Scam at Higgins Canyon Road

CHAPTER ONE

A lean man in his early forties pulled out a switchblade, snapped it open, and slapped it on the table. The four-inch blade reflected the pink lights on the roof. The other three men at the table, similarly lean and early forties, were unperturbed. Alcohol had numbed whatever might have been bothering them. The lights from the roof gave their faces a rosy sheen. Their table was closest to Jack's, and he stood at the bar waiting for someone to notice his existence and keep an eye on the guy with the switchblade. In San Francisco, he knew this was illegal on two counts. One, that it was a switchblade and two, concealed. A mandatory minimum of thirty days in jail. Tommy Griggs had phoned for this Friday’s 7 pm meeting and said Sargent Kenny Braithwaite would vouch for him. Kenny did and said Tommy was a friend from way back, and provided he could get off-duty, he’d be there, too. 

Tommy’s directions were clear. You walk from Jack Kerouac Alley onto Grant Avenue. Madam Li’s is across the road. Jack was eight the first time he went to the alley to see the kaleidoscope of murals, which, to some people, were graffiti with no artistic value or meaning. Aunt Louise had taken him and Freddie on one of her educational field trips to teach them the history of San Francisco by walking the streets. Twenty-two years later, Jack took visitors there, and each time, the street artists had augmented the murals or replaced them entirely. The tour sequence was the same as when Aunt Louise had taken them the first time. They would enter the alley from Grant Avenue, inspect the murals, and then at Columbus Avenue, the two iconic Kerouac venues on the left and right. First, they would go to the City Lights Bookstore, then across the alley to the Vesuvio Café, where he was now old enough to have a cocktail. 

Like. It was a word Jack had always thought was a tame word. There were many cities in different countries he liked. San Francisco was like one of those Buddhist gongs as broad as two men, emitting audible sound waves and waves below the range of human hearing. Jack had felt these infrasound waves creeping like a subtle electric current. A palpable sensation felt as a gentle vibration or resonance. That was the word, Resonate. There were parts of San Francisco he was averse to, but there was a resonance, even if unpleasant. Jack had almost slipped into a meditative state as he mused and opened the door to be greeted by the noises of the street crammed into a one-eighty by forty-foot room. The sound had a pleasant buzz like lazy bees on a hot and humid summer’s day. The wooden tables took four chairs, but these were creative customers. Some of them had pushed tables together to accommodate their friends, and some single tables had more than four chairs squished around the table like calves at a feeding trough.

Jack had worn dark blue jeans, a white t-shirt, an open gray shirt, and brown canvas top shoes with a reinforced toe cap. Which would get him into most bars, but as he looked around, he could have worn anything and still fitted in. From tank tops, shorts, and sandals through to a suit. An apparel smorgasbord. The pub had an aroma of spilled beer, chip fat, hamburgers, pork scratchings, and cigarette ash. Smoking was allowed, despite the city’s laws, so that the patrons could enjoy first and secondhand smoke from a ceiling fan turning like a tortoise with a wobble that looked like it could crash down onto the patrons at any moment. Three early twenties guys with trays carrying drinks or empty glasses wearing what must be the uniform of blue jeans, black sneakers, and scarlet T-shirts were scurrying between the bar and the tables.

The bar was on the left, and at the far end, next to the sign to the toilets, was a stage where karaoke was in full swing with an overweight guy sweating in a gray suit, pink shirt, undone collar with an askew dark blue tie. He gave an excellent example of why you shouldn’t sing My Way in public despite your memory of Frank Sinatra making it look easy. Behind the bar, three people worked the pay points. Two women and a man, wearing scarlet T-shirts. The women were pretty despite their purple lipstick and purple eyeliner. Their makeup looked like they’d applied it in haste, reminding Jack of a child who tried to color inside the lines and didn’t quite get it right. They looked similar, except one had a platinum-colored ponytail and the other a glossy black ponytail. They would have stood out in the financial district as they don’t get many Goths in that part of town, and people may have stared. Here, they fit right in with the ambiance. No one gave them a second look.

Jack ordered a beer above the noise and asked the barman if Tommy Griggs was there. The barman, a skinny, medium-height, not yet thirty guy with the white translucent skin of a night creature and the stony eyes of the streets between Chinatown and North Beach, didn’t answer. He gave Jack his beer, a menu, and a bowl of pistachio nuts, which Jack, from his position at the bar, had seen him grab a handful from a barrel, plop them into the bowl, and wipe his hands on his black jeans. 

