Taste of Tenderloin Page 10

  The night after the jelly doughnut escapade, Nathan sat quietly on the foot of his bed, still trying to get a grip on the situation.

  Obviously, he was a changed person, gifted with a special ability; a better person, if what had happened had permanently cured his drinking problem. Unfortunately, whatever was going on hadn't wiped out the previous decade. When he'd left the hospital after the accident ten years before, his wife and son gone, he'd taken up a new life in the Tenderloin and a new career as a stumblebum. A lifestyle not easy to shed.

  Nathan shook his head, making up his mind to retain the memory of his wife and son, but realizing it was past time to let go of the guilt. That part of his life was over. Being a drunken bum did nothing for Geri or Davy except disgrace their memory. Maybe, with the special ability, he was being offered a second chance to turn his life around.

  Nathan laughed at himself.

  If he were being offered an escape from his sordid existence, he was indeed squandering it, wandering around making stupid faces at people who couldn't see him and stealing jelly doughnuts. He should be doing something more substantial, something that would allow him to rehabilitate himself, maybe escape the Tenderloin, move on, do something significant with his remaining years.

  The thought sobered Nathan.

  What could he do with his special ability?

  Like up at All-Star Donuts, he could walk into any place he liked and take whatever he needed. Money! The thought excited him.

  Where?

  Banks were his first thought.

  But at night, when the transformation worked?

  No. Besides, banks would cause an uproar and involve the media, the FBI.

  What about groceries, liquor stores?

  They'd raise a lot of attention too, and the cops...

  The solution made him burst out with a laugh because it was so simple, and for sure there'd be no fuss afterward with the law.

  He'd rob Dana 5-Diamond.

  A Dealer Known as Dana 5-D

  That afternoon, Nathan finally found the man he was looking for hanging out in front of the Korean grocery on the corner of Leavenworth and O'Farrell. Short Stuff. Double S.

  "Hey, Nate, ya lookin' good, man, ya gettin' lotsa sun or somepin'," the legless black man on the scooterboard said, knuckling Nathan's fist. "Whassup?"

  "Yeah, getting out and walking during the day and giving up the booze, man," Nathan explained, his tone serious. Double S had probably heard this a hundred times on the street, from a hundred dudes, with ninety-nine out of the hundred eventually backsliding. But Nathan meant what he said, and it probably showed in his eyes. The perceptive street hustler picked up on it.

  Double S nodded, grinning broadly. "Agreein' wif ya, man. Right on!"

  Nathan slipped the man a couple of bills. "Need some info, Double S. Where's Dana 5-Diamond's game tonight? And who's playing?"

  The man squinted, eyeing Nathan curiously. "Ya don't plan on takin' up gamblin' now, do ya?"

  Shaking his head, Nathan lied. "No. Location's for a friend of mine, gambler friend."

  "Well he better be holdin', ya know what I'm sayin'?" Double S handed Nathan a note with the address scribbled down. "Buy-in ten large. Only one local, Herbie-the-Heist, an' three heavies comin' over the bridge from Oakland, unnerstan'?"

  Nathan took the address and nodded. There would be lots of money in Dana 5-D's game, and fortunately he knew what the Herbie, the ex-bank robber, looked like. "Hey, thanks...for my friend," he said, with a sly smile.

  Double S winked back.

  Around 9:00 p.m. that night, Nathan waited beside a gated entry to an apartment building down on Taylor: eight stories high, recently painted, looking real nice. But still in the 'loin. Dana 5-D knew her roots.

  After a few minutes, a black Chrysler limo pulled up and double-parked; the driver hustled out and around to open the back door. Herbie-the-Heist stepped out, hatless but wearing a classy grey herringbone topcoat. He stepped up to the gate, buzzed the bell, and growled something into the intercom.

  The gate popped open. Unnoticed, Nathan closely followed the gambler into the building.

  Inside a third floor apartment, Herbie paused just inside a large living room, taking off his coat as a jacketed big guy carefully swept him with a metal detector. Herbie was unarmed. Nathan slipped into the room behind him and looked around.

