Authors: Peter Plate
The mission’s stout wood gate opened and a man in cowboy clothes with a Sharps rifle stepped out. He was bearded and wore a cream-colored ten-gallon Stetson hat. He looked at the cemetery and at the cows by the creek. He stared at the cornfields and at the corral where the outlaws were hidden. José was sure they’d been seen. But the guard didn’t detect them and shouldered his rifle and went back inside the walls. A few minutes later a priest came out.
“That’s him,” Two-Fingered Tom exclaimed.
The brown-robe started walking down the dirt road toward the Mission lagoon. He was fat and bald with a face that was red from drink; his nose was bulbous and his mouth was thin. His leather sandals raised sprites of dust. The hem of his garment was muddy. In
his right hand he clutched a staff carved from hemlock wood. Around his waist was a rope belt. From it hung a deerskin pouch.
Two-Fingered Tom said, “This is it,
vatos.
Watch my back.”
The outlaw, skinnier than a scarecrow, two-stepped out from behind the hay. He brushed off his leather chaps and jacket and greeted the cleric as if they were old friends.
“Oye, padre, ¿qué pasa?”
Extracting the flask from his jacket, Two-Fingered had a lusty pull from it and offered it to the priest. “You want some,
viejo?
The shit’s good for you, eh? Puts hair on your
cojones.”
The brown-robe said, “Who are you, hijo?”
“I ain’t a friend, that’s all you got to know.”
A pinto pony nickered in the corral. A cow mooed in the fields. A rooster began to cock-a-doodle-doo. Two-Fingered Tom put the flask in his belt and tapped the priest on the chest with his squirrel gun. “Gimme the
chingadera
, that pouch you got,
tu pinche gusano.”
The two Indians jumped up and pinioned the brown-robe. The younger Ohlone removed the pouch and handed it to Two-Fingered Tom. The teenaged desperado untied it and poured the contents into his palm. It was three ounces of gold dust from the mines near Mokelumne Hill.
The scarred Indian withdrew a knife from his belt and ran it over the priest’s face, testing the blade’s sharpness against the man’s white skin. José Reyna went to stop him, but his cousin held him back, saying, “No,
vato.
Let him do what he’s got to do.”
The Ohlone drove the blade in the brown-robe’s chest; the man’s legs kicked once, a hiss of breath escaped from his mouth, and that was it. The mockingbirds in the cedar grove next to the cemetery began to protest. Two-Fingered Tom sifted the gold dust back into the pouch and tucked it in his shirt. Disregarding the dead priest, he said to José, “Let’s go,
hombre.
We’ve got a lot of shit to accomplish.”
T
HE SIX O’CLOCK TELEVISION NEWS
reported that a cache of the Brinks cash, about a hundred thousand dollars, had been recovered from under a car on Polk Street. The money, wrapped in butcher paper, had been run over several times during the day and no longer resembled hard currency. A spokeswoman for the Brinks firm claimed the sum was a miniscule percentage of what had been stolen.
The sun had taken a nosedive over the Golden Gate Bridge into the ocean. A foghorn pealed in the bay near the Marin Headlands. Fog swooped over Corona Heights. A westerly wind bent the trees on Market Street; garbage did a fandango on the sidewalk.
A hooker was working the parking lot behind the French bistro at Franklin and Market. She was youngish, about thirty-five. The rouge on her face was cracking, chipping off in flakes. Her hair, bleached bone white, frothed over a high forehead. Her emerald green eyes were slits in violet-hued mascara. She had on a red leather mini-skirt and a waist-length rabbit fur jacket. Under the skirt were two miles of bare legs. Under the jacket there was nothing at all.
The intersection at Franklin was a good spot for a girl to work. The street was one-way. The stoplight was lengthy, giving motorists and prostitutes an ample opportunity to check each other out. But the only people who consistently made use of the corner were homeless panhandlers, mostly black and white women over forty.
Mama Celeste saw the hooker and decided to introduce herself. Waddling over to the parking lot, she was wheezing and her feet were sore. Orthopedic shoes were a mistake. They didn’t do a thing to help you. She loosened the muffler from her neck, flicked a dreadlock off her face. Shivering in the army jacket, she was dressed no better than a wino. Her kinky hair was flattened under a handkerchief and a Giants baseball hat. Her ankle-high shoes had rents in them. Her stockings were past their peak. Her dress had been around since the days of the Roman Empire. Her teeth were gritty from the dirt in the street. Was she
meshugge
to give away the money in the shoebox? Her parents would roll over in their graves if they saw what she was doing.
