Hustle Read online

  Cherry was out of breath, “Hey, you guys hear about Skye?”

  Rich said, “We were just talking about that little dumbass. You seen him tonight? I wanna talk to him about somethin’.”

  “No, dude, I won’t see him either. You really didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?” said Donny.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Bullshit,” said Big Rich, instinctively not believing any kind of story that originated with Skye, especially if it was coming out of Cherry’s mouth.

  Donny thought different. The first thing that came to his mind was, yes, of course he was dead. Because we were just talking about him, like their thoughts had the ability to curse anything and everything. Then he thought, damn it, he’s been murdered. Struck down by one of these sick-assed motherfuckers who are cruising the corner right now, some psycho serial-killer preying on young men. He’d always known it was possible—even probable—with the kind of lives they were leading. Hell, in some ways, he thought they were taunting death, temping killers to do them in. What did they expect?

  “How?” said Donny, wishing he hadn’t as soon as he’d asked.

  “He OD’ed,” said Cherry. “They found him in his hotel room the night before last, sitting in front of the computer, you know, like he does. Didn’t even take the needle out of his arm.”

  Donny didn’t know why it surprised him. It made more sense than murder. He wondered if he actually sighed with relief, if it was audible. He felt bad for Skye and could imagine him sitting right there in the chair he’d dragged off the street, his skin grey, staring at the blue computer screen. He was a statistic now, not so much a victim. He now felt a kinship with Skye that he never could have felt when the boy was alive.

  “Poor fuckin’ kid,” he said.

  Big Rich’s reaction was different. He said, “Poor? At least he could afford enough dope to off himself.” Rich was callous, but it struck Donny as bravado. Donny could tell Rich was processing the news, trying to think what it meant to him, if Skye owed him anything or if there was something in Skye’s hotel room that Rich could use. Big Rich finally said, “I wonder where he got his dope from. Musta been good shit.”

  ***

  After recognizing Terrence, Gabriel pieced together some of the cowboy’s story in his mind. Terrence had been a defense attorney, just like Gabriel, but he was disbarred under a dark cloud in the late nineties. Gabriel recalled that Terrence Halford was somewhat of a rising star, but didn’t know the exact nature of his downfall. It happened at the same time Gabriel was having his own troubles, having invested a good portion of the firm’s profits in some dot-com start-ups that failed miserably. Embarrassed by his misjudgment, Thaxton had insulated himself from the news and gossip that floated around the legal scene, the insulated gaggle of high-priced lawyers that fed on bad news. Gabriel did, however, remember rumors of drugs, of money laundering, but couldn’t recall what the details were.

  “You had a practice in San Francisco, no?” asked Gabriel after he finally accepted a cocktail, a margarita expertly blended by Raphael.

  “I had more than that,” said Terrence leaning into the mirror for another line of blow. “I had a whole career, a future.”

  “What happened?” said Gabriel.

  “I got fucked, that’s what happened.” Terrence sucked in one of the white lines through a short straw. “The State Bar had it in for me, didn’t like some of the friends I was making.” He pinched his nose, then sniffed hard again. “They didn’t like the money I was making. But, shit, that was a million years ago. I’m over it, moved on.”

  Gabriel took that to mean the subject was closed. He sipped his margarita and tried to act as though all of this were normal. A nice, late luncheon with his captors. Perfectly normal.

  The lunch turned into dinner, and, then, a kind of dinner party. The mood was deliberately light. It barely masked the underlying conspiracy. Terrence and Dustin had plans for Gabriel, but they weren’t discussing them. Something, Gabriel surmised, was keeping them from moving forward. Dustin kept quiet, drinking his beer and accepting a line of coke whenever it was offered. Coke wasn’t really Dustin’s thing, but he wasn’t one to turn down free drugs, especially of the stimulant variety.

  The afternoon wore on to early evening. The drinks kept flowing and Gabriel started to catch a buzz. Over and over, Terrence would offer him a line of cocaine, but Gabriel refused. “I’m too old for that stuff now,” he said, acting almost flattered. “Maybe there was a time, but it’s gone past.”

