Street Raised Page 19

  Sergio – a fat kid with a jew-fro and a face like Frankenberry, wearing a denim vest covered in badges, pins and Iron Cross patches – yelped, “I can’t believe you did this.”

  Sergio’s friend T.J. – a pale little zombie in a katana waistcoat, somewhat resembling Count Chocula – merely stared at Willy with his mouth hanging open.

  Willy favored both Sergio and T.J. with a patronizing smile and a wink. He could allow himself that, now that Speedy and Bob were back in town and in his corner.

  ‘Members Only’ sat on the floor holding his knee like it was injured. His eyes were watering and tears overflowed onto his cheeks, as blood from the smile-shaped gash on the bridge of his nose dripped off his chin.

  Darla knelt next to Members Only, her hair down over her face. Her overly tight blouse had ripped down the front during her spill; she had her arms crossed, hands holding her top keeping her breasts from spilling out to quiver exposed like frightened puppies.

  She was shivering with either rage or terror, Little Willy couldn’t tell which. Still, he figured if her looks could kill they all would have been greasy smears on the floor.

  A man Willy didn’t recognize was sitting in the easy chair. He was a ferret-faced black shrimp sporting a hi-top fade haircut and a Raiders starter jacket. He radiated cool even now while being robbed.

  Little Willy went from person to person, giving them each a quick but thorough search and pocketing the loot. Fat Bob hovered close to one side, slapping his bat against his palm. He appeared disappointed that nobody was making any more trouble. Speedy stood as far away from the marks as he could with his back to the wall, holding the sawed-off at his waist, left palm resting on top of the barrels. He wasn’t aiming at anyone in particular but he didn’t have to. He had this gig under his thumb.

  Under Bob’s watchful eye and hovering bat, Willy cleaned out the room’s occupants. Guns, rolls of bills, and IDs (for future modification or sale), all went in Willy’s coat pockets.

  A low coffee table dominated the space between the sofas, with a bottle of Bacardi 151 and several half-empty forty-ouncers on it. The reeking water from a broken knocked-over bong dripped off the table onto the already filthy red shag carpet. A large plastic ziploc bag bulging with opiated Thai sticks lay open in front of the roommates, next to a smaller baggie filled with what looked like a potpourri mix of dilaudids and qualudes.

  A fist-sized hunk of rock cocaine sat in front of Ferret Face, encased tightly in saran wrap. Little Willy’s gaze locked on the crack; he picked it up and studied it as if fascinated.

  “I’ll take that,” Speedy said.

  Willy favored his big brother with a furtive stare. Speedy stared right back, brows raised.

  “We’ll take it off my end if you want,” Speedy said, almost in apology.

  Willy handed Speedy the coke and turned away.

  The marks were done being looted now, and every one of them wore the expectant expressions of people awaiting the departure of unwelcome guests.

  Speedy smiled. “Who belongs to the pickup truck?”

  No one answered for a second, and then Members Only raised a finger. It wasn’t a middle one, and Speedy’s smile widened into a grin.

  “I’m thinking about taxing you, giving it to my little brother for his trouble.” Members Only stiffened, and Speedy chuckled. “But I just want you gone so I guess you get to keep it. Darla, you and your friends step off now.”

  Darla was still trembling as she led the procession out, with Members Only hobbling behind her like a gimp on his injured leg and Ferret Face bringing up the rear. Just before he left, Ferret Face turned to study them all like he was memorizing their faces for future payback.

  Speedy said, “You come back, it’ll get noisy. Don’t be stupid.”

  Fat Bob roared and leapt at Ferret Face with a full force whistling horizontal swing of the Louisville, but deliberately aimed to miss by a safe inch or two over the top of Ferret Face’s head. The man jumped back like a scalded cat, whirled around and ran as fast as he could out the door to join his departing ‘friends.’

  Speedy and Fat Bob’s malicious laughter followed Ferret Face off the porch and into the Alameda night. After a second Willy joined in. He hadn’t realized just what a hole it had put in his life not to be crewed up. In fact, although he was already feeling the nerve pangs of crack need, he felt great.

