MAIN EVENT. A Good Place to Get Started --- a.k.a "Table of Contents"
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MAIN EVENT. A Good Place to Get Started --- a.k.a "Table of Contents" |
| MY GLASS HOUSE | THE PREVIOUS EVENT | THE NEXT EVENT | THE WRITERS/GUIDELINES | |
JUNGLE BUNNY - Chapter Two: Home, BoyYou always fly down into San Francisco International Airport the same way: the pilot noses the plane down quickly; at two thousand feet he circles out over the Pacific, after you've seen the lights of San Francisco, and then does that I'm-sure-this-is-as-close-to-a-near-death-experience-as-I-want-to-get glide over the bay below Candlestick Park; you wish you had a Scotch to suck down now, don't you?
The flaps drop, then the landing gear is lowered, and you don't see the Bay anymore, you see concrete and tarmac. Bump, bump, touch-down and you're here.
Phase Two: the tunnel to the international Customs station, and then out into that cattle pit of people awaiting arrivals hard on the baggage claim.
Suits holding up signs for the foreign businessmen they await; people with shiny, aluminium balloons that say, "WELCOME HOME, DARCEY!" and "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRISELDA", bouquets of bright balloons; wan girls with blonde hair pulled back and headlamp eyes, roses in their arms, searching the arrivals as you file out of Customs for Herbert returning from Brussels; dark Ethiopians, faces the shape of civet cats or otters, looking for Kahsai who carried contraband dollars to their mothers, sisters, cousins, and who will say if their families have found them a village girl to be a wife.
You could see scenes like this a thousand times and pretend that they were not imprinted on your brain. Still, they sucked to see again when you come home, boy.
The city of St. Francis. Herb Caen's "Baghdah-by-the-Bay", which you had seen on the last visit, when you took down the Fujanese snakehead, Ah Cay, with incidental help from a mechanic called "Tommy Bells", and decided was Calcutta-by-the-Bay. The place you had the night, just one night, with Lena which made you feel guilty now. Jefferson. CYA Jefferson.
Welcome home, Mallory. None of the assorted citizens are here to greet you back, though. You walk through the cattle pit and out the automatic glass sliding doors to hail a cab. Find another hotel in another town. Welcome home, boy.
San Francisco is definitely a James Carter kind of town. Even when you don't want to believe you hear it, there is that European ambiance to the bright streets, the alleyways, and the haunting fog that make you imagine Carter blowing "Round Midnight" in the background, blue as a razor, black as a thousand midnights, and a cunning young woman floating on her high heels in measured strides that make her seem a galleon.
Crack monsters, and hustlers, whores hoisted and hoisting over black fishnet, the smell of carnitas and Thai peanut sauce in the air, urine and blood. Home, boy.
Even while serving on the Oakland Police Department, Geoff had had a solitary flat on the intersection of the Mission, the Haight and the Western Addition, before the gay gentry made it Hayes Valley, where he could let his hair down, play killer jazz and assassin rock and roll, enjoy an occassional dube over his glass of single malt Scotch, and commune with the souls of black folk. Then back into the uniform, strap on the weapon, and control the streets. Serve and protect. Diminish the number of scum bags. Home, boy. "Born to Be Blue" would have been nice right around then.
The city had not changed much, as far as Geoff could see. The sirens still wailed day and night, heralds of another tragedy, another dispossession or death. The high-pitched wail of fire truck and ambulance sirens always reminded Geoff of the ululation of paid mourners. On the taxi ride into San Francisco from the airport, Geoff kept his headphones on. He was buzzed and not in the mood for talking about the local weather, where he was flying in from, why he was in town. Fuck the cab driver. He was a paid retainer, too, like the wailing mourners on the fire trucks and ambulances, like Geoff himself was for Officer Jefferson. CYA Jefferson. The cabbie was probably another racist, too. Scratch an American, find a bigotry.
Geoff was listening to his Boz Scaggs cassette tape and wondering if he would call Lena. Since he had decided to take Jefferson's case, he might as well go back to banging Jefferson's ex-wife. It would satisfy Geoff's sense of balance. He would work harder on Jefferson's case, prodded by the guilt of enjoying Jefferson's last repast every night. Glad you gottah Man now? he would be thinking every stroke. 'Steaduh that daisy-boy, CYA Jefferson? Huh? Huh?
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Boz Scaggs owned a club in town called Slim's. When Geoff was last in town, he noticed that Boz's club booked a good variety of acts. He would have to check it out this trip. Maybe take Lena. Slim's: would make a good first date.
The envelope was waiting at the Fairmont when Geoff arrived, week's retainer plus a down payment on expenses, as agreed. It crossed Geoff's mind that a beat copper, even a Lieutenant, shouldn't be able to cough up this kindah bread so easily. But he shrugged it off. He didn't know what kindah shit was Jefferson might be into, even with the alimony payments---or maybe because of them---and besides, a man could come up with all sorts of extraordinary resources when his ass was on the line. Geoff gave the bellhop an extra generous tip. He figured he would stay here at the Fairmont for about a week, until he could find an apartment somewhere, probably the Mission district, that wouldn't cost him an arm and left ear. Something with a semblance of a view.
There was a note in the envelope. Geoff read it after opening the drapes in his hotel room, calling down to Room Service to get a bottle of Scotch to maintain his buzz. "Sgt. Cooper will meet you at Geoffrey's---" (The place where blacks in Oakland went to see and be seen, pick up some good jazz or blues, hard on Jack London Square, Geoff remembered.)
"---Friday night. Hope you enjoy the gumbo. He's got a line on these 'bangers who is after me, Mallory. Look, I know you and he and ain't got no love loss, Brother. But don't fuck up. This is my life we're talkin' about. Don't call me. I'll be in touch on Saturday morning. I don't want nobody knowin' you workin' for me.
Curtis"
Geoff wondered why he had forgotten that Jefferson's first name was Curtis. Maybe 'cause you never took to the bloke? he asked himself.
Whatever. He poured some Scotch down his gullet and switched on the television set in the room. Company.
Unpacking, watching the lights twinkle onto the western hillside which separated downtown from the Pacific, looking up the street at the dark fog-cloud rolling down toward the downtown area, Geoff got that old twinge in his heart like he did the last time he had been in San Francisco. He had always thought something significant would happen to him here. It never had, but he had been unable to shake the belief. Last time, the only thing which had happened had been that he had met a Chinaman who ended up wanting to see him dead, a bloke who had almost succeeded in making that wish come true. This time? Who knew? It felt awfully good to be back in the San Francisco Bay Area, but it felt wrong, somehow, too. Terminally wrong. He gulped more Scotch. What time was it in Bermuda now?
Geoff felt tired, but also restless. He needed to get out, he thought, hanging his last jacket in the closet. He put his weapon in the drawer of his dresser. Would not need that now. No one knew he was in town yet, he figured. Besides, who would be looking for him on this side of the Bay? He needed to get out on the street, into the hustle and bustle of a San Francisco night. It was Thursday, things would be starting to heat up for all those schmoes who lived for weekends after slaving all week in the office towers of the Financial district. Maybe he would run up on some new poon'. He did not have to call Lena until tomorrow, or maybe later. What would she have to say to him after over a year? "Fuck yourself, Mallory". He would deserve that. Why had he not even bothered to send a post card, he castigated himself. Pure selfishness, more than likely. Taking things for granted. Bad trait for a detective.
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