Soon the Rest Will Fall (6 page)

 

Twilight shadowed Market Street with ruby and violet rays. The Fox Plaza tower and the Bank of America building were smothered in a copper red haze. The windows of the abandoned marijuana emporium at 1440 Market were black and dull. The McDonald's at Eleventh and Market overflowed with customers. Cars, tourist busses, and delivery trucks snaked up the boulevard to Van Ness Avenue.

Robert stopped the Hillman in front of the Trinity Plaza Apartments and got out. He did a couple of deep-knee bends to get the crick out of his back. The deer was tied with bungee cords to the car's roof. Untying them, he yanked the buck toward him. The beast's antlers harpooned the antenna and snapped it in half. The carcass slid over the windshield to the hood, leaving blood on the paint.

With the deliberation of a scientist, Robert wrestled the deer to the ground. Then he pulled a knife from his belt, slit the creature's belly, and reached in for its liver. Slicing off a chunk of it, he cut the gall bladder and dabbed a piece of the organ meat with the bladder's juice. Thrusting the confection in his mouth, he chewed vigorously. The flesh was tart. The gall was tastier than mayonnaise. What a condiment.

Done with his snack, he sawed the deer open from ass to mouth. Robert put a hand in the incision, tore out the heart, intestines, kidneys, and gall bladder, and threw the guts on the gravel. Removing the hide, he laid it on the sedan's front bumper. The brown and white deerskin was flecked with weeds, shoots of grass, and the petals of wild flowers.

His wife and daughter bustled downstairs to gawk at the deer. Proud of himself, Robert hailed his womenfolk. “Pretty nifty, huh? The meat ought to last us a while once I get the shit in the fridge. We'll have venison steaks for weeks.”

Harriet wanted no part of it. “Robert?”

Wiping the gory knife on his jeans, he grinned. “Yeah, babe?”

“Are you nuts?”

“I don't know.” He was neutral. “Why?”

“You can't kill a deer like that.”

Robert's shaved scalp was aglow under the fading sun. “Well, golly, I just did.”

“The cops are gonna get you.”

“Not this time.”

“Because you're lucky.”

“Gimme a break, will you? Daddy knows what he's doing.”

Robert's eyes were as resolute as copper pennies. He didn't appreciate Harriet's lip. She'd matured while he was in the joint. She used to be timid and shit—too busy with the kid to give him any guff. Now she was self-assertive. It was hellish.

“You're not even supposed to have any guns,” she said.

“Yeah, me and half this fucking country.”

Severing the legs and the haunches, Robert filleted the meat, dirtying his shirt. “I've got to get this stuff indoors before the bugs devour it. When I'm done with that, I'm going to stretch the hide and tan it. It'll make a real fine rug for Christmas.”

The deer's ghost rose from its body. It was a white light no more substantial than a stain of Crisco oil. It spiraled
over Market Street, the Trinity Plaza Apartments, and the tenements in the Tenderloin, ascending into the indigo blue sky. Diana watched the light, how it flickered milky and then frost white, until it was nothing.

When Robert finished skinning the deer hide, it was nightfall. It was too unpleasant to stay at home. Even with the air conditioner on, the apartment was an oven. After taking a long shower, he slipped into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt. He cornered Harriet in the kitchen. “I've got an idea,” he said.

She was beginning to relish his ideas less and less. “What's that?”

“Let's go for a ride. I hear there's a fireworks show we can catch at the Embarcadero. Could be fun.”

Preparations for the trip were minimal. Unloading the guns from the Hillman was the primary chore. The kid was in corduroy cut-offs and a blue hooded sweatshirt with a yellow bandanna. She was put in the backseat with a six-pack of Coors. Harriet was in suede sandals, a denim miniskirt, and a spaghetti strap blouse. She propped her feet on the dashboard. Robert jumped in the sedan and started the engine.

“Ready?” he asked.

Harriet licked her lips. “Yes.”

“You know what, baby?”

“What?”

“Like, earlier?” Robert was contrite and hesitant. “I
didn't mean to bring you down with the deer or nothing. You know what I'm saying?”

“Robert?”

“Yeah?”

“All you ever do is think about yourself.”

