Hustle Page 6

  “We don’t get to stay here tonight?” said Big Rich.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, just this one time.”

  “That’s all right. We got shit to do anyway,” Donny said. He was anxious to get away from the old man and cop more junk.

  “When’s next time gonna be?” asked Rich.

  “Soon, soon. I’ll call you.”

  The boys gathered their few things: jeans, their jackets, what paraphernalia they’d left lying around. Rich picked up the money, gave Donny one of the hundreds and pocketed the other two bills. When they were ready, they looked at Gabriel who was already laying on one of the beds staring at a blank TV screen.

  Rich said, “Hey, Gabe, you want me to turn that thing on?”

  “No, that’s fine, leave it. I want to thank you boys for another fabulous evening. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Alright, then. Goodnight,” said Donny.

  “Call us,” said Big Rich.

  Gabriel stayed quiet. He was either distracted or falling asleep.

  ***

  In the elevator, the two boys pondered the old man’s attitude.

  Donny said, “You think he’s pissed off? You think he knows we filmed him?”

  “Nah, he would have said something. I think he’s fucking old, that’s what I think. I think we just tuckered the old bastard out.” Big Rich was callous. “Hey, lemme have my phone back.”

  “Wait, let’s watch it when we get back to your place. Let’s get outta this hotel first.”

  “It’s still my fucking phone, Donny. If you wanna cop, I’m gonna need my phone, shithead.”

  Donny smiled and pulled the phone from inside his jacket, saying, “Get a couple grams, at least. And let’s get some blow this time.”

  ***

  Bear couldn’t sleep. It was unusual for him; he normally slept like a rock, without dreams or having to get up to piss. He tossed and turned for a while in the bed before deciding, fuck it. He sat up and reached for his pack of Camels, lit one in the dark and smoked. He’d give it another ten minutes.

  After two cigarettes, Bear yawned, scratched his ample belly, and got up to get himself a beer. He stood in his kitchen in a T-shirt and underwear sipping his Bud. He glanced at the clock on the microwave, 4:30 am. Goddamn. He sat down at the computer and thought he’d check on used Harley parts. There was nothing new out there in the four hours since he’d been gone to bed. He sat back, wide awake now, wondering what to do with himself. He brought up the search engine and, again, typed in Derek Walczak. He scrolled down the page and chose an article, this time from the San Jose Mercury News. The same mug shot appeared at the top of the piece. Below it was another picture of Dustin doing the perp walk. Bear started to read. The article contained more details than the first. Dustin grew up in Stockton and had been jailed as a teen for reasons that were suppressed because he was a minor. He went back in at the age of twenty-two: armed robbery and grievous bodily harm. There was no mention of who his mouthpiece was that time. It was alleged that he did some dirt in prison for the Aryan Brotherhood, stabbing some poor bastard in the neck sixteen times, but was ultimately cleared. Nice. He did his full bit that time, five years, and came out at twenty-seven. He was back inside within a year, another robbery charge. When he was thirty-one, he was charged with attempted murder. This time, the article stated, he was represented by “famed San Francisco criminal defense attorney, Gabriel Thaxton.” Bear smiled. Fucker should have that embossed on his business cards. It said Thaxton got him acquitted of all charges and later tried to sue the San Mateo County Sherriff’s office for false arrest.

  The article’s editorial slant was that a dangerous criminal had been released and re-released into society only to go on to torture and kill innocent and upstanding citizens. Bear saw it different; he saw a pattern of greed. This kid was robbing people. He figured the reason why the killings were spaced apart was because Walczak was bleeding his victims dry, financially. It was probably the same thing he was doing now to Gabriel Thaxton. What he couldn’t figure was why anyone of these people would let this piece of shit into their lives in the first place.

  Down at the bottom of the page there was a link to related articles. Bear raised his eyebrows when he saw the first one. Killer Walczak Released, Conviction Overturned.

  Bear skimmed through the article and then went back to the search page. This time he typed in Gabriel Thaxton.

  Chapter 7

  “Bear, did you get my messages?”

