Hustle Page 2

As happy as Donny was to be getting well on someone else’s dime, it was tough to hide his disappointment. He wanted to feel this shot, he wanted to get high.

  “Aw, poor Donny. Tell you what, I got a bit of that raw crank left from Dupree, we’ll put that in the spoon, okay?”

  “Yeah,” Donny said. He liked to shoot the raw speed better than the glass anyway. It gave a better rush in the vein.

  When the boys were done they sat cross-legged on the bed smoking cigarettes and sharing an ashtray in-between them. Now was the time for grand ideas, for false promises. They were warm and high and far from the corner. The subject, as always, came back to money.

  “So, Rich,” Donny said. “I know you wouldn’t have brought up that YouTube thing earlier if you didn’t already have someone in mind.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, who is it? Is it someone I’d know, like, a trick I’ve already had?”

  “You don’t know him, Donny.”

  “You sure? Is it somebody that comes by the corner?”

  “You don’t know him, Donny.” Rich sounding more firm this time.

  “I’m not gonna steal your idea, if that’s what you think.”

  Rich leaned in, lowering his voice even though there was no one who would be listening. “I’m not worried about that, Donny. I just know it ‘cause of the kinda shit he likes. He doesn’t like to come by the corner—too dangerous. Doesn’t want to be seen. That’s why I think he could be the perfect guy for this.” Big Rich was nodding his head and raising his eyebrows at the same time. His look said, See, I’ve put some thought into this.

  “He’s some kinda lawyer. A fuckin’ big-wig. He’s married, lives in a big ol’ house in Pacific Heights. I seen a picture in his house of him and the mayor. He’s got something he doesn’t wanna lose, Donny. He’s perfect.”

  “What kind of lawyer is he?”

  Big Rich smiled and said, “A rich one.”

  Chapter 2

  Gabriel Thaxton sat behind the wheel of his Bentley Continental. It was an ostentatious choice for a vehicle, to be sure, but it set the right tone for the associates at the firm. The radio was off and the windows were rolled up. It was silent in the car. He sat looking up at the old, brick, multi-million dollar monstrosity he lived in. It was also ostentatious; too big for him to live in at his age, too many stairs, but it also set the right tone for his neighbors. He’d lived in Pacific Heights for most of his life, having acquired the house just two years out of law school. It was a mansion, a brick and mortar estate. He stared at it. He watched the sun move the house’s shadow across the lawn, onto the driveway, and finally, he waited till its darkness consumed him in his car.

  He’d worked late at the office, even though he didn’t need to. In fact, he really didn’t need to go into the office at all these days. He had no upcoming cases, no prospective clients; the firm was quite efficient—and just as profitable—running itself. As long as his respected name was at the helm of the brand, the firm was going to prosper.

  Thaxton, Spreckle, and White had been doing business in San Francisco for close to forty years. The three partners had built their reputations as risk-taking, media-savvy, criminal defense attorneys who weren’t afraid to take on cases the public viewed with distaste. In the mid-eighties, they took on several capital cases that became the focus of national news. Vilified by the public and the press, the firm’s client-base exploded after three of their capital cases ended in acquittal. Since then, he’d been the go-to guy for high-profile criminals of every variety.

  In recent years, he’d begun to feel the weight of his contribution to the world. Gabriel wondered what kind mark he’d left. Contemplation only served up guilt. It was a feeling he never experienced early in his career. In the eighties, and even on into the nineties, he was invigorated by the job, his successes. But now, he couldn’t avoid that ominous feeling that there would be a terrible price to pay for the legacy he’d left behind.

  He wanted to go inside and pour himself a single-malt scotch and forget about everything, but the house was no longer a home, no longer the sanctuary it once was. He’d let his base desires, his weaknesses, take a forefront in his life, and, in doing so, had let an evil into his house. He couldn’t face going in.

  Gabriel put the key back into the ignition, started the Bentley, and pulled out of his driveway. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He just didn’t want to be home.

