Chapters 1 - 11: "Protest" to "Faith"

Chapter 1: Protest

About thirty demonstrators stood on the steps of San Francisco’s City Hall, beneath its signature black and gilt-trimmed dome overlooking Civic Center plaza. Many held signs reading “No War In Iraq”. They chanted, “No War, No More,” following the lead of a white-haired man with a megaphone. A larger crowd in the hundreds stood facing them like a reflection in a mirror, waving the same signs and echoing the chants. Off to one side, police flanked a small group that jeered and mocked the protesters. White media vans bordered the event, their giraffe-like necks stretching toward the sky.

The crowd absorbed Riley Turner as he searched for his friend, Mara Ware. Here, stood a tall black man in a brown leather jacket and thick matted hair, like flattened rope, falling down his back. There, two silver headed women, who looked like grandmothers, clung to each other, chanting. Nearby, a cluster of adolescents, sitting in a circle like a tribe, was oblivious to those around them.

Tall and broad shouldered with short, gel-molded blond hair, Riley was the epitome of Midwestern clean cut good looks. He stood out in the crowd whose personal and political positions ran counter to the mainstream.

In his junior year at State, he was majoring in International Relations. Mara, his housemate, majored in Communications and was interning that summer with a local TV station. She was working somewhere in the crowd.

The closer he approached to City Hall, the more tightly packed people were. Barely able to move, he retreated to the rear.

“Riley! Riley!”

Following her voice, he spotted Mara. Beside her were an attractive woman and a burly cameraman.

Mara was a petite blue-eyed brunette wearing tight jeans with denim jacket and a blue brimmed cap that pushed her hair onto her brow. She introduced him to Susan Fernandez, reporter. She had brown eyes, black hair, olive-colored skin and a finely shaped face. Rex, the cameraman stood beside Susan, waiting for her cue. She fidgeted with a black microphone as she surveyed the crowd.

Mara told him they were doing interviews. Despite his own protest, she insisted he make himself useful. He agreed to an interview. Susan held the microphone towards him. Rex focused the camera.

“Why are you here?” She asked.

“I was checking out the protest.”

“Are you against the war?

Before he could answer a clatter of terror and excitement surged behind him. He felt two fists pound his shoulder blades. He lurched forward and glimpsed blue sky. He bumped heads with Susan. She smelled of lilac perfume. She fell back. Mara yelped. Bodies tumbled like dominoes. Rex kept shooting, pushing a fleeing woman from his lens.

“Fuck you, Commies!” A contingent of counter-protesters charged the crowd. Burly police in blue helmets and black leather jackets struggled to insert themselves, using nightsticks liberally to carve out a buffer. They pushed the counter-protesters to one side as the crowd pulled back. Between them was a gruesome sight.

The man lay on his left side, head pushed into the ground, blood pooling around his head like a crimson nimbus. High-pitched screams filled the air. “No!” A man’s voice shouted. “Murderers!” A woman screeched. An awestruck silence spread through the crowd and around the lifeless body.

Transfixed by death, Riley stood dazed. The police pushed away onlookers, then stretched yellow tape around the scene. Eventually they covered the body under a thin black tarp.

A lanky policeman, approachable in a soft barracks hat and short-sleeved shirt, came up to Riley and asked what he saw. He recounted what he knew, and gave him his name and address. The officer suggested he go home.

He was still numb. The coroner had come and gone, taking away the body. The media vans hadn’t moved. Mara, Susan and the cameraman weren’t around. The others who stood beside him seemed as dazed as he.

He suddenly felt tired and hungry and started home. He walked a short distance when he noticed a red backpack on the ground. It was unzipped and looked discarded. Seeing no one who might claim it, he picked it up. It was empty. He thought he could use it, so he took it home.


Chapter 2: Backpack

...the backpack's disturbing link...

Riley turned on the six o’clock news. The lead story was captioned, “Death at Protest”. Rex must have shot the footage, because it showed him in the middle of the melee. People ran or tumbled from three grizzled men who screamed and hacked the crowd with sticks. The man whose face would be pushed into the pavement staggered before them. He held out a red backpack, his clenched fists pounding into Riley’s shoulders.

Riley jerked forward, as if struck again. He seemed to push the backpack to him, and now it lay on the floor in the other room. He blushed with shame and fear.

A man died but he was thinking about himself. He felt uneasy being associated with the protest. He’d always hoped his studies would lead to a career with the State Department. Then when 9/11 happened his thoughts turned to things more serious than travel to exotic places. He thought of working with the Department of Defense or the CIA. What would they think about the protest?

He had doubts about invading Iraq. He didn’t think it had anything to do with the attack in New York. But the drumbeat of war obscured the detail, leading the country into action no matter where. He kept those thoughts to himself. It’s what would be expected, he reasoned.

