Hustle Read online

  “You need some extra help? Maybe a little massage, a morning release?” Raphael reached over and lightly touched Gabriel’s thigh through the comforter. “I was told you like younger men. Is this true, Mr. Gabriel?”

  Gabriel didn’t know what to say. He felt like he’d been in a car wreck. A sexual encounter was the last thing on his mind. “No, no thank you, Raphael.”

  “What’s a matter? You no like Latino boys?” Raphael move his hand a little further up Gabriel’s thigh. “We are very passionate.”

  “Thank you, really, but no. I’ll be able to get up. Tell Terrence that I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Unperturbed by the rejection, Raphael hopped up off the bed and asked, “So, what would you like, Mimosa or coffee?”

  “Just coffee, please. I’ll take it downstairs.” Gabriel tried to sit up and realized just how sore he was. He moaned out loud as he swung his legs over the side of the bed to find a pair of new slippers waiting for him. On the back of the bedroom door was a white robe identical to the one Raphael was wearing. His hosts were making a great effort to make him feel pampered. He decided he liked it, but promised himself he wouldn’t let his guard down.

  He got up, joints popping and muscles straining, feeling every bruise that Dustin laid on him, donned the slippers, the robe, and made his way downstairs.

  The aroma of coffee and baking frittata filled the lower level. It smelled warm and comfortable. He looked into the kitchen and saw Raphael hard at work at the stove, a pint-glass Mimosa in front of him. Terrence was at the kitchen counter, perched on a stool, with a steaming cup of coffee and a sheaf of legal documents spread out before him. He wore reading glasses and looked deep in concentration. Gabriel stood there a moment wondering if they would notice him. The scene was almost idyllic. Almost.

  Gabriel looked around for Dustin and then noticed him out on the deck sitting and smoking, his white skin repelling the sunlight, refusing to tan. He looked uncomfortable in the sunlight, twisted up like a pretzel, his arms folded, legs folded, his body language a tight knot. Gabriel knew he’d probably been up all night. It reminded Gabriel that he was no guest at all. It made him wonder when the hospitality would end.

  ***

  Donny felt he had no choice but to curl up and wait. He’d lost track of the time and stopped caring. He plunked himself down on the sidewalk on Eddy Street in front of his hotel. He’d found a space between a hopeless drunk and sleeping bag-lady. He stayed curled up in the fetal position for a while, until the drunk wet himself and the puddle crept out onto the sidewalk. Donny saw the urine creeping outward and straightened himself up and shoved a little closer to the crazy lady, who was only feigning sleep. She sat with her head in her hands, breathing loudly. Every once in a while she’d say something that sounded like “Sunny Beach.” Donny wondered if, in her delusion, she thought they were basking in the sun at some tropical locale, but, after she’d said it three or four times, he realized she was calling him a son-of-a-bitch.

  The sun was slow to warm the sidewalk and the concrete felt like the marble slab at a mortician’s. Donny did his best to hold still, but muscle spasms and the chills made it almost impossible. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this dope-sick. He swore to himself that he was going to make changes, that this would no longer be his life. He was done with hustling, done with the street, all he had to do was get well and then, only then, could he figure out what to do.

  He felt a sharp kick in his shin.

  “He dude, what’s up? I fuckin’ knew I’d find you here. You waiting on your biker boyfriend?”

  Big Rich was towering over him, blocking the sunlight. Donny grunted. He wanted to say something, but was holding back another stream of bile.

  Rich bent down on his haunches. “What the fuck, Donny? You look awful. Where the fuck you been all night? I went back to the corner to look for you, but you disappeared. Where’s your jacket? Where’re your fuckin’ shoes?”

  Donny tried to speak again, but couldn’t. He managed a high whimper and that was it.

  “You sick, bro?” It was a stupid question. Big Rich reached into his pocket and pulled out his fist. Under Donny’s runny nose, he opened up his hand and in his palm were seven small multi-colored balloons. They looked like some strange candy. Salvation: his prayers had been answered. Donny wanted to cry.

  “C’mon, dude. Let’s go get you well.”

