NINE
Sixth Street in the 1950s was an archipelago of bars, flop-houses, and eateries catering to retired sailors, longshoremen, and factory workers. Most of the neighborhood had been razed to the ground in the succeeding decades to make room for the Moscone Convention Center. Skid row became the most expensive property in town. What was left of the blue-collar community was a two-block strip south of Market.
A drab cinder-block warehouse hugged the corner of Natoma and Sixth. The structure’s walls were riddled with bullet holes and graffiti. The corrugated tin roof was populated with broken satellite dishes. Scrofulous pigeons massed under the eaves. A wino in a Santa Claus hat was crashed out on the stoop.
Harriet Grogan was in a retro denim pants suit, feathery purple boa, and high-heeled patent leather boots. She tweaked the warehouse’s doorbell and said in a whisper to her daughter, “My friend Simone lives here, and her pad smells fucking ugly.”
Diana had on a long-sleeved Misfits T-shirt and shorts. “Why’s that?”
“She’s got forty cats in there. But she likes children. So be cool with her.”
A tall, gangly woman wearing paint-splattered overalls came to the door, unlatched the security gate. She gave Harriet a quick hug before ushering her guests inside. Simone was blonde and blue-eyed, a couple of years older than Harriet. A dozen felines stinking of piss and vomit churned around her legs.
Jostling the cats to one side, Simone herded everyone into the living room. Unframed monochromatic abstract expressionist canvases were on every wall. An ersatz Persian carpet covered the parquet floor. A Wes Montgomery instrumental track was spinning on an antique turntable.
Simone and Harriet and the kid sat down at a butcher table. The kitties lounged at their feet. Though the windows were open, the stench in the warehouse was hellacious. Motioning to a cardboard produce box on the tabletop, Simone said to Diana, “That’s for you. Merry Christmas.”
The box was filled with paperback books, a gang of science fiction novels by John Brunner, Harlan Ellison, Andre Norton, Kate Wilhelm, and others. The covers had illustrations of astronauts and robots and monsters fighting on unknown stars. The books were tattered, the bindings frayed, the pages yellowed with age.
While the girl leafed through the paperbacks, Harriet confided in Simone, speaking in whispers so as not to be heard by Diana. Decked out in feathered earrings, nose stud, and a ten-carat gold chain necklace, her face was caked with makeup and pinched white. “I think Robert is stepping out on me. The bastard.”
“He’s seeing another woman?” Simone lit a cigarette. “That’s fucked up.”
“Can you believe the creep? He ain’t been out of prison even two days, and he’s already fooling around.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, he’s all secretive and shit. Won’t talk or make love with me or nothing.”
“That doesn’t mean jack. You’re paranoid. Robert’s not screwing anyone else.”
“How do you know?”
“No other woman would put up with his crap, except you.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, and he knows it.”
“There’s got to be another broad.”
Harriet’s skin was breaking out all over her chin. Last night her mother had called in a huff. A man had phoned the old woman to say Robert was dead. Had been killed in a motorcycle accident. It was the second time in four years that someone had reported his death. Before he was sent to prison there was a rumor he’d expired from AIDS.
Simone batted a pussycat off her lap. “Have the cops picked him up since he’s been back?”
“Just once. They caught him hunting.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Has he seen his parole officer yet?”
“No.”
“Is he looking for work?”
“I, uh, you know, I don’t have the faintest idea.”
“Does he have money?”
“Him? Never.”
“Then why are you with him?”
Harriet was swift to answer. “I don’t know.”
“Do you love him?”
It was a good question. Harriet wasn’t sure how to answer it. Sometimes she loved Robert. Other times she didn’t. Lately, there were more and more times when she wanted him six feet underneath the ground in a pine coffin. “Maybe.”
A calico cat licked Simone’s ankles with a waxy tongue. More tabbies were under the chairs. Other mousers got into the box of books and pawed the tatty paperbacks. “If you don’t, you have to leave him.”
Diana ignored the sounds of their conversation and read the first pages of a Damon Knight novel. The tale was about American astronauts traveling to a distant universe in a rocket ship. They’d gotten stranded on a giant star. They had no water or food, and their radio was dead. Some of the crew went renegade and became cannibals. She wanted to be with them. She could be their mascot. Every space voyage needed one. Besides, her parents were making her crazy. Any other planet was better than the one Harriet and Robert were on.