Authors: Pearce Hansen
“Leo, come here,” I called out to him, beckoning. “Come over here and stand with me, Leo.”
But he just turned around and walked away down the trail and out of sight – the same trail I used the night I’d reeled into these people’s lives.
A steady stream of catcalls still came from our out-numbered foes, but the silence on our side of the avenue was as ominous as it was eerie. Amongst my folk, there was an occasional cough, or someone stamping their feet in the growing chill – but there were no insults or threats from our team.
I wondered what kept our enemies standing there so obviously outnumbered. I looked at the faces of our foes, recognizing a lot of them, realizing how many of them were staring at me and singling me out from the crowd. My one-time barber Bill kind of stood out to my eye; from the expression he kept aiming my way I supposed any civic gratitude he felt for my deeds at the school had worn off.
I compared the faces of our adversaries to those of the group I stood with. It struck me how similar they were: you’d never be able to predict which group any of these people would pick to stand with before watching them make their choice.
Over with those who’d come to wipe us out was a blue-haired grandmother. To look at her you’d think she was the kind to offer milk and cookies to all the neighborhood kids; but the hate shining from her face was almost palpable.
On our side stood a lanky beanpole of a redneck dressed to the nines in cowboy style, with wide Stetson hat, string tie, pearl-buttoned shirt, and snakeskin boots. He looked like the kind of guy who used the n-word a lot, and would never be at a loss for a funny racist joke at the bar. But here he stood with us.
I’d have predicted every construction worker in Stagger Bay would have rationalized themselves onto the side of their bread and butter. But the toolbox crowd was evenly divided between our side and the other.
You never knew, about people that is. They were what they did; there was no getting around it.
Then, from the direction of the hospital, I saw strobing red trouble lights coming our way, lots of them. Our enemies raised a rebel yell, certain their bloodlust was finally going to be allowed legal vent.
That’s what these crackers were waiting for: The Stagger Bay Police Department was on their way to join the festivities.
Chapter 65
Their sirens were off but their trouble lights spun like a Big Brother rave display. They drove in a tight column of Crown Vic rollers along the ridgeline highway, down the access road and around the outskirts of the development, which was now crowded with hundreds of civilian cars.
When they got to the road in front of the Gardens, however, the cops lost their cohesion: a dozen police cars parked on our side of the avenue, but only a few of cops joined the lynch mob parked across the way.
The small number of cops supporting them had an immediate effect on the enemy camp: suddenly they stood still and silent. An air of hopeless disbelief crawled across them like a visible entity. Faces grew unhappy, and many of them eyed their vehicles with longing.
A steroid-buffed cop I recognized from the deposition got out his car with megaphone in hand; he stood in the middle of the avenue between the two opposing camps, facing our enemies. “This is an unlawful gathering, and you will disperse immediately,” the amplified voice of the law boomed. “Cease and desist – it’s time to go home, folks.”
Our opponents did so, cringing away in driblets to their cars and driving away singly, no longer a caravan, no longer a mob, without that sense of communal purpose and predatory hum they’d seemed to bring with them. They drove home alone, hunched over their steering wheels, defeated. The few cop cars that had parked with them drove away too; I wondered if they’d still be on the department payroll after tonight.
Moe dropped to one knee. “Yes,” he said, karate-chopping his hand down at the ground like he thought he could split the earth. “You lost, bitches,” he laughed. “Don’t come back to the Gardens.”
All Sam’s friends erupted into applause. People threw hats and clapped one another on the back.
They looked around at one another, powerful emotions on their faces. This was the night Stagger Bay rolled over like a giantess in her sleep and escaped to less unpleasant dreams.
The cops unbent enough to smile and shake hands with everyone around them, appearing a little sheepish but still standing on Sam’s side of the street. The cop with the megaphone – the new Chief of police after tonight I assumed – looked my way and gave me a miniscule diplomatic nod which I returned.
I walked through the crowd, meeting everyone’s eyes. Tonight I could let them look right at me despite the grotesquerie my eye patch concealed. I circulated with everyone else, soaking up the feelings just as though I had any right to share them.