  Donny felt Big Rich’s hands pull him up on his feet. He felt his rubbery legs moving under him. Rich was guiding him toward the hotel’s front gate. “No … can’t. No key,” Donny managed to say.

  “No key? What happened to your key?” Rich didn’t wait for Donny to answer; he understood the gravity of the situation. “No problem, we’ll go to my place.” He took Donny by the elbow and steered him toward his hotel, telling Donny it’d be all right, that he had plenty of junk. “Xavier’s got the best shit right now, we’ll get you well. Hang in there.”

  Rich threw a crumpled ten-dollar bill under the opening at the bottom of the Plexi-glass before the manager could protest that he was bringing someone so sick and decrepit into the hotel. Like sick and decrepit weren’t on the regular menu here at this shit-hole.

  The manager called after them as Rich dragged Donny up the stairs. “What is wrong with your friend? No calling ambulance, take him out of here. No dying upstairs. Take him out to the street.”

  Donny sat slumped on the bed and watched Rich perform the familiar ritual. As soon as the water in the spoon hit a boil, the acrid, vinegar aroma made Donny lurch toward the sink and gag. He was already drained of bile. All there was left to do was dry-heave.

  Rich giggled. “Holy shit, you are sick. Hang on a minute, Don, it’s almost ready.” Big Rich rolled up a piece of cigarette filter between his fingers and dropped it into the spoon. He took a new rig from a fresh bag and pulled the cap off with his teeth. He drew it up as Donny’s dry-heaves began to subside.

  “You wanna tie off and I’ll hit you?” asked Rich.

  Donny answered by grabbing the rig, still warm from the spoon, and plunging it straight through his jeans into his thigh. He pushed the plunger down as fast as it would go and then flopped backward on the bed to wait for some sort of relief.

  After about a minute he asked Rich for a cigarette.

  After the cigarette, Rich asked, “Feel any better?”

  Donny said, “Little bit. Let’s cook up a bit more so I can hit it in the vein.”

  “Now you’re talkin’. That’s m’boy, you must feel better.”

  They repeated the whole procedure again, this time taking several minutes to find veins and, after a couple of tries, successfully got the dope into their bloodstreams. They both fell back onto pillows and lit new cigarettes.

  After drifting off into a nod for a few minutes, Rich asked Donny, “So what happened to you last night? Where’s your shit?”

  Donny related the whole story; the car, the motel, the crack, the gun, everything. Big Rich sat with his mouth hanging open, his facial muscles slackened by the heroin, occasionally saying, “Shit,” or “Fuck.” When he was done, Donny hung his head down and said, “I’m done with this shit.”

  “With what shit?”

  “With the corner, with junk, speed—all of it. I can barely fuckin’ walk. That fucker was gonna kill me, I know it.”

  Big Rich sighed, “I know, man, I know. But if you want off the corner, it’s gonna take some cash. What’re you gonna do until you can figure out how to kick? You gotta pay the hotel, you gotta pay for methadone, you gotta eat.”

  Donny knew where this was going.

  “If we can get those phones back, my phone, we can get enough dough to get out. Really get out. We won’t have to be out there again. Shit, you can probably pay for one of those rehabs that the movie stars go to.” Rich’s voice was serious now, selling it. “It’s about ten-thirty right now. We’re supposed to meet the biker at one o’clock. We can still go, get the phone, get Gabriel, show him the v
ideo and collect.”

  “I dunno, man. I dunno.”

  “Sure you do. C’mon, Donny, what else you gonna do? Sit around here and wait to get sick again? Let’s stick with the plan. I got some extra shoes—Chuck Taylors—a jacket, too. In fact, I got that jacket you left here about a month ago. Let’s get ready. We’ll meet the biker, go get what’s ours, and then you can decide what to do.”

  Rich’s comment hung on the smoky air for a moment. Then he said, “At least with some money, you got options.”

  Donny reached for Rich’s cigarettes on the dresser, took one out and lit it.

  “I dunno, man,” he repeated. “You got any idea what I been through?”

