Hustle (15 page)

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we have a bit of business to attend to. Dustin wanted me to help him navigate a few things. Don’t trouble yourself about it. Have another drink.”

***

There were still diners at the tables when Bear walked into the Roadhouse. The nighttime crowd—the drinking crowd—had yet to filter in. He only nodded to the hostess, mostly because he’d forgotten her name, and walked straight up to the bar. He loved that bar; dark antique carved mahogany, a mirrored back with recessed lighting, a brass rail, it made Bear think of the old-time saloons he saw in the movies. He’d logged in enough time there to know the polished-over scratches and scrapes intimately. He’d even made a few of them himself.

He did
n’t even find a stool before the bartender, Richie, spotted him and said, “Hey, Bear, what’s it been, like, a week? Sheila will be glad you showed up. She’s been wonderin’ where you been.” Roadhouse Richie was a veteran bartender and worked the daytime and dinner shift. When he was done, the night crew came on, usually Sheila and Donna trading off duties behind the bar and working the tables. Without being asked, Richie the bartender pulled a long-neck Budweiser from the cooler, popped the top, and set it on a cocktail napkin in front of Bear.

“Ah, just what the Doctor ordered.” Bear took a long satisfying pull.

“What kind of doctor is giving those orders? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Shit, Doctor
Zhivago? Doctor Seuss, maybe?”

“I wouldn’t
be takin’ medical advice from anyone who prescribes green eggs and ham, if I were you.”

Bear said, “Speaking of d
octors, you seen old Watson around lately?”

“Not tonight. Not yet. But it’s still
early; he’ll probably be in a little later on. You want anything else, Bear? A shot maybe?”

“You know, that
’s a prescription I’m gonna take. Sneak me some of the good stuff, will ya?”

The bartender smiled and spun a shot glass in front of Bear and filled it to the brim with
Jameson and knocked on the bar before walking away. Bear took a small sip and let it burn his tongue for a moment. Nothing tastes better than a free drink, thought Bear, and he tossed down a fiver for a tip.

He
turned and surveyed the place. The white tablecloths would soon be removed from the booths as each group of diners finished. You could still order food, but the dinner service was over. Busboys clanked away silverware and plates and the piped-in music was replaced with the sound of the jukebox. Regular patrons trickled in and took their stools at the bar. For Marin County, it was a rough crowd. In a place that was known for left-leaning affluent yuppies, this was as rough as it got. This was the old guard, a throwback to the earlier days—or at least they thought so. Bear recognized most of them and nodded hello to a few. He was one of them, in a way. He fit in well with the aging hippies, the old ex-whatevers—drug addicts, bikers, rock stars, stock traders. Everybody used to be something; everybody had a story to tell. One thing for sure, they were all survivors. In Marin, you had to have come out of your tribulations okay, otherwise the county wouldn’t have you; it’d spit you out like stale tobacco.

Bear was well
-liked because his story had some resonance. Getting close to Bear made them feel like their own exaggerated tales had some authenticity. Bear was the real deal and respected for it.

A country-and-
western song came on the jukebox. It was new country, the kind Bear hated, but it still made him feel like drinking. He waved over Roadhouse Richie and ordered another round. Richie complied, poured the shot, and, like a good bartender, waved the charge. Bear threw down another five and lifted the Jameson to his lips.

Roadhouse
Richie pulled the bar-towel from his belt and told Bear, “I’m about done with this shit; I’m ready for one myself. Your girl shoulda been here by now, I need some relief.”

“She’s not my girl; she’s what you call ‘her own woman.’” Bear tipped back the rest of his shot. “What
time is it, anyway?”

***

On the corner, Big Rich had found a trick almost immediately. A cherry-red Lexus pulled up, waved him over, and he was gone. From the passenger seat he signaled to Donny that he’d be back in half-an-hour. Donny nodded and settled into a doorjamb to hide from the wind.

It was crow
ded out there for a Saturday night. All the boys were working. So much competition made the prospects of making money slow down. There was Cherry, Omar, Little Darren, Orlando, Stevie, Tyrell—all of them. Donny lit a cigarette and settled in to let the herd thin. He was tired, fried from speed, and didn’t feel much like being there in the first place. If he could wait it out, sit in that doorway till Big Rich came back, maybe he wouldn’t have to turn a trick. If Rich came back with enough money for the both of them, he’d be spared this one last time.

