One Foot Off the Gutter (14 page)

“I should have seen it coming,” he said.

“Don't get smart with me,” she chided.

Bellamy was both tickled pink and paranoid. Doreen plucked a ring of keys from her purse. He stood behind her, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders as she worked a key into the door. It was going to be a peaceful afternoon. He didn't have to be at work until the evening. He didn't have to worry about anything. Doreen unlocked the door and turned to him, apologizing.

“Don't mind the mess, but the kids, you know?”

“You don't have to say anything,” Bellamy replied with gallantry. He reached around her and pushed open the door.

Doreen flipped on the living room light switch and turned around to look at him. Bellamy took off his bulletproof vest, removed his riot helmet and sat down in an overstuffed chair. There were so many spaces in his life that he wanted to keep open. He didn't want to end up like Coddy. That would be unwise. But there was something Doreen was doing that led him to believe he could stay with her for awhile. He unbuckled his gun belt and put it down on the coffee table. When he took off his gun, he could still feel its comforting weight against his leg.

“Do you want a beer?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

Doreen walked into the kitchen. Bellamy heard the refrigerator door open and close. While Doreen poured the beer into a glass for him, Bellamy took a quick tour around the living room. He examined the kids' toys, the books on the shelves and the couch by the hallway. He ran his fingers over a reproduction of an oil painting on the wall near the front door. The painting was by Van Gogh. The enamel finish on the print was peeling off in transparent brown strips. It looked so shoddy, Bellamy had to cringe. His transplant felt hot and his scalp was irritated.

“Like what you see?” she asked quietly.

Bellamy whirled around to find Doreen standing behind him holding a glass of beer in her hand. She offered him the glass, then took his other hand, bringing his fingers to her lips. She brushed them with a brief kiss, and said:

“Some people call it home. Besides the girls and my family, it's all I have. You're welcome here any time, Bellamy.”

He stared at her with a lump in his throat so big, he couldn't swallow. He couldn't think of a word to say. What she was doing to him was making up for all the wide open spaces of being a homeless cop in San Francisco.

 

 

 

 

 

 

w
ild parrots were chattering, their tiny lungs bursting with music, perched in the grim palm trees that lined Mission Street. Bellamy poked his head out the window of the squad car to gawk at them. Though it was only September, he saw autumn had weakened the sun. Winter was approaching with a non-refund-able, non-exchangeable, perishing light. September meant the year was soon coming to an end. Bellamy was not only apprehensive of the months and the drop in temperature and the boredom of being cold, he was also faced with a renewed awareness of all the past Septembers in his life. Memories filled him with nervous energy.

I nudged the accelerator, tapped the brake pedal, then aimed our patrol vehicle onto Twenty-fourth Street. Moving at five miles per hour down the potholed asphalt, the squad car rolled by Joyeria La Joya, El Nuevo Fruitilandia, a pair of alleys named Lucky and Balmy, La
Reyna Panaderia, China Books, and the murals covering St. Peter's church with images of Spanish conquistadors and Aztecan warriors.

The York Theater, St. Francis's Soda Fountain, Iglesia de Dios, and Teddy Wong's Cleaners passed by our windows like the stage set in a ghost town. All the store fronts on the block were spray painted with the names of gang members who'd died in the last year.

I made up my mind to go back to Twenty-first Street.

 

It took me five minutes to get there.

I switched off the ignition and pocketed the key with a mechanical flick of my wrist. I was focusing in on a single channel; there weren't going to be any detours. My scope was narrow and like most intelligent men who weren't blessed by an education, I was beginning to relish the compulsive nature of my behavior.

It was the real estate. I was its prisoner. The demons of money, inflation, and anxiety for the future tormented me, haunting my sleep, constipating my bowels. The devil, thank his soul, caused my hair to fall out in clumps.

Bellamy couldn't handle it. I could hear his brain ticking away, unbelieving. He looked at the Victorian, then he glowered at me through the foul murk of the squad car's interior. He didn't notice my mouth was swollen with held back rage.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Coddy? Why are we here?”

