Taste of Tenderloin Read online

  He was strung out that day, pretty bad, missing a fix the night before and not scoring that morning, but keeping his jones at bay with codeine and Valium. Finally, he sold a pair of boosted car stereos to a fence he knew for twenty dollars and got enough tar for a short fix for both him and Lisha. With all the codeine and Valium in his system, he quit breathing right after shooting up. Lisha, scared shitless and shaky herself, dumped him in front of emergency at San Francisco General and sped off in her beat-up VW bug.

  The next thing Richie knew, he was staring up into a nurse's face.

  "That's right," she said, a mixed expression on her face---half relief, half disgust, "you overdosed on heroin. We gave you a shot of Narcon, an opiate blocker. You're going to be okay, this time."

  "Water?" he asked hoarsely, realizing he was on a gurney in the hallway just outside the emergency room.

  Nearby, another guy was stretched out, a hand on his bandaged head, moaning, "The muthahfuckah kicked me."

  The nurse nodded and said, "You stay put, I'll be back in a second."

  As soon as she disappeared through a nearby door, he got up and took off, hustling quickly out of the hospital even though his legs were rubbery and he still felt badly shaken.

  Richie finished the milkshake, mulling it all over in his head, trying to think clearly. It was hard.

  He knew he should quit, but at the farm? Man, that'd be almost like going to the slam. And all that higher power jazz in the steps that Lisha was so stoked on. Giving yourself up to God?

  No way, man.

  He could do it himself, real soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Yeah, why not? Tomorrow, he'd kick.

  Absently, Richie flipped on Lisha's answering machine. He'd tried to hock it the week before, but it was so old the Russian wouldn't give him anything for it, not even a five spot. But it still worked well enough for him to hear the excitement in Rudy Sanchez's voice:

  "Yo, Richie. Got to see you, man---" There was a pause and Richie thought his friend was restraining a giggle. "Got a deal, a big one this time. Call me at the print shop or come by at four, when I get off. Do it, man, our ship has finally come in. This is the big one!"

  Richie grinned to himself. Another scheme. He wondered what this one would be. He had no idea, but he would be over at the print shop on Castro to cash in when Sanchez got off.

  There was another message on the machine.

  "Richie, this is your mother. Oh, Richie how could you do it again? You said the methadone program was ninety percent successful. But Lisha has told me the whole story..." She paused long enough that Richie was about to turn the machine off, then he heard, "Son, this thing Lisha has gone through can work. That farm's a good place. She's sure. I'm sure. And I can get most of the money right now. Lisha says her aunt will loan us the rest, until I can refinance the house. You've got to go up there to that program. Please say yes, Richie. Call me today. I love you, son."

  For a moment, Richie had a twinge of shame.

  He'd conned his mother out of hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars---Just this month, Ma, to help with the rent---until she'd found out what he and Lisha had really been doing with the money. Even then she had paid for the methadone treatment. But she'd gotten smart, making out the check for three hundred and eighty to the clinic and giving it to them directly.

  Okay, Mom, he pledged silently, tonight will be it. He raised his hand in a kind of sworn pledge gesture.

  I'm going to kick. Tomorrow.

  That was it. Official.

  He sighed, checking the clock: 2:50.

  Better get it together and hustle over to Sanchez's. He needed some bread before he could see Mr. Doom for the last time.

  "Come in here a minute, Richie," Rudy said, gesturing to the bathroom at the back of the print shop, his dark eyes shiny with excitement. "You ain't going to believe this, man."

  Richie wiped his nose, glanced back at the two employees and the waiting customers, then followed his friend into the little restroom.

  Rudy locked the door, reached into his shirt, and brought out a brown paper bag. He slipped his hand in and withdrew two bundles of money, each held tightly with a thick rubber band. He thumbed through one roll of bills. They were all twenties. "Take it, man, that one is yours."

  Dumbfounded, Richie took it, thumbing the bills himself.

  "Twenty-five in each bundle," Rudy announced. "Five hundred bucks, man. Go on, count yours."

  Richie fingered the bundle, counting the twenties. He glanced up at his friend. "There's twenty-five all right."

