As an afterthought he yelled over his shoulder, âWhen you find Jimmy, you tell the motherfucker Iâm looking for him, too, damn it!â
Chapter Eight
T reat Street, where it split off from the Harrison Street artery, was a dusty jungle of two-storied row houses, pastel aluminum and plyboard live-work lofts and weed-ridden vacant lots filled with abandoned cars, plus a crop of dead trees planted in the sidewalk next to the occasional warehouse. Garbage was piled up on the pavement in picturesque heaps. The potholes in the roadbed were ankle deep. Homeless winos napped sprawled on the cement. BMWâs and Land Rovers, fleets of them, hogged every available parking space. Wealthy white people dwelled there. Some Mexicans, too.
A few years ago, no one wanted to live on Treat Street. Not even the junkies. A dog wouldnât lay down to die there. Nowadays Silicon Valley magnates were moving in, thinking zip of laying out a million dollars for one of the decrepit turn-of-the-century Edwardian Victorians on the block. You could almost comprehend their logicâliving on Treat Street was far better than a mortgage in one of San Joseâs suburban wastes.
Lonely Boyâs ramshackle unpainted home overgrown with bougainvillea brambles was the third building from the bodega at the cornerâit stood out like a stiff
middle finger to real estate speculators. You couldnât say it was a Victorian, though at one time it had been. The house was tilted, sinking in on its own foundation. Cardboard slats were stuffed in the broken windows; a mountain of beer cans were rusting on the browned front lawn. Rap en Espanol was blasting from the living room. Two late model Hondas sat on cinder blocks in the oil-soaked gravel driveway. The telephone lines in front of the place were laden with blackbirds cawing loudly.
Double-parked next to Lonely Boyâs house was a beat up black and white police squad car. In the front seat was a cop on solo patrol, a member of an elite unit investigating the Mara Salvatrucha. A hard-nosed, muscular, twenty-seven-year-old Jewish cop nicknamed Zets because of his lousy complexionâhis skin resembled the surface of the moon up close. Zets was broad in the hips, waist and shoulders and bald with a pugnacious forehead.
He had the disposition of a bulldog on amphetamines, and was ambitious. Some cops had a decent attitude toward the lowlife in the Missionâthey wouldnât push you around if you kept out of their way. Zets was as heartless as a public bathroom. He just didnât like people. Which made him no different than a lot of folks in the neighborhood.
Aside from a Filipino kid riding by on his bicycle, Treat Street was a vista of yesterdayâs newspapers strewn on the macadam. A very pregnant calico cat slithered across the asphalt, shimmying under a parked car. Zets glanced at Lonely Boyâs crib, certain his man was at home. He removed his riot helmet to admire his hairdo in the
rearview mirror. Most policeman modeled conservative hair stylings like your traditional crewcut, though a majority of the old-timers went for the flattop-with-fenders style. Others preferred the anti-semitic skinhead cut, big with the ladies. Zets had gone overboard by giving himself a mohawk. The outcome had been tragic. The mohawk, waxed with an unguent, refused to remain spiky, due to the riot helmet, and looked like a polyester throw rug.
He inspected the dents in his riot helmet, reminding him of all the times heâd banged it trying to get out of the car. Then he slid it over his head and strapped it under his chin. Squirming out of the squad car with a nightstick in his gloved hand, he kicked the driverâs door shut with the heel of his riot boot. He was breathing heavily and unhappily remembering heâd forgotten to put on his nicotine patch that morning. He looked to his left and to his right as he stomped over to the cement walk that led to Lonely Boyâs front
Chapter Eight
T reat Street, where it split off from the Harrison Street artery, was a dusty jungle of two-storied row houses, pastel aluminum and plyboard live-work lofts and weed-ridden vacant lots filled with abandoned cars, plus a crop of dead trees planted in the sidewalk next to the occasional warehouse. Garbage was piled up on the pavement in picturesque heaps. The potholes in the roadbed were ankle deep. Homeless winos napped sprawled on the cement. BMWâs and Land Rovers, fleets of them, hogged every available parking space. Wealthy white people dwelled there. Some Mexicans, too.
A few years ago, no one wanted to live on Treat Street. Not even the junkies. A dog wouldnât lay down to die there. Nowadays Silicon Valley magnates were moving in, thinking zip of laying out a million dollars for one of the decrepit turn-of-the-century Edwardian Victorians on the block. You could almost comprehend their logicâliving on Treat Street was far better than a mortgage in one of San Joseâs suburban wastes.
Lonely Boyâs ramshackle unpainted home overgrown with bougainvillea brambles was the third building from the bodega at the cornerâit stood out like a stiff
middle finger to real estate speculators. You couldnât say it was a Victorian, though at one time it had been. The house was tilted, sinking in on its own foundation. Cardboard slats were stuffed in the broken windows; a mountain of beer cans were rusting on the browned front lawn. Rap en Espanol was blasting from the living room. Two late model Hondas sat on cinder blocks in the oil-soaked gravel driveway. The telephone lines in front of the place were laden with blackbirds cawing loudly.
Double-parked next to Lonely Boyâs house was a beat up black and white police squad car. In the front seat was a cop on solo patrol, a member of an elite unit investigating the Mara Salvatrucha. A hard-nosed, muscular, twenty-seven-year-old Jewish cop nicknamed Zets because of his lousy complexionâhis skin resembled the surface of the moon up close. Zets was broad in the hips, waist and shoulders and bald with a pugnacious forehead.
He had the disposition of a bulldog on amphetamines, and was ambitious. Some cops had a decent attitude toward the lowlife in the Missionâthey wouldnât push you around if you kept out of their way. Zets was as heartless as a public bathroom. He just didnât like people. Which made him no different than a lot of folks in the neighborhood.
Aside from a Filipino kid riding by on his bicycle, Treat Street was a vista of yesterdayâs newspapers strewn on the macadam. A very pregnant calico cat slithered across the asphalt, shimmying under a parked car. Zets glanced at Lonely Boyâs crib, certain his man was at home. He removed his riot helmet to admire his hairdo in the
rearview mirror. Most policeman modeled conservative hair stylings like your traditional crewcut, though a majority of the old-timers went for the flattop-with-fenders style. Others preferred the anti-semitic skinhead cut, big with the ladies. Zets had gone overboard by giving himself a mohawk. The outcome had been tragic. The mohawk, waxed with an unguent, refused to remain spiky, due to the riot helmet, and looked like a polyester throw rug.
He inspected the dents in his riot helmet, reminding him of all the times heâd banged it trying to get out of the car. Then he slid it over his head and strapped it under his chin. Squirming out of the squad car with a nightstick in his gloved hand, he kicked the driverâs door shut with the heel of his riot boot. He was breathing heavily and unhappily remembering heâd forgotten to put on his nicotine patch that morning. He looked to his left and to his right as he stomped over to the cement walk that led to Lonely Boyâs front
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