Authors: Tim Maleeny
“Turn here.”
Jerome ignored his brother and kept driving straight ahead. He wasn’t positive that driving down Mission toward the Ferry Building was really any better than turning onto Market Street, but like most San Francisco residents, Jerome hated driving on Market. You couldn’t turn left off Market; you couldn’t park; the goddamned buses and trolleys took up half the street, and if one of the electric buses jumped free of its overhead wires, you might be stuck for half an hour.
Market Street sucked.
And Jerome couldn’t abide how the city arbitrarily chose which parts of the street were going to be tourist-friendly and which parts would be ignored, often within the same block. On one side there might be some swanky shopping center and theater complex, while directly across the street was an abandoned storefront flanked by a ten-dollar whore and a homeless guy sleeping with his malnourished dog. The city had decided which corners were worth defending and turned its back on the rest. Jerome considered Market Street the perfect metaphor for the hypocrisy of city government. On one side it reeked of money. On the other, it stank of piss.
Lighten up, Jerome.
All this responsibility was getting to him. He glanced over at his brother staring out the window as if pondering the secret of the universe. Larry’s hiccups had subsided and he seemed neither stoned nor panicked, just pensive and strangely at peace. Jerome felt a pang of envy. He took a deep breath. OK, so he hadn’t exactly quit the day job, but he had scored some points on Zorro—that had to count for something. Maybe it gave them leverage, but he couldn’t figure out the angle that would get them out of this mess without pulling them even further into it.
“Hey Larry,” he said. “We need a plan.”
Larry nodded but didn’t turn away from the window or say anything.
Jerome swiveled his head toward his brother and prodded. “Larry?”
Larry turned to face Jerome. “Yeah?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m gay.”
A horn blared as Jerome swerved inadvertently into oncoming traffic. He leaned on his own as he passed a battered Honda and swung back into the right lane. When it was safe to steal a glance, Jerome saw that Larry had resumed his vigil at the window as if he’d just said something about the weather.
Jerome asked, “When did this happen?”
“It doesn’t suddenly
happen
,” said Larry. “I mean, it’s not like I woke up with a cold.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Jerome, a little too quickly. “I mean, when did you…” He faltered and tried to regroup but was struggling to find the words. Before he could, Larry took over.
“Change teams?”
Jerome nodded.
“I don’t think I changed teams,” said Larry. “I think I always knew, in a way. Remember how when we were kids, I always liked to play with dolls?”
Jerome stole a glance at his brother. “Those were GI Joes.”
“But they were still dolls, Jerome,” said Larry. “Remember those little boxers they used to wear—”
Jerome cut him off with an abrupt, almost spasmodic gesture. “What about high school?” he asked. “You dated that girl,
wuzzername
?”
“Jenny,” replied Larry, a wistful smile on his face. “We used to go to Star Trek conventions together. But it’s not like we did it, or anything. We were…just friends. Now that I think about it, she may have been a lesbian. Or maybe just a fag hag.”
“A fag hag?” Jerome grunted, secretly impressed his brother had the gay lingo down already. He wondered if Larry had been studying in his spare time, working up to this moment. “When were you gonna tell me?”
“I just realized it today,” said Larry. “Like an epiphany.”
“Epiphany,” Jerome repeated slowly, thinking it was kind of a gay word choice.
“Yeah,” said Larry. “I was thinking about you and Tamara, then Shayla, and I realized I wasn’t interested in either of them. And the more I thought about it, I realized I’d never been interested. Go ahead and tell me I’m full of shit, but if you’re not interested in those two girls, then you’re probably gay.”
“Or dead.”
Larry laughed, a low, confident chuckle that made Jerome turn his way again. His brother was the picture of calm, a skinny white Buddha of serenity.
They drove in silence for a while, Jerome concluding after a few blocks that his brother’s logic was flawless. Questions and rebuttals collided in his head like pinballs until only one remained. After a minute, he asked the only question that seemed to matter.
“Are you happy?”
Larry seemed to consider it, but his face already held the answer. So he said, “Just don’t tell Mom.”
It was Jerome’s turn to laugh. He blinked and realized he had tears in his eyes.
Larry pretended not to notice. “I think it’s been a long time since I liked my own reflection—sorry I’ve been such an asshole.”
Jerome stared straight ahead through the windshield. “I haven’t exactly been easy to live with.”
“No,” said Larry, “you haven’t.”
Jerome was thinking it was the longest conversation they’d ever had about their relationship, then realized it was the only one they’d ever had. But it was enough. He was relieved that Larry’s sudden surge of gayness hadn’t made him too chatty. As they turned onto their street he said, “We need a plan, bro.”
Larry smiled. “I’ve got one.”
“You do?” Jerome coasted to a stop in front of their building. “Shoot.”
Larry turned in his seat. “I don’t care about the money anymore, do you?”
