EIGHT

On Wednesday morning 2-Time, Heller, Rita, and myself were barricaded inside Eternal Gratitude. A banner inscribed with the winning phrase was tacked to the wall above the cash register. 2-Time had forged the slogan. Eternal Gratitude had won nothing.

Rita was behind the counter, loading tabs into a bag. The club had recently expanded its services to include home deliveries. Since Rita and 2-Time had no car, deliveries were conducted by taxi, which added to Eternal Gratitude’s overhead. To make matters worse, the landlord had called up and said he was raising the rent another four thousand bucks a month. Claiming other clubs had approached him and offered more money for the space. Church and Market was prime real estate.

Heller deadpanned at me. “Your cut from the job is four hundred bucks.”

“What the fuck.” I was flummoxed. “That’s all?”

“Correct.”

“Four hundred?”

Heller’s mouth looked like a knife wound. He opened it and no blood came out, but the words he said were just as ugly. “Yeah, four hundred. Why? Because you were wrong. You fucked up. The guy you spotted, the one with the money? He didn’t have shit. He had nothing. Only fifteen hundred measly bucks. Your share is fair. Me and 2-Time are doing right by you.”

A stew of emotions boiled across my face. Heller was literate when it came to facial vocabulary. He saw my despair and self-doubt cooking at a high flame and decided to capitalize on it. “Don’t sweat it. This was just a test run.”

“A test run? What do you mean?”

“You want to make money? It’s not easy.”

“I never thought it was.”

“It could get tough.”

“I know that.”

“We have to do it again.” Heller honeyed his voice until it was sweet and inviting with the merest hint of malevolence. “Me and 2-Time did our part. Now you’ve got to do yours. Better.”

2-Time added his opinion to Heller’s opinion. This was his chance to shine. “He’s onto something, Ricky. You might have some talent, but you need to refine your chops. More practice and shit. You’re not slick yet.”

“I’m not?” My scar turned deep red from embarrassment.

“No, you’re not,” Heller butted in. “You failed. I’ll bet you’ve heard that before. A kid like you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know what it’s like having no money. But there’s a way to get some more.”

“All right, all right.” I glared at Heller. The punk was boondoggling me. The thing of it was, I was in a bind. I needed cash fast. “I’ll make another prediction later today.”

Heller absently fingered his cigarette burn. “Hallelujah.”

Late that afternoon I sat on top of Bernal Hill. The sky was laced with black contrails. Below me, the city was spread out in a grid to Diamond Heights. Off to my left was St. Luke’s Hospital in the Mission. Further off was Mount Sutro. To my right was China Basin and the Bay Bridge.

No matter how I concentrated, I couldn’t predict my own future. Something stopped me. It wasn’t forgetfulness. A piece of my mind was missing in action. Someday, I’d ask the bullet where it had gone.

A sudden noise exploded in the nearby oleander bushes—a coyote shot out from the undergrowth and thrashed downhill. I got to my feet, shook the dirt from my pants, and followed the coyote down the hillside to Mission Street.

I was tired when I got to my house. I took a tab of Life and snuggled on the kitchen floor. I fell asleep and dreamed my old dog Butch got run over by a car.

Butch was splattered in the street, right on the yellow dividing line. I went to look at him. The neighbors were there. One of them said: “We need to put Butch out of his misery.”

The man went away and came back with a shotgun. He stood over the wounded mutt and pointed the gun. He fired once. The impact lifted Butch an inch off the ground.

I woke up from the nightmare with a jolt. I didn’t go back to sleep. The rest of the afternoon sneaked away like a thief.