News crews had shown up without me noticing. That redheaded newscaster from Oakland eyed me intently as she advanced through the crowd clutching her microphone, her ever dutiful cameraman behind her in tow. She was one determined newswoman.
“Moe,” I said. “Here’s your chance to be on TV.”
I pointed at the newscaster and his eyes lit up like a hungry man seeing a delicious meal. He got in front of her and started talking even as Sam and I commenced our getaway, me limping along as rapidly as possible whilst clutching his shoulder for support.
As we left Big Moe spoke enthusiastically about the Driver and the war on the Gardens; about the atmosphere of fear ruling Stagger Bay. His bloody head made for a dramatic on-camera touch. He sounded like a natural, more comfortable in front of the camera than I’d ever be.
I heard a siren behind us and turned to watch as a fire truck warbled along the ridge line highway and up Moose Creek Road. Looking back into the hills in the ambulance’s direction of travel I saw a flickering glow up there in the woods, like a fire was blazing just about where Chief Jansen had lived.
Tubbs said he was cleaning up loose ends tonight. The Ancients believed fire was a good purifier, a good cleanser; it was also a great way to destroy CSI evidence. How wonderful when two ages could agree together on a course of action.
As Sam helped me hobble toward Natalie’s, that redheaded newscaster peered at me over Big Moe’s shoulder. I wasn’t going to be able to dodge that promised exclusive interview much longer.
Chapter 66
Natalie’s door was wide open, and she stood in it with the light from inside backlighting her like enclosure.
“You’re a mess,” she said, canting her head to the side with hooded eyes. “Listen, Markus – I know you like to take your time and all, but you have to get some kind of move on eventually. Randy and I are going clothes shopping tomorrow, and you might want to tag along. That raggedy outfit is tired – it’s time to shuck it off and put it away for good, time to move on to where you need to be.”
Elaine had arrived before us with Karl’s hard-bought box of evidence. Sam helped me totter to the porch, and then Elaine picked up the box, stepped over to me, and plopped it at my feet.
“Now it’s on you,” she said with a grimace.
“Thanks loads,” I said. “Really looking forward to it.”
She chuckled at my tone, knowing how neatly she’d trapped me: if I really didn’t want my potential daughter-in-law to go through with whatever scam she had cooking, I had to take responsibility for this package.
But if Elaine thought she’d pulled a fast one on me, she might not be so tickled when I made sure she never folded on the injunction preserving the Gardens. Whether she knew it or not she was gonna ram that one through till the Man puked, with me standing behind her, arms crossed and tapping my foot.
I was free now, freer than I’d ever been in my life. I felt bigger than I ever had before, like I could rip the sky open with my bare hands tonight. But I was also juggling a lot of options, a million things I could turn my back on or face all the way, a potentially overwhelming number of decisions to make:
If I stayed in Stagger Bay and opposed Tubbs. If I walked through Natalie’s door and saw where that led us.
‘If’ I called Agent Miller?
Please
. It had nothing to do with whether or not I could trust the law – when I got ahold of him I knew he’d be up within hours, with bells on.
If.
God’s will, Natalie said. I still had my doubts about me being the kind of tool the Big Man would use if he existed. But I looked up at the stars, feeling the need to hedge my bets here at the end.
“Thank you,” I said, to whoever might be listening: Karl, or God, or Mister Montaigne and his homies – or most likely nobody at all.
“You’re welcome,” Sam said with an airy wave.
He stared at something behind me and I turned to follow his gaze. About a block down I saw that foxy redheaded Oakland newscaster closing in with cameraman in tow. I couldn’t hide from her anymore; it was time to keep my promise to her.
Seeing that camera inspired me to fumble Alden Wong’s business card out my otherwise empty wallet – first things first.
‘The biggest soap box in the world,’ the little agent had said. It would mean living in the fishbowl a little while longer. But what was wrong with a payout if I didn’t have to whore myself too hard, and if nobody else got hurt? “I need the phone one more time,” I said. “I need to call a man about a little thing.”
