Chapter
7
Moving
On
Early-May, 1986
For
my final month of employment at Xeno, I was given the rather
humiliating assignment of training my own replacement, Shelly, a
19-year old computer science undergrad recently hired at half my
hourly pay. This was typical of management's new “Resource
Consolidation Policy”. But aside from that, I was, ironically, a
casualty of computer automation, since many of the more complex
operations on the Unisys mainframe could now be performed by
lesser-skilled employees (and fewer of
them). Nonetheless, Xeno, before booting me to the curb, wanted to
suck out the contents of my brain: In order to assist the intelligent
but ill-prepared Shelly, I had to write a “cheat book”, a user
manual breaking-down, in intricate detail, every process and
keystroke needed to perform System Administrator duties on the Unisys
most efficiently. When I finally completed the two-inch thick
manual, the instructions therein were dumbed-down enough to teach a
high-school dropout to do my former job.
But all the workplace
aggravation couldn't dampen my excitement over ServerComp, a
brand-new corporation in which I held a 10% stake (albeit without a
vote in corporate decision-making, as I discovered later). I didn't
even consider the offer of $10,000 to sell my shares back to the
corporation. Two days after refusing that offer, I found out that
Allen Paulsen, a high-level executive at Microno Software, had just
purchased the last available 2 ½ % block of shares for $60,000.
Overcome with an
unrealistic sense of grandeur, I had congratulated myself for getting
in step with the rapid advance of computer technology. In reality,
though, I was merely a silent partner in a risky venture whose
technology I barely fathomed. ServerComp's internet node was
scheduled to go “live” to the public in less than a month, but it
would take a lot of time - if ever - before we could realize any
return on our original investment. To make matters worse, we still
lacked sufficient capital, as most of it was budgeted for an
expensive advertising campaign in magazines that catered to PC/Mac
enthusiasts. However, without effective advertising, we'd be out of
business within a year anyway.
* * *
Five days had elapsed
since I last heard from Tina, since the day after Sharon's party, and
she was apparently ignoring my phone calls and messages. On Friday
evening, I hung-up the phone and asked Angie, “Has Tina gotten a
hold of you lately? Every time I call her apartment, all I get is
her answering machine.”
“Same here. I did
talk to her when she was at work - Tuesday night, I think - but she
was real busy. I haven't heard from her since.”
“Okay.
I just tried calling the hotel, but it's almost impossible to get
through tonight. Fuck it, she won't have time for chit-chat anyway.”
Next morning, still getting no response from her, we drove down to
Sea-Tac to see if she was all right. At her apartment
building, her aged Toyota Corolla was parked in its assigned space,
so we went upstairs. We rang the doorbell and called-out her name
for a minute before she finally came to the door, which then creaked
opened as far as the latched security chain allowed. It was nearly
1pm but judging by her dazed expression, we had obviously awakened
her from a dead sleep. “Well, are you gonna invite us in or what?”
I jokingly asked.
She coughed into her
fist and replied with a husky voice, “Yeah, come on in.”
As we entered, Angie
said, “Sweetie, are you sick? You sure look it.”
Tina, dressed only in a
pink terrycloth robe, smoothed back her short Afro 'doo and yawned,
“Naw, I'm ah-ight.”
The glass coffee table
in the darkened living room was cluttered with empty Michelob
bottles, broken potato chips and remnants of pizza crust. Even more
surprising was the faint odor of stale cigarette smoke. I couldn't
recall the last time her apartment looked anything less than
spotