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  Before they’d made it halfway down the alley, they were hit from behind. The jolt shocked them both and Bear stopped the car. He looked in the rearview and saw Dustin’s smiling face behind the wheel of the Bentley.

  “Son of a bitch,” Bear growled. He watched as Dustin threw the Bentley in reverse and began to back out of the alleyway. When Dustin reached the mouth of the alley, he reversed into traffic. Horns sounded and there was another metallic crash. There were more horns followed by a squeal of tires. Bear watched as he saw the Dustin’s vehicle flash past the entrance to Willow Alley. It was a hit and run; the Bentley was gone.

  Instead of following him in reverse out of the alley, Bear put it in drive and moved forward to Polk. There was no point in getting tangled in the destruction Dustin had created. Larkin was a one-way street; the Bentley had to be moving north now.

  Bear took a right on Polk and moved north too, hoping to spot the Bentley on one of the cross streets. There was an unbearable rubbing sound where the fender had been pushed into the right rear wheel. He was sure several citizens had called 911 by now. The police would soon be scouring the Tenderloin for the Bentley.

  “He’s dumping the car,” said Bear.

  “How do you know?” asked Gabriel.

  “He’s got to. Hear the sirens? He’s gotta dump the ride if he’s gonna make it to City Hall.”

  Then they saw him, walking quickly out of Cedar Alley. He had a shoulder bag wrapped around his neck and he was moving fast, trying to act nonchalant. Bear’s eyes met Dustin’s. Bear yanked the Toyota over. The right front tire jumped the curb.

  Bear started to jump out of the car, but he was caught by his seatbelt. While he fumbled with it, Dustin broke into a sprint. He was running down the gentle, sloping blocks toward City Hall. Bear, remembering that all his weapons were still in the trunk, said, “Shit,” and got back into the driver’s seat and pulled his battered car off the curb.

  He tried a clumsy three-point turn and got the Toyota facing the same direction as Dustin was moving.

  “Get him, Bear. We still have time,” Gabriel cried, his voice high and excited now. He was torn between chasing Dustin or finding his Bentley and searching the car for the VHS tape before the police discovered it. “Did you see where he left the car?”

  Bear made the decision for him and sped after Dustin.

  Donny sat on the stone steps leading up to City Hall on Van Ness Avenue. He twirled the second Camel Bear had given him between his fingers. He wasn’t watching the sidewalk for Dustin. His mind wandered. It played over the scenes of the last three days. He felt sick when he thought about Rich. Not dope-sick, but a sour queasiness in his stomach. He kept flashing back to Dustin, too, that jailhouse tattoo on his chest, the deranged look in his eyes. Donny wondered if that’s what was in store for him; if he, too, was to become an animal like Dustin.

  “Pull over, pull over, there he is,” Gabriel shouted as they watched Dustin slip into another alleyway.

  Bear yanked the car over along a section of the curb painted red beside a fire hydrant and hopped out of the car. The Toyota was hanging in the street with its rear-end damage visible to anyone who may drive by. He ran around to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He reached into the wheel-well and got his gun.

  “C’mon,” he said to Gabriel, but Thaxton was already crossing the street to reach the mouth of the alley.

  Dustin had reached the alley’s halfway point when Bear shouted, “Freeze motherfucker!”

  Dustin didn’t freeze; he darted behind a large dumpster and grabbed the nearest thing he could find, a half-conscious homeless woman slumbering there with her man. Dustin wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled her up on her feet. She protested, grumbled, not really sure what was happening, perhaps thinking that she was being arrested. He pulled his gun from behind his back with his free hand and stuck it into her cheek. He peeked out from behind the dumpster and saw that Bear and Gabriel had slowed to a cautious walk.

  Bear had his gun out in front of him, aimed at Dustin’s head. “Dustin, you fuck, let that woman go. You’re gonna get her killed.”

  “Fuck you,” said Dustin, “You’re the one that’s gonna get her killed. You back off, go back the other way and I’ll let her go.”

  Gabriel pleaded with him. “It’s gone too far, Dustin. They’ll never let you record that deed. They’re watching for you at City Hall. You won’t even make it into the building. Give this thing up before someone else gets hurt.” Then Gabriel said something that astonished Bear, “Dustin, I can still represent you. What have you done? A hit and run is all you’ll be charged with. Please, it’s not too late.”

  “Hit and run? That was your car, old man. You fuckin’ deal with it.” Dustin’s voice was venomous, hissing. His glassy eyes lit up with glare.

  He reminded Bear of some kind of angry reptile, cornered and about to get a swat.

  “It’s your problem; it’s all your problem. I have the tape and you know what that means. I’ll always have the tape, you old fuck.”

  The woman in Dustin’s clutches was making unintelligible gurgling sounds. She knew now she was not under arrest, but she still looked wild and confused.

