Death Walks Skid Row Page 4

  From the sidewalk, the Governor watched the altercation with little interest. What interested him more was the fact that a police car was pulled up to the curb across the street in front of a sundry shop. The officer behind the wheel made no effort to follow the pickup, even though it had run the light and its driver had harassed a pedestrian. Street people were not really considered pedestrians, the Governor knew. Instead they were obstacles. But what was the cruiser doing here?

  The Governor felt a presence beside him and glanced over to see Aspen standing there. In the days since poor Jim’s murder he had not seen much of the younger man. Maybe he’d upset the kid by not exonerating him of murder. But the Governor didn’t seriously suspect Aspen of the killing.

  He had other suspicions regarding him.

  “Hey, what’s up?” the Governor asked glancing down at Aspen’s hands. Today they were filthy, almost too filthy, as though they had been deliberately soiled.

  “Where do people who get all those walkers come from?” Aspen asked, casually, watching the old man drag himself down the sidewalk.

  The Governor shrugged. “Missions. Churches. Who knows? Maybe there’s some foundation that provides them to shelters. I probably won’t know for certain until I need one.”

  “I hope I never do.”

  “Hope is a beautiful thing,” the Governor said softly. “Where you been keepin’ yourself?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, I found a place to stay over on Gladys. Not too bad.”

  “Residential hotel?”

  “Yeah.”

  The Governor smiled. “When did you move in?”

  Aspen held his hand up over his eyes in an attempt to shade them from the sun. “I don’t know, maybe a week and a half ago, first of the month. Why?”

  “Let’s get in the shade,” the Governor said, walking the younger man next to the side of a building which offered them some protection from the direct sunlight. “My guess is you’re paid up for the month, right?”

  “Yeah, I, uh, came into enough money to cover it. Why?”

  “Because you’re going to be out on the twenty-eighth.”

  Aspen looked at the man who was the closest thing to a friend he had on the streets. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s called the ‘28-Day Shuffle’, son. Once you live somewhere more than thirty days you establish legal residency and certain rights kick in. The fine businessmen that own all these dumps around here know that, so they make sure you don’t stay longer than twenty-eight days. They find a way to evict you.”

  “But I’ve paid up for the entire month!” Aspen protested.

  “So what? Who are you going to complain to? They’ll come to you and say you didn’t pay them enough, or you’re a nuisance, or you’ve given the joint lice, or you’re doing drugs, or you’re a pimp, or whatever. They’ll force you to leave, at gunpoint if necessary. Then they’ll tell you – out of the goodness of their heart, of course – of a place you might want to try the next time you’ve got the cash, and you’ll go there and take a room, and in twenty-eight days you’re out again, and that landlord will recommend you to another of his friends. And so it goes.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Aspen asked.

  “Sure. So’s murder.”

  But wouldn’t it be sweet, the governor thought, if those cops in the car over there were not waiting for any of us to do something, but preparing to bust one of the sharks who own buildings down here? “Nah,” he uttered aloud, shaking his head.

  “What?” Aspen asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Just be forewarned, is all.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got experience in the matter.”

  “Kid, experience is about all I do have.”

  After a moment of quiet Aspen asked, “You want some breakfast?”

  “What?”

  The younger man pulled a bag from his trouser pocket and opened it up to reveal almond cookies inside. “There’s a bakery a block over sells ’em a dozen for a buck. Seems like the best food deal down here.”

  The Governor nodded and took one, and from the corner of his eye, caught the police cruiser across the street beginning to move. It crawled past and then threw a U, and pulled up to the curb right beside them.

  The policeman driving the cruiser got out and approached them. “What are you fellows up to?” he asked.

  “Why are you asking?” Aspen replied, but the Governor shushed him by putting a hand on his arm.

  “Up to nothing, officer,” the Governor answered. “Just eating cookies and wishing for milk.”

  “Uh-huh. You live around here?”

  “What is this?” Aspen said.

  The Governor squeezed the younger man’s arm harder. “Around, yeah,” he told the officer.”

  “Okay. Well, stay out of trouble.”

  “Always do.”

  The cop rushed back to the cruiser, and got in and pulled away.

  “How can they do that?” Aspen asked indignantly. “Treat us like we’re criminals, like we’ve done something wrong. What gives them the right to hassle us like that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know … their uniforms, maybe? The fact that the courts are on their side?”

  “Well, it’s not right.”

  “Son, you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The Governor asked the question and Aspen’s face fell.

  “Hey, man, you’re wrong about that.”

  “I don’t think so. You’ve put up an okay act, but you’re not really one of us.”

  “How’d you find out?” he asked.

  “Remember after you found the body, and that detective looked at our hands? You talked about washing the blood and dirt off.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ve been out here for quite some time now, longer than I once thought was possible, and I’ve gotten to know an awful lot of folks out here with me. In my experience the last thing anyone living on Skid Row would think about is washing their hands. You want to know why?”

