Every Man a Menace Read online

  Also by Patrick Hoffman

  The White Van

  EVERY MAN

  A MENACE

  Patrick Hoffman

  Copyright © 2016 by Patrick Hoffman

  Cover design by Walter Green

  Author photograph by Sam Bisbee

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First published by Grove Atlantic, October 2016

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2544-6

  eISBN 978-0-8021-9013-0

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  16 17 18 19 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Kathy Coyne

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Patrick Hoffman

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Back Cover

  PART 1

  Getting out of prison is like having a rotten tooth pulled from your mouth: it feels good to have it gone, but it’s hard not to keep touching at that hole. Raymond Gaspar served four years this time. He served them at a place in Tracy called the Deuel Vocational Institution, DVI. The only vocation he learned was making sure the drugs kept moving. By the time he was done, he’d become something like a football coach. He told the players where to stand, what to do. He wasn’t the head coach. That would be his boss, a man named Arthur.

  Raymond fell in with Arthur because one of his uncles used to associate with him. As soon as Raymond got bounced from San Quentin up to DVI, his uncle told him to find a man named Arthur. Don’t worry, he said. There’ll only be one Arthur on the yard. That ended up being true. Arthur smiled big when he heard who Raymond was.

  It turned out Arthur was a good man to know at DVI. He was big business, and not just there either; he kept a low profile, but his fingers stretched well beyond the yard. He associated as white, but he dealt with blacks and Latins, too; as far as Raymond knew, Arthur was the only man in the California Department of Corrections who could make a call to the Black Guerrila Family or the Aryan Brotherhood and get action from either group. That’s how he was.

  Raymond had been locked up for trying to sell a stolen boat to a man in San Francisco. He had walked right into a police investigation that didn’t have anything to do with him. It was simple bad luck. They wrapped him up outside the garage on Sixth Street. When the cops searched his car they found an ounce of crystal meth. It was a bad day. They had him on tape talking about the boat, which led them to the boat itself, back in a garage in Richmond, and they had the drugs. Two months later, his public defender, a good lawyer, lost a motion to suppress at the preliminary hearing, and Raymond was forced to take a deal: four years.

  Arthur must’ve thought that stolen boat made Raymond something of a businessman. He kept him off the front lines, didn’t use him as muscle, and right off the bat made him a supervisor. It was a fine thing to be doing: make the rounds, see where things were with the supply, let Arthur know that everything was good. He didn’t have to touch the dope, and he didn’t have to play rough either.

  Raymond swore he saw a shine in Arthur’s eyes when he reminded him that his release date was approaching. It was uncharacteristic. “I got a little situation you could help me with,” the older man said. They were sitting near the handball courts in the south yard. A few of Arthur’s men sat near them. Arthur was a big man, with a big head and big shoulders; he sat hunched over with his elbows on his knees. In his country accent—he’d been raised on a horse farm in western Colorado—he explained that he had a little side thing going in San Francisco.

  “I got this lady that buys a little pack of Molly every month and sells it to this other dude. Thirty, forty, fifty pounds a month. Real weight. I set it up—everything’s good. She cuts me a little percentage off the deal each time.” He made a gesture like he was flicking water off his hands. Raymond wanted to ask what kind of percentage, but he didn’t. Arthur told him anyway.

  “Thing is, that ten percent is not enough.” He looked at Raymond like he was confirming his level of interest. Raymond nodded.

  “What I’d like to do is replace at least one of these two parties with you. I mean, unless you’re planning on going straight or some bullshit? Accepting the Lord into your heart?” Raymond shook his head.

  “It’s a complicated situation, though,” Arthur went on. “We can’t just go and push a motherfucker out on this one.” He made his face look like the very idea was distasteful. “Nah, you can’t just push ’em out. I want you to go there and—acquaint yourself with the situation. It’s hard for me to see everything from here.” He pointed at the walls, turned, and looked at Raymond.

  “Go and look?” Raymond asked. He felt a sense of uneasiness come over him.

  “That’s it,” Arthur said. “Just go and look around, get to know these two skunks, see wassup. Do some of that fancy bullshitting you do; make sure this next deal goes through. I’ll cut you half of my ten, put you at thirty thousand or something around there, let you land on your feet. After that, if we gotta do the same shit the next month, we’ll drop it to a quarter of the ten, two-point-five, put you at fifteen or something. It’s not bad.” He smiled; Raymond did, too. Fifteen thousand a month was good.

  Arthur continued: “Even if we don’t make a move, it won’t hurt to have you on the ground. You did your thing in here, man. And I still owe that fucking uncle of yours, so …”

  He held his fist out. Raymond bumped it.