“No,” Sam said with a grin as he recognized the card. “That’s my Dad,” he noted to all and sundry. “The fucking old sellout.”
Sam smirked at me, awaiting my obligatorily obnoxious reply. But I just looked at him, keeping my proud fondness for him hidden in my heart as was always best.
Even though my son was mocking up on me harshly as ever, he’d been willing to call me ‘Dad’ twice in one night. Maybe, if I had patience and played my cards right, with any luck he’d call me the ‘D’ word again sometime.
Sam was still the typical teenager he’d been before tonight: an insolent little spud to be sure. But at least I’d made sure my son wasn’t a killer. It meant much that I’d kept that from happening here: Sam was still clean.
I dialed Alden’s number. He picked up on the first ring.
And I guess if you watch much TV at all or listen to the radio, if you surf the Internet, read the papers, or thumb through the tabloid magazines stacked high at every grocery checkout in America, you KNOW what happened next.
FIN
A disclaimer: Neither Markus nor Stagger Bay is real; they do not exist. The locations, events, persons and situations depicted here have no basis in fact, are entirely fictitious, and any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental.
Thank you to Michael Shea and Aldo Calcagno. Special thanks always to Donald Maass and Stacia Decker. A shout out to those who gave technical advice, but asked not to be named.
Pearce Hansen’s first novel
Street Raised
is available for the Kindle at
http://www.amazon.com/Street-Raised-ebook/dp/B0050JL0IM
:
“When Speedy raises from prison, he hitchhikes home to Oakland only to find his brother Little Willy a homeless crack head and his best friend Fat Bob bouncing in San Francisco's underground hardcore clubs. When two of their childhood homeboys get wrapped in chains by Mexican slangers and thrown in the American River alive, our heroes somehow get it together enough to plot revenge.
“Sure, it maybe takes the edge off Speedy's game a little when he starts playing house with beautiful phone psychic Carmel, and it complicates things a bit more when Louis, the same cop who put him in prison, starts dogging their steps like an unwelcome relative. But when a racist coven of skinz comes howling for Speedy & Carmel's blood, and a serial killer with a monster in his head decides Speedy is the answer to all his unholy prayers, things get really interesting . . .”
Here’s what people say about it:
Ken Bruen (author of
Blitz
starring Jason Statham; and of
London Boulevard
, soon to be a major motion picture):
"One of the best writers I know. Imagine James Ellroy coupled with George R. R. Martin and overseen by Charles Willeford. But Pearce really needs no comparison to any other writer; he’s created his own compelling dark universe that ratchets up noir to an astonishing level.”
Jason Starr (bestselling author of
The Pack
and
The Follower
):
"Street Raised is a full-tilt, dead-on descent into the Bay Area underworld, with lovably flawed characters and stunning dialogue. Every page, it seems, has something to marvel at. This is literary crime of the highest order, on par with the work of the great Eddie Bunker. Pearce Hansen is a major new talent."
Joe Lansdale (author of
Bubba Ho-Tep
, the
Hap and Leonard
series, and
Edge of Dark Water
):
“
Street Raised
is a scar of a book, but it's a beautifully healed scar. Gutsy, fast-paced, written in an electric style. Recommended.”
Eddie Muller (‘The Czar of Noir,’ author of
The Distance
, and founder/President of the
Film Noir Foundation
, in his
San Francisco Chronicle
review):
“A fast, ferocious and often ugly ride through the East Bay's feral underground. Hansen's tale is a curious blend of drug culture minutia and a story line that's more a cranked-up fable than a traditional crime story. In its best passages,
Street Raised
suggests a contemporary version of Jack Black's classic 1926 memoir of itinerant criminal life, You Can’t Win – albeit a heavily armed, hyperviolent update.”
Anthony Neil Smith (Editor of
Plots with Guns!
, Associate Editor of the
Mississippi Review
, and author of
All the Young Warriors
):
"Pearce is a wild man, and demands your attention. Hansen is definitely one of the gonzo crowd and deserves a stage with a loud amplifier and some bright lights."