  Speedy focused his attentions on Sergio and T.J., Willy’s errant, naughty roommates. They were slumped on the sofa, terrified, in way over their depth here.

  Speedy strolled to the easy chair with the casual stride of the victor. He bent over and brushed it off with the side of his hand before sitting.

  Fat Bob stepped to the stereo – one of those newer high-end digital ones – and turned it off, silencing Van Halen’s artistry. Bob came over to stand behind Speedy and rested his bat on Speedy’s shoulder, Speedy’s good right hand.

  Willy shut and locked the front door, turned off the porch light and leaned against the door waiting to see what would be going down next.

  Speedy scratched his cheek with one fingertip, not looking at Sergio or T.J. “It’s like this,” he said, being as reasonable and civilized as he could, not wanting them to piss the couch. “I just raised, and you know my little brother’s situation. I need a place to crash, a base of operations as it were. I nominate your crib.”

  He stared right at them, amping up the juice in his grin as he pinned both their gazes with his own. “You seen the stick, here’s the carrot. We don’t fuck you over if you don’t make trouble.”

  “You belong to the pot, right?” he asked, to which they indicated assent.

  Speedy glanced over at Willy. “Give them their plastic and their stash. Oh yeah, and their share of the cash too.”

  Speedy looked back at the two roommates, whose eyes were wide in disbelief as Willy handed their stuff to them. Speedy found it a little amusing that they were so grateful to get their own property back.

  There were no guns to return though – perhaps they didn’t believe in firearms. That was a rare attitude for drug dealers and, in Speedy’s opinion, an unrealistic one.

  Speedy was the very soul of courtesy now, playing the good housemate but laying down the rules: “I want it to be business as usual for you. You’ll barely even know we’re here and we won’t be here that long. But if you pitch a bitch, or worse, dime us to the Man . . .”

  Speedy’s own eyes glowed jack-o-lantern bright at the two little white bread pot dealers. “Deal?” he asked.

  The two roommates almost broke their necks they nodded so hard.

  Little Willy went back to his old room in the back of the house and turned on the light. Enough girly stuff was scattered around that it was clear Darla had moved right in. The scattered heaps of his belongings showed that the cockroaches had rifled through it all long ago.

  He noted that none of his books were missing, though – every tottering stack of first editions was still there, standing along the walls like sentinels of knowledge guarding his bedroom from the rest of humanity.

  A pair of Darla’s soiled panties was draped on top of one book pile – Willy plucked the underwear up between thumb and forefinger, and tossed her unmentionables into the corner.

  It felt good to know he wouldn’t have to keep one eye open for the rats tonight, and that he’d be able to drop his deuces in a real toilet from now on. It felt even better that Speedy was back in town, and Little Willy wasn’t by himself any more. Willy flopped onto his bed and lay there with both hands clasped behind his head, legs crossed as he smiled up at the ceiling. This was coolness.

  In the living room Speedy and Bob sat and counted out the loot, minus Sergio and TJ’s share of course. It came to a little over seven Gs, not counting the crack, the thai sticks, and the bag of scrips. They made a quick three-way split of the folding money, saving the drugs and plastic for later. Speedy held on to Willy’s cut for him.

  As Fat Bob put away his share, he said with
a smile, “You raised just in time, brother. I was tapped.”

  Speedy tried and failed to restrain a huge yawn. He was beat. A lot had gone down since he’d raised from prison yesterday morning.

  “I’m gonna crash,” he told Bob. “We’ll get together tomorrow, figure out our next move.”

  “Cool,” Fat Bob said, shuffling toward the door. “I’ve got to get the car back to Miranda – she’s gonna murdalize me as it is for keeping it out so long.”

  Speedy remembered the kitten, and walked with Bob back to the car.

  “Hey, yeah, that’s right,” Speedy said, snapping his fingers. “Miranda invited me to some party tomorrow at her place. What’s the deal with that?”

  He scooped the kitten up, held her close to his belly with the same grip he’d seen the Kid use. He scratched her behind the ears – she seemed to like it.

  Fat Bob snickered. “Shit Speedy, there ain’t no party tomorrow. You show up it’ll just be you and her. You’ll be the party brother. You’ll be the party.” Bob imagined Miya watching the entire goings on and shuddered.