  The dimly-lit place was sparsely furnished. A bar was set up against the wall next to a coat rack to the left of the door, manned by another jacketed husky man. Centered in the middle of the dark room stood a green-felted, hexagonal card table with drink wells. One shaded lamp hung down from the ceiling and shined brightly on the green felt, giving it the appearance of a pool table.

  Dana 5-D was dealing, of course. Her huge bald-headed bodyguard, Pee Wee, stood right behind her. Stacks of red and blue chips were within easy reach to her right on the table, and on a chair beside the dealer's right knee was a closed dark grey tin box---the bank.

  Herbie leaned across the table to hand the dealer his buy-in, a thin stack of banded hundreds. She stood to accept both them and his greeting.

  "Dana, good to see you. You're looking gorgeous as usual."

  The tall, pretty brunette's cheeks flushed. She sat back down, nodded and smiled, apparently embarrassed slightly by the offhand compliment, but Nathan saw the green dollar signs momentarily register in her brown eyes, betraying the real source of her temporary loss of poise. Dana 5-D dropped the banded hundreds into the tin box and slid six stacks of chips across the table to an empty spot.

  "Sit down there, Herb. You know everyone here?"

  Herbie-the-Heist nodded and shook hands with the other three players from Oakland, who, like the ex-bank robber, were all middle-aged, nondescript white men wearing short sleeve dress shirts without ties. Their coats hung in a row by the bar; none of the men were familiar to Nathan.

  "What are you drinking, Herb?" Dana 5-D asked, beckoning the bartender over.

  "Bushmills and water," Herbie said, glancing around the table at the other men, their places marked by their stacks of chips and nearly-full glasses in the drink wells. He took the empty place indicated beside the dealer, making himself comfortable. Conspicuously missing from the table were ashtrays. No one was ever allowed to smoke at the table in a Dana 5-D game. Nathan grinned to himself, having counted on the well-known house rule in his simple game plan.

  Unnoticed by anyone in the room, including Pee Wee and the other two obviously armed thugs, Nathan moved quietly around the table, stopping near the chair bearing the closed tin box, waiting for his moment.

  At about ten-thirty, after a dozen or so hands, one of the Oakland players stood up, pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket, and asked Dana 5-D, "Okay to take a smoke break?"

  "In the hall outside," the dealer replied, standing up and stretching her distance-runner's body. "Restroom down the hall," she indicated to the other players.

  As the gamblers all rose and shuffled around, Nathan snatched up the tin box, tucked it under his arm, and quietly followed the smoker to the door. The doorman unlocked it, leaned out and checked the hallway, then pointed out an urn down near the elevator. "Use that."

  Nathan slipped out the door close behind the Oakland gambler, the tin box hugged tightly against his clear-taped ribs. In the hall, he walked quietly past the man lighting his cigarette near the elevator and continued a few steps to the stairwell. With his heart thumping, Nathan sprinted down the three flights of stairs, out the front door, and finally arrived onto Taylor Street before gasping for breath and looking back over his shoulder.

  No one had followed.

  On the street headed for home, Nathan couldn't restrain a loud laugh and a "Hooyaw!" that startled a pair of tall-legged transvestites loitering arm-in-arm near a white fire hydrant, waving at passing cars.

  I really did it! Nathan thought, hurrying toward Jones Street and the safety of the Reo Hotel. It had been easy, a piece of cake.

  A f
ew steps from home Nathan slowed, suddenly aware of the creepy sensation of being watched...or followed. It raised the hair on the back of his neck. Jesus, not now.

  He stopped suddenly and spun around.

  There were plenty of people up and down Jones, but none of the three thugs from Dana 5-D's. No one else seemed to be paying any attention to him or the tin box he carried. Hell, how could they? No one could even see him, and the grey box was too dark to spot at a distance.

  He ignored the lingering feeling and continued on to the hotel.

  In his room, Nathan opened the box and quickly thumbed the banded money, spreading stacks of hundreds and fifties out on his bed. Fifty thousand dollars.

  His elation over the successful robbery turned out to be short-lived. Sure, he had a lot of money, but he had no one to share it with, no friends, no family. He realized that his special ability isolated him, even more so than his ten years of drunkenness. He was one of a kind. A freak. The realization was depressing.

  A scream from down the hall cut into his thoughts.

