Taste of Tenderloin Read online

Damn, I need some blow tonight, Luke almost screamed back at the guy, just barely able to restrain his sense of growing panic.

  "Perhaps I can help you with something," the young man suggested.

  Luke thought fast. "Well, you see, George usually helps me, ah, with takeout, you know? Maybe you could take care of it for me?"

  The young man nodded, eyeing Luke carefully. "I see. By any chance do you have a card, George's card?"

  A card? Oh, yeah, George had given him a business card several months ago. Luke dug his wallet out of his pocket and searched through it, his hands shaking. Finally, he located the card, and with a sigh of relief, he placed it on the counter by the cash register.

  CORNER MART

  O'Farrell & Hyde

  Groceries/Liquor/Take Out Deli

  The young guy turned it over, then smiled. On the back of the business card, George had carefully inscribed in upper case block letters:

  O.K.

  GEORGE Z.

  The clerk looked up from the card and nodded. "How much takeout did you need tonight, sir?"

  Luke slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter.

  After pocketing the money, the young man left the cash register and disappeared into the back of the little store. He returned in a moment with a small brown paper bag. He placed this in front of Luke, who glanced into it. Inside was a plastic baggie containing a small amount of coke.

  "Thanks, man," Luke said over his shoulder as he quickly departed the store. He paused in the brightly lit entry, glancing up and down O'Farrell. Seeing no one who looked suspiciously out of place, he turned left to head back up toward Van Ness.

  A hand gripped his arm, stopping him in his tracks. Luke gasped, his heart leaping into his throat.

  But it was only a bag lady. An old woman who was vaguely familiar. Yes, he was sure he'd seen her before. Several times in the Tenderloin, over in the financial district, maybe once out in the marina. He remembered her, not because of her exceptionally disheveled appearance, but because of a special aspect of her attire. She had the normal layered appearance of the homeless---grimy garment piled on filthy garment---but over it all, across her shoulders, she wore an indigo scarf, not nearly as greasy and frayed as the rest of her clothes, decorated with beautiful gold arabesque markings around its border. It made her stand out from the usual grey and brown derelicts pushing shopping carts. Up close, he noticed that her eyes were unusual, too: one a faded denim, the other a rich mahogany.

  "Wait, mister, I can help you." The strange woman interrupted his reverie in an accented, gravelly voice. She appeared to be African, or Arab, or perhaps Spanish.

  Luke pulled his arm away from the bag woman. How could this derelict possibly help him in any way? As if privy to his thoughts, the woman peered into his eyes and said, "I can help you with something you need most deeply at the moment."

  He hesitated.

  She nodded. "It is true, I have the words."

  What did she mean? What fucking words? Despite being intrigued by the woman's enigmatic language, it was getting late and he needed some time to do a line or two and give some thought to the men's scent promotion before Lauren got home. He turned away to head uptown, back to his car.

  "The new account...your last chance."

  Surprised, he turned back to face the woman's almost mesmerizing gaze.

  "What do you mean?"

  The strange old lady did not have the normal rank odor of her kind. She had no noticeable smell at all.

  "I will write something that will benefit you and the new account," she said, "but in return you will need to write something for me."

  Luke froze in place. Of course she was delusional. How did she even know about the Daz L account, his slump, or, for that matter, what he did for a living? Who the fuck was she? He wasn't sure of any of the answers, but he was sure of one thing: spotting the old lady around in the past hadn't been random. The woman had obviously been stalking him. Now that he thought about it, he realized that maybe he'd first seen her the same day as the disappointing loss of the Asian Dawn account, the day his run of bad luck had started. Yes, he was sure of it. Jesus. He needed to get away from her. In addition to bad luck, she might be dangerous.

  But when Luke tried to move, he discovered her gaze held him spellbound. He couldn't move any of his limbs. It was almost as if she had somehow lassoed him with an invisible rope.

  "Okay," he finally whispered, "tell me your words."

  "I need to write them for you in a special spot. Where words alter the future. Come this way." She half-turned, breaking eye contact and gesturing toward the entry to a nearby darkened alley.

  Oh, no. Not back in there. Not this kid.