  It felt good to step off that Greyhound bus and put his feet down on Mission Street. It was late in the afternoon, cold and damp around the bus station, but the air smelled clean to Raymond. He walked all the way to the Prita Hotel, on Nineteenth and Mission. He always stayed there when he was in the city. The Prita was the kind of place where you needed to get buzzed in at the front door, then buzzed in again at a second door at the top of some filthy stairs. You talked to the clerk through a dirty Plexiglas window. The hallways smelled like cigarettes and crack smoke. They charged by the day, the week, or the month. The rooms consisted of a bed, a small TV, and a locked door. Raymond paid for a week.

  When he’d gotten his room, Raymond lay down and thought about the situation he was about to get into. Arthur had outlined the arrangement. Gloria Ocampo, a Filipina woman, was bringing the ecstasy in. Every month she got a shipment from some Israelis and sold it to a guy named Shadrack Pullman. Arthur had set the whole deal up, hence the 10 percent cut. “But you gotta watch this chick,” he’d said. “She’s paranoid, nasty, and smart.” He tapped the side of his head
with his pointer finger. “A capital-G Gangster, you understand? Don’t let her looks fool you.”

  Raymond had asked about Shadrack next.

  “Served his time right here,” Arthur said, pointing out at the yard. “He’s all right—you know—a little on the eccentric side. He’s got a little Pomo in him, you know? Indian, Native American. He’s the type of character gonna let you know what he thinks, one way or the other. He don’t keep it close to the chest, but he’s all right.” Arthur waved his hand like Shadrack was nothing to worry about.

  “Truth of the matter is, if we do end up having to move someone, it’s gotta be Shadrack first, ‘cause trying to get rid of Gloria would be like kicking a damn hornets’ nest.” He shook his head like he wasn’t ready for the idea. “You never know, though. Her time might come, too.”

  Raymond asked what he was supposed to say he was doing there.

  “I talk to Gloria somewhat regularly,” Arthur said. “I check in, thank her for her timely payments. Last time she made mention of Shadrack turning eccentric—that’s her word, she called him eccentric—I said, ‘All right, I’ll send someone, have a little talk with the boy, straighten him out.’ She said, ‘No, don’t worry.’ She got a Pinoy accent. I said, ‘No, it’s fine.’ Bottom line, you know, it’s grounds for entry. But you just gotta say your lines, man. Say you’re there watching over my interests, making sure the deal keeps clicking. She’ll probably ask you, you can tell her you getting two-point-five on my ten.”

  Raymond asked if his showing up was going to cause any kind of concern.

  “Maybe so, maybe not,” Arthur said. “But what the fuck they gonna do about it? You’re working for me. Those two aren’t about to make a move on me.”

  Lying there on the bed, Raymond pictured the whole thing. He could handle it. He could make a threat, or follow through on one. But, the way he saw it, the ideal thing would be to let these two carry on. Collect his two-point-five and stay mellow. He didn’t want to kick a hornets’ nest if he didn’t have to.

  A few hours later, Raymond walked up Mission Street and bought himself a prepaid cell phone. The sidewalk was crowded, but he felt tense and lonely. The city had changed. It seemed richer. When he got back to the Prita, he sent a text message to Gloria Ocampo.

  She texted back right away. Said she’d come by at eight. For a brief moment, Raymond wondered what he was getting himself into.

  He had vague plans of using the money he’d make from this job to start something straight. Buy some tools, start working carpentry or something like that. But he wasn’t about to go fully clean. He didn’t really want to leave the grimy life behind. He liked making money from drugs, from illegal shit. It made him feel high. He’d been doing it most of his life, and he wasn’t about to quit now. He didn’t really care for carpentry all that much.

  Gloria Ocampo showed up exactly at eight. She was slightly plump, nothing like Raymond had expected. He had pictured a club girl: skinny, with tight jeans. Gloria was probably in her fifties. She had dark circles under her eyes that made her look tired. But she was still pretty; she dressed nice, and she smelled good, too.

  When she came in she looked the room over like she was making sure nobody else was there. Then she walked to the one window and looked out into the light well.

  “You just got out?” she asked, turning back around. She had a strong accent, just like Arthur had said.

  “Just today,” Raymond said, feeling a wave of embarrassment at the poorness of the room. He wiped at his face.

  Gloria dug into her inside jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. When she handed it to Raymond he saw that there were three hundred-dollar bills inside—crisp and clean, the faces up.

  “That’s all I have now, but I give you more later,” she said.

  Raymond shrugged and put the money in his back pocket. He realized he was thirsty, and licked his lips. He wanted to ask Gloria if she was Arthur’s girlfriend, but he worried that she’d think he was hitting on her. He looked at her body instead, imagined having sex with her, then looked away, aware of the silence. He could feel his heart pumping in his chest; it occurred to him that he might already be in over his head.

  “How’s Arty?” Gloria asked. Raymond had never heard anyone call him that before.

  “He’s fine.”

  “What he say you doing here?”

