Kings of the Street

PROLOGUE

The ship was making good time despite the rough water the approaching storm had dispatched upon them. Gil had never quite gotten used to the pitch and roll. On days like these he found his shift tense and exhausting, filled with his own muttering prayers for safe passage, and more than a few exaltations to the powers above that had nothing to do with religion. The dinner tables in the salon are set with the ship’s best china and clearing them without breakage under these conditions was, at the very least, a test of one’s balance, if not athleticism. He had already had several losses extracted from his paycheck, and admonitions from the Maître d’ and Purser to go along with them. It didn’t help that the Maître d’ was his old friend from home, Wesley Dennison. Wesley had helped Gil get this job. A job he badly needed. Most of his paycheck was sent to his mother to help with the expenses of raising his three siblings, he hoped. He could only pray that his father wasn’t drinking away the lifeline Gil had struggled so hard to give them. So Gil, never having been comfortable moving his own girth even on dry land, found rising seas to be the replacement for the schoolyard bullies who had plagued him as a youth.

From his position at the entrance, Wesley spotted Gil weaving through the salon, white faced and sweating, balancing an overloaded tray of china and glassware precariously on his shoulder. The ship rolled left and Gil found himself with only one foot on the floor. When it rolled back it took him two quick side steps to regain control of the load, barely missing an oblivious Salvador Dali, who was seated with his back to the aisle. But his table mates let out an audible gasp when they saw the pudgy busboy and his load headed their way.

Oh Jesus Gil said breathlessly.

Wesley saw a woman from the Dali table gesturing anxiously in his direction with her napkin, so he made his way over.

Good evening, Madame. Wesley said as smoothly as he could muster.

That fat boy nearly dumped his entire tray on Mr. Dali. Then he took the Lord’s name in vain. It’s all very unnerving. I think you ought to have a word with him.

I most certainly will, Madame. Thank you for informing me. I apologize for any offense Wesley said and headed off to the kitchen.

There he found Gil loading a tray with hot dinners and cocktails for delivery into the salon.

Gil, are you OK? You’re even more white than usual. He said with a slight grin.

Yes I’m fine, Wesley. Thanks. It’s just, you know, we’re moving around a lot tonight. And I’m trying to be extra careful.

OK, but you’re also trying to do too much. That last tray you brought in was overloaded and you nearly lost it.

Oh, you saw that? Well, …

And Gil, one of the passengers heard you swear. You need to be careful about that.

I did not swear, Wesley. Gil said defensively.

Gil, even I heard you say ‘Oh Jesus’ when you nearly fell out there.

Oh, yes. I said that. Is that considered swearing Wesley? I mean, in my house that’s nothing.

Yes, Gil, that is swearing. Next time you get startled say nothing, or ‘Oh my’ or something like that.

Alright, Wesley. I understand. I’ll do better.

Alright then, Gil. Now don’t overload that tray. Make two trips if you have to, or get someone to help you.

Oh, well I only have two more items for this tray. I’ll be fine.

Don’t push it, Gil.

OK, Wesley. Thanks for the advice. I’ll do better, I promise.

Alright, then. I have to get back up front. I’ll see you at end of shift.

OK. See you then, buddy.

Wesley had returned to his position at the entrance to the salon and was monitoring the business at hand when he saw Gil emerge from the kitchen. He immediately became concerned when he saw that one of the last two items that Gil had added to his serving tray was a seafood cioppino for two which came served in a soup tureen. He was making his way to Gil to help him manage the tray when the ship pitched forward. This had the effect of stalling Wesley’s forward progress, but worse, accelerated Gil’s forward progress directly toward a table of ten wealthy Texas oil tycoons and their wives. Wesley suppressed the urge to shout at Gil knowing it was already too late. The contents of the tray traveled forward and Gil could not keep up. In his attempt to maintain control he was raising his arms, which were unfortunately positioned at the back of the tray, having the effect of actually pushing the tray and its contents up and away from him, and toward the center of the Texans. Wesley could see the quizzical looks on the faces of the Texans seated with their back to Gil as their dinner partners, seated across from them, looked on in panic at the maelstrom hurtling toward them.

