In Dark Corners (18 page)

***

Just before sun-up the old dude came hustling into the Le Grande lobby looking really bug-fucked. Sweaty and harried, glancing back over his shoulder with a kind of frightened expression at the opened main entryway as he crossed the room.

***

"Hey, man, did you score?" I asked, curious.

"Can't talk, now, Duke," he said, barely looking my way before he disappeared through the basement door.

Some fucking mascot, I thought, looking up at the landing a half-story above the lobby. Sweet Jane was standing there, staring thoughtfully at the closed basement door.

"Dude's afraid of the sun," she said, a distant expression on her face as she descended the stairs. "I've seen someone like that before, and he dressed strangely, too, just like our mascot."

"Me, too," I replied, "an Oakland sissy—"

"No," she snapped, slightly annoyed, cutting short my wise-ass comment. "I mean in an old vid."

"What vid?"

"A
horror
flick," she explained, using a weird expression, the far away look back in her eyes. "That's what they called them back just after the Big Bugaloo. They were supposed to be scary, but they never were to the gangs. Not really. After all that happened in real life back then, they were kinda funny, silly. I guess that's why they haven't been traded for at least twenty-five years."

Then, she focused on me and smiled knowingly as she explained, "Duke, it's the
same
as we do with primo vids, you know, imitating the old time gangs—in looks and behavior, especially with our language; although I suspect we would sound funny to an old real gang member. Anyhow, our mascot's
imitating
a character in a horror flick, a kinda made-up monster. He is playing a role."

"Then he's not really a 'fect?"

"No, just a citizen, I think, an actor in a vid—"

The conversation was interrupted by a scuffle across the lobby. Big Case and a couple of others had one of Los Tigres in tow. As they got closer I recognized him. Whoa. It was Cholo, a heavyweight, Los Tigres' kissinger.

"I'm unchanged, bro," I announced, holding up my bare hands.

He repeated the ritual greeting.

"What's happening?" I asked, surprised to see a rival gang member alone in our territory at night.

"El Jefe´ wants a meet, tomorrow morning at ten in the lobby of the Orpheum," he explained, nodding at Sweet Jane. "You need both your kissinger and your tyson, man."

Whoa. This was gonna be a go-around challenge. "Why the meet, Cholo?"

"One of your dudes tried to take off a Tigre chick up in the safe zone, tonight—"

"Back up, man!"

He looked around nervously, obviously impatient to complete his task and return to safe turf. But first he sucked in a deep breath before continuing…

Then he cleared his throat and said, "Dude bagged the chick on Market, near the midtown BART entrance, drug her into an alley, and slobbered all over her neck, before she got a chance to finally growl, change, and break loose. She chased his ass off."

"What makes you think it was a Tenth Street Wolf?" Jane asked, hands on hips, glaring with attitude.

"Cause she followed the dude right back here inside your sector."

Sweet Jane stole a glance at the closed basement door and frowned, shaking her head knowingly.

No shit, I thought. Some fucking scary monster mascot we got here. I shook my head with disgust. Well, it was no use arguing now with the Tigre kissinger. "Okay, man," I said to Cholo, "we'll be at the Orpheum at ten in the morning."

He left.

I figured we were probably looking at least at a five-on-five challenge for five pairs of sneakers and five vids. Not earthshaking, but serious.

***

Next morning, me, Sweet Jane, and Big Case were pacing the floor of the lobby of the old theater, when the three Tigres showed up. Man, they were all stoked, especially their tyson—an ugly scarred-up dude missing an ear—they called The Bad Juan.

El Jefe´, the head enchilada of Los Tigres, said, after exchanging ritual greetings, "Look here, man, you know the score? Cholo explained it last night."

I nodded, but protested, "Except it wasn't no Wolf."

"Que pasa?" El Jefe´ asked, a thin smile on his face. "Anyone can run through your sector?"

"Okay," I said, "your chick chased someone into our sector. Do you think a Wolf would run from one chick?" I paused then added, "All I can say is the Wolfpack ain't responsible. But if it helps we offer a…you know, a formal apology."