Jerome started to object before he realized the first image that popped into his head was Tamara—not a visual of himself wearing a two-thousand dollar suit and shades, driving a vintage Caddy, which until yesterday had been one of his favorite fantasies. But he wanted to make sure he understood the question. “Is this like a double-jeopardy thing?”
Larry shook his head and grinned with the confidence of someone who realized his entire day had been a carefully delivered message, a road map to the rest of his life. “All this time we’ve been playing ball with Zorro, there’s been a cop living next door.”
“So?” asked Jerome.
“So why don’t we change teams?”
Gus decided to change teams. Just like that, he waved across the net at Rod and told him to double up with Judy before the next set. Gus wanted to play alongside Kathy, see if they fared any better. Bottom line, he was tired of losing and had decided that Judy’s shitball serve was dragging him down.
The other three had played tennis with Gus long enough to know when he was in a mood, so nobody objected as they took their places around the court. But once the game started, Rod couldn’t help himself. He started talking trash.
Rod was pushing seventy and had a wicked serve. Tall and lanky with most of his hair still in place, in the original mousy color, he fancied himself a ladies man. Wore a fedora when he wasn’t playing tennis and cocked it whenever he saw a pretty lady, like he just waltzed off the silver screen like John Barrymore. Gus had caught him more than once making eyes at Gail but let it slide, figured they’d settle it on the court.
But lately Rod had started trash talking Gus on the court. For his part, Gus let that slide, too, the first few times. Figured Rod was suddenly confused about the difference between a gentleman’s game like tennis and a little league baseball game where you razzed the batter. Rod was one of those coasters who had never worked very hard and retired early, when he was sixty-five, so Gus figured Alzheimer’s had set in. But after a week of taking shit from across the net, Gus had had enough.
He’d seen Rod at the coffee shop, in the clubhouse, and he was the same as always. No signs of dementia. Alert, friendly, perfectly pleasant.
Congenial
, that was the word. Rod was one congenial guy. So Gus waited until after their usual set one day to ask congenial Rod what was his problem, why the sudden obnoxious banter?
“Gives me an edge,” said Rod, leaning in close enough for Gus to smell his aftershave. “You’ve been taking me for two games for every one I win, Gus.”
“That’s because I practice every day.”
“Been too long since I’ve won a set, no matter who I partner with, so I decided to change the playing field. Throw off your concentration. Think of it as a test of wills.”
“You’re serious.”
Rod smiled, his teeth looking at lot younger than he did. “Deadly.”
Gus stared at him, speechless, until he asked the only question he could think of.
“So you’re going to keep making an ass of yourself, shouting at me over the net?”
Rod nodded as if a brilliant stock tip had been shared between them. “Precisely, old friend. What do you have to say about that?”
“Blow me.”
Things had been a little tense between Gus and Rod ever since.
Gus got into position to serve. He bounced the ball a couple of times, then threw it high in the air. A perfect toss, the sun behind him. He was about to make contact when Rod shouted across the net.
“You tossed that ball like a lame, Gus. Your gout acting up?”
Gus lowered his racket, let the ball bounce, bounce, bounce next to his foot. He gave Rod a look, then picked up the ball and bounced it a few times, trying to regain his focus.
“You gonna serve or dribble, old man? This is tennis, not basketball.”
Gus glanced over the net at Judy, who looked appropriately embarrassed at Rod’s outburst even though she would be justified in being sore at Gus for changing teams. Judy had an eternally sunny disposition, even though she’d gone through a tough time during menopause when she decided she wanted to be a lesbian. Turns out most of the older lesbians in San Francisco were pissed off at men for one thing or another, probably deserved, but it gave their sexuality a decidedly activist edge. Far too angry for Judy, who was definitely a
glass is half full
kind of person. By contrast, she found that the younger lesbians were happy as clams about their Sapphic lifestyle. So Judy started hanging out with them, but then she realized that she was at least twenty if not thirty years older than her new friends, which made her feel like a dirty old lady. After five lonely years, she decided maybe she was straight, after all, and last May got married to the water aerobics instructor, a thoroughly nice guy who Gus always thought was gay.
“Hey Gus, you need a Geritol to get you going?” Rod was on a roll, and Gus wondered briefly if he’d stayed up the night before, writing these zingers down.
He shifted his gaze to Kathy, his new doubles partner. She was looking over her shoulder at him, her eyebrows raised, her expression saying she’d apologize for Rod if she thought it would make any difference. Kathy was sweet as syrup, the youngest in the group at fifty-eight, cursed with a backside so enormous that Gus could only see half the court whenever she took the net. He smiled at her as if to say don’t worry about it. Then he got an idea.
Actually, it was less of an idea than an impulse. He looked at Rod standing dead center at the foot of the box, right where Gus was meant to serve, and he visualized the bastard wearing his fedora on the court. Turning to an imaginary crowd and waving, flashing that Pepsodent smile. Gail sitting in the crowd, charmed despite herself. Waving back.
The mental image got his blood boiling.
Nobody messes with my girl.