The barman went away and returned with an early sixties Chinese woman adorned in a spray-on scarlet sequined dress. Wavy, inky black hair cascaded past her shoulders, and she’d tucked a hibiscus behind her ear. Her dress matched the roof with Christmas lights that seemed a year-round fixture. It was August, the middle of summer, but maybe it was always Christmas here, with the lilac lighting behind the bar lending a relaxing touch. She looked Jack over like he was a used car she was buying. Her perfume had a cloying smell like someone had mixed musk and honey. She jutted out her chin, her left hand on her hip and index finger moving on a spot four inches to the left of her navel.

“Why do you want Tommy?”

Her manner was such that Jack was unsure if her curiosity would head toward protectionism. It didn’t matter, so Jack did the most straightforward thing and told the truth.

“He phoned me and asked me to meet him here. He is a friend of a friend of mine. I don’t know what Tommy looks like. My friend said he might make it here, but I don’t see him.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Kenny Braithwaite. I don’t think you would know him.”

The woman squished her eyes almost shut and scrutinized Jack like a lab specimen. “Do you mean Sargent Kenny, the big red-headed cop from SFPD?”

“Yes. How do you know Kenny? Personal or professional?”

She rubbed the left side of her stomach. “Long story. You don’t look like someone who likes long stories.”

“But I do.” Jack waited to hear the story. 

“Doesn’t matter. Who are you?”

“My name’s Jack Rhodes.” Jack thought it was best to be polite and smiled. “And whom am I speaking with?”

“You will call me Madam Li. This is my place.” She waved her right hand in a horizontal encompassing gesture with a tilt of her head and a welcoming smile that didn’t look genuine. She had crooked teeth. “Tommy will be here soon. He has to collect those four.” She pointed at the table where the guy with the switchblade and his three companions were getting ready to down their tequilas, suck on lime wedges, and lick salt off their wrists. 

“To Dan Robertson, a great soldier and friend who has gone to that undiscovered country from which no traveler returns,” said the four in unison. 

Although paraphrased, Jack recognized the lines from Hamlet’s To Be or not To Be soliloquy, courtesy of Aunt Louise’s training. A parallel education. Judging by the salt-strewn table and the sucked-out lime wedges, this was not their first shot of tequila, but they signaled to the barman for another round.

The table next to them had cheered them on. College students, Jack guessed. Two of them. The man looked like a linebacker with a skin-tight black T-shirt to display his buffalo-like shoulders. The blond woman took cleavage to a new level or lower but had a smile with lots of teeth. Cheerleader. Jack disapproved of his stereotyping but figured no one noticed what color shirt she was wearing. It was white.

“Blood brothers, that’s what we are, so let’s make it real.” said the switchblade guy, who pricked the inside of his left wrist hard enough with the point of the blade to cause a trickle of blood to run down his wrist and into his palm. He passed the knife to the man on his right. In short order, they were all dripping blood from their wrists.

“Not a smart thing to do,” said Madam Li, who was as calm as a Buddha and made no attempt to intervene. 

“To blood brothers,” the four shouted, raising their left wrists and rubbing them together. The linebacker raised his beer glass and roared approval.

One of the four had pricked an artery. He was amusing himself and his friends at the table by compressing the opening with his finger, counting loudly to five, and letting his finger go. Blood squirted one foot into the air, mostly landing on the table, making the scattered salt turn pink and the lemon wedges gain an orange tinge. What didn’t land on the table landed on the concrete floor, making passers-by skip like grasshoppers away from the flying arc of blood.

Jack notices a woman at a nearby table rising from her chair with a flourish like a vaudeville act, her arms outstretched. “Stand back. I can help.”

The blood spurter looked at the woman. “Of, what a surprise, here comes Nurse Claire.” 

Good Samaritans are always in need, but inebriated ones not so much. She grabbed the towel on the bar and went to the table, which looked like a Butcher’s block at the end of a busy day. 

“Give me your arm,” said Claire to the guy squirting blood. “I can stop the bleeding.”

“Leave me alone, Claire,” said the blood squirter, who held up his arm as the nurse staggered against it.

She lost her balance, slipped on the bloodied floor, and almost did a pirouette in trying to regain her balance. She descended, landing next to the college students’ table on her side with a bump, a grimace, and a groan like she was tired. The students laughed and banged their beer glasses on the table but did not help the woman.

A man in skinny black jeans and a black shirt with sandy shoulder-length hair emerged from behind the table where Claire, the nurse, had been sitting. “Who pushed my mother over? I’m going to smash whoever did it.” 

