“Young blood, you got any spare change for a brother?”
Richard wagged his grizzled head at the wino. “I ain’t got shit, homes. The cops done took my last cent.”
The sidewalks were lathered with tourists, guys in wheelchairs selling candles, homeless kids and their dogs, businesspeople going to lunch in the smorgasbords on Kearney Street. Richard pondered the money that Stiv Wilkins owed him. The punk was making it hard to get.
Vigilance had kept the cops and his enemies off Richard’s back. But vigilance was a loan shark that demanded too much of his spirit. Made him so persnickety, he wanted to scream in terror. And terror had caused him to kill three men. One fellow he’d snuffed with a handgun, dusting him from a distance, maybe ten yards, with a Charter Arms .44 six-shooter. The guy had been talking in a phone booth, calling the police. Richard hadn’t felt a thing when the bullet lopped off the stool pigeon’s head and left his brains on the ground.
Killing a man with your bare hands—now that was slow-dancing with the lights turned low. Richard and another dope dealer had been in the restroom of the Stud on Ninth and Harrison. It was disco night. The disc jockey was playing vintage Thelma Houston. The floor had been crowded with dancers. The music drummed through the walls; the bass line had been wicked enough to loosen the fillings in Richard’s teeth.
He’d sold the dealer a bag of fine-quality Colombian weed, a quarter ounce for a hundred dollars; the guy turned around to walk off without paying. Richard said, “What the fuck are you doing?” and the thief produced a stiletto. He menaced Richard, waving the knife as though it were a magic wand. Richard knocked the cutter from the man’s hand and pushed him through a pair of toilet stall doors. He forced him onto his knees, rammed his face into a toilet bowl, and drowned him in two inches of water. His victim’s final breath had been tart, like an unhappy lover’s.
Richard glanced at his watch and winced. It was now one o’clock. Leaves jitterbugged on the ground. A chain-link fence rattled mournfully in the wind. A foghorn tooted in the bay. The hour promised two things: fog from the ocean, and more cops. The flu complicated matters. He’d never been so wasted in his life. Maybe he should get himself tested to see if he had a bug. Go down to the Public Health Service center on Lech Walesa Street and have a blood test.
He meandered into the crosswalk by the Warfield Theater and looked to his left. A cop car muddied from the rain was coming straightat him. He froze, not knowing which way to go. He looked east on Market Street and saw the police had blocked off traffic.
Some people when they see a policeman, they turn to stone. Others remember their lawyer’s telephone number. Richard Rood high-jumped the mural-painted fence where the Embassy Theater used to be and dove head first into a vacant lot. Landing in a cesspool of rainwater, truck tires, and plastic garbage bags, he struggled to his feet and legged it through the lot into the mouth of Stevenson Alley.
The black-and-white turned the corner onto Seventh Street and was a hundred yards behind him. The cop car swerved into an overturned trashcan and lost a hubcap. The driver floored the brakes to avoid a pothole, put the gears in reverse, then shifted into drive and gunned the gas pedal. The cruiser’s oil pan scraped the roadbed; the trunk sprang open as the car bellied forward and raced through the alley at sixty miles per hour.
A garbage truck backed out of a warehouse loading dock, and the black-and-white cooked a brodie in the road, leaving a set of skid marks a hundred feet long, stopping inches short of a collision with the truck. A cloud of radiator steam rose from under the police car’s blistered hood. Officer Mandelstam flung open the driver’s door, unstrapped his riot helmet, and threw it on the gravel. He stared at Richard Rood as the black dealer skedaddled toward
Richard wagged his grizzled head at the wino. “I ain’t got shit, homes. The cops done took my last cent.”
The sidewalks were lathered with tourists, guys in wheelchairs selling candles, homeless kids and their dogs, businesspeople going to lunch in the smorgasbords on Kearney Street. Richard pondered the money that Stiv Wilkins owed him. The punk was making it hard to get.
Vigilance had kept the cops and his enemies off Richard’s back. But vigilance was a loan shark that demanded too much of his spirit. Made him so persnickety, he wanted to scream in terror. And terror had caused him to kill three men. One fellow he’d snuffed with a handgun, dusting him from a distance, maybe ten yards, with a Charter Arms .44 six-shooter. The guy had been talking in a phone booth, calling the police. Richard hadn’t felt a thing when the bullet lopped off the stool pigeon’s head and left his brains on the ground.
Killing a man with your bare hands—now that was slow-dancing with the lights turned low. Richard and another dope dealer had been in the restroom of the Stud on Ninth and Harrison. It was disco night. The disc jockey was playing vintage Thelma Houston. The floor had been crowded with dancers. The music drummed through the walls; the bass line had been wicked enough to loosen the fillings in Richard’s teeth.
He’d sold the dealer a bag of fine-quality Colombian weed, a quarter ounce for a hundred dollars; the guy turned around to walk off without paying. Richard said, “What the fuck are you doing?” and the thief produced a stiletto. He menaced Richard, waving the knife as though it were a magic wand. Richard knocked the cutter from the man’s hand and pushed him through a pair of toilet stall doors. He forced him onto his knees, rammed his face into a toilet bowl, and drowned him in two inches of water. His victim’s final breath had been tart, like an unhappy lover’s.
Richard glanced at his watch and winced. It was now one o’clock. Leaves jitterbugged on the ground. A chain-link fence rattled mournfully in the wind. A foghorn tooted in the bay. The hour promised two things: fog from the ocean, and more cops. The flu complicated matters. He’d never been so wasted in his life. Maybe he should get himself tested to see if he had a bug. Go down to the Public Health Service center on Lech Walesa Street and have a blood test.
He meandered into the crosswalk by the Warfield Theater and looked to his left. A cop car muddied from the rain was coming straightat him. He froze, not knowing which way to go. He looked east on Market Street and saw the police had blocked off traffic.
Some people when they see a policeman, they turn to stone. Others remember their lawyer’s telephone number. Richard Rood high-jumped the mural-painted fence where the Embassy Theater used to be and dove head first into a vacant lot. Landing in a cesspool of rainwater, truck tires, and plastic garbage bags, he struggled to his feet and legged it through the lot into the mouth of Stevenson Alley.
The black-and-white turned the corner onto Seventh Street and was a hundred yards behind him. The cop car swerved into an overturned trashcan and lost a hubcap. The driver floored the brakes to avoid a pothole, put the gears in reverse, then shifted into drive and gunned the gas pedal. The cruiser’s oil pan scraped the roadbed; the trunk sprang open as the car bellied forward and raced through the alley at sixty miles per hour.
A garbage truck backed out of a warehouse loading dock, and the black-and-white cooked a brodie in the road, leaving a set of skid marks a hundred feet long, stopping inches short of a collision with the truck. A cloud of radiator steam rose from under the police car’s blistered hood. Officer Mandelstam flung open the driver’s door, unstrapped his riot helmet, and threw it on the gravel. He stared at Richard Rood as the black dealer skedaddled toward
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