Street Raised Read online

  But Speedy’s attention was focused on the mucky, sodden wetlands in the foreground, right next to the freeway. The Mudflat Sculptures were still there, visible in the last light of the dying dusk: unauthorized constructs of driftwood, junk tires, beer cans, and pretty much any other kind of debris washed up bayside by the tide there.

  Erected by anonymous guerilla artists, the only price of admission for erecting one was the willingness to slog your way through the mud with hammer, nails and a vision. For the admiration of passing drivers here stood Snoopy and the Red Baron, Don Quixote on his horse, and a Christ on a cross; ‘The Driftwood Five’ rock band; a 12-ft. gallows with the regulation 13 steps and even a hanging effigy with neck snapped at a medically correct angle; as well as too many others to count, most of which washed out on the first high tide after their construction.

  Speedy almost drew the Kid’s attention to the Sculptures, but opted not to. He’d seen too many accidents along this stretch of freeway, from careless rubberneckers admiring the free art show.

  Then they’d crossed the city limits of Oakland, referred to throughout the Bay Area as the Town, or the City of Dope. They drove the last stretch through her nightscape: past the Macarthur Maze, south on the upper deck of the Cypress through West Oakland, then curving southeast on the Nimitz.

  As if in self-assessment now that it was almost go time, Speedy refocused from the background East Bay exterior of to his reflection on the inside of his window. He moved his face around to hold it at various angles, considering his mirror image. All his childhood facial scars were barely visible, but maybe that was due to the dimness of the reflection.

  Speedy shrugged. For better or worse, he looked like exactly what he was: a savage motherfucker.

  The Kid took the 29th Street exit and dropped Speedy off at the base of the off-ramp, in the midst of the sleepy residential blocks surrounding Elmwood and Derby. As he got out Speedy offered the Kid some of Buck’s money for his trouble, but the Kid just laughed and shook his head.

  “I boosted this 'Vette in Willits bro,” the Kid said with a lopsided grin. “Looks like I’m making it to the chop shop before the plates hit the hot sheets. I’ll be hella flush when I drop it off in Freakmont.”

  The Corvette rounded the corner onto East 7th Street, Speedy assumed to loop back and reenter the freeway at the 29th Avenue onramp. It was only after the car disappeared that he realized he’d never even asked the Kid his name.

  Speedy was finally back in the heart of the San Antonio District, in the neighborhood people called La Fruvel. He felt relatively safe here – he just hoped there were Fruitvale Gangsters around that still remembered him and weren’t too pissed at his shortcomings – there had to be at least a few OGs around that were still above ground, not doing time, and didn’t hold a grudge.

  Instead of wandering toward the waterfront or into the residential blocks however, he instinctively headed inland, under the Nimitz and the elevated Bay Area Rapid Transit tracks.

  At the corner of East 14th he stopped to orient himself compass-wise with the intersection. He was facing north, in the direction of Clinica de la Raza.

  To his right on East 14th was Doggie Diner under its iconic sign: the huge fiberglass dachshund head topped by the chef’s hat. The Doggie Diner dachshund’s basketball-sized eyes beamed sidelong at Speedy, seeming to smile in welcome – the aroma of their chili & onions made his mouth water. Mariachi spilled out from a tavern across the street, and the smell of hot grease and sugary flour wafted his way from Winchell’s Donuts as if in direct competition with the Doggie Diner.

  East Side lay to Speedy’s right, beyond the Dog – much of it territory as unwelcoming to palefaces as the Iron Triangle in Richmond. The neighborhoods were largely comprised of cookie cutter housing developments originally built for returning World War II servicemen, but long abandoned to the blacks by white flight. That end of the Town was laid out in an unimaginative grid system, each little hood being separated from the surrounding ones by main streets, freeways or train tracks.

  Each ten block stretch of East 14th had a name; each also had a dominant cliqua that called the shots in that particular area. First up past the Doggie Diner came the Dirty 30s, and 35th Avenue territory. Then the 40s and the High Street crew; the Seminary mob in the 50s (which was as far east as Speedy cared to go without a written invitation, he was out of bounds beyond that point); and the 60s, with 66th Avenue as its spine. Finally, of course, the ‘Killing Fields’ of Deep East Oakland: 73rd Ave; 98th and the Walnut Block in the Grimy 90s; Sobrante Park and 105th, in the Rolling 100s down San Leandro way.

