“Well, if it ain’t Malloy, the ventriloquist. The only man who can suck on a bottle and talk out his ass at the same damn time.”
“Speaking of ass, Juanita, rumor has it you have my likeness tattooed on yours. Any truth to that?”
“Yeah, and it talks too, with an Irish accent.”
“Damn shame to cover it up, girl.”
“If I had your face I’d wear pants on my head.”
Trash talk, maybe, but just the thing for the day’s unwinding. Juanita had a mouth, all right, sassy as a Nob Hill madam, which she’d been until returns diminished. Her number scribbled in little black books from City Hall to Sausalito. It wasn’t the whoring that brought her down, more the courtroom tirades and media mugging, Bordello Queen Slaps Suit on the City. In the end they rode her out on a rail.
On to Port Bella and a brand-new leaf, no girls this time, just chili and chatter. But don’t let the town council boys snow you. They read the papers. They knew the score.
The décor was trademark Juanita, moose heads and suits of armor, funhouse mirrors and penny arcades. She had mannequins poised to take your order and dressmaker dummies in leather and lace. A pair of coffins stood on end, one for the condoms, one for the cancer sticks, mismatched tables ringed in sofas, beaded lampshades, and brass spittoons.
At first it was barflies, a fair number given the town’s size. The kooky setting and sheer joy of boozing kept the old girl in the black. Things picked up on weekends, trendsetters checking the buzz, the old crowd coming up from the city. The place got loud but no one complained, just laughter rolling down the street.
The saloon had a wide concourse, so Juanita leased space to help pay the bills. The weirder the wares, the less rent she charged. Shoppers ran the goofball gamut, a thirsty crowd with money to burn.
That spring an antique dealer leased the telegraph office. There was token opposition, but strings got pulled, zoning got finagled, and the rebirth of Main Street was underway. Marge Rawlins opened a teashop where the plumbing supply used to be and Phil Nash turned his place into a B&B. Crews came up from Oakland to rehab the firehouse and by fall the old town was back in business.
Not everyone was happy with the renaissance. The clergy considered Juanita’s a scandal and worked the pulpits to muffled yawns. Letters to the editor warned of social discord and moral decline; the price of doing business, Juanita would say. Mostly the locals took a hands-off approach. What was good for the town was good for the townsfolk, providing things didn’t get out of hand. They repaved the street and put in a stoplight and watched as their town went from hayseed to hip.
Problems started when she got the black rooster. Part of it was the bird itself, mean and spiteful, his turf marked in a wide swath of shit. Strutting out to challenge motorists. Mad at the world and everything in it, Juanita as sole exception. They held court under the willows, Juanita in muumuu and Spanish combs, the rooster charging anything that moved. People tried to overlook it, but a few times sent scuttling or stonewalled in traffic and nerves tend to fray. Rumor spread that the bird was dangerous, that he’d pecked a baby or killed a kitten, that the shit smear was rife with parasites. Not to mention the commotion at sunrise. A touch of barnyard was rustic for a time, but not every freaking morning! Still, the differences might have worked themselves out had it not been for . . . the children, their collective fixation, especially the girls. The big black cock as hottest topic, the way they said it curled papa’s toes. It was crude. It was salacious. It was impossible to object to without sounding ridiculous.
Juanita knew how to handle a scandal and had a lock on the bottom line. Like her or not, the old girl kept the coffers clinking. Her Half Price Nights shored up the week, while Fridays through Sundays the place was rocking. And being the savvy sort, she courted the competition, threw in with Chez Bella and the newly opened bistro to host a weekend festival, live bands, arts and crafts, street vendors, and beer by the boatload. Revelers started arriving on Thursday and by show time traffic was backed up for miles. The told-you-so set saw their victory at hand, but the crowd was good-natured, and a fine time was had by all.
