every penny I made from illegal operations, I deposited in an account for her, hoping for a reconciliation. Now, I know that won’t happen, so I want you to have it. Do something good with it. Get off the streets, and find your dreams.

  Love,

  Mick

  * * *

  Inside the envelope was a statement from the bank. He had $472 thousand dollars in the banking account. “What the hell?” I said. “Where did he get this?” It made me wonder why he lived on the streets.

  I turned to Binh. “Where did he get this? And why was he on the streets?”

  “He got the money from his work,” Binh said. He had been watching from the doorway. “He told me he was going to give it to you, in case you didn’t get the letter.” Binh smiled. “Mick was a good guy. Gave me my start when I was about ten.”

  Binh sat on the edge of my bed. “Mick was a complex guy. He could have lived a normal life with the money he had, but he chose to stay on the streets. Maybe he got used to it like guys get used to prison. Who knows?”

  He surprised me by what he said. I sat there thinking about how this would affect my life.

  “Take the money and get out,” Binh said. “He left you enough to get a great start. Don’t hang around like Mick did.”

  “What about you?” I said.

  “I don’t need anything,” Binh said. “I like it here, and I like what I’m doing.” He paused for a minute, then pushed my leg aside. “Go on. Get out.”

  I thought about what Binh said. The money would definitely set me up in something, but what. The only thing I knew I wanted to do was kill some guy named Marc. And I intended to get it done.

  A Death in the City

  Eight years ago, San Francisco.

  * * *

  It was only six o’clock and it was already dark, a sure sign of winter. A biting cold rode in with the night, and it stung like someone slapping my face. I wrapped a scarf tighter around my neck, and took another sip of coffee. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees in the last hour. With the wind picking up, it felt more like twenty.

  * * *

  Binh came up behind me, blowing hot breath into his hands. “Cold.”

  “You don’t have to say it. Anyone who’s outside knows it.” I took another sip of coffee, and offered some to Binh. He grabbed the cup and took a swig, ignoring the steam rising from the cup.

  “Did you decide what you’re doin’ with Mick’s money yet?”

  I looked at Binh, wondering if he had an ulterior motive for asking. Though I had no reason to suspect that he did, Mick had taught me to be suspicious of everyone. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  He handed me a slip of paper with a name written on it. “Phuc Nguyen is a financial wizard,” Binh said. “I already spoke to him. If you want help, he’ll fix you up. He can figure ou
t the tax problems also.”

  I tucked the paper in my pocket, and thanked Binh for the help. “You’re a good man, Binh.”

  “I keep telling people that, but there are some who would argue with you,” he said.

  I laughed. “I guess they just don’t know you.”

  I met Phuc the next week to discuss my situation.

  “You’re a wealthy girl now,” Phuc said. “It’s time to start a new life. You have enough money to buy a house and get off the streets, and you’ll have enough left over to keep you going for at least a few years. Depending on the type of job you have, maybe longer. If you find a decent job and are frugal, this money will probably last ten years.”

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “By then, you’ll likely be married, or you should be, as good as you look.”

  “Who the hell wants to be married,” I said.

  Phuc looked at me strangely. “It can be good. All you need is the proper arrangement. Find an older gentleman with a full bank account, and marry for the money. This city is not short of older, rich men wanting sweet, young girls like you to show off. Find the right one and you don’t even have to sleep with him. Find the ‘really’ right one and you can sleep with whomever you want—no repercussions.”

  I smiled. “Let me know when you find that guy. I just might go for an arrangement like that.”

  Phuc made a note in his book. “I will,” he said. “That might not be as difficult as you think.”

  Phuc kissed me on the cheek, and walked out the door. I had a suspicion that the man he was talking about might be himself, but I wondered why.

  I started thinking about how I was going to manage my new life. One thing for sure—if I intended to live a respectable life, I needed a new identity and it had to be a good one. Maybe Binh could help with that.

  I found Binh hanging on the corner of Larkin and Eddy, the heart of Little Saigon. “I need advice, Binh, and I’m willing to pay for it.”