Dog Eat Dog (11 page)

A Highway Patrol cruiser passed them on the right.

“Will my driver’s license stand a check?” Troy asked.

“If they call in? Yeah, it’s cool.”

“Al Leon Klein. Born twelve fifteen fifty-nine. Denver, Colorado.” Troy made sure he had his pedigree ready. He remembered Boonie going down because he couldn’t spell the name on the driver’s license he was using for an alias. To give the devil his due, it was a Polish name. Still, he should have been able to spell the name he was using. “Who was this guy?” he asked. “Do you know?”

“Yeah. It’s his ID. We just changed the picture. He was a fruiter. He died in the Gay Men’s Hospice. He had that bad shit.”

“Cancer?”

“Cancer, my ass. AIDS!”

“Yeah, I know,” Troy said. “You don’t even like to say it, do you?”

“Scares me, man. It kills motherfuckers all kindsa ways. Some of ’em die horrible deaths. Shit growing in their throat, eating at their brain. How many dudes got it in the joint?”

“I dunno. I guess a few hundred are infected without bein’ sick—”

“They will be somewhere down the line.”

“So will all of us.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Anybody that comes up HIV positive, they get put in a segregated unit.”

“Dudes are scared of ’em, I bet.”

“You got it,” Troy said. “Some of ’em are scared shitless. You know how stupid they are. And you’d be surprised at some of the dudes that got it. The ones that are already sick are mostly faggots, but those that are infected are mostly dope fiends. I knew a lot of ’em since reform school. Jimmy Villa, Don Wilcox, Wedo Karate. And guys I don’t know their names.”

“Al Leon Klein,” Diesel said.

“Yeah, now you make me a dead fruiter.”

“Better’n being a live fugitive.”

“Better quit fuckin’ with me. I’ll hurt your big ass.”

“You will?”

“Yeah.” Troy reached down with his right hand and grabbed a fat piece of inner thigh between four fingers and the heel of his hand. The pain was so great that it froze Diesel.

“Oh, God! I’m sorry! I quit,” Diesel pleaded. “Leggo, brother. Please!”

“Call me Daddy.”

“Yes, Daddy. Please, Daddy.”

Troy released his grip. Diesel raised a clenched fist in a parody of Jackie Gleason. “One of these days … one of these days.”

“If you ever
dream
of jumping on me, you’d better wake up and get your mind right.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Pssst.” He gestured for Diesel to look down.

Diesel looked. In Troy’s left hand was a pistol.

“How ’bout that?” Troy asked.

“I quit,” Diesel said. “Put that away.”

Troy slipped the pistol back under his thigh where he could retrieve it instantly. It was unlikely that he would need it out here on the highway. And if he did need it, the chances are it would be useless. The only need would be if the Highway Patrol, or some local cop, pulled them over, and for a decade or more, virtually all policemen wore bulletproof vests under their uniforms, or as part of their uniforms. Head and arms and legs were still open, but those were harder shots and, except for the head, unlikely to instantly incapacitate. The instinct in the extreme moment was to shoot at the biggest target, the body. He would need to practice. Once upon a time he’d been extremely good with various small arms, especially the pistol. It had been a long time; at the least, his skill must have deteriorated by half.

Diesel was playing with the car radio. The preset stations were for the San Francisco Peninsula, not the East Bay. He had to find what he wanted by searching. He was looking for golden oldies, but when a voice was reading the news, Troy told him to hold up a minute.

Congress was rushing through an urban aid bill … a plane from Mather Field was missing in the Sierras … Sacramento police had raided a topless bar … a car had been hijacked in Oakland, two of the four bandits had been caught after a shootout in Berkeley … Palestinians were causing the Israelis trouble on the West Bank … The INS was increasing its presence along the border … the Court of Appeal had upheld the “three strikes” law.

“Turn on some music,” Troy said. “That shit’s too depressing.”

“Are you eligible for three strikes?” Diesel asked.

“It depends if they can use my juvenile case. I don’t think an appellate court will uphold that part of it. A juvenile case doesn’t have the constitutional protections—no lawyer, no trial by jury, no presumption of innocence, no confrontation with witnesses, none of that shit. So it can’t be constitutionally viable to enhance a subsequent case.”

“If you say so.”

“What about you?”

“Dead and stinking. Even a chickenshit beef like havin’ a gun gives me life. Fuck all that. I’m holding court on the spot.”