The crashing of plates, the screaming of the afflicted, and the breaking of glass, together, were loud enough to cause the Meyer Davis Orchestra to stop playing dinner music and for all eyes in the salon to train on the episode.

When the clatter finally stopped, and with the entire attendance of the salon looking at him alone, Gil said Oh my.

Wesley did not meet with Gil at the end of their shift because he had been summoned to the Purser’s office. With head down and one finger raised in the air, Purser Vance Oswald kept Wesley next to his desk in silence while he continued the record keeping he had been doing when Wesley arrived. Only when he had double checked the sum of the column of numbers he had been adding did he look up at Wesley, removed his reading glasses and said That clod destroyed a $279 meal and incurred a yet to be known dry cleaning expense. At this rate he will owe us money before we reach port. I suggest you either throw him overboard or confine him to quarters before he inflicts further damage to the ship, the passengers, the crew, our reputation, or all of the above in some sort of bananas foster pyrotechnic display that will be spoken of in hushed tones for generations to come.

I’m sorry, Mr. Oswald. Truly I am. But staffing is tight and I can’t afford to go a man down.

"I too am sorry Mr. Dennison, for I seem to not have made myself clear. The passengers have made it be known that they do not wish to experience the likes of your friend Gil again on their very expensive adventure across the seas. The cruise director was here to make sure I understood the situation. The heads of several tour groups have voiced concern for the safety of their clients. The Captain came to visit me to find out just what was going on regarding this menace. Is the picture clearing up for you Mr. Dennison?"

Yes sir, Mr. Oswald. It’s just that Gil is a hard worker, and loyal employee. In some measure this is my fault because I gave him too much responsibility too fast. Perhaps I could find another less, um, public position for Gil. Say, well, late night room service perhaps.

Sack the bastard, Wesley.

I’m sorry, sir? Did you say sack him?

Yes Wesley. Sack him. Confine him to quarters until we reach port then offload him through baggage. That will be all. Purser Oswald placed his glasses midway upon his nose and turned back to the ledger.

Wesley stood silently considering his options, and made no motion to leave. Almost as if reading his mind, Purser Oswald slowly stood up, reaching a height several inches taller than Wesley. He removed his glasses and leaned directly into Wesley’s face and said Wesley, I know he is your friend. A pity for you really. Do not let this ruin you, too. The paper work is already underway. He is done. Either he hears it from a friend, or you will both hear your termination from me. I am only going to address this once with you. Question me on this and your ride is over, too. Do you understand?

Yes sir, Mr. Oswald. Sorry to consume your time, sir. I’ll get it done post haste. Good day, sir. With that, Wesley did an about face and headed for the nearest brisk night air he could find.

***

In 1996 Gil sat watching the evening news on television as usual. Two beers into a six beer evening the story about the arrival of the S.S. United States in Philadelphia came on.

Well I’ll be godamned! he said aloud, to no one in particular. As the news footage played and the story of the grand old ship was relayed to the Philadelphia audience, Gil began yelling Son! Get in here now, lard ass. You gotta see this!

As usual, Gil’s son had sequestered himself into his room and tried to avoid contact with his old man. Contact with Gil was never good. But the bellowing continued and was getting even more excited as the end of the story grew closer so he begrudgingly made his way into the living room with his father.

See that there? See that ship? I used to work on that ship.

Oh yeah, Gil? Is that the United States? addressing his father by his first name just to piss him off.

Damn straight it is. Beauty ain’t she?

Looks like a rust bucket to me. he said. Of course, if his father had said she looked awful, he would have admired her lines. And so it was, everyday, in their house.

Did I ever tell you about the job I had on that ship? Best summer of my life until …

… until what’s his name Dennison stole it all away from you. Yeah, Gil. I’ve heard it a hundred times. You’re going senile, old man. Same fucking stories all the time.

