Hustle Page 4

  The TV flickered on silently and Donny listened as showers in other rooms started as other guests rose early for flights and business meetings. The muted noise of regular life depressed him.

  “Rich?”

  “Yeah,” said Rich, keeping his head pointed down toward the table.

  “You gay?”

  “What?”

  “You know, are you? It’s not like it wouldn’t help with this shit we do.”

  “Fuck no, Donny. I ain’t no fag. Shit, I’ve got a girlfriend and a kid.”

  Donny was truly astonished to hear it. He had no idea. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. They’re up in Oregon; my little girl is two fuckin’ years old.”

  “How come you’re not with them?”

  “What do you think? Fuckin’ drugs, man. I’ll be with ‘em again. Just gotta get off of this shit.”

  Donny thought about that for a moment. The comment seemed outrageous. He didn’t know anyone who had gotten off of this shit. Rich had never mentioned getting clean before. It was something they never talked about. Donny had thought about it, but it seemed pointless to ever bring up. Not when you’re working so hard to stay high, at least. He couldn’t imagine Big Rich cleaning up. It was hard enough to imagine himself cleaning up, getting off the street. It was an insurmountable dream. He let the subject drop before it even got started.

  About a half-an-hour ticked by in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, Rich still digging through his pockets and Donny still flipping channels on the TV. Then Rich said, “Fuck it, let’s do the wake-up now and call Xavier at nine.”

  ***

  Gabriel Thaxton sat in his favorite chair in the living room of his palace, smack dab in the center of his world. The TV was off and the only sound was the muffled scurry of Dustin’s chaotic movements in the bedroom above. Gabriel had a fresh scotch in one hand, and in the other a framed photo of his wife and daughter.

  The picture was old, when Judy was still viable and pretty, when she still acted as his wife. The photo was taken at his daughter’s graduation from law school. He’d taken it himself. Samantha had gone to Stanford and had moved on into environmental work, burying herself in tort cases against big corporations. She had little cause to call on her father for advice. His daughter’s absence from his life didn’t disturb him much. That is what children did, they left the nest. But what did disturb him were his daughter’s willful attempts to keep him from contacting his grandson.

  He loved little Jason, but hadn’t seen him in over two years. He probably wasn’t so little anymore. He felt like the boy could be his prodigy. A natural heir.

  The last time he’d seen Jason, the boy was only four years old. It was when he and Judy’s marriage had started to break apart. A Christmas dinner, no, maybe it was Thanksgiving. He could recall bringing the boy a gift, but, then again, he always showered the boy with gifts at every opportunity. Christmas, Thanksgiving, 4th of July, even Arbor Day, if he had the chance. He remembered an argument starting at the dinner table. Insults being thrown shortly before food was. His daughter stood up and had said it was enough, that her son didn’t need to see his grandparents fighting like a couple of teenagers. He tried to remember what the argument was about. He couldn’t recall.

  Gabriel drained the scotch, glanced at the clock, and decided to take a shower. He walked up the stairs slowly, feeling his age. He stood for a minute looking at the oak door of the master bedroom and decided not to use the shower in there. Why disturb Dustin? He continued down the hallway, took two towels from the linen closet, and sequestered himself in the guest bathroom.

  He turned on the faucets and undressed while the water got hot. When he could see steam, he opened the glass shower door and climbed in. He stood for a moment, head down, letting the spray of hot water hit the back of his neck, and did his best not to think about Judy and Samantha, about Jason. He tried to think only about the hot water.

  He heard the bathroom door open.

  “Hello? Dustin?”

  The door shut again and he could see Dustin’s cloudy form through the shower glass.

  The glass door opened. Dustin was naked.

  “I’m ready to talk now,” he said.

  ***

  It was 9:30 in the morning and the boys stood on the corner of O’Farrell and Jones. They were cold and stood hugging the wall where the sunlight heated the brick.

  “Fuckin’ Xavier. Said he’d be fifteen minutes. What time is it?” said Big Rich.

  Donny told him.

  “Fuckin’ Xavier. I coulda called Jose by now. Fuck.”

  “Is that him?” said Donny.