The backpack. He cursed himself for picking it up. He could buy the same thing for twenty bucks. But there it lay on the ground, either lost or discarded. He assumed the attitude of its owner. It served its purpose and wasn’t needed anymore. Or, if lost, it wasn’t valuable enough to make the effort to retrieve. He thought he could put it to use, but now it linked him to the death at the protest.

The TV news moved to other subjects, but Riley tried to conjure the dead man’s image. He saw the expanding pool of blood, his stringy brown hair, long and dirty looking. He wore jeans with holes at the knees and a brown plaid shirt. He wasn’t young; he wasn’t old. The pool of sticky red blood around his head intruded again. He couldn’t see more.

Riley turned off the TV and sat in the fading light. He wanted to talk to Mara. She probably knew more about the dead man than they could say on the air. The authorities wouldn’t release his name pending notification of next of kin. He thought of calling her. She’d probably be busy. He thought about the backpack. He decided to wait.

***

He heard light footsteps bounding up the carpeted stairs. A thud against the door preceded the scratching of a key in the lock. Mara burst into the apartment, dropping a heavy canvas bag in the hallway and running breathlessly into the front room.

“Did you see it? Did you see?” Her words competed with each other to escape her mouth. Riley imagined he could see her throat swell for the congestion.

He smiled wanly, his head resting against the back of the sofa. Yes, he told her. He had seen it.

“You were right there! He touched you. The dead guy! Look!” She popped a cassette tape into the VCR and replayed the scene in the plaza.

The footage was unedited. He saw himself standing beside Susan and then being thrust into her. His eyes grew wide with surprise then seemed to close. When they opened, they showed fear.

He saw the same look in the dead man’s eyes. He was trying to get away from something but he wouldn’t make it.

“I’ve got to get back. I wanted to show you the tape.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Not yet. He could be a homeless.”

“Do they know what happened?”

“They’re not sure. Some say the counter-protesters, some the police. City Hall’s gearing up for complaints about police brutality.”

Riley was deep in thought.

“What’s wrong, Riley?”

He left the room without a word, leaving Mara amazed at his odd behavior. When he returned, he held up the red backpack. Her jaw dropped.

“The dead man’s backpack!”

Riley nodded.

Mara brushed her brow with her hand, pushing up the brim of her blue cap.

“You have to tell the police.”

Riley nodded. His face flushed, nearly matching the color of the bag he ruefully held.



Chapter 3: Murder

...Riley learns the death was intentional...

It was barely light. Riley rubbed the sleep from his eyes and yawned, watching Susan Fernandez inspect the backpack.

Wearing latex gloves, she lifted it by the straps with her fingers, the left index pointing at the right and vice versa, as if ratting each other out. She unzipped each pocket and probed inside.

A wrinkle formed between the brows of her seamless face, dark eyes inquisitive and lively. Riley thought she looked more attractive in person than on TV.

She zipped the pockets and set it on the coffee table.

“What do you think?” Mara asked.

"Nothing there now, of course. But it held something in the shot.”

Riley looked puzzled.

“The bag had weight to it, so something was taken after he died.”

“It was empty when I found it.”

“I know,” said Mara, reaching out a comforting hand.

“I don’t see what’s the fuss. I’ll take it to the police and that will be that.”

“Riley, it’s a murder case now.”

“What?”

“He was stabbed in the neck. We found out last night.”

He paused to take in the news. “But I’m innocent.”

Susan’s lips slackened as if to mock a bad joke.

“Join the party. The police say they’re innocent of beating him, but film shows them whacking away at the crowd. Nothing shows them not beating him.”

“But you said he was stabbed.” He looked at Mara.

“The public doesn’t know that yet,” Susan interjected. “They’ll announce at a morning conference."

“When they do--“

“It won’t make a difference. Not at first. Those who always blame the police will call for the Chief’s head.”

“What’s that have to do with me?” Riley pressed.

Susan composed herself. Her words were smooth and measured. “You are likely the only lead related to motive. They will hold on to you as long as they can until the public looks somewhere else.”

Riley sunk in his chair.

“That’s why Susan wants to film you at the Hall of Justice. It’s a big story.”

His face flushed. He stammered, “I don’t want publicity!”

His words hung in the air. Susan’s arms were crossed and her lips pressed together. Mara leaned forward and mouthed, “I’m sorry”.

***

“The coroner’s report indicates the deceased died of stab wounds to the neck.”

A flurry of clicks and flashes filled the room, cameras capturing beefy, red-faced Inspector Henderson. He looked at his notes.

“The deceased’s name is Robert Martin, a transient residing in San Francisco. We ask that anyone with information about Mr. Martin or this incident call the police…”

***

Riley watched the news conference from home and wrote down the number to call. Then he took the bus to the Hall of Justice.

