Abuse of Power

10

San Francisco, California

“So what is this, Jack? Some kind of black thing?”

Maxine no longer had stitches in the side of her face, but the mark they’d left behind still looked raw and painful. She was driving at a fairly good clip, headed south on Van Ness, Jack in the passenger seat.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You think because I look like everyone else in the hood, I’ve got the key to the kingdom?”

Jack could tell by the tone of her voice that she was only half serious, but now that she’d put it out there he had to respond.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but you did grow up in the Dale, right?”

Max stopped at a red light. “Fourteen years of hell before my mom got a job that paid her enough money to move us out of that dung heap.”

“So what’s the problem? This is more about knowing the territory than anything else. Although you have to admit this Jamal kid is more likely to talk to you than me.”

She gestured to the side of her face. “You almost got me killed once. Isn’t that enough?”

Jack smiled. “We run into any trouble, I figure they’ll be too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything stupid.”

“They call that a bulletproof marshmallow,” she said.

“Say again?”

“Someone soft and tasty that they’re not going to hurt.”

“I like that,” Jack said. “Besides, you know how to handle yourself.”

Max had proven that more than once. Most recently, when she was shooting footage of the dock workers’ strike, one of the union apes had threatened to hurt her and break her camera. The moment the goon made his move, Max sidestepped him and drove the ridge side of her hand into his exposed Adam’s apple without skipping a beat-or losing a frame.

She shot Jack a look. “You’re on crack, you know that? Have you ever even been to Sunnydale?”

“It’s not part of my usual routine, no.”

“So you really have no idea what you’re asking me to do here.”

Jack had to admit he didn’t. He’d heard stories about the place. But he’d also spent time on the streets of Baghdad so how bad could it really be?

“Besides, what makes you think the kid will be up and about?” she asked. “Hasn’t he got a couple of busted limbs?”

“Yes, and that’s why he’ll be out struttin’.”

“I’ll bite. How do you figure that?”

“The kid was obviously trying to impress a gang,” Jack said. “He blew it, totaled the jacked car and didn’t waste the owner. Two strikes. So how does he save face?”

“By sucking up the pain and showing off his injuries.”

“Exactly,” Jack said.

Max shook her head. Jack didn’t know if she admired his thinking or just thought he was crazy.

“You didn’t have to come along, you know,” he reminded her. “You could’ve stayed home.”

Max sighed. “ Somebody’s gotta protect you from yourself. And when have I ever told you no?”

“I can think of a couple times.”

The light turned green and Jack saw a flicker of a smile on Max’s lips as she rolled her eyes, then faced forward and hit the gas. “You’re lucky I did, Casanova. You wouldn’t know how to handle me.”

Jack grinned. “Neither will the gangstas in Sunnydale.”

It was less than half an hour before sunset when Max turned onto Sunnydale Avenue. Jack immediately understood her trepidation and started having second thoughts about asking her to come along.

The place was a lot worse than he had expected.

The Sunnydale Projects were built during the Second World War as military housing-a square mile of sturdy new cinder-block buildings sandwiched between the McLaren Park golf course and the Cow Palace, home to the Grand National Rodeo.

The place was turned into low-income housing in the 1970s, but the buildings were never renovated. By the time Max was born, what was left were several blocks full of decrepit, tumbledown hovels with peeling paint, bad plumbing, worse electricity, and enough rats and roaches to keep a fleet of exterminators busy for a dozen years.

Now, despite promises by government officials to clean the place up, the Dale was considered one of the top ten areas to avoid in the city, where murders were frequent and muggings were an everyday occurrence. Over sixteen hundred people were crammed into these neighborhoods, many of them for generations. And most of them wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

By day the place was pretty much a typical ghetto, with mothers or grandparents watching young children who amused themselves with whatever was handy, younger teens hanging out against cars or on stoops after school; by night it was hell on earth. Bus drivers and cabbies routinely avoided it, and even the cops were scarce.

Jack suddenly understood why.

The moment they made the turn he felt tension in the air-a lot of it coming from Max herself, whose body seemed to have stiffened as she gripped the wheel.

He knew her mind was flooding with bad memories.

“I must be outta my head,” she muttered, her tone different now. The reality of the place weighed her down.

Jack looked out at the rows of dilapidated buildings, the graffiti, the bars on the windows, the laundry hanging in the yards, the sidewalks and streets eerily empty.

No kids. No couples out for an evening stroll. Even the dogs had stayed inside.

The only sign of life was a handful of teens clustered around a muscle car in a distant parking lot, their gazes on the street, as if keeping watch over their territory. This was a neighborhood under siege.

“You’re right,” Jack said. “I never should’ve asked you to come along. If you want to turn around I won’t hold it against you.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“I mean it, Max. Turn the car around. I’ll do this alone.”