  “Yeah, I did, but I been sleeping in lately. I just got up about an hour ago.”

  “The situation has gotten worse. I’m going to need you to help with that eviction sooner than later.”

  “Yeah, about that, I’ve been doing some homework on your little friend. It seems you didn’t quite tell me everything about him.” Bear was standing in front of a mirror in the short hallway near his front door, examining the plumes of grey sprouting in his beard.

  “But you can still do it, can’t you?”

  Gabriel’s voice sounded thin, metallic, hollow with a slight echo. Bear couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something sounded off. More than just the nervous titter in Gabriel’s speech.

  “Where are you calling from?” said Bear.

  “My house.”

  “Why does it sound so weird?”

  “I don’t know. I’m in my house.”

  “Sounds like you’re in a tin can.”

  “I’m in the bathroom.”

  Locked-in, trapped. Bear pictured the old man scared and whispering in the shower stall, a prisoner in his own home. “Yeah, I’ll help you out. When do you think he’s gonna be there? For sure be there?”

  “He’s here all the time. He never leaves.” Gabriel’s voice cracked. He sounded scared. The self-assured attorney was gone; Bear was listening to a terrified child.

  “Alright, let me see what I can do. I don’t think you should be there. How about tomorrow night, late, like say, eleven o’clock?”

  “Thank you, Bear. Thank you.”

  “Gabriel?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you go, leave the front door open.”

  ***

  Donny and Big Rich were on the corner with a couple of the other guys, doing their thing, standing against a wall with one leg raised, bent at the knee, trying to look cool, patient. It was nearing nine o’clock and the night was getting colder. Fog was drifting in from the ocean and starting to work its way through the city streets.

  Donny pinched a cigarette butt between his fingers and flicked it upward so that it arced out into traffic. “You heard from him?”

  “From who?”

  “You know who. Him. Did he call?”

  “Not yet. It’s only been one day. Don’t sweat it, he’ll call.”

  “You think he knows?”

  “Knows what?”

  A younger boy named Skye interrupted them. “What’re you guys talking about?” Skye was dumb, dumber than most on the corner. His face was scarred with both fresh and ancient acne, and he wore clothes that hung like rags.

  “None of your business, Skye. Go stand over there,” said Donny.

  But Rich said, “Hey Skye, don’t you have a computer in your room?”

  “Yeah, so? I’m not printing any checks for you guys. You fucked me over that last time.”

  “You have an Internet connection?”

  “Another guy in the hotel does; it’s unlocked, I can use his. I do it all the time.”

  Donny interrupted Rich before he gave up anymore information to this dumbass kid. “I thought we weren’t gonna up load it yet? Just let him know what we got.”

  “We’re gonna, tonight. I just want to make sure we can follow through, that’s all.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Skye repeated.

  “Nothing, Skye. Go back over there.” Big Rich pointed to a spot on the wall.

  “Rich?” Here came the real reason he interrupted. “You holdin’ anything?”

>   “I ain’t got shit. Ain’t you been out today, yet?”

  “Too many fuckin’ cops. I haven’t been able to stand more than ten minutes without needing to hide. Fuckin’ sucks.”

  Skye was always whining no matter how many tricks he caught. Big Rich hated him. Didn’t know why, the kid definitely came in useful sometimes, but Rich couldn’t stand his attitude, his voice, his fucking ugly face.

  “Why don’t you head over to Larkin Street, so you can see ‘em coming,” said Donny, trying to get rid of him now.

  “It’s all fuckin’ trannies over there, dude. There’s no action.”

  “What’re you talking about? Whoever is cruising has to go around the block. You’ll have an eye out for the cops and the first look at any johns,” said Donny. Reasonable.

  “Yeah? You think?” Skye looked up the block toward the next corner, thinking about his options. He took a couple of steps in that direction, then turned and said, “If you guys are gonna cop, let me know. I got to get something together.”

  “Yeah,” said Big Rich, “you’ll be the first to know.”

  Skye’s chin moved up and down quickly. He gave a thumbs-up to the older boys and started toward Larkin Street.

