Bleeders

10

Skid Row was a bad place for me today. On my best days its filthy sidewalks and gallery of bleak, wasted lives creates a dark and depressive mood in me. And this was anything but one of my best days.

A few years ago I’d come down here to see a small-time bleeder, ex-con, and self-proclaimed religious convert named Eddie Quinlan. One of the shadow men without substance or purpose who drift along the narrow catwalk that separates conventional society from the underworld. When he’d asked to see me, I thought it was because he had something he wanted to sell; I’d bought information from him from time to time for a few dollars a pop, in the days before Tamara and the Internet. But that wasn’t what he wanted that time. He bent my ear for half an hour about the things and the people he saw every day from the window of his Sixth Street hotel room — the crack and smack deals, the drunk-rolling and mugging, the petty thievery, the acts of sexual degradation. “Souls burning everywhere you go,” was the way he’d described the hookers, pimps, addicts, dealers, drunks, and worse. Doomed souls who were dooming others to burn with them.

Quinlan’s comments that night had seemed rambling and pointless, and I’d left him without a clear idea of why he’d asked to see me. I found out a few hours later. Among the last things he’d said to me was, “You want to do something, you know? You want to try to fix it somehow, put out the fires. There has to be a way.” He’d found a way, all right. He’d used a high-powered semiautomatic rifle to shoot down fourteen men and women from his window. Nine dead on the scene, one dead later in the hospital — all with criminal records. And Eddie Quinlan had made himself the last victim, another burning soul, with a bullet through his own brain.

I’ve hated coming to Skid Row ever since. There was nothing I could have done to stop Quinlan, even if I’d had a clue to what was on his mind. Yet I was part of it just the same. He’d called me because he wanted somebody to help him justify what he was about to do; somebody to record a kind of verbal suicide note and who could be trusted to pass it on afterward, to the police and the media. And of course that was just what I’d done.

This little corner of urban hell was not as bad as it had been back then. The cops, the politicians, and the real-estate boom and tech-nomoney that had reclaimed much of the South of Market area had all had a hand in cleaning up and shrinking Skid Row to some extent. Now there was not quite so much street crime and wide-open drug dealing. But the addicts and pushers were still here, in alleyways and behind closed doors; so were the drunks leaning against walls in tight little clusters, the muttering mental cases, and all the others who had no place to go, no hope, only the bare exposed threads of humanity left. Many of the cheap hotels and greasy spoons and seedy taverns and barred-window liquor stores and porn theaters were still here, too. So was the effluvium of despair, the faint brimstone stink of souls burning.

Natoma is an alley that runs parallel between Mission and Howard for several blocks, through the heart of Skid Row. The Southwick Hotel was between Sixth and Seventh, a four-story residence hotel not quite as old or scabrous as the Majestic where Eddie Quinlan had lived and murdered and died. The lobby was similar — small, the only furniture a couple of crusty upholstered chairs that looked as though no one ever sat in them except spiders and roaches. The usual swamp-gas stench of disinfectant closed my throat as I crossed to a counter with an ancient rack of cubbyhole slots and a closed door behind it.

There was no sign of anybody until I slammed my palm down on a corroded bell. Then the door opened, and a guy about my age appeared in slow, wary movements. He had a smooth, round, unlined, benign face fringed with curly white hair — and the eyes of a maniac in a slasher movie. The contrast was both startling and disturbing, as if a war were going on inside him, his own private Armageddon, and the forces of evil were winning.

He didn’t say anything, just stood there looking at me out of those iniquitous eyes. I don’t flinch or look away from any man, but it was a small effort to keep my gaze locked with his as I said, “Steve Niall.”

“Not here,” in a voice as crusty as the two chairs.

“Where can I find him?”

Instead of answering he put his back to me and pretended to check the contents of the cubbyhole slots.

I said, tight and hard, “Turn around and look at me, Pop. Take a good, close look.”

For a few beats he didn’t move. Then, in that slow, wary way of his, he did what I’d told him to. The evil eyes crawled over me. His mouth quirked slightly, not quite a sneer, and he said, “Cop?”