  Raphael said, “See, Terry, we should have asked him sooner.”

  “He doesn’t mean today, silly boy. He means earlier in … he means he’s too old, that’s all.”

  Raphael said in that same sing-song voice, “You’re only as young as you feel.” And he, too, bent over for another hit from the mirror. He moved around the kitchen, light on his feet, playing host and making sure everyone’s plates were filled. No one, however, was doing much eating. The only thing being devoured was the pile of cocaine on the mirror and Terrence saw to it that it was replenished every hour or so.

  Gabriel tried to take on some nourishment to regain his strength, but his teeth and jaw were sore from one of the many smacks that Dustin had given him the night before. The blended ice drinks, on the other hand, felt nice and soothing in his mouth. He sipped at his drink and tried to relax, knowing that the pleasantries weren’t going to last forever. Every once in a while, Dustin would give Terrence a blank, expectant look and Terrence would shrug his shoulders before carrying on with whatever he was doing. They were waiting for something.

  It was dusk now and the weather had cooled. Raphael suggested they go outside to smoke their cigarettes and have more cocktails. Without waiting for an answer, he opened up the glass doors leading out to a large wooden deck and turned up the music so it could be heard outside. All four of them grabbed their drinks and headed outside to the patio.

  It was still warm and the house sheltered the deck from the wind blowing up from the direction of the ocean. With the drinks, the music, the cheerful company, Gabriel felt again that it was almost like a vacation; except for the pain from the torturous night before and the unavoidable truth that he was being held hostage.

  Raphael was going on about his margaritas. “No salt. Real margarita is no salt; that is for the tourists. And you have to make it from scratch, no mixers.” He poked a finger toward his mouth and feigned vomiting. “That stuff makes you sick. In fact, it is best when there is no blenders either, just ice cubes. That is the way God would want his margarita.” He paused to sip. “Dustin, you are so quiet, you like me to make you a margarita? I can make it real strong, some kick, you know.”

  Dustin shook his head and got up from the lounge chair. “No, I’m gonna piss and grab another beer.”

  He ambled through the sliding glass door into the house. Raphael waited till he was inside. “I think he no like the cocaine. It make him nervous.”

  Gabriel noted that with every margarita that Raphael drank, his accent became thicker and his manner more effeminate. Clearly, he had a good buzz on now; he talked and talked and talked. “Maybe I go help him. See if he wants something stronger.” Raphael followed Dustin into the house to flirt with him.

  “How’s your cocktail, Gabriel?” Terrence asked. He was leaning on the wood rail with his elbows, beer in hand. Still keeping up that cowboy pose, thought Gabriel.

  “Fine, fine. Delicious.”

  “Did you get enough to eat?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Good. That Raphael is one helluva cook when he wants to be, but when he’s had a few, his mind … wanders. I don’t want you to go hungry, a victim of a poor host.”

  Terrence laughed, but it wasn’t a funny joke. An awkward silence fell upon them. The music inside thumped away and Gabriel looked in to see Dustin and Raphael hovering over the mirror on the counter, doing more lines.

  “No, you have a beautiful home. It’s been a great evenin
g,” said Gabriel. “I’m just wondering …” Gabriel’s voice trailed off.

  Terrence smiled with his too perfect white teeth. “What you’re doing here? What the plan is?”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel, still keeping an eye on Dustin, hoping he wouldn’t come back outside before he got his answer.

  “Tonight, you’re my guest. Enjoy yourself. Try to relax. I know that hanging out with Dustin can be a, well, a trying experience. Try to unwind here, get some rest. I’ve got plenty of room upstairs, don’t worry about anything.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow we have a bit of business to attend to. Dustin wanted me to help him navigate a few things. Don’t trouble yourself about it. Have another drink.”

  ***

  There were still diners at the tables when Bear walked into the Roadhouse. The nighttime crowd—the drinking crowd—had yet to filter in. He only nodded to the hostess, mostly because he’d forgotten her name, and walked straight up to the bar. He loved that bar; dark antique carved mahogany, a mirrored back with recessed lighting, a brass rail, it made Bear think of the old-time saloons he saw in the movies. He’d logged in enough time there to know the polished-over scratches and scrapes intimately. He’d even made a few of them himself.