Hey watch your mouth, asshole. I can still kick your ass.

Maybe if your ass wasn’t molded to the goddamn Barcalounger, you could take me.

At that, his father made a feint move to get out of the chair and his son went scurrying back to his room.

That Dennison is a back stabbing mother fucker, boy! Gil yelled. Then to himself. Yeah. I coulda’ been riding that beauty all over the world. Coulda’ got laid by island girls. But that son of a bitch sent me back home when I got too close to his job. Prick. Yelling again Now I’m stuck here with you. You wouldn’t even be here if your mother swallowed!

I pray to God that I wouldn’t be here unless we had a mail man, asshole! he muttered to himself and slammed his bedroom door.

CHAPTER 1

The humidity in Camden is only one in a long list of factors that make it an oppressive place to live. It’s located on low ground between the Cooper and Delaware rivers, sitting directly across from Philly, moping like a sick kid not included in the game.

I have a Participant living at Whitman and Rose. Every time I go there it reminds me of that day. Anybody living or working in Camden at the time remembers that day. It was comparatively glorious, with breezes flowing from the north keeping the air dry and cool. I was making my rounds. I could see that the city was responding as if a breath of life had been proffered by God. On that day, collectively, we hoped the seething turmoil of violence that boils so close to the surface would take a respite. With that hope, the city’s young and old took to the streets in numbers. Humor was high. Neighbors’ yelling to each other was followed by laughter instead of profanity. Children were playing. Music filled the air in every neighborhood. For some it’s Shakira, for others it’s Snoop, but still, life in Camden appeared much the same as it might have been forty, fifty, even eighty years ago, when my family, and thousands of European immigrant families like them, lived and played in these same neighborhoods and homes, each then, playing their own music too. Of course, Camden has not aged gracefully. It’s now one of America’s poorest cities. A literal dumping ground for the surrounding towns, taking in their trash, scrap and sewage. On most days the humidity traps the stench that’s hanging in the air and turns it into a foul, acrid taste.

On Brandon’s block, not far from where I happened to be working, the older boys were hanging at the corner. Girls jumped rope in the street, and bicycles and skateboards abounded. It was a big day for Brandon because his mother had allowed him to ride his Big Wheel between his house, in the middle of the block, and his cousin’s house just around the corner. The bright orange and yellow tricycle flashed back and forth on the sidewalk as fast as Brandon’s four year old legs could pedal. The grinding sound of that oversized front wheel was outdone only by Brandon’s shrill, excited laughter. His mother watched on, smiling and laughing with him. She cheered and clapped each return trip as if he had broken yet another speed record.

The Camden streets are narrow, and cars line both sides. The boy with the backpack, riding a trick-bike through the neighborhood, didn’t warrant a second glance. When asked after the fact, the neighbors recalled having seen him cycling around, aware that this was not his block, but they didn’t recall anything suspicious. In these parts, it safer not to. The boy rode his bike past Brandon’s house and around the same corner toward which Brandon was headed. It is not likely that Brandon saw the boy on the bike, for the cars blocking his view. The older boys on the corner paid little mind to the boy on the bike as he coasted past. They were hailing welcomes to their friend, approaching from the opposite direction in jeans and a blue bandana, his colors.

The boy on the bike circled back, jumped the curb onto the sidewalk at the corner opposite the group, and rode another twenty feet. There he dropped his bike to the ground, squatted behind a parked car, removed his backpack and from it produced two 9mm semiautomatic hand guns. He rose from behind the car and began firing. One gun in each hand turned sideways, as he had seen in the movies. Perhaps that is why his shots sprayed wildly along the street. It takes little strength to pull the trigger compared to the strength required to steady the recoil of one, let alone two, guns of that firepower. At least one of the older boys at the corner, and his approaching friend in the bandana, had come out on that beautiful day fully armed. They returned fire as the others scrambled.

