In Dark Corners (17 page)

Still bug-fucked, he stuttered, "W-W-We caught this old-dude coming out of our b-b-basement."

"A solo scavenger?" asked Sweet Jane, her eyebrows drawing together and leaving a deep crease marring her fine features. She was probably still thinking about the scavengers that hauled Silk and the Lady down to the tunnel to be stripped for hyde implants and other parts, as she slipped on her body-hugging modtrends, the colors shifting from silver to ice-blue to gray and back. She smoothed the material into place over her shapely body and stared at Little Anthony, waiting patiently for an answer.

Wide-eyed and spooky-acting, he just shook his head vigorously.

"Not a solo—how 'bout a 'fect?" she asked, meaning one of the mutants or body shop fuck-ups, fairly common in the safe zones, but only rarely seen any more on gang turf.

"D-D-D—" he began, but finally gave up and settled for a shrug.

I put my hand on Little Anthony's shoulder, hoping to settle him down and purred gently, "What's he doing down in the basement, my man?"

It worked, and he relaxed a little. "S-Sleeping in an old box, hidden in the w-wall."

"Say wha—?" I broke off the question. Whoa, I said to myself, unable to restrain a shudder. No one goes down there anymore, cause the frigging super-rats are bigger'n cats; and there were even rumors of mutant 'gators coming up out of the storm sewers and hanging out in basements. And copping Z's? This dude was a 'fect all right: Had to be a stone-ass chucklehead. Oh, yeah!

At that point Little Anthony stepped in close like he was privy to my thoughts, put his arm around my shoulder, and said in a confidential tone, "I-I didn't tell the others, Duke; but this d-dude is one of them t-time-travelers, you know what I-I'm saying?"

I glanced over at Sweet Jane, who was doubled over with a sudden coughing fit. So, I looked back seriously at Little Anthony and nodded. "Yeah, man, I know, like someone from one of your sci-fi vids, right?"

He looked pleased, nodded enthusiastically, before a kind of confused look dulled his animated features. "O-Or maybe he's an a-a-a—" He stomped his foot again, but the reaction was delayed as he stammered for a few seconds, stop-framed, then said: "—alien, man. C-cause he's one weird-lookin' m-mutha!"

Man, this was just what I frigging needed. Most of the Pack chewed up last night in a major go-around with the Panthers, and now Little Anthony telling me we've been invaded by aliens. I pulled up the thin collar on my modtrends 'cause the mist was getting kinda chilly out here on the roof, and I just stared at him for a minute, thinking it over. Lot of people claimed Little Anthony himself was not quite right, a chucklehead. And I had to admit that when he got juiced about something, he'd spit and stutter and squirm instead of talking good; but if you cooled it, he eventually made pretty good sense…'less he's dealing with aliens or some of that other sci-fi jazz from the vids. The trouble with Little Anthony, he was like a young kid, unable to separate shit, the real from the vid world; he believed it all. I sighed, cause it didn't matter much if he was a little simple; dude was my main man, a certified bad-ass in a go-around, almost as devastating as Big Case, who was the Pack's official
tyson
—and Little Anthony was half his size.

"Okay, Homeboy," I said warmly and grinned, hugging him tight against my side for a second, "let's take a look at this alien mother-fucker."

I snuck a sheepish peek at Sweet Jane, and she said innocently, "Hey, I'd love to meet an alien, man." I could read the skepticism in her sexy green eyes, but she kept those thoughts to herself, so as not to stir up Little Anthony. She was one slick chick; and you can believe that shit. Oh, yeah!

Learned herself to read and write real good from a 'teller up in the safe zone when she was just a citizen tyke, long before joining the Wolfpack. She knew a lot of historical jazz, too. Like the reason behind the weapons ban in go-arounds after the Big Boogaloo, when everything returned to half-ass normal—not many folks left, especially gang members, so they had to be preserved. She learned all that important stuff from reading old copies of newspapers, records, and journals on a machine in the library. That's one reason she was the Pack's official
kissinger
—the only female one in the City. Anyhow, sometimes when I was just goofing, not worrying any heavy shit, I'd rather watch and listen to her read some of that old-time stuff from a book than scope a vid, 'less it was a primo, of course.

