Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  “Ah, c’mon, Isaac, you’re getting it,” Larry encouraged. “You and Dennis handled that flour beetle infestation at Dockside Bakery with panache.”

  Isaac perked up a bit and then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Can I ask you guys something?”

  “Sure,” Dennis answered for everyone. “We’s all friends at Goat Hill,” he offered in his most Southern black accent.

  “I’ve been reading about chemicals. You know, insecticides and stuff like that.” He paused. “Can I be honest with you?”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “Well, there’s a pretty ugly history behind what we do. Poisoning isn’t the most honorable way of making money. What keeps you guys going in this business?”

  “Cuz Riley buys the beer,” Carol proposed. Everyone laughed and drank to that, while I caught Brian’s eye and ordered another pitcher.

  “No, really. I’m serious,” Isaac said, looking somehow sad for us.

  “It’s easy,” Dennis said, dropping any of his hip, black jive. It was as serious as I’d seen him. “For me, it’s about getting out of the projects and getting even.”

  “What do you mean about getting even?” Isaac asked.

  “I saw a baby killed by rats,” Dennis said in almost a whisper.

  “Jesus,” Larry said. “You never told me that.”

  “I don’t like remembering,” Dennis answered. “When I was fifteen, a neighbor lady set to screaming in the middle of the night. The whole hallway was woke up. My old man pounded on her door, but she wouldn’t answer so he kicked it in thinking she was dying or something. I followed behind to a bedroom where she was holding this baby that had been chewed up. Its crib was all bloody and its body looked like it had been slashed. There were gouges across the baby’s face.” He paused and took a deep breath. “They’d eaten its ears.”

  “Shit, Dennis,” Larry said. “That must’ve messed you up.” Carol looked like she was about to cry. I reached under the table and gave her leg a reassuring pat. She gripped my hand and leaned against my shoulder.

  “The lady had worked the late shift and gotten home late. Her sister was supposed to check on the baby, but she’d gotten drunk and passed out. We called an ambulance, but the baby was hardly moving. I saw it quit breathing as the sirens came up the street.” He took a deep draw on his beer. “I told myself then that I wasn’t going to spend my life in the projects and that I’d kill anything that would hurt a baby.”

  “Geez, that’s terrible. So you figure insects and rats are all about the same?” Isaac asked.

  “I’ve seen poor folks’ kitchens crawling with roaches. The kids in these places are always sick, and I know that the filth those insects carry around isn’t helping. I know that things like that aren’t right. And I know that I can fix it,” Dennis said.

  “So how about you?” Isaac turned to Larry, who was just nodding silently, taking in what he’d heard.

  “I don’t have a reason as good as Dennis does,” Larry said. “For me it’s pretty simple.”

  “How so?” Isaac asked.

  “Some things just need killing. It’s just like in ’Nam.” Larry poured himself another beer and then filled Carol’s glass.

  “Quite the gentleman,” she said approvingly. Dennis got up and went to the bar to grab a bowl of peanuts. For as skinny as he was, he could pack away bar food like a bottomless pit.

  As he came back, one of the guys at the next table made his distaste for blacks evident with a sneer. His pal was too busy ogling Carol to join in the silent but conspicuous insult. She was a pleasant sight with a V-neck sweater that drew a man’s eye to her freckled—and utterly off-limits—cleavage. The two guys looked like middle-aged salesmen passing through the neighborhood, with Brylcreemed hair, loosened neckties, and blazers draped over the backs of their chairs. They weren’t regulars and they were fast becoming unwelcome visitors.

  CHAPTER 29

  As Dennis sat down, the smaller of the two guys caught Carol’s eye and his leer became a lewd wink as he puckered his lips. She flashed a look of disgust and turned back to our table—and I understood the objectification thing, which is usually complicated in my mind, but this time seemed repulsively simple. The pig’s buddy continued to stare at Dennis like he was filth, until his buddy said something under his breath and they both started laughing. Then the two of them went back to their drinks and muffled conversation.

