I sat cross legged on the floor, my
coat in my lap, needle and thread in my hand. Letting my mind wander as I sewed
beads onto the coat. Yellow bead, yellow
bead, yellow bead, white bead.
“That bitch is worth fifty thousand
dollars.” At the time I had dismissed
the words as foolish piffle, but now I felt it time to reevaluate that
premise. The siege had been going on for
so long now and the addition of the cameras and listening devices, this was no
small matter. There was defiantly money
involved here and organization. Fifty
thousand.
I thought briefly that I was trapped
in one of those sadistic reality shows.
I can see the little marketing geek jumping all over an idea like this.
“You see chief we just pick some
schmuck at random out of the phone book and pay a bunch of wanna be Soprano’s
bit actors to try and kill the target. I
tell ya chief the ratings will go through the roof.
I rejected the idea only because
admitted whores only get to show up in reality TV in Cops.
Yellow bead, yellow bead, I let my
fingers do their work and let my mind wander.
I rummage through my mental file
cabinet pulling out the files marked odd.
Looking for a pattern in the puzzle.
When exactly did everything go so horribly horribly wrong? What impossibly improbable sequence of events
has resulted in this bizarre moment in my life?
Odd file; A few months before all
heck broke lose the San Francisco Bay Guardian a free weekly newspaper in town
had a long article about gang involvement with massage parlors in the
city. Accompanying the article was a
picture of my apartment window right next to the Empire Massage sign.
Odd file; Not long after one of my
neighbors had a nasty death. I came home
late one rainy night to find the fire department, cops and emts all around my
building. Never a good thing. One of my neighbors had apparently leapt to
his death. He was found on top of the
buildings Garbage container inside the inner court of the building. A broken doll lying atop discarded pizza
boxes and shattered glass. It was ruled
a suicide.
There were a couple of things about
his death that struck me as off at the time.
Mind you I didn’t go all Mrs. Marple over it, but still. He didn’t leave a suicide note, well nothing
odd about that, most suicides don’t bother with such nice detail. Why that is so I can’t imagine, if one is
going to stalk off and leave the party in such a dramatic way you would think
you would put some thought into your exit lines. What struck me as off was the manner and
location of his death.
Jumping to your death. Why jump off a five story tall building when
we have a perfectly good bridge for that sort of thing? Most suicides are solitary affairs, in our
culture any way. Like a wounded animal
they crawl off into the solitary shadows to die. Jumpers, however are the exception. Jumpers are suicides with a flare for the
dramatic and they want an audience for their big scene. He didn’t ‘jump’ off the street side of the
building where he would have been seen.
He ‘jumped’ to his death to the inner court of the building, a place
always in the shadows, a place no one but the garbage man ever goes into.
The part that really struck me as
off was the fact that he landed on top of the buildings garbage container. The top of the garbage container was a good
12 or 15 foot off the ground.
All jumpers look down first. Bungee jumpers, parachutists, suicides, they
all look before they leap. Why would a
suicide leap from the building from the one spot least likely to be immediately
fatal? Jumpers think, SPLAT, lights out,
they don’t think, ‘ writhing in agony atop a pile of rotting garbage yeh that’s
the ticket. ‘
Odd file; The empty building next door. Emptiness, it’s not a quality you notice at
first. It is a growing sense of,
wrongness, a sense of something, missing.
The two buildings were close together cheek to jowl, you can step from
one roof top to the next with no disturbing daylight between your shoes.
I passed this building everyday and
didn’t give it any thought, but over time
this sense of something missing begins nagging at me.
The building was empty, not
abandoned, not ill kept, just empty. It
was empty when I moved into my apartment.
It was still empty. San Francisco
has some of the highest rents and lowest vacancy rates of any city in the world
and here sits an empty apartment building in the center of the city. Who leaves a cash cow unmilked? For four years?
Halloween night a couple of months
before my neighbor had his unfortunate encounter with gravity, he and some of
his friends from the CIA (cook school not spy school) were having a party up on
the roof. A gathering of aspiring chiefs
want to share their beer and brownies, sure I’m in.
Young men + beer= mischief.
They wanted to go exploring.
The two buildings were cheek by
jowl.
And wouldn’t you know the empty buildings
roof top door was unlocked?
Abandoned is the element of things
left behind. Empty is a thing waiting to
be filled.
The building was empty. Every room was perfect, new carpet, shinny
new sinks, no dust. Four years at least
four years empty, shinny sinks, no dust.
I left after a few minutes. A
haunted house I can handle but this was just creepy.
About a week after my neighbors
death some workmen arrived to the empty building and took out all the brand new
carpeting I had seen in those empty rooms, in big ragged rolls.
Odd file; The cars now involved in my siege had arrived
in the neighborhood right about the same time as the work men removed the
carpeting next door. Parking in the
alley with their get smart codes of honking horns.
Bead by bead the pattern on my coat
grew under my hands. I moved the puzzle
pieces around in my mind.