He called on his cell from across the street, then approached the imposing granite building, a paper bag in hand. A crowd of protesters had already formed. They chanted, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

Inside, he stood waiting beyond the metal detector as others lined up to pass through to traffic and criminal courts.

From somewhere, Rex was filming. He didn’t like it, but Susan had put in him the fear of a bottomless bureaucracy. At least there’d be proof he’d entered the building of his own free will.

When a sergeant appeared, scanning the lobby, he signaled him and handed over the bag. He motioned him to the head of the line. Riley passed through and followed him down the hallway, sensing another escort behind. Men and women with thick belts and badges gave them wide berth, turning heads, eyes blinking furiously.

The sergeant opened a door to a room with a gray metal table and two chairs. He left him there to wait.



Chapter 4: Justice

...Riley at the Hall of Justice...

Riley sat waiting for more than half an hour, irritation adding to anxiety. He wanted to help and to put the whole thing behind him. Why keep him waiting? He played solitaire on his cell phone to hide his distress.

The door opened and Inspector Henderson stood in it. His nose twitched above a gray moustache as if to sniff the air. Satisfied, he entered the room and faced Riley from the other side of the table. Riley rose and extended his hand. The inspector paused a heartbeat then took it. His grip was as passionate as a grappling hook.

He sat down, wordlessly. Nearly a minute passed. Then the sergeant placed the backpack on the table. Riley flinched.

“You are Riley Turner?”

He nodded.

“Tell me how you acquired the backpack.”

Riley told him.

“What did you do with the contents?”

He protested it was empty when he found it.

“What's your relationship with the deceased, Robert Martin?”

He denied knowing the dead man.

The inspector signaled to the sergeant who opened a laptop on the table. He pressed a button and turned the screen so they could see it. There, again, was the footage showing the man now known as Robert Martin pushing at Riley’s back.

“Is that you, Mr. Turner?”

“Yes.”

“Why was Martin trying to give you the backpack?”

Riley’s mouth opened as if to answer but the direction of the question stymied him. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“Answer the question.”

“He wasn’t giving me the backpack.”

“You ended up with it.”

“I told you how I found it.”

“Mr. Turner.” He held up the backpack. “The film shows Martin pushing it to you. You end up with it. Mission accomplished.”

“I brought it here when I realized its significance.”

“And what is that, Mr. Turner?”

Recoiling, Riley sat silent, shaking his head.

“Bring the drug sensor, sergeant.”

The sergeant approached holding a black plastic device that looked like a TV remote control. He held it between them like a salesman demonstrating the latest technology. He pressed a button and a red light flashed at the top. He pressed another and a steady beep sounded, regular like a heartbeat. He looked to the inspector.

“Mr. Turner. You know that drugs leave a residue?”

Riley did not respond.

“You’ve seen CSI?”

Riley nodded.

“This sensor detects the traces of illicit drugs. Do you have anything to tell me?”

His anger rising, he shook his head.

The sergeant moved the sensor over the backpack. The beeps accelerated. He opened the bag’s main compartment and they intensified, loud and angry like a swarm of bees. Riley’s pulse quickened.

“The sensor’s picked up traces of drugs, inspector.”

“Mr. Turner, what did you do with them?”

Beads of sweat dotted his hairline. One overflowed to streak down his face. He brushed at it with his hand. Another overflowed and he brushed at that, then another, looking like he was chasing away a swarm.

“Mr. Turner. You’re a college student. I know it’s expensive because I’m sending a kid through. I can see how someone might go down the wrong road, selling drugs to get by.”

Riley, exhausted with explanations shattered against a wall, only shook his head.

“Mr. Turner. I will keep you here until you give me some answers.” Inspector Henderson left the room, the sergeant trailing behind.

Riley, legs extended and arms hanging limp at his side, contemplated his situation. Coming forward in good faith, he met skepticism and disbelief. Henderson’s insinuations weighed on him.

He thought of Susan’s mocking look. Innocent. The word seemed naïve. He came off like someone who didn’t know the ways of the world. Henderson sensed that, too. He was trying to squeeze him into the role of drug-dealing murderer. He thought him a chump.

He grabbed the backpack and flung it against the wall.

A minute passed. The door opened. The sergeant peered in. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Yeah. To Henderson.”

Again the inspector paused at the door before entering, his nose twitching.

“Well?”

Riley reached into his pocket and handed him Susan’s card. Henderson read it.

“You talking to the press?”

“She’s a friend, inspector. I told you everything I know. I’m going now.” He turned to the door.

A lewd smile grew on Henderson’s face. “Your ‘friend’ could tell you I can hold you for 72 hours”.

Henderson stuffed the card in Riley’s shirt pocket. “In case you need it again. Sergeant, take him to lock-up.”

Riley was stunned. The sergeant led him through the door.

“Don’t leave town without letting me know. Ha, ha.”