  “Like I was saying,” Larry started up again, “I don’t claim to have known all that goes into figuring out which people need killing. That was up to the government and the officers. But I can tell you that after I saw what the VC did to a buddy of mine, those gooks went to the top of my ‘to kill’ list.” He fell quiet, as if he could see the guy with his balls stuffed into his mouth—Larry had told me about this a year ago when he’d missed a couple days of work because nightmares kept him from sleeping. But he couldn’t bring himself to describe it again, so he just said, “You don’t do those things to another human without paying a price.”

  “And the Viet Cong were like cockroaches?” Isaac prompted.

  “Not exactly. But what it comes down to is that one needed killing in the jungles and the other needs killing in the cities. Part of life is killing, and most people want someone else to do the killing for them,” he said, punctuating his summary with a long draw on his beer.

  “You want simple reasons?” Carol asked, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands.

  “Sure,” Isaac answered, “this whole thing is getting weird.” The kid looked a little shell-shocked, but between the beer and the intimacy of our regular table at O’Donnell’s we were less inhibited than at work. That was the idea.

  “It’s a good job with a bunch of guys who know how to work and don’t cheat people. That’s a combination that’s not easy to find. I’ve managed offices for contractors, food suppliers, cleaning companies, you name it. And everyone in those places was either stealing from the business or lying to customers.”

  “So, the poisoning doesn’t bother you?” Isaac pushed further. It was obvious that something about the insecticides was not sitting right with him.

  “I’ll take working for decent people doing a shitty job that needs doing.” She drained the last of her beer and slammed down the mug to make the point. The guy at the next table took advantage of the bang to grab another eyeful of Carol.

  “How about you, Isaac? What’s your stake in this game?” Larry asked.

  “I appreciate the way you people approach this work. I really do. But I’m not sure it’s for me.”

  “Listen, Isaac, if this gig isn’t your thing, that’s cool. But what’s the hang-up, man? Maybe extermination has bad vibes for the sensitive arteest?” Dennis put his hand over his heart and closed his eyes. He was teasing, mostly.

  “I liked how Riley told me this isn’t paint by numbers,” Isaac answered. “That we have to decide in each case which is the right paint to create the effect we want. I liked thinking that way, since I want to be an artist.”

  “Very nice, Riley, so now I have to put up with these two claiming to be the Picasso and Rembrandt of insecticides,” Carol said, waving dismissively toward Larry and Dennis and rolling her eyes. She was back to her old self.

  “It’s just that I’ve been doing some reading about insecticides, and I found out stuff that makes it really disturbing to use these chemicals. You know that the Nazis discovered the nerve gases while trying to find new insecticides? We’re basically spraying a form of the chemical that they developed to kill humans.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I can see where that might be upsetting for a Jewish kid.”

  “That’s not all. In the extermination camps—and I can’t get over that we’re exterminators—they used Zyklon B to gas my people. And that compound was originally used as a pesticide.”

  There was a moment of silence and then Larry piped up, “Harsh bong, dude—as they say in LA.” A nice try, but it didn�
��t break the tension.

  “Who are we to judge who lives and who dies, even if we’re talking about insects?” Isaac stared at the empty pitcher in the middle of the table.

  I’d stayed out of the conversation so far. Listening is more my style on our beer nights. But I couldn’t resist any longer. “Who are we to not judge? Remember, Isaac, when the Nazis came for the Jews, it was those who failed to judge between right and wrong who let their neighbors be taken away. Nobody asked to live in the Warsaw ghettos, or to fight in ’Nam, or to grow up in the projects. But you can either let others do your judging, and fighting, and killing, or you can take it on yourself. The thing is, either way it ends up being your decision.”

  “Whoa, that’s heavy.” Dennis shook his head. Isaac looked confused.

  I got up for a last refill, and by the time I got back the conversation had made a turn toward a decidedly lighter topic, the Giants. They were debating the future of Ed Halicki, who’d just beaten the Dodgers in a complete game. Isaac and Dennis were arguing that he had great potential, having thrown a no-hitter against the Mets a year ago, while Carol and Larry had joined up to declare him a flash in the pan.

