The Grim Room

CHAPTER 4

Chris had only been back a couple of days, but he was nervous. Antsy.

He needed to talk to Julian about things. Needing to figure out a plan, he desired, more than anything, to find Rebecca. And he was feeling anxious and tested about the coke. It bothered him. No, “bother” wasn’t the right word. It poked at his heart. How could his older brother be selling blow?

He already knew it would be impossible to stop thinking about Becca. Julian told him she lived somewhere in the city. Here. But Julian didn’t know exactly where. Not that he would have told Chris if he did. Rebecca cleared her tracks. Unlisted. A ghost on the internet. No social media. No Twitter. No Facebook. Nothing.

The only thread was Silver. Julian told him that Silver held information. Silver knew this bar-chick Alison who, Julian was certain, knew Rebecca.

Chris walked to his brother’s room. Julian was laying face down against the blue sheet, his ass upward, the bedcover falling off his body. Kid standing behind Chris in the Tier 1AB bathroom appeared in his mind. Fear rushed up from his belly.

He waited for a second, then he shoved the door open, hard; it whammed against the wall, a loud thud. Julian’s head popped up in surprise, his eyes half open, swaying back and forth, confused. When he saw his brother standing there, staring at him, he jerked the sheet up to his chest and moved his legs around crazily, trying to gain composure.

“Jesus H. Christ, Chris, what time is it?” He peeked at his alarm clock on the bedside table. “What in the name of—”

“How are you paying the rent, Jules?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Listen, Chris, we need to have a talk about—”

“Talk my ass. Where are you getting money, Jules?”

Julian’s black beard seemed to hold some force field of energy. Chris’s knuckles clenched tight. He clenched his teeth, too, a habit he’d formed in the pen. Julian was about to speak, but stopped. The nervous anxiety was snaking its way up Chris’s body, from his feet to his gut like a wayward, muscle-pumping freight train.

Chris licked his lips and took a step forward, his fist wrapped. He was almost shaking.

“Ok,” Julian said. “Ok.” Julian looked into his brother’s eyes, then faced the bed, looking down, as if in some kind of secret shame. “I’m slanging.” 

The color, what was left of it, escaped from Chris’s face.

Julian lifted his head. “Construction wasn’t paying the bills, bro. The housing market hasn’t been what it once was. The economy isn’t so hot. People can’t afford big remodels. I dabbled with selling to friends at first, and then, well, I guess you and I both have ‘the gift.’ It wasn’t my plan. I came up here to get away from Venice—”

“You Silver’s dealer?”

Julian glanced down at his bed, red-faced. Looking back up, he held Chris’s intense gaze and said nothing. 

Chris slammed a fist into the wall, punching a hole in the cheap plaster. He tromped out.       

An hour later, the place was quiet. Chris stepped over to his brother’s room, saw his brother asleep, and found the ash tray where Julian left the keys to the Chevelle.

He was going to Silver’s.

The engine exploded, nearly as loud as a Harley, with its V-8. Grabbing one of the Gold Marlboro 27’s he’d bought—with his brother’s money—he lit up. He backed out of the garage, into the cold, rainy morning of San Francisco.

Chris rolled his window down and blew smoke. He smelled the ocean as he drove past. Rebecca. He met her at the ocean, around the sand berms, by the Santa Monica Pier, in Venice Beach. From first sight she was unforgettable. And she’d been alone. That had been a sign. A woman like that, alone. It was as if she’d been sent there specifically for Chris. For him to find her. For her to find him.

They gravitated to each other right away. Chris was nervous, insecure, seeing such a pretty girl and sensing those pheromones. He’d taken an unusual chance and spoken up, from behind the dune, as if he’d been some kind of ghost materializing into human form.

Their attraction was a crazy kind of thing. Their eyes devoured each other’s. Some kind of psychic standstill occurred. Within minutes they left the beach together, strangely certain they weren’t coming back. And they hadn’t. Not for four years. Not until the Rachel set-up.

