Dirty in Cashmere (4 page)

 

TWELVE

Hours after I made my prediction, Heller and 2-Time stationed themselves outside Global Journeys. It was a cloudless evening, roasting hot, reminding Heller that he should've worn something lighter, maybe a sweater instead of a coat, definitely not the goose down parka he had on.

“Get ready,” he commanded 2-Time.

2-Time bridled at Heller's superior tone. Heller was continuously issuing directives—ever since he hooked up with that gold digger Mitzi and joined the 12-step program.

“Fuck, here he is.”

The bagman strode down the sidewalk holding a briefcase in each hand. He paused in front of Global Journeys, craned his neck to see if the coast was clear. Satisfied that it was, he entered the shop.

Heller removed the Glock from his parka. He saw no homeless around him, which was odd, until he realized the hour—all the street people were at the soup kitchens in the Tenderloin.

“It's weird out here,” 2-Time grumbled. “Too damn quiet.”

Heller cast a scornful glance at 2-Time. He vowed if 2-Time didn't keep his cool, didn't keep a lid on his tensions, specifically his criticisms about Mitzi, harping on how she was undermining their friendship, always talking his sexist shit, he'd shoot him in the fucking neck.

The courier resurfaced from the travel shop, the street's lights in his eyes. Heller casually walked up to him and without any further ado, socked him in the right ear. The punch was hard enough to knock the guy off-balance, but not hard enough to make him drop the briefcases.

Heller shrieked at 2-Time. “Help me, asshole!”

2-Time's reflexes were lax. The bagman took advantage of his slowness and whacked him in the belly with the flat side of a briefcase. Doubling over, 2-Time capsized to the pavement.

The courier swung the other case and nailed Heller's cheek, scoring a bull's-eye on the cigarette burn. Heller never knew there was so much pain in the world. Blindly, he reached out and clamped a hand on a briefcase. He was close enough to see his adversary's clean shaven chin, close enough to smell the Chinese food that spiced his breath. The briefcase, like a child with divorcing parents, was between them.

It's ballet, thought Heller. So he kicked the courier in the shins, causing him to yowl. Heller then pried the case from his grip. He backtracked and whooped, “Let's go, 2-Time!”

Dashing into the street, Heller was in front, the briefcase snug under his left arm. He sent a desperate, frantic message to his legs. Run fast. Outrun my enemies. Help me get rich. If you don't help, I'll fucking die.

Heller and 2-Time hurried down Market Street.

Nightfall descended with a guillotine's satisfying quickness. It found 2-Time and Heller tallying the loot in Heller's living room. Bundles of bills lay on the iridescent green shag carpeting.

“How much we got?”

“A hundred and nineteen grand.”

Mitzi sashayed into the room, her breasts swaying counterclockwise under a thigh-length black rayon negligee, which was all she wore, other than a gold chain around her right ankle. Nonchalantly, she bent over a pile of hundreds and stroked it, pantomiming a hand job with the cash. Heller was mortified. Ignoring her, he carped at 2-Time. “How do we handle Bellamy?”

2-Time swallowed the lump of cynicism in his throat. Heller was bossy, mister big shot himself, but when it came to Bellamy, 2-Time had to supply the brains.

“Get your wife out of here so we can talk in private.”

Mitzi overheard the comment. She didn't get Heller's friendship with 2-Time. 2-Time was quicksand, an inveterate asshole. Rita was no better, a classic codependent, sinking with 2-Time. Studying the money in her hand, as if she didn't know how it got there, Mitzi flung the paper at 2-Time. The wadded bills bounced off his red, veiny nose.

“Fuck you, chick! I swear!”

Heller watched helplessly as Mitzi fled into the kitchen and slammed the door behind her, depositing a trail of bitter vibes in her wake. Pretending he was indifferent, Heller confided in 2-Time. “Bellamy is not as capable as he thinks.”

“Hell.” 2-Time brushed money from his lap. “I know that.”

“What should we do?”

“Give him his rightful share of the job.”

“How much is that?”

“One thousand.”

“A grand? He won't like it.”

“Tough titty for him. If he wants more, he can predict another score. And we need the money. All we can get.”

“What for?”

“To get the hell out of this town.”