  Luke's pulse was racing, alarms going off in his head. He could move on his own again, and knew he should turn away. Run. Escape. But he was enthralled by her voice and the cryptic sentence about the future; instead of paying attention to instinct, he felt compelled to follow the woman into the shadowy alley, expecting to be hit over the head at any moment. Or stabbed. Or shot. Or something else terrible. On shaky legs, he closely accompanied the old woman to the very back of the smelly, dead-end alley, to a brick wall.

  A streetlight from back on O'Farrell flickered to life as if on cue and cut across the darkness of the alley, dimly lighting up the wall. It was an amazing collage of colorful graffiti: cartoon characters, tagger names, polemic political expressions, crude pornographic art, several catchy sexual expressions---JOSE SUCKS THE BIG JUAN and DERON'S MOMMA STOOP FOR THE GROUP---and a blank spot. Right in the middle of the kaleidoscope of graffiti was an empty rectangular box, its perimeter denoted by a thin indigo border and gold symbols marked in a pattern similar to the woman's scarf. For a moment, peering into the box, Luke had the sensation of falling, of being sucked into deep space. He almost expected to see stars, galaxies, and nebulae rushing by.

  He blinked. Whoa, get a grip, man!

  "Here, I will write," the bag lady announced, moving up to the mysterious box. She took out a common fine-tipped indigo felt pen, popped off the top, then turned back to him before she began to inscribe anything. "I write something for you. But you must return when I call and write something for me in this same box. It may not be for a month or two, even years. But you must immediately come when I summon you and write. Do you understand, Lucas Somerville?"

  Jesus, she even knew his name. He nodded and cleared his throat. "Yes, I understand," Luke said, unable to suppress the anxious curiosity in his tone.

  The woman turned and very carefully printed out two lines:

  RAZ L DAZ L

  For the discriminating gentleman.

  Luke stared raptly at the block for several moments.

  Of course this was it. He grinned inwardly. Just what he needed for the Friday meeting at Double B & A. Incorporating Daz L's name into the brand name of the scent; the name's memorable, the over-the-top-garishness seeming to clash with the line suggesting refined good taste, but actually fitting together perfectly. It resembled so much of his best work, based on the contrasting of images and words. Luke loved what the bag lady had written. Magic words. He looked into her mismatched, strange eyes again and nodded his approval.

  "Okay, Lucas Somerville, I will see you again here at this same hour sometime in the future." She made the pronouncement like a judge, her voice colder than the bay fog that had slipped into the alley around them. "Do not make me track you down."

  "I will be here at this same time whenever you call," Luke said, glancing at his wristwatch: 11:35 p.m., March seventeenth.

  The woman slipped past him, heading back out toward O'Farrell.

  Luke remained in place for a few seconds, wondering what had just happened. The rectangle with the funny symbols around it was blank, deep space again. He didn't believe in crazy-ass stuff like magic. Still, he couldn't hold back a shudder as he followed the strange old woman's footsteps back out to O'Farrell Street.

  After the enthusiastic Friday meeting at Double B & A, si
gnificant events unfolded quickly. During the national tour, Daz L became an overnight super-star, and almost immediately thereafter the cologne brand name and expression appeared on billboards across the country, right after debuting in every national magazine from Oprah to Sports Illustrated. Within six months, Raz L Daz L was the most popular men's fragrance in the U.S. The expression "Raz L Daz L for the discriminating gentleman" became as lauded in advertising promotional circles as "Where's the beef?" West Kingston Herbals, Ltd. became the largest employer in Trenchtown and soon in all of Kingston, eventually negotiating to have Raz L Daz L produced in two additional plants in Oakland and London to meet the escalating world demand. A TV ad, conceived and directed by Luke, appeared with Daz L standing between two gorgeous, skimpily dressed models, grinning and declaring in his thick Jamaican voice, "Hey, mon, Raz L Daz L da ladies."

  Soon after beginning the initial promotion for Raz L Daz L, Luke was putting in fourteen-hour days, often attending meetings in several different time zones and countries in the same day. In addition to the cologne, he promoted half a dozen other products, even a Saturday morning TV cartoon with the voice of Daz L. At the end of nine months, the singer's account at Double B & A was making money faster than the old U.S. Mint down on Fifth Street printing a new run of dollar bills.