“Close enough. Where can I find Steve Niall?”

“What you want with him? He do something?”

“Answer my question.”

“He’s an asshole. You gonna bust him?”

“Answer the goddamn question.”

He hesitated, but he did not want trouble with the law. Or with me, the way I looked. He said, “Rick’s Tattoo Parlor. Fifth and Folsom.”

“Niall work there?”

“Hangs out there. He don’t work anywhere.”

“Where else does he hang out, just in case?”

The clerk shrugged. “He’s around, like a bad smell. You’ll find him.”

“If I don’t, I’ll be back.”

He shrugged again; his mouth said, “I ain’t going nowhere,” and his eyes told me to go screw myself. I told him the same thing with mine. That’s the thing about evil, even this mild, diluted variety: face it head on, and a little of it gets into you as if by osmosis. Face the pure kind too often, and if you’re not careful, it can start Armageddon inside you, too.

The section along Folsom, stretching south and east from Fifth, has been in a state of flux for several years. Not so long ago it was a semi-industrial, semi-residential part of Skid Row; then the rough-trade S&M and gay nightclub scene moved in; now it was starting to resemble nearby South Beach, the South of Market area, and Mission Bay, showing evidence of the tentacle-like encroachment of technology-related firms, buildings converted into combination office-and-living space, and wannabe trendy restaurants and clubs. Of all the rapid-growth changes in the city these days, the gentrification of this area, what oldtimers call South of the Slot, was probably the most desirable.

Rick’s Tattoo Parlor was a leftover from the old days, a hole-in-the-wall squeezed between a couple of other leftovers — a Chinese takeout joint and a cheap liquor store masquerading as a neighborhood grocery. Red and blue lettering in the single window advertised “Rick’s Specialties”: Body Piercing, Full Body Portraits, and something called Body Frosting.

The interior was a long single room, brightly lit; a closed door in the back wall said there was another room or office behind it. The walls were covered with framed designs, hundreds of them in color and black and white. There were two big chairs, a cross between armchairs and barber chairs; in one of them a guy with yellow spiked hair, dressed in a leather vest over a bare torso and a pair of black leather pants, was having his left biceps tattooed with what looked like the gay pride symbol in a chain-bordered square. The man manipulating the electric needle, a complicated arrangement that fit over his hand like a set of brass knuckles, was in his late twenties, had greasy black hair pulled back into a ponytail, and was a walking advertisement for his art. He wore an armless T-shirt that displayed arms, shoulders, and neck bristling with gaudy tattoos. His entire left arm and shoulder was a fire-breathing dragon in green and red and bright orange; something that resembled a Rubens nude reclining on a bed of lettuce writhed and wriggled on his right forearm.

The needle made a humming, buzzing noise. Over it, without looking at me, he said, “With you in a minute. Almost done here.”

“Are you Rick?”

“Yeah. Just hang on, man.”

“I’m looking for Steve Niall.”

“Steve?” He glanced at me then, but I was nobody he knew; he returned his attention to his artwork. “Not here.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Man, I can’t talk and work. Hang on, okay?”

Okay. I hung on by looking at some of the framed designs. Labels identified one batch as Polynesian Tribal, another as Pure Fantasy, another as Traditional Seafarer. There were animals and cars and weapons and circus performers and film stars and a slew of X-rated items. Why anybody would want to walk around with an image of a copulating couple emblazoned on his skin was beyond me. Rick still hadn’t finished with the yellow-haired customer, and I was losing patience; but pushing him while he was creating on his human canvas would only buy me hostility. I picked up a magazine from a stack on a table, a trade publication called Skin & Ink, and leafed through it until the humming and buzzing finally quit.

Yellow-hair liked the finished tattoo and said so; money changed hands and he went out, making a kissy mouth at me on the way. Cute. The world is full of smart-ass jerks of all genders, ages, and sexual orientation.