  “Yeah,” said Big Rich. “Of course I do. We all been through …”—he paused, searching for the right word—“…unspeakable shit out there. It doesn’t matter what you been doing or what’s been done to you. What matters is what you’re gonna do.” Rich seemed quite pleased with himself for sounding this philosophical and waited for his words to sink in.

  “You know what I wanna do, Donny?”

  Donny, only half listening, lifted his head and said, “What?”

  “I wanna go back to Oregon. I wanna be with my daughter. I wanna get off this shit, too. Get off the street and go up there and show her bitch-of-a-mother that she was wrong about me. Show her that I can be a good father. You know, provide and all that shit. I can do that. I want to do that, Donny.”

  Donny saw that Rich’s eyes were beginning to water. They were glassy and pinned, but there were definitely some kind of tears forming there. He’d never heard his friend talk this way. Not about quitting.

  “Okay,” said Donny.

  “Okay, what?’

  “Okay, we’ll go meet Bear at one. We’ll go get our phones back. We’ll see if we can get some money out of this old fucker, but, Rich, promise me one thing.”

  “Yeah, of course, what?”

  “No more of this, ‘one last time’ shit. If we’re gonna do this, let’s do it for real. I mean it; I don’t want to be out on that fucking corner ever again.”

  Rich smiled and said, “That’s m’boy.”

  ***

  Bear hit the road after a hurried breakfast. Not because he was late to pick up the boys, but because he didn’t want to go over last night with Sheila again. When he woke back up on the couch to the smell of frying bacon, he knew her mood had lightened. Bacon was definitely a peace offering. She was quiet while she fixed him a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. He was grateful and didn’t say much while he shoveled it down. They managed to make a little small talk before he told her he had to run an errand.

  “An errand?” she said, her voice full of doubt. “I hope it’s nothing to do with those little faggots you were telling everyone about last night.”

  Bear only said it was something he had to do. He didn’t want to get into the whole story of Thaxton and Dustin and Terrence. For all he knew, Sheila might know who this Terrence was, and although he could have used another opinion, something told him Sheila’s wasn’t going to be so helpful. He got up from the table, told her he’d call her later, and gave her a kiss. Her lips were cold and unresponsive.

  Before heading to the city he slipped back up north to his place to pack the trunk. This time he decided he’d bring a gun. Definitely not the piece that Donny had picked up from Gilly. Who knew where that thing had been? He would hide that one deep in his cottage and bring something of his own. He owned a Walther PK .380 and a snub-nosed .38. He held one in each hand, trying to decide which was better suited for the occasion. Then he put them both in the trunk. Under a moving blanket in the well of the spare tire he placed the guns, extra ammo and clips, his trusty hunting knife, and a half-pint of Jim Beam.

  He got back into the driver’s seat and headed out for the city. He drove with the radio off. He wanted to clear his head and think about what the hell he was going to do once he got to Terrence’s.

  While he crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, blue sky peeked out over his head. The fog was receding and it was turning out to be a nice day. As he reached into his pocket for the bridge toll, he wondered why he was going to the city at all, why he was going out of his way to bring those two fuck-ups back into this mess. He doubted that saving Thaxton was their reason for wanting to be included so badly. Getting their phones back didn’t really seem like a good enough reason to risk their lives either. There had to be something else they wanted.

  Bear reminded himself he gave his word. If there was one thing he tried to cling to in life, after all the bullshit he’d been through, it was his word. Being a man of your word meant that you were a real man. It was the only thing that had real value. Maybe he shouldn’t have given it, but he did.

  It took a few minutes and a few miles for Bear to admit to himself, though, that he needed them along. If Thaxton was being held at Terrence’s by Dustin, that meant he was at least outnumbered by a crooked mouthpiece and a psychopath. Bear had no idea who else, or what else, was at that house. The last place he looked for Dustin and Gabriel was crawling with junkies. He’d be foolish going it alone. It was too late to drag any of his biker buddies along to help. Besides, the story was too ridiculous. They’d wonder why he was putting his ass on the line to save the old pervert anyway.

  Bear lit a Camel and wished he’d thought to have a beer at home before he started out on this journey. His head was killing him.