Sadly, at four years old Brandon knew gunfire when he heard it. He decided to abandon his Big Wheel and run for home, screaming a shrill that cut through the explosions around him. He screamed for his mother as he retreated.

Brandon’s mother heard the gunfire erupt from around the corner, looked the length of the street where Brandon had been riding and knew he was in danger. She ran towards the gunfire, against the tide of her neighbors running away.

Brandon made it to within ten feet of the corner before the bullet found the side of his young, close shaven head. Brandon’s mother made it to the corner in time to see that shot fired. In time to look into the eyes of the boy that killed her baby, but not in time to reach Brandon before his final breath. It was her primal scream that disrupted the shooters.

The boy mounted his bike and rode coolly out of the neighborhood. The two boys that returned fire, seeing Brandon motionless, ran the opposite way down the street, hurtling over Brandon’s broken four year old body on the way. Brandon’s mother was nearly knocked down.

But for the wailing of a young mother losing her baby boy, the neighborhood was silent. A long several minutes later, the silence was broken by the sound of distant sirens. The neighbors began to migrate to the scene.

Thirty shots had been fired in less than one minute. Thirty shots across a twenty foot street, between three hostile combatants. One four year old child lay dead. No one else was injured.

Naturally, the city was saddened. Behind a too late police presence, TV and newspaper reporters swarmed into a neighborhood they normally would speed to escape. Righteous indignation filled the news cycle. How could this happen? Why did this happen?

The truth is simple. Despite the city’s crushing poverty, there is a staggering amount of money flowing through the streets. It is estimated that the illegal drug trade, mostly heroin, cocaine and marijuana, generates half a billion dollars per year. The competition for money-making turf is fierce. Camden is annually ranked among the five most dangerous cities in the country. It holds the distinction of being number one in both 2004 and 2005, edging out such contemporaries as St. Louis, Missouri, Detroit and Flint, Michigan and Compton, California.

I don’t know what Camden will rank this year, but as of early August, there have been 36 killings. An ominous sign, especially considering we haven’t hit the peak of the summer season yet. How could this happen on this day? Why did this happen on this day? We may never know. But we do know that violence begets violence, and reason and rationale are as much victims as the human toll. There will be more.

That night I tried to continue my rounds. I found traffic detoured around a makeshift Teddy Bear memorial placed at the location of Brandon’s death. The ongoing candlelight vigil punctuated the end of a day for which the neighborhood had such high hopes. A half block away I jammed my car awkwardly into a too small parking space and hit on the flashers. I walked up to the vigil. I saw my guy, Tyree, with candle in hand, singing along with the hymn. He acknowledged me with a nod as I moved in next to him, but he continued to sing along. Tyree and I both knew he was violating curfew. I said, what for me passes as a silent prayer as the hymn played out.

The moment I closed my eyes, there was Jefferson Winstead again, ashen beside me in that Camden gutter. As always he whispers imploringly, ‘I’m cold.’ There is a crimson pool between us. Mustering all my strength I wheeze ‘Me too.’ I snap my eyes open quickly and let out a huff. I had a cold sweat seeping at my hairline.

Tyree gave me a sideways glance. Regaining my composure I put my hand on Tyree’s back. When he looked at me again I tapped my watch. He nodded. I returned to my car.

Now I have Tyree’s cousin, Jamel, on the program. Living with his Aunt, Tyree’s mother. He’s my next stop.

CHAPTER 2

The sound is unmistakable. The crackling staccato buzz and click of eight hundred thousand volts arcing between metal studs. The next sounds are inevitable. A screaming plea for mercy followed by a strangled grunt. Panting when the buzz stops. Prayers that it doesn’t happen again. Pleading just before it does. But the sound after that, the high child-like giggle, is at once incongruous and unsettling.

Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle

The cycle repeats.

That’s enough, you maniac.

Fuck you, crip. This is the deal.

You watch your mouth fat man! I can still kick your ass.

The only light in the dingy room is coming from a set of small windows set high in the wall. The smell of urine and mildew permeate the room. The man is bound to a support pole in the middle of the clammy 20 by 25 foot space. The hemp twine binding his wrists is cutting into the skin, but that’s the least of his worries. The man leering at him has sweat rolling down his forehead and a sickly, yellow-toothed grin.

No! No! What you want man? Let me go. I’ll do anything.

Yeah – that’s it. I like it when you beg.

Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle.

Oh shit, he passed out.

Good, then let’s get the fuck out of here.

But I’m not done yet. He’s still staring down at the heap before him.

The blast jolts him. The flash lights the room. The crimson and gray spatter confuses him. He spins on the other man to find the weapon being holstered.

Now you’re done.

***

Lester’s bad day had begun twenty-four hours earlier.

The yellow-toothed man had pounded on his door. Lester! Crudwell! Open up!

After a moment a drug-raddled woman, maybe 50, maybe 25, wearing only a worn, over-sized tee-shirt, opened the door. What you want?

Lester. I want Lester. Get him.

Ain’t no Lester here.

Don’t fuck with me, skank. He better be here or I’m going to call the ‘Po-lees’ and they’ll search this shit hole until they find him, or anything else you don’t want them to know about. Now GET LESTER.

She muttered Fuggin’ as’ole, as she moved away from the door.

First there was muffled conversation, then yelling, then a baby cry. The slamming of doors and drawers. Lester clumsily made his way to the door, pulling on pants as he moved. What was once a white but now graying, sleeveless tee shirt covered his malnourished frame.

Oh. Din’t ‘spec you here.

Lester, listen to me closely now. Focus that mud between your ears for one minute. You need to make a choice right now. I have a job for you. If you’ll take the job, it will keep your black ass out of jail, for a while anyway, and you can come home to your little Green Acres here. You follow?

There followed a long moment of blinking vacant eyes as Lester stared at the yellow-toothed man. His mouth was making an O shape, and he rocked slightly back and forth as Lester fought to think. Finally, Lester answered, Huh, OK. When do I start?

Right now, dipshit. We go right now.

Wha? Uh, I don’t think now is a good time for me to do no work.

Jesus H. Christ, Lester. What don’t you fucking understand? Now is not a good time for the police to show up either, is it? So put on some shoes and let’s go. The man with the job is waiting.

More blinking yellow eyes. Then a quick double nod of assertion. A slow turn back into the room, the thought of finding shoes nearly causing smoke to billow from Lester’s ears.

I’ll be in the car, Lester, the man said, shaking his head in disgust as he made his way off the stoop.

***

When they arrived at the abandoned row house, the yellow-toothed man instructed Lester where to go. Then he sat and watched to make sure the ragged junkie could manage to muster enough concentration to complete the thirty-second walk. Once Lester made it inside, he punched the accelerator on the car hard enough to tease his deep-rooted desire to abuse.

The room was completely dark except for the bit of ambient lighting seeping in from outside. As Lester passed through the door he weakly called out, Huh-lo?

Hello, Lester, a smooth baritone responded. It took a moment for Lester to locate the source, but a glint off something silvery caught his attention. As his eyes adjusted to the deep darkness of the room, he realized with a start who it was that he was here to meet.

You know me Lester? It was only a half a question, more of an assertion really.

Yessuh, I think I do. It’s been a long time. Lester could feel his heart rate rising, cloudy questions forming in the haze of his consciousness, a warning making its way to his attention by way of a slow boat.

Yes, it has, the baritone responded. Last time I saw you I didn’t need this, he said as he rocked forward in his seat, placing his substantial weight on the head of an ornately decorated, silver topped cane. He pushed himself to a standing position with a wince he tried to hide, but which Lester could see even in the gloom. You used to be a good customer, Lester.

As the man approached, Lester could see the labor in each step. Heh, was, yeah. Long time. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man, fearing him as if his condition made him even more dangerous. Um, I’m here for a job?

