The Dying Ground (17 page)

“Dude, I swear it. We only dealt with him a couple of times, but he told us the name of his partner. Billy something.”

“Billy, huh? Who did you tell that to?”

“No one. Just us. It was just us.”

Holly thought he was lying but Guy maintained his innocence until he was unconscious.

The ride through the city was surreal, a blur of lights, cars, people on sidewalks or looking out of the frosted windows of MUNI, as we raced through the hilly streets of San Francisco. The gaudy neon of North Beach disappeared behind us as we traveled south through the Tenderloin and the residential disarray of the Fillmore District. Like West Oakland’s Seventh Street, the once-thriving musical area had gone the way of crack and mayhem.

We continued until the faces on the sidewalk got darker, as did the buildings—dark with grime and poverty because this was the San Francisco the tourists never saw. No need to scrub clean the Victorians and paint them the color of whores; it was just too far off the tourist track. Too far from the attractions that kept San Francisco one of the top five travel destinations. It was also a neighborhood that the two boys would never visit on their own.

To see Holly purely in his element provoked in me feelings of both envy and dread. In contrast to Holly I was too cautious, too aware of consequences to live solely by appetite, but Holly had no such boundaries. I didn’t doubt for a minute that his actions weren’t well thought out, but I knew his motivations were different from mine. If death, jail, or a serious beating were to be a consequence of his actions, that was the price to be paid. He would never dodge an outcome by showing weakness or
fear. He lived by his reputation, something he was willing to die for, and he was comfortable with that. I knew it from the look of glee, the burning pleasure that surfaced in instances of danger. The one he wore as we rolled toward the murky waters of the San Francisco Bay. Holly’s immunity to consequences was both his strength and his Achilles’ heel.

The White boys, wedged tightly between Clarence and Holly, knew this too, not in the same detail, but in the certainty that their lives depended on how Holly felt from one moment to the next. They were terrified. I could see it in the way their eyes darted back and forth, searching the car for the one person who would hear their pleas. I could smell the terror on them. My own body was funky with the same odor.

Finally the silence was broken by Guy. “Where we going?” More silence and then a more desperate “Where we going?”

“I don’t know,” Holly answered. “Where you feel like going?”

“H-h-home.”

We all had to laugh at that.

“You live this way?” Holly asked Guy.

“Uh, no. I—we live in Marin.”

“Too bad then, ’cause this ain’t the way to Marin.” Holly ended the sentence with a quick jab to Guy’s throat. He issued it without warning, but Guy, his partner, and I were the only ones unprepared for it. His partner squealed next to him and closed his eyes, while Guy twisted and gasped for breath. Holly rubbed his knuckles. The Samoan kept driving. In silence, with a clear destination, though no orders had been given.

Guy’s face was tomato red as he regained his breathing. “I …”

“Say it, man,” Holly directed. “You got something to say?”

Guy didn’t answer. The car rolled to a stop in the China
Basin, an area filled with dark cranes, broken-down warehouses, and rusted-out ships that would never see another day at sea. Holly grabbed Guy by the neck and Clarence grabbed his friend. The second Samoan wheeled up in Guy’s Mercedes.

As we stepped from the car I could smell the sea: briny, like the recesses of an unwashed body. The air was biting cold as waves washed loudly against the docks.

Guy started to stutter. “Please, don’t hurt us.”

Holly smiled and looked at Clarence. “Said please.”

“I heard that. Don’t mean shit, though. Everybody got manners when a gun pointed at ’em.”

On cue Clarence pulled a gun from his waistband and handed it to Holly.

Holly aimed at Guy. “See this?”

Guy nodded vigorously.

“Know what it means? It means that if you talk we come after you. After you, ya’ mama, your girlfriends, whoever we can find. And if it ain’t us then it’s somebody else. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good, but I need your ID just in case you forget.” He removed the IDs from both wallets and tossed the leather, including cash and credit cards, into the bay. “Alright, strip down.”