The greaser fuck didn't blink an eye or say shit behind that. After a moment he smiled slyly again, cause the sucker knew the Prez of the Tenth Street Wolfpack wasn't apologizing to
no
one if we were completely clean. "Okay, man," he said softly and smiled, like he's doing me a big favor. "Los Tigres accepts the Wolfpack's apology…but it ain't enough. I got a chick been jumped in the safe zone, comprende, amigo?"

Big fucking deal, I thought. Them hot tamales cruise the safe zone every night, and everyone knows they stoop for the group. But I had to play the role, look serious, and push Sweet Jane forward to negotiate this
horrible
tragedy: A tigre chic publicly violated. Oh, wow, man, bummer.

She eyeballed Cholo like he was the sorriest-looking 'fect alive. "Okay, man," she said coolly, "what you want?"

He looked a lot cockier than last night. "Ten pairs of the best Korean sneakers, ten vids, all music or primos."

"No way, man," Sweet Jane said indignantly. "Best we can do is two vids, a sci-fi and say, one music."

"You gotta be kidding," he answered, trying to swell up and look insulted and bad. It was a pretty weak chicken performance though. After posturing another moment, he shrugged and made a surrendering gesture with his hands. "Okay, with your apology, we'll take like only six vids, but they gotta be music or primos."

Sweet Jane just stared at him coldly, her look saying:
Drop dead, motherfucker!
But she actually countered with, "A Wolfpack apology is worth ten vids, all primos…We ought to be asking for change from you."

Oh, yeah!

She was something all right. I just stood there with my nose open, knowing I was lucky to be making it with this slick chick.

I could tell that the Los Tigres Prez was getting edgy, impatient, close to demanding a go-around.

After a few more moments, Sweet Jane probably noticed the body language, too; and she sighed loudly, her shoulders slumping in a defeated posture. "Okay, we'll make it three vids…two sci-fi, one music."

Cholo hesitated just a second, and I knew at least we had him. He replied, "Let me talk with El Jefe' and The Bad Juan. Okay?"

Sweet Jane nodded, then turned to me.

I signaled for a conference with her and Big Case. We pulled into a tight circle, just far enough away from Los Tigres so they couldn't hear a word we said to each other.

"I think that's the best I can do, Duke," she whispered.

I turned to Big Case and said under my breath, "What do you think, man? Do we deal or accept a go-around challenge?"

"Suckers ain't got dickshit on us, man," he growled angrily. "Fuck 'em, let's rock 'n' roll."

But Sweet Jane shook her head and argued, "We're too banged up right now, Big Case. We ain't got five well bodies. We need some healing time. A lull in the action. Duke, I say let's deal."

I didn't need to think on it very long. My arm still weak and sore. Sweet Jane was right. I told her, "Deal."

***

Later that evening, we're back in the Le Grande lobby, everyone jawing about which three vids have gotta go to Los Tigres. Little Anthony was spitting and stuttering, looking royally bug-fucked again—

"Hold it!" Big Case shouted, pointing up to the landing above the lobby.

A shocking sight right there in our stronghold!

It was the old dude; and he had Sweet Jane in an arm lock around her neck, so tight she couldn't even squeak, much less howl.

"Don't anyone move," he warned, his expression and posture indicating he wasn't shitting, "or I will snap her neck like a chicken's." He looked down at me directly with his chilling gaze, announcing, "Duke, I must have my own woman,
this
woman, so do not try to stop me if you value her life." He began to edge away toward the stairs to his left.

The sissy-ass, old motherfucker! Red rage blinded me, and I raised my face to the ceiling, letting out a deep-throated long howl…

Of course that began activating my hyde implants, releasing the biochemicals that would trigger the physiological changes. I waited, shaking, my heart thumping, my pulse racing. By then, everyone was howling, no holdbacks tonight, the entire pack transforming.

Suddenly, up on the landing, the old dude let out a loud yell of pain.