  “No.”

  A few more minutes crawled by.

  “Is that him?”

  “No.”

  “Shit. What kind of car does he drive again?”

  “I told you. It’s a white Toyota, a piece of shit.”

  “That was a white Toyota.”

  “That was not a Toyota, Donny, you don’t know shit. I’m calling him again.”

  Just as Rich pulled his cell phone from his pocket, a white Toyota pulled up to the curb.

  Rich smiled. “It’s about time.” His tone instantly changed, brightened.

  He hopped into the passenger seat and left Donny waiting at the curb. The car pulled away, heading around the block while they did their brief exchange, and returned to the same spot. Rich climbed out, grinning, and the two boys walked briskly down dirty sidewalks toward Rich’s hotel.

  “We gotta get a phone today,” said Rich.

  “I have a phone,” said Donny.

  “No, I mean one that can take video.”

  “Oh, well, mine is, like, ten years old. It doesn’t even take pictures.”

  “Donny, they didn’t even have cell phones ten years ago,” said Rich.

  Donny was sure that they did, but didn’t feel like arguing his point.

  “Skye has one. He’s got an iPhone,” said Donny. Skye was the most tech-savvy person that Donny knew. He didn’t like the kid, but Skye always seemed to have the latest stuff.

  “He ain’t lending that shit out,” said Rich.

  “What’s wrong with yours? It’s almost new.”

  “It’s fucked up, the video won’t work. It always says something about no memory.”

  “It’s like you: no memory.”

  Rich said, “Fuck you.” But he was smiling. They both were. They felt good. The mid-morning sun had warmed up the streets and they had enough dope to last them the day. Maybe enough so that they wouldn’t have to work the corner that night.

  They decided to get high at Donny’s place instead of Rich’s, another hobbled hotel in the Tenderloin only a few blocks from Big Rich’s and, by Donny’s estimation, a little closer to where they were now.

  “Besides,” said Donny, “they don’t hit you up for a fucking guest-deposit.”

  “What are you bitching about? You never pay at my place. A lot of places do it now. They think it keeps out the undesirables.”

  “I don’t think that shit is even legal. They just do it to extort money from the people that’re dealing.”

  “Yeah, well, call the Better Business Bureau.”

  They reached Donny’s run-down excuse for a hotel and buzzed to be let in. This time, there was no one at the front desk and Donny told Rich to stand by the inside gate, the one separating the lobby from the stairs leading to the rest of the hotel. Donny stood in front of the plexi-glass and did his best to block the view of the video camera with his scrawny frame. He hit the buzzer on the desk. They heard it sound somewhere in the office in back. The door behind Big Rich vibrated and the boys ran upstairs before the clerk could see on the monitor who came in. Donny’s hotel didn’t allow visitors at all.

  Once inside the room, the boys restarted the same ritual. Spoons, water, bits of cigarette filter, lighters, then dope. When they were ready, they both crowded under a table lamp near Donny’s bed and began to look for a spot to hit-up. They roll
ed up their sleeves and pant-legs and pushed, pulled, and flexed. Every day the search for a new place to stick the needle became more difficult. Within minutes both had found a vein and they lit smokes and sat back to enjoy the euphoria.

  Big Rich toyed with his cell. “You think that’s all I need is a memory thingy?”

  “A chip? Yeah, fuckin’ Radio Shack, man. It’s easy, I’ll show you.”

  “You think this is gonna work?”

  “The video? Yeah, we’ll test it out first.”

  “No, the plan, with the old man.”

  “I dunno. It’s your plan. Is it really such a dangerous thing to be outed as a faggot in a city as gay as this?”

  “He’s got a family. A life. I think he’ll pay. How much I don’t know.”

  “What’re you thinkin’, like, ten thousand?”

  “Shit, at least. Wait’ll you see his house. He drives a Bentley, for fuck’s sake. I say ten thousand a piece, then, like maybe, five-hundred a week.”

  “Why would he do that, keep paying us? Seems like it would be cheaper just to tell his wife.”

  “That he likes young boys? C’mon, since when do any of these freaks that come down to the corner want the world to know that shit. This Gabriel is paranoid, too.”