Hearing this from Harriet was hurtful. Robert coaxed the sedan out of the parking lot and onto Market Street. The radio had on Gene Chandler's soul hit “Rainbow.” The song quieted Robert's temper and wove the magic of nostalgia around his wounded ego.

 

Junkies clustered at Carl's Jr. and in the UN Plaza. The sidewalks were rife with tourists in shorts and polo shirts, guys in wheelchairs, working girls in leotards and trench coats. Office workers assembled at the bus stops. Filipino ladies in khakis and baseball hats lugged shopping bags of food. Homeless women and men on overturned milk crates drank and gambled at the mouth of McAllister and Market near the emptied Hibernia Bank and the Boyd Hotel. Nickel bag dealers loafed outside the Market Express Barber Shop.

Christmas lights sparked in the Nordstrom department store, the Social Security Administration office, and the Crazy Horse Gentlemen's Club. Winos manned the doorways to the House of Blue Jeans, Kaplan's Surplus & Sport Goods, and Hollywood Billiards. Suffering from heat-stroke, pigeons were falling off the phone lines. The pavement was peppered with their inert bodies.

A lone police officer directed traffic at the intersection of Fifth and Market. The cop strutted on the yellow dividing line in the road, waving a white-gloved hand at passing cars. Crisp and natty in a blue dress uniform, his
tanned face was under a Santa Claus hat. Recognizing him, Robert grumbled. “I know that dirtbag.”

Harriet was tense. Her radar was up. “Who is he?”

“One of the dorks that messed with us on San Bruno Mountain the other night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I'm sure. I'd know that fucker anywhere. What a twerp. Who does he think he is?”

“Please don't do anything stupid.”

“I'm not, I'm not. I'm just talking. Is that okay with you?”

“Then keep driving.”

He wouldn't leave it alone. “I hate him. Look at his damn shoes.”

The cop had on nondescript black oxfords, footwear for squares. Oxfords were an insult to anyone with decent taste. They represented boredom and mediocrity. A guy in oxfords never got the pretty girl. He was never the life of the party.

Robert had a grudge against the officer, the result of the brouhaha on the hill. When no one had been looking, the lawman had rabbit-punched Robert in the kidneys.

“The son of a bitch,” he fumed. “I ought to kick his butt. Teach him a lesson for fucking with me.”

Harriet advised him. “Don't do it.”

“The hell with that.” Pressing down on the gas pedal, Robert steered the car over the yellow line. His hands were knuckle white on the wheel. His scalp drowned in perspiration. A drop of sweat ran down the bridge of his nose and fell in his lap. He shifted into first gear and said, “Here we go, nice and easy.”

The Hillman was doing five miles per hour when it smacked the cop in the knees with the front bumper. Targeted
him with the remorseless accuracy of a guided missile. The officer's Santa Claus hat went one way. His Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses flew off. His nine-millimeter stainless steel Ruger pistol was unholstered and clattered to the asphalt. He somersaulted and then landed on his rump, feet splayed, arms akimbo.

Robert didn't stick around to gloat. Putting the Hillman in reverse, he executed a neat U-turn, avoiding the oncoming traffic, and peeled out in the other direction. Following this accomplishment he drove west on Market Street with the gas pedal to the floor. Two black-and-white squad cars and an ambulance sped the other way with their sirens ululating.

Pulling up to the stoplight at Market and Seventh by the Donut Star coffee shop, Robert jammed on the brakes. A homeless man had overturned a shopping cart in the crosswalk. Smashed beer bottles were spread out on the tarmac, glinting like diamonds under the halogen streetlights.

 

Back at the Trinity Plaza Apartments, Robert piled out of the car and gave instructions to Harriet and Diana. His voice was authoritative. “Okay, listen up. The cops will come after me for this caper. It's guaranteed. You can bet your sweet ass on it. But fuck that. I'll outsmart them.”

Harriet wasn't confident. “What should we do?”

“You and the brat keep your damn mouths shut when they get here, all right?”

“That's your plan? God help us.”

“Hell, no, that's not it. That's the prologue. You think I'm stupid?”

“Don't ask me.”

“C'mon then. We're going to Rita's.”

Rita was a widow who lived in the apartment next door. Robert concocted a ruse on the walk there. The ex-con was pleased with his ingenuity. “I've got something, a masterpiece. When the cops arrive, I'll tell them we've been watching the tube with Rita all night. The car's been nowhere. Why, we never even went downtown, you understand? That's our alibi. It's foolproof.”