Truth is, Lester we’re looking out for you by bringing you here. We know you won’t do well on a long stretch. And, see, that man who brought you here, well, he owes me. You can be the payback, so this is a win, win, win. Everybody goes home happy. Understand Lester?

Actually Lester didn’t follow at all, but he nodded anyway.

Sit down Lester, and I’ll explain the job.

***

The spotter called in the location. The driver brought Lester to the intersecting side street. The crack they had given him was amping him up. He was thinking, Dis is easy. I can do dis.

The driver pulled over to the curb and said, A’ight, dis it. Go nice an easy. Make a lef at da corner; red hoodie. Get out. That was it.

Lester got out and unconsciously started whispering, Dis is easy, dis is easy, over and over. At the corner he stopped. Almost forgot which way he was supposed to go. Left, he whispered to himself, then thought for a moment about which was his left. He looked in both directions at the corner, and then he looked behind him. The ’98 Civic that had delivered him was still there.

Left. Red hoodie, he whispered to himself. He looked left. There it was. Red hoodie. Red hoodie. Red hoodie, he whispered with each step. By now, between the crack and adrenaline, Lester was electrified. He was two steps from Red hoodie when Red hoodie turned to look at him. Lester didn’t even realize he had pulled out the gun, but it was firing, one, two, three shots at Red hoodie. When he heard the yelling around him he started firing randomly, four, five, six shots. Two more people fell. Lester ran ahead to the next corner and made another left in time to see the driver headed toward him.

Brakes squealed. The Civic’s door flung open, the driver screaming, Get in! Get in! Lester hopped inside and the door slammed shut from the acceleration of the car. Lester kept repeating, Red hoodie. Red hoodie, until the driver yelled, Man, shut the fuck up! So he did. Then, Gimme dat gun. He did. Even when the driver dropped him back at the abandoned house, Lester didn’t say a word. He entered the house as he had several hours before. This time Baritone appeared from the kitchen.

Lester, thank you. Good job. Come, have a drink and I’ll pay you.

Lester blankly complied, and headed into the kitchen. It was dark and his eyes were still adjusting when he saw the yellow-toothed man standing next to the doorway. A light exploded behind his eyes, his knees gave out, and he hit the pockmarked linoleum hard. That was the last thing he remembered until he was awakened by a splash of cold water. His head hit a post behind him as he instinctively jerked away. Slowly his environment materialized. His shoulders ached from the pull backwards. His wrists were bound behind him, and it felt like barbed wire was cutting into them. Now he knew he was sitting on a cold, hard floor. The crack was out of his system now and his mind was functioning slowly. The overhead light, though not bright, hurt his eyes nonetheless. As he focused he saw the yellow-toothed man standing over him with a half grin.

How you doing, Lester? the man asked, the anticipation in his voice rendering it nearly falsetto.

What’s, what’s this? I did my job. What’s dis ‘bout? He didn’t recognize the device the man was holding, but he heard first a buzz, then a crackle, and when it touched him the light exploded again. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t scream. He could only convulse.

Buzz; crackle. Plead; grunt. Giggle. Repeat.

CHAPTER 3

The first thing I do at the office is print a Wanted poster for Clifford Sproat and attach it to our Wall of Shame. The huge bulletin board takes up much of one wall inside our small waiting room. It’s covered with two dozen such posters, highlighting the current rogue’s gallery of felons who have fled from the Camden office of New Jersey’s Intensive Supervision Program.

Clifford is one of the guys I supervise, or more accurately, supervised until his sudden departure. He went out to look for work three days ago and never returned home for his 6 p.m. curfew. The next morning, when he still hadn’t returned, I called my boss and a Superior Court judge, and by 10 a.m. Clifford Sproat had joined the ranks of the wanted.

After affixing his mug shot to our bulletin board, I glance at our receptionist, Jennifer, who smiles at me and buzzes the door open while talking to someone on the phone. I walk a few paces then make a left and enter the office that I share with