So, we followed Little Anthony back down the stairwell ten floors—the elevator never fixed after the West Coast part of the Big Boogaloo flattened most of the Bay Area—emerging into the Le Grande Hotel lobby, official den of the Tenth Street Wolfpack.

I pulled up short, laying back, checking things out.

The Pack had someone down all right; and everyone was jacked-up higher than the Coit Tower Ruins, looking like they'd been into our supply of Slam. They were crowded around Big Case and Full-load, who were sitting on this guy all tied up like one of them steers at branding time in a western vid. And the look on Big Case's face got me: A ho-hum nothing-unusual expression, like the face on one of them chink motherfuckers in the Golden Dragons over on Powell Street.

But I didn't even crack a smile as I shouldered my way through the Wolfpack mob and gestured for Big Case and Full-load to get up.

They bounced to their feet, dragging this guy upright, but keeping a tight hold on his arms.

Whoa, I said to myself.

This was really an
old
dude, I dunno, maybe forty or fifty years old, and definitely weird-looking, just as Little Anthony had claimed. He was wearing old-time clothing, like in one of the Brit vids, everything in separate pieces: black pants, a white frilly shirt, and a black cape with shiny red lining, caught at the neck with a heavy gold chain. He was real tall, long black hair falling to his shoulders, no beard, his skin drawn tightly over his cheekbones and milky white, reminding me of one of them she-males from Oakland, who roamed the tunnel down under lower Market Street, selling sex. But even though this skinny old dude looked like a sissy-ass, I could see he wasn't weak. In fact, it was all Big Case and Full-load could manage just to restrain him, even with his being tied up.

I finally asked Big Case, "What's going on, man? What you got here?"

Still wearing his nonchalant look, he said, "We caught this dude trying to slip outta the basement. Think he was after our Slam. Took us five minutes to get him tied-up. He says he's been sleeping down there since right after the Big Boogaloo fucked-up everything. And he—now, get this, Duke—he ain't never heard of no Tenth Street Wolfpack."

He took a deep breath and snorted derisively, before he concluded, "Dude's a jive-ass bullshitter."

Full-load grinned and nodded his agreement.

By then everyone was restless, getting fired up, maybe expecting some action, a few shuckin' and jivin' loudly with their neighbors:

"Say which Wolfpack?"

"Jus' call me ole Rip Van Winkle."

"Dude's got bigger 'nads than a bull elephant."

"Hey, man, is a grizzly bear, you know, a hibernator."

Finally, Tee, Big Case's main squeeze and a very serious chick, chilled everyone out, "Let's quit wasting frigging time and
off
the dude. He's probably just another scavenger, trying to boost some of our Slam. Sure ain't a citizen from our sector. So…fuck 'im."

After her pronouncement, the room got real quiet, everyone waiting for my reaction.

I pondered for a minute or so…

"Man," I finally said to the old dude, after working up a full allotment of righteous indignation, "I'm Duke, Prez of the Tenth Street Wolfpack, who, for your information, are the baddest mother-fuckers in this whole City. And you are right in the middle of our den, violating turf. You are in deep shit, Jack, I kid you not." I let that sink in a minute, figuring if he were a scavenger it'd chill his shit. But it didn't seem to faze him. The old dude just stared back at me with the spookiest look I'd ever seen. Stone cold eyes.

So I stepped up close and growled in his face, "You better come off your shuck, man, 'fore I start howling, you unnerstand what I'm saying here? Now, how long you been down there?"

Between clenched teeth, he snarled back, "If past awakenings are any indicator, I'd guess at least a hundred years."

A hunnerd years?

Whoa!

This sucker was putting me on Big Time—

Then I snapped out of the grim mode, unable to restrain a chuckle, kind of grudgingly admiring the old dude's nerve. No question he had some 'nads. Oh, yeah.

Sweet Jane slid up next to me, and I could see she had on her special look—that combination of intrigued and curious.

When the old dude spotted her, he got real still, and I swear his nostrils flared slightly, like an old tomcat around a young she-cat in heat, a kind of hungry look stealing over his gaunt features. Hey, man, I couldn't blame him—a hunnerd years is a long time between one-on-ones, even for an old dude. And everyone knew Sweet Jane was one foxy-looking momma. So, I didn't hold that against him. No way.

