Taste of Tenderloin (3 page)

Medically discharged from
the USMC with a small monthly disability check, Shane soon found
himself living in San Francisco’s Tenderloin, mostly involved in a
24/7 drinking contest with himself. When his funds ran out each
month he panhandled, but could never make ends meet. Finally, he
became homeless, unable to support his escalating alcohol and drug
habits and the residential hotel rent. Life on the street was
tough, and during the wet winter following his discharge, he went
back and forth three times to Martinez, diagnosed each time with
recurring bouts of pneumonia. The final time, the doctors warned
him of the high risk of his self-destructive lifestyle.

Shane ignored them and
returned to the ‘loin’s shuffling Legion of the Forgotten and Never
Remembered.

The sudden silence
startles you
awake.
Sweaty and gasping for breath, you sit up, your hand tightly
clutching the silver medallion hanging from your neck. Something is
wrong. A sickly sweet stench assaults your nostrils, making them
itch. With an effort of will, you stand and force yourself to step
outside the tent.

Heavy fog is trapped under
the canopy, the jungle absolutely quiet.

You wait and watch,
resigned, knowing they are there, just out of view.

Finally, figures begin to
coalesce in the mist…ghostly figures, faces pale, eyes sunken,
their clothes torn and tattered—

You recoil with
surprise.

Because you recognize the
closest figure, despite his gaunt features and deeply sunken
eyes.

It’s Sergeant
Owens.

And right behind him, in
the mist at the jungle’s edge, appears Tex…and then

Psycho, and all the others
from Second Squad.

Big O points at you and
gestures with his thumb over his shoulder.

For a moment, you
hesitate.

Then you bend down and pick
up your backpack, sling your M-16.

It’s time to mount
out.

Magic Words

“
We conjure miracles for
our clients.

Show me the magic,
people.”

—
Thomas Brookings, Double B
& A

The old, dark-skinned
woman
sat in the lotus position alone in
her cardboard tent, staring out into the night as the fog crept
into the alley from the bay, visualizing the young man’s
distinctive features, his hair and his left eyebrow. Eventually,
she nodded; he was the one, of course. She opened the black book
and again traced the procedure outlined in the ancient text,
patiently mouthing the words from a language even older than her
native Romany. It would take careful execution and time to
complete. Smiling wryly, she sucked in a deep breath. She had been
hunting a long time to find this young man—several more months, or
even years, to complete the task meant little.

The Great American Music
Hall
in San Francisco was located on
O’Farrell Street, on the fringe of the Tenderloin near the infamous
Mitchell Brothers strip joint. At five thousand square feet, the
concert hall wasn’t really large enough for modern concerts like
the Warfield on Market Street or Shoreline down the peninsula or
Concord Pavilion over in the East Bay. No, the hall usually
featured top local music talent or personalities with cult
followings doing spoken word, like Jim Carroll and Henry Rollins,
or occasionally a relatively unknown musician, singer, or
personality just about ready to break out nationally. Like tonight
with Daz L, the Jamaican reggae-hip hop artist, who had packed the
place with a standing-room-only crowd.

At a little after 10:45,
the fans—mostly hip, young, and casually dressed—exited the venue
laughing and talking loudly, heading for nearby parking lots or the
clubs up along Van Ness. Two older white guys, dressed deceptively
like lawyers, stood out as they watched the departing crowd from
the curb in front of the hall. Lucas Somerville, tall and
broad-shouldered in his Italian suit, had a small, distinctive
splash of silver in the short-clipped black hair just above his
left eyebrow; the eyebrow itself was cleaved in half by a
pencil-thin silver line. Only the deep, dark circles under his eyes
and slightly drawn expression marred his distinguished, athletic
appearance, suggesting an unsettled mental state. His bespectacled
and bald older colleague and mentor, Hubie Jensen, was dressed a
bit more conservatively in a dark blue English worsted
suit.