  Bear had his gun aimed right at Dustin’s head. “You want me to shoot him, Gabe? I think I can do it. It’s an easy shot.”

  Sirens rose, several of them, the sound was getting louder and louder. Gabriel said to Bear, quietly and out of the side of his mouth, “Can you do it, can you hit him?”

  “I think so.” Bear kept his hand steady, his sights on Dustin’s forehead.

  “Please, Dustin,” said Gabriel. “Where is the tape?”

  “I got it. I got it right here. And you’re never gonna get it.”

  “Shoot him,” said Gabriel.

  From behind Dustin, a great, dirty, meaty paw rose. The homeless woman’s man, or husband, or boyfriend, rose up and was going to swing at Dustin. “Leggo uh her,” he said with a slurred growl.

  Dustin swung around, the woman still clutched with his left arm, and shot the man in the face. The sirens blared on Larkin Street and the noise of the gunshot was lost among them. A red mist flew up from the back of the man’s head before he disappeared, dropping out of Bear and Gabriel’s view like a dirty puppet.

  Dustin returned the gun barrel to the woman’s cheek and said, “You see? You see what you made happen? You’re the ones. Now fuck off. I have the tape, I have the house. It’s all mine. I earned it, every last bit of it. I deserve it. You get nothing, you old fuck, nothing.”

  “Shoot him,” said Gabriel.

  Bear expelled his breath and squeezed the trigger. The shot went high.

  Dustin fired into the woman’s cheek, just as he had the notary, Miranda, back in Marin. The shot tore through her skull in the same fashion. She was instantly dead. He dropped her lifeless body and pointed the pistol at Bear and Gabriel.

  “You fucks, you shits, goddamn you, I’ll kill you both.” He began firing.

  One, two, three shots. Bear heard them ricochet all over the alley, off cement, off brick, off cars. Bear dropped to one knee and emptied his gun into Dustin. This time, with Dustin’s gun pointing straight at him, Bear did not miss. Not one shot. Dustin’s body danced backward as he contorted to the impact of the bullets. When he finally fell, it was backward over the homeless couple’s up-turned cart.

  Gabriel ran to Dustin, flipping open the satchel that hung from his neck. He searched it and squeezed it, and found no tape. Gabriel squeezed his jacket and there, smashed by the bullets, was the VHS tape. Gabriel quickly pulled the tape out. It looked like it had been run over. It was smashed and shattered and utterly destroyed. He then lifted the edge of the dumpster and threw in what remained of the tape.

  Bear stood watching. He’d already gone too far; he wasn’t tampering with evidence, too. As soon as Gabriel let the lid of the dumpster fall back down with its deep metallic slam, police cars began to fill up the alleyway, both ends. The sirens were deafening n
ow. Bear dropped his pistol to the ground, put his hands behind his head, and dropped onto his tired knees.

  When Donny had heard the first siren, he stuck that Camel in is mouth and lit it. As the sirens increased, both in number and in volume, he knew somehow they were on the way for his friends. He looked at the phone in his hand and waited for it to ring. When he’d finished his smoke and the phone still hadn’t rung, he stood up, dug his fingernail into the plastic cover on the back, popped it open and took out the battery. He walked down the steps of City Hall toward the trashcan on the corner of McAllister and Van Ness and tossed the phone and battery in. Then he kept on walking.

  Chapter 24

  True to his word, Gabriel got Bear the best representation he could find. Just as good, in fact, as the attorney he retained for himself. Eli Schnabel arrived with a smile on his face and an outstretched hand. He reassured the biker over and over that this was going to work out in time. Patience and prudence were his key phrases.

  Bear was relieved not to have to waste his one phone call on a lawyer and used it to call Sheila instead. She told him she loved him, that she couldn’t wait to see him. It wouldn’t be long, she told him. It made Bear feel like he was going to get out of there; he was going to see her soon. It gave him some hope. It turned out Sheila and the lawyer were both right. Bear was held for seventy-two hours at the Hall of Justice. Much of that time he spent being interrogated by an endless stream of detectives.

  The investigators didn’t seem to have much of the story yet, so Bear offered up as few details as possible. They didn’t ask about any VHS tape. They didn’t have any idea about it. Because all the guns were recovered, nobody bothered to look in the dumpster for evidence. To the cops, it was more cut and dry. A case of self-defense—in the alleyway, at least. Dustin wasn’t alive to complicate matters with his version of the events. As for the details from Terrence’s house in Marin, there was clear evidence that Gabriel was held and tortured by the madman. In fact, with Gabriel and Bear being the only available witnesses to the carnage there, it played more like Dustin had held them all hostage: Gabriel, Terrence, Raphael, and Miranda the Notary. They were all victims of a speed freak’s psychopathic rage. There were plenty of bullet holes and spent casings to back up the story. Dustin had used Terrence’s gun to kill the woman and Terrence himself. The same gun as Rich was killed with. It was the same pistol Terrence shot Raphael with while aiming at Bear. Then Dustin brought that same gun into the city and used it to kill both the homeless people before unloading bullets all over the alleyway.