  As the too-short days flew by and demands on his time increased, so did Luke's gauntness and the deep bags under his eyes. He'd even developed a permanent slight tremor in his hands. His appearance caused his friend Hubie Jensen to press him about his health.

  "Hubie, everything is fine. Busy and hectic, but just fine. Okay?"

  "And Lauren?"

  "Well, that isn't working out; Lauren's still coping with her substance abuse problem, you know?" That was a damn lie. Lauren was doing well in her recovery. He told himself that she left him because she just had too much competition. He had succumbed to his own hype and was using Raz L Daz L. The TV ad implication was indeed prophetic: the ladies loved it. But deep down he knew that his womanizing wasn't the reason Lauren had moved out. She'd gone soon after he'd brought up the subject of breast enhancement. In a teary voice she had insisted that he cared deeply about only two things: his job and coke.

  On St. Patrick's Day of 2005, Luke got an unexpected phone call. The message chilled him to his core. "Tomorrow you will come to the alley---"

  Luke slammed the phone down.

  Jesus. With the whirlwind craziness, he'd completely forgotten the spooky old bitch. He was due back in the Tenderloin the next night, back at that scary dark alley with its magical blank box and...what? He didn't know. It didn't matter because he wasn't going. No way. He ignored the phone's ring several times throughout the night.

  The next morning, Luke called in to his assistant at Double B & A, planning to take off sick, stay at home all day and night, out of harm's way.

  "Glad you called, Luke," Jamie said. "Got this nutty phone call early this morning on your unlisted private line. Sounded like an old lady, someone with a husky voice, anyhow. Left a cryptic message."

  "What'd she say?" he whispered hoarsely.

  "Well, it doesn't make any sense to me," Jamie replied. "But she said that either you write in the box or she'd be erasing words. Weird, huh?"

  He didn't say anything for a few moments, just stood there with the phone to his ear. His hand wouldn't stop trembling.

  "You still there, Luke?"

  He cleared his throat. "Yeah, Jamie. Thanks. Don't worry about the call. Probably just some kook, you know?"

  "Right."

  No matter what, the old lady's deal had really worked for him. The words had indeed been magical. He didn't want her, whoever she was, doing anything that would upset the momentum. No, he'd be there at 11:35 like he'd agreed, write whatever she wanted him to in that fucking box.

  The fog was exceptionally thick, making the denizens of the Tenderloin appear out of the mist on O'Farrell like apparitions. Even with the collar of his blue herringbone sport coat pulled up against the cold, Luke shivered as he quickly bypassed the ghostly figures and approached the fuzzy yellow light of the Corner Mart. There, waiting in the fog, stood the bag lady, peering at him with her strange eyes. He had hoped that somehow she wouldn't show.

  "Are you ready to write for me, Lucas Somerville?" she asked, moving closer.

  He nodded.

  "Come, then."

  Luke followed her into the alley, chilled to the bone in the foggy darkness, his heart thumping and his blood racing.

  At the end of the alley, the old woman stopped and produced a felt-tipped pen and a very thin black book from somewhere in her layers of garments. She handed the pen to Luke.

  "Now, you copy the old words from the book."

  She had opened the tattered book to a page, its border decorated with symbols akin to those around the box on the wall. It contained only one short sentence.

  Luke took the pen and squinted in the dim light at the unfamiliar words: Te adzari mazzeki O. Then, with cold, stiff fingers, he slowly transferred the expression into the blank rectangle.

  The bag lady murmured, "Akana mukav tut le Devlesa," as she backed slowly away. "I now leave you to God," she repeated in English. At that moment the box on the wall seemed to flare up as if on fire. Simultaneously, Luke thought he heard the sound of lightning ripping through dry air behind him.

  He pitched forward, his forehead striking the brick wall and his legs sagging as he collapsed into semi-consciousness.

  Minutes later, a tall, dark young woman dressed in a stylish blue herringbone jacket paused after emerging onto O'Farrell from the alley. She blinked in the glare of the streetlight and rubbed her unmatched eyes---one blue, the other brown---then glanced around and smiled broadly, feeling very young and alive.