I exploded, with spit balls popping from my lips.

“You want to know why, goddamn it? When I first joined
the force, if you wanted to walk the streets, you had to play fair. Stay sensitive to other people, and people would care.

“I was gonna be a star. Isn't that what we all thought? All I had to do was set the example. I was the guy up on the highway billboard, holding your injured child in my arms, because I was a cop who'd just saved his life without even working up a sweat. All I got was a kick in my teeth every inch of the way. No mommy. No daddy. No family. No more friends. Fuck 'em. I've had it, Bells. I'm on my own now. Ain't that righteous?”

The effort to talk was costing me too much. I opened the car door, adjusted my garrison belt, and heaved myself out of the bucket seat with the agility of a man who knew he was getting fat. I glanced up the street.

“I used to think the world belonged to me, Bellamy. Ain't that sad? I used to believe that without even thinking about it.”

“Coddy, you've got to stop complaining like you're on the rag,” Bellamy advised.

The Whirl-o-mat's neon sign was stuttering on and off in the dark. Everything had fallen into a velvet-smooth quietude. It was one of those strange, peaceful nights in the Mission where you could actually smell the salt in the breeze blowing east from the ocean. Two girls were walking arm in arm across Twenty-first Street. Their high heels were clacking along in unison while they talked to each other in hyperfast Spanish.

Their slim backs receded and disappeared around the corner of Treat Street. I could almost feel how young those girls were. I couldn't recall ever being that young.
The fun I was supposed to have in life, it had never happened. Fun was an advertisement for an expensive and mysterious product. The only time I saw people having fun was on television, or when they were drunk in a bar, too smashed to know the point of anything. Usually, I was one of them, one of the crowd. Nobody you'd notice.

“You know where I'm going, don't you?” I asked.

“I know it better than you do, homes,” Bellamy cracked.

I had come this far and waited long enough. I had a plan. It might get me into trouble, but it was my concern, my responsibility and nobody else's. I bent over, ducked my head into the squad car window, and said, “I'm going to do some exploring.”

What was Bellamy supposed to say? If I wanted to hang around an abandoned building in the middle of the night, there wasn't much he could do about it. I was the senior officer. I was a highly decorated member of the department and as far as Bellamy could tell, I was losing my marbles.

“I've got to do this, Bells. Can't you see?” I pleaded.

“I don't know, Coddy. You like pushing rocks uphill?”

At least Bellamy was getting paid to watch me have a nervous breakdown. It wasn't like he could intervene. It was better to leave me alone. That was the best thing one cop could do for another brother. Let him find his own way. He'd thank you for it later.

“Don't sweat it, Coddy. Just do what you have to. Me? I'll make myself cozy and listen to the radio.”

I was acting crazy, but I couldn't stop myself. I let a shred of a grin touch my mouth.

“I won't be long.”

I bounded across the pavement, showing more vitality than I'd had in a long time. I could feel myself gathering momentum, gaining lucidity. Simultaneously, I was getting older, breaking down, becoming creaky and forgetful. The two paths were going to converge on my deathbed. Even now with the abandoned building before me, I was aware of that.

 

After Coddy took off, Bellamy relaxed in the front seat and imagined himself having a drink in a bar. A joint with a good jukebox. While he nursed a beer, getting properly wasted on an empty stomach, Johnny Mathis would be singing about a long lost love that had come back into his life. It was a renewed love born from the ashes of the dead past. You could hear the passion in Johnny's voice. It wasn't a mere song he was singing; it was a translation about the meaning of life in San Francisco. The lyrics were elegant and pure: if you love me, then I'm the greatest man on earth. Bellamy clasped his hands behind his neck and thought about Doreen. What else could a homeless guy do but think about his favorite squeeze? That's how you stayed warm in a cold world.