The whore didn’t acknowledge the old woman. Instead she concentrated on the cars. Headlights were brilliant in the fogged out blackness and haloed her. A Jeep Cherokee skated to the curb and the driver, a twenty-something white guy in a leather bomber jacket, rolled down the window. She had a few words with him, nodded a no, and he drove off.
A spear point of loneliness tweaked Mama. Where was her husband now? Was he in heaven? Did they allow black people in there nowadays? Chances were, they did, and she’d find him waiting for her with open arms. Mama saw that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with the working girl, so when the light at the corner turned green, she gallivanted across Market Street.
A pigeon with no legs was pecking at the grass in the pavement. The bird’s feathers had clotted into clumps. Its tiny head was beleaguered with tumors. Its beak had hairline fractures in it. It schlepped along the pavement by using its wings as if they were feet. It nibbled at the scraggly grass, not liking the taste of it.
Seeing Mama Celeste walk by, the pigeon went inert. It didn’t have the energy to fly off. It was tired how Tenderloin pigeons got tired, having to dodge traffic all day long. Eating trash to stay alive. Getting sprayed with pesticides by the city’s sanitation workers. Fighting other birds for turf. Keeping homeless people and tourists and cops from
stepping on you. The struggle was never ending and exhausting. The pigeon couldn’t wait to find a nook or cranny to sleep in, even if it was just for a few minutes.
Mama Celeste spotted the troubled creature and regarded it with pity. The bird was a double amputee and had eyes that were almost human. She said to it, “What’s with you, all by yourself out here. You must be lonely, ha?”
The pigeon quailed when she spoke. It looked up at the old lady with a crazed, abject expression. It expected abuse and was ready for the worst. It was a ghetto bird, underprivileged and with low self-esteem.
Prying the lid off the shoebox, Mama extracted a twenty-dollar bill. Bowing from the waist, she invited the bird to take it. “For you,” she said respectfully. “It’s all I have. The money might do you good.”
The pigeon gave Mama Celeste a depressive, hard-boiled glance, and then browsed over the cash. It was totally confused. Money meant nothing to a pigeon. But a gift was a gift. You couldn’t refuse it. That would be rude. And maybe dumb. You never knew. Upright on its leg stumps, the pigeon took the twenty from Mama’s fingers. It trilled once, spread its balding wings, and flew away with the Andrew Jackson in its beak.
Mama Celeste watched the legless pigeon sweep over the rooftops and then resumed her pilgrimage up Market Street. The white neon cross on the First Baptist Church was a beacon in the fog. An overturned turquoise-blue Ford Fiesta with no doors was ablaze next to Martuni’s Lounge. Green and gold dragonflies rode the currents around the burning car; the stench of deliquescent plastic was a tight fitting glove on the street.
Night had fallen on forty thousand homeless people, the vacant office buildings on Market Street, the clock tower at the Embarcadero, and the icy black-green waters in the San Francisco Bay.
Richard Rood trailed Mama Celeste, keeping his distance. A lone one-hundred-dollar bill was suspended from the woman’s coat sleeve.
A Ulysses S. Grant was stuck on her collar. She was leaving a line of twenty-dollar bills on the ground behind her. Richard was scooping them up as he walked. “The sister is a fucking whack-o,” he said to himself. “She’s out of her damn tree.”
A hag such as Mama Celeste was an automatic victim in his book. In the food chain of crime, she was a target. She was ripe for the plucking. But she had given him money with no strings attached. Nobody had ever done anything like that for Richard and he had to return the favor. His code of honor demanded payback. It was a complicated twist of fate. He couldn’t rob her. He couldn’t steal her cash. He had to protect her.
The third man Richard Rood killed had been at the Expansion Bar, a working-class tavern off Church Street. An NBA playoff basketball game was on the television and the patrons were watching it. Richard had gotten himself a stool and was in the act of sitting down. Someone tap-tapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to put him on the alert. He turned around to find a drunken white guy with a beard. The dude was apoplectic; his skin was tomato red. He said to Richard, “That’s my old lady’s chair, you dick. You took it from her.”
Richard was congenial, seeing that the white man was angry. He removed his hindquarters from the stool and said, “No problem, cool breeze. She can take it. Have a nice day.”
