Taste of Tenderloin Read online

  At dusk, the jungle came alive again with its grinding cacophony of sound. Second Squad ate another cold meal and waited, nerves tight and exposed. The only relief was when Big O moved among them, joking and cheering them up individually.

  At about six, the jungle suddenly turned quiet.

  Dead silence.

  Not even one pesky mosquito ventured forth to harass Shane or any of his buddies.

  He, like most of the squad, looked about wide-eyed, his throat tight and his stomach muscles clenched painfully. He sweated heavily, a clammy, itching dampness accumulating in his crotch and underarms, laden with the sour smell of fear.

  Quiet...except for the sound of operating handles on individual M-16s sliding ominously back and forth into place. Rounds were chambered as everyone hunkered down into a prone firing position and waited anxiously for something to happen.

  Time crawled by slowly.

  6:01, 6:02, 6:05, 6:10...6:30.

  The fog settled in, clinging to the nearby tree limbs and vines like white gauze, adding to the eerie mystique of the darkened, silent jungle.

  Big O crawled up and down his line of exhausted, nervous ground-pounders, patting shoulders, whispering encouragement, handing out sticks of Doublemint and advising everyone to "Try to hang loose."

  Impossible.

  Shane tried a trick he'd learned back at AITR to increase hearing acuity. He pinched his nostrils together with a thumb and forefinger, then blew hard, making his ear canals pop. He swallowed dryly, cocked his head to the side, and listened intently.

  Still not a sound out in the muggy night.

  So it was shocking when, a few minutes later, the strange face first appeared in the mist.

  The pale, thin, almost skull-like shaven head stared at them with its sunken dark eyes like an apparition in the fog. No more than ten feet away, it was a still, macabre white portrait framed against a dark, foggy background.

  A body coalesced from misty particles, wearing Marine cams, with arms extending an M-16 in a neutral position overhead. Finally, the whole man stepped cautiously forward into better view.

  Shane swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy.

  The gaunt man's uniform was washed out and tattered, though not quite rotting off him. It no longer bore rank, name patch, or insignia of any kind---just a faded, colorless set of Marine cams. He approached Big O in a silent, unnatural movement---almost catlike. They spoke only a few words, then the strange Marine made a slow lifting signal with one arm.

  Only a few feet away from where Second Squad lay hunkered down---so close they could have reached out and touched the Marine---five sunken-eyed demons popped up out of the waist-high grass. Not demons, really, but gaunt, pale men wearing torn, faded shirts and pants that barely resembled uniforms. They all carried M-16s slung carelessly over their shoulders.

  How long have they been that close? Shane asked himself, trying again with little luck to work up a bit of moisture into his mouth.

  "Turn over to the men in front of you what you're carrying in your backpacks," Sergeant Owens ordered hoarsely.

  The grunts obeyed immediately, relieved to be finally rid of their heavy burdens. After taking the supplies from Second Squad, the pale-faced phantoms gracefully slipped away, despite their bulging packs, and disappeared silently back into the dark jungle. Soon, their bald, gaunt leader---whomever the fuck he was---followed. A sickeningly sweet stench hung in the damp air, even after they'd disappeared.

  "They weren't any Lost Patrol, no way," Shane murmured to himself under his breath, but he felt no real conviction. The comfort was shallow, like whistling while passing a graveyard at night.

  On the way back out of the mountains, the jumpy patrol bunched up too tightly on a narrow, steep trail. Every man froze as one when they heard the first metallic plunk---the characteristic echoing sound of a mortar round being dropped into a firing tube.

  Plunk...

  Before the second echo finished, the experienced members of the squad had hit the ground and were digging in, jacking rounds into chambers and preparing to return fire.

  Shane remained standing in place, even after the third plunk died away, finishing the unseen enemies' first triangulation of mortar fire. Charlie was trying to zero in on them.

  Tex finally managed to pull Shane to the ground, a moment before the wet floor all around them began to explode, mud and jungle debris raining down on the whole bunched-up squad.