  From where he stood on Fruitvale, the distance to the Rolling 100s was only a little over four miles – but the 100s might as well have been on Alpha Centauri. Many of the hoods in between had only one way in and out, and were deathtraps for a stranger to enter if they got lost and took a wrong turn. The gangs there were jealously small, vicious and unaffiliated, based entirely on neighborhood and drug turf.

  To Speedy’s left on East 14th lay the Twomps, the stretch between 20th and 29th folks also called the Roaring 20s. It was a little less racial in the Twomps, and of course here in Fruitvale – they mainly cared about whether you were a homeboy, or if they knew your name and reputation.

  Despite having been out of circulation for so long, Speedy had listened closely to yard chatter inside, so he was already well informed as to current events. For instance, while he was in he’d heard a few people starting to call the Twomps the Murder Dubs.

  As another example, breaking news gave Speedy little inclination to walk beyond the Twomps toward Civic Center. Funktown – the stretch of East 14th Street between 10th Avenue and the Twomps – was in that direction.

  That fact would ordinarily be neither a good nor a bad thing. But right now Speedy knew through prison gossip that the Funktown crew was in a shooting war with “Felix the Cat” Mitchell’s Mob, out of the 69th Avenue San Antonio Village Housing Projects.

  Sure, mean streets always beckoned welcome – but it wasn’t any of his money on the line over there. Besides, his back was naked til he could crew up with homeboys, and Speedy was reluctant to tempt fate or either side’s shooters by wandering toward Funktown until he had armament.

  Speedy turned left, heading west in the direction of the abandoned multi-story Monkey Wards building and the ‘Oakland is Proud!’ mural. He didn’t remember things being so grimy and decrepit before he went in: Boarded up storefronts were interspersed between the ever more widely separated lights of local businesses.

  East 14th Street itself stretched to infinity in both directions before and behind him, filled with cars driving both ways along this, the major artery for the southern East Bay. At over 30 miles long and spanning four cities, a main thoroughfare like East 14th held immense strategic importance in the East Bay, as a semi-neutral zone all the sketchy folk had to use to get around through hostile neighborhoods, or else their illicit biz would screech to a halt.

  Still, ‘neutral zone’ or not, it was a comfort to feel Jingletown right at Speedy’s shoulder in the direction of the Estuary and the Bay. It was still a given that Jingletown was where he’d unashamedly duck and bail toward if anyone driving by accorded him unwelcome attention.

  But Speedy had been off the tracks, there at the end before he went down. Reseda had made him so fast-lane crazy – he knew he’d burned a lot of folks off, some of them people that always rolled deep.

  Had he outlived his welcome in Jingletown too? Maybe so, maybe not – but he suspected he’d be finding out soon enough.

  There were a lot of obvious car clubs and cruisers in the passing traffic on East 14th. Impala low-riders hopping at stoplights or cruising past on three wheels. Kids driving tricked out Chevy Caprice convertibles or souped up Monte Carlos, kids rolling to see and be seen in their Cuttie Supremes, ragtop Caddies and 5.0 Mustangs. Speedy assumed they were all following the traditional cruising route from the Jack-in-the-Box on 25th to as far east as High
Street.

  Speedy glanced over occasionally to see if he recognized anyone driving by, and kept one ear open in case someone yelled his name – but he was mainly lost in his own thoughts, wrapping his head around what his next move should be.

  As he passed a mailbox he stopped and considered for a moment. He took Buck’s license, wiped it thoroughly on his pants leg while holding it by the edges and then dropped it in the mail slot. Buck had kept his end of the bargain so Speedy would too.

  Up ahead Speedy saw his favorite watering hole: The Pandemonium Bar & Grill. As he approached the bar a woman came out the door, wearing leotards with leggings and a ripped sweatshirt exposing one of her shoulders. She did a theatrical double take when she saw him.

