the alley’s end.
Climbing a wooden fence, Richard pulled himself over the top and leapfrogged into an abandoned parking lot. Going full speed, he ran through a rent in the lot’s fence onto Mission Street and then scrammed over to the Highway 101 overpass. Midway up the adjacent block, in between the Schwarz Sausage Co. factory and the Chevron gas station on Fourteenth Street, he found a man spread-eagled on the ground.
The dude was a middle-aged Mexican male in a Carhartt work vest. His pants were bunched around his hips. A pooling of blood had colored his crotch rust-red. He was shirtless; a row of deep knife cuts scored his skin. His stomach was lacerated and glistened with pinkish gore. Both of his shoes were missing, showing two bloodyfeet, one without socks. His biggest problem was the bullet hole in the side of his skull.
His head was turned to one side and his unseeing eyes gazed at the street with a look of hope and uncertainty. Newspapers surrounded the deceased, bullied by the wind. A sea gull winged away, squalling at what it had witnessed.
The sight of the dead man sent an electrical charge through Richard Rood. He recognized the sensation for what it was. Death was a summons. No more complex than getting a traffic ticket with a date to appear in court. Some people showed up when they were supposed to. Others didn’t. If you were late, a warrant was issued for your arrest. Then you went to the underworld.
The doors of a motorcycle shop were open on the corner of Fourteenth Street. The blues song “You’ve Got to Love Her with a Feeling” by Freddie King swam onto the sidewalk. A car alarm sounded, followed by three more, melding into a choir. A heavyset crow in the street cawed at Richard. He craned his head and looked at the crow. The black bird was a scary sign: the day was going to get tougher before it got better.
EIGHT
S ASHAYING UP MARKET STREET , Mama Celeste navigated the sidewalk. The summer chill had settled in her feet no different than a winter in Siberia. The wind had reddened her cheeks. She looked at her face in the window of a parked car: her eyes were two balls filled with merciless self-consciousness. Her mouth was the entry wound on a murder victim. Her nose belonged to a survivor of self-hatred. It was the face of a stranger who knew everything about her. Mama couldn’t bear to look any longer—enough was enough.
Mama wasn’t sure how to distribute the money. Shading her eyes, she approached the intersection of Market and Valencia and reconnoitered it. A Department of Social Services parking lot was to one side. Up the street were the Baha’i Faith Center, the Zeitgeist bar, a liquor store, and a transmission repair shop.
Two homeless men were playing cards on a tarpaulin. The taller man had long black hair under a St. Louis Cardinals baseball hat. He was outfitted in a hippie-era fringed leather jacket and his legs were encased in a pair of filthy Calvin Klein stone-washed jeans. One leg was stretched out on the tarp; the other leg was a stump neatly pinned up at the thigh with a brooch. A pair of crutches lay across his lap. His buddy had a bandanna fashioned from a brown and red silk scarf. A green leather trench coat muffled his bony shoulders. He was cross-legged, intent on the cards.
A pit bull puppy tethered to a nearby shopping cart heard Mama and growled. The dude in the St. Louis baseball hat swiveled his head to see who it was. His gaunt oatmeal-white face went smooth when he saw the seal-brown woman. He opened his toothless mouth and gummed the words, “You looking for somebody,
chica?”
The man in the bandanna looked up with milky blue eyes centered in a jet-black face and reached in his trench coat. He pulled out an unfiltered cigarette and a kitchen knife. He put the cigarette in his mouth and the knife on the tarp next to an army surplus sleeping bag. Turning to his friend, he pantomimed with his weather-beaten hands.
The fellow with one leg said to Mama
Climbing a wooden fence, Richard pulled himself over the top and leapfrogged into an abandoned parking lot. Going full speed, he ran through a rent in the lot’s fence onto Mission Street and then scrammed over to the Highway 101 overpass. Midway up the adjacent block, in between the Schwarz Sausage Co. factory and the Chevron gas station on Fourteenth Street, he found a man spread-eagled on the ground.
The dude was a middle-aged Mexican male in a Carhartt work vest. His pants were bunched around his hips. A pooling of blood had colored his crotch rust-red. He was shirtless; a row of deep knife cuts scored his skin. His stomach was lacerated and glistened with pinkish gore. Both of his shoes were missing, showing two bloodyfeet, one without socks. His biggest problem was the bullet hole in the side of his skull.
His head was turned to one side and his unseeing eyes gazed at the street with a look of hope and uncertainty. Newspapers surrounded the deceased, bullied by the wind. A sea gull winged away, squalling at what it had witnessed.
The sight of the dead man sent an electrical charge through Richard Rood. He recognized the sensation for what it was. Death was a summons. No more complex than getting a traffic ticket with a date to appear in court. Some people showed up when they were supposed to. Others didn’t. If you were late, a warrant was issued for your arrest. Then you went to the underworld.
The doors of a motorcycle shop were open on the corner of Fourteenth Street. The blues song “You’ve Got to Love Her with a Feeling” by Freddie King swam onto the sidewalk. A car alarm sounded, followed by three more, melding into a choir. A heavyset crow in the street cawed at Richard. He craned his head and looked at the crow. The black bird was a scary sign: the day was going to get tougher before it got better.
EIGHT
S ASHAYING UP MARKET STREET , Mama Celeste navigated the sidewalk. The summer chill had settled in her feet no different than a winter in Siberia. The wind had reddened her cheeks. She looked at her face in the window of a parked car: her eyes were two balls filled with merciless self-consciousness. Her mouth was the entry wound on a murder victim. Her nose belonged to a survivor of self-hatred. It was the face of a stranger who knew everything about her. Mama couldn’t bear to look any longer—enough was enough.
Mama wasn’t sure how to distribute the money. Shading her eyes, she approached the intersection of Market and Valencia and reconnoitered it. A Department of Social Services parking lot was to one side. Up the street were the Baha’i Faith Center, the Zeitgeist bar, a liquor store, and a transmission repair shop.
Two homeless men were playing cards on a tarpaulin. The taller man had long black hair under a St. Louis Cardinals baseball hat. He was outfitted in a hippie-era fringed leather jacket and his legs were encased in a pair of filthy Calvin Klein stone-washed jeans. One leg was stretched out on the tarp; the other leg was a stump neatly pinned up at the thigh with a brooch. A pair of crutches lay across his lap. His buddy had a bandanna fashioned from a brown and red silk scarf. A green leather trench coat muffled his bony shoulders. He was cross-legged, intent on the cards.
A pit bull puppy tethered to a nearby shopping cart heard Mama and growled. The dude in the St. Louis baseball hat swiveled his head to see who it was. His gaunt oatmeal-white face went smooth when he saw the seal-brown woman. He opened his toothless mouth and gummed the words, “You looking for somebody,
chica?”
The man in the bandanna looked up with milky blue eyes centered in a jet-black face and reached in his trench coat. He pulled out an unfiltered cigarette and a kitchen knife. He put the cigarette in his mouth and the knife on the tarp next to an army surplus sleeping bag. Turning to his friend, he pantomimed with his weather-beaten hands.
The fellow with one leg said to Mama
Similar Books