His laughter stung, chasing Riley down the hall.

“Ha, ha, HA!”


Chapter 5: Trader

...while Riley sits in lockup, Mara follows Susan reporting the story...

In the same building where Riley sat in jail, Mara watched Susan and a handful of other reporters point microphones at Chief Robert Kelly, adjusting positions every time he turned his head, like heliotropic plants tracking the sun.

Mara stood beyond the cluster, jotting key words onto a notepad. Her job was to back Susan up and offer ideas and leads to pursue.

She glanced at her mentor, jostling the competition for position like a basketball player going for the net. She had the advantage, being the tallest. Slim, as well, she squeezed into a small opening.

“Chief. Have you learned anything about a motive?”

The chief, middle-aged and redheaded, in dark blue jacket with four stars on his collar, seemed to smile at her voice. “The investigation is on-going. I can’t say more right now.”

The chief concluded his remarks and the group broke up. Susan chased him down.

“Chief, can I have a few words?”

He turned and greeted Susan, then frowned.

“Is that still working?” He pointed to the microphone. She passed it back to Mara.

“Did you know the backpack turned up?”

“Work, work, work. You’ll lose your looks only thinking about work.”

“Sorry, Bob. How are the kids?”

“Mary’s at U.C. and Joe’s a senior at high school.”

“That’s great.”

“Any prospects, Sue?”

“Always on the lookout.”

They laughed. Susan, attractive and smart in a black jacket and white silk blouse, looked like she was on her way to a trendy nightspot. She didn’t need to look for suitors. Mara frowned, suspicious.

“You’re not the only one.”

“Not you, Bob?” She pointed at the wedding band on his finger.

“I guess not,” he grinned. “You were saying?”

“The backpack Martin was carrying turned up.”

“How would you know?”

“I met the young man who found it. He turned it in today.”

“Let Henderson know if you have anything.” He flashed a smile as Susan’s waned. He waved, walking away.

“Let’s find Henderson.”

The women walked to the end of the hall and descended marble stairs to the ground floor. The sun was high in the sky and shot rays of light through the windows, boosting dim corridor lighting. They entered onto a bustle of activity, zigzagging past knots of cops, lawyers and worry-fretted people. Susan led the way, pushing through a large wooden door.

A dozen pairs of eyes, mostly male, tracked Susan’s march to the inspector’s glass enclosed office. Mara, her shorter legs working double time, lagged behind.

Henderson, in shirtsleeves, stood looking down at his desk. She stopped at the door, waiting to be acknowledged. He glanced up and grunted. She approached.

“Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew.”

“I’m following up on the Martin murder—“

“In what capacity?”

“Look, Henderson—“

“No, you look.” He pointed a stubby finger, his face red. “You meddle where you don’t belong, I’ll make it so no one talks to you.”

She stepped back. “What’d I do?”

“Don’t play the innocent. That kid comes in, flashes your card and clams up.”

“But—“

“Are you representing him?”

“You know I’m not.”

“No, I don’t know.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Suppose you tell me what you know, so I can know, too.”

He sat down and seemed to notice Mara for the first time. He nodded at her.

“My assistant, Mara Ware.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I think Martin's a drug courier.”

“Evidence?”

“The drug killings all over the city.”

Henderson’s tongue worked inside his mouth as if to dislodge something between his teeth. He gazed through the glass at the larger room.

“Martin was homeless and exploitable. He was probably a mule. Someone killed him for it.”

“Evidence?”

Susan shook her head.

“Then why are you talking to me? I have real work to do. Goodbye.” He snarled at a stack of paper.

Susan turned to go, when Mara shot past her.

“Riley didn’t do anything. Let him go.”

He opened his hand without looking up. “You got a card, too?”

“No, but—“

“Out!”

A dozen heads looked up, smirking. In the hallway, Mara tugged at Susan’s sleeve.

“Why didn’t you try to help Riley?”

“He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”

“But he’s locked up someplace terrible. I know it.”

Susan walked on. She tugged at her sleeve again. Susan shook her off. “Stop!”

“The drugs. If the police think he took them, someone else might, too. He could be in danger.”

“Probably not.”

“But the shot of him going to the police--”

“We’ll block his face.”

“But, the protest—“

Susan shrugged and walked away.

Mara was vexed. Susan liked being in the middle of things, trading with the powers that be. She vowed she’d do what she could to protect her friend. But how, she worried, could she do that with only scant knowledge of the threat?



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.



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?



Chapter 8: Flush

…Someone celebrates his fortune, while Riley returns to Civic Center…

The barkeep looked across at the guy in the tracksuit sliding onto the stool. He smiled. She didn’t, waiting for his order.

Bud.