Odd file; The succession of decidedly unusual short
term tenants in the apartment above me.
Odd file; The fact that so many of the apartments in my
building were now vacant. This in a time
when any vacancy is filled before the ink on the paper advertising the fact
dries.
Bead by bead the pattern on my coat
grew under my hands. I moved the puzzle
pieces around in my mind.
Then snap the pieces fell into place
and my stomach clenched around a fist of ice.
Like the moment when you see the mac truck barreling down at you going a
hundred miles an hour and the only thought going through your head is: (“Shit, this is really going to suck.”)
And then I laughed.
Clutching my coat rocking with
laughter.
It was drugs, of course, in a big
way, and Boccie was in it, in it, right up to his sharks toothed grin. The kicker, it wasn’t about me. It was my apartment they were after. Just like they say in real estate, Location,
Location, Location.
The apartment above me the one below
me and mine shared one thing, all three apartments were the ones that had
windows facing out onto O’Farrell street and were the ones that inside the
building faced the only stairwell and elevator in the building. With those apartments, one would know
everyone who entered or left the building.
I thought about the building next
door, could that be where they are either storing and or manufacturing their
drugs? Distribute through the Massage
Palor but keep the main supplies off sight.
If the cops searched the Massage pallor all they would find would be
small quantities they could blame on the whores working the place.
The fifty thousand wasn’t for my
death so much as simply to scare me enough to move out of my apartment. An old folk tale came to my mind.
The tale of the sun and the west wind.
Once upon a time in the misty days
when the world was young the sun and the west wind got into a pissing match
over which of them had more influence over the actions of men.
Just then quite coincidently a young
man appears walking on the road below the arguing sun and west wind. He is walking with the loose limbed carefree
stride of a youth not quite totally misspent.
His long duster coat open and flapping free about his knees.
The sun proposes a contest. Which ever of us can get the man below to
remove his coat is the winner. The wind
accepted the challenge and took the first go.
The wind blew upon the young man,
the man buttoned up his coat. The wind
blew harder, the man belted his coat.
The wind blew upon the man til the wind was quite purple with the
effort. The man gripped his coat tight
in both hands and leaned into the stubborn wind.
Then the sun took his turn and he
shone bright and warm down upon the man.
I guess we all know who went to the
celestial bar with bragging rights that night.
//
I don’t think Boccie read many fairy
tales growing up.
I set aside the coat and went to the
kitchen for some tea. I sat myself
comfortably into my gold leafed wicker chair and looked up at the ceiling. Time to have a little talk.
“All righty then.” I began “First off, Mr. Boccie, you’ve been a very
bad landlord and I am decidedly not happy.”
I lift my teacup to the ceiling with a wry smile and continued.
“You are involved in the drug
business. The building next door the
massage pallor, you, I don’t need to know all the details to see the
picture. All this noise and foolishness,”
I gesture to the window. “You all want
my apartment.”
“First point, I do not care about
your business. Hell I like drugs. If I had known a drup warehouse was right
next door all I would have done was become a customer. Would have been soo convenient.
“Second point, you want my
apartment, well for heaven’s sake why didn’t you just ask?. I mean really now I am not an unreasonable
woman and I would think that my , , profession would tell you that I really no
qualms over being bought off. If you had
come to me and simply offered me a different apartment at the same rent in
another or your buildings and a bit of money for moving costs. I would have gone, simple as that No muss no fuss no questions.”
But nooo.. You all decided to get all up in my grill.”
“While I have no trouble with you
‘little’ drug business. I don’t like
bullies. Mr. Boccie you have been a bad landlord and that is going to cost
you. You hired the nit wit gang to
harass me, to frighten me into running away from My apartment. That is just down right rude.”
“So here’s the deal. You offered them fifty grand to get me out of
my apartment. As investments go I think
you will have to admit that you really are not getting your monies worth. In fact things have gone from bad to
worse. Your victim hasn’t run away and
has now figured out a lot of things I am sure you would rather she had
not. So cut your losses. Pay me the money you offered the nit wit gang
and I will go. No muss, no fuss, no
questions. I will turn my back on you,
this apartment and even California. All
your problems here solved.”
“Now honestly I don’t expect you to
do this. I have found that once a person
starts a foolish course of action their ego insists they keep going no matter
how foolish. Some part of you convinced
that you can prove folly wise by dedication.”
“But I do like to give people a
chance to make a better choice.
Consider carefully, continue down
a path that hasn’t worked and has in fact resulted in the exact opposite of your
desires, or be reasonable and make a deal”
“Of course you think to your self
that you have the men, the money, the guns, terrible to give into a mere woman,
and a whore at that. I’m sure you find
that a bit galling.”
“Still, you think I’ve been an
annoying pain in the ass so far?”
I smile around the lip of my tea
cup.
“Well I’m going to bed. You all think it over.”
I rinsed the cup ot in the sink and
went to bed. Drifting off to sleep to a lullaby of death threats.