The drunk clutched the seat and walked away, saying, “Fucking queer.”
Pulling out a knife, a cheesy Mexican-made sticker, Richard jammed it in the guy’s neck until only the handle was visible. He must have nicked an artery because a fountain of blood bloomed on his victim’s shirt. The fellow fell to the floor and his girlfriend caterwauled. The bartender got on the phone to call the police. Richard said adios without causing any further commotion.
The old black lady with the money needed a guardian angel. Out here in the street with these lunatics running around—people would kill you for a cigarette—there was no telling what might happen to her. Pushing through the fog to the Allen Hotel, Richard
Rood swore an oath. Not only was he going to kick Stiv Wilkins’s ass into kingdom come, he’d murder anyone that tried to run off with the biddy’s shoebox. He smiled from the bottom of his soul. The vow, complete with the threat of mayhem, made him happier than he’d been all day.
Mama Celeste and then Richard Rood passed the ghost of the poet Jack Micheline on Market Street. Hunching over a tailor-made cigarette, Micheline’s white hair riffled in the wind. His cargo jacket was zipped to the neck. His khaki trousers were slung low on his hips. His shoes were dusty. His smooth-shaven skin was slick with beads of perspiration. He extracted a kitchen match from his jacket, ignited the match’s tip with his thumbnail, and drew the flame over the fag’s tip. His profile threw an enormous silhouette on the wall behind him. The shine in his brown eyes came not from him, but from a lone streetlight. He sucked furiously on the fag, taking quick tokes while planning how to get to his room at the Civic Center Hotel on Twelfth Street.
Though his friend Jack Kerouac achieved greater fame, there was a period during the 1950s when Jack Micheline was better known in underground literary circles. In later years, unwilling to capitalize on the hype of the Beat Generation, he stayed in a series of SRO hotels before dying in 1998.
Restaurant seekers clogged the pavement and made it impossible for Jack Micheline to walk. Throngs of well-dressed middle-class young women and men blocked his path. Nobody noticed him—ghosts were difficult to see in the dark. He mooched against a chain-link fence and smoked and watched the street. He observed the drunks sleepwalking out of the Zuni Café. He saw the television transmission tower in the mists on Twin Peaks. A fragment of a poem tiptoed through his leonine head and he chased after it. He wasn’t in any hurry to find it. The night was long and he had all the time in the universe.
The Brinks dough had been missing for thirteen hours.
A
N EXHAUSTED STIV WILKINS
found a bench under a dwarf palm tree in Dolores Park and sprawled on it. The park sat on a hill and commanded an excellent view of the city. The only things Stiv recognized in the skyline were the General Hospital and the jail at the Hall of Justice on 850 Bryant Street. The mean-spirited felony tank windows were discernible from miles away.
On the other side of the park were the copper-faceted dome of the Second Church of Christ, Scientist, and a row of apartment houses. One of the buildings had been the home of Emma Goldman, the Russian-born anarchist orator and writer. In the summer of 1916 she was taken to jail after the arrests of Warren Billings and Tom Mooney. Later she was deported to Russia in the aftermath of the Palmer Raids of 1919.
Stiv’s half a year in the city prison had been enough. Eating baloney sandwiches three times a day—the dogs on death row at the SPCA had a better diet. Wiping your privates with last week’s newspapers on a broken toilet. Sleeping with one eye open to make sure a cellmate didn’t steal your shoes. Taking a shower once a week with ten other guys. Stiv had outgrown the routine.
Unearthing an overripe orange from his pants, a memento from a restaurant dumpster, Stiv peeled the fruit with his switchblade and ate it. He rearranged the Colt revolver in his belt and put the knife back in his boot. Then he doffed his motorcycle jacket, rolled it into a pillow, and stretched out on the bench.
He’d fucked up at the post office, which had been predictable. Robbery had never been his forte. Neither was using or selling guns. But the real issue was this: What was he good at? He was twenty-five years old with no job or nothing. So what was wrong with him? Maybe he just wasn’t meant for great things. It was hard to accept that. He had dreams, little ones.
The highlight of Stiv’s career had been his band’s last show at a club on Geary Street. The venue was a deconsecrated synagogue with stained glass windows and a hardwood dance floor that could hold a thousand people. Before that it was the former headquarters of the People’s Temple, the church founded by Jim Jones, the charismatic preacher who’d led his flock into mass suicide in Guyana.