  “Fuckin’ dumbass,” said Big Rich. “I hate that little shit.”

  “He’s not so bad. He’s just out here like the rest of us.” Donny searched his pockets for a smoke and pulled an empty pack. “You got a smoke left?”

  Rich didn’t speak. He only pulled a pack from the breast pocket of his denim jacket and shook one out for Donny.

  Donny took it, lit it, and said, “When do you wanna go over there?” He nodded vaguely in the direction of Pacific Heights.

  “Shit, I dunno. I was hoping to get some money for a cab first, or maybe even doing a hit. That little shit was right; there ain’t been no johns here all day.”

  “You wanna take a bus?”

  Rich wasn’t listening. He stared intently at the cars passing the corner. “You got anything left from this morning?”

  “Not much. We could split it though. It’ll work.”

  “Let’s go down to the Arab’s and use his bathroom. I still have clean rigs, just cook it up, whack it in two, and I’ll muscle mine on the way to the old man’s.”

  “He won’t let us use his bathroom if we don’t buy a slice.”

  “I’ll get in line, you slip into the bathroom. Fuck him. You’ll be done before the slices are.”

  “What if the key’s not on the counter?”

  “Fuck, Donny, you worry too much. If we can’t get in, then I’ll just grab a glass of water and we’ll cook up in an alley. Just don’t bother trying to find a vein in there, it takes you too long.”

  Donny shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  It was full dark now and the wind whipping up Polk Street stung their faces as they walked down to Alzer’s Pizza.

  ***

  Bear was sitting at his kitchen table staring at his cell phone. He wondered if he should call Thaxton and make sure that he wanted to go forward. He sipped on his second beer of the day and watched the clock on the face of his phone. He didn’t want to tip his hand if this Dustin kid was there when the old man answered. On the other hand, he didn’t want to walk in and find that Gabriel had changed his mind and was wrapped up in some sick codependent love storm. He thought about the mug shot he’d seen on the Internet. Scrawny, hairless, inbred, white-trash piece of shit. Bear had known plenty just like him. No, Gabriel needed this fucker out of his life, no question about it.

  He yawned, got up and opened the cupboard beside his fridge. He pulled out a jug-sized bottle of Jim Beam and took a cup from the dirty dishes in his sink. He poured himself a short shot and threw it back.

  “Welp,” he said to no one, “Might as well get ready.” He walked into his bedroom, flipped on the light, and went directly to a small safe bolted to the floor of his closet. He opened the safe and surveyed its contents. In it were three handguns—two automatics and an old Saturday Night Special revolver—six boxes of shells, a stun-gun, some cash rubber-banded in sandwich baggies, and a box of blue surgical gloves. There were a few other things buried in the bottom: some blow he rarely had use for, a little hash he only broke out on special occasions, his passport, and the titles for his Harleys.

  Bear picked up one of the two automatics, a Glock, studied it and set it back in the safe. It was too risky to be carrying a gun. He was a convicted felon: automatic time. He’d have the drop on that scrawny fucker anyway. He knew what he was doing when it came to brute force, hand-to-hand combat. He pictured that pock-marked face again and took out the stun-gun and stuffed it into his back pocket. He then took two pair of the blue gloves and tucked them into his belt, just in case. He pondered the likelihood of punching Dustin and decided to bring along his leather gloves as well.

  When he was done, he shut the safe and put the keys back in his pocket, looked at the red digits on the clock-radio on the nightstand beside his bed, and decided he had time for one more drink before he needed to head toward the City. Bear walked back to the kitchen, grabbed another longneck from the fridge and poured another short whiskey. When he sat back down at the table, he stared at the time on the phone once again. Maybe he should call and make sure the lawyer was out of the house like he told him to be. Fuckin’ Thaxton, I hope you know what you’re doing.

  ***

  “What’s that?” said Dustin. He could hear the ping-pong of Gabriel’s cell phone chiming from the kitchen.

  Gabriel murmured something, but his mouth was gagged and it was only audible as a groan. He lay face down on the cold tile floor of the upstairs bathroom, his hands roped behind his back and his feet cinched together.