  The sun was dipping down and the headlights of other cars flashed on as he zigzagged through the steep streets of Pacific Heights, working his way through rush-hour traffic toward Nob Hill. Gabriel thought about going for that single-malt in a bar, perhaps a nice anonymous hotel bar, but he just kept driving. On some level, he knew where he was going; he just didn’t want to admit it to himself. He was heading toward Polk Street, where the boys stood on the corners. He wanted to see if his newest young friend, Rich, was there. He wouldn’t stop. Gabriel just wanted to see if he was out there. Catch a glimpse before he moved on with his night, a mental image, a memory he could take home with him later.

  It was already dark by the time he reached the intersection of Polk and Sutter. The corner was near empty. The wind was blowing and it looked cold. Regular foot traffic: people with their collars up hurrying home from work, homeless derelicts pushing carts, transsexual hookers in outrageous clothing heading back to their roosts on the next block. No young men out there. Gabriel sat at a red light wondering why he’d bothered. He had the boy’s cell number, he could easily call and set up a meeting, a date, but he wasn’t up for a face-to-face encounter, not tonight. A horn blared from behind and startled him from his thoughts. The light had turned green while he was staring at the corner. He didn’t even want to be seen down there. Embarrassed, he hooked a right and headed back toward Pacific Heights.

  ***

  Donny and Big Rich woke simultaneously from a deep nod. The window of Rich’s hotel room had been darkened by the night. It was cold in the room, but both of them felt warm and comfortable.

  “Shit, we passed out,” said Donny.

  “Only for a minute.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I dunno, but it’s time we got back out there,” said Rich.

  “Fuck, I don’t wanna go. It looks like it’s freezing outside.”

  “It’s not as cold as I’m gonna be in a few hours if I don’t hustle up some dope.”

  “You don’t have anything?” said Donny.

  “We did most of it. I need a hit when I get home. If I don’t get to work, I’m not gonna have a wake-up either.”

  For Donny, the situation was more dire. He only had eleven dollars in his pockets, not enough to cop with. Nothing else. Not a late-night hit, not a wake-up, nothing. Withdrawals would set in before midnight and if he didn’t get his ass in gear, he’d be fucked.

  Rich got up off the bed and stretched. He walked to the shabby dresser and began to rifle through its top drawer. He pulled out bits of clothing and pieces of paper.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Donny.

  “Some raw. I know I left another piece in here somewhere.”

  “We put it in the spoon,” Donny said.

  “Naw, that was just a teaser. I still have another chunk.” Big Rich hunched over, looking desperately. He’d begun to toss items over his shoulder when he said, “Ah, here it is.”

  He returned to the bed with a lump of unwashed speed pinched off in the corner of a plastic baggie. Donny produced his pipe, a long glass stem with a bulb on the end where the speed went. The two sat in silence while Rich readied the pipe. When the yellowish chunk had been stuffed through the hole in the bulb, Rich held a lighter underneath, waited for that familiar bubbling sound, and drew deeply. He passed the pipe to Donny so his friend could do the same. Back and forth. Now they’d be ready for the street.

  They both lit cigarettes before they left the room and then marched toward the lobby. The manager was able to say, “No smoking, no smoking!” before they hi
t the door.

  “It’s okay,” said Rich, “he’s used to being ignored.”

  The boys hit the sidewalk and headed west toward Polk Street. The wind had died down with the onset of night. Prospects were good by the time they hit the corner. There was almost no one else there. The other boys were either out turning tricks or at holed-up already, high and forgetting. Traffic was heavy and several cars slowed, but none stopped. The two stood waiting, checking the headlights on each passing car. Twenty minutes went by. No takers for either of them.

  “It’s the fucking internet that’s killing this shit,” Big Rich said.

  “I know,” said Donny. “Everyone makes their dates off Craigslist. We should get one of those fancy phones and take out an ad.”

  “Fuck that. I like to know who I’m dealing with. Some asshole answers your ad and you go meet him. Who knows what the fuck he’s gonna do?”

  “Yeah,” said Donny. He knew that getting into cars with strangers was really no better. Freaks were freaks, and they wouldn’t be out here trolling if they weren’t freaks. He’d only been out on the corner for a few months and he’d seen enough to last him a lifetime. Every night brought some kind of drama, some experience he’d just as soon forget.