 

Deep down inside, Free Box had always known the police would come back. Studying the police had become a form of metaphysics to him. Once the cops were onto something, they stuck to you like gum on your shoes. There was a time for hell raising, and there was a time for getting
caught, as there was a time for getting away with murder, and a time for paying bail.

He peered out the window. It took him a second to recognize Coddy. When he did, he caught his breath on the intake, whistling sharply through the gap in his front teeth. It was the same cop who'd been at the door the last time. Free Box backed away from the window and crept across the floor, taking care not to step on any of the floorboards that'd give off a tell-tale creak.

Barbie was sleeping on her back with one arm sprawled on the pillow under her. Her skin was luminous in the near dark of the room. Free Box crouched beside her and placed his palm over her mouth. Her eyes shot wide open, large and opalescent.

“Those cops are outside again,” he whispered into her hair.

He removed his hand from her mouth and sat down on the mattress. Her lips were no more than an inch away from his eyes when she said, “The same ones? What are they doing?”

“Prowling around looking for something.”

She reached under the pillow and pulled out the revolver, cocked the hammer, then laid the gun down on the pillow. Her eyes were on Free Box's face. He didn't say anything, intently listening to Coddy fiddle with the front door.

“What should we do?” she asked.

“Wait and see,” he replied.

 

I couldn't open the door. The house looked flimsy and broken down, but the door was solidly locked. I ran a
gloved finger over the doorjamb, unable to detect any holes or cracks. I stepped back on the porch and lifted the gleaming riot helmet off my head to mop up the sweat on my brow.

It didn't take me long to hatch a plan, to solve the problem. A minute later I was edging my way across the ledge to the left of the steps. If I crossed the ledge on the tiptoes of my boots, I could get to the front window. Then I could hoist myself through the broken glass into the building. It was a daring plan for a fat man. If I lost my footing, I'd land on my head in the driveway ten feet below.

Leaning over, I stretched my arms as far as they could reach. After a few seconds of mortal conflict with the air and with the final outcome liable to go either way, I got a hand on the window's sill. I looked down at the driveway. My bulletproof vest was soaked in nervous sweat. I didn't like heights, not even small heights.

I teetered on the narrow ledge, my fingers in an orbit of their own. They moved, scrabbling like two crabs to get hold of the window. My confidence soared when I got both hands on the window's frame. I dug my fingertips into the broken-off glass stuck in the sill, almost pleased to suffer. I was going to jump through the window's jagged hole, confident that I wouldn't get cut too badly. Practically speaking, it was a cinch.

Then I committed one of those pedestrian mistakes that never warrant a moment's thought. I lifted one hand from the frame; the next thing I knew, I was slipping off the ledge. Initially, I could not rationalize my plight. Space
moved one way; my perception of it ran in the other direction. The sky lurched up in front of my eyes. I looked at the stars rushing by. They were moving very fast, and I wondered why.

 

Barbie heard the crash. She'd had the strangest feeling about that cop. While the noise wasn't what she'd expected, it didn't faze her. The sound was loud and dramatic. Free Box jumped to his feet. He hugged the side of the wall nearest to the bed, standing there with his arms akimbo.

“Maybe we'd better get out of here,” he said.

She decocked the hammer on the revolver and cussed softly under her breath. Some cops didn't have a clue.

“That won't be necessary. We can stay right where we are, because the cop fell down on his ass,” she said.

“How can you be sure?” Free Box frowned.

“Just believe me,” she replied.

 

The sound of Coddy's fall stirred Bellamy from his reverie. He'd been dreaming about doing the wild thing with Doreen when he heard his partner scream in anguish. He threw himself out of the car and stumbled across the sidewalk while drawing his back up revolver from its ankle pouch. Bellamy hurled himself towards the commotion, to where he thought the noise was coming from. He raised his pistol and shouted.

“Freeze, motherfuckers! This is the San Francisco Police!”

No one answered him. But the fuss in the driveway did
not stop. Bellamy flung the gun over his head, squeezed his eyes shut, pulled the trigger.