  Still transformed, Nathan snatched up the small bat that he kept by his bed for protection, hurried down the darkened corridor, and pushed open the unlocked door to Sweet Jane's room.

  A partially dressed man and the naked woman were struggling over a handful of money.

  The small but stocky man punched the aging hooker solidly in the stomach, sending her flying backward onto her rumpled bed.

  "I tole you, bitch, that your tired ass ain't worth no fifty bucks for all night," he said. His words slurred as he shook the fist of clenched money in the women's reddened face. "I'm leaving. Here, here's ten back." He tossed the bill on the bed at Sweet Jane's feet, scooping up his shirt from a chair but eyeing the weeping woman who curled up in a ball. "I oughtta really kick your lazy ass---"

  Nathan slammed the child's bat against the back of the drunken john's head.

  The man crumpled in a heap on the floor, unconscious.

  Nathan peeled open the fist holding the money and tossed the bills next to the ten on the foot of the bed. Then he hooked his arms under the small man's arms, locking his hands on the man's chest, and dragged him out of the room, pausing momentarily to glance at Sweet Jane. She was still curled up crying quietly on her bed, unaware of what had happened. He closed the door before dragging the john down the hall to the stairwell.

  After leaving the unconscious man in a heap in the lobby near the barred front desk---Ferdie would call the cops---Nathan returned to the third floor and his room for a minute. Then he tiptoed back down the hallway. He knelt quietly at Sweet Jane's door and listened. No crying sounds. He pushed the stacks of banded hundreds and fifties under the door with a note that read: Time to leave the life; teach little girls to play the violin.

  Exhausted by the evening's excitement and exertions, Nathan returned to his room and managed to easily drop off to sleep.

  That Creepy Feeling

  The next evening, Nathan walked out of the Reo after dropping the curtain, pausing a moment and rubbing his arms and chest. The night was already foggy, the sidewalk and street damp. Sunday night; not much of a crowd out yet in the cool mist. Trying unsuccessfully to forget his nakedness, Nathan couldn't suppress a shiver. His bare footsteps made sticking sounds against the damp sidewalk as he absently wandered in the general direction of O'Farrell Street. He increased his speed, trying to warm up, then stopped suddenly, overwhelmed again by the feeling of being watched.

  He glanced back.

  An elderly Asian lady carrying a child hurried close behind him, but she didn't even glance his way as she passed by.

  Nathan looked up, carefully scanning windows above the street level. There was no sign of the watcher. He knew it wasn't his imagination. Someone was watching him; someone nearby. But who?

  Pee Wee? One of the other thugs?

  He started walking slowly, his senses keenly alert.

  Uh-huh, there.

  He heard it, faintly but clearly: the sticking sound of footsteps following.

  Nathan whirled around, expecting to surprise his stalker.

  But the sidewalk was empty behind him for over half a block.

  The faint sticking sounds continued approaching, drawing his gaze down to the wet sidewalk.

  Footprints.

  "Jesus," Nathan gasped aloud, watching as two distinct sets of foot imprints appeared on the damp sidewalk, walking directly toward him, only ten yards away. Both figures were completely invisible.

  Heart thudding against his ribs, Nathan would have bolted if his legs hadn't suddenly betrayed him, turning to spaghetti. It was all he could do to remain standing. Still, after a deep breath, he managed to shuffle back a step, retreating from the advancing footprints.

  "Wait," a voice whispered hoarsely as the footsteps closed in. "It's okay, Nate, we're your friends."

  Despite being rattled, Nathan recognized the disembodied voice.

  It was the St. Anthony's girl from the other night. LuLu.

  Both sets of footprints stopped less than two feet away.

  Just barely visible in the darkness, leaning up close, appeared two fuzzy dark faces.

  "You're not alone," LuLu explained, "we are just like you---"

  "W-what do you mean?" Nathan stammered, barely keeping his wits about him.

  "Well, you're not one of a kind, Nathan," LuLu said. "There are three of us with the same special ability. You, Michael---the policeman, remember him?---and me."

  "That's right," agreed a gruff male voice. "We are exactly like you."

  "Uh-huh," Nathan said, his rapid pulse easing slightly. "What are we?" he asked bluntly. "Some kind of freaks?"

  Both of the fuzzy shapes laughed and backed away, disappearing again from view.