  Meanwhile, back at the end of the alley, an old man sat on a piece of cardboard, staring with a stunned expression into a broken mirror he'd dug out of his nearby shopping cart. He rubbed his arthritic fingers above his left eye as if trying to erase the thin silver slash cutting through his dark eyebrow. After a minute or so, the strong reek of stale urine made his nostrils twitch, partially clearing his head. He traced the deeply etched wrinkles in his face, looked down at his scruffy clothes, and finally stared at the liver-spotted back of his gnarly hand as it gradually dawned on him what the bag woman had done with her magic words. Then, feeling a brief surge of hope, the old man murmured, "The book. I must find that black book," as he searched frantically in the surrounding debris.

  He never found it.

  Tombstones in His Eyes

  Junkies are hip,

  sometimes bold,

  often cool,

  but never old.

  ---graffito in the Haight

  Richie O'Brien was in a hurry; a big hurry.

  A summer fog had blown in from San Francisco Bay as evening settled, cooling off the city, but Richie's body was covered with a sweaty film that made his crotch and underarms feel gritty. His stomach was queasy, his bowels loose, and as he hiked up Powell into Chinatown, the muscles in his legs and arms began to ache as if they would cramp any moment.

  Hurry, man, hurry, his limbs screamed silently, a mute chorus of pain.

  For most of the morning, he had roamed the Haight in vain, surreptitiously checking the insides of cars, looking for something to boost. Finally, about eleven, he spotted a Fujiko camera in the back seat of a white Topaz, the window cracked down nearly an inch. He glanced about to make sure no one was watching, then had the door open in a few seconds with a wire coat hanger. It was closed again even more quickly. Feeling paranoid about the camera under his shirt, he watched a couple cross the street and stroll his way. They passed by and paid him no mind, so Richie joined a group of punk rockers moving the opposite direction, only partially restraining a giggle of triumph.

  When at last he reached the A-1 Pawnshop on Mission Street, it was almost noon, and the Russian had a long line of people waiting to see him. Richie joined the end of the line, and soon,
like most of the others ahead of him, he began to squirm, feeling uncomfortable, his crotch itching as if he'd picked up a case of crabs along with the camera. Ahead in line, a few others were even further gone than Richie, hopping back and forth on their feet, smoking one cigarette after another; some were even popping pills and swallowing them dryly. Richie wished he had some codeine or Valium to keep his jones at bay. Like some of the others in line, he hadn't fixed since the night before.

  After forty-five minutes or so, it was finally his turn.

  "Fif-teen dol-lars," announced the heavyset Russian in the wire cage after examining the Fujiko and looking up with his steely grey eyes.

  "Ah, man," Richie complained, his heart sinking, but he knew it was no use arguing. The Russian never negotiated with his early customers. He'd just shrug when one indignantly demanded more money, push the item back, and gesture for the next one in line to bypass the disgruntled customer. Richie snatched up the receipt and money, hustling out of the pawnshop past half a dozen people still in line. Some of them looked pretty strung out.

  On the sidewalk, Richie bit the knuckle of his right forefinger, thinking hard. He still needed ten bucks to score a quarter gram of Mexican Tar.

  "Yeah!" he shouted to himself, remembering the fake Muni fast passes Rudy Sanchez had given him the previous weekend. Rudy, Richie's boyhood friend who worked in a print shop on Castro, always had some scheme for turning a quick buck and usually included Richie in his plots. Right after high school, Richie had taken a fall when a Sanchez scheme turned sour, getting himself ninety days but not ratting out on his friend. During the ten years since, Rudy had often demonstrated his gratitude.

  Richie dug out his wallet, unwrapping the cellophane from the ten fast passes. He'd sell two, and he'd be in business. Grinning, he took off for Market Street, deciding on the stop at Tenth.

  On the Muni Island, he looked over the four people standing on the median, waiting for a bus. Richie decided to hit up the guy in the plaid sport jacket reading the green section of the Chronicle. Just before he flashed the phony pass, Richie saw a cop waiting to cross Market, looking in their direction. He decided to move back a stop uptown before trying to make a sale.