After carefully assessing
the departing crowd, Jensen spoke, his normally calm, precise voice
pitched higher than normal. “The crowd loved Daz L, Luke. Just look
at their excitement. And did you notice Santana and his friends
slip in up front just before the first number? Yes, this young man
is going to definitely be a huge star…perhaps even bigger than Bob
Marley.”

Jensen should know. He’d
been an aficionado of authentic reggae music in the late ‘60s and
‘70s and had written several articles on the music and Rastafarian
movement for Rolling Stone. In fact, he had seen Marley and the
Wailers when they had come to San Francisco for their only local
performance just before the star’s premature death, and Jensen had
reviewed that concert for San Francisco Magazine.

“
Tom Brookings is amazingly
perceptive, almost clairvoyant,” Jensen added, referring to the
legendary senior partner of Double B & A., as the Brookings,
Brown, and Associates advertising firm was known down in the
financial district.

Luke nodded his agreement.
Even though he cared little for hip hop and knew nothing about
reggae music, he found the young Jamaican’s charismatic performance
truly impressive. Daz L’s first CD, “Trenchtown Man,” was already
climbing the charts in London. He didn’t doubt it would do the same
in the states. They had just watched an emerging star.

“
Yes, if handled correctly,
this young man is going to be a starred account,” Jensen said, “And
it all starts with your little cologne promotion. You better pull
out all the stops on this one—magazines, billboards, TV, radio
spots, movie ads, and the whole promotional package. Who knows
where this will lead?” The older man nudged Luke’s shoulder
playfully. “I suspect this will make them all forget Asian Dawn. I
bet you are already working on a product name, some good
ideas.”

It wasn’t true. Luke was
completely devoid of ideas, didn’t have a clue yet. He’d been
procrastinating since being assigned the account a week prior. But
he nodded anyhow, forcing a confident grin he didn’t really feel.
Asian Dawn was the Hong Kong frozen fast food account he’d let slip
away early last year to a NYC competitor—a potential starred
account, too. It had started his slump. And of course he picked up
on Jensen’s subtle warning: as the Daz L account senior executive,
he’d better not fuck this one up. A big meeting with the singer’s
management people was set for Friday afternoon; three days away and
clock ticking. They wanted a major campaign, timed to take
advantage of Daz L’s upcoming national concert tour, to promote a
scent already being produced by a little Jamaican firm, West
Kingston Herbals, Ltd. Something they had made special for Daz L
and sold on the island, but a product Luke’s people thought had
real commercial possibilities in the states. Oh, yeah, Luke
understood what was at stake. This would be his
last
chance at Double B &
A.

“
Want to stop at the Shady
Lady for a drink?” Jensen asked.

Luke checked his watch and
shook his head. “I have to go with Lauren to one of her twelve-step
meetings.”

He had no intention of
making that midnight meeting after Lauren finished her four to
twelve shift at UCSF Hospital in an hour or so. He needed to make
an unaccompanied pit stop down the street at the Corner Mart to see
his man, George. Even with the problems at work, juggling finances,
and coping with Lauren, Luke had recently managed to cut back on
the booze and especially the blow. Neither was really a problem for
him, not like Lauren’s ongoing struggle. No, he could take it or
leave it. Sure, he occasionally accompanied her to one of the
meetings, but just to keep peace. Man, she could be a ball-busting
nag. But tonight he needed a little pickup, a mental edge. He had
some serious thinking to do. First, he needed a booty-whipper brand
name for the scent, something readily identifiable with Daz L and
his Rasta-man image, then some kind of catchy line or two,
something to key a national advertising campaign. All before
Friday.

“
Okay, give my best to
Lauren,” Jensen said kindly, patting Luke’s shoulder. “You have a
big opportunity here, Luke. I’ll check in sometime tomorrow
afternoon, see how you’re coming along. Okay?”

“
Sure thing, Hubie. See you
then,” he replied, watching the older man cross the street to his
BMW. Then Luke pulled out his cell and punched in Lauren’s
number.

