Chapter 36

Channeled by the San Bruno Mountains, the afternoon fog rolled above South San Francisco like a mighty river. Under it, Allen turned on his headlights as he drove down Second Avenue in a sort-of trance. Sometimes he thought of Reynaldo and Christine and Tina, and the family they’d once been, and then the pain became too much for him and he had to think of other things. He realized he was doing what President Clinton did—what did they call it, compartmentalizing—putting all the really bad stuff in the back of his head so he could concentrate on the important stuff that had to be done. Surely there were things that had to be done. He knew there were, but he couldn’t think of any.

Every now and then an opening appeared briefly in the fog revealing bright afternoon sun. To the north and south, sunlit areas glowed like burnished bronze. Allen knew that in another couple of hours it would all be under fog.

He drove past the familiar façade of the big brick apartment building. As his eyes swept over it he thought he saw someone at the window of the sitting room that he had always imagined as belonging to a wise old couple. The window was, as always, lit with soft golden light. He decided to go see them.

It made no sense; he didn’t know them, nor they him. Maybe they would tell him to get lost or call the police. But his desperate need to talk to someone, especially someone older and wiser than himself about his situation, overwhelmed his sense of decorum. He needed to hang his head and confess. He needed someone to listen to everything that had happened and tell him that it wasn’t his fault, like he imagined Joel would have done. Maybe they would understand. If they didn’t, did it matter? Did anything matter anymore?

Allen slowed. Spotting a parking space ahead, he pulled over and got out. He quickly walked back to the building and went in. A panel of brass mail boxes and buttons for the bells were set into the wall. Ignoring them, he looked around and spotted the door to the fire escape stairs. He went through it and up the stairs. He located the apartment relative to the stairwell. Four doors stretched down the tidy hallway in one direction, five in the other. It was very quiet and peaceful. He saw that the door was slightly ajar. He put his hand on the door knob and slowly pushed it open. He went in.

The white brocaded curtains were dirty; the two red upholstered chairs faced each other across the familiar fringed vase lamp which sat on a table with a marble top. The chair back facing Allen had a white tag sewn into it - GALLI PROPERTY MANAGEMENT. A white box with some wires coming in and going out of it—a timer for the lamp—sat below the table on a floor that was merely a slab of cheap pressboard with the manufacturer’s name repeatedly printed in bands across it. Allen felt sick. He sat. The chairs wore a layer of dust like grey felt. On the opposite wall, a painting of an Italian wedding hung, with a couple posed before a table heaped with grapes, breads, cheeses and wine glasses under a bright sun. As Allen stared at it, the lamp’s glow faded as sunlight flooded through the window, the fog having parted momentarily. The painting blazed in the light, revealing the brush strokes to be nothing more than uniform grooves and swirls that had been mechanically stamped into the mass-produced cardboard ‘canvas.’ Allen turned away and looked at the window sill. Unpainted, the wood showed indecipherable scribbling that had evidently been left behind by the workmen. Allen looked closer, seeing some measurements, a few scattered fraction-to-decimal conversions. Something longer, some phrase had been scribbled in pencil on the wall below the sill. He bent to read it—“What the fuck did you expect?”

“Oh God,” he moaned. He got out of the chair, went out into the hall and hurried down the steps.

Allen drove for hours. He thought he had gone to Stowe Lake in the city and to Clement Street, but he wasn’t sure which he’d gone to first. The radio was on the talk channel. A man was yelling about Vice President Gore’s oil deal. Allen tried to remember what time it had been when he’d left Tina in the house and gone out. The news came on while he was on the 280 freeway flowing along with the commuter traffic. The talk was about some preacher having called Clinton’s behavior evil. Allen frowned. The word was archaic. Nobody believed in evil or hell or any of that shit anymore. The reporter went on about calls for the preacher to apologize. Some Republican senator came to the preacher’s defense. Suddenly Allen saw McCoy’s ahead. He slowed to pull into the lot.

Allen parked, turned off the car, and sat in the quiet. To the west, the fog was clearing up. The now-setting sun’s slanting rays burned straight into his face. He got out of the van. As he approached the door he saw one of the biker guys that played pool in the back washing off a large Harley Davidson motorcycle with a hose. As Allen drew closer he saw that the bike was completely caked with dirt as if it had been ridden in the mud and left unwashed for days, or even buried.

Inside the bar it was cool and quiet, the light dim. Thoughts of Reynaldo and Christine assailed him as he sat down at his spot next to the taps, where Lou was sitting as usual, ready to serve him. He nodded a greeting to the hatchet faced old man. Lou pulled the ivory-topped chromed tap lever back, pouring a tall one for him. There was a soccer game on the TV. Allen had heard something about there being a tournament in town, somewhere down the Peninsula, maybe Stanford. He stared into the deep amber of the beer as if it might hold answers to the many questions that plagued him. Deep, male voices erupted in argument in the back room. A heavyset muscled man, wearing a cut-off denim jacket, another Hells Angels biker type, came into the main room.

“Lucifer, did Harry ever show up?”

Allen’s ears perked up. He’d always assumed that ‘Lou’ had been short for Louis, but Lucifer? The old man must have been in a biker gang in his younger days. That would explain a lot of things. Lucifer was the kind of name a biker type would pick. And it was likely that Lou had injured his leg on a motorcycle.