  He didn’t even find a stool before the bartender, Richie, spotted him and said, “Hey, Bear, what’s it been, like, a week? Sheila will be glad you showed up. She’s been wonderin’ where you been.” Roadhouse Richie was a veteran bartender and worked the daytime and dinner shift. When he was done, the night crew came on, usually Sheila and Donna trading off duties behind the bar and working the tables. Without being asked, Richie the bartender pulled a long-neck Budweiser from the cooler, popped the top, and set it on a cocktail napkin in front of Bear.

  “Ah, just what the Doctor ordered.” Bear took a long satisfying pull.

  “What kind of doctor is giving those orders? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Shit, Doctor Zhivago? Doctor Seuss, maybe?”

  “I wouldn’t be takin’ medical advice from anyone who prescribes green eggs and ham, if I were you.”

  Bear said, “Speaking of doctors, you seen old Watson around lately?”

  “Not tonight. Not yet. But it’s still early; he’ll probably be in a little later on. You want anything else, Bear? A shot maybe?”

  “You know, that’s a prescription I’m gonna take. Sneak me some of the good stuff, will ya?”

  The bartender smiled and spun a shot glass in front of Bear and filled it to the brim with Jameson and knocked on the bar before walking away. Bear took a small sip and let it burn his tongue for a moment. Nothing tastes better than a free drink, thought Bear, and he tossed down a fiver for a tip.

  He turned and surveyed the place. The white tablecloths would soon be removed from the booths as each group of diners finished. You could still order food, but the dinner service was over. Busboys clanked away silverware and plates and the piped-in music was replaced with the sound of the jukebox. Regular patrons trickled in and took their stools at the bar. For Marin County, it was a rough crowd. In a place that was known for left-leaning affluent yuppies, this was as rough as it got. This was the old guard, a throwback to the earlier days—or at least they thought so. Bear recognized most of them and nodded hello to a few. He was one of them, in a way. He fit in well with the aging hippies, the old ex-whatevers—drug addicts, bikers, rock stars, stock traders. Everybody used to be something; everybody had a story to tell. One thing for sure, they were all survivors. In Marin, you had to have come out of your tribulations okay, otherwise the county wouldn’t have you; it’d spit you out like stale tobacco.

  Bear was well-liked because his story had some resonance. Getting close to Bear made them feel like their own exaggerated tales had some authenticity. Bear was the real deal and respected for it.

  A country-and-western song came on the jukebox. It was new country, the kind Bear hated, but it still made him feel like drinking. He waved over Roadhouse Richie and ordered another round. Richie complied, poured the shot, and, like a good bartender, waved the charge. Bear threw down another five and lifted the Jameson to his lips.

  Roadhouse Richie pulled the bar-towel from his belt and told Bear, “I’m about done with this shit; I’m ready for one myself. Your girl shoulda been here by now, I need some relief.”

  “She’s not my girl; she’s what you call ‘her own woman.’” Bear tipped back the rest of his shot. “What time is it, anyway?”

  ***

  On the corner, Big Rich had found a trick almost immediately. A cherry-red Lexus pulled up, waved him over, and he was gone. From the passenger seat he signaled to Donny that he’d be back in half-an-hour. Donny nodded and settled into a doorjamb to hide from the wind.

  It was crowded out there for a Saturday night. All the boys were working. So much competition made the prospects of making money slow down. There was Cherry, Omar, Little Darren, Orlando, Stevie, Tyrell—all of them. Donny lit a cigarette and settled in to let the herd thin. He was tired, fried from speed, and didn’t feel much like being there in the first place. If he could wait it out, sit in that doorway till Big Rich came back, maybe he wouldn’t have to turn a trick. If Rich came back with enough money for the both of them, he’d be spared this one last time.