  Speedy considered and evaluated this new information. “No offense Bob, but I think I’ll keep my options open. Not wanting to disappoint Miranda or nothing.”

  “No offense taken,” Bob said, and was gone.

  Speedy went back inside, looked at the closed door to his little brother’s bedroom and considered knocking. But Speedy’s eyelids were drooping and he sagged onto the couch, rolled over to lie on his back.

  Speedy fished out his sawed-off and stuck it under the couch cushion. He put the kitten in the middle of his chest and cupped his hands around her as if he could possibly shelter her from the world.

  He looked up at the ceiling, reflecting on tonight’s events. He hoped Officer Louis wasn’t going to bird-dog him too hard; it’d be embarrassing to have a Cop hanging around like an unwelcome relative.

  He considered his little ‘victories,’ unable to muster any pride in his dominations. Both Buck and the wannabes here in Willy’s house had been light weight; punking them had been nothing to brag about. Pavel had been mutual liking rather than any war of wits.

  And as for Chatter? When thinking of him, all Speedy could picture was Chatter’s face as a boy, smiling at Speedy like out of a mental snapshot in a family album. How could he ever really envision Chatter as a threat?

  Maybe he was no more than a creature of habit, Speedy thought drowsily. He’d pretty much moved forward on autopilot since he’d raised, hadn’t he?

  Still, he wasn’t done yet. He was still Speedy, and he’d show the world he was a man of consequence before he was through.

  Under his protective hands, the kitten kneaded at his field jacket with her paws while letting out purrs so loud he never would’ve thought they could come from a creature so small.

  The Sandman finally won and Speedy did a back flip into sleep’s embrace.

  Chapter 15

  Two things finally woke Speedy: the kitten, still perched on his chest, mewing insistently loud; and someone pounding relentlessly on the front door.

  Speedy gently moved the kitten aside. He held the sawed-off behind his back and opened the door to say ‘hi’ to whoever might want to chat with him.

  Fat Bob stood there grinning with his sister’s chota wagon parked at the curb behind him. Bob’s dark little niece Miya stood next to Bob, holding a package of pink popcorn. The family resemblance between uncle and niece was not overly distinct – other, of course, than neither man nor child being easy to peg racially.

  Speedy remembered her vaguely from before he went in, even if she was only a baby back then. Miya’s somber gaze aimed up at Speedy even as Speedy’s own gaze lowered – their eyes met with a silent mutually assessing click, as if their disparate attentions were magnetized to each other.

  Speedy didn’t have much to do with kids, but he felt a strange, instant connection with Miya – he liked her and he got the impression she liked him right back. Speedy wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he gave her a little smile so she wouldn’t be too scared of him at least.

  “Miya doesn’t have day-care so I guess I’m stuck with her,” Fat Bob said, managing to sound both defensive and not really all that upset about it.

  Speedy walked back into the house with Bob and Miya following him. The kitten was still mewing, now even louder, staring up at Speedy as if she were desperately trying to tell him something.

  “A kitty,” Miya said.

  She ran to grab the little fluff ball and hold her so close Speedy was afraid the kitten would be crushed. The kitten’s head was the only thing visible above Miya’s tight embrace and for a moment the baby cat appeared happy as a clam. Then she started her plaintive mewing again.

  “She wants something,” Speedy said, puzzled.

  “Well,” Bob considered, digging into his wealth of experience as an uncle, “Maybe she’s hungry?”

  Speedy winced, walked into the kitchen and parked the sawed-off on top of the refrigerator (out of Miya’s possible reach) and inspected the inside of the fridge for anything that appeared even remotely edible for a kitten. There was nothing but some moldy lunchmeats, a few crusty bottles of various overage condiments, and half a six-pack of Coors. All he could find in the cabinets was a mostly empty box of Cap’n Crunch.

  “You willing to run me to the store?” Speedy asked Fat Bob.

  “I am at your service, sir,” Bob replied, going all courtly, throwing in a little bow as if for his niece’s sake.

  Miya giggled at her uncle, twisting back and forth at the waist as she hugged the kitten close. “I just adore her,” Miya said. “I’ll name her . . . Pearl.”