Driving past the house, which appeared empty, he parked. Julian told him that Silver was, for the most part, a recluse. Dealing blow, after Chris’d done time in the state pen: what the hell was wrong with Julian? He couldn’t get it out of his head. Silver must have been an influence. Julian, he assumed, would still be doing construction. His older brother learned a ton from their folks about the business, and he at one time owned his own truck, tools, and solo company. Things had changed.

Chris got out of the Chevelle—the hinges creaking—and walked toward the house. As he neared, he felt an ill-omened intuition. He made sure he was alone, scanning the houses in a row around him. Green lawns and palm trees lined a sidewalk that abutted the grass. Each house seemed very suburban. An odd place, without a doubt, for a person like Silver to be living. But outside life, Chris ruminated, was full of contradictions.

Peeking through the window, he couldn’t see a thing. He cracked his neck and knuckles and got ready for tough guy mode. He would not leave without information. He’d have to act like he did that first time he bumped into one of the Southern Hispanics, inside. That was before his initiation. Once he’d been with Kid and his gang, FSP, he had protection. Then he was able to do almost anything.

Chris felt a heavy energy. It was coming from behind.

“Nervous, Chris?” the cop said. His radio crackled from his hand-held walkie-talkie connected to his lapel: “We have a domestic disturbance down on Webster and Geary, can you get it, Darnin?...”

The cop leaned into the walkie-talkie: “Get Marshall to take it. I’m occupied.”

He switched the radio off.

Chris waited for the cop to talk. The scene of his arrest flared through his mind, the SWAT team busting in at his and Julian’s parents’ house, the cops cuffing Chris, pulling Becca into a separate squad car, heat everywhere. Becca’s mother had connections.

The cop’s eyes stayed on him. A brass badge said “S.F.P.D.” His name tag: “Officer John C. Darnin.” He had a combination handcuffs/magazine case. A side firearm was hanging on the left of his duty belt. 

“You’re a ways away from San Francisco, officer.”

The cop said nothing. Darnin did not blink. Like Kid, dominating with his size, this cop was a big son of a bitch. Not wanting to show his back to the cop, he started to leave. Never trust another inmate; always keep your blind spot protected. Especially in the showers.

 “He ain’t there, son,” the cop said with smug conviction.

“What do you want, officer? I know my rights. I don’t know who you are or why you were here waiting for me, but I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s perfectly legal to visit somebody’s home. Somebody who I have a personal relationship with.”

“You’re not going to see her, kid. Not on this planet, not in this life, ok?”

“How did you know I was—”

“Rebecca has a life now. Doesn’t need you anymore. Never did. I knew you’d come looking for her. I wouldn’t get mixed up with Silver. You got out of State, kid. Got out in two. Should have been five. Could easily be another five. Remember, kid: you’re on parole. Get what I mean?”

The nervous anxiety was pulsing, alive and reborn. He wanted to tell the cop—Darnin—about his getting sober, about AA, about his GED, about the Youth Diversion Program, about how he was seeking therapy; how he was trying to get his life back together. But it was seeming more and more like society wasn’t going to let him breathe. “I got out for good behavior. I did my time and I’ve repaid society,” Chris said.

Officer Darnin got up close to Chris. The man was a behemoth. He towered over him. 

“This ain’t about the law. But we can make it about that, if you want. I can do a lot in San Francisco. I’m close with the Chief of Police. I’m very close with Rebecca’s mother. Now, speaking of ‘good behavior,’ you better be on your best, buddy. If not, I might have to spank you. Got that, Chris?”

It was a standoff and he saw Kid with a police uniform on, harassing him. Whether it was inside of state prison, or outside underneath the guise of a badge, there were bullies in either case.

He walked to the Chevelle. He felt the cop’s beady eyes on his back. Rachel had her minions working double duty. It hadn’t been enough to put him in the can for two years. No: She had to barricade him permanently from her daughter.

We’ll see how well that works, Rachel.

After saying the serenity prayer, Chris started up the blue beast and headed back up N. California Street. Darnin stood, feet apart, hands on hips as Chris sped past, his fingers hooked into his duty belt, weapons bulging. He flew north on U.S. 101 in the direction of Ocean Beach.