  Donny watched a new kid, a boy he really didn’t know, Travis or Tavis or something like that, climb into a white GMC van. It was an older model with no windows. It reminded Donny a bit of the kind the City used to pick up dead bodies when the police were done. The meat wagons, Rich called them. The kid got in without even negotiating. Donny would never have done that—too risky. These new kids were dumb.

  Cherry saw Donny smoking and asked him for a cigarette. “I’m still trippin’ on what happened to Skye.”

  Donny didn’t say anything; he only reached for his pack of Marlboros and shook one out.

  “I mean,” Cherry said, “he didn’t deserve that.”

  “Deserve what?”

  “To go out that way. Shit, Donny, I thought you were his friend.”

  “I am … I was. But the guy overdosed. He didn’t get murdered, for fuck’s sake. Nobody did that to him. He did it himself.” Donny heard how harsh his words sounded as soon as they left his lips, felt like an asshole for saying them. Cherry was getting on his nerves, just like Skye had. “What do you expect? What we do, the drugs we’re doing. This is what happens, dude. People die.”

  Cherry looked hurt. He took the cigarette and tried to light it a couple of times before Donny rolled his eyes and cupped his hands over his own lighter so Cherry could get the thing lit. Cherry stood there smoking, looking out at the street, not knowing what to say.

  Finally, Donny said, “I’m sorry, man. I’m just, like, messed up. I’m bummed he’s gone, too.”

  Cherry nodded and took a long thoughtful drag from the smoke and said, “We all deal with our grief in our own ways.” It was something he’d heard somewhere else and memorized.

  “Yeah,” said Donny.

  A large truck pulled up. Not quite a semi, but a moving or delivery truck. Cherry waved to the driver and climbed up the step on the passenger side. After a few moments of barter, he climbed into the cab and was gone. That left Donny alone again. He wondered about the time. He wished again he had his cell phone to know what time it actually was. He tried to guess by the light, but it was dark now and the low clouds and fog had left the sky flat and black.

  ***

  At the bar, Bear repositioned himself so he could watch the door. When Sheila finally came through the doors, he smiled at her, getting a big, red lipstick grin right back.

  “You’re here a little early,” she said.

  She was a beauty. A big girl by other people’s standards, but what Bear considered just right for himself. He liked his women strong, purposeful, with some flesh on their bones. Wispy, frail girls who constantly fretted over their calorie intake were never his thing. Meaty is how he referred to Sheila when
she was out of earshot, but to her face he only called her sexy—‘cause that’s what she was. She was over forty, divorced, and well past playing the games of love. She was perfect for him.

  “I got here early to see you. I missed you, baby.”

  “Bullshit,” said Sheila, “looks like you were just thirsty.”

  “You didn’t know? They sell this stuff in stores now. I could drink this shit at home, but without,” he looked her up and down, “the scenery.”

  She pinched his cheek. “Well, look while you can, it’s probably all you’re gonna be able to do. I’m late and I gotta get behind the bar.” She wiggled away with a walk she only walked when she knew Bear was watching.

  Bear turned back to his drink. “Get to it, I need a refill.” He waited until she was around the bar and had looped a towel into her belt before signaling for another drink. She popped another long-neck and brought along the Jameson.

  “Sorry about that late-night call last night.”

  “No problem,” said Sheila, leaning in. “We’re a full-service operation. You ever find him?”

  “Yeah, I found him, but I need to find him again. I thought he might be in tonight.”

  “Like every night. He’ll be in—till closing. You only missed him by about an hour last night. We usually have to kick his ass out of here.” Someone was waving Sheila over from the other end of the bar. Before she moved she said, “Scenery, huh? Bear, you’re such a bullshitter.”

  He watched her move down the bar. He loved to watch her work. She’d spin her own homegrown May West act on these Marin County types and they’d eat it up and throw the tips down. Hell, it’s what pulled him into the Roadhouse for their overpriced drinks in the first place. Watching her, for a brief moment, he’d forgotten all about the reason he was here. Buzzed from the shots, tired from last night, nothing seemed more appealing than sitting on the same barstool till closing-time and following Sheila home like a puppy and passing out in her bed.