  ***

  Gabriel finished his coffee in the kitchen and decided to have a Mimosa after all. It couldn’t hurt, he figured. In fact, it may help ease the pain. He sat at the counter, while Raphael worked at the frittata, and watched Terrence and Dustin argue on the sundeck. They were trying to keep their voices down, but Dustin was having trouble remaining calm.

  From what Gabriel could gather, the two were still waiting for someone. Terrence had promised Dustin that the person in question would be here Saturday and it was now Sunday and Dustin didn’t seem to think this person was going to show at all. It must be the lady that Raphael had mentioned, most likely. This missing person seemed to be integral to their plan.

  Their plan. What plan? Dustin had spouted off so many ideas over the last several months. Gabriel thought most of them were grandiose delusions. It was the speed talking. He was afraid of Dustin and what he knew about his personal life, but he had no clue as to how this maniac would piece together a plan to emancipate himself from him. He felt that he and Dustin were tethered somehow. Tethered by needs. Dustin, he felt, lacked the wherewithal to go out on his own. The boy had been institutionalized and needed looking after.

  That’s why he had called Bear, because Gabriel felt there needed to be an outside force separating them, untangling them. He hoped, on some level, that Dustin still cared for him.

  Gabriel felt an uncontrollable wave of emotion pass over him. Watching the frail and pale Dustin out on the deck, he was reminded of his grandson whom he may never see again. There was a sadness that he was not able connect to this life, to couple this bizarre circumstance with the wholesome reality of real-life. He’d let things get too far out of hand. He knew, in his heart, there was no going back. His wife, his daughter, his grandson would never be able to resume a normal healthy relationship with him. He’d crossed a line.

  He lifted his Mimosa and took another sip, then set it down, wondering if the champagne was feeding this melancholy. He needed to keep a clear head, perhaps look for an escape. He didn’t like reminding himself that he was a prisoner here, a hostage, but it was true. If he could spot an opening, an opening that an old man like him could fit through, he’d have to take it.

  His thoughts were broken by the chime of the doorbell. The sliding glass door to the deck area slid open and Terrence came in first, followed by Dustin.

  “I’m glad to see you decided to enjoy yourself this morning. Relax and have Raphael serve you some of his world-famous frittata. It’s excellent.” As Terrence spoke he moved past Gabriel toward the entranceway of the
house, saying, “At last, she’s arrived.”

  Dustin stayed behind in the kitchen. He thrust a boney finger out at Gabriel and said, “Watch your fuckin’ manners, you old fuck. I’m keepin’ an eye on you.”

  Chapter 17

  It was ten minutes after one when Bear pulled up to the same spot where he’d dropped the boys. He saw them sitting on the sidewalk, backs against the building, with cigarettes in their mouths. At first he thought they were sun-tanning, sucking up what little sun San Francisco had to offer. Then he realized they were on the nod, eyes closed, slack-jawed, near unconsciousness. He honked the horn; when that failed, he rolled down the passenger window and shouted, “Hey, you assholes, you can’t sleep here.”

  That got a little rise from them. Donny opened his eyes and nudged Rich with his elbow. They both struggled up off the sidewalk and moved toward Bear’s open passenger window. Big Rich leaned in and said, “Shit, we thought you weren’t coming. We been waitin’ out here for a while.”

  “Bullshit,” said Bear. “Climb in.”

  The boys resumed the same positions as the day before, Big Rich in the front seat and Donny in the back. Bear asked if they were ready, and, without waiting for an answer, said, “Let’s go.”

  They were already heading out of the Tenderloin on Geary Street before Donny thought to ask, “Where are we going anyway?”

  “To Marin, just past Stinson Beach. I don’t know exactly where, but we’ll know it when we get there.”

  “What the fuck is up there?” asked Rich.

  “Dustin’s lawyer. Or at least who Dustin thinks is his lawyer. I don’t know for sure that he’s hiding out there, but chances are he is. And, if he’s there, then I figure he’s got Thaxton with him.”

  “The old man?” said Rich, feeling confused.

  “Gabriel,” corrected Donny.