  “Hello stranger,” she said, with a gap-toothed leer. It was Miranda, his homeboy Fat Bob’s sister – she’d always been a regular at the Pandemonium.

  He hadn’t even recognized her til she opened her mouth. Last time he’d seen Miranda she’d worn her hair in a Farrah Fawcett layered shag, parted in the middle and feathered back in wings over her ears – now her hair was tousled up into a curly shoulder length mane, making her resemble a poodle. Her face was streaked with garish war-paint makeup. She’d put on a little weight while he was inside but that was okay; she rounded out her dance outfit adequately. Was she into ballet now? Knowing Bob’s sister, Speedy found that unlikely.

  “Hi Miranda,” Speedy said.

  “How long you been back?” Miranda asked. Then, not giving him a chance to answer: “I’m having a party at my place tomorrow night. Wanna come?”

  “Maybe,” Speedy replied. “I’ll see what’s doing, get back to you.”

  A noticeable coolness filled the air between them.

  “Know where I can find Bob?” Speedy asked, feeling a little bit awkward as he realized that was the only thing they really had to talk about.

  “He’s around. Maybe I’ll tell him I saw you.” Miranda moved past him. “Maybe I’ll get back to you.”

  Miranda leaned into him as she passed, making a point of brushing one of her big breasts against his arm as she went by and climbed into a waiting taxi. Speedy watched the cab pull away from the curb, and then entered the bar.

  He walked through the door and froze.

  The Pandemonium had been a player’s bar before Speedy took his fall. Half the riffraff of the East Bay had met here to make muttered deals sitting in the booths. Everyone minded their business and arguments were generally ended quickly, one way or the other – the sawdust on the floor hadn’t been there for ambience. The Wurlitzer jukebox had Merle, Patsy and B.B., and you could drink anything you liked as long as it was beer wine or whiskey.

  That was all gone now.

  There were enough potted ferns that Speedy had a flashback to the windswept redwoods he’d just hitched through. Fake tiffany lamps hung from the ceiling, and a sweeping length of polished mahogany had replaced the old scarred and filthy plank bar. On the jukebox, Boy George was singing ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’

  The clientele was upscale now, well dressed people lounging about like they owned the place. Women wearing cocktail dresses, or in high waisted baggy trousers topped by gold-braided brocade jackets reminiscent of a marching band. Men in baggy pastel suits with wide padded shoulders and their sleeves pushed up past their elbows, wearing a precise three days worth of ‘stubble chic’ on their earnest faces.

  These males and females chatted amongst themselves as they nibbled on wine spritzers and lemon drop martinis and Dead Elvises, or colorfully exotic drinks with umbrellas and vegetables perched in the glass. A lot of them wore Ray-Ban Wayfarers even though it was night out.

  Perceptive Speedy guessed that this place didn’t specialize in thuggery anymore. It had degenerated into a fashionable high-end yuppie meat market. Definitely not Speedy’s milieu here.

  The club’s one saving familiar grace was the bartender, who Speedy recognized gratefully: an Italian cat named Benny, with a neck wider than his head and an apathetic expression belying the fact that he was intensely aware of everything going down in his bar.

  Like Miranda and the Pandemonium, Benny had metamorphed: before Speedy’s fall Benny’s hair had invariably been swept back into a duck-tailed pompadour drenched in brylcream, and he’d just as invariably worn a tee-shirt with iron-on letters spelling his name under an Oakland A’s baseball uniform shirt. Benny still wore the A’s shirt, and his tee still had his name on it – but now he had skinny little sideburns stabbing down out of a beaver tail looking mullet.

  He saw Speedy standing like a dork at the door, nodded a microscopic fraction of an inch and beckoned Speedy over with a languid ripple of the fingers. Speedy bellied up to the bar, relieved to see Benny’s homely face.

  Speedy saw Benny still had his silver-and-black-attack Oakland Raiders plaque next to the cash register – only now there was a noose hanging in front of the plaque. A piece of paper taped to the noose was inscribed ‘Reserved for the Godfather, “Mister” Al Davis.’ Benny was obviously still upset that the Oakland ‘Traitors’ had abandoned their fans, even though it had been two years since the team’s move to LA.