It didn’t take long for the new prosperity to trickle down. Word spread that Fred Davis sold his house for three times what he paid for it. Fred refused to confirm or deny, but the seed was sown and response was immediate. House after house scheduled renovations, and contractors scrambled to keep pace, adding new decks and tasteful additions, pricey restorations inside and out. It only stood to reason that, if your house was due to triple in value it was worth even more all gussied up. The effect was to transform the town into a showplace. Who knew how handsome these old homes could be? And with the houses looking so fine a little landscaping was in order. Trucks and mowers, trimmers and blowers, crews of Mexicans putting things right. Before you knew it the town was sitting pretty.
Of course, not everyone reaped the benefits. Faced with soaring taxes, some old-timers were forced to sell. And with their situation being obvious, offers came in the lowball range. A few of the newcomers felt guilty, but most would agree it was what the place needed, weeding out the pensioners and welfare cases, ridding their world of the wrong element. The old-timers behaved just as badly, pissed and moaned to anyone who’d listen. They refused to acknowledge the town’s transformation and went on ad nauseam about how it once was. Back when everything was falling apart, always the case in places like Port Bella. The ones who could afford to paid no notice. Those kinds of problems would solve themselves as the losers were priced out of the equation.
Then the bikers showed up. How did they not see that coming? As a Sunday destination Port Bella was ideal. It was in the country, had two cops, one cantankerous saloonkeeper, and you could get there in an hour from just about anywhere. So there they came. Not just the gangs, though they were in evidence, but dweebs and dykes and geezers galore. Before long it was hogs curb to curb and noise enough to wake the dead. You might think this would be an issue everyone could get behind, a quality-of-life, common-cause sort of thing. But the bad blood ran deep, and watching yuppies work themselves up was worth the ruckus to the born and raised.
Biker Ban One lost by a whisker, but time for the townies was running out. Winter took a toll on the old folks, and the up-and-comers smelled the edge. In May the campaign was re-launched, the board, revamped, and Biker Ban Two slipped right through. Democracy in action, the yuppies hailed, but the ACLU took a dimmer view. The ban was challenged, the lawyers swarmed, and the years just seemed to sail on by.
Meanwhile, Juanita raked it in. With the concourse booked solid and the merchants thriving, the joint had the look of a gypsy bazaar. The sort of place you might find an Iron Maiden or the Last Supper painted on the head of a pin. Items so one–of-a-kind folks came from far and wide. No real pattern to it. Monday could be a circus while Wednesday might be strictly regulars. Only weekends were the same year-round, wide open and jammed to the rafters.
With the ban in limbo, the bikers descended. Some of the more unsavory types even took up residence. When their prep school daughters started sporting colors, the yuppies went around the bend. They blamed Juanita’s for the riff-raff invasion and vowed no child would go down that road. They’d worked too hard and spent too much to see it all go belly up. Hoo boy, no sir, not in this tax bracket, uh-uh.
Art Forrester, father to Becky “Hoover” Forrester, last seen on the arm of Sal “the Barber Pole” Magglione, was first to go on record. Braced by a bracer of boilermakers, he commandeered the podium for a town council rant. Juanita’s was a sin pit, a cesspool, a blight and bane, also a den of evil, a temple of doom, and a quagmire of iniquity. And yeah, Art’s metaphors were all over the place, but his point was well taken. The ungodly noise and the bad actors, the townies and the goddamn ACLU, it just wasn’t right. No sir, they hadn’t worked this hard and spent this much to see it all blow up in their faces. No way, José, not when there’s a narcotics squad and a vice squad and the Board of Licenses and the goddamn Repub
lican Party. Not when there’s sound ordinances and health inspectors and Mothers Against Drunk Driving and . . .
Juanita shrugged it off at first. She’d been dealing with breast beaters all of her life; some say she even thrived on it. But the raids made a dent and the fines piled up and the legal fees, ¡Ay, caramba! More telling, the groundswell of support she’d counted on never really came around. The oddballs proved impossible to rally and the trendsetters left to set the next trend. Also the train derailment didn’t help much, taking out the back deck like it did, and the black cock getting flattened by a Japanese tourist, and a barmaid walking off with a week’s receipts, etc.