  Aspen shrugged. “You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Mm-hmm. Because for all the time I’ve been here, I’ll be damned if I could think of a place to go and do it. There aren’t any public restrooms here. Hotels won’t let you in if you don’t flop there. Restaurants always claim their bathrooms are out of order. There aren’t even any fountains anywhere.”

  “Stores have got bottled water, don’t they?” Aspen asked.

  “Son, on any given day most of us are so damn thirsty that we drink anything we find that’s liquid. Buy good water to pour over your hands? Down here no one in their right mind, and several that aren’t, would do that. There’s another sign you’re a fake, too.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “The way you get your back up any time you’re getting questioned by a cop, like you’re still paying taxes for their salaries. Down here, you don’t get indignant.”

  “Indignant? Kind of a fancy word for a bum, isn’t it?”

  The Governor looked at him a long time, then said, “Son, I may live on Skid Row, but I wasn’t born on Skid Row. I learned a lot of fancy words when I was a young man. Anyway, if you want to live on the streets, and only the Lord knows why you do, you learn to treat the police with respect. And don’t think it matters that you look like Mr. Wonderbread, all blond hair and blue-eyed. In fancy parts of the city, being a white boy might make a difference, but down here we’re all the same color. Street color. Skid Row is the last American melting pot, and we’ve all melted together.”

  “So just because I don’t like cops much you think I’m a faker?”

  The Governor took a bite of the almond cookie and smiled as he chewed. “Something else, too,” he said. “In a place where people fight over food, you share it. Makes me want to love you, son, but if that doesn’t prove you don’t belong here, I don’t know what does.”

  “You share your money with others.”

  “That’s different.”

 
“How is it different?”

  “What I do isn’t your concern,” the Governor snapped. “I just want you to think about what I said and take care of yourself while you’re here, before you go back to where you really belong.”

  Aspen sighed. “Has anyone else figured this out?”

  “I haven’t told anyone. I doubt anybody else cares. But I am curious why someone would willingly take up residence at the last station stop before oblivion. That’s another fancy word, in case you missed it.”

  “I’m doing research,” the young man said.

  “For what?”

  “I’d rather not say, though if I’m successful, it might bring awareness to the plight of the homeless in Los Angeles. It might make a difference.”

  “If you say so. I’ll see you later, son.”

  “I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind,” Aspen said.

  As the two trudged down the street, a woman suddenly appeared out of an alley. Her hair was a mess, several front teeth were missing, and she was topless. She laughed lasciviously and called, “I can give it to you, blondie … best y’ever had.”

  The Governor sighed. “Come on, Lucy, the boy’s off limits.”

  “Go to hell!” Lucy cried.

  “Can’t, we’re already here. C’mon now, there’s cops out here. Go get some clothes on before you get arrested again.”

  “Let ’em try!” she shouted.

  “Yeah, let ’em try. Come along now, I’ll find you something to wear.”

  As gently as possible, the Governor guided the woman back into the alley and the two of them disappeared from view.

  He’s definitely an interesting case, thought the young man who had not quite gotten used to thinking of himself as “Aspen”. He was not even from Colorado, had never even been there, but Aspen was a lot better street tag than his real name.

  Everyone here had secrets.

  But having been made by a street guy, even one who seemed far more aware than the normal Skid Row bum, he realized his time on the street was most likely over. He’d already gotten what he needed after all.

  The young man known as Aspen started back for his motel, and it wasn’t a fleabag on Gladys Street like he’d told the old man they called the Governor. That was just a ruse. His place was quite a bit nicer, since his employer was paying for it. He was particularly looking forward to a hot shower.

  The dirt was the worst part of going undercover on Skid Row.

  Even worse than the death.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ramona Rios was normally not one to sleep late, but there seemed to be little reason to get up. Not today, not yesterday, not since she had managed to argue her way out of a job. Her first day of official unemployment had been spent not getting far from her phone, convinced that Robert Bauman was going to call and say it had all been a mistake, and please come back to work.

  But that call had not come. Nor had any communication from the station’s legal department, scheduling an exit meeting and discussing the termination of her contract. She had heard nothing, not from management, not from anyone on the crew, not from the other staffers.

  Nor had there been any announcement about her leaving, nothing in the Times, nothing in Variety, nothing in Broadcast and Cable.

  It was almost as though she had imagined the entire incident, as if she hadn’t worked at the station in the first place.

  The only comforting word had come from her mother, who would have been justified in being upset by the situation since Ramona’s loss of income directly affected her support as well. But all her mom had said was, “Don’t worry, Monita; the big jobs always come with big disappointments.”

  Gestating anger over her situation propelled her out of bed, just as it had all the days in the previous week. Ramona glanced at the digital clock on her dresser and read the time: 8:37 a.m. Once, she would have already been out in the field, made up and on camera live at this time. But that was then.

  And it will be again, she thought.