  “Hey,” Speedy said.

  “Hey,” came right back at him.

  A PBR materialized in front of Speedy, frosty and cold, no glass just like old times. Speedy reached for his wad.

  A wan smile marred Benny’s indifferent-but-at-least-unhostile face for an instant as he shook his head infinitesimally from side to side. “First one after raising is on the house.”

  “Thanks Benny.” Speedy took a sip, turned his back to the bar and rested his elbows on it as he scoped out the rest of the clientele.

  Everyone but Speedy was sporting nice haircuts and expensive clothes; the women were way out of reach just like everything else seemed to be just now. He felt like a bum in his gate threads, felt out of place in what used to amount to his office before he’d gone inside.

  Here at close quarters, all these unattainable club women were blazing and glorious and incredibly alluring. The girls variously wore their hair frizzy, or sleek and straight; long, or Demi Moore short; in big Dynasty-style dos fossilized into position with Aquanet, or held in place with banana clips. Long earrings, many of them bamboo, sometimes only in one ear. Lots of bangle bracelets, some of the girls with masses of them on their wrists. On their feet pointed toed and spiked heeled shoes, or colorful transparent plastic flat pumps. Miniskirts were still in, Speedy noted with approval.

  Speedy watched them with greedy eyes, even while trying to avoid looking like a perv – he’d never realized just how beautiful the female form was until now, when the junk was being stuck right in his face even if still hopelessly out of reach.

  But if he tried to make a random move on any of them, these office girls would either wrinkle their noses at him like he was a schlub, or run screaming to the cops thinking he was some guy looking for fresh skin to sew together his girl suit. Even if they gave him some play, they’d just look at him blankly if he tried to tell them what a giant redwood sounded like, falling in the woods.

  There was no welcome for him here.

  He turned back to face the bar, intent on huddling over his beer and downing it quick before slinking out again. Benny was still right there, polishing the already spotless bar in front of Speedy.

  “I just wanted to say, it was too bad about Reseda,” Benny said, with what sounded like sincere sympathy. “It shouldn’t have gone down like that.”

  “Yeah.” Speedy watched the tiny golden bubbles streaming up in his beer bottle.

  He was grateful that no one else living knew the full details of what actually went down when he and Reseda broke up. Speedy had no interest in revisiting that morning, but some images and memories are inescapable after all.

  Even though he was sitting there at the bar now, in his mind Speedy hovers over Reseda and Tin Man again as they lay naked and intertwined on the living room floor, passed out after the exertions of their l
ove play. He smells once more the aroma of sex filling the air like strong incense to torment him, admires – as he will forever – the perfection of Reseda’s tiny bikini model body. He feels the Louisville Slugger twitching in his hand as he realizes, without surprise, that he wants nothing more than to raise the baseball bat over his head and bring it down as hard on them as he could, again and again and again . . .

  It would have been nice if that fiasco had been rock bottom for Speedy, but in hindsight he realized it was just the initial blow. Sometimes when you fall from a rarefied enough height you bounce a few times in ever diminishing arcs after the first impact, limbs flailing and face contorting as you sail up and down between each time you carom off from the ground, entertaining and amusing all the onlookers.

  “You guys would’ve worked it out I’ll bet,” Benny said, jogging Speedy out of his reverie and back to the Pandemonium, back to the here and now. “If she hadn’t . . .”

  “We were made for each other all right. Thanks again Benny.” Speedy lifted his bottle and took a solid guzzle from it.

  “You got woman trouble?” a slurred voice sprayed into Speedy’s ear. A bushy-mustached drunk in a Hawaiian shirt and Gucci loafers lurched up to Speedy like the guy was about to slop against him.

  The red-faced drunk almost fell over as Speedy took an instinctive step away. Speedy’s steel toes wanted to embed themselves ankle deep in this Magnum P.I. clone’s gut.

  “You shouldn’t listen in on a private conversation, rummy,” Benny said, voice soft and gaze flat.

  The drunk ignored Benny to continue favoring Speedy with his inebriated attention. “What happened? Your woman left you?”

  Speedy was feeling just listless enough to impart the truth. “Actually, she died.”