  Ear-shattering chaos broke loose on the patrol---more mortar rounds plunking and booming, accompanied by small arms fire chattering away and the pinging of grenades being armed. The latter arced through the air and exploded with sizzling streams of white phosphorus, audible even over the rhythmic tat-tat-tat of heavy machine guns.

  Dumbstruck and disoriented, Shane's consciousness registered none of these dangerous sounds. He didn't even try to return fire. Instead, he clutched his helmet and curled into a fetal ball in the jungle mud. The cries, moaning, death rattles, and airborne body parts made only a passing impression on his conscious mind. Moments later, with his heart thumping wildly, Shane felt a sharp burning sensation along his neck, below his ear. His right shoulder simultaneously went numb, and then a feeling like being drowned overwhelmed what was left of his dulled sensibilities.

  Blackness.

  Days later, PFC Shane McConnell regained a drug-addled consciousness in a receiving hospital back in California at Travis AFB. The deep shrapnel wounds in his neck, shoulder, and back were operated on before he was eventually transferred to the VA hospital in the North Bay at Martinez. They did an excellent job on his physical wounds, but not so well on his head. He experienced horrible recurring flashback nightmares, images of disembodied bloody heads, arms, and legs swirling about in the air around him in the jungle. The meds and talking to doctors did nothing at all for his permanently damaged soul.

  Medically discharged from the USMC with a small monthly disability check, Shane soon found himself living in San Francisco's Tenderloin, mostly involved in a 24/7 drinking contest with himself. When his funds ran out each month he panhandled, but could never make ends meet. Finally, he became homeless, unable to support his escalating alcohol and drug habits and the residential hotel rent. Life on the street was tough, and during the wet winter following his discharge, he went back and forth three times to Martinez, diagnosed each time with recurring bouts of pneumonia. The final time, the doctors warned him of the high risk of his self-destructive lifestyle.

  Shane ignored them and returned to the 'loin's shuffling Legion of the Forgotten and Never Remembered.

  The sudden silence startles you awake. Sweaty and gasping for breath, you sit up, your hand tightly clutching the silver medallion hanging from your neck. Something is wrong. A sickly sweet stench assaults your nostrils, making them itch. With an effort of will, you stand and force yourself to step outside the tent.

  Heavy fog is trapped under the canopy, the jungle absolutely quiet.

  You wait and watch, resigned, knowing they are there, just out of view.

  Finally, figures begin to coalesce in the mist...ghostly figures, faces pale, eyes sunken, their clothes torn and tattered---

  You recoil with surprise.

  Because you recognize the closest figure, despite his gaunt features and deeply sunken eyes.

  It's Sergeant Owens.

  And right behind him, in the mist at the jungle's edge, appears Tex...and then

  Psycho, and all the others from Second Squad.

  Big O points at you and gestures with his thumb over his shoulder.

  For a moment, you hesitate.

  Then you bend down and pick up your backpack, sling your M-16.

  It's time to mount out.

  Magic Words

  "We conjure miracles for our clients.

  Show me the magic, people."

  ---Thomas Brookings, Double B & A

  The old, dark-skinned woman sat in the lotus position alone in her cardboard tent, staring out into the night
as the fog crept into the alley from the bay, visualizing the young man's distinctive features, his hair and his left eyebrow. Eventually, she nodded; he was the one, of course. She opened the black book and again traced the procedure outlined in the ancient text, patiently mouthing the words from a language even older than her native Romany. It would take careful execution and time to complete. Smiling wryly, she sucked in a deep breath. She had been hunting a long time to find this young man---several more months, or even years, to complete the task meant little.

  The Great American Music Hall in San Francisco was located on O'Farrell Street, on the fringe of the Tenderloin near the infamous Mitchell Brothers strip joint. At five thousand square feet, the concert hall wasn't really large enough for modern concerts like the Warfield on Market Street or Shoreline down the peninsula or Concord Pavilion over in the East Bay. No, the hall usually featured top local music talent or personalities with cult followings doing spoken word, like Jim Carroll and Henry Rollins, or occasionally a relatively unknown musician, singer, or personality just about ready to break out nationally. Like tonight with Daz L, the Jamaican reggae-hip hop artist, who had packed the place with a standing-room-only crowd.