Donny watched a new kid, a boy he really didn’t know,
Travis or Tavis or something like that, climb into a white GMC van. It was an older model with no windows. It reminded Donny a bit of the kind the City used to pick up dead bodies when the police were done. The meat wagons, Rich called them. The kid got in without even negotiating. Donny would never have done that—too risky. These new kids were dumb.

Cherry saw Donny smokin
g and asked him for a cigarette. “I’m still trippin’ on what happened to Skye.”

Donny didn’t say
anything; he only reached for his pack of Marlboros and shook one out.

“I mean,” Cherry said, “he didn’t deserve that.”

“Deserve what?”

“To go out that way.
Shit, Donny, I thought you were his friend.”

“I am …
I was. But the guy overdosed. He didn’t get murdered, for fuck’s sake. Nobody did that to him. He did it himself.” Donny heard how harsh his words sounded as soon as they left his lips, felt like an asshole for saying them. Cherry was getting on his nerves, just like Skye had. “What do you expect? What we do, the drugs we’re doing. This is what happens, dude. People die.”

Cherry looked hurt.
He took the cigarette and tried to light it a couple of times before Donny rolled his eyes and cupped his hands over his own lighter so Cherry could get the thing lit. Cherry stood there smoking, looking out at the street, not knowing what to say.

Finally
, Donny said, “I’m sorry, man. I’m just, like, messed up. I’m bummed he’s gone, too.”

Cherry nodded and took a long thoughtful drag from the smoke and said, “We all deal
with our grief in our own ways.” It was something he’d heard somewhere else and memorized.

“Yeah,” said Donny.

A large truck pulled up. Not quite a semi, but a moving or delivery truck. Cherry waved to the driver and climbed up the step on the passenger side. After a few moments of barter, he climbed into the cab and was gone. That left Donny alone again. He wondered about the time. He wished again he had his cell phone to know what time it actually was. He tried to guess by the light, but it was dark now and the low clouds and fog had left the sky flat and black.

***

At the bar, Bear repositioned himself so he could watch the door. When Sheila finally came through the doors, he smiled at her, getting a big, red lipstick grin right back.

“You’re here a little early,” she said.

She was a beauty. A big girl by other people’s standards, but what Bear considered just right for himself. He liked his women strong, purposeful, with some flesh on their bones. Wispy, frail girls who constantly fretted over their calorie intake were never his thing. Meaty is how he referred to Sheila when she was out of earshot, but to her face he only called her sexy—‘cause that’s what she was. She was over forty, divorced, and well past playing the games of love. She was perfect for him.

“I got here early to see you. I missed you, baby.”

“Bullshit,” said Sheila, “looks like you were just thirsty.”

“You didn’t know? They sell this stuff in stores now. I could
drink this shit at home, but without,” he looked her up and down, “the scenery.”

She pinched his cheek.
“Well, look while you can, it’s probably all you’re gonna be able to do. I’m late and I gotta get behind the bar.” She wiggled away with a walk she only walked when she knew Bear was watching.

Bear turned back to his dr
ink. “Get to it, I need a refill.” He waited until she was around the bar and had looped a towel into her belt before signaling for another drink. She popped another long-neck and brought along the Jameson.

“Sorry about
that late-night call last night.”

“No problem,” said Sh
eila, leaning in. “We’re a full-service operation. You ever find him?”
“Yeah, I found him, but I need to find him again. I thought he might be in tonight.”

“Like every night. He’ll be in—till closing. You only m
issed him by about an hour last night. We usually have to kick his ass out of here.” Someone was waving Sheila over from the other end of the bar. Before she moved she said, “Scenery, huh? Bear, you’re such a bullshitter.”

He watched her move down the bar. He loved to watch her work. She’d
spin her own homegrown May West act on these Marin County types and they’d eat it up and throw the tips down. Hell, it’s what pulled him into the Roadhouse for their overpriced drinks in the first place. Watching her, for a brief moment, he’d forgotten all about the reason he was here. Buzzed from the shots, tired from last night, nothing seemed more appealing than sitting on the same barstool till closing-time and following Sheila home like a puppy and passing out in her bed.