That made him think of the cop down the hall. Gus had nothing against him, really, except he’d seen him twice now leaving Gail’s apartment. Guy wasn’t bad looking, and he had a way about him. Gail was a sucker for real men, that’s how Gus had caught her eye. And just when he thought they were settling down, along comes this young buck with notions of becoming her back door man. No matter which was he turned, Gus was under siege.
Gus was suddenly the bull staring down Bugs Bunny, steam shooting from his nostrils, his eyes blood red. But he was Bugs, too. Cool, calculating. Smart as a hare.
He called out to Rod, no sound of anger or irritation in his voice.
“Hey Rod, you actually think you’re gonna return this serve?”
Rod looked up, nonplussed. Clearly he never expected a rebuttal to his taunts. Gus in his tennis whites was too proper to play the verbal hardball Rod had been pitching across the net. This must be a stalling tactic.
“Yeah…yeah, I do Gus.” Keep it short and snappy, thought Rod. Keep the pressure on.
Gus wore an expression that said he was going to ace Rod on the first serve. Rod squared his stance, legs wide. Straddling the middle of the box, in position to cut left or right. Just what Gus expected.
Gus threw the ball high in the air but made no attempt to hit it. Instead he stepped over the line and bolted toward the net, yanking a second ball from his tennis shorts and tossing it into the air, tracking its curve and timing it just right, his racket arcing through the air to find the ball at its zenith. By the time his racket smacked against the ball, Gus had cut the distance between himself and Rod by half the court, which gave Rod almost no room to maneuver and little time to react. Before he could dodge right or left, the ball hit Rod square in the crotch.
Gus thought it sounded like a hundred of those plastic packing bubbles popping all at once. Rod wasn’t the only one with a wicked serve.
Judy gasped and Kathy dropped her racket. Gus gave both ladies an apologetic grin, then turned and headed toward the showers. He’d played enough tennis for one day and felt great. It was amazing how even a little exercise got your endorphins going and calmed you down.
As he walked away he half expected to her Rod hurling some verbal abuse his way, but none came. Rod was still yelling in pain at the top of his lungs.
When Buster started yelling, Sam found an abandoned parking lot and drove over the speed bumps at thirty miles an hour. It took him two full circuits before his passenger settled down, at which point Sam pulled into the far corner of the lot and parked.
“Just need to make a phone call,” he said as he revved the engine in warning. “Try to keep it down, OK?” Grabbing Buster’s cell phone from the seat, he toggled through the numbers until he came to the last letter of the alphabet. A capital letter Z sat lonely at the end of the address book, no other incriminating letters necessary. Sam called up the numbers and studied them. There was no way to be sure, but the last four digits had that redundant pizza-parlor signature of a cell phone, not a house phone. Besides, he didn’t think Zorro would have a landline phone—or even a cell phone contract, for that matter. Dealers bought prepaid phones and trashed them every few days.
Sam set down Buster’s phone and fished his own from his jacket. It took him a minute to find the number he wanted. Sam counted eight rings before a gruff voice said, “Who is this?”
Sam smiled to himself. “That’s a bullshit, question, Maury, coming from you—my name came up on that fancy caller ID thingy of yours.” He held the phone away from his ear, waited a minute, and then said, “Call it whatever you want. I’m gonna call it a thingy as long as you keep busting my balls.” The berating resumed as Sam made faces at himself in the rearview mirror, mimicking the imagined expressions of his former colleague. When the rant subsided, Sam responded by saying, “Retired? No, it was a leave of absence. I’m back on the job.” Sam studied his face while he talked, surprised at how easily he lied. “I need to find a cell phone, don’t know if it’s moving, but I’m pretty sure it’s in the city.”
Sam read off the number from Buster’s phone and waited while Maury Korovich, evil genius of the SFPD technical support group, sat somewhere in a windowless office on Bryant Street. Sam tried to visualize the room but the effort brought forth a sense-memory of stale body odor and grilled cheese sandwiches.
When Maury came back on the line, Sam said, “I don’t need to keep him on the phone for three minutes or any of that Hollywood crap, right?” Once again the phone had to be held at arm’s length as an angry diatribe spilled into the car. “No, I don’t watch
CSI
or
24
,” said Sam, trying to sound apologetic but doubting his own sincerity. Before he hung up, he added, “Call me back on this number, the one I called you on.”
Sam looked at Buster’s phone, the letter Z glowing blue and cold in the dark interior of the car. Dusk had swept over the city and brought enough fog to drop the temperature ten or fifteen degrees. Sam told himself he was just feeling the chill. He clenched the muscles in his jaw a few times before he pressed the button marked
Send
.
Sam held the phone gingerly to his right ear but almost dropped it when a male voice answered by saying, “
Sí?
” It was only a word, a single syllable, but the almost forgotten voice was all too familiar. Sam bit his tongue as he jammed his thumb against the
End
button and banished the voice back to Hell.
Thirty seconds later his own phone began to ring.