THIRTY-ONE

At the same moment I ducked out of Branch’s mansion the Honduran dealer, a vato loco by the name of Roberto Morales, hurled 2-Time against the back wall of a motorcycle shop off Market Street and smashed his legs with an aluminum baseball bat. He whipped the stick against 2-Time’s knees, the ground eagerly rushing upward to embrace 2-Time.

Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming, crazed by pain and an inch from unconsciousness, a kaleidoscope of images funneled through 2-Time’s brain, beginning with the eviction notice the landlord served Rita to vacate Eternal Gratitude. The club was shutting down for good.

2-Time expected the eviction, but he was taken aback by the self-loathing it caused. Without the club, he was nothing. Self-hatred was his middle name. No money was his game.

Mitzi had left the city and Heller in an exodus to her parents’ house in Daly City to have her baby. She was also divorcing Heller. Still in the hospital, he wasn’t contesting it.

In a television interview Babe Jones reiterated his campaign’s position about the contamination: “I’m not saying the fallout isn’t here, but I’m not going to say it’s a threat to the people of San Francisco. The issue is still coming together and we’ll have to play it as it lays.”

The ugliest tidbit was me. I had a gig in Pacific Heights. Selfishly climbing the ladder to fame and monetary gain, I’d forgotten my homeboy 2-Time.

Roberto Morales swung his bat again. The last thing 2-Time heard was a squad of parrots capering over Market Street, their lungs bursting with music. Then he heard nothing at all.