Then he heard the voice. That high cackle that always sounded like it was trying too hard to have fun. Doctor Johnny Watson. Bear turned on his stool to see Watson and a younger man coming in
together through the glass door at the front of the bar, Watson with his trademark silver cane in his right hand. Bear was never sure whether he needed that cane, or if he just used it as an affectation, some sort of symbol of sophistication, like he had a past worth knowing about. It was silver, like his hair, and looked ornate, antique. Bear figured it was a garage-sale find. Watson nodded to Sheila, but missed Bear’s presence entirely. He worked his was through the bar, saying quick hellos to those that knew him, and plopped himself down in his favorite booth, ready to hold court. Bear waited until he’d sent his young friend to the bar for drinks before he got himself up and walked over to the table.

“Doctor Watson, how’s tricks?”

Watson looked up and saw Bear looming over him and smiled. He had a pencil-thin mustache that was as silver as his cane and the hair on his head. “It’s still early, most of ‘em are still up my sleeve.”

Bear slid into the booth across from him and forced a smile to greet Watson’s.

“You ever find that fella you were asking me about last night?”

“Sure, sure,” Bear nodded. “I’m wondering if you could maybe
help me out with another favor.”

“Another? Bear, my good man, I won’t discuss favors without a drink in my hand.”
Watson was acting regal, pompous, very over-the-top for a guy who’d lived on a houseboat in Sausalito for the past decade. Bear figured that he was high and overconfident, being on his own turf, enjoying the accolades from the other patrons that bought into his whole mysterious stranger bit. Bear knew him well enough to know there was no mystery. It was annoying as hell. Bear sat back and waited for Watson’s friend to return with the drinks. When the guy came back, Bear realized he’d recognized him, a wormy little guy that did petty crimes, mostly drug rip-offs, in and around Southern Marin. The guy was a scumbag, but then again, so was Watson. The Doctor was just a scumbag in sheep’s clothing.

“
Bear, this is Rivas. Rivas, meet Bear. He’s an old friend of mine from the good ol’ days, my heydays. Yours, too, huh, Bear?”

“I
dunno,” said Bear, ignoring Rivas’s outstretched hand, “I like to think that my best days are ahead of me.”

Chapter 15

The half-hour came and went. No sign of Big Rich. The other boys had gone and come back. Donny was starting to think he was going be stranded for the night with no junk. He pulled himself off the wall and stood a little closer to the curb. 

He hadn’t even finished his cigarette when
a sleek Mazda pulled up. Maybe it was one of those new Hyundais, or an Acura, he didn’t know. Donny was never that good at telling those Japanese imports apart. The driver rolled down the passenger window and Donny smelled the faint odor of marijuana. Not his favorite drug, but it meant the guy probably wasn’t a cop.

“How
ya doin’?” said Donny.

“I’m awesome.
How ‘bout you, sweetie.”

“I’m alright.
You lookin’ to party?”

“Party?
Yeah, I’m lookin’ to party. Hop in.”

“Two hundred.
”

“Two hundred?
For what?”

“For everything,” Donny said.

The guy looked at his steering wheel and drummed his fingers for a moment, “How about one-fifty?”

Donny opened the door and climbed in.

“You got a place?” the guy asked.

“I know a place,” said Donny.
“But it’ll cost you extra. They rent rooms same as anybody else.”

The guy shrugged and said, “I got a place.
The place where I’m staying at. We’ll go there, no problem.”

When he spoke, Donny could smell the alcohol on his breath. Alcohol mixed with mints.
The guy wasn’t much older than Donny, it seemed. They pulled away from the curb and the guy turned up the volume on his radio. Some club music filled the car with its noxious beat. Under his breath, Donny said,
one last time
.

“I’m at the Travel Lodge on Market,” the guy said.

“The one on Polk is closer,” said Donny.

“Yeah, but I already have a room at the one on Market. I got some drinks and stuff there, we can relax.”

“What kind of stuff?” asked Donny, hoping for party favors.

The guy did his best
to give him a flirtatious look, “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

Donny cracked the window so some fresh air would dilute the smell of weed and booze. Somewhere in the car the guy must have had
one of those pine-tree deodorizers, too, because the smell was making Donny feel sick.

They drove down Polk Street, the beat to that song never ending, the guy nodding his head
in time, trying to look cool. He looked out the window for other hustlers and then would look Donny over.

“You mind if I smoke?” said Donny.

“Go ahead. It’s a party.”

Donny wondered how much cash this asshole had on him.

They got to the motel before the song ended. Donny figured that song was never going to end. The Travel Lodge was a big open-faced building, three stories tall, with the motel doors all facing the parking lot. The guy climbed out first and pointed to an orange door on the second floor. “237, the stairs are over there, c’mon.”