Besides, the old girl wasn’t getting any younger. She’d been as shrewd as she was shady, and with a pile like hers who needed the grief? So she brought in bruisers and the rental truck and blew town the way she’d blown in. Nobody knows exactly when it happened. Someone pulled on the door and it was locked.
And that’s how Port Bella got rid of Juanita.
Things simmered down after that. The losers took their lifestyles elsewhere and the winners hoped they’d seen the last of them. The saloon went to a Santa Cruz developer, and for a while there it was business as usual. But the oddballs didn’t seem as odd, more like misfits and malcontents. The mood was different, not that the town was hurting. Weekends were still money in the bank, even if the rents were going through the roof. They kept the old girl’s picture over the bar and folks came to see what used to be. Changed the name to the Silver Palace but everyone called it Juanita’s.
Being a developer, the new owner couldn’t leave well enough alone; started making “improvements” and introducing things, a salad bar and an ATM, lottery tickets, televisions. Tore out the condom machine and put in central air. Then came the micro brews and that whole crowd, bigger spenders, that’s the ticket. And with a kitchen that big it made sense to expand the menu, fix that back deck, maybe put in a beer garden.
Then, without a word of warning, he sold off the cigarette machine, shit-canned the ashtrays, and plastered the place with NO SMOKING signs. And, okay, he saw the writing on the wall, but things at Juanita’s changed overnight.
“And remember how she used to come over and just sit down at your table?”
“And insult you, right?”
“Talk about hilarious! First she’d yell over from the bar, some wise crack about what you’re wearing or the size of your butt. Anything, really.”
“And it sounded like she’d known you for years.”
“Right, like some cranky old pal. And then she’d come over. I mean I’d heard about it, but the first time? I nearly peed my pants!”
“With the rooster?”
“Oh my God, the big, black cock! My ex gets a tic when I bring it up.”
“You know Carl Helliman, Nora’s husband? He heard his daughter talking about it on the phone and ended up in the hospital with chest pains.”
“My Michael is that way with the bikers. Rants and raves all weekend but never a word to their faces.”
“Tell me about it. We married a bunch of weenies.”
“Honestly, there’s a part of me that could go for one of those types, you know? Big and hairy?”
“Just drag one home for the night. . . . Maybe two nights.”
“Hey, remember the Bloody Buck? Basically a Bloody Mary in the mason jar with the Old Bay?”
“And the string bean? Jesus, two and you were shit-faced.”
“I kinda miss Juanita. I mean there was never a dull moment.”
“Don’t forget the chili to die for.”
“Please. Whenever my Herbie indulged I had to sleep in the guest room.”
The trouble with prosperity, it comes at a price. For the first time anyone could recall crime became a problem, which led to more cops, a fleet of cruisers, and a state-of-the-art justice center. The old sewer system couldn’t keep up so they put in a new one, screwing up business for most of the summer. And putting it in meant cutting down some of the old trees, but hey, all in the name of progress. Since it was dug up anyway, the street was widened to the horror of curbside homeowners. They could like it or lump it, the merchants snickered, and the town council seemed to agree. Then came the railroad parking lot turnstile, then the speed bumps. And with curbs and sidewalks finally in place, could parking meters be far behind?
Over at the Silver Palace the smoking ban was holding firm. The micro-brew crowd didn’t smoke anyway and the bikers just ignored it, leading to yet another ordinance that came with a summons and a healthy fine. The bikers ignored those too, ending in a series of high profile raids, mass arrests, lawsuits and countersuits.
And that’s how the town rid itself of the bikers.
Funny thing about those bikers and oddballs, they were pretty free with their money. And as marginal characters they were more likely to patronize the offbeat merchants than, say, the micro-brew crowd. Not to a degree you’d notice right away, but turning up in the monthly tally. And, as any developer will tell you, the numbers never lie. After two months in the red Silver Palace Limited was sold to an Asian consortium. They did the bar over in Hard Rock glitz with the big screens and the pricey memorabilia.