  “Maybe he’s careful.”

  “Paranoid.”

  “When you were in the bathroom at the Nikko, I asked what kind of lawyer he was.”

  “And?”

  “He said criminal.”

  “So?” said Rich.

  “So, what if he knows what to do when someone pulls this kinda shit on him?”

  “Trust me. He doesn’t know shit. If he had any sense about him, he wouldn’t be doing what he’s doing.”

  They sat for a while as their highs subsided and watched the shadows of the day move across the squalid room. Big Rich dropped a cigarette into a half-full soda can and said, “Donny, I’m out of smokes. Can you do me a favor and run down to the liquor store and grab me some?”

  “Shit, your legs broken?”

  “I don’t wanna sneak back in. Please? I’ll buy you a pack.”

  That tipped the scales. “Okay,” said Donny.

  “Quicker than givin’ ‘em to you one at a time.”

  Donny got up and pulled on his jacket. He looked over his room. Dirty clothes, overflowing ashtrays, syringe caps, and empty bottles.

  “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna steal nothin’,” said Big Rich as he handed him the money for the two packs of smokes.

  Donny hit the sidewalk. It was still sunny, but the wind had picked up. It howled through the corridors of the Tenderloin. A homeless man sat huddled near the front door of the hotel, trying hopelessly to light a match for a cigarette butt he’d plucked from the gutter.

  “You got a light for this snipe?” The dirty man held up the butt and pantomimed lighting it.

  Donny looked at him as if he spoke a different language.

  A flat-sounding electric buzzer announced his arrival in the store. The Pakistani man behind the counter got up and eyed him warily. Donny had never stolen from this store, not even a pack of gum, but the asshole behind the counter treated him like an arch-criminal every time he entered. Donny grabbed two chocolate bars—Snickers, his favorite, each bar was like a meal—and tossed them up on the counter. He asked the man for two packs of Marlboro Reds. The man rang it up, took the money, and made change without saying a word.

  “Could I get some matches, too?”

  The counter-man gave a pained look and pulled a quarter from Donny’s change and tossed down a pack of matches.

  “Fuck you,” said Donny very quickly.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said ‘Thank you.” Donny said and repeated it again, “Thank you.”

  Donny left the store and walked back to his hotel. The wind, at his back now, was not quite as annoying. He flipped the matches to the bum at the doorway and said, “Good luck with that.”

  The dirty man grunted thanks.

  Donny opened the door to his room and saw Big Rich hunched over on the edge of the bed, his back to Donny, phone to his ear.

  Donny shut the door quietly.

  “I am,” Rich said into the phone. “I know, I know … I do, just not yet … I’m working the door at a club, that’s how.” The voice in the phone buzzed near Rich’s ear. “A little, they have me do some bar-back shit, too. I’m getting my first check on the fifteenth, but I gotta pay the hotel and the corner-store guys.”

  Donny listened to Rich’s lies, the life he’d constructed for himself. It didn’t seem that bad, the person he was pretending to be. He spoke like a guy who cared about his kid, a guy who was trying his best. He almost wished Rich was that person; he’d be a friend he’d like to have.

  “I am, baby, I’m working on it. How’s she doing?” he said into the phone. Rich listened for a long time before he said, “Can I talk to her?”

  Donny could tell the woman on the other end was not going to let Rich talk to his daughter, the voice droned on and on, berating, nagging, he could tell by Rich’s posture. His friend practically wilted.

  “Okay, okay,” said Rich, “I’ll call you then.” There was a pause while the other voice said something else before Rich said, “Yes, I will … I’ll take care of it, you’ll see.”

  Then Rich hit the end-button on his phone and said, “Bitch.”

  Chapter 5

  Gabriel Thaxton sat in his office on the 23rd floor of 655 Montgomery Street facing the wide glass window that stretched from floor to ceiling. The office afforded him a view of most of the financial district. He often sat wondering what went on in the other offices in the high-rises around him. What the people in there did for a living, if it was wholesome busy-work they were able to leave in their offices each night, or if the cost of having a window on the world up at Gabriel’s altitude had a price tag. Like his did.