  At a little after 10:45, the fans---mostly hip, young, and casually dressed---exited the venue laughing and talking loudly, heading for nearby parking lots or the clubs up along Van Ness. Two older white guys, dressed deceptively like lawyers, stood out as they watched the departing crowd from the curb in front of the hall. Lucas Somerville, tall and broad-shouldered in his Italian suit, had a small, distinctive splash of silver in the short-clipped black hair just above his left eyebrow; the eyebrow itself was cleaved in half by a pencil-thin silver line. Only the deep, dark circles under his eyes and slightly drawn expression marred his distinguished, athletic appearance, suggesting an unsettled mental state. His bespectacled and bald older colleague and mentor, Hubie Jensen, was dressed a bit more conservatively in a dark blue English worsted suit.

  After carefully assessing the departing crowd, Jensen spoke, his normally calm, precise voice pitched higher than normal. "The crowd loved Daz L, Luke. Just look at their excitement. And did you notice Santana and his friends slip in up front just before the first number? Yes, this young man is going to definitely be a huge star...perhaps even bigger than Bob Marley."

  Jensen should know. He'd been an aficionado of authentic reggae music in the late '60s and '70s and had written several articles on the music and Rastafarian movement for Rolling Stone. In fact, he had seen Marley and the Wailers when they had come to San Francisco for their only local performance just before the star's premature death, and Jensen had reviewed that concert for San Francisco Magazine.

  "Tom Brookings is amazingly perceptive, almost clairvoyant," Jensen added, referring to the legendary senior partner of Double B & A., as the Brookings, Brown, and Associates advertising firm was known down in the financial district.

  Luke nodded his agreement. Even though he cared little for hip hop and knew nothing about reggae music, he found the young Jamaican's charismatic performance truly impressive. Daz L's first CD, "Trenchtown Man," was already climbing the charts in London. He didn't doubt it would do the same in the states. They had just watched an emerging star.

  "Yes, if handled correctly, this young man is going to be a starred account," Jensen said, "And it all starts with your little cologne promotion. You better pull out all the stops on this one---magazines, billboards, TV, radio spots, movie ads, and the whole promotional package. Who knows where this will lead?" The older man nudged Luke's shoulder playfully. "I suspect this will make them all forget Asian Dawn. I bet you are already working on a product name, some good ideas."

  It wasn't true. Luke was completely devoid of ideas, didn't have a clue yet. He'd been procrastinating since being assigned the account a week prior. But he nodded anyhow, forcing a confident grin he didn't really feel. Asian Dawn was the Hong Kong frozen fast food account he'd let slip away early last year to a NYC competitor---a potential starred account, too. It had started his slump. And of course he picked up on Jensen's subtle warning: as the Daz L account senior executive, he'd better not fuck this one up. A big meeting with the singer's management people was set for Friday afternoon; three days away and clock ticking. They wanted a major campaign, timed to take advantage of Daz L's upcoming national concert tour, to promote a scent already being produced by a little Jamaican firm, West Kingston Herbals, Ltd. Something they had made special for Daz L and sold on the island, but a product Luke's people thought had real commercial possibilities in the states. Oh, yeah, Luke understood what was at stake. This would be his last chance at Double B & A.

  "Want to stop at the Shady Lady for a drink?" Jensen asked.

  Luke checked his watch and shook his head. "I have to go with Lauren to one of her twelve-step meetings."

  He had no intention of making that midnight meeting after Lauren finished her four to twelve shift at UCSF Hospital in an hour or so. He needed to make an unaccompanied pit stop down the street at the Corner Mart to see his man, George. Even with the problems at work, juggling finances, and coping with Lauren, Luke had recently managed to cut back on the booze and especially the blow. Neither was really a problem for him, not like Lauren's ongoing struggle. No, he could take it or leave it. Sure, he occasionally accompanied her to one of the meetings, but just to keep peace. Man, she could be a ball-busting nag. But tonight he needed a little pickup, a mental edge. He had some serious thinking to do. First, he needed a booty-whipper brand name for the scent, something readily identifiable with Daz L and his Rasta-man image, then some kind of catchy line or two, something to key a national advertising campaign. All before Friday.