Jack noticed the thousand-yard stare and wondered how he would smash anybody as he looked about five foot seven inches tall and about one hundred and thirty-five pounds. His skin looked a size too small, making his high cheekbones and jaw stand out.

“Your mother’s drunk,” said the linebacker. “She fell all by herself. It was hilarious. That’s all that happened. Pick her up and go back to your table.”

“Are you alright, Mom?”

“I’m fine, Brad.” 

He reached down to help his mother, slipped on the bloodied floor, and crashed onto his back. The linebacker laughed as Claire and Brad got to their feet, banging his fists on the table and making a drum roll in appreciation of the spectacle. Not seeing this as funny, Brad made a fist and swung his arm around like a scythe, hitting the linebacker on the ear, who emitted a roar like a bear, stood, grabbed Brad’s arm, spun him around, and slid his left arm across Brad’s neck and locked his right arm behind Brad’s head. Jack had to admit it was a well-executed sleeper-hold. 

From years of training and tournament fighting, assessing people’s height, reach, weight, age, muscle mass, and fitness was second nature. Your weaknesses known to yourself. Obsessive-compulsives made good fighters. It wasn’t wise to broadcast it. Otherwise, people’ll think you’re a bit crazy. They are always the normal-looking ones, but no one worries so long as you look normal, whatever that is in any particular environment. It was all good, so long as there wasn’t a trigger. Jack put the linebacker at six foot five and two eighty pounds. Jack had crunched the comparison numbers without thinking. Five inches taller and eighty pounds heavier than himself. 

The four bleeders at the table did not wait for an invitation to help Brad. They stood and got their bloodied hands up, ready to box. Jack noted the switchblade was resting on the table, which was not a bad place for it to be, although there are better places, like leaving it at home. 

Jack observed the four bloodied men wobble on their feet like they had an inner ear condition as they tried to coordinate their limbs. Who would start swinging or kicking first? Madam Li stayed with Jack, surveying the forthcoming spectacle as if it were on her TV, happening a continent away.

“Back off, or I’ll snap his neck,” said the linebacker. 

A man in jeans, boots, and a white long-sleeved shirt with slick-backed salt and pepper hair came through the door and stood between the combatants, like the sheriff in a cowboy movie. He was slim and would have come up to Jack’s shoulder. 

Madam Li tapped Jack on the arm. “That’s Tommy Griggs.”

Tommy took one look and walked over to the linebacker. “Let him go.”

The linebacker kept his left arm around Brad’s throat. His right arm he swung like a club, making Tommy skip out of its way. The linebacker punched two jabs into Brad’s right kidney and dropped him. Brad shrieked and reached back to his pummeled kidney as he fell to the floor.

The linebacker turned his attention to Tommy, who was pointing his finger at the bleeding four. “My Silverado’s outside. Go. Don’t get in the cab. I’m taking you to the hospital. All four of you sit in the tray where you can come tomorrow to my place and wash out the blood.” There were no arguments or grumbles as he watched them walk in single file towards the door, heads bowed like naughty children. 

Tommy turned his back on the linebacker to watch the last of the four guys go through the door. The linebacker took advantage of Tommy’s lack of attention, stepped, placed Tommy in the same sleeper hold he’d put on Brad, and leaned back, lifting Tommy off his feet. 

“Tommy’s in big trouble,” said Madam Li. “You must help Tommy. That guy is powerful. He comes in here and sometimes causes trouble. Everyone’s scared of him.”

“This is not my fight. I’m here only because he asked me to meet him here. I don’t even know what he wants to talk about.”

“Well, unless you help him, there will be nobody to meet.”

While ruminating, Jack could see Tommy’s face turning red like a mulberry stain and knew Kenny would be unimpressed if he stood by and did nothing to help his friend. 

Jack stepped over in front of the linebacker, holding his hands up like he was trying to soothe a grizzly bear. “Whoa, big guy. Let’s all chill.”

As he’d done with Brad, the linebacker held Tommy with his left arm under his throat and threw a straight right. Realizing the opportunity for a discussion regarding the situation had passed, Jack slipped the punch, moving behind the linebacker, taking two long steps to get momentum, and swung a righthanded roundhouse punch into the linebacker’s right kidney to give the linebacker a taste of his own medicine. Fighters learn anatomy when it suits them. No muscles protect the kidney, well, maybe a few, but nothing substantial, as attested by the shriek from the linebacker as he dropped his right hand to his kidney. Jack did the same strike to the left kidney. The linebacker released Tommy, his hands reaching back as he whimpered and fell to his knees, rubbing his kidneys with the back of both hands. Jack did a front roundhouse kick to the linebacker's temple, the reinforced toecaps connecting and sending him halfway to dreamland, his face landing in a puddle of the blood-brother’s blood.