  The folks on Potrero Hill have a special attachment to the ball club, given that the team played its first two seasons in our neighborhood at the old San Francisco Seals stadium along 16th Street while Candlestick Park was being built. When I was a high school senior and more trouble than I was worth, my father took Tommy and me to a game. Not that he was a baseball fan, but he wanted his kids to be proud that Potrero was the home of a major league team.

  We finished off the last pitcher and Larry headed out with Isaac, as they’d come together in Larry’s ’69 Buick Electra, a copper-brown abomination that made my junker look respectable. Carol asked Dennis to walk her to her car. He offered his arm and she gracefully accepted. I chatted with Brian for a few minutes and then started to walk home. But when I came to the corner and was about to head up the hill, I looked down Connecticut and saw trouble.

  A thin fog had drifted up from the Bay, but I could see four figures a half block away under a streetlight. And from the silhouette of an Afro and the sound of scuffling, it was my guess that Dennis and Carol had run into a problem. I headed toward them and realized that the two jerks from the pub had made their move. They were standing beside Carol’s car, which she’d parked along the curb. As I got near them, I saw that the bigger guy had Dennis’s arm pulled up behind his back, and from the look on his face the fellow was applying some serious pressure. The other guy had his arm around Carol and was saying, “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be interested in a nigger.”

  “Well, fellas,” I interrupted, “I hate to break up this little party, but I think it’s time everyone said good night.” I’d stayed in the shadows along the buildings, and the two guys had been so intent on their victims that they were obviously surprised.

  “Just keep walking, if you know what’s good for you,” sneered the guy who had Carol.

  I was a bit tired, a bit drunk, and plenty angry. A bad combination. I stepped into the yellow haze of the streetlight. Carol stood in the way of a right jab, which was my preferred approach to ending this fiasco. So I opted for a left hook, my second-best punch—although I knew I’d probably regret not having my hands taped. The left would leave me open for a shot from the guy holding Dennis. But I figured he’d have his hands full. I was wrong.

  My left hook connected solidly with the one guy’s jaw, and a moment later the side of my head felt like it had been split open. Dennis’s assailant had thrown him against the building and freed his hands to deliver a wicked shot to my ear. I lurched sideways and fell to one knee, bracing for the next blow. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dennis grab the back of the guy’s collar with both hands. And then came the dull, hollow sound of a head being slammed into the side of Carol’s car. As I struggled to my feet, Dennis pulled the guy back and repeated the facial treatment two more times, aiming for the edge of the car roof for maximum punishment. The guy slid down the windshield, leaving a smear of blood and draping himself across the hood. His buddy was on his hands and knees, looking dazed.

  “You okay?” I asked Carol, who looked nearly as stunned as the jerk on the sidewalk.

  “Yeah, thanks to you,” she answered, her voice sounding far away and her face just now coming into focus.

  “And I’m feelin’ much better, bro,” said Dennis, wiping his hands on his faux leather coat. Now that my head was clearing, I began to regret having delivered the left hook. My ring finger was hanging limp at an unnatural angle. Carol looked at my hand and winced as I gritted my teeth and yanked on the finger to pop it back into place. My pain triggered something in her, and she looked down at the guy on all fours.

  “And are you okay, you chauvinist pig?” she asked, delivering a fierce kick to the man’s face. His head snapped back, and he collapsed onto his stomach. Carol kicked him again in the side, and I could hear the meaty crunch of ribs giving way. Then she turned to the guy lying on the hood. “And how about you, you racist bastard?” she asked between clenched teeth. I could see what was coming, what with the guy’s legs spread apart to prop him up against the car. He groaned in agony as her foot sank into his crotch, and he slid onto the sidewalk.

  “Shit, you are one bad chick,” Dennis murmured, nodding approvingly.

  “Hey, what’s going on there?” Brian shouted from the corner. He’d come out of the pub and started down the hill toward us.

  “Just a little pest control operation,” I said.

  He looked at the two guys and the blood on the car. “I didn’t like the looks of those two,” he said. “And they’re looking a mite worse now. Should I call the cops?”