“Yeah, they’ve made all crimes into capital offenses.”

“How they gonna do it, Troy? I mean, damn, where they gonna put all them fools? How they gonna take ’em all to trial? It seems insane to me.”

“It is insane. But they’re scared.”

“I do understand that. I get scared, too, and I’m a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound grizzly bear, armed to the teeth. Them young niggers, they’re on some kind of outer space trip. I read yesterday where they went to rob some sucker. He showed ’em his empty wallet, so they shot him six times. What kinda shit is that? What’re they thinkin’ about?”

“Who knows?”

“Just ignorant-ass niggers,” was Diesel’s judgment. “All they know how to do is sell dope and hurt people. Somebody said they learn that shit from movies and TV.”

“They learn it somewhere. Everybody learns everything somewhere. Maybe it is TV. Nobody else teaches them anything—at least nobody teaches a lot of ’em. A lot of ’em grow up with nothin’ to civilize ’em in the ghetto.”

“Kinda like that movie,
Lord of the Flies
.”

“Not a bad analogy … except it started as a book.”

“I didn’t read it, but I saw the flick. Whaddya think about niggers? You hate ’em?”

“Uh-uh,” Troy said. “Not unless they hate me.”

“That’s how I feel … if they be fulla hate, fuck ’em in their ass. If they respect me, I respect them. If they bad-vibe me, I give ’em redneck vibes right back. I ain’ done nuthin’ to the motherfuckers. What the fuck, I been fucked over bad as them. You, too. What about all that hate in gangsta rap? They call that shit music.”

“Duke Ellington must turn over in his grave.”

“No bullshit about that.”

Lights and buildings and traffic increased as they entered the outskirts of Sacramento. It was dark now. In a gas station, Diesel filled the tank while Troy went to a pay telephone. The number was to a communal pay phone in the hallway of a rooming house. A girl answered: “Hello.”

“Hi. Say, can you knock on Larry Jones’s door and see if he’s there?”

“Is this Troy or Diesel?”

“Uhhh … I’m calling for them.”

“Larry told me to tell them that he’s in the Onyx Club playing poker.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jinx. I’m Larry’s old lady.”

“Where’d you get a name like Jinx?”

“Larry gave it to me. I walked up when he had a full house—and he lost. He said I jinxed him. He didn’t really mean it.”

“Where’s the Onyx?”

“Do you know downtown Sacramento?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. I’ll give you directions. You’re coming from the Bay Area, right?”

“Yep.”

She gave him directions, where to exit the freeway, which way to go, where to turn. It was simple enough and he mentally filed it. Diesel had pulled the car away from the pumps and was waiting behind the wheel. As they returned to the traffic flow, Troy started to explain. Diesel knew the whereabouts of the Onyx Club. A moment later, the big man slammed the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. “He’s got another girlfriend. I hope to fuck she doesn’t have a kid.”

“She sounds like a baby herself.”

What they knew stifled conversation during the rest of the drive.

When they spotted the Onyx and looked for a place to park, Troy said, “Be cool when you see him. Don’t bad-vibe him.”

“I’ll be cool. I don’t want to stir up paranoia toward me. That would make me paranoid. And two of us paranoid …”

The Onyx had a long bar and, ten feet away, a brass pipe rail separated the gaming area, half a dozen tables featuring various kinds of poker games: Seven-Card Stud, Lowball, Texas Hold ’Em, Pai Gow. Only two were in action, both against the far wall.

The bar area was dim, but the lights were bright over the poker tables. The light flashed on the shiny backs of the playing cards as they slid across the green velvet. The game had six players, Mad Dog among them. A mediocre card player, like most poor gamblers he thought he was great—and when he lost, he thought luck was against him. For the moment the cards confirmed his delusion. He was having a rush of luck. The game was Seven-Card Stud, and he could do no wrong. Three times he and another player had a flush, and each time his was the best flush. Twice he had two pair against a straight, and twice he made the full house on the last card. He’d been too hot to quit even to meet Troy and Diesel, so he had phoned Jinx and left the message.

He had won another small pot and was stacking his chips when he looked up and saw Troy watching him. Mad Dog grinned and saluted. Troy nodded, face impassive. It was enough to trigger anxiety in Mad Dog. He began picking up his chips. “That’s it for me, boys.”

When they were underway in the car, Troy asked: “How come you told that chick my name?”

“You mean Jinx. Did I give her your name?”