The boys hesitated only a moment before pulling off their clothing and shivering in the sharp San Francisco wind. The Samoans gathered both bundles and tossed them off the dock. They watched helplessly as Clarence popped the brake on the Mercedes and let it roll, slowly, until it hit a ramp, picked up speed, and hit the water with voluminous impact.

“Damn!” Holly uttered as he watched the car sink into the center of the whirlpool.

Clarence brandished a gun he’d pulled from the backseat of Guy’s car. “Glock nine-millimeter, acid-wash serial number.”
He whistled low under his breath. “Nice piece. It got bodies on it?” He looked at Guy and waited for an answer. “The gun, White boy, it got bodies on it?”

“Uh, no, not that I know of.”

Clarence aimed the gun at them both. “Y’all haven’t killed anybody with it?”

“I just got it. It was for show.”

“Cool.”

Holly laid down on the horn and waved the confiscated IDs in the air. I noticed for the first time that the license plates were covered with black cloth. It was a mob car, anyway, a car used for crime. If the police did a trace, more than likely the vehicle would come up registered to a celebrity. Take your pick: film, music, television. A local joke.

They couldn’t find us even if they wanted to.

T
he twelve hours Black Jeff warned me about came and went without a word from Felicia. Tuesday morning arrived and I found myself dressing for Billy’s funeral with a heavy heart. I dreaded the service. I didn’t want to see him dead. I didn’t want the day to come and go without Flea.

I hadn’t encountered Billy in my dreams again, but he lived with me in my waking hours. I expected to see him around every corner, waiting on answers about Felicia. Hoping for us to learn why he died.

“Maceo?” Gra’mère knocked and entered the cottage.

She came forward and took the tie from my hands.
“Brave homme, cocodrie,”
she said as she stroked my hair.

I took deep breaths while she worked to adjust my collar. After she was done she patted my chest and slipped a carnation inside my pocket. “I got one for you and Holly. Why don’t the two of you ride over with the rest of the family?”

An hour later, with Daddy Al and Gra’mère in the front
seat and Cissy and Regina sandwiching Mrs. Johnson in the middle row, Holly and I sat in the back of the van. Daddy Al took Telegraph Avenue to the church. I wasn’t surprised to find traffic slowed all the way to Alcatraz, a good three miles north. A steady flow of people covered both sidewalks, heading in the direction of C.M.E. Cathedral.

The mini-mall at the corner was filled to overflowing with cars, the business owners too cowed by the mourners to chastise people about the parking. I looked at the crowds and realized I’d seen almost all of them at previous funerals that year. Not yet thirty, and my generation was skilled in the etiquette of mourning.

“It’s going to be tough finding parking around here. Lady Belle, why don’t I let you and Mrs. Johnson out here and I’ll take the fellas with me. Celestine, why don’t you and Regina go with your mother.”

Daddy Al maneuvered to the side of the road and helped the older women out of the car. He was clean as usual, in a black suit with a black paisley vest and his Stetson.

Once the women were out of the car, the three of us circled block after block looking for parking. Everywhere we turned, men and women were dressed to the nines, carrying flowers, funeral programs, and somber faces.

“Looks like a lot of people loved Billy.” Daddy Al surveyed the crowd as he made another corner.

Holly and I looked at each other. It wasn’t just love. It was also envy, admiration, and curiosity. Daddy Al knew these things. He had made the comment to start a conversation, but this was one time neither of us felt like talking.

We finally parked five blocks away at the foot of Pill Hill, a cluster of hospitals cushioned between the boulevards of Telegraph and Broadway.

In front of the church every Bay Area dealer with a larger-than-life reputation stood on the steps profiling. Emmet Landry was flanked by Yolanda and Malcolm Rose. Malcolm’s four henchmen brothers had all been killed the year before in a shootout with OPD.