  Twenty more minutes went by. Still no takers. Donny lit a cigarette and passed it to Rich.

  “There’s got to be an easier way,” said Donny.

  “There is, I’m telling ya. We got to look at taking off this guy I told you about.”

  “What’s his deal?”

  “What do you mean? What does he like? Company. He likes to be around me. Likes to listen to me talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Street shit, petty crimes. I make stuff up. He doesn’t seem to care.”

  “No sex?”

  “Oh, yeah, he likes me to pull out my dick, jerk it for him. He wants me to jerk him, too, sometimes. Sometimes we take a drive in his car up to Marin County. He’ll ask me to pull down my pants and jerk it while he’s on the freeway. Nothin’ too weird. He’s almost shy. That’s why I figure he’s good for this. He doesn’t want any direct contact because he’s afraid of bringing crabs or some shit back home to his wife.”

  “No oral?”

  “Nope, not yet, but I can tell he wants to. That’s how I wanna get in his house. Tell him I wanna take it up a notch.”

  “Where’s he live?” said Donny.

  “Out on Pacific Street. Where all them huge houses are? He left me in the driveway once ‘cause he had to run in to piss or some shit. I walked in the house anyway. It’s a fuckin’ palace.”

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  Big Rich gave Donny a look.

  “I ain’t telling you.”

  A Lincoln Continental pulled up and Rich said, “Ah, one of my regulars.” The car stopped in the bus stop across the street and the driver-side window lowered just enough for the face of an older man to show. He was smiling at Big Rich.

  Rich looked at Donny and said, “This guy just wants to be pissed on. Easy money, a hundred bucks. If you’re still here when I get back, we’ll go back to the hotel and cop. Call it a night.”

  Donny nodded. It was hard not to feel a little envious. A hundred bucks for taking a piss. Easy money.

  Chapter 3

  Gabriel was back in the driveway of his house. The place was dark except for one light in an upstairs bedroom. He sighed. He had hoped the light would be out, that no one would be home. He slowly got out of the car, locked the doors, and walked toward the huge, oak, double-doors that separated him from what should have been his sanctuary.

  “Hello?” he called out. He took off his jacket and hung it on an antique hat rack. He listened to his own footsteps as he crossed the marble tile of the entrance. “Is there anybody home?” He knew full well there was someone home. If that light was on, then there was someone up there.

  Gabriel walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboard door above the fridge. He took out his single-malt scotch, pulled a glass from the clean dishes beside the sink, and poured himself one. Three fingers deep. After a few sips, he opened the freezer and dropped a couple of ice-cubes into the glass.

  “Gabriel?”

  The voice came from upstairs. He felt his heart kick up a notch. He knew there was someone else home, but hearing the voice spooked him just the same. He stared into his glass.

  “Gabe!”

  The voice, angry now, sounded closer, at the top of the stairs. He had to answer.

  “Yes, dear,” he said, hoping it didn’t sound too sarcastic. He took one more hit off the scotch and walked out of the kitchen toward the stairs. The steps were carpeted and curved up toward the second story. An ornate gold banister curved with them. He looked up and said, “What do you need?”

  “Did you bring me anything?”

  At the top of the stairs stood Dustin; pale, skinny, and pock-marked. He was wearing one of Gabriel’s silk robes and it exposed his pale pigeon chest. Square in the middle of his chest was a faded blue tattoo of an eagle with its talons clamped onto a swastika. It was blurred and amateurish. The tattoo was a constant reminder of where Dustin came from.

  “Did I bring you anything? Like what?”

  “Money, dinner, drugs—anything? I’ve been here all day waiting for something to happen and you drag your ass in here empty-handed?”

  “I had to work late. I didn’t get a chance to stop by anywhere.”

  “You’re fulla shit,” said Dustin. “You can sleep down there tonight; jerk yourself off for a change.”

  Gabriel didn’t know what to say, so he just said, “I’m sorry.”