  “It’s your goddamned phone. That’s what it is. Are you expecting any calls? You going to work tonight?” Dustin slipped off the bathroom counter where he sat and gave Gabriel a short, quick kick in the ribs. “Huh?”

  Gabriel moaned in pain. He had no idea how long he’d been down there. He heard Dustin’s bare feet padding away on the tiled floor. He knew that Dustin was going to get his phone, see who was calling. He hoped it wasn’t Bear. Gabriel tried to remember if tonight was the night Bear was coming for Dustin. He couldn’t tell. He had lost track of time. He was no longer sure if it was day or night. Time was crawling by.

  He heard the bare feet heading back.

  “Who the fuck is 742-1837? Is that a friend of yours? One of your boy whores? Don’t tell me, it’s a client with an important filing he must discuss?”

  Gabriel heard the flick of a disposable lighter and could hear Dustin dragging deeply on a cigarette, then blowing off the ash, getting that cherry good and red. He shut his eyes tight; he knew what was coming next.

  ***

  “You feel that shit?” asked Big Rich.

  “Yeah, I guess, didn’t you?”

  “I feel better, it just takes a while to come on, I guess. I hate muscling stuff. I can feel the lump on my ass.”

  “I put in a shitload of water like you said. There was, like, eighty units there,” said Donny.

  “You think that makes a difference?”

  “Of course it does, makes it easer for your body to soak up.”

  “If I keep having to stick needles in my ass, it’s gonna ruin me for this business.”

  Donny looked up at Rich, trying to gauge his facial expression. He couldn’t tell if his friend was trying to be funny or not. He waited a moment before saying, “I don’t think the johns care that much.”

  Rich didn’t hear him; he was lost in thought. “Probably be the best thing that ever happened,” he said. “Nobody would want ya, you’d have to straighten out, find another way.”

  “Why don’t you?” said Donny.

  “Why don’t I what?”

  “Find another way, straighten out. This is a fucked way to get through life, don’t ya think?”

  “Fuck, Donny, I know. I was out here before you, remember? It’s called s
urvival; it’s what we gotta do to keep things together. You think I wanna be getting fucked in the ass by some old pervert every night? I told you I wasn’t no fag.”

  For a moment, all they could hear was the sound of their breaths as they hiked up the steep part of Van Ness Avenue. Donny kept his eyes on the sidewalk. He finally said, “You think this shit, this stuff we’re doing, is gonna, like, fuck us up?”

  “What, the dope? I dunno, maybe. I didn’t have too many brain cells to begin with,” Big Rich said.

  “No. The sex. Like, you know, think it’ll turn us? I mean, not gay, but make it so fucking a girl is all, I dunno, fucked up.”

  “What’d you mean? Like impotent? Not me. I can still get it going. I ain’t worried about that.”

  “When’s the last time you been with a female?”

  “When I was with your mother. Fuck you, Donny.”

  “No, seriously. I been thinking ‘bout it. I think this shit is changing me. I don’t know what to think anymore. I want to get out, but I gotta stay well. I’m just ... I’m just stuck. I can’t stand myself for it.”

  Big Rich stopped. “Look, we all feel that way eventually. Of course this shit fucks with your head. If it didn’t, then you wouldn’t need the dope, would you? This is why we’re doing what we’re doing. This is why we’re going to see the old man. So we can stop this shit.” Rich paused to pull out his pack of cigarettes. He lit two at once and passed one to Donny. “I didn’t tell you this, because I didn’t wanna jinx myself, but part of what I’m doing with my share of the dough is getting on methadone. If we’re getting steady dough, then I can stay on it for a while, get my shit together. We won’t have to work the corner.”

  Donny nodded his head like he understood, but he didn’t. It was always easy to talk when you were a little high. It was when you got sick that things got tough. Logic and goodwill went out the window. He knew plenty of people on methadone and they didn’t seem much different, most of them didn’t even stop fixing, just doubled their habits. He didn’t see what that had to do with getting away from what they’d been doing.