  "We are the next step in evolution, armed with a very special ability," LuLu said. "We've been waiting for you to exercise your latent skill, but you've been suppressing its emergence with your lifestyle, the drinking. But we've known for some time you were almost ready to join us. I helped at Homeboy's that night, giving you a jolt when I touched you while visualizing the curtain to myself. We've been following you closely ever since you left SF Gen, waiting for you to answer a question we had about your nerve. You answered it last night. Man, you definitely have guts, ripping off Dana 5-D and her stooges right under their noses, without even a weapon."

  "How did you recognize me as one of you?" Nathan said, still shaken by what he was hearing. Before either answered, he added, "How could you follow me if I can't be seen?"

  "We may not be able to see each other except up very close, but we can recognize each other's presence," the gruff voice replied. "Close your eyes, face our direction, and relax."

  Nathan followed Michael's instructions. After squeezing his eyes shut, he felt an odd sensation, a kind of warmth generating the distinct images of two individual figures in his mind---a sixth sense? He blinked.

  Michael said, "You see, no one else can sense our presence when the curtain is dropped, only one of us three, and only at very close range---no more than fifteen yards."

  "I know how you must feel, Nathan, a little overwhelmed by the uniqueness of all this," LuLu said.

  "The curtain, what about it?" Nathan asked, beginning to calm down as their answers made sense of what had been happening to him the past four days.

  LuLu chuckled again. "Well, it's just a mental triggering device to activate the physical skin change and transformed state," she said, her voice growing serious. "A state Michael and I can maintain for about ninety minutes after months of practice. But you, Nate, already you are able to drop the curtain for four or more hours. With this much ability, you can't be wasting time robbing gamblers. No, the city is full of many more dangerous predators, preying on the weak and poor. Garbage. We hope you will lead us in a big clean-up, beginning here in the Tenderloin---an undercover, low-key operation."

  "Yeah, man," Michael added gruffly. "We start tonight."

  Nathan noticed something s
hiny hovering in the nearby shadows, three black-enameled nightsticks. Michael smacked them loudly into his invisible hand and said, "We are going to start with three scumbag crack dealers up at Homeboy's. Remember them? Uh-huh, skull thumping time. Here."

  As he clasped the weapon in hand, Nathan felt a surge of power race through his veins, as if the baton were really the magic sword Excalibur. The sense of empowerment was accompanied by a strong feeling, almost like a booze call, a craving; but for what?

  Revenge, he thought, grinning wryly to himself. He closely followed his companions' wet footsteps up the street. No, it was more than simple payback for the beating he'd received, more than petty vindication for all the indignities suffered for ten years. LuLu was right: it was time to begin a vigilante cleanup, time to permanently remove the garbage from the Tenderloin.

  "Yes, indeed," Nathan McKee said aloud with fierce enthusiasm. His footsteps took the lead, guiding his invisible cohorts toward Homeboy's and the beginning of The Cleansing.

  Bruised Soul

  You have only one friend in the ring, boyo: a clinch!

  ---Danny Boy Doyle

  Micky D saw a Visitor his first night back in the Tenderloin, but at the time he didn't recognize her as one of them.

  He'd finally made it to the address on Jones Street just off O'Farrell around ten o'clock at night on Monday---the time of heavy buying and selling in the 'loin. He paused halfway up the steps of the six-story building, turned and listened to the din of traffic for a moment, then looked back down on some of the street people roaming Jones like stray dogs: skimpily-dressed hookers, furtive dealers, dead-eyed junkies, shuffling winos, fast-talking hustlers, and the smelly homeless. The forgotten and the never known. The faces change, he thought, smiling wryly, but no one ever escapes. But what about him? He shrugged his shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and lingered for another moment, letting the early summer fog creeping in from San Francisco Bay whirl around him, hoping the familiar sights and sounds and smells and mist would help dampen the jittery edge he'd developed on the long Greyhound bus ride. He felt wound pretty tight, like in the early days of anxiously waiting for his trainer, Danny Boy, to tape his hands before a four-rounder. His vision was tunneling slightly, but he hadn't seen or heard anything really weird. Still, he could almost hear Dr. Gee's warning: Michael, remember to take your meds religiously at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.