She moved a few steps to the right, bent to retrieve a bottle from the refrigerator and uncapped it. She pushed it to him. She took the two bills from the counter and turned to the antiquated machine. She pressed hard on the keys, then slammed her fist on the return to register the purchase. Two tabs, like tombstones, popped up indicating the amount. The till sprung open.

She dropped his change on the counter and moved down the bar, thinking, “All that for a dollar and a quarter”.

It was mid-afternoon in the Tenderloin bar a few steps from Market. From outside, she heard the bustle of activity, but inside the mood was dark and drowsy. Two men, regulars on their third round, sat in stony silence near the entrance. Another regular sat at a table with a newspaper, nursing a gin and tonic. The jukebox was silent.

“God, my head hurts.” Grabbing a pack of cigarettes and sunglasses, she made her way outside. As she did, she looked at his shoes.

She liked to say she could tell about a man by the condition of his shoes. Good laces and even heels meant a job. Unpolished with scuff marks meant he didn’t care. Falling apart meant desperation. Nikes. Like his black tracksuit, just out of the box.

After finishing her smoke she came back in. Another customer had entered. He sat two stools away from Tracksuit. She served him.

Tracksuit wanted a beer and a shot. She brought it as he bent his head to look inside his jacket, like people do when carrying small dogs. He had a brown paper bag.

He fished out a twenty, old and worn. She pinched the bill between thumb and forefinger, inspecting it on the way to the register. In the meantime, Tracksuit tried to start a conversation with the new guy, but he didn’t want to talk.

She returned to the end of the bar to watch. Tracksuit bubbled over about something he wanted to share. He raised his voice, talking nonsense about the weather. No one responded. He was starting to take it personal.

He was flush, she decided, but not for long. You didn’t broadcast good fortune without the wrong sort taking note. She concluded she’d have to “86” him if he didn’t settle down. It wasn’t her business what happened to him, as long as it didn’t happen in the bar.

She thought about the double shift she had to work that night.

“My god-damm head!”

***

Riley felt an electric jolt, stepping onto Civic Center Plaza for the first time since the protest. He looked across two columns of trees, rectangular strips of grass and the children’s playground, towards stodgy Brooks Auditorium. Beyond that, Market Street was busy with buses and pedestrians going downtown.

He headed to the spot where Susan attempted the interview and Martin plowed into him. It had been a raucous scene. Now it was serene. He looked down at the pavement, perplexed. He couldn’t tell where he had fallen and where the blood had pooled around his head.

The concrete rock surface conveyed blank uniformity, one portion similar to the next despite irregularity of the rocks. It bothered him there wasn’t any sign that Robert Martin ended his life there, no bleaching suggesting difficulty erasing the red stain, no indentation telling a man had fallen hard at that very place.

Over his shoulder, granite faced City Hall bore witness, but revealed nothing. Somewhere, perhaps in records stored within, there was mention of his passing. But where was it recorded that he, Riley Turner, had been detained, accused, ignored, and then, as if an afterthought, released? He pointed to his head. There was remembrance.

He wanted his thoughts to impact the external world. He looked around, then went to the base of a nearby tree. He searched for something to score the pavement, a rock, anything. Unable to find anything hard, he scooped a handful of dirt. Returning to the spot, he poured it from cupped hands, forming an outline of Martin’s head. Riley bowed to the modest tribute.

“It isn’t fair.”

Startled, Riley looked up

“It just isn’t fair. The thing he did to Robbie isn’t right.”

Ten feet away a man stood, looking at the outline on the pavement. He had a wild, bushy brown beard and red, overexposed skin. He wore jeans and a stained green field jacket. An overstuffed duffle lay beside him.

“What isn’t fair?” Riley asked.

Underneath shaggy hair, the man’s face took on a sterner aspect and an angry, aggressive voice. “You get it there and then you bring it here. Understand? Tell me you understand!”

Riley backed away.

Resuming a normal tone, he said, “He told you that he did.”

He edged from the man’s line of sight, circling around. He wanted to talk to him, but worried he was psychotic.

“What did you say?”

He blinked and looked at Riley as if for the first time, then returned his gaze to the dirt outline.

Convinced the man knew something, he sat cross-legged on the pavement determined to wait until he heard something more. After awhile, the man sat, resting his back against the duffle.

***

The cop walked towards them from the edge of the plaza, where his partner stood beside the black and white car.

“You have to move along.”

Even before he finished speaking the bearded man stood, took his bag and walked away. Riley remained seated, looking at the cop.

“You, too. No loitering.”

“I’m sitting.”

Hands on his hips, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he said, “You giving me trouble?”

“I’m just sitting.”

“I’ll tell you one more time.”

In the distance, the other officer moved in their direction.

Riley scowled and rose to follow the man. Years ago, he knew, a homeless encampment congealed in the plaza. The mayor, reluctant to use force, did nothing. In time, everyone else avoided the place. Finally, the city got the nerve to disperse them but was squeamish ever since about the homeless lingering too long.

