Taste of Tenderloin Read online

  So repeatedly, soon after each return to city life from the hospital, he gave up and just drifted, living off his disability checks, drinking and taking street drugs at the first of the month when he still had cash, occasionally being arrested. His social worker was usually able to talk the judge out of sending him to jail by promising to send Declan back to the psychiatric ward at the VA hospital. Most of the past eight years had been a monotonous blur.

  But after Declan's most recent release from the hospital, life had finally improved. He'd moved into his new apartment, stopped going to outpatient care at the VA center, and quit taking the mind-numbing meds. The only minor bump had been when Declan's social worker, Ms. Latisha, had come by one night the week before and hassled him about not going to outpatient at Clement. She'd also bugged him about religiously taking all his prescribed medication and staying off the dope and booze.

  "You will freak out again, hear and see shit not really there..." Yakety yakety yak.

  She threatened to send him back to the hospital if he didn't conform. Of course he didn't tell her he wasn't taking any of the damned pills. He just nodded and replied agreeably half a dozen times at appropriate moments during the harangue, "Yes, I will, Ms. L." or, "You are absolutely right, Ms. L."

  After she finally left, Declan sat in the folding chair and stared at the blank TV, feeling a little bummed out by her threats but knowing that, despite her warnings, his thinking was the sharpest it had been since the Storm. No hallucinations, no freaking out. Everything cool. Yes, indeed.

  A few minutes after declaring himself perfectly stable, Declan saw something strange materialize on the grey TV screen. A figure: Lady Justice. She appeared just like she did down at the Hall of Justice on Bryant: all in white, blindfolded, holding tipped scales. Really beautiful. For several moments he just stared, admiring her. Then, even though the statue's lips did not move, Declan heard a female voice in his head---not shrill and harping like Ms. L, but gentle and kind---and he knew it was the Lady Justice speaking to him.

  Declan Mulcahy, your country needs your services again. A top secret covert military operation. Do you understand?

  He nodded, then shut his eyes and concentrated, thinking: Yes, I understand you. What kind of operation?

  You will be a part of a special unit, each person operating independently, counteracting the Law of Catastrophic Isostasy---

  The law of what? he interrupted.

  Catastrophic Isostasy, Lady Justice repeated. You see, every time there is a major natural or man-made catastrophe somewhere in the world---floods, typhoons, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, bombings, that type of thing---there will be a corresponding disaster of equal magnitude occurring in this country. A kind of global balancing of violence.

  She paused at that point, allowing him a moment to process and understand the impact of the law.

  Unless, she continued, her voice rising slightly in pitch and volume, unless we intervene with a relatively minor amount of counterbalancing force. This is your job, a direct intervention preventing application of the Law of Catastrophic Isostasy. Do you understand?

  I---I am not sure, Declan thought.

  It's like homeostasis, the elements of the human body always tending to maintain a stable state of equilibrium. A question of balance. You remember that from biology in school?

  Yes, I think so.

  The Earth is just another organism maintaining a homeostatic balance among various elements, one action requiring a global counteraction: the Law of Catastrophic Isostasy. But if we intervene, react with a certain minimal level of effective force, then we can cancel out a much more devastating national disaster.

  It was getting clearer, making more sense. I see. But exactly what will we be doing to stop these terrible events from happening?

  We watch, Declan. TV newscasts like CNN; read the newspaper. We do everything possible to keep current on catastrophes as they occur in other parts of the world. Then... She paused again, continuing a moment later in a more business-like tone, Then we search locally, identify and terminate elements that originated in that other part of the world.

  Elements? Declan thought.

  Yes. For example, after an earthquake disaster in Japan, we must immediately eliminate a number of Japanese-Americans. Or after a flood on the Ivory Coast, a number of African-Americans will need to be sacrificed.

  You mean we must assassinate someone here to prevent a bigger natural disaster?

  Yes, but we use only volunteers. I recruit each of them prior to your visit.

  It was all clear now. Counteracting the Law of Catastrophic Isostasy made perfect sense to Declan. He would be balancing justice's scales. He felt a surge of excitement. He would be doing something valuable, contributing to his country's welfare. Like what he'd been trained to do in the Marines.

