once, he listened to me. The three of us bounced out of the camper and took off like banshees across the Chevron parking lot, sprinting over to San Jose Street. Our peculiar success was unfathomable to me—we had a pound of Canadian indica, courtesy of Roy.
On one hand, I had to question what I was doing; stealing was for losers. A thief who stole from the poor was anathema to me. But an outlaw who took what he needed from the fat of the land, like from Roy, this was marginally acceptable. On the other hand, we had engineered an entrepreneurial coup that would bring us the joy of money and the contamination of added strife. In summation, we were winners.
10
An afternoon in the sun at Ocean Beach had been Eichmann’s idea. He said ripping off Roy called for a day of rest, a sabbath from the usual scuffling. So we hopped on the N Judah Muni bus at Market Street. Two hours later we got off at the last stop on Forty-eighth Street, a little worse for wear. Ocean Beach was a mile-long strip of sand frequented by low-income San Francisco residents, such as Bayview welfare mothers, Sunset District surfers, and South of Market bike messengers, and we fit in perfectly.
Bobo was down at the water’s edge getting his feet wet in the surf, yelling at some kids to stop throwing rocks at the seagulls. The Mexican looked naked in a pair of too-tight Speedos that accentuated the tree trunk size of his legs and the cantaloupe plumpness of his stomach. To round out the picture, Eichmann was sitting at my side and Loretta was dozing on a tattered space blanket by our feet.
Eichmann was the man Loretta wanted, but his love for her was questionable. They’d been together for a month and Eichmann was already getting tired of her demands, the things she wanted. He couldn’t afford an apartment or to get out of town on a vacation, and Loretta was quite sore about it. In her eyes, he was becoming a portrait of lessened expectations. In a symbiotic response, Eichmann had turned into a dynamo of ambition since we’d robbed Roy. He said better days were coming. It sounded like he was getting religious. Or maybe he was going crazy, I didn’t know. He rubbed his belly and looked fondly at Bobo, saying to me, “What do you want to do about Flaherty?”
“Got a plan?”
Eichmann lifted a beer to his mouth and swallowed once. “The way I see it, he needs to get rid of you. He can do it by intimidating you, by driving you out of the city. I don’t know how far he’s willing to go and you don’t either.”
“What about you and Bobo?”
“It ain’t got nothing to do with me. You saw what went down with him, not us.”
His stance was obvious: he wanted to separate himself from my troubles. He finished his beer, threw it on the oil-stained sand, then reached into Bobo’s Igloo chest cooler for another Budweiser. Loretta heard our quibbling and stirred, shaking herself awake. Her plain black one-piece bathing suit showed her freckled cleavage. Her legs were getting burned despite the colossal amount of sunscreen she’d slathered on them. She asked us in a timorous, drowsy voice, “What time is it? It seems late.”
Eichmann consulted his watch. “It’s three-forty. You okay?”
“God, I don’t know. It’s terribly hot, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s bad. You want to go swimming?”
“The water’s dirty, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, so? That never stopped me.”
Whenever I was around Loretta, I couldn’t take my eyes off her body. She had more flesh on her bones than I did and I was interested in that difference, her being larger than me. Sometimes I’d watch Eichmann as he gazed at her, trying to see what he saw. What she felt for him, Loretta was never one to say, though I had a strong suspicion she admired Eichmann. He said to me, “Why don’t you take your clothes off, you goon.”
I was dressed in my jeans, army coat, and Red Wing boots; the last thing in the world I wanted was a suntan. I didn’t want to look like a
On one hand, I had to question what I was doing; stealing was for losers. A thief who stole from the poor was anathema to me. But an outlaw who took what he needed from the fat of the land, like from Roy, this was marginally acceptable. On the other hand, we had engineered an entrepreneurial coup that would bring us the joy of money and the contamination of added strife. In summation, we were winners.
10
An afternoon in the sun at Ocean Beach had been Eichmann’s idea. He said ripping off Roy called for a day of rest, a sabbath from the usual scuffling. So we hopped on the N Judah Muni bus at Market Street. Two hours later we got off at the last stop on Forty-eighth Street, a little worse for wear. Ocean Beach was a mile-long strip of sand frequented by low-income San Francisco residents, such as Bayview welfare mothers, Sunset District surfers, and South of Market bike messengers, and we fit in perfectly.
Bobo was down at the water’s edge getting his feet wet in the surf, yelling at some kids to stop throwing rocks at the seagulls. The Mexican looked naked in a pair of too-tight Speedos that accentuated the tree trunk size of his legs and the cantaloupe plumpness of his stomach. To round out the picture, Eichmann was sitting at my side and Loretta was dozing on a tattered space blanket by our feet.
Eichmann was the man Loretta wanted, but his love for her was questionable. They’d been together for a month and Eichmann was already getting tired of her demands, the things she wanted. He couldn’t afford an apartment or to get out of town on a vacation, and Loretta was quite sore about it. In her eyes, he was becoming a portrait of lessened expectations. In a symbiotic response, Eichmann had turned into a dynamo of ambition since we’d robbed Roy. He said better days were coming. It sounded like he was getting religious. Or maybe he was going crazy, I didn’t know. He rubbed his belly and looked fondly at Bobo, saying to me, “What do you want to do about Flaherty?”
“Got a plan?”
Eichmann lifted a beer to his mouth and swallowed once. “The way I see it, he needs to get rid of you. He can do it by intimidating you, by driving you out of the city. I don’t know how far he’s willing to go and you don’t either.”
“What about you and Bobo?”
“It ain’t got nothing to do with me. You saw what went down with him, not us.”
His stance was obvious: he wanted to separate himself from my troubles. He finished his beer, threw it on the oil-stained sand, then reached into Bobo’s Igloo chest cooler for another Budweiser. Loretta heard our quibbling and stirred, shaking herself awake. Her plain black one-piece bathing suit showed her freckled cleavage. Her legs were getting burned despite the colossal amount of sunscreen she’d slathered on them. She asked us in a timorous, drowsy voice, “What time is it? It seems late.”
Eichmann consulted his watch. “It’s three-forty. You okay?”
“God, I don’t know. It’s terribly hot, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s bad. You want to go swimming?”
“The water’s dirty, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, so? That never stopped me.”
Whenever I was around Loretta, I couldn’t take my eyes off her body. She had more flesh on her bones than I did and I was interested in that difference, her being larger than me. Sometimes I’d watch Eichmann as he gazed at her, trying to see what he saw. What she felt for him, Loretta was never one to say, though I had a strong suspicion she admired Eichmann. He said to me, “Why don’t you take your clothes off, you goon.”
I was dressed in my jeans, army coat, and Red Wing boots; the last thing in the world I wanted was a suntan. I didn’t want to look like a
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