Rick had the same wary look as the Southwick’s desk clerk, but without the evil eyes; his expression said he couldn’t quite figure me out. Point in my favor. “So you’re looking for Steve,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“How come?”

“I’ve got business with him.”

“What kind of business?”

“What kind do you think?”

“You tell me, man.”

“Steve’s business. My business.”

“Might be mine, too,” he said.

“I don’t think so.” I was feeling my way along, but I thought the handling was right. “Look, Rick, I can pay for what I want. If you’ve got a cut coming, get it from Steve.”

“Not you, huh?”

“Not me. Tell me where I can find him or I go to somebody else.”

“He know you?”

A lie on that was too easy to get tripped up on. I said, “No. We’ve got a mutual acquaintence.”

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

“Jay Cohalan.”

“Who?”

“Cohalan. Jay Cohalan.”

“Name don’t ring any bells.”

“He used to sleep with Steve’s sister.”

“Yeah? Uh, Candy?”

“No, Doris. Steve’s sister Doris.”

He relaxed. Flexed both shoulders and his right arm in a way that caused the Rubens nude to wriggle suggestively. It wasn’t a bed of lettuce she was reclining on, I noticed then. It was a bower of broad, thick leaves like those of a banana plant.

“Okay,” he said, “so you’re in the market.”

“I’m in the market.”

“What’s your pleasure, man?”

“That’s for me to tell Steve.”

“Yeah,” he said. He did that flexing trick again and then slid his gaze over a clock above the rear door. “Almost four. You know O’Key’s?”

“No.”

“Bar on Eleventh off Howard. Steve should be there by now. One of the booths.” I nodded, and he added, “Tell him I sent you. That way I get mine.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Rick made the nude wriggle one last time before I went out. And wink, by God, something I wouldn’t have thought possible. A goddamn come-hither wink.

O’Key’s was one of a dying breed, the kind of dark, dingy, brass-railed, creosote-floored watering hole that had once flourished South of the Slot. With its high ceiling and long, mirrored backbar and tall wooden booths, it reminded me of the old city newspaper saloons — Breen’s, Hanno’s, Jerry & Johnny, and the last of them, the M&M Tavern, that had finally gone under last year. But O’Key’s had never been anything more than a workingman’s neighborhood bar, that through neglect and attrition had degenerated into just another downscale saloon peopled with individuals to whom drinking was no longer a social pleasure but a way of life and death.

A dozen or so men and women were bellied up to the bar, but none of them was big, bald, hairy-browed. And none paid any attention to me; they had eyes only for the liquid escape in front of them. Two of the booths were occupied, a dispirited-looking couple in one and a lone man in the other. The loner was young and thin and rabbity, with a spade-sharp chin adorned by a scraggly goatee.

I’d gone in there tensed, wary, ready for anything; I let the edge come off a little as I elbowed space at the bar. I bought a beer from the fat bartender, carried it over to the loner’s booth.

He was smoking a cigarette in quick, almost furtive drags. It’s illegal now to smoke in bars and other public places in this state, but the patrons of joints like O’Key’s would flaunt laws a lot more enforceable than that one. Up close, he had a kind of oily sheen that changed my impression of him from rabbity to ratty. He was an odd mix of truncated and elongated: short, small, with delicate hands, tiny ears, a mouth like a hole poked in clay by somebody’s thumb; long arms, that sharp chin, a long, narrow nose. A single black hair grew at a bent angle from one nostril like a miniature periscope. I didn’t care to speculate on what might be living up there trying to peer out.

When he realized he had company his head jerked up, and he stared at me. I said, “Steve Niall?”

“Who wants to know?”

I sat down across from him without answering. He didn’t like that; it made him even more nervous. “Hey,” he said, “I’m expectin’ somebody, man.”

“I’m here now.”

“Who’re you? What the hell you want?”

“Rick told me I could find you here.”

“Yeah? Rick who?”

“I’m in no mood for games, Stevie.”