D
onny knew where the stairs were; he’d been at this motel dozens of times. It was a partying place. Not just for sex-workers, but for teenagers, cheaters, drug fiends—anybody that could afford a room. The guy walked ahead of Donny. Donny watched him still nodding his head to the rhythm of the song from the car. He looked at his clothes, his shoes, for signs of wealth. New, but not expensive. Nothing special, just another john.

The room was dark and musty. The guy flicked on a light and then the TV. He picked up a roach
from the ashtray and lit it. “You want some?”

Donny shrugged and wait
ed for the guy to finish his hit, then took the roach and took a deep pull. It was good green weed, but not what Donny had in mind.

“You
got anything stronger?”

“Look at y
ou, mister anxious.” The guy giggled as he took back the roach. “I got some drinks, some vodka and OJ?”

“I meant to smoke.”

“Maybe we should get started first.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Donny. “You got the one-fifty?”

The guy smiled, took out his wallet, and laid three fifty-dollar bills on the dresser.

“How’s that?
There you go. I don’t even know your name.”

“Donny.”

“I’m John,” he said with that same stupid grin pasted on his face. Donny wasn’t sure if the name was supposed to be a joke, or what. The guy kept on grinning at him. Donny wanted to move things along.

“What
d’you, you know, what d’you like?”

“I like
you
, Donny. I like cock. I like sex. I like to party, have a good time. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure.”
Donny wasn’t sure what this guy’s game was, but something wasn’t right. He looked over at the cash on the dresser. “Lemme just grab this and we can get started.”

The guy
grinned that same creepy grin and watched Donny move across the room to the dresser. He massaged his cock through his jeans.

Donny took the bills and stuffed them into his pocket.

“You smoke rock?” the guy said, left hand still at his crotch, the right holding the joint.

“No, no so much. Not anymore. Speed is more my thing.”

“I don’t have any of that shit. I got rock, you want some?”

Donny sighed.
“Sure.”

“Sit down, take your jacket off. Relax, get comfortable. I’ll get my stem.”

Donny took off his denim jacket and sat down on the edge of the bed while the guy disappeared into the bathroom. He stared at his hands. Smoking crack was going to make him feel worse. He knew it was a mistake every time he smoked it, yet whenever he got another chance, he’d make the mistake again. He wondered why he was unable to say no. He felt weak, stupid for being there in the first place. The guy was still in the bathroom, probably taking that first hit himself. He thought about running out the door.

The next thing he felt was something around his neck.
Tight, pulling, strangling. He was pulled backward onto the bed by the cord, or rope, or whatever it was. He could see the guy above him now, upside down, his eyes were lit up, but he was still grinning. He was holding Donny down with whatever he had around his neck.

He heard the guy say,
Hold still you fucking faggot
, before he got hit. White pain right from the top of his head. The guy must have kneed him. He couldn’t get any air. The guy was now holding him down by the throat with one hand and punching him in the temple with the other. Donny wondered for a second if he was going to die, then he saw a glint of light—silver light. It was a huge carving knife. The guy held it before his eyes before Donny felt it poking under his chin.

“Roll over, or I’ll stick this fucking knife into your skull.”

Donny felt weak, dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the blows to his head. He felt a small trickle of warm blood dribble down from his chin to his neck. He rolled over.

Th
e guy grabbed Donny’s right arm and twisted it behind his back, the way the police do. Donny felt both of the guy’s knees pressing down on the middle of his back.

“
Gimme your other hand, fucker,” the guy said.

Donny felt the
blade poking right underneath his shoulder blade. He couldn’t tell if it had punctured his skin or not. His hands were now pinned by the knees that pushed down on him. Donny felt his wrists being wrapped together with something, then being cinched tight. Donny moaned, “What are you doing?” and was answered with two more blows to the back of his head.

Roped tight and face d
own on the bed, Donny wished he would lose consciousness. He felt his pants being pulled off. Then, he felt the same material binding his ankles before he felt the man’s knees in his back again.

“Do you know what this is, motherfucker?” The guy pulled Donny’s head up by the hair. “You see this?”

It was a gun. A black automatic, inches from Donny’s nose. Donny couldn’t tell what kind, what caliber. It looked shiny, wet. He could make out the words
Beretta U.S.A. Corp
along the barrel. He could smell the metal, but something else, too.
Lube
. The end of the barrel was covered in lube. Donny squeezed his eyes shut.