Lou nodded in the direction of the front parking lot. “He’s out front trying to get all the dirt off his bike.”

Allen’s bladder ached and he got off the stool and went into the bathroom. He stared at the blurry image of himself in the mirror as he relieved himself. Leaving the bathroom, his curiosity got the better of him and he went into the back room where the loud-mouthed guys were playing pool. Just past the door two guys wearing leather jackets were pouring what looked like sugar into a plastic sandwich bag on the pool table. A high mahogany table off to the side had a dozen or so of bags neatly stacked. The men looked up at Allen briefly, exchanged glances, and then went on with their business. Allen thought drunkenly that it was probably dope, but it was none of his business and he pretended he hadn’t seen anything. He nodded at the others standing around the pool table and returned to his seat at the bar

Allen’s thoughts turned back to the soccer game and he quickly drained the tall glass of beer. A bone-numbing, familiar cold calm came over him. Reynaldo and Christine’s faces, which had been breaking into his consciousness repeatedly, now faded into a nondescript blur. He turned to Lou. “Give me another, will you?”

As Allen drank, another one of the biker types came in and spoke softly into Lou’s ear. He went back into the back room and a cacophony of rough laughter erupted. Someone broke the cue set and Allen heard two balls drop into pockets. He turned his attention back to the TV and the soccer game. The announcer’s voice rose with excitement as a player ran through a phalanx of opposing players straight for the goal. The goalie mightily hurled himself sideways but the ball sailed in just out of his reach. The crowd roared triumphantly.

“Damn, he almost stopped them,” said Allen.

“Almost don’t count,” said Lou, an ugly frown on his face.

“Well, maybe. But the guy tried; he really did.”

Lou looked at Allen with what Allen realized, was cold contempt.

“Trying ain’t good enough either.”

At that moment one of the bikers stuck his ugly head around the wall. Allen recognized him as the one called Harry that had been out front cleaning the mud off his bike. Harry called over to Lou, “Lucifer, you ready to get started?”

Lou looked at the broad windows at the front. Allen turned to follow his eyes. The sun had set and no more light came in through the edges. Lou got to his feet and Allen realized that this was the first time he’d ever actually seen him standing. He walked awkwardly and Allen looked down to see that he had a clubfoot.

“Yeah,” said Lou, “get the guys out here. I’ll lock the front.”

Lou went over to the front door and began to bar it.

Allen got to his feet. “Wait a minute. I gotta get going.”

Lou ignored him.

“What are you doing?” said Allen.

Allen heard the others coming into the room. He turned. There were about a half dozen of them, fallen angels every one of them. Harry carried a green canvas duffel bag and set it down with a rattle. It was full of baseball bats, both wooden and aluminum, like you’d see at a baseball game near the dugout. The others began pulling them from the bag, swinging them as they tested their heft and weight, as if warming up to go to bat.

Harry whipped the air with an aluminum bat. His eyes shone as he looked at Allen. Harry called over to Lou, “Never thought we’d end up doin’ the Lord’s work, did you, Lou?”

The others laughed heartily.

A small, Mexican-looking biker swung two bats simultaneously. He looked at Allen and smiled evilly. “Gonna hit a home run tonight!”

Allen felt the contents of his bowels liquefy. “Jesus Christ,” he called over to Lou, “what the fuck’s going on? I didn’t do anything!”

Lou scowled. “That’s right, wuss. You didn’t do a goddamn thing. And now you’re gonna pay for that.”

Allen began sobbing. “I tried… but what could I do? I couldn’t do anything.”

Tina walked around to the back yard. The light was very bright, the setting sun burning into her eyes. The sounds of life were all around: children’s laughter from the field on the other side of the fence, someone mowing a lawn a few houses down, a big 747 roaring up into the air over San Bruno as it headed out to the Pacific. She went around to the side of the house. She didn’t think anyone would be able to see her over the tall fence. But it didn’t matter as she had to look one last time just to be sure.

She knelt and lifted up the crawlspace door, propping it up with a stick. She cringed as she crawled inside. The light was very dim and it was quiet and peaceful as a tomb. The rat-proofing concrete was hard and rough and tore at her clothing. She crawled slowly toward the far side of the structure, finally spotting the bundle laying on the rise in the corner where it was supposed to be. Good. A tiny hole somewhere on the side of the house let the sunlight through, illuminating it like a spotlight on a stage. The plastic garbage bag was untouched and a fine sheen of dust had settled on it. The yellow cords securing it were intact. Good. She grimaced as she turned around and began crawling back. She thought she heard something behind her. Turning her head, she saw nothing. She blinked nervously as sweat burned her eyes. Ahead, the reassuring rectangle of light at the crawlspace door beckoned. She continued crawling, cursing the jagged concrete that bruised her hands and knees and snagged her clothing. She thought she saw something to her left. In the dim light, something dark seemed to be pouring by, like a thick column of ants? Or was it one big thing pouring along? Confused, she grimaced with determination and crawled determinedly toward the crawlspace door. A little boy laughed mischievously and the crawlspace door closed with a wooden clap. She crawled forward toward the door and something big threw itself over her with great violence, quickly wrapping her up.

Tina felt the thing tightening around her neck, constricting painfully like the automatic blood pressure cuff at the drug store. She lost consciousness. A moment later she came to and wondered if she’d left anything cooking on the stove. Her legs twitched convulsively as if she was trying to get to her feet and then she was still.