  "And...?"

  Richie shrugged. "And what? There are twenty-five twenties here...five hundred dollars, right?"

  Rudy giggled. "It's funny money, man."

  "Counterfeit?" Richie said, taking a closer look at the top bill. He rubbed it between his fingers. It looked okay, but maybe the green color was off slightly, too dark, and the paper did feel funny, a little slicker than a regular bill.

  "Yeah, pretty good, huh?" Rudy said. His face lit up with a big smile. "I only paid fifty bucks for each bundle."

  "From who, man?"

  Rudy's expression sobered. "You don't need to know that, Richie. If you and I can move this thousand, I can buy a real bundle. Ten grand!"

  Richie looked down at the bundle of twenties again. "Man, our ship did finally come in."

  "Yeah, but you got to hustle, man," Rudy said, stuffing his bundle into his pocket. "We got to push each roll by eleven tomorrow morning. Here's the way I see it: we make small purchases, like a pack of cigarettes at a liquor store, a sandwich at a 7-Eleven, you understand. Get as much change as possible, maybe four hundred fifty or sixty for each roll. Then I can buy the ten grand from my source at noon. You in, man?"

  "Hey, I'm in!"

  Richie stuffed the wad of twenties into his pants pocket. The memory of the note from Lisha, the phone call from his Mom, and his pledge were already forgotten. This was going to work. No more getting sick, sweating his next fix.

  "Okay, let's get busy," Rudy said, unlocking the restroom door. "Meet you at your place tomorrow morning at ten."

  Richie nodded and started out the door.

  Rudy grabbed his arm, his face uncharacteristically screwed up with concern. "Don't fuck me up on this one, pal. Be at your place at eleven with the good bills."

  "Hey, man, I'll be there."

  After buying packs of cigarettes at two different convenience stores four blocks apart, Richie realized that it would take some time and hustling to get rid of all twenty-five bills this way. He'd have to cover the whole frigging town. Standing in front of the 7-Eleven, he lit a Winston and inhaled.

  Nah, there was a better way, faster. He could turn the remaining bogus four-sixty into even more, make a little profit before seeing Rudy and giving him his four-fifty. Richie grinned to himself.

  Yeah!

  The black minivan was parked almost in the same spot on Powell, but there was a lot of foot traffic in Chinatown this early in the evening. Richie waited nervously a block away, smoking and watching, until the foot traffic finally thinned out.

  He moved closer.

  "Say, homes, 'sup?" said Sandman, stepping out from the nearby alley just like the previous night. He gestured for Richie to follow him back into the darkness.

  Richie followed, assuming the position to be frisked. Sandman's hand paused at Richie's front pants pocket and tapped the bundle of phony money.

  "Bread?"

  Richie nodded, feeling a little rush of adrenaline.

  "How much bidness y'all wanna do, homes?"

  "Want to buy some wholesale, be the bagman myself," Richie answered, turning around and pulling out the bundle of twenties.

  "That right?" Sandman said. Even in the dim light, Richie could read the doubt on his face, but the ex-fighter recovered quickly. "Ya'll score a bank?"

  Richie shook his head.

  "How much ya holding?"

  "Four hundred sixty."

  "'Kay. Let me check the man," San
dman said. "Y'all stay put." The big man went over to the minivan and unlocked the side door. He disappeared inside while Richie smoked in the alley. After a minute or so, Sandman emerged from the vehicle and nodded at Richie.

  "Y'all in luck, homes," he said, beckoning with one hand. "Mr. Doom says send ya in." He slid the door open. "Be cool."

  Now that he was close to making a big deal, Richie's chest tightened and his mouth went dry.

  Again, the inside of the van felt like an ice cavern, and Mr. Doom was dressed the same as the night before, all in black. He nodded as Richie sat down on the floor of the vehicle. "Mis-ter ah-Brien. Sandman, he say you want to do real business?"

  "Yeah, I want to buy some wholesale."

  For the first time since they'd met, Mr. Doom smiled slightly. "Mis-ter ah-Brien, then you be competitor?"