The thing about consortiums, they have no concept of shabby chic. The way they saw it, if you could make the rent selling tchotchkes and curios the rents were probably too low. And they were too low, considering what the galleries and antique stores were shelling out. When you factored in renovation expenses and the inherent greediness of consortiums, in general, and Asian consortiums, in particular, a little restructuring was probably in order.
And since this was business, not some grubby small-town squabble, the restructuring was handled in a businesslike way. Rents were doubled, the chains moved in, and that’s how the town rid itself of the oddballs.
But times were still good. Not for the restaurants so much, what with the limited parking, the glut of competition, and the gourmet renaissance going on in Vallejo, of all places. Those old warehouses were so easy to convert and that bridge backdrop was picture perfect, not to mention the parking. Vallejo was a Chamber of Commerce concern, all right. Port Bella’s antiques were doing okay—not as well as expected, but hanging in anyway. Again, parking was the problem, as anyone could tell you. The railroad leased just so many spaces, and with one main street, well . . . something had to be done. Spend half a Sunday trying to track down a spot and you won’t be back again soon, especially with Vallejo being closer with that damned bridge.
Parking. They proposed putting meters on the three side streets but the locals turned it down. They proposed a paved lot at the far end of town but the locals turned it down. They offered Josh Sheppard a small fortune for a corner of his pasture, but old Josh died and his daughters nixed the deal. They ran shuttle buses to the city, but nobody takes shuttle buses.
What happened to the Asian consortium remains a mystery. Word went around that paychecks were bouncing and a balloon payment was well past due. Two days in a row the bar didn’t open. Then the doors got padlocked and big red For Sale signs were plastered in both front windows. The concourse kept at it for a while, but try doing business when the place is screaming bankruptcy. Rumor had it the Asians were smugglers and the bar just a front for money laundering. Someone said the Japanese government froze all their assets; someone else said it was the Vietnamese. Whatever happened, the effects were wide ranging. Creditors got stiffed, tax revenues dwindled, and the local banks took a big hit. Add to that a title search turned up liens going back to pre-Juanita days sending the whole ball of wax back to court. Through it all, the place stood empty, paint peeling, For Sale signs fading to pink.
Port Bella was adrift, a ship without a captain. With leases in limbo the chains pulled out, some to the burbs, most to Vallejo. The swank shops that swept in on Juanita’s coattails were left with no coattails and no clientele. Even the yuppies were in trouble. Their gussied-up houses failed to appraise or sat on the market to nary a nibble. Which played hell
with their equity, but did nothing to lessen their tax burden. After all, the new toys had to be paid for, even if they weren’t needed so much anymore. With belts tightened and deficits looming, panic wasn’t long in coming. One by one the restaurants folded, then the boutiques and the B&Bs. New shops opened but quickly floundered, until no one was left to risk a venture. A few refused to cut and run, but even die-hards die in the end. It got so bad that Dixon’s Hardware closed shop after five generations. Only two years since Juanita pulled out and the main drag was as dead as a doornail.
And that’s how the town rid itself of the parking problem.
But it didn’t end there. Faced with financial ruin and a house full of bastard grandkids, Art Forrester drove his car into a bridge abutment. Claiming temporary insanity, a real estate agent gunned down a suddenly remorseful buyer. Neighborhoods were polarized and families were in turmoil. Wives couldn’t break the credit card habit, husbands couldn’t stay off the booze, and kids who should have been in college were flipping burgers for minimum wage.
Back in town the empty buildings attracted vandals, mostly high school kids blowing off steam. That drove real estate values down even further, but gave the police force something to do. The New Year’s Eve fire could have been worse, but with the insurance companies balking and the lawsuits languishing, the row of charred buildings worked on the nerves.
Bad as things got, folks might have pulled through, some of them anyway. With a single break, an amusement park, say, or casino gambling, they could have weathered the storm. It was still pretty country and you couldn’t beat the location, even if most of the charm had been lost to progress. All it would take is one fat investor to get the ball rolling again, one Arab sheik or non-Asian consortium. If they could reinvent Vallejo why couldn’t they do it here? Just one break and they could turn the corner. One small piece of luck, for fucking Christ sake!
Mother's Revenge Page 32