“Don’t you
fuckin’ move. You move and I’ll cap your ass. I’ll fuckin’ shoot you like it was nothing.”

“Please …”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He felt the guy’s weight move off of him. Donny hoped it was
over, hoped that maybe the guy was only robbing him. Except Donny had nothing to steal.

“You move, or scream, or anything, this gun is going off. All I
gotta do is pull the trigger, no one’s gonna hear shit, ‘cause you’re the silencer, you understand?”

Donny didn’t understand, but he moved his head anyway
, nodding his chin into the bedspread. Next, he felt the guy’s hands pulling at his ass. Then, the gun. The awkward barrel shoved right into his rectum. Blunt and cold. Donny moaned in pain.

“You like this shit, don’t you, you little bitch.” The guy was pushing the barrel of the gun in hard, pulling it back a little, then pushing it back in. “I got my finger on the trigger, faggot,
don’t fuckin’ move or it’s going off.”

The pain was incredible. He
felt the front sight on the barrel, the small metal wedge, tearing the inside of his anus. He wanted to cry out, but instead bit onto his lip and pushed his face into the bed.

Then
, the gun stopped moving. The barrel was still inserted but the guy had let go. Donny could hear motion, soft grunting. The freak was jerking off. He was kneeling behind Donny, watching that gun stuck in his ass and jerking off. 

“
Yeah, you piece of shit, yeah.” The bed was shaking some now.

Donny held still, waiting. Waiting for what, he didn’t know.
The motion stopped. He could tell the guy finished. The gun was ripped violently from his ass, the front sight no doubt tearing out more of his insides. Searing pain. Warm blood. Then he lay there, face down, waiting to see if the guy was going to kill him or not.

The room was quiet. Donny could hear muffled sounds from the other rooms. TVs, la
ughter, hip-hop beats. He heard the traffic from the street, Saturday night traffic. He tried to visualize it, being out there in the cool air, headlights, noise—freedom.

“Don’t you
fuckin’ move,” the guy said again as he walked back into the bathroom and shut the door. Donny was alone.

This was his chance, maybe his last. Donny
twisted himself and rolled over onto his back, onto his bound wrists, and struggled off the bed. He looked down at his tied ankles and saw they were roped with nylon. Fucking nylon stockings.

He turned to the right so he could see his back in the mirror. His hands were bound with the same material.
Nylon, stretchy nylon. He pulled with all he had left. He could see his hands in the mirror, the material giving just enough. He could do this, he thought. He hooked a thumb over the knot, pushed his wrist through, and the stocking fell to the floor. He sat back on the bed and quickly pulled the ties from his ankles and looked for his pants.

There on the floor beside his jeans was the gun. The freak had left it there. It froze Donny. He wanted to grab it, kick open that bathroom door and shoot the rapist while he was
sucking in another hit of crack, stick that filthy barrel into his mouth. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. Another thought flashed. Open the door and show him the gun, then beat him with it till he was close to dead. Donny looked at the gun still shiny with lubricant and blood and decided to listen to his instincts. His instincts said, grab your pants and run.

That’s just what he did. Without bothering to put them on, Donny took his jeans and
ran out of that room. He bolted down the stairs; he could put his pants on around the corner. He ran, his stocking feet pounding the cold pavement. One block, two blocks. The cold night air filled his lungs. He didn’t care who saw him, who was honking at him, pointing, laughing. He only ran.

***

Gabriel was getting good and drunk. The pain from the wounds on his back and the contusions on his head had receded with every margarita. The conversation had rolled through vacation spots, restaurants, movies, politics; he was starting to feel like an actual guest instead of a prisoner. The night had grown cool and the air felt good on his skin. He could smell the salt on the ocean breeze drifting in.

Dustin was keeping quiet, not able to contribute much to the conversation.
It was clear he felt out of place in this environment. He hadn’t taken a vacation ever; he rarely ate, didn’t watch movies, and couldn’t care less about politics. The cocaine wasn’t helping either. He sat, legs crossed, arms folded, gulping his beer and waiting for Terrence or Raphael to go inside for another line. Whenever either got up to go to the kitchen, Dustin would follow them in hoping for another hit. When they weren’t lining them up often enough, he went upstairs and smoked some speed in the bathroom.