With a few quick steps, Riley caught up to the man whose figure tilted left, counterbalancing the weight in his right hand. His shuffle suggested motion but argued against arriving anyplace soon.

“What’s your name, friend?”

His voice was gruff. “Joe.”

“Where you going, Joe?”

He kept walking.

“Did you know Robert Martin?”

Riley adjusted his pace, taking half steps but still walked too fast. Drooping his shoulders, he regulated the motion of his thighs. His body telegraphed his mind they weren’t going anyplace in particular and settled into a pattern, on hold for the rest of the day.



Chapter 9: Call

...the various players in situ...

Susan scanned the list of potentials as she took a swig of coffee from her travel mug. Her eyes watered for lack of sleep.

She woke at four-thirty to be in the office by six, and transmitted her last on-the-scene broadcast about eleven-fifteen at night. The commute over the Golden Gate to her Mill Valley home took thirty minutes. So she could count on less than five hours sleep.

She lived for the weekends when she could sleep in, lie in the sun and maybe go for a long bike ride. Maybe one day she’d claim a spot on the anchor desk. That’d mean more face time on TV, banquets and awards and a larger house. Best of all, decent hours. Until then…

The large office was quiet and mostly dark, except for the glow from a few computer screens and from overhead lighting, at half strength until eight. Hearing footsteps brush the carpet, she looked up to see Mara. Drops of moisture from a heavy fog clung to her woolen cap and jacket. When she opened her mouth to speak, she yawned.

“Sorry. Good morning. What’s up today?”

Susan scrolled back up the list and left her chair so Mara could read the screen.

She read silently. Hotel workers striking for health care; teachers protesting layoffs; assault on a bus; the Governor visiting to launch an initiative.

She frowned.

“Problem?”

“You know.”

“People take interest in the new.”

“I know, ‘That’s why they call it news’.” They laughed at the oft-repeated pun.

“Haven’t we heard anything?”

Susan shook her head.

“Can’t we check? I mean in particular? Let me call Henderson.”

Mara knew her interest was personal and that things in the world didn’t progress with the speed of an Internet search engine. But maybe she could help move it along. Though Riley had been released, she worried the police might want to talk to him again. And part of her just wanted to know what happened.

“Call the Mayor’s aide. Let him check. We’ll get a better answer that way.”

***

Chief Kelly settled into his high-backed leather chair, framed from behind by the city and state flags. His desk was clear, but he’d spend the rest of the day fighting to keep it that way. Routine stuff: reports, authorizations and recommendations. He signed off or batted them back to subordinates if they needed more work. He was the end point of a process but he wouldn’t be its patsy.

The intangibles, the surprises that sprung from the things people did, might require an appearance to show the department was in control. They got him away from the office bureaucrats and closer to the guys in the field. True, crime wasn’t pretty and accidents could be grisly. But he’d been at it for thirty years.

A young lieutenant with narrow shoulders and close-cropped hair walked in holding a sheet of paper.

“Inquiry from the Mayor’s office.”

Chief Kelly took the Record of Inquiry and pondered over it. The Mayor hadn’t phoned --those calls were put through-- but one of his aides did.

“What was his level of interest?”

“Not excited.”

“Henderson?”

“Nothing new.”

He considered the case. A homeless man murdered. Possible drug-related. No known relatives. No solid leads. No neighborhood merchants demanding police protection. Nowhere to go on this one.

“Get back to him.”

“That we have nothing to report?”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

As the lieutenant left, Chief Kelly, his political antennae alert, made a mental note that someone had asked.

***

The scent of tomato sauce and flour filled the small room. Marco felt intense heat from the ovens radiating through the wall. They were at it later than usual. Customers patronizing the pizza shop would begin to arrive as people left work. But he didn’t worry about anyone seeing. It was take out only. No restrooms for the public.

Two bundlers worked putting together stacks of bills: singles, fives, tens and twenties. When a stack reached the appropriate value for the denomination, they wrapped a rubber band around it, snapping the band to signal completion.

A packer then set each completed stack in a box the length of long-stem roses but wider. A counter, standing behind him with a notepad, ensured each box contained no more, no less than $10,000.

When a box was full, he slipped it into a pizza delivery bag, but these were going to the laundry for cleaning. The Boss oversaw the whole process like a stalking tiger, instilling urgency in the labor.

Marco maintained his position inside the back door, gazing down a small alley. Earlier, mules passed discretely through the door leaving backpacks full of money.

The Boss stopped one to frisk. Though paper bags inside the packs were sealed and they couldn’t steal without him knowing, the mules shouldn’t know. He taught them not to look.

He made sure the others were watching. He slapped the unfortunate’s pockets, front and rear. He slapped loud, causing the man to quake with fear. He found a five and made a big deal about it.