2-Time got up and walked to the window, opened black velour drapes stained with green threads of mold. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass and gazed outside. No cars were out there, no people. Nothing but a handful of epileptic streetlights flickering in the evening smog.

 

THIRTEEN

Rain hammered the club's roof well into Thursday afternoon. The main room was damp, mildewed, very unpleasant. Rita was stocking merchandise on the shelves. Heller, 2-Time, and I huddled at the counter. Heller explained why my cut was small.

“You fucked things up again. You predicted wrong. You overestimated how much cash the guy had. The job was a dud.”

2-Time seconded the motion. “You fucked up.”

He and Heller both thought I was a farce. I could foresee events, but not specific amounts of money. An oracle was supposed to predict anything, which I couldn't do.

I felt disconnected, as if I were staring through a glass wall at Heller and 2-Time. On their side of the wall was the money they owed me. On my side of the wall I was angry.

“How much you giving me?”

“A thousand bucks.”

“That's low balling.”

“No, it isn't. It's magnanimous.”

I repressed the impulse to predict 2-Time and Heller's futures. It would serve them right, me knowing their fates before they did. It'd take their asses down a notch. But all I wanted was my money. The bullet would give me no rest until I got it. I stuck out my hand. “I'll take what I'm owed.”

Heller slipped me a rancid manila envelope. I peeked inside. There it was, a thin sheaf of hundreds, old and smelly. The vaccine money stank of death. I crammed the envelope in my jeans, swiveled on my lame leg.

“Ricky?”

I pivoted toward Heller, to see what the fool wanted now. My scalp was tight, like I was on the verge of a prediction. I peered at Heller, and read right through him. If he had something to tell me, he'd better do it quickly.

“What do you want?”

“A prediction.”

“You mean another robbery.”

“Yeah.”

“What's in it for me?”

“Plenty of money.”

“You're a goddamn liar. There's been none of that so far.”

“Because your skills are shoddy. But I'll give you one last chance to show me you're a real oracle.”

My hair sagged, weighed down by the raindrops it had collected earlier in the afternoon. I was hungry and tired. I resented how Heller smiled at me. He reminded me of my dad, the time we went to an Elks Lodge dance, but didn't have the money to get in. Dad detoured us to a friend's house, somebody he knew from his first stint in prison. While mom and I waited in the living room, dad disappeared into a bedroom with his friend, got a blow job from him and twenty bucks for the dance. When he came out of the bedroom he had a phony, shit-eating smile, the same kind of smile Heller had.

I burred at Heller. “I don't give a fuck what you think.” I spun around and propelled myself toward the door, my mind in a whirl.

“Ricky!”

Rita's syrupy voice, educated, full of books and college, stopped me cold. I looked at the door. I was five steps away from it. Shit, I thought. I cranked my head ninety degrees to the left and there she was, staring at me with the most vacant blue eyes I'd ever seen. I smelled the perfumed part in her hair. I felt bad for Rita. Marriage with 2-Time had to be a labyrinth.

“Where you going?”

I evaluated her question like it had global consequences. Aware that 2-Time and Heller were at the counter listening closely, I squared my shoulders and said with all the dignity I could muster: “I'm getting the hell out of here. Heller and 2-Time are disrespecting my shit.”

“Don't listen to them.”

“They're creeps.”

“They envy you. You're a seer. A natural sage.”

“I am? Thank you, baby.”

“Will you work with us again?”

“No.”

“Next time will be better. Please?”

“No.”

“We'll give you a bigger cut.”

“Nope.”

“You won't do it?”

“No chance, girl. I'm sick and tired of being abused.”

I made my way to the door. I eased into the street. A vicious wind was raping the rooftops. The rain fell in sheets, lashing the sidewalks. In seconds, I was soaked to the bone.

Across the road a homeless woman slept on the pavement, tucked against a Safeway supermarket parking lot wall. A pigeon stalked her, inspecting her hair, pecking at it, searching for food. Finding none, the bird flew off.

In hindsight I should've understood the chain of events that my defection from Eternal Gratitude would cause. I have only myself to blame for the things that took place thereafter. More telling, I wouldn't have been able to stop anything.