  As much as the cops hated Gabriel, he was still a respected member of the community. He knew how to lay his story out in a manner that would be believable. He was a master at manipulating the flow of information. The press viewed Dustin as a mass murderer. There were headlines like, Meth-Fueled Mayhem In Marin, and Crystal Killer Had Killed Before. They called him the Speed Slayer, and the Meth Murderer. Gabriel was made out to be a victim, an attorney whose tireless efforts on behalf of his client came back to bite him. Dustin’s known criminal history only underscored the story. Little was known about the hero, the man who came to save Gabriel from the clutches of Derek “Dustin” Walczak. All involved worked hard to keep it that way.

  ***

  Donny spent the first twenty-four hours holed up in his hotel room. He sat watching the door, expecting a phalanx of police to come bursting in at any moment. He pounded old cottons and rinsed dirty spoons to stay well. There were enough scrapings in his drawer for him to get by—barely. After he’d exhausted those, he decided to call Gabriel’s office. He wanted to know if Gabriel was going to keep his word about helping him off the streets.

  He ventured out into the daylight and realized as soon as he hit the sidewalk how sick he really was. The sun was bright and the streets were warm, but Donny shivered all the way to the only payphone he knew had a phonebook attached. He found Gabriel’s office number and popped in two quarters.

  A friendly, familiar voice answered the phone. “Thaxton, Spreckle, and White.”

  “Bean, I mean, Beatrice? Is that you?”

  She knew instantly who it was; she’d been expecting his call. “Donny? How are you? Are you alright? Where are you calling from?”

  Donny told her he was at the BART station at Market and Powell and reassured her that he’d not spoken to any police. He told her he was sick, but couldn’t go back to what he was doing for money. He needed help and wondered if Gabriel was there.

  “No, I’m afraid that both he and Mr. Mayfield are still being held at the Hall of Justice.”

  “Mr. Mayfield?”

  She corrected herself. “Bear, honey, that’s his name.”

  “Oh, well …” Donny’s voice trailed off.

  Bean listened to the background noise a moment, the trains, the people, and over it all she heard a quiet sob.

  “Donny, Mr. Thaxton has left me with a set of instructions in case you were to call.” There was silence. “Donny, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “He asked me to write out a personal check for you to take to the methadone clinic. The check is to be made out to the clinic, though. You understand? He wants you to begin a detox. He also wanted to make sure that your rent was paid for the duration of your treatment. At the end of the treatment, he wanted to give you the opportunity to go back home.”

  Donny listened.

  “Do you have a place to go, Donny? A place that is out of the city?”

  Donny thought about his home, his family. There was no going back there. He lied and said, “Yes.”

  “Okay, good. All you need to do is come down here to the office and we’ll get you squared away.”

  There was more silence on the phone. Bean listened close to see if she could hear anymore sobbing. Finally she heard Donny say something that sounded like a yes and then the line went dead.

  On the bus over to Thaxton, Spreckle, and White, Donny discovered a discarded newspaper on the one free seat he found toward the back of the bus. The headline caught his eye. No Charges For Gabriel Thaxton. Donny picked it up and started reading. It told some of the tale, not much though. It said that, although he was still being held, it was unlikely that the famous lawyer would be charged with any wrongdoing, even though he’d failed to notify police of the murders in Marin before tracking the killer back to the city. Likewise, his mysterious companion—the one who’d actually shot Derek “Dustin” Walczak—would probably not be charged. It praised the man known as Darrel Mayfield as a hero. He scanned the rest of the article. There was no mention of him anywhere. The closest thing he saw to any information about Big Rich was a one-line description of his friend as “another victim found at the gruesome scene.”

  A victim, thought Donny, a nameless victim. That’s an understatement. He watched the city go by as he rocked back and forth in his bus seat. He was downtown now, in the financial district. It was a place where Donny had never spent much time. It was lunchtime now and the sidewalks were crowded. The people looked different, sounded different. It seemed like they all had somewhere to go, somewhere to be. Donny envied them. They had lives to attend to.

  It would be a long time before Donny stopped feeling like a victim himself.

  Author Bio

  Tom Pitts received his education firsthand on the streets of San Francisco. He remains there, writing, working, and trying to survive. His shorts have been published in the usual spots by the usual suspects. His novella, Piggyback, is also available from Snubnose Press. Tom is also co-editor at Out of the Gutter.

  Find out more at TomPittsAuthor.com

  All characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  HUSTLE

  Copyright © 2014

  Tom Pitts

  Published by Snubnose Press

  Cover design by Eric Beetner

  Artwork by Brian Stannard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.