  "Okay, give my best to Lauren," Jensen said kindly, patting Luke's shoulder. "You have a big opportunity here, Luke. I'll check in sometime tomorrow afternoon, see how you're coming along. Okay?"

  "Sure thing, Hubie. See you then," he replied, watching the older man cross the street to his BMW. Then Luke pulled out his cell and punched in Lauren's number.

  "Hey, babe," he said when she answered. "Can't make your meeting. Hubie and I have some stuff to kick around about this guy Daz L. Looks like it might be a big account. Good opportunity for me."

  "Okay, I understand," she answered, the disappointment obvious in her tone. "You guys aren't going to a bar?"

  "Of course not," he said, frowning and vigorously shaking his head. "I'm on the wagon just like you. We're just grabbing a cup of coffee."

  "That's fine," she said. "Thanks for the call, sweetie."

  "See you later, babe," Luke said. He punched off, sighed under his breath, and slipped the cell phone back onto his belt, mentally smothering the slight twinge of guilt.

  Luke decided to walk the three or four blocks, even though the Tenderloin at night creeped him out. The 'loin was without a doubt the armpit of the city. Because of the full moon, he knew that every panhandler, homeless person, hooker, junkie, and crazy would be hyped up and crowding the street, but he couldn't drive. His new black PT Cruiser convertible would draw too much attention sitting in front of the Corner Mart while he scored some coke. He'd have to walk down O'Farrell, do his business, and then hike back up to his car.

  As he expected, the 'loin was really loud that night: the gaudy neon crackled, loud music blared out of the bars, people screamed down from second and third story windows, cars braked and honked, and sirens wailed like wounded animals. Luke negotiated the crowded sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with the general riff raff---until the redheaded black hooker blocked his way.

  "Hey man, ya'll looking to party?"

  He glanced up into her heavily painted face and shook his head dumbly. Even several feet away, her smell was overwhelming. Heavy, cheap perfume did not quite conceal her musky she-scent, and there was a hint of something else...the unwashed jockstrap/sweat sock smell of a high school locker room. He almost gagged as he slipped away from her.

  "Hey, sissy boy, fuck you; the Castro is back that
way."

  Moving quickly deeper into the Tenderloin, Luke passed more of society's discards---hustlers ("Hey, man, ya lookin'?"), panhandlers ("Yo, pal, gimme a buck for coffee"), junkies, crazies talking to parking meters, and wave after wave of scruffy, smelly street people.

  That was what he ultimately hated about the Tenderloin; the smells nauseated him. The heavy scent of curry, suddenly wafting down from an open apartment window; the sweet-tangy smell of something organic rotting in the gutter; even the double Muni buses seemed more offensive in the 'loin, belching out great polluting clouds of black diesel fumes. The foul odors seemed to cling at street level, held in by the ever-present fog, pervading his clothes like cigarette smoke. He made a mental note to drop his suit off at the dry cleaners the next day on the way to work.

  Half a block from the Corner Mart he winced, swung out toward the curb, and bypassed a derelict collapsed in a doorway among the accumulated debris of the night. Jesus Christ, he swore silently, pinching his nostrils and restraining himself from actually kicking the bum in the head. Above all, Luke Somerville detested the acrid smell of the homeless: the stink of failure.

  Thankfully, he managed to make the doorway of the Corner Mart without another confrontation of any kind, only to find a stranger behind the cash register.

  "Where's George?" Luke demanded as if the missing older clerk were AWOL.

  "I am sorry, sir, he is not here tonight," the young man said in proper but accented English. He was probably from the same ethnic background as George. East Indian or perhaps Pakistani. Luke wasn't sure. It didn't matter. What did matter was his regular coke contact was missing. The realization jangled his already tightly strung nerves.

  "Do you expect him back sometime this evening?"

  "No, he is attending a family celebration."

  "Well, is there a number I can reach him at?"

  The clerk shook his head. "Sorry, sir."