  Throwing her robe over her sheer nightgown (which she wore only for comfort, since there was no one else to appreciate it), Ramona stumbled through her apartment door and down to the lobby of her building to get her paper.

  Nobody noticed her there either.

  On the way back to her apartment, Ramona scanned the front page and saw the teaser at the bottom of the front page: ‘Henry expected to enter race.’ The actual story was on B-1.

  Great, Ramona thought, they’re finally holding a Puto of the Year contest.

  It was not until after she had finished her breakfast, showered, and dressed that she got around to reading the California section of the paper and found the article. Ramona could not keep from shaking her head as she read:

  ‘State Assemblyman and former actor Adam Henry is expected to announce today his candidacy for the office of Mayor of Los Angeles, at a press conference held in Downtown this afternoon, sources close to the Assemblyman say. He is attempting to unseat Mayor Alberto Soto, who took office on a reform campaign in 2001 and who is running for a second term.

  The decision to throw his hat into the already hotly-contested mayoral race was not unexpected, though Henry’s office in recent weeks had been coy as to the Sherman Oaks’ Democrat’s intentions. “Assemblyman Henry feels that he has been treated very, very well by Los Angeles, and he is anxious to give something back to the city,” says Kerry Stryker, spokeswoman for Henry’s last campaign, who has remained an advisor to the 54-year-old relative newcomer to politics.

  While Henry’s political team is remaining quiet regarding future political ambitions, some observers see this decision to seek one of the nation’s highest-profile municipal positions as the first step in a quest for the Governor’s Mansion in Sacramento and, beyond that, national political recognition.’

  Isn’t that just swell? Ramona Rios thought. With Henry as Mayor of L.A., nothing would stand in the way of people like Nick Cantone and keep them from consuming the heart of the city like a succubus. And there was nothing she could do about it. Not now.

  Or was there?

  Ramona suddenly went “on point,” which was her own term for those moments when she suddenly saw a situation appear before her in total clarity, revealing itself in bright neon colors and Dolby sound. Was Cantone somehow involved in her dismissal from the station? Had she managed to step on the toes of the unofficial ruler of Los Angeles and gotten herself pushed out for it? She couldn’t believe Bauman would stoop to such blatant intimidation from a member of the community, even an incredibly rich one, but Hulme was another story; Jason Hulme would eat out of someone’s cat litter box if there was a way it would turn around and benefit him in the future. That had to be it. That had to be the answer. She had not been pressured to up and quit for insubordination. She had been forced out for asking too many tough questions of a man who had connections everywhere in the city, even, apparently, to newsrooms.

  For the first time in a week, Ramona Rios felt really good. For the first time, she realized that she had lost her job for doing the right thing.

  Not that she could make any of this stick in court. Ramona was not the egomaniac that some people made her out to be. She knew that she had ruffled feathers at KPAC. She also knew it was the only way to get ahead.

  But what could she do now? She was off the air, and no one seemed to notice.

  That was when the solution hit her, causing her to laugh out loud in her empty apartment.

  No one noticed.

  So for all anyone else knew, she was still working for KPAC!

  Ramona scanned the newspaper article again for information regarding Henry’s impending press conference, but found none. No matter; she had ways of finding out where it would be held. She still had plenty of contacts in the news business. It took only two quick calls to get all the information she needed.

  It came as no surprise to Ramona that Henry’s announcement was going to be made at the site of the press conference for Phoenix Terrace. She had been
tipped off that the revitalization of blighted areas was going to be the centerpiece of Henry’s campaign, which was no doubt being paid for by the people who would benefit financially from that revitalization.

  ****

  Upon her arrival at the site, over which were crawling a couple dozen reporters, milling about in circles like so many scout ants, Ramona noticed that once again the location appeared to be free of any of the thousands of homeless who lived in the area. Looking around, she noticed that each corner of the block was being patrolled by a uniformed officer, which she first took to be LAPD. But upon closer inspection, even from a distance, the uniforms were not quite right, not regulation. Each team of men appeared to operate from cars parked on both sides of the street, and the cars were not police black-and-whites. It had to be a private security force.

  Who’s paying for this? Ramona wondered.

  A small press check-in table had been set up under a green parasol, and Ramona got in the line for it. A woman who had clearly once been a local beauty queen somewhere in America was checking names off the list. Here goes, Ramona thought, when it came her turn to approach the table.

  “Hi,” the woman said with false cheer. “Your name?”

  “Rios, R-I-O-S.”

  “Rios,” the woman repeated, looking over the list of names. Then she frowned. “I don’t seem to have you listed here.”

  “Oh, Jeez, don’t tell me they forgot again!” Ramona bluffed. “This has to be an oversight.”

  “Uh, the thing is, Ms. Rios, but I really can’t let you in if you’re not on the list.”

  Ramona smiled. “Who can I talk to about this?”

  “Well, you see, the only person here right now is me, and—”

  A voice came from behind her: “Is there a problem, Ramona?”