 

FOURTEEN

2-Time and Rita spent the remainder of the afternoon at Eternal Gratitude. 2-Time intuited Rita was upset about me and tried to soothe her. “Fuck Ricky. He was a figment of our imagination. A projection of our fantasies. He existed only because we wanted him to.”

Rita couldn't look at 2-Time. The less money they had, the harder it was for her to be near him. “Ricky isn't genuine?”

“Oh, he is real, sugar, too damn real. He's a doppelgänger.”

“What's that?”

“A mirror of you and me.”

“I don't see him in my mirror.”

“Don't be silly,” 2-Time pooh-poohed. “Ricky was our hope to get rich. He fucked up and now that won't happen. The kid is handicapped. He doesn't have what it takes. He's too ghetto.”

“Ricky was a competent oracle.”

“The hell he was.” 2-Time shook his head. “Ricky was low-rent with no vision.”

“You guys treated him like dirt. He deserved better.”

“Forget that. And we're fine without him.”

2-Time's bluster sounded weak, even to himself. After Bellamy left Eternal Gratitude, he and Heller got into a tiff about how much angel dust 2-Time was using. Heller wanted him to join a harm reduction program. What a hoot. Heller could screw himself. The pious asshole.

If that wasn't enough, 2-Time had gotten a scary phone message from a friend saying the feds were planning to shut down all the Life clubs in the city. Before he could process what it meant, he also learned Tommy Doolan was on his case.

Doolan was the senior Department of Public Health official overseeing the city's clubs. Somehow, through the grapevine, he'd gotten drift of Heller and 2-Time's robberies. It was a bad scene. Doolan had the power to revoke Eternal Gratitude's license to operate. 2-Time was blue and said no more to Rita.

 

FIFTEEN

In my mind's eye I saw Heller was as tense as 2-Time. He was listening to the raindrops pinging against his living room's windows. His discomfort started when he and Mitzi went to lunch at a North Beach bistro. An old Italian place on Stockton Street. The waiter told them dairy items were off the menu, due to Fukushima-related contamination. Some vegetables like spinach were also too hot. Plus, he'd run out of potassium iodide, the over-the-counter anti-radiation tincture. Heller hated the tincture. It made his heart beat too fast.

As a bonus, Heller had the joy of receiving another telephone call from 2-Time. His partner was tripping, flying high on stress, kvetching that Tommy Doolan had him under a microscope and the Department of Public Health was going to investigate Eternal Gratitude.

The feds said the rainfall was safe, the regional contamination levels were insignificant. Nobody bought it. When it rained, the streets were deserted. Yesterday the newspaper said the rain contained iodine levels fifty times higher than normal. Since it was raining nearly every day, the radiation was accruing, similar to equity on a house.

Some people were already getting sick, struck down real fast. For most, years would pass before they even knew they were ill. That was the mystery of radiation sickness. You never could figure out when it would hit.

Mitzi waltzed into the room.

“Daddy?”

“I'm not your daddy. Stop calling me that. Jesus.”

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry.”

“What do you want?”

“Where is Ricky?”

“I'm afraid he's gone.”

“Where to?”

“I don't know. Wherever failed oracles go. Bellamy is damaged goods, baby.”

“Is he out there in the rain?”

“Probably.”

“That's sad.”

“It's his choice. Not my problem.”

“I thought Ricky was your friend.”

“Hardly. He was a business associate.”

“You exploited him.”

“I did not. He exploited himself.”

“But Ricky is an orphan.”

“Fuck that. He's a hustler.”

The mess with 2-Time reminded Heller of the other day at the Illinois Street beach. He'd seen three stingrays swimming in shoal water, gliding through it. The stingrays scattered ducks, sea gulls, cormorants, and pelicans, breaking the water's dimpled surface with their brown wingtips shining in the rain. Heller was certain the stingrays were an omen, a signal for him to move ahead with his plans.

Heller's share of the robberies was just under eighty grand. If he added 2-Time's split to the total, it was twice as much. One hundred and sixty thousand dollars. A sum that would lead to a better life.

Ever since Heller entered the 12-step program, he had his own ideas about making amends to the people he'd injured. Instead, he was more interested in getting payback from the dirtbags who'd hurt him. His list was long. It began with 2-Time. Robbing him tonight would be a celebration.

Heller didn't give me another thought.