Chapter 7: Transformation

...Riley returns home and is comforted by Mara...



“Riley!”

Mara grabbed him as soon as he stepped inside the door, squeezing him tighter than ever. She wore pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He had on the clothes he wore the day before when he went to the police. He squeezed her, too, happy to be with someone on his side. Holding their embrace, they staggered into the living room and fell onto the couch.

“You’re all sweaty.”

“I walked from the Hall of Justice.”

“All the way? Why didn’t you call?”

“I needed to walk it off. I’m so mad.”

“What happened?”

She perched on the edge of her seat as Riley described the interrogation and the accusation about drugs and the murder. She grew wide-eyed when he told her about the drug sensor and Henderson’s reaction to Susan’s card. Tears welled in her eyes when she heard about the holding cell, drunks unconscious on the floor and the stench from the uncovered steel toilet.

“I just knew it was bad. I’m so sorry.”

He took her hand. “Why should you be sorry? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“We told you to go to the police—“

“I had to go.”

“I just wish I could’ve done more. You should have seen Susan, talking to Chief Kelly like they were old friends. We saw Henderson, too. He chased us out of his office, but she acted like it was routine. Nothing special.”

“I thought maybe you had something to do with my release…”

She shook her head. “Didn’t they say anything?”

“They just let me go. A cop called my name and opened the cell. I really wanted to get out of there. I didn’t ask any questions.

“No one was around. When I got outside it was dark and the streets were empty. So I started walking up Sixth Street—“

“Sixth Street!”

“Yeah, liquor stores and pawn shops. Drunks shouting. I only sensed it from the corner of my eye, though. I focused on a point in my forehead the size of a dime, throbbing, angry. I chased it up the hill, till I got here.”

“Oh, Riley.”

He followed her into the kitchen where they made sandwiches. He felt lucky to have Mara as a friend. He would have come back to an empty apartment otherwise.

They met three years before when they started at State. She represented everything California-exotic a boy from Kansas could expect. Growing up in Hollywood, she was the daughter of a screenwriter. She surfed in the summer and skied in the winter. Her ambition was to be in media, therefore the major in Communications with a minor in Theater Arts.

At first, he thought her a wisecracking cynic. A foot shorter than him, she favored billed caps worn at rakish angles and could spew venom like a Russian dockworker. But beneath the façade, in big blue eyes nesting under bushy black hair, he saw an elfin naïveté. She tried to hide it, thinking it a weakness.

They shared a similar worldview, believing in fairness and justice. When those things were denied, they could feel bruised and hurt.

They ate their sandwiches in silence until Mara piped, “It discovered illicit drugs? That’s some sensor!”

She broke into laughter. Riley, struggling to keep his food in his mouth, joined in. He felt the tension break, like waking from a bad dream. He thought it’d be all right, but something inside had shifted since the day before. He wasn’t content with how things were.

***

As Riley showered, Mara collected the things she needed and arranged them on the kitchen table. When he re-appeared, tired but relaxed, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, she directed him to the chair she turned sideways to the table.

“Here, dry your hair some more.” She draped a towel over his head and rubbed. She removed it and patted his hair. Taking the clippers from the table, she turned them on, its busy hum filling the room.

“You sure?”

“Do it.”

She started at the nape of the neck, plowing forward to the crown. She mowed the adjacent row, and then the next. She changed positions and cut front to back.

Riley sat silent and still, a monument to his own transformation. Mara concentrated on the task, careful not to nick the pale flesh, afraid to see the result. When she was done she stood before him, suppressing a frown. She handed him a mirror.

“Are you mad? You look mad.”

“I told you I am.”

“Are you mad now?”

“Yes.”

“The wrinkles in your brow stand out. Your head’s round like a dog’s.”

He passed his hand over his bald head, thinking it strange to associate something smooth, naked and cool with the top of his head.

Mara turned a bottle of antiseptic alcohol upside down, saturating the cotton ball she held over the opening. She dabbed his ear.

He flinched when she pierced the right lobe but did better with the left. She removed a pair of gold studs from a small jewelry box and inserted them in the holes.

Riley regarded himself in the mirror. “Did you have to pierce them?”

“Whoever heard of a guy with clip-on studs?”

“I’m sure I never cared.”

“One more thing. Give me your arm.”

He rested his arm on the table as Mara arranged the transfers affixed to large shiny white squares. Soon a coiled snake extended from his left bicep, around his arm, to his hand, its head perched on the back of the wrist.

“I’m amazed you had all this stuff.”

“Standard armament for the young urban female. Too bad I didn’t have leftovers from our Frankenstein play. I could have put knobs on your neck.”

Mara looked at her creation with a sense of accomplishment. Then she yawned and looked at the time. “I can still catch some sleep.”

She left Riley in the kitchen, regarding himself in the mirror. He smiled but let it fade, deciding it didn’t fit his new face. It was sleek, grim, and suggested a disregard for order.

He set aside the expectations associated with Riley Turner. He felt freedom in this new guise.

***

The next day he picked a pair of jeans with holes in the knees and a t-shirt he had planned to toss for being too tight. He planted a gray fedora on his head, which Mara had picked from her collection. Too small, it added to the menace his aspect projected. He threw on a denim jacket and headed out the door.

