Briley tried to focus on his current situation and surroundings, but all he could see was a square of static encased in cheap plastic with the word Zenith below a row of busted knobs. At first, the poor reception had appeared as a woman’s face, a beautiful woman with a complexion clear as milk, eyes bluer than a breezeless sky, contented smile, mouthing the phrase, Fresh from the start. She stood in a living room of an impossibly clean house, something out of Pac Heights, not Briley’s plaster and pressboard roach trap. The ashtrays were empty too, magazines stacked, couch crammed with fluffy cushions, and although everything seemed immaculate and impeccable, the woman was vacuuming. Then electricity. It came down like a thunderbolt. Briley’s head gave way with a sick crack and he jerked spastically amongst the wires and shattered tube. He wanted to say something, not an apology, perhaps an epitaph. Something more than the cackle caught crushed in his throat. She stood above him screaming, replacing the other woman, replacing the static and white noise. Replacing himself. Waiting. He heard sirens in the distance racing toward him as if there was something left to save. No need. The best thing to do was quit moving. He knew that now. Take their best shot. Don’t cry. Go to sleep. Be still.
KID’S LAST FIGHT BY EDDIE MULLER
South of Market
Danh woke up that morning excited. Today he was finally going to use the pruning shears. He’d learned about the technique at a lineup the previous week. Some guy was bragging how he’d done it to his ex-fiancée when she wouldn’t give back his engagement ring. Ever since, Danh had wanted to give it a try. Grab some rich bitch by the wrist and snip her clean, like a butcher scissoring a duck. There’d be lots of blood and screaming, but he’d just calmly pocket her fingers with the fat-ass jewels and be gone, quick as a hummingbird. Later, at Li Po, when it was his turn to buy, he’d toss a finger on the bar and say something funny, just for the reaction. After that, he’d be known as the craziest fucker in the crew. What to say when he threw down the finger? He hadn’t figured that part out yet, but it would come to him.
Hanna hiked up the shoulder strap on the briefcase and checked her wristwatch as she blew through the doors of the Jewelry Mart. She wasn’t going to make the 2 o’clock briefing with the caterers. She’d driven all the way across town to get a deal on the earrings for Katie’s birthday, and for a second she regretted it. But only for a second, since nothing made Hanna happier than buying wholesale. At the foot of the stairs, she hesitated. It took her a couple of seconds to remember where she’d parked.
Bud couldn’t remember why he was on this street. He was headed someplace, had something important to do. Back a couple of blocks he’d remembered, and his shuffle shifted into a determined stride. But then he started looking at buildings and street signs, recognizing places from long ago, and his head began filling with pictures and sounds from the old days and pretty soon he couldn’t recall what was obvious only minutes before. Damn it. Anger welled up in him, making it harder to hold onto a thought.
Bud turned around and looked back. Maybe he’d dropped the answer on the sidewalk. Had he come this way? Maybe Joan had given him a note, to remind him what to do. From his jacket pocket he pulled a wad of paper.
A hundred-dollar bill. Had she put it there? Yes, Joan put it there. He remembered that now. She’d told him he needed to go somewhere-where? The money was for when he got there.
I’m supposed to buy something. Goddamn if he could recall what it was. I had eggs this morning, he thought. He could still taste the yolks, that’s how he knew.
Hanna was almost to her car when the Asian kid appeared. She barely had time to gasp. He ripped the briefcase off her shoulder, but instead of running away with it, he trapped her arm between his ribs and biceps and grabbed her wrist. She started screaming when she saw the pruning shears. Instinctively, she made fists of both hands.
“Open!” Danh shrieked. “Open!”
Something slammed Danh’s left ear, hard and heavy as brick. To protect himself, he had to let the woman go. Another blow banged his skull. He swung the shears blindly, then took a third blow on the jaw, just below his mouth. Down Danh went, dropping the shears when his hands reached out to break the fall.
That last right hand was the best one Bud had thrown since he decked Lyle Cooley at the Cow Palace in 1958. He’d set that up with a left hook, which missed high but made Cooley bend at the waist. Bud came over the top with a punch that had every ounce of his shoulders, hips, and legs behind it-Cooley was lights-out for three minutes. Every second of that fight was clear as a bell to Bud, to this day.
The final punch in the flurry had hurt like hell; his knuckles had hit flush on the kid’s jawbone. Something might have busted. Bud instinctively flexed his right hand a few times, already feeling the swelling. His whole body vibrated. The fight had lasted about six seconds-the cleanest six seconds he’d experienced in a long time. He stood over the kid, left cocked, just in case the little fuck had some guts and wanted to fight. Of course he didn’t-he mugged women, for chris-sakes. The kid scooped something off the sidewalk and ran like hell, never looking back.
Bud turned, expecting to see his manager, Joe Herman, smiling at him.
“You saved my life,” Hanna said, trying to compose herself. “Or at least my fingers.”
Bud stared at her, trying to piece things together.
Hanna could tell right off the guy wasn’t all there. His clothes were neat and clean and his white hair was cut short, so she didn’t figure him for a street person. A line of blood had dried on his throat where he’d cut himself shaving. He was strongly built, handsome, seventy-something years old. But his eyes were glazed and suspicious.
“Were you a boxer?” Hanna asked.
“I still am.” Bud smiled, because he felt good.
“Yeah, I guess you are.”
She was already inexcusably late, but it would have been too rude to brush the old guy off-as if what just happened was merely one more example of life’s daily irritations, nothing more than a speed bump in her busy schedule.
“My name’s Hanna,” she said, extending her hand. “I can’t thank you enough for stepping in like that. Not many people would have done it-or known what to do.”
“Bud Callum.” Her hand felt like a leaf in his. “Good to meet you.”
“Should we stand here?” Hanna asked, looking around nervously. “Maybe he’ll come back.”
“Let him.”
Bud’s adrenaline was still pumping, making him feel twice his size. He’d rescued this beautiful girl and she appreciated it. She had gorgeous skin and a lopsided smile and everything about her said money. He may not have known where he was, but Bud didn’t need any extra clues to know this woman was loaded.
“What was your name again?” he asked.
“Hanna. Eastman.” She walked toward her car. “Can I drop you somewhere, Mr. Callum? It’s the least I can do.”
Bud couldn’t remember the last time he’d been driven in a car.
“Yeah, that’d be good. ’Preciate it.”
It made her uncomfortable, the way he stared as she called the caterer to reschedule. Maybe he didn’t like people talking and driving at the same time.
“That’s one of those special ones, huh?” he said, after she’d tucked the phone back in her purse. “It goes up to some satellite or something, right? Not through wires, not like a normal phone.”
“Right.” She felt a twinge of fright: Had this guy been away for the past twenty years? Just out of prison, or a mental hospital? How could you live in this city, today, and not have a cell phone?