The plucky trio filed into Rita's pad. The old woman was glad for the unannounced visit. The girl sat on a sofa in the living room, hood over her head, and watched a Christmas variety show on television. Harriet paced the floor, not saying a word. Rita withdrew to the kitchen to brew coffee. Robert stood at the window.

Five minutes later, the police showed up in a single squad car. Two officers scrabbled out of the black-and-white cruiser. Robert saw them and gulped. “Oh, no, here they come. Say your prayers, folks.”

The cops pranced up the staircase to the apartment as if they were going to a cocktail party. One of them twirled a nightstick. The policeman that Robert hit with the Hillman was in the squad car. His face was concealed behind mirrored sunglasses.

The officer with the billy club spied Robert. “Hey, man, come on down here. We need to rap with you about something.”

Tiptoeing to the door, Robert opened it and harangued the cop. “Sorry, dude, I don't think I can do that. I'm busy.” Philosophical about his dilemma, he turned to Harriet. “They despise me. I don't remember a day when it hasn't been this way.” He ranted at the fuzz. “What is it that you boys want? I haven't done a thing. I've been inside all night with my family.”

The policeman itched to redesign Robert's face with the nightstick. “Get your ass out here.”

“What for?”

“Because we're telling you to.”

It was absurd to resist. The police were onto him like white on rice and wouldn't leave until they had their say. Robert threw his hands up in resignation. “Ah, fuck it. I might as well get on with it.”

Slapping the screen door with his palm, he tramped into the patio. He kicked the welcome mat, put his thumbs in his biker belt. “What do you all want with me? I don't have a beef with you. Never even seen you dudes before. I'm laying low and minding my own business. You know, watching the tube with my neighbor.”

The cop repeated himself. “We have to talk.”

“There isn't anything to chat about.” Robert was miffed.

“I haven't seen or done nothing. Not a goddamn thing.”

“We need to examine your car. Several witnesses on Market Street saw it hit a law enforcement agent on active duty.”

“When was that?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“That's terrible, just terrible,” he deadpanned. “Like I said, I've been here all damn evening.”

“Where's your ride?” the second cop asked.

Robert took his time answering. There was no need to get hasty. No need to worry. Nothing would be won by getting angry. His strategy was infallible. He was in control. Let the police sweat it. “It's down there in the parking lot.”

“We want to see it.”

“All right, that's mellow. Let's go.”

Escorting the officers over to the Hillman, Robert showed them his wheels. The car had deer blood on the hood, deer hair on the windshield. He declared self-righteously, “It's been here since last night. I haven't driven it, see for yourself.”

Both cops touched the sedan's hood to find out if the engine was cold. If it was, Robert's alibi was solid. But the metal was hot, evidence of his guilt. The lawmen looked askance at him.

Suddenly nervous, Robert quibbled. “Hey, wait a minute. This isn't right. You can't pin that shit on me. I'm innocent. Maybe somebody else did it, I don't know.”

He was handcuffed and dragged in a headlock, kicking and shouting, to the patrol car. “Help me! Somebody, help me!” The police crammed him headfirst in the back. Wriggling around, Robert managed to get himself upright.

It was a short-lived triumph. The two cops joined the injured officer in the vehicle and all three policemen took turns employing the felon's mug as a punching bag. Robert egged them on, sneering through the clots of blood on his mouth. “Is that all you can do? You're a bunch of pansies!”

It dawned on Robert that he'd forgotten how to make love to Harriet. He wasn't tender with her. Didn't kiss her. Didn't fondle her breasts. Not like he used to. In anguish, he nickered at the cops, “Fuck you, losers!” and passed out cold.

All around the world police stations are identical. They have monumental walls, numerous side doors and gun-slit windows, armored vehicles in the parking lot. 850 Bryant was no exception. The smoky green sky above the station was starless, dark as a coffin, grizzled with the traces of a cirrus cloud. The neon lights in the bail bond firms across the street were coquettish in the fog. Low hanging telephone lines creaked in a gusty, tropical breeze. The freeway overpass on Seventh Street was an orchestra of bumper-to-bumper traffic.