  The curiosity on her face, the intensity of it, struck Raymond for a second. “He wants me to look in on one of your partners,” he said. “Make sure everything stays clicking.”

  She nodded. Then she walked back to the door, which was still cracked open, and closed it. “Don’t say anything stupid,” she said, pointing at her ear and then at the ceiling. “But what’d he say about this partner?”

  “He said the boy was acting reckless,” Raymond said.

  “Shadrack’s not a boy,” Gloria said, shaking her head. “And he’s not acting reckless. He’s acting crazy. He’s acting like one of these homeless men that shouts at walls. You know this kind of crazy? A lot of people are not happy with him, Mr. Gaspar.” She looked at Raymond for a moment, made sure he was listening. Then she continued.

  “These people, they want to know if you’re the right man to take care of this. You know what I mean? They don’t want you to start something and then decide that you can’t finish it.”

  This wasn’t what Raymond had been expecting. He’d thought Gloria would meet him with resistance, say that Shadrack was fine, that she didn’t need his help. Raymond hadn’t heard of any other people. He didn’t know what to think of this news, but he felt his interest tick up. He watched her for a second and reminded himself not to get too eager. Sit, breathe, wait.

  “I’m worried about it,” Gloria went on. “I’m worried he’s going to ruin the entire arrangement. You fix that. You come at the right time.” She raised her eyebrows and looked into Raymond’s eyes searchingly.

  He felt his neck get warm. “Well, that’s why I’m here,” he said. He prided himself on his ability to read people, and right at that moment his bullshit detectors were sounding.

  “Tell me now,” Gloria said. “Why’d Arthur send you?” She turned her head, worked at removing something from her teeth with her tongue, and turned back to him. “As opposed to that other guy?”

  Raymond didn’t know who she was talking about. “I guess he thinks I’m a people person,” he said. “I guess he thinks I got a gift for fixing problems. Truth of the matter is I couldn’t tell you. You should ask him.”

  Her face did something resembling a smile when she heard this. “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she said. “On Monday I take you to get a new ID.” She raised her finger like Raymond had protested. “I take you to get an ID. Arthur told me to. On Tuesday you go to Shadrack’s house and we’ll see what kind of people person you are.” Her face transformed itself into a friendly thing. She said good-bye, and left.

  As soon as she was gone, Raymond sent a text message to Arthur. An inmate named Duck held a phone for him in prison.

  New number. Met your girlfriend. She on one.

  On Monday, after checking in with his parole officer, Raymond went back to his room and texted Gloria. She picked him up in a tan minivan driven by a silent young Asian man with a thin mustache. The driver barely looked at Raymond when he got in. There were crumbs on the floor of the van, like someone had been tearing up loaves of bread. Raymond sat in back, feeling stressed by all the activity around him.

  They drove to an industrial neighborhood lined with barbwire in South San Francisco. A few semitrucks sat parked and quiet on the shady side of the road. When the van stopped, Gloria handed him an envelope and said it contained seven hundred dollars. She told him to give it to a man named Javier.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. She pointed at the building. “Go on.”

  There was a garage door open. The place looked like an auto-body shop. Inside Raymond noticed a bank of security monitors within an office on the right. He saw himself in b
lack and white on one of the screens. Farther in, two men stood hunched, working on the door of a car. One of them sensed Raymond standing there, and turned.

  Raymond said he was looking for Javier. The man said something in Spanish to the other man, who walked over to a doorway toward the back. What the hell am I doing this for? Raymond thought.

  The man who’d spoken stood there smiling and nodding like they’d shared some kind of joke. Then he shifted his eyes toward the lot. Raymond told himself to calm down. He took a deep breath, let his shoulders relax.

  After a short time another man came from the back with his eyebrows raised. He wore blue coveralls, like the other men. He had the look and walk of a convict. Raymond pulled out the envelope and handed it to him.

  “Who sent you?” the man asked, in a casual way. He opened the envelope and counted the money with his head tilted.

  “Gloria,” Raymond said, pointing without conviction over his shoulder.

  Javier walked Raymond into the back room and had him stand against a blue backdrop. A camera was already set up on a tripod. Javier looked through the viewfinder, adjusted the tripod, adjusted the camera, and snapped three pictures of Raymond. The flash from the camera popped with each shot.

  “Real cards with holograms,” he said. “We’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  As Raymond walked back out to the car he realized he hadn’t given Javier his number, but he kept going.

  “What the fuck was that for?” he asked when he got back into the van. He felt genuinely angry.

  “Got to have a backup plan,” said Gloria. She was using the passenger-side visor mirror to apply wine-colored lipstick. She didn’t stop what she was doing to look at him.

  They rode without talking all the way back to the Mission. Raymond had an uneasy feeling in his gut; it felt like a test of wills. He didn’t like having his picture taken. He didn’t like being told what to do, either. He remembered Arthur saying how crafty Gloria was and he wondered if he’d just been played.