On the step below, almost in the order of dominance, was Mosley Amos, a ladies’ man strictly in the drug game for the free-flowing women. Mosley stood talking to Smokey, who’d done the ludicrous by bringing two snarling Rottweilers with him to pay respects. The breed was fast becoming the drug-dealing dog of choice.

Bilau Arafi, whose father was a prominent Muslim leader, was dressed all in white and flashing a wad of money between fingers loaded with diamonds. Extravagant displays of gold jewelry were everywhere, especially on the men. Even the most lowly of street soldiers were drenched in the spoils of the trade.

As I approached with Holly and Daddy Al, each man on the stairs acknowledged Holly’s presence with a solemn nod. That he had a no-record, no-jail-time reputation while still being active and prosperous earned him solid respect in the Bay.

Standing in the doorway of the church with his usual entourage of twenty was Too Short, the diminutive rapper with the nasty lyrics and local-boy pride. His affinity for Oakland riddled all his songs and had made him a local hero.

As I looked out behind me I saw hordes of people waiting to pay their respects to Billy. Half of them wouldn’t be able to enter the church, but they’d stake their claim at the graveside just to say they had been there.

Cissy and Regina were waiting in the vestibule of the church after seating Gra’mère and Mrs. Johnson. Reverend Mimms came forward to acknowledge Daddy Al.

“Mr. Redfield.”

“Reverend. You preaching today?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” A weary look took over his face. “I tell you, I’m getting tired of burying these young men. And from how it looks out front I have quite a few more to go.”

Cissy pulled me aside and whispered in my ear. “Regina is going to sing for Felicia. Momma called Reverend Mimms this morning, and he spoke to Billy’s mother. We felt like somebody had to represent her.”

Just then the sound of horns alerted us that the casket had arrived. While Daddy Al went to find Gra’mère, Cissy, Regina, Holly, and I went out front to take our places. The receiving of the casket had become a tradition on the Oakland streets.

We walked outside to find everyone near a car leaning in to honk their horns in unison. The sound was deafening as the gray-and-black hearse made its way down the street. The funeral director moved at a snail’s pace through the cars while the horns grew louder and louder. Behind the hearse was Charlie’s black Bronco going equally slow. I dreaded seeing what shape Charlie was in.

For the first time I noticed the police stationed around the area, as well as television cameras and reporters kept at bay by hired security. Billy was big news. His death meant the possibility of a gang war, which translated into headlines. Mythmaking in progress.

Once the hearse drew to a halt and the driver cut the engine, the honking stopped. Silence took over the crowd as Emmet, Malcolm, Mosley, Bilau, Clarence Mann, Monty Quailes, and one of the Samoans stepped to the casket. They stood in silence, obviously waiting for the eighth man, Charlie.

“Damn,” Holly muttered, realizing the same thing as me. “What happened to that fool?”

A nervous second stretched to a full minute as people
craned their necks to look at Charlie’s Bronco. The door swung open and Reggie bounced out of the driver’s seat with a look of defiance on his face. Crim followed from the other side. Both men were dressed in blue, darker than usual, but blue.

Smokey stepped toward the hearse and spoke loud enough for everybody to hear. “Y’all need another man?”

Emmet, the unspoken leader, pointedly ignored him. He nodded toward Holly. “Handle this, man.”

The lines were drawn then and there. It took all the willpower Smokey had to maintain even an ounce of cool. The carrying of the casket alerted the crowd to the new power structure, and he had been skipped over entirely.

Holly hustled down the stairs and took his place with the others. He couldn’t resist a mouthed “Fuck you” to the seething Smokey.

Strike two!

The casket came into view for the first time, and the call went up from the back of the crowd—“Hustla!”—stretched to a twenty-five-letter word. “Hustla!” It came again, giving me a chill to the bottom of my soul. “Hustla down!” came the third call, the words that finally released tears for most of the crowd. I saw Emmet wipe his eyes before grabbing hold of the casket. Though the pallbearers might all be enemies again in the morning, it was a rule that anyone of Billy’s status had to be carried out by his equals in the game.