“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Greg moaned, picking up a heavy brush and firing it into Sean’s chest. “What is wrong with you?”
Sean choked his pitiful version of the recent events through a refried cig he’d found on top of a beer can.
“It’s Hershe, man. She dead. Face all smashed to bits, teeth missing. Damn, I’ve never seen anything like that before. She’s wrapped in a giant coat under the donkeys. I went to the park, you know, for a nightcap, maybe see a star or two. Anyway, I found this shoe — her shoe, I guess — and went looking for the other. I found it. I wish I hadn’t.”
“Shit” was all Greg said for several minutes; by the fourth minute Sean was growing impatient and began frantically asking what they should do.
Greg gave him an annoyed look, silencing his outburst, and looked back down at his feet. “Did she have anything on her?”
“Like clothes? She was definitely wearing those... Uh, her bag was between her legs, full. I grabbed her wallet, Greg. License said Karl. She only had eighty bucks in there, I have that here.”
“The wallet? You took her fucking wallet?!”
“No, no. The cash. See?”
“Christ! A bizarrely rational reaction. Still kind of fucked, though... Then, it wasn’t misplaced tranny-bashing. Nothing, we can’t do anything.”
Sean was appalled. “We can’t just leave her there, man, can’t you call someone? Can’t we give an anonymous tip to the cops? Something?!”
“No, idiot. First: there’s no such thing as anonymous anymore; and second: this was a hit. You don’t get involved in a hit.”
“A what? What’d she do?”
“She was big-time. Damn, you’re slow. Big-time Chicago. Her and Ms. Shirley been doing big business in the neighborhood for years, and you don’t do big business without making enemies.”
Sean again looked appalled, and dropped his head into his hands — contemplation wasn’t his strong suit. He didn’t change position until he heard the snap of rubber. Greg had just tied off and was attempting to light a pine-scented candle while his right arm still had motor function. Sean watched the lighter spark with each attempt until it finally took. He stared into the flame.
“Can you spare any black, Greg?”
“What? No, Sean, I knew you were after my contentment. You’re clean, remember? I’m just gonna take this hit and try to mute all the fucked-up shit you walked in with. You, go home.”
Sean watched the white powder dissolve into a silver pool of serenity. “Please, Greg, I know it’s been a fucked night, I’m the one that found her. Look, I’ll buy it from you, I have money.”
“You really are fucking screwy if you think I want stolen money from a dead friend. Fuck you, you know where it is.” Greg pushed the plunger and fell slowly into his mattress.
Sean opened the drawer and unwrapped a moderate-sized rock. He laid the requisite tools at the foot of the chair as he sat back down and cut a piece of foil. Everything set, he tipped his plane and chased the dragon.
He awoke just after dawn. Greg was snoring painfully, and Sean moved the needle from the bed to an overflowing Schlitz bucket. He pinched another small rock from the drawer and tossed a tenner in its place. Cops were swarming the park as he walked up the short hill. He could just make out the now-covered body of Hershe through the throngs and police tape. The sight made him pause for only a second. He was exhausted, terribly confused, and still very high. The night had been too much, the following would be worse, and he would have to disguise his using again. He fingered the rock in his pocket as he unlocked his door, stumbling up the stairs and into bed.
The alarm went off at five thirty p.m. Just a small hit, he thought, finding his foil and lighter where he’d left them, between the bed and wall. His shift started at six thirty — an hour of oblivion before he talked to Ms. Shirley. He figured the news had already saturated the block. A car alarm went off in the distance, rousing him enough to begin clawing away the sheets. Accomplished, he got dressed and locked the door behind him.
Sean trudged down the block toward the bar, heavy legs sticking in the black. As he turned the corner the clarinetist looked him dead in the eye and played a single, long note that followed him into the bar, ending when he was greeted with an unfamiliar, “Hello there!” He waited for his eyes to adjust. A man, the same man Ms. Shirley had with her yesterday, sat at the bar with Danny.
“You must be our beloved doorman. I’m Rich, new owner, pleasure to meet you.”
Sean shook the hand held before him and without a word sat on Danny’s other side. This was too much, too soon. Danny looked at him with a gentle, knowing gaze and asked if he’d heard about Hershe. He responded with a solemn nod.
“What happened to Ms. Shirley?”
“She came back last night after you left and told me, told us, that she was taking an impromptu visit home, dead aunt or something. She didn’t mention she’d sold the place though, I found that out when I walked in the bar about a half hour ago. Cops are saying it’s a hate crime, just another tranny killed because—”
“Fuckers.”
“Anyway, Shirley must’ve made a tidy profit from the sale. I’m surprised though — her and Hershe had a good thing going, and after all these years I never would’ve guessed she would... Well, this is New Oakland, I can’t even guess anymore.”
Waiting for Gordo
by Joe Loya
Hegenberger Road
On May 1, 2016, Hazard&Transgressions.com received from an anonymous source the attached two copies of actual court trial transcripts. They appear to be police audio surveillance of Mexican mobsters in East Oakland.
The first transcript follows two men, John Bañuelos and Rudolfo Gomez, after Gomez picks up Bañuelos from a sheriff substation following his release from custody. The second transcript records Rudolfo Gomez and Harry Gong-Lerma in conversation at the Gomez residence in Oakland, California.
During the month following we received twelve additional recordings of surveillance events leading up to the violent episode captured here.
Sincerely yours,
Student Gallette
CEO and Founder, Hazard&Transgressions.com
THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF)
CALIFORNIA,)
)
Plaintiff(s),) Case No. 01x45728b
vs.)
RUDOLFO “PRETTY RUDY” GOMEZ)
Defendants(s))
_____________________________________)
Transcribed by:
POMPTON X. GALA REPORTING SERVICES
9694 San Fernando Road, Suite C
Los Angeles, California 90057
Telephone: (323) 555-1287
(CAR ALARM BEEPS. DOORS OPEN, SLAM SHUT.)
JETHRO JOHNNY: (plastic bag rustling) Better be some Devil’s Lettuce in this motherfucker. I wanna be higher than giraffe balls within the hour.
PRETTY RUDY: I threw a Snickers and Dr. Pepper in there with your phone. Gordo gots the other shit.