He started to slide out of the booth. I leaned toward him, putting my hands flat on the scarred tabletop. What he saw in my face decided him to stay put; he blinked several times, as if I were an apparition he was trying to make disappear. He was afraid of me, but it was nothing personal. He’d always be afraid of anyone bigger and stronger, any sort of authority figure.

He said again, with a whiny note in his voice, “What the hell you want?”

“The answers to some questions. Then I’ll leave you alone to make your deals.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, deals.”

“Grass, crank, speed, whatever your specialty is.”

He jerked his gaze around, but nobody else was listening. “Jesus,” he said, “keep your voice down. I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, I told you.”

I swallowed a mouthful of beer. Out of the bottle; I wouldn’t have used the glass that had come with it unless it had been sterilized first. “First question,” I said. “Guy about forty, big, bald, bushy eyebrows, breath that says he likes onions. Know him?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, Stevie. No lies, no bullshit.”

“I ain’t lying, man. I don’t know nobody looks like that.”

I was watching him closely. The nervous frown appeared genuine; the denial sounded genuine. “All right. Second question: How long since you’ve seen Jay Cohalan?”

“Who’s Jay Cohalan?”

“What’d I just say about lies and bullshit? We both know Cohalan used to date your sister Doris.”

“... Oh, yeah. Him.”

“How long since you’ve seen him?”

“Long time. Year and a half, maybe. Good fuckin’ riddance.”

“Why good riddance?”

“You gonna make trouble for him, I hope?”

“Maybe. Why do you care?”

“He jammed up my sister, that’s why.”

“Jammed her up how?”

“Never told her he was married for one thing,” Niall said. “Hit her hard when she found out. She was in love with the bastard, Christ knows why.”

“What else?”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “He got her hooked on crystal meth. That’s nasty shit, man. Took her a while to get straight again.”

“He get it from you?”

“Me?” Niall’s mouth twitched; it made the long nose hair dance obscenely. “You think I’d supply shit like that to a guy going around with my own sister?”

“Where’d he get it then. Charlie Bright?”

“Who?”

“You heard me. Charlie Bright.”

“I don’t know nobody named Bright.”

Straight answer, I thought. “How about Annette Byers?”

“Her, neither.”

“She’s Cohalan’s new girlfriend. Jammed up on crank, too.”

“Yeah? His doing?”

“That’s right,” I lied.

“Yeah, well, that asshole come sucking around me after Doris dumped him, wanted me to sell him some crank. You believe it? After what he done to her?”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Fuck off, that’s what I told him. He knew I don’t mess with that shit. No crank, no crack, I ain’t that stupid. But he wouldn’t go away. Offered me fifty for a name, a connection. So I fixed him up. Yeah, I fixed him good.”

“How?”

“Sent his ass to Jackie Spoons. You know Jackie Spoons?”

“Enforcer for Nick Kinsella, isn’t he?”

“Used to be, but he branched out three, four years ago. Rough trade, Jackie Spoons. Hooked in with some real bad guys.”

“And you sent Cohalan to him.”

“Give him Jackie’s name. What happened after that, I don’t know. I hope he got jammed up like he jammed up Doris.”

“Where can I find Jackie Spoons?”

“Can’t tell you that. He moves around, you know?”

“Point me to somebody who might know.”

“I can’t, man. Guys like Jackie, they’re outta my league. I’m strictly lightweight. You play in that league, you can end up dead real easy.”

“Okay. One more name and I’m gone. Dingo.”

“Never heard it.”

“Think a little. Dingo.”

He thought and said again, “Never heard it.”

I took another swallow of beer and then slid out of the booth. Niall looked relieved, but that didn’t stop him from opening his mouth.

“Listen,” he said, “what’s this all about? Who are you, anyway?”

“You really want to know?”

His eyes flicked over my face, flicked away again in a hurry. “Maybe not.”

“Definitely not. You don’t want to play in my league, either.”

I left him lighting another coffin nail with twitchy fingers. Small man, small mind, lightweight in every respect. The kind destined for failure in any league he played in, even the low minors where he was playing now.