  “Yeah, these boys might be needing a bit of patching up at San Francisco General,” I answered. He headed back up to the pub. Carol offered Dennis and me a ride home, but I said that I needed the walk. Dennis gave me a weak smile. I could tell that the surge of excitement was no longer blocking the pain in his shoulder. I helped him into the passenger seat, and they pulled away into the night.

  I headed back up the hill, hoping I’d make it home and sack out before the beer and adrenaline gave way to the aching in my head and hand.

  CHAPTER 30

  My alarm clock jolted me awake at five thirty. I felt awful. After a hot shower, I felt wide awake and awful. My head was pounding and my hand was throbbing. I had just enough time to swallow a few aspirin before heading over to meet Jen in Berkeley. Last night’s unseasonal fog had persisted, and the dankness matched my mood.

  As the fog was lifting, I pulled up to a Victorian house that had been cut up into apartments a few blocks from the university. The front door was unlocked and led to an entryway with two more doors, labeled “S. Buskirk” and “J. Tansley.” The latter opened to a steep flight of stairs. I called out a greeting and headed up.

  As I got to the landing, Jen shouted, “I’m back here.” A narrow hallway led through a cramped kitchen and out to a nook that had been converted from a back porch into a sun room just large enough for an old-fashioned cupboard, a white-painted wooden table, and a couple of mismatched chairs. She was wearing a short terry cloth robe and had her hair in a ponytail. “Grab a cup,” she said, gesturing to the mugs hanging on the wall. “The coffee’s in the kitchen.” I poured myself a cup and settled into one of the chairs.

  We talked about the unusual weather, and Jen explained something about ocean temperatures and currents. I was distracted by the inability of her robe to stay closed and the glimpses of a small, daintily upturned breast. When it comes to sensual pleasures, I’ve always favored quality over quantity. Jen asked about my time as a cop. She seemed keenly interested, and I figured she was still trying to decide whether to trust me. I offered some vague answers as she finished her bowl of Grape-Nuts, birdseed, or whatever passed as breakfast for the healthy set. As she carried her bowl out to the kitchen, I followed with my mug.

  “I’m going to
take a shower,” she said, taking a step toward me. “There’s lots of hot water in this old house, so I may be a while. It’s one of my guilty pleasures.” She turned quickly so that her ponytail swung across my chest. Jen headed down the hall, and as she turned into what I took to be the bathroom, her robe slid from her shoulders and she added, “You can enjoy another cup of coffee or whatever turns you on.”

  The coffee was strong and it seemed to be helping my headache. It would’ve been pleasant to join her, but I figured she was playing a game and I dislike being a woman’s pawn. Besides, I figured that her next move would involve far fewer complications than the gambit she’d just offered.

  As I was finishing the dregs of my third cup and rubbing the back of my neck, she came into the sun room dressed in a halter top and jeans. I was surprised—and somewhat disappointed—that she wasn’t wearing shorts. “You’re looking a bit tense,” she said.

  “Am I?” I replied. “And what might you prescribe for that?”

  “I have just the thing,” she answered, pulling out a drawer from the cupboard. She held a joint between her fingers and struck a match. She inhaled slowly with her eyes closed and then passed it to me. “Go ahead, it’ll take the edge off,” she said, letting the smoke slowly leak from her mouth.

  Having declined her first test, I figured that if I refused this one there’d be no seeing whatever she had to show me out in the field. There’s a common belief that undercover cops aren’t allowed to have sex or use drugs with informants. Bedding a healthy young woman had much more appeal than smoking pot. But I wasn’t keen on her terms. Call me old-fashioned, but sex should be about love, or lust, but not passing an identity test. I understood her anxiety about taking an ex-cop—who might just still be on the job—on this morning’s field trip. So I proved myself.

  After I took a couple of perfunctory hits and she finished the joint, we headed out to the university truck parked in front of the house. Jen drove into Tilden Park and then down a series of winding dirt tracks to a dead end in a eucalyptus grove. She took a walking stick out of the truck bed and handed one to me. I followed her along a barely discernible trail through the underbrush. After a hundred feet or so, she veered to her left.