Jack looked and pointed at the linebacker’s girlfriend, who was trying to be inconspicuous. 

“You, pick up your boyfriend and tell him not to come back here ever again, as next time will end badly. He’ll be kissing his football scholarship goodbye.” 

The girlfriend pulled the whimpering linebacker to his feet, careful not to get blood on her white shirt, and they shuffled out the door.

Tommy took a serviette from a nearby table with his right hand and used it to pick up the switchblade. The tension in the room vanished like mist when the sun came up. The sweaty guy in the suit started singing My Way from the beginning. Two men came from the door behind the bar with buckets, mops, and rags and got to work cleaning up the bloodied table and floor. Madam Li walked to the middle of the bar and smiled with all her crooked teeth as Tommy approached the bar and put the serviette-encased switchblade on the counter. She flicked her hand at one of her staff, who took it and put the switchblade in the dishwasher and the serviette in the trash. Jack wondered how many health and safety regulations they had broken. Jack could not hear what Tommy and Madam Li were saying, and she pointed at him. 

The man walked over to Jack and put out his hand with a smile. “Hello, Jack Rhodes. Pleased to meet you. I’m Tommy Griggs.” 

Up close, Jack saw a pair of eyes the color of milk chocolate. Jack shook the offered hand, and it was firm without making it into a macho event. “Nice to meet you, Tommy.”

“Thanks for helping me. Where’d you hit him?”

“Kidneys.”

Tommy chuckled. “Sounds like something Kenny taught you. Am I right?”

“That’s true. Do fights often happen here?”

“Not really. Sometimes, people overreact. That’s all that happened here.”

Jack looked at the staff, mopping up the blood on the floor and wiping blood off the table. Madam Li was seeing Claire and Brad to the door. Mother and son holding hands and leaning on each other like each was a life raft for the other. Sometimes, words diminish the situational gravity. Words like collateral damage and overreact. “I guess you’re right.”

“This has messed up my plans to meet you. I have to take those guys to the hospital, get them stitched up, and get them antiretrovirals. Tell me, were they reciting Shakespeare?”

“I’ve only been here a short time, but they were reciting a few lines from Hamlet. It wasn’t correct, but it was definitely recognizable. Why?”

“It’s an indicator of how far gone they are. Physically, they’ll recover in the next two days.” Tommy threw his hands in the air. “I feel like I wasted your time. Can I buy you breakfast tomorrow? We can talk then.”

“Sure. Whereabouts?”

“There’s a place at the end of Columbus in Fisherman’s Wharf that serves a proper breakfast for a hungry man.”

“I know it. What time?”

“Eight o’clock?”

“See you then,” said Jack as they shook hands.

Tommy left as Madam Li arrived next to Jack. Someone was heading towards the big finish to a Roy Orbison song, which is impossible unless you have a four-octave range and perfect pitch. That doesn’t keep certain people from leaping onto the stage and grabbing the microphone with a confidence well in excess of their talent. The pink light distorted the singer’s features, so maybe he thought that when tomorrow arrived, he could deny it was him. The once-bloodied table, chairs, and floor were sparkling and back in place like nothing had happened. Across the room, the karaoke guy went for the big finish. Madam Li peered across the room where one server had delivered beers onto a table strewn with empty and full glasses. The five customers at the table and the server looked like students, and from the way they were chatting and laughing, it was clear they knew each other. 

“Excuse me, Jack Rhodes.” 

Madam Li’s sheath dress shortened her steps, so it gave the effect of her gliding like an ice skater across to the server. Madam Li didn’t come up to his shoulder. She looked at the table, up at the server, and back at the table without uttering a syllable. The server cringed like he was expecting a blow and went to work picking up the empty glasses. She didn’t wait for him to finish but glided back to Jack. “Are you going to be a friend of Tommy’s?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only just met him.”

Madam Li responded with compressed, red lipstick-layered lips and a grunt from her throat as she looked across her establishment.

Jack took a sip of his beer. “Has this blood brother business happened before?”

Madam Li looked sideways at Jack. “Every time one of their blood brothers dies.”