All this time, Sweet Jane was just watching, dialed-in, still kind of fascinated by the scene.

Finally she asked him, "Where were you going when they caught you, man?"

"Well, young lady," he began after bowing slightly like one of them straight-laced butler dudes in an old-time black and white English vid, "after a long sleep, my body requires nourishment. I was going out to hunt, to find food." He smiled, his tongue licking his thin dry lips, his nostrils stilled flared slightly. Sweet Jane never broke eye contact, just listened intently to his explanation.

Then, after a few moments of awkward silence, she nodded and turned abruptly in my direction. "Duke," she whispered to me privately through a cupped hand, "what do you plan on doing with him?"

"Waste him, I guess, like Tee suggested," I replied. "Dude has violated our turf big time—"

"No!" she protested loudly, glancing over at the old dude. "Why do that?" she snapped in a high-pitched whisper, frowning, looking back at me. "He's something different, you know…special."

Special?

I took another long look at the old dude. Well, he was different all right—an
old
chucklehead; they usually didn't live long, the citizens not wanting to feed 'em or any other 'fects hanging around in the neighborhoods, because they were strapped just to meet gang needs. But special? I turned back to Sweet Jane. "What do you suggest? What do you want to do with him?"

"The other gangs have mascots," she replied thoughtfully, then nodded, as she made up her mind. "Yeah, let's keep him as the Wolfpack's official mascot."

"Mascot?" I repeated, thinking about the other gangs, even those fringe groups out in the Marina and down the peninsula. "But they're mostly physical 'fects, quasimodos or gargoyles or maybe a few—"

"So?" she countered with a grin, hands on hips. "We got us something really special right here for a mascot—an
alien
dandy!" She glanced over at Little Anthony, who hadn't heard or wasn't paying any attention to her.

I didn't like the idea, nuh-uh, but I couldn't think of a good counter-argument, so I gave in to her. It would've worked out a lot better for everyone, especially Sweet Jane, if I'd had the 'nads to veto the plan right then and there.

We announced the decision, and there was a little grumbling, cause most of the Pack figured the old dude was some kind of a scavenger who'd violated Pack turf and intended to rip us off in some way. You let one asshole get away with it, it was like sending an invitation across the City. But Sweet Jane soon had everyone convinced a
special
mascot added to the Pack's prestige. The old dude just watched her talk on his behalf with this shit-eating grin on his face.

And by saying nothing, I was underwriting her argument.

After the bitching and moaning finally died down, I tried to change the old dude's mind about going out at night. I warned him of the dangers; but nothing I said seemed to faze him.

Finally, he came clean, "Duke, I have to go out, because I have what you might call special needs."

Special needs?

What the fuck could they be—?

That's when I flashed on it: The old dude was a junkie.

Big Case was right about what he'd been looking for in the basement. Except a snort of Slam wasn't going to do him much good. Uh-uh. He needed to get down to the tunnel near Powell, see a Dragon dealer, cause Smack was under their gang charter.

I instructed Full-load and two others to escort him to Market Street and show him the entrance down to the BART. Then I pulled out an old map of the City.

"Pay attention, Jack, I'm only gonna explain this once," I said, spreading the map out. "Market is a safe zone running across the City and the BART tunnel underneath it. Safe for everyone, citizen or gang member. This here's Pack turf—" I pointed to the Tenth Street general neighborhood area on the map. "But this is the Mission, home of Los Tigres. And up here across Market is the Fillmore Panthers. West of them is Chinatown and the Golden Dragons. Stay out of these other neighborhoods—the citizens are mostly harmless, but their guardians, the gang members, will be patrolling and take you down in a minute. You'll know you're back home safe in our sector when you see one of our markers, like this."

I pointed at the Pack motto sprayed in Day-Glo orange on the lobby wall:

10th St. Wolfpack Is Bad!

***

Sweet Jane had taught everyone in the Pack to copy it, and we'd marked buildings, fences, abandoned cars all around our perimeter. And you can bet your sweet ass them other gangs or their citizens knew what it meant, too. Even some nerd from a South City pussy-ass gang. Oh, yeah.

The old dude indicated he understood by nodding, then the four of them hit the street.