“What business you have with a five dollar bill?”

His hard eyes burned into the man’s consciousness. “Maybe I don’t need to pay you, you got so much money!”

He was smart not to answer. Boss ranted. He raved. He let it be known if he ever stole, it’d be the last money he’d see.

“I don’t ask much. You get it there and then you bring it here. Understand? Tell me you understand!”

The mule mumbled. “I understand.”

“Louder!”

“I understand.”

“All of you!”

They made a ragged chorus.

Satisfied with his command over these disorderly men, he chased them out. But he wasn’t happy. That matter was still outstanding, and he waited for the call. It wasn’t the money anymore. He wanted vengeance and the lesson it would teach.

Marco waited, too. He had his feelers out. It was like fishing, waiting for a line to grow taut.

Snap.

***


They shuffled through the city streets, the big man with the shaggy beard and the slender one with the small hat and shaved head.

Joe led and Riley followed. When they passed Market, other pedestrians dashed around or between them, like a rushing stream through stationary rocks. Most looked beyond, some consciously averted eyes, but few people looked directly at them.

Riley was far from the world he knew, where he eagerly sought approval from friends, professors and his parents. Here, approval was out of the question. He was shunned.

The sun rose higher and bleached the west side of the street. Riley donned his sunglasses. Joe squinted. He took off his jacket, but Joe retained his. He must be burning inside, Riley thought. When Joe crossed to the cool shadow side, he put on his jacket again.

They trudged past Mission, Howard and Folsom streets, gazing into the shadowy interiors of car repair garages busy with business. They’d be a good place to rest, but no one welcomed them. They continued down the uneven sidewalks. Pedestrians were fewer but the pavement narrower. They gave them wide berth.

Stopping in the doorway of a restaurant closed during the day, they rested in the shadows. Joe leaned and Riley sat against the wall. It looked like no one would bother them.

But a white sedan pulled up as soon as they were settled. A wiry young man approached. His head was shaved at sides with a black pad of hair on top. Joe grabbed his bag to get out the way.

“I want to see you. You knew Robbie Martin?”

Joe grunted.

“Let’s talk.”

He grabbed Joe by the jacket, nearly lifting him, and pulled him a few feet away. He whispered intently, his smooth face close to the bearded one.

Riley feared for his friend. Who was this guy? Could he be undercover?

In a few minutes he was gone. Joe stood where the man had left him, like a game piece waiting for the next move. Riley searched his face for a clue, but Joe betrayed no emotion.

“What did he want?”

“Robbie’s killer.”



Chapter 10: Homeless

...Joe tells his story...

Joe stood dumbly for a minute then returned to the doorway where his duffle lay. He bent over, easing onto it like a large pillow.

“We were four crazy kids out of St. Joe, Missouri. After school, we decided on a whim to go to San Francisco. We drove straight through, taking turns at the wheel. It was a fun ride, taking in the sights, forgetting about the day-to-day back home.

“When we got here we were knocked over. The Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate, all the different people. Nothing like that in St. Joe.

“But Larry hated the city right off. He likes the simpler things. So, three days later, he took Amtrak home.

“Jason, Eric and me, we all liked it. Hooking up, girls, toking in the Park. It was an endless party.

“But they wanted to see L.A. before going home. I wanted to stay. So, after two weeks they were gone.

“I had my sleeping bag, some money and met some people I thought were friends, but---”

He stopped talking, blinked and looked bewildered. Riley, too, was amazed at the transformation from silent man to storyteller. And he was closer to his age than he had assumed.

“They weren’t. Someone stole my stuff, then my money. No one helped. That’s when I met Robbie. He’d been in the streets awhile and knew about people.

“We looked out for each other. Simple stuff like sleeping back-to-back or taking turns so no one could sneak up. I trusted him with my life.

“But we got hard up for money. There was this guy who recruited homeless to do things.”

Riley leaned forward.

“More like, he forced you and paid you a little. He waits outside the shelter. One day he goes up to Robbie and tells him he has something for him. Rob really doesn’t want anything to do with him, but he’s a big dude and angry. And we needed the money.”

He paused, as if searching his memory.

“It’s a funny thing. People, I mean. Robbie didn’t want the job, but had it forced on him. Flea wanted it bad, but the big dude never paid attention to him.”

“Flea?”

“An annoying guy. Always trying to be part of something, but no one trusted him. Always ready to snatch something. He was one of those we had to guard against.”

Joe began to cry and wiped his hand over his bearded face. “That day, Robbie made the pickup. I went along. Then we walked together until Brooks Hall where I’d wait with our stuff.

“There was a big crowd in the Plaza. He crossed the street. I was looking at the crowd when I saw something moving, fast. Flea was running at him, but Rob didn’t see. I yelled, but the crowd was too loud. He stabbed him. I saw it. I couldn’t do anything.”