“You really are on crack. You go in by yourself, you might not walk out.”

“It’s gotta be done,” he said.

“Why? Is talking to this kid really that important?”

“I told you, I need to know exactly what he saw.” He gestured. “If I can’t get you to turn around, at least pull over and I’ll walk from here. And if I’m not back in twenty minutes, or you run into any trouble, get to safer ground and call the cavalry.”

“You’re assuming they’d come,” Max said.

She pulled to the curb across from the Little Village Market and let the engine idle, glancing at that cluster of gangbangers, who were now less than a block away.

“I can’t let you do this, Jack. It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I brought protection.”

Lifting his shirt, he reached to the holster resting against his right hip and pulled out a Smith amp; Wesson Magnum. 357 AirLite. Because he was a celebrity who was known to have fielded a substantial number of death threats, he’d long ago been granted a conceal and carry permit by the Marin County sheriff.

The AirLite was compact yet deadly.

Max’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of it. “Just because you spend time at a shooting range, doesn’t mean you’re a badass. You pull that thing, you better be ready to use it or you’re likely to get five more stuck in your face. These boys don’t fool around.”

“Neither do I,” Jack said, then tucked the gun back into its holster and popped open his door.

Jamal Thomas lived with his mother and brother in a small apartment on Sawyer Street.

Jack consulted the GPS map on his cell phone and saw that he had two blocks to travel from where Max had parked her car. Unfortunately, the only way to get there was to go straight past the kids in the parking lot, and he had a feeling that the moment Max pulled to the curb they’d noted the intrusion on their turf.

Max is right. You are on crack, he thought.

But Tom Drabinksy’s face kept drifting through his mind, and Jack knew the only way he’d make any headway with this story was to talk to Jamal. He might come away from the encounter with nothing to show for it, but at least he had to try.

He walked up the street, heading straight for the parking lot. He decided to try the open and friendly approach. It probably wouldn’t work, but neither would ignoring them or coming in hot.

The kids-some of them no older than sixteen-had been laughing and chattering until Jack stepped into the lot.

The oldest of the kids came forward. Jack recognized him.

“You and your girlfriend make a wrong turn, homey?” He laughed. It was more of a statement than a question. The kid was trying to see into Maxine’s car as he approached but the dark window showed only a vague silhouette.

Jack slowly reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a set of credentials. His old GNT identification card, which had expired two years ago. He didn’t expect these kids to recognize him, but they’d surely recognize the network he once worked for.

“I’m with GNT News,” he said.

The kid gave the card a cursory glance, then looked back down the block toward Maxine’s car. “I don’t see no camera truck. How you gonna put me on Tee Vee?”

“The cameras come later,” Jack said. “I’m what they call an advance man. I’m here to set up an interview with a kid named Jamal Thomas, lives on Sawyer Street. You know him?”

The kid stiffened. “Nah.”

That was it? Jack thought. No negotiation, no shakedown?

“You sure?” Jack pressed.

That seemed to trigger something in the kid.

“Man, why don’t you jus’ turn ’round and go back to where you from?”

“Why?” Jack asked. He spoke in a voice that was loud enough for the others to hear. “What are you scared of, Leon?”

The kid snapped forward like he was a shooting guard for the Warriors. He was in Jack’s face almost as fast as Jack’s hand was on the. 357. The move did not escape the kid’s notice. If he had a piece he wouldn’t be able to get it in time, and it was too dark here for the rest of the gang to see.

“How do you know me?” Leon asked.

“I saw you in the car the day of the explosion,” Jack said. “I was the guy talking to Officer Beckman.”

Leon nodded, drew back. “I ain’t scared,” he said defiantly.

“Not of me, no,” Jack said, offering him a bone. His hand moved from under his shirt. “What happened? Did someone do something to Jamal?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” Jack said. “Jesus, man, I’m trying to help him.”

“Right.”

“What else would I be doing here with just my associate in the middle of the goddamn night?”

Leon considered this.

“Tell me what happened. Please.”

The kid spat to the side to show the others that he was okay, that he was in charge and unafraid. “What happened? Jamal was outta the hospital for what, not even half an hour, when they came to see him.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know who, ” he said. “They come off Bay Shore in a big black Escalade, poundin’ on the door and-”

He was cut off by the shriek of a siren as an ambulance blasted up the avenue and streaked past them, making a left turn on Sawyer. The kids whipped their heads in its direction then started piling into the muscle car.

One of them shouted, “Come on, man, let’s check this out.”

Leon glanced in the direction of the ambulance. The glow of a distant streetlight, one that wasn’t broken, showed he was wearing a funny expression, something between anger and concern. He ran to the car and jumped inside, its tires squealing as it tore out of the parking lot.

Jack waited until it was around the corner, then started out after it.