Outside the Pussy Palace the neon lights were popping on. The strip clubs, topless bars and restaurants were drawing customers. I walked through North Beach asking directions to the Tenderloin. I thought I’d head straight to the Hotel Napa for the main course with Dollar.
Yahoo! I liked San Francisco, big time. I liked the way the people strutted down the street like they weren’t afraid of being sexy. I liked the Chinese guys with their fruit stands. The barkers — all ugly little fucks — standing outside their own pussy palaces. It seemed to me that it was a wide-open town with its own rules. Civilised, like I’d never seen.
Then I ran across the homeless. You hear about them back where I grew up, in the trailer parks, but you can’t believe such pathetic examples of human life can exist, like cockroaches. Old ladies with shopping carts. Young guys with one leg. Everybody begging. It was disgusting. Shit, with a .22 they could have done some damage. No guts.
I saw an old Indian sitting in the doorway of a closed theatre. I guess by then I’d walked down those slanting streets to the Tenderloin. I read his sign first, like you always do:
Native American Elder needs a bus ticket
to go home where he can RIP.
I couldn’t help wondering whether RIP meant he wanted to go back to the reservation and Rest In Peace or go back to his favourite bar and Rip It Up. So I looked at the old guy, while he looked me over. Then he closed his eyes like a turtle.
He wore a black hat with a beaded band on it over his white braids, a red shirt with a big collar. Silver rings on his hands. He was missing a tooth. A real grandfather Indian, just like in the movies. There was a cigar box in front of him with some coins and a five dollar bill in it.
I would have gone on past him, but with that big-nosed face he could have been fucking Geronimo. Geronimo was cool. I dropped a token from the Pussy Palace into his box and he opened his eyes and looked up at me. He blinked, like he couldn’t believe he was looking at me, Buddy Tate. Then he reached in and picked up the token.
“What the hell’s this?” he croaked.
“A token for a booth in the Pussy Palace, if it’s any use to you.”
“I can get it up.” His blanket came open and he showed me the big knife in his fist. I stepped back.
“Don’t disrespect this old Indian. I’ll cut your heart out and eat it for a snack, right here on Market Street.”
“No offence intended, Geronimo.”
“He was an Apache. I’m Ahlone, from right around here.”
“So why does your sign say you want to so back to the reservation?”
“People think Indians belong on the rez. They’re not going to put money in the box to keep me in my home town.”
“I’ve never seen an Indian begging before.”
“Other Indians got some land to call their own. They have a language. Ahlone got nothing.”
“You don’t speak your own language?”
“I speak only one: green dollars. Money. Give back what you took from us. Drop it right in my box.”
He smiled, not a pretty sight. One tooth missing, the rest black. He must have said that line a thousand times, then smiled.
“You must know this neighbourhood pretty well. Maybe you can tell me how to get to the Napa Hotel.”
“It’s on Eddy Street. Lots of fine women hang out there.”
“I’m on my way to meet one of them.”
“Well, that’s good. You look like a strong young man. You got energy, I can see that.”
“That’s what she said, too.”
“Who’s that?”
“A girl I met at the Pussy Palace named Dollar.”
That big-assed smiled flashed again.
“You know her?”
“I know Dollar well. A credit to her sex.” He even chuckled. Dirty old man, goddamn. In and out, in and out.
But I’m not the jealous type. As long as I can rent it, I don’t have to own it.
“Well, I’ve got an appointment with her, and I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re a lucky boy. Drop some money in the box, and I’ll watch out for your luck for you.”
It wasn’t my money, why not spread it around? I dropped a twenty in his box.
“Now we’re blood brothers,” he told me, making the bill disappear in his blanket. “Any time you want my services, just ask for Inigahi.”
“That just went right by me,” I told him.
“In-ee-gah-hee.”
“Well, if you say so. I’m Buddy Tate.”
“Everybody calls me Anyguy. You want a drink?” He pulled out a hip flask and took a swig before handing it to me. It wasn’t some old bum’s brown bottle, but a silver flask inlaid with turquoise. I tasted brandy and passed it back.
“See you around, Anyguy. Keep an eye on my luck, like you said.”
“You watch out for that girl. She’s real bad.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”