  Gabriel Thaxton, super-attorney, mega-counsel. He had climbed to the top of the ladder in the law game. He’d done it without looking back at the victims of the crimes from which he’d exonerated his clients. He’d ignored the death threats, he’d ignored the newspaper columns, he’d even ignored his conscience. Especially his conscience. He looked the other way when defending clients his gut told him had to be guilty. He clung to the idea that, no matter how guilty one may seem, one was entitled to the best defense that money could buy. He had to, that’s what a criminal defense attorney was. The facts weren’t always facts; it was the way one interpreted them.

  His meek, young receptionist knocked and opened the office door without waiting for a response. She faced the back of his seat, Gabriel being obscured by the leather back on the tall swivel chair. She noticed his coffee on the desk, cold and untouched.

  “Mr. Thaxton, sir. I cancelled your eleven o’clock meeting as you asked. Will there be anything else?”

  Gabriel was about to say no, but then paused and, without turning around, said, “Beatrice, see if you can get a hold of Darrel Mayfield, tell him I’d like to have lunch, I’m buying.”

  “Bear? Sure thing, Mr. Thaxton.” The receptionist liked Bear. He was always friendly when he came into the office, flirting with her in a good-natured way. She knew he was potentially dangerous and had an extensive history with the firm, but he was a likeable character who had an ease about him she found refreshing and in direct contrast from their usual clientele.

  Beatrice closed the door gently and returned to her desk. She clicked on the client file on her desktop computer and scrolled down to Bear’s number, picked up the phone and dialed.

  The phone rang and rang before someone picked up and a gruff voice responded, “Yeah.”

  “Could I speak to Mr. Mayfield, please?”

  “Mr. Mayfield? Who’s this?” The voice sounding playful now, coy.

  “Mr. Mayfield? This is Gabriel Thaxton’s office calling.”

  “Thaxton? Is that you, Bean? Sweet little brown-eyed Bean? How you doing, girl?”

&nb
sp; Beatrice giggled. She loved the nickname he’d given her. She had always hated her first name; it sounded archaic and stuffy.

  “Yes, Bear, it is. Mr. Thaxton was wondering if he could maybe meet with you for a late lunch.”

  “You tell the old man that I’m not in town.”

  “But,” said Beatrice, not sure if she was overstepping her bounds, “I called you at home.”

  “I know, just walk in there and tell him and see what he says. I’ll hold.”

  She did as she was asked and put Mr. Mayfield on hold and walked back to her boss’s office. Gabriel was sitting there in the same position, facing the window.

  “Sir, Mr. Mayfield says he’s not in town.”

  “Did you call him at home?”

  “Yes,” said Beatrice.

  “Okay, okay. Tell him I’d still like to see him anyway. Tell him at our usual spot.”

  Beatrice went back to her desk and took Bear off hold.

  “Bear? He says he’d still like to see you.”

  “Okay, you got it.”

  “Oh, and he said to tell you, at the usual spot.”

  “Not in the office? Dang, that means I won’t be able to see your sweet brown eyes, Bean.”

  She giggled again. He told her he’d meet the old man at three o’clock and hung up.

  ***

  After hanging up the phone, Bear stood in his small kitchen rubbing his belly. When Thaxton called it meant he wanted something. Usually drugs. The man had friends in need and Bear didn’t judge or question him about it. He did what he could to fill the old man’s requests. This time, Bear let him know that he was out-of-pocket and the old fucker still wanted to see him. What did that slippery fuck want this time? Bear had no open cases, hadn’t been arrested in three years. He owed the old man money, technically, but the firm wasn’t hurting so he dismissed that as a reason. No, he wouldn’t have called if he didn’t need a favor.

  Bear opened up his fridge and pulled out a long-neck Budweiser, then decided he’d better wait till after lunch. He stood there a moment, thinking maybe he should have set the lunch earlier. It was a forty-five minute drive from his little shack hidden up in the Marin hills; he could easily make it by one. He walked to his bedroom and pulled a black T-shirt from his drawer, nearly identical to the one he was wearing, and changed his shirt. Now he was ready for lunch with the lawyer.