He sobbed and hung his head. Riley waited for more, but he seemed to withdraw into himself.

“Did Flea take the stuff from the backpack?”

“Huh?”

“Is that why Flea stabbed Robbie, for the backpack?”

“He took his life. That’s what he took!”

His words struck Riley like a slap, resurrecting the image of Martin’s head in a pool of blood.

“I’m sorry. I found the backpack empty. The cops thought I stole it.”

Joe’s eyes widened. “Who are you?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not a cop, not a killer. Just a dude who found an empty backpack and took it home.”

The two men sat silently in the doorway. The whoosh of cars racing up the one-way street followed by calm until the traffic light changed and another squad of cars tripped by. Riley sensed Joe’s distrust. The story ended, as far as he was concerned, with Robbie's death. Riley’s experience was separate and distinct from the living Robbie. He was like everyone else, waiting to snatch something.

“What about Flea?”

“He’s getting his.”

“That guy?”

Joe nodded.

“You?”

He stood up and reached for his duffle. “Something ended here.”

“Are you going home?”

He looked at Riley, wizened eyes above a scraggly beard. “I don’t think home is home anymore. But yeah, I need to check it out.”



Chapter 11: Faith

...Riley and Mara...

“It’s so peaceful here.”

He looked to Mara walking beside him and smiled. He could use some peace after the events of the past week. The night before he told her about his encounter with Joe. Later, he slept restlessly. She said she didn’t slept well either. So, finding each other awake, they decided to walk to the Embarcadero.

Downtown early morning on a Sunday was quiet, prompting a kind of meditation as they walked. When they reached the Ferry Building, they went south and passed through the angular concrete arbor of Pier 14.

The air was fresh. A cap of fog clung to Treasure Island, which lay before them, looking as if they could step onto it. The Bay Bridge sliced the sky and plunged into that same fog.

As they walked to the end, head high guardrails shrank to the waist, enhancing the sensation of being part of the bay. Silver metal seats, swiveling like small barber’s chairs, were scattered along the pier. They sat and focused their attention on a solitary sailboat headed towards the Pacific, its sails not yet unfurled. Like the boat, they were alone.

“It feels like someone should do something.” Mara said.

“I only know a nickname.”

“That might be enough.”

“Why should they believe me?”

Mara shrugged.

“I think the police see what they want to see. If I tell them about Flea, they’ll ask how I know so much and think I’m trying to deflect attention.”

“Aren’t you afraid anymore?”

“Joe helped put it in perspective. A man died. I was inconvenienced. The cops don’t have anything. They threatened me hoping something would shake out. That’s all.”

“What about justice? Shouldn’t Flea pay for murdering Robbie?”

With his leg, Riley propelled his seat like a roulette wheel. It stopped facing the bridge. He kicked again so that he faced Mara.

“Joe’s the one who lost a friend. If he’s sure Flea’s going to pay, I’m satisfied.”

“Why’s he so sure?”

“I saw the police, I saw the guy looking for Flea. He was more motivated.”

“But he’s in a gang. You have confidence in him?”

He held his hands palms up.

Their eyes followed the shell of a truck on the bridge coming into the city. It inched along like a leaf borne on a file of ants, slowly reaching its destination.

“It feels creepy having faith in a guy like that,” she said. “He doesn’t believe in justice, he believes in-- I don’t know what.”

“Street justice. I don’t believe in him. What I know is the guy’s a tornado, destroying whatever he runs into. Flea’s in his path.” His voice rose. “And when they find his body, maybe floating—“

She reached out, resting a hand on his knee. “Don’t.”

His anger drowned in her blue eyes. He continued in a lower voice.

“When they find him, they won’t know to connect the dots. They won’t know he killed Robbie or why. He’ll just be a statistic unrelated to another statistic.”

“Unless he has a friend. I like to think everyone has a friend who cares enough to cry and try to make sense of it all.”

A tear escaped her eye. Bringing his finger to her cheek, he wiped it away. They looked at each other, aware of forming a new bond.

“Spin your seat!” Riley shouted.

They spun around, arms and legs splayed, the surrounding sights flashing by as fast as they could kick. Skyscrapers, the Ferry Building, Treasure Island, the bay, boats, and then again, each other.

They stood and hugged, bumping lips awkwardly. They walked back into the city, their linked hands swinging.

Riley thought about Joe saying something had ended, then about the things that happened when he left his apartment that day. Who could have predicted a man staggering to his death would bump into him? Or that he’d find the very backpack he was carrying? And that the police would suspect him when he turned it in? But he knew he’d do it again, because it was the right thing.

He felt a strain on his arm, Mara pulling him back to the present. Riley completed the thought Joe had left unsaid: something had ended, something new had begun.



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