Sea world. Aquariums. Cousteau. So did Sandy.”
I resisted the temptation to talk about his dead child. This wasn’t the time for therapy. “Okay. It’s a shot. I know a few people.”
“So where’re we going?”
“You’re going home, Bill.”
“The hell I am.” He sat forward with a drunk’s bluster, bouncing against the four-point harness.
“You’re fine now, Bill, but soon enough you’ll be wanting more of the sauce and it’s getting later all the time. You’ve been a big help, but right now I have to go places you can’t, or shouldn’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I saw it all back in Chicago. No way anything in this burg can be any worse.”
“That was back before you cracked. Before Sandy,” I said harshly, regretting it immediately. “Sorry.” Me and my mouth.
Bill deflated next to me. “Never mind. You’re right. I’m useless now.”
“You’re not useless, Bill, but you’re not ready for the streets yet. You’ve done enough for tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I found.” I turned toward Oakland and the Bay Bridge, heading back to the City. In light traffic, nowhere was far from anywhere around here though during rush hour some destinations might as well be on the moon.
I offered Bill a ride home to his San Rafael condo, but he insisted on being dropped off to take a cab, talking to me in monosyllables. I could tell he was angry and hurt. He’d get over it.
Where I was going, having no partner at all seemed better than bringing along a shaky one.
Chapter 5
Some say the Tenderloin is getting gentrified since the 2004 city initiative to clean things up began. It’s true that there’s been nibbling around the edges. PD has more presence, at least between daybreak and midnight. Enterprising restaurants can rent cheap on the corner of a street the average tourist wouldn’t want to walk down, night or day. Maybe that adds to the charm: the whiff of slum, the scent of danger just a stone’s throw away. As long as the establishment is willing to pay for round-the-clock security and the patrons don’t mind getting the stink eye from the crackheads and pregnant junkies and prostitutes – often one and the same – they can make a go of it. Some served absolutely top-notch food.
Me, I’m a bit bolder than the next girl. These may not be my home waters but I can handle all but the biggest of the sharks. The trick is to always seem too much trouble to mess with.
Though all the chic places had closed, a meal was still my rumbling stomach’s first priority. Tonight’s nirvana was an all-night Mexican place near Fifth and Ellis called Boca Grande’s, which served up fantastic California-style crispy tacos.
Something you have to taste to believe, crispy tacos are made by stuffing a large corn tortilla with filling, traditionally barbacoa – shredded beef – clamping it closed and then dropping it into a lard-filled deep fryer. Brought out piping hot and crunchy, the clamp is then removed and they’re finished off with cheese, shredded lettuce, salsa and anything else your heart desires. Heaven in your hand.
After I dropped Bill off, coming up on eleven thirty p.m. the crowd was still fairly respectable with the inevitable security guard keeping the worst of the transients away. Not all of them, of course; those that could pay and didn’t smell too bad or cause trouble got a hot cheap meal and a seat on a hard plastic bench for as long as they could nurse a soda.
When I got in line I felt a hand on my ass. Turning cat-quick, I grabbed the shirt front of the offender – or tried to. What I ended up with was a handful of silver chains cascading within cleavage between mounds to rival Moro Rock, all framed in a black leather biker vest. I shoved the big smirking mulleted bull dyke back with, I had to admit, a touch of envy. Okay, maybe I shoved myself back more than I did her, but my message was clear, I hoped.
“Problem, ladies?” the hulking
I resisted the temptation to talk about his dead child. This wasn’t the time for therapy. “Okay. It’s a shot. I know a few people.”
“So where’re we going?”
“You’re going home, Bill.”
“The hell I am.” He sat forward with a drunk’s bluster, bouncing against the four-point harness.
“You’re fine now, Bill, but soon enough you’ll be wanting more of the sauce and it’s getting later all the time. You’ve been a big help, but right now I have to go places you can’t, or shouldn’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I saw it all back in Chicago. No way anything in this burg can be any worse.”
“That was back before you cracked. Before Sandy,” I said harshly, regretting it immediately. “Sorry.” Me and my mouth.
Bill deflated next to me. “Never mind. You’re right. I’m useless now.”
“You’re not useless, Bill, but you’re not ready for the streets yet. You’ve done enough for tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I found.” I turned toward Oakland and the Bay Bridge, heading back to the City. In light traffic, nowhere was far from anywhere around here though during rush hour some destinations might as well be on the moon.
I offered Bill a ride home to his San Rafael condo, but he insisted on being dropped off to take a cab, talking to me in monosyllables. I could tell he was angry and hurt. He’d get over it.
Where I was going, having no partner at all seemed better than bringing along a shaky one.
Chapter 5
Some say the Tenderloin is getting gentrified since the 2004 city initiative to clean things up began. It’s true that there’s been nibbling around the edges. PD has more presence, at least between daybreak and midnight. Enterprising restaurants can rent cheap on the corner of a street the average tourist wouldn’t want to walk down, night or day. Maybe that adds to the charm: the whiff of slum, the scent of danger just a stone’s throw away. As long as the establishment is willing to pay for round-the-clock security and the patrons don’t mind getting the stink eye from the crackheads and pregnant junkies and prostitutes – often one and the same – they can make a go of it. Some served absolutely top-notch food.
Me, I’m a bit bolder than the next girl. These may not be my home waters but I can handle all but the biggest of the sharks. The trick is to always seem too much trouble to mess with.
Though all the chic places had closed, a meal was still my rumbling stomach’s first priority. Tonight’s nirvana was an all-night Mexican place near Fifth and Ellis called Boca Grande’s, which served up fantastic California-style crispy tacos.
Something you have to taste to believe, crispy tacos are made by stuffing a large corn tortilla with filling, traditionally barbacoa – shredded beef – clamping it closed and then dropping it into a lard-filled deep fryer. Brought out piping hot and crunchy, the clamp is then removed and they’re finished off with cheese, shredded lettuce, salsa and anything else your heart desires. Heaven in your hand.
After I dropped Bill off, coming up on eleven thirty p.m. the crowd was still fairly respectable with the inevitable security guard keeping the worst of the transients away. Not all of them, of course; those that could pay and didn’t smell too bad or cause trouble got a hot cheap meal and a seat on a hard plastic bench for as long as they could nurse a soda.
When I got in line I felt a hand on my ass. Turning cat-quick, I grabbed the shirt front of the offender – or tried to. What I ended up with was a handful of silver chains cascading within cleavage between mounds to rival Moro Rock, all framed in a black leather biker vest. I shoved the big smirking mulleted bull dyke back with, I had to admit, a touch of envy. Okay, maybe I shoved myself back more than I did her, but my message was clear, I hoped.
“Problem, ladies?” the hulking
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