“She asked if I was Troy or Diesel.”

“Oh, shit,” Diesel said.

“How long would it take to identify us if she told the cops ‘Diesel’ and ‘Troy’? They’d be showing her our mug shots in about an hour.”

Mad Dog’s instinct was to deny and defend, but this time he knew better, so he apologized. “I’m sorry, brother. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yeah … okay. Just remember this. Nobody should even want to know anything they don’t have to know. I know I don’t.”

“I know what you mean,” Diesel said. “I was on fish row in Vacaville when I went to the joint. There was four or five dudes that knew each other—Gary Jackson, Danny Trejo, Bulldog, and Red Howard. Red was cuttin’ the bars to his cell. He told us, just these four or five dudes. Somebody ratted him off and they busted him. I felt fuckin’ terrible, and Gary Jackson told me the same thing. We wished we didn’t know, so it couldn’t even cross Red’s mind that it might’ve been one of us.”

“Did you find out who it was?” Mad Dog asked.

“Yeah, it was the dude that got him the hacksaw blade. But after that, when somebody started to tell me something, if it didn’t concern me, I don’t wanna hear it. So if anything goes wrong, there’s no question about my good name.”

“I know how it goes,” Troy said.

“I’ll watch myself,” Mad Dog said.

“I know you will. Are you ready to roll?”

“I’m packed … but my fuckin’ car’s in the garage. It won’t be ready until tomorrow.”

“Is that the same car you had in Portland?” Diesel asked.

“Yeah, the old GTO. It’s a classic, man.”

“It would be better if it was a classic that would run.”

“It’ll run,” Mad Dog said in a flat tone of challenge—and Troy felt the tension between his confederates.

“We’re gonna make enough dough so you can buy a Jaguar if you want it.”

“Hell, no,” Diesel said. “They’re in the garage more’n that old GTO.”

“You get the car back tomorrow?” Troy asked.

“So they told me.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“A radiator hose.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll be done tomorrow,” Diesel said.

“We could check into a motel and wait,” Troy said. “Or we can drive tonight and you come when you get the car. That way I can see Greco tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

Mad Dog nodded.

“Sounds like the best move to me,” Diesel concurred.

“How’ll I find you down there?” Mad Dog said. “Make it easy, ’cause I get fuckin’ lost in L.A.”

“We’ll be in the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard,” Troy said. “Under the name Al Leon Klein.”

“Al Leon Klein. I’ll just think of Jimmy Klein. Whatever happened to that dude?”

“He snitched on too many people,” Diesel said. “The Mexican mafia’s got a contract out on his ass.”

“Is that right?” Mad Dog asked. “He turned snitch.”

“Yeah,” Troy said. “He’s a con man down to his core. The kind of dude that thinks everybody’s a sucker or a mark. It’s easy to rationalize and say, ‘Let that mooch go to jail.’ That’s what he did.”

“Jimmy Klein … a rat … Damn … They guy had a helluva personality,” Mad Dog said.

“That he does … but he’s still a rat,” Diesel said. “You wanna go back to the Onyx or what?”

“Uh-uh. Take me to the pad. I’ll tell you the way.”

Ten minutes later they pulled up outside a decaying two-story apartment building. When Mad Dog was getting out, the front door opened and Jinx came out. She had the face of a child and the body of a woman. It was impossible to avoid an introduction: “Carl, Troy, meet Jinx, my old lady.”

“Hi, guys. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Diesel was behind the wheel. “I’d like to hear about it some time,” he said, “but we are running late and gotta hurry.”

He gave the girl a quick smile and Mad Dog a half salute and pulled into traffic. Ten minutes later, the Mustang GT convertible turned southbound on U.S. 99, heading toward L.A., four hundred miles away. Once upon a time, U.S. 99 had been the main inland route north and south through the San Joaquin Valley, and although its number-one position had been taken over by Interstate 5, it still carried lots of traffic. They passed through small farm towns and truck stops. Sometimes for miles the world was black beyond the strip of highway, but the smell of growing things conveyed the richness of the earth.

Headlights illuminated signs. Bakersfield, 100 miles, Los Angeles, 220. Troy looked out at the night and Diesel watched the endless line of broken white unfold before the lights.

“Radio?” Diesel asked.

“Sure.”

In the Central Valley, all the radio would pick up was a country station and another with twenty-four-hour news. “Which one?” Diesel asked.