In the confusion, Little Anthony had changed before the rest of us, darted up the far staircase unnoticed, and hit the old guy hard from the back. He'd ripped into the old dude's backside and torn a huge chunk of pants and flesh out of his back thigh, obviously hamstringing that leg—blood spurting and splattering Little Anthony's muzzle and flecking the back wall of the landing.

But even hobbled, the old dude was plenty game and surprisingly strong, despite not being able to transform like his adversary. With amazing quickness, he snatched up Little Anthony, spun him around off his feet, and slammed him headfirst into the crimson-splattered wall with a loud thud. In his altered state, Little Anthony felt little pain, only atavistic anger. He just bounced off the wall like a furry ball, and attacked the old dude with a ferocious snarl, actually biting off the tips of two fingers from the old guy's right hand, outstretched in a protective mode. He flipped his bloody hand in the air, as if trying to cool a burn.

Then Little Anthony sprang again, his muzzle hitting the old guy a hard but glancing blow in the face, somehow dislodging an eyeball that dangled for a moment down his cheek…a scene from a goofy cartoon vid. Groaning with pain, the old dude managed to quickly stuff the eyeball back into his head, blood from his torn fingers streaming down his cheek, flecking his chest.

Big Case and Full-load, both completely changed, were on the landing by then, and the three of them backed the blood-streaked old dude into a corner, where he fought back fiercely, keeping all three attackers at bay for a minute or two. Grunting and shouting loudly over the wretched howling of the Pack.

By now the bloodlust was up and the whole pack jammed the staircase, trying to scramble up as one and attack the fallen prey. I followed, my nostrils full of the irresistible salty-copper smell of blood, my ears ringing with inner rage.

Of course it was over shortly after that, soon nothing much left of the old guy but bones, bits of hair, and clothing, shoes, and the gold chain.

The Pack, nostrils still flared with the smell of feeding, mouths and chests stained crimson, paced about nervously, snapping and yapping at each other over the big bones…until finally the special biochemicals began to dissipate in their bloodstreams, the hyde implants shutting down, reversing the changes.

The noise of the kill eventually faded away.

***

Later, about the time everything settled back down to normal routine, Little Anthony caught me by the arm; and I followed him to the alcove off the top of the landing stairs where earlier we'd first seen the old dude and Sweet Jane. She lay there crumpled like a rag doll, her neck twisted at a funny angle, staring into eternity, the brilliant green gone flat. She'd never had the opportunity to activate her implants, change and get away, before the old dude snapped her neck.

I kneeled at her side and closed her eyes.

***

Everyone was down in the lobby, watching one of the primo vids, pretty lethargic, which was normal after a change. But I was up on the roof with one of Sweet Jane's favorite books—poems by some chick called, Emily Dickinson—sitting on the blanket.

I looked up, and thought Sweet Jane was standing there, with that serious look, her queue flipped over her shoulder, her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing like emeralds in the dim light. And she was in full rap mode: "Duke, now is the time to ban the change, get rid of the Nippo body shops, reduce the casualties in the gangs—"

I blinked and of course she was gone, before I could even nod my agreement. Man, I chuckled sadly to myself, because it was just like her to have the last word, even now.

She was special, all right, I thought, a tear running down my cheek.

Oh, yeah!

It started that Friday afternoon at Nippon Imports Ltd., located on the first floor of the Jordan Building in Sacramento's downtown business area, and like a viral epidemic it quickly spread into the deli next door, then upward throughout the five-story building—infecting legal firms, doctor's offices, a dental clinic, a pair of investment firms, and an insurance company occupying the entire top floor—the proliferation into adjoining buildings slowing down at five o'clock when most offices in the downtown area rapidly emptied out for the weekend. Even somewhat contained it was incredulous that in the next twenty-four hours only
one
person would notice the problem…

***

Saturday morning Henry Robinson awoke feeling uneasy, as if unconsciously sensing the impending menace; but he shook off the feeling, attributing it to the fact he hadn't slept well in his new apartment at the Vintage Towers. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he glanced around the spotlessly clean but
still
unfamiliar room, the furniture and decor done tastefully in browns, burnt-oranges, beiges, and ochers.