  "Not with you, Mr. Doom," Richie said a little too loudly. He was beginning to sweat. "I'll probably work down on Sixteenth, you know, competing with the guys on the street."

  "That very dangerous."

  Richie forced a smile. "I know, but nothing ventured, nothing gained."

  The lack of expression returned to Mr. Doom's face. "How much you expect to buy?" he asked, nodding at Richie's bundle.

  "Ten grams?" Richie answered hoarsely, his tongue almost sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  Mr. Doom shook his head sadly. "Maybe seven better."

  "Okay," Richie agreed, handing over the roll of bogus twenties, the sweat beginning to roll down his sides under his shirt and windbreaker. He knew this was the moment. If Mr. Doom even suspected the money was fake, he'd call Sandman, who would probably haul him into the alley and waste him right there.

  To his surprise, Mr. Doom didn't even count the money. He just stuffed it, still banded, into the cache in the upholstered wall of the van. In his hand, he held a large clear bag full of smaller cellophane baggies. "Seven gram," he declared, handing Richie the heroin.

  Richie reached out, his hand trembling slightly.

  But Mr. Doom didn't let go of the dope. "Partnership built on trust. I trust you?" he asked, the ice in his voice matching the chilling temperature inside the minivan.

  Richie nodded vigorously.

  The little man released the bag and leaned forward, extending his right hand. "Mis-ter ah-Brien, we partners."

  Richie accepted the cold shake, staring into the strange eyes and finally recognizing the shape of the pupils.

  Jesus, they were tombstones. And it wasn't the light. He swallowed hard, then struggled up into a stooped posture, ready to go.

  Mr. Doom grabbed the sleeve of Richie's windbreaker and held him in place with a surprising amount of strength from a person so small. Richie turned back to face him. "Partner cheat, partner gone," Mr. Doom whispered in his creepy burr, the message very clear.

  The night is the same, with all the dark tones, but something about the alley is different. You pause at the mouth, your senses hyper-alert.

  It is the smell, of course.

  The cloying sweet smell of death hangs heavy in the darkness, almost a tangible thing; you have the feeling that you can almost reach out and touch it, this smell. Still, you force yourself to move forward, one step after another, compelled by some inner need...or something in the alley drawing you to it, like the magnetism between the flute and the cobra. The smell filling your nostrils is so strong that you stop and almost retch.

  At that moment you hear something deep in the blackness of the alley, a sound so short in duration you are unable to describe or recall it. It frightens you, nevertheless. Your chest is tight, your limbs stiff. It is only with maximum effort that you are able to force your legs to move. But you do move forward, cautiously, down the middle of the alley, peering into the darkness, the odor forgotten. Again you sense the presence of someone watching you, the feeling making your skin prickle. You turn, half expecting to see the giant at the mouth of the alley. No, nothing. Someone is waiting ahead. Someone who makes the strange, frightening noise.

  Carefully, you move deeper and deeper into the quiet, still darkness.

  The sound again disturbs the stillness: a short grunt mixed with a throaty cough. Yes, that's it.

  An unnatural sound.

  You stop as the clouds draw apart, and even the end of the alley is flooded with moonlight. You peer at the dead end, expecting to see the ex-fighter, expecting to peer into the barrel of his gun. You squint, and even in the dim light you realize the bodyguard is not there. No, but there is a shadow, stretching out toward you. As the shadow touches your feet, you feel the temperature instantly plunge and you shiver. Strange...

  Another cough-grunt and your gaze is drawn up to the roof of the end wall. You gasp loudly at the source of the shadow and the weird sound.

  The dragon!

  The snow dragon, clinging to the roof edge like some hideous gargoyle, breathing plumes of steam into the icy atmosphere.

  The white monster peers down on you like a hawk staring down at a mouse. In the moonlight, it is terrifying but magnificent, its body shining like the finest alabaster, its penetrating gaze black as ebony. It is the gaze that holds you locked in place as the great creature unfurls its wings. The huge span casts a shadow over most of the alley.

  Spellbound, you watch as the creature prepares to leap into the air, its long talons curling and gripping the roof's edge, the tremendous wingspan beating a downblast of icy air that crashes into your face like the wind of an arctic storm.

  Rinnng! The sound is faint and distant. Too distant.

  The great snow dragon is airborne, circling overhead, gaining momentum. Finally, it is swooping down at you, its fanged mouth open, breathing a fiery ball of tumbling blue.

  You are engulfed in the ball of blue flame; an invisible, icy hand crushes the life from your body. But in that last nanosecond of life you smile, recognizing the irony: the dragon has freed you.

  Rudy Sanchez broke in and found Richie stretched out on his mattress the next morning, eyes staring into eternity, a surprising smile on his face. Beside Richie on the floor, Rudy found a candle, two empty baggies, a burnt spoon with a cotton ball, a foot of rubber surgical cord, and a hypodermic.

  Rudy shook his head, knowing that Richie had finally screwed up once too often. He stared down at his friend, wondering what had caused that smile.

  In addition to Richie's smile, there was something else that struck Rudy as odd.

  Richie's pupils weren't pinned, the normal condition for a user of opiates. Just the opposite: they were dilated, arched at the top, squared off at the bottom.

  "Strange," Rudy whispered aloud.

  For Gavin, who has battled the dragon

  Bushido

  "They are all perfect!"

  Katsumoto's final words, The Last Samurai

  The Ugly Man paused at the mouth of his alley and pulled up the hood of his black sweatshirt. Gathering in the darkness around himself, he stepped out into the foggy night. He shuffled down O'Farrell Street like a wounded panther, limping along under the shadowed overhangs, staying close to the barred and chained storefronts. As usual, none of the denizens of San Francisco's Tenderloin even glanced in his direction. He'd once read, or probably heard, someplace in the distant past that disfigured or ugly---really ugly---people, instead of drawing attention, were actually almost invisible. Normal adults looked away, quickly wiping out what they'd glimpsed and passing by as if the ugly person didn't even exist---a subconscious wish fulfillment reaction, perhaps. That had indeed been the Ugly Man's experience in the 'loin. When he managed to avoid making any but cursory eye contact, he moved about in the nighttime shadows with complete anonymity, unacknowledged, unseen, feeling almost like an imaginary creature with no name.

  It was long after midnight---the time of heavy buying and selling in the 'loin. Music and laughter blared from seedy bars. The street was littered with empty bottles, plastic wrappers, and discarded food scraps. Those law-abiding residents with an indoor address in the 'loin had long
ago disappeared from the streets for the safety behind closed and double-locked doors, leaving a handful of cops and the unsavory crowd of night people. A level of nervous tension hung in the misty air over the mob of shifty-eyed dealers, dead-eyed junkies, heavily mascara-eyed hookers, steely-eyed pimps, and the vacant-eyed homeless, all scurrying about with an agenda like a scattered pack of abandoned dogs scavenging for scraps. The Ugly Man slipped along, bypassing a rheumy wino who argued loudly with an imaginary friend in a littered doorway. He made absolutely no lingering eye contact, avoiding any communication, a disabled phantom of the street.

  Usually he avoided the late night crowd in the Tenderloin altogether, but it was the final day of the month, and he had used up the last of his SSI money two days prior. He harbored only a wrinkled dollar bill and a pocketful of change, most of which he'd acquired selling aluminum cans earlier in the evening over in the Mission. His dire financial circumstances had forced him to skip his early morning trip down to Wild Bill's Liquor Store on Leavenworth. He'd delayed his evening trip too long. His hands were shaking badly, his mouth dry and metallic, his body covered with clammy sweat under his clothes despite the penetrating chill that hung in the air. As he dragged his aching right leg along, he felt a growing nausea. Still, he carefully kept to the shadows, shuffling along until the green neon of Wild Bill's glowed fuzzily ahead in the fog. Sighing with relief, the Ugly Man pulled his threadbare black hood down, completely exposing his horribly disfigured features.

  At the doorway he paused and glanced down, waiting for a pair of customers to leave the liquor store. Then he limped directly to the counter. The Indian clerk recognized the Ugly Man immediately and announced with a slightly British accent, "Ham and cheese sandwich and pint of Wild Irish Rose, right?"