He walked down Pine Street, over to Polk and turned south towards City Hall. The No. 19 bus, diesel engine spouting black exhaust, traveled down the congested two-lane street. Rush hour commuters clustered at the stops, waiting for the bus to arrive.

The day was warm, so he took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder. The gesture caught the eye of a young woman wearing a thin calico print dress that fell to the knees and defiant combat boots. She smiled as he passed. He felt his body swagger as if independent of his thoughts.

What else lay ahead?




The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted May 2.

Chapter 6: Fury

…Meanwhile, in another part of town…



“Steal from me and die!”

A fist jackhammered the plywood sheets that served as a table, denting the topmost and tipping a can of Coke. Its contents spilled onto the concrete floor.

The boss stood, fight-gnarled hands on hips, bare arms, muscled and twitching. Before him, a man in t-shirt and tattered jeans looked down, eyelids fluttering at the fury.

Seated on a frayed couch against the wall, three jesting boys, thin and ferret-faced under dark blue hoods, stopped to look at their leader. His eyes bulged like black marbles and a thick pulsing knot extended lengthwise down his brow.

His voice was low and menacing. “Clean that.”

All three jumped. One ran up, pushed forward by the others. He hovered over the spill, eyeing it, terrified. The boss grabbed him at the neck. “Get a rag, stupid.”

He threw him. He landed on all fours and scampered around the corner, returning with a dirty rag. He fell to the ground and jerked the rag back and forth, spreading the liquid.

“Shit.” The boss kicked, landing a boot into the ribcage. The boy whimpered. “Get out.” He crawled out of range and through the nearby door. “All of you.” The other two darted after him.

He reached into his jeans pocket. He flipped open his cell and pressed a button. He listened for the answer. “Send Junior.”

The boss pointed to the couch and the man, eyes downcast, retreated from the table.

Headquarters was a garage beneath a vacant house. In addition to the table and the frayed couch, two other couches faced each other in a corner. Four men sat, waiting. They wore tight jeans and polo shirts accentuating bulging muscles, younger versions of the boss.

One man cleaned his fingernails with a jackknife. One appeared to doze. The other two occupied themselves with a game of checkers. With eyes, ears and intuition that registered tension in the air, they followed the boss’ activity. When he mentioned Junior, Marco opened his eyes.

He rose, clenching his fists. The muscles in his arms cracked as if breaking out of a shell. Shrewd eyes under thick brows flicked rapidly, scanning the room. He hitched up his jeans, hooking his thumbs between the waist and his rock hard stomach. His white shirt set off swarthy skin. Glints of silver flashed from his Rolex and the thick rings on the fingers of both hands.

He approached the boss who studied a piece of paper, his thumb inching down, line-by-line. Marco recognized the list of drop off times and locations. Another list showed pick up points. Boss knew them by heart but went over them again and again the way some people finger a rosary.

When he didn’t look up, Marco went to the back to relieve himself. He passed a row of red backpacks against a wall. They lay as if waiting for a mob of kids to grab them on their way home. They were his signature. He wanted everyone to know they were his. You messed with them, you messed with him, and then he’d mess with you. It worked well, until lately. People were getting bold. The moron who did it, should know what to expect.

Marco returned to the main room and lit a cigarette, leaning against the cool cement wall. He didn’t fault him for calling Junior. That, too, was his way. He liked keeping things clean. Some guys distributed the product. Some picked up the proceeds. Some guys did special jobs. That way one thing didn’t get tangled with the other. But, Marco didn’t want anyone to think he wasn’t up to it, especially a guy from another gang.

The door squeaked open, admitting a shock of light. Junior walked in. He took off his sunglasses and surveyed the room. Waiting for the boss to address him, he attracted the attention of four glaring men.

Junior stood about six feet. He wore black jeans and a black cloth jacket zipped all the way up. He had a tattoo on his neck, a word in script, “Angela”. His head was shaved at the sides, his hair short and thick on top like a fuzzy cap on a bottle ready to explode.

He gave the impression of being skinny but Marco had seen him before. He was wiry tough. Marco crowded the table. Junior returned the stare.

He stretched his neck towards the intruder. “What you looking at?”

Junior ignored the taunt.

The boss chopped the hard looks with his hand, like a referee in a boxing match. He growled. “This is business.”

Marco leaned back, his eyes still fixed on Junior’s. Junior turned to the man who had called for him.

“Tell him.” The man in the t-shirt came forward. He repeated what he’d told the boss earlier. His voice was small and nervous, as if fearful of sparking the violence teeming around him.

Junior asked a question. His voice was calm and to the point.

He’s not dumb, Marco thought.

When the man finished, Junior looked at the boss who pointed a gnarled finger.

“I want blood and I want my money.”

Junior looked into his eyes and held them. He nodded then left, the door slamming closed behind.

Marco returned to the couch, his thoughts hidden from the other three who searched his face.

He thought about what he’d heard. What if he, Marco, took him down? Junior wouldn’t be such a big deal then. The boss would be pissed. But no one said he’d be boss forever. Imagining how it’d play out, Marco closed his eyes.





The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted April 18.