  Dustin spun around, swirling his borrowed silk housecoat with him. He stomped back toward the bedroom saying, “We’ll see how sorry you are.”

  Gabriel walked back into the kitchen. He looked at his scotch on the marble counter. He wondered how he’d let himself get painted into a corner like this, if this were some sort of sub-conscious payback he felt he deserved. No, he decided, what he deserved was some peace. Some pleasure. He heard the shower start upstairs and took one more hit of the scotch, picked up his keys, and walked back out the door.

  He pulled out of the driveway without looking back at the house. He didn’t care what Dustin would think when he got out of the shower. He’d stay away all night if he had to. Dustin was a mistake. A malignancy he should have cut out when he had the guts, the leverage. Maybe the kid would just be gone when he returned—if he returned.

  It was full dark now. Past nine o’clock. The street traffic had slackened and he was back to the corner in minutes. He didn’t want to go by the corner, but it lured him. It was his unconscious desire driving the car and he would have ended up there no matter what. He didn’t care about being seen now, he just wanted to see the boy as soon as possible and he didn’t feel like waiting. Gabriel pulled over into a driveway and dialed Big Rich’s cell.

  ***

  Big Rich and Donny had just finished fixing. They were high and low, lolling off the effects of a healthy speedball. The shrill electronic ring of Rich’s cell phone startled them both. Rich looked at the caller ID. “It’s him.”

  Donny smiled, but he had no idea who Rich meant. He didn’t care. There were a lot of hims. He was settled in and didn’t want to work anymore tonight. He had dope, coke, cigarettes and was warm for the first time in hours. He didn’t want to leave Big Rich’s room.

  “Gabriel,” Big Rich said into the phone. He was looking right at Donny, grinning. “No, I’m home with a friend … What are you doin’? … No, just a friend.”

  Donny waited. He couldn’t make out what the voice on the phone was saying.

  “I dunno, Gabriel. I’m kinda settled in. I don’t wanna leave my friend in my room all alone. Maybe I could bring him? You’d like him.”

  The tiny voice buzzed through the speaker on Rich’s cell.

  “No, he’s a few years younger than me. Maybe you’ve seen him on the corner … Ha, no, not like me …
No, I trust him. He’s a good kid, just, you know, caught up by circumstance, like the rest of us.”

  Donny liked that. Big Rich getting philosophical. He watched Rich play with the man on the phone. Half-flirting, half playing hard-to-get, setting him up. Big Rich was a pro.

  “I could, I guess. I gotta bring my friend with me, though. It’ll be okay. You’ll like it.” Big Rich shot a wink at Donny and said, “Corner of Eddy and Jones. Twenty minutes.” Rich hit the end-button on his phone and turned to Donny, “Grab the shit and put your jacket on. We’re gonna make some money.”

  “Shit. I really don’t feel like turning any tricks. We just got here. Maybe I can just wait till you get back.”

  “Donny, this is the guy. The john I was telling you about. We’ll do what he wants tonight. This is your chance to meet him, gain some trust. Fuck, I’m tellin’ ya, I couldn’t a planned it better. Grab the spoons, I got the rigs. We might not be coming back tonight.”

  In twenty minutes, the two boys stood dutifully on the corner, hands in their pockets, watching each set of headlights that approached.

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “A Bentley,” said Big Rich.

  “Seriously.”

  “For real, a Bentley.”

  Donny thought about it a minute. He wasn’t even sure if he knew what a Bentley looked like. “Seriously?” His voice pitched upward with surprise.

  “I’m telling you. This is the guy. He’s got more money than God. Be sweet to him and we’ll be fat in no time.”

  Donny grinned and watched the street, looking for something expensive to pull up, what his mind pictured a Bentley to look like. Like a Rolls Royce, maybe? He imagined an old car with a black-capped chauffeur behind the wheel. Donny thought about going into the liquor store and getting a back-up pack of smokes, but Rich was holding all the cash.

  Right on time. A sleek, black, expensive-looking car pulled up to the curb. The tinted passenger window came down and a frail-looking older man leaned his head out and said, “Gentlemen.”