  Before they went Speedy checked in on Willy. Speedy opened the door a few inches and looked in, his face softening as he studied his brother. Little Willy was sweating up a torrent, his face glistening even in the dim light of the closed-curtained room. Willy thrashed, groaned, and rolled over onto his side, withdrawal’s claws plucking at his nerves and guts in his sleep.

  Speedy saw Willy’s lips purse open into sucking position and heard him take a deep gasping inhalation like he was hitting a phantom crack pipe in his dreams. Speedy’s brow furrowed minutely.

  Little Willy’s eyes opened. He looked at his big brother, and the scowl vanished instantly from Speedy’s face.

  “I quit before I knew you were out,” Willy said. “I quit on my own.”

  “If you say it, I know it’s true.”

  “I can’t rob anymore Speedy. I’m not you. I can’t stick a gun in anyone’s face again unless they force me to.”

  Speedy chewed on that nugget of dismaying information. “We’ll figure another way for you to help out,” he said finally. “You won’t have to be utterly useless.”

  Speedy closed the door and went into the bathroom. He took the thousands of dollars worth of crack that they’d robbed and flushed it all down the toilet.

  When he came out Speedy rapped on Sergio’s and TJ’s door. “We’re going shopping for a bit. You want us to pick you up anything?”

  The door opened slightly and Sergio peeped around the edge of it, mollusk-like. Speedy could see T.J. standing behind Sergio. Had the two roommates been in there scheming together (like it would do them any good)? No, Speedy decided – but they surely seemed surprised Speedy was extending any kind of courtesy their way.

  Sergio considered, squinting. “We could use some rolling papers. You broke our bong when you . . . When . . .”

  Speedy nodded, understanding. “No sweat. Rollies it is.”

  As he turned to go he heard T.J., emboldened, call after him: “Some Taco Bell would be cool.”

  Chapter 16

  Carmel was exhausted as she entered the liquor store; she was running on fumes. If Psychic Dragon hadn’t been pressing her for more online time she’d probably be knocking off for the ‘night’ about now and sleeping til sunset. As it was she’d have to go right back into the increasingly vampiric Tarot trenches when she
got home from the store, exhaustion or not.

  That was one thing she’d always considered strange: that talking to total strangers about life and death matters for hours on end could be so tiring. Still, Carmel welcomed the distraction from her own life that the work provided.

  She looked around the store in reluctantly acquired city-girl reflex while paying for her Red Dots. Carmel was the only customer except for a short, wide-shouldered buzzsaw-looking skinhead guy who rolled directly up to the beer cooler and rooted aggressively around in there.

  As she exited the building a guy with long red hair was leaning against the wall by the door, wearing a tie-dye tee-shirt under a field jacket. His gaze flicked across her face and beyond to focus on the sparse traffic along Lincoln.

  His looked a little raggedy, like the kind of fixer-upper guy that so often attracted her rapt and devoted attention. On impulse Carmel fished a bill out the pocket of her black leather pants and extended it to him without even looking at it.

  “Here,” Carmel said.

  He took it without displaying any excitement, and she walked on. She snuck a peek over her shoulder to make sure her generosity wasn’t being repaid by the guy stalking her in perv mode.

  But he just held the bill in both hands, staring down at it. Carmel saw it was a 20 and sighed, thinking: Enjoy, friend.

  The Bay Area hadn’t quite ground all the compassion out of her yet – Carmel continued rebelling against that seemingly inevitable callousing as hard as she could. But it was strange just how cold and lonely it could feel down here in this crowded City.

  Home felt a million miles away, but she’d had to run away – hadn’t she?

  After Mom died, Carmel supposed she’d lost it for a bit. Ultimately, she’d come down from Redway in Southern Humboldt, riding in the back of a van with a Eureka garage band on a shoestring road tour. Carmel had a thing for the hottie bad boy bass player Kris even before things unraveled in Redway. Carmel and Kris had quite the slap-and-tickle going for a bit. Kris was all right but he hadn’t quite been enough to take her mind off her loss, and they’d both been equally relieved when they finally – loudly – went their separate ways after a show in San Jose when the band failed to even make enough gas money to reach their next gig.