“
Hey, babe,” he said when
she answered. “Can’t make your meeting. Hubie and I have some stuff
to kick around about this guy Daz L. Looks like it might be a big
account. Good opportunity for me.”

“
Okay, I understand,” she
answered, the disappointment obvious in her tone. “You guys aren’t
going to a bar?”

“
Of course not,” he said,
frowning and vigorously shaking his head. “I’m on the wagon just
like you. We’re just grabbing a cup of coffee.”

“
That’s fine,” she said.
“Thanks for the call, sweetie.”

“
See you later, babe,” Luke
said. He punched off, sighed under his breath, and slipped the cell
phone back onto his belt, mentally smothering the slight twinge of
guilt.

Luke decided to walk the
three or four blocks, even though the Tenderloin at night creeped
him out. The ‘loin was without a doubt the armpit of the city.
Because of the full moon, he knew that every panhandler, homeless
person, hooker, junkie, and crazy would be hyped up and crowding
the street, but he couldn’t drive. His new black PT Cruiser
convertible would draw too much attention sitting in front of the
Corner Mart while he scored some coke. He’d have to walk down
O’Farrell, do his business, and then hike back up to his
car.

As he expected, the ‘loin
was really loud that night: the gaudy neon crackled, loud music
blared out of the bars, people screamed down from second and third
story windows, cars braked and honked, and sirens wailed like
wounded animals. Luke negotiated the crowded sidewalk, avoiding eye
contact with the general riff raff—until the redheaded black hooker
blocked his way.

“
Hey man, ya’ll looking to
party?”

He glanced up into her
heavily painted face and shook his head dumbly. Even several feet
away, her smell was overwhelming. Heavy, cheap perfume did not
quite conceal her musky she-scent, and there was a hint of
something else…the unwashed jockstrap/sweat sock smell of a high
school locker room. He almost gagged as he slipped away from
her.

“
Hey, sissy boy, fuck you;
the Castro is back that way.”

Moving quickly deeper into
the Tenderloin, Luke passed more of society’s discards—hustlers
(“Hey, man, ya lookin’?”), panhandlers (“Yo, pal, gimme a buck for
coffee”), junkies, crazies talking to parking meters, and wave
after wave of scruffy, smelly street people.

That was what he ultimately
hated about the Tenderloin; the
smells
nauseated him. The heavy scent
of curry, suddenly wafting down from an open apartment window; the
sweet-tangy smell of something organic rotting in the gutter; even
the double Muni buses seemed more offensive in the ‘loin, belching
out great polluting clouds of black diesel fumes. The foul odors
seemed to cling at street level, held in by the ever-present fog,
pervading his clothes like cigarette smoke. He made a mental note
to drop his suit off at the dry cleaners the next day on the way to
work.

Half a block from the
Corner Mart he winced, swung out toward the curb, and bypassed a
derelict collapsed in a doorway among the accumulated debris of the
night.
Jesus Christ
, he swore silently, pinching his nostrils and restraining
himself from actually kicking the bum in the head. Above all, Luke
Somerville detested the acrid smell of the homeless: the stink of
failure.

Thankfully, he managed to
make the doorway of the Corner Mart without another confrontation
of any kind, only to find a stranger behind the cash
register.

“
Where’s George?” Luke
demanded as if the missing older clerk were AWOL.

“
I am sorry, sir, he is not
here tonight,” the young man said in proper but accented English.
He was probably from the same ethnic background as George. East
Indian or perhaps Pakistani. Luke wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter.
What did matter was his regular coke contact was missing. The
realization jangled his already tightly strung nerves.

“
Do you expect him back
sometime this evening?”

“
No, he is attending a
family celebration.”

“
Well, is there a number I
can reach him at?”

The clerk shook his head.
“Sorry, sir.”

Damn, I need some blow
tonight
, Luke almost screamed back at the
guy, just barely able to restrain his sense of growing
panic.