“Where his son now?”
The man’s mouth curled down. “Where else? He in jail.” He wandered away shaking his head. “Least ways tha’s what Lucas said.”
Three boys whoopin in the parking lot. Here’s to a night under the moon, a hunnert miles an hour. Here’s to the girls that smiled at us.
Here’s to the father that loved us.
“You see Lucas, you please tellim I gotta story fer him. Yunno? So tellim I’m goin for coffee in the morning at the other place, down the street t’other way. Ain’t goin back to that Peet’s. Okay? Tellim I got to start the day off with him. Otherwise the mornin ain’t right. Yunno?”
The old man didn’t stop his slow amble away through the puddles, but Gina saw his hand raise up, as if to say, “Sure thing, girl. Sure thing.”
Under the dim freeway buttresses, several statues of La Virgin de Guadalupe dipped their bowls into the clear headwaters of the creek and, chuckling like pigeons, poured it over their heads.
AFTER HOURS AT LA CHINITA BY BARRY GIFFORD
The Bayview
Spooky backside of town, Third Street, San Francisco, late at night, in a motel office. The furnishings were shabby. La Chinita, once an elegant, Spanish-style motel built in the 1930s, was now, in 1963, run-down; paint was peeling off the walls and the wooden registration desk was chipped and gouged. A decrepit, moth-eaten easy chair and a few other rickety wickers with ripped seats and backs were placed against the walls. Hanging blinds, with several slats missing or broken, covered the glass-paned door. The office was clean, however, and presided over by a bespectacled woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties. She was seated in a lounge chair in front of the desk, knitting and humming softly to herself. Her name was Vermillion Chaney. The tune she was humming was “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” It was two weeks before Christmas.
The telephone behind the motel desk rang. Vermillion did not move. The telephone continued to ring. It was as if Vermillion did not hear it. The telephone rang eight times before it finally stopped. After the ringing stopped, Vermillion put down her knitting, stood up and walked behind the registration desk, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed a number.
“Was that you just called?” Vermillion asked into the phone. “Um, okay. Don’t matter. What you doin’, anyway? Sure I know it’s 3 o’clock in the mornin’, I’m at work!”
Vermillion hung up the phone. She came back around the desk, sat back down in her chair, and resumed knitting. She started singing again, only this time it was “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
The office door began to shake. Somebody was trying to open it but the door was locked. This was followed by a loud knocking. The knocking was hard, insistent.
From behind the door came a woman’s scream. “Open up! Open the door!”
Vermillion stopped singing and stared at the door. The knocking continued. The woman’s voice became hysterical.
“You got to help me! Open up!”
Vermillion put down her knitting, got up, and went to the door. She looked out through one of the missing slats as the woman outside continued to yell.
“Miz Chaney, it’s me! Revancha!”
Vermillion unlocked the door and a woman in her early twenties burst into the office, forcing the older woman back as she brushed past her.
“Shut it!” said Revancha. “Lock the door before he gets here!”
Vermillion stared at the young woman, who was half-dressed, wearing only a bra and panties. Clutched to her chest were other garments. Vermillion closed the door. Revancha ran back to it and fastened the chain lock.
“What’s goin’ on, Revancha? You look like a chicken in a bag full of snakes.”
Revancha retreated from the door and stopped with her back against the desk.
“He beatin’ on me, Miz Chaney! Chokin’ me! Usin’ a strap!”
“Man get what he pay for.”
“He gone too far, cat flip his wig. Call for security!”
Vermillion walked back behind the desk, reached down, and came up with a revolver in her right hand.
“This the onliest security I got tonight, baby.”
“Where’s Myron?” asked Revancha.
Vermillion shook her head. “He out the loop. Fool got hisself arrested yestiday for receivin’ stolen property. Fake beaver coats. Can you beat that? I’m alone here this eve-nin’.”
The office door started to shake.
A man shouted, “Vermillion! Let me in!” He rattled the door.
“Don’t do it, Miz Chaney!” said Revancha.
“Bitch stole my pants!”
“You’d best go on, Ray,” said Vermillion.
“Not without my pants!”
Vermillion looked at Revancha.
“You got Ray’s pants?”
“I scooped it all up, what was piled on the floor. Thought maybe he wouldn’t follow me.”
“Man ain’t gonna go away without you give up his trousers.”
Ray forced himself against the door, breaking the lock on the handle. Only the chain now prevented him from opening it. He stuck his hand through and attempted to undo the chain.
“Don’t do it, Ray,” said Vermillion. “I got a piece.”
Ray pushed against the door, breaking the chain. The door flew open and Ray entered. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, wearing only a half-unbuttoned white dress shirt, under-shorts, socks, and shoes. He moved toward Revancha.
“Give me my wallet,” he said.
Vermillion pointed the gun at him.
“Stop right there, Ray,” she said. “I’ll get it for you.” Ray stopped.
“I ain’t got your wallet!” shrieked Revancha.
Ray brushed past Vermillion and grabbed the garments out of Revancha’s hands. He felt around in them.
“It ain’t here.”
He dropped the garments on the floor and grabbed hold of Revancha.
“Where is it?!”
“Let go the girl, Ray!” said Vermillion.
Ray put his hands around Revancha’s throat and began choking her. Revancha screamed; she kept screaming.
“Turn her loose, Ray, or I got to shoot!”
Ray turned his head and looked at Vermillion but continued strangling the girl.
“You old whore,” Ray said to Vermillion, “you prob’ly in on the game.”
Vermillion trained the barrel of her revolver on Ray and pulled the trigger, shooting him in the side. Ray, stunned, looked down at himself and watched as blood began to stain his shirt. Revancha continued to scream. Ray looked back at the girl and tightened his grip around her throat. Vermillion fired again, this time hitting Ray square in the back. His hands came away from Revancha’s throat. He turned slowly and faced the old lady. She fired a third bullet, which entered his body in the middle of his chest. Ray dropped to his knees, holding his hands up, as if in prayer. He remained motionless in that position for several moments before toppling over onto his face.
Revancha stopped screaming. She looked down at Ray. Blood was everywhere.
From behind them came a man’s voice. “Mother of God.”
Vermillion turned and saw a short, middle-aged, long-bearded man, dressed like a tramp, standing in the doorway. He took a closer look at Ray’s corpse, crossed himself, and said, “If God knew what He was doing, He wouldn’t be doing this.”
The stage was dark. A single spotlight lit up, shining on an empty stool set in the middle of the stage. A microphone lay on the stool.
The voice of the club announcer boomed out at the audience: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for. The Blackhawk, San Francisco’s premier nightclub, is proud to welcome America’s favorite recording artist, Mr. Smooth himself, Ray Sparks!”
As the audience applauded, Ray Sparks, the man who had been gunned down in the motel office, skipped on stage.
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