  This is all highly secret, Declan Mulcahy. Discuss this with no one, especially your social worker.

  No, I understand, Declan thought. She gets only name, rank, serial number, and date of birth.

  Lady Justice actually chuckled.

  Several nights later, on the channel two 10:00 p.m. news, Declan saw the announcement of the typhoon sweeping across the East China Sea, devastating a tiny village on the coast southwest of Pusan, Korea. Over a hundred casualties. After he turned off the TV, he was visited by Lady Justice on the blank screen, who gave him his first assignment: the termination of all three members of the Pak family.

  A week after the successful operation at the Korean grocery, Declan watched the tail end of a CNN broadcast on a big screen at The Good Guys on Geary Street. A small village in the Chilean Andes had been almost totally destroyed that morning by a volcanic eruption; one hundred and twenty-five villagers were missing or identified as dead. He watched for a few more minutes, recognizing the potential hazard to his country---Catastrophic Isostasy would soon be kicking in, if something were not done quickly.

  Declan hurried to the closest Muni stop and caught a bus for home.

  Inside his apartment in the heart of the 'loin, he took his seat and waited, staring at the blank TV screen. He didn't have to wait long, only a few minutes, before Lady Justice appeared.

  Ah, Declan, you know about the village in the Andes?

  Yes.

  This time, your operation involves only one target. Edwina Sanchez, a recent illegal immigrant from Chile, a man who dresses like a woman and works the sex trade in the Tenderloin. He is very tall---six foot two---speaks with a heavy Spanish accent, and usually wears a blonde wig. Late in the evening, Edwina solicits business in front of the Majestic Arms Hotel around the corner on Jones. You must complete the operation tonight. Is all that clear?

  Yes, it is, Declan thought, nodding.

  Your acquaintance on the scooterboard will be able to help locate Edwina Sanchez.

  Declan knew she was referring to his friend Short Stuff, a double-leg amputee Marine vet of Vietnam, now a street hustler who knew everything that happened in the 'loin.

  As it got dark, traffic increased on Jones Street. Some cars slowed as they moved by the Majestic and a chilling fog clung to the dirty brick facade of the once grand hotel where many of the ground-floor rooms were now available for a $5-hourly rate.

  When Declan first walked up, Sweet Jane hit on him, all tricked out in her low-cut red blouse, black vinyl miniskirt, and red high heels. She grabbed him possessively, rubbing her breasts against his arm and licking her glossy lips suggestively. "Hey, man, you ready to party or what?" the redhead asked, her heavy perfume flaring Declan's nostrils.

  He shook his head but smiled. "Can't tonight, Sweet Jane. Looking for Edwina?"

  "Tall tranny, speaks funny?"

  He nodded.

  "Hey, man, whatcha want with that fake shit?" she asked, reaching down with one hand and making a lewd grabbing gesture at her own crotch. "You know you got the real thing right here."

  "Nah, it ain't like that," he explained, embarrassed by her implication. "This ain't actually a part
ying deal. He owes a friend some money."

  Sweet Jane smiled and winked. "Okay, man, see you later then?"

  "We'll see," he said, not explaining that he'd given up all forms of partying. No drugs, booze, or women since he'd first been visited by Lady Justice.

  The redhead moved away, exaggerating her hip swing for Declan's benefit. He watched her walk half a block, then wave at an emerald green Mercury Topaz that braked and pulled over to the curb. A moment or two of negotiation, then Sweet Jane hopped into the front seat of the car. She'd caught a live one.

  Around 11:00 p.m., Declan spotted his amputee friend pushing his way on his scooterboard along the sidewalk.

  "Yo," Declan said, offering his fist.

  "'Sup, Irish?" Double S said, lightly punching Declan's knuckles.

  "Just kicking here at the hotel, watching for Edwina," Declan said, trying to sound casual. "You know the dude? He owes my friend money."

  "Yep, jus' seen him workin' traffic 'round the corner by Homeboy's 'bout ten minutes ago," Double S answered, firing up a smoke.

  "All right, bro, buy yourself a taste," Declan said. He tapped Double S's fist again and slipped him a couple of bucks before limping off for the liquor store around the corner.

  Declan lured Edwina down an alley half a block up from Homeboy's with a $20 bill paid in advance for quick sex. As the tall transvestite kneeled on a piece of cardboard in the darkened alley, Declan carefully slipped his Colt from the back of his Levi's and aimed the handgun down at Edwina's blonde wig. Time for Lady Justice to be served, man, he thought as movement and perception shifted down into super slow-motion.

  As if privy to the thought, the Chilean glanced up from unzipping Declan's jeans with a frightened expression, just a long moment before the trigger squeeze and the sharp crack of the .357.

  This time Declan had inserted two pieces of cotton into his ears. Protected from the deafening crack of the weapon, he watched the kneeling man slump forward at his feet. Slowly, he moved back to a dumpster, selected a sheet of cardboard, and covered the skimpily-dressed transvestite. Again, he felt little emotion. He realized that Edwina Sanchez had been terminated as one unit, a small part of a larger plan---a self-sacrificing volunteer.

  Time, perception, and movement all quickly returned to normal as Declan slipped away from the dead body. He paused at the mouth of the alley to ensure bypassers had not heard the shot. No one paid him any attention as he left the alley and headed for his apartment.

  The figure materialized on the grey screen, her scales perfectly balanced.

  Declan was jumpy the next evening, worrying the police would come by. He didn't want them picking him up and interrupting his participation in Lady Justice's secret operation. Not now, he prayed silently. I am finally doing something worthwhile, something good. Yes, indeed.

  At 9:00 p.m. he went out to walk off his unease.

  It was Friday night and the 'loin was rocking. The sidewalks were crowded with people shouting, laughing, buying and selling; music blared from the bars and second story open windows along the street. Cars squealed, braking and honking. Buses deposited clouds of diesel fumes over it all. Noisy, sweaty, smelly.

  Declan wandered for a few minutes, ending up at the alley near Homeboy's, surprised there was no crime scene yellow tape around the site. He glanced down the alley; the cardboard shroud was gone, the body of the dead transvestite obviously removed. Apparently no big deal, no big loss...almost like it hadn't really happened.

  The last thought struck a negative chord.

  Declan could hear Ms. L's admonition about taking his meds very clearly over the street hubbub: You will freak out again, hear and see shit that isn't really there.

  Jesus, was he just freaking out again?

  Maybe the whole thing was just in his head---seeing Lady Justice on his blank TV, the Law of Catastrophic Isostasy, the whole special operation. Summarized simply like that, it did sound kind of crazy.

  Could that be?

  For a moment, Declan was confused. Then he recovered his poise and told himself emphatically, "No, Ms. L. is wrong!"

  Declan was one hundred percent sure he'd scored the Colt from a street hustler, Big Henry, the previous week over on Turk Street. He was positive that a week ago he'd really terminated the Pak family. Last night he'd shot Edwina, too.

  "Whassup, man?"

  The dude in the Army cams had come out of Homeboy's with his brown bag and slipped up quietly enough to startle Declan.

  "You a Marine?" the guy asked, gesturing toward the faded USMC patch on Declan's field jacket.

  "Yeah, I was once."

  "You do the Gulf and the Storm?"

  Declan nodded.

  "What unit?"

  "Force Recon."

  "Heavy," the guy said, as if approving the answer. "I did the Storm, too, but as regular Army infantry. Buy you a drink?" He held up the brown bag and gestured toward the alley.

  Declan hesitated a second---he'd drunk no alcohol since becoming part of the secret operation. Why not?

  "Sure."

  He followed the Storm vet a few steps into the darkness. The dude slipped the brown paper bag down off his bottle, unscrewed the top off the half-empty forty-ouncer, then wiped the mouth clean before he handed it over to Declan.

  Declan nodded, accepted the bag, and took a long pull on the Old English malt liquor. It was cold and sharp. Wiping his mouth, he said, "Hey thanks, man, that hit the spot," and handed the bagged forty-ouncer back.

  That's when Declan saw it.

  The guy was pointing a .45 automatic, military issue, at his chest.

  Lady ordered up your raggedy ass, man. You prob'ly didn't see the bombing on the news from Belfast?

  Pulse racing, Declan just shook his head numbly.

  I.R.A. action last night at a pub in the downtown protestant section. Bomb wasted three, including a member of parliament, and wounded another dozen. No telling how many'll get whacked during payback.

  Declan opened his mouth to speak aloud and complain that the Lady hadn't contacted him. He wasn't a volunteer for this end of the operation, even though he was indeed Irish-American. Was this how his role in the operation ended, so suddenly? His last contribution to the cause a self-sacrifice? He smiled wryly and nodded acceptance, closing his mouth without speaking. After all, who was he really? An unemployed, scruffy, disabled vet---probably even mentally ill, like the shrinks all agreed. He was indeed insignificant. Even so, he was still a small cog in a much greater mechanism.

  The .45 flashed in the darkness.

  Declan never heard the shot.

  Despite his gritty resignation to a grim fate, Declan didn't die instantly in that alley. The .45 round hit him in the chest, breaking a pair of ribs, puncturing a lung, tearing a saucer-sized exit wound in his back, but remarkably missing his heart and all other vital organs. Three hours after being shot, Declan still clung to life, in critical condition, on full support in the trauma ward at San Francisco General Hospital.

  Alive, but unconscious and completely unaware of the 6.4 earthquake that rattled the city that morning at 12:25 a.m.

  The Apotheosis of Nathan McKee

  Jelly Doughnuts

  Nathan McKee sat completely naked, except for his taped ribs, on the foot of his bed in his drab room in the Hotel Reo. Tiny beads of sweat popped out on his pale body, forehead, and upper lip as he waited with a rising sense of nervous anticipation. He wondered if the altered state would hit him again that evening---a rare emotional and speculative state of mind.

  Nathan hadn't felt or thought much of anything since his wife, Geri, and their son, Davy, had died in an automobile accident near Kezar Stadium ten years before. For most of the past decade he'd aimlessly wandered the Tenderloin district of San Francisco in a numbed daze, his sensibilities usually anesthetized by liberal dozes of Old English, Gallo Tokay, and Wild Irish Rose. Once a hard-charging tailored suit on Montgomery Street in the financial district, he'd squandered everything since the accide
nt, lucky now to even own a threadbare, greasy navy blue topcoat. If it weren't for the monthly SSI checks, he would have been sleeping in a cardboard tent in an alley. As it was, Nathan always found himself panhandling at the end of each month just to make ends meet---a fifty-year-old drunken bum.

  He'd been booze-free for an entire week, ever since he'd been badly beaten and experienced a grand mal seizure over on O'Farrell Street near Homeboy's on Friday. The ass-kicking had resulted in a heavily medicated four-day stay in San Francisco General. Yes, indeed, still clean and sober after being back on the street unsupervised for three days---in-fucking-credible.

  Nathan waited, relishing his accelerated pulse rate, the slight adrenaline rush, and his heightened sensibility. He gazed with interest out the sixth story dirty window that faced westerly over Jones Street, watching the sun as it began to drop out of sight behind the buildings along Van Ness hill, streaking the clouded sky with neon oranges and violets.

  He knew he didn't have long to wait.

  As dusk settled over the 'loin, Nathan again experienced the familiar onset of the anticipated seizure, exactly like the two nights since being released from SF Gen: a sudden, painful tightening of the muscles in the pit of his stomach that doubled him over, followed immediately by a rapid increase in his heart rate. A moment later, an apparent forty-degree drop in the room temperature chilled his sweaty body, making him clench his teeth. He groaned, upright but partially paralyzed, his breathing labored. His vision tunneled, and Nathan slipped into that other place...

  Disoriented, dizzy, nauseated...surroundings surreal, deep in a cold, dark cavern. Drawn toward blinding lights, then stopping suddenly...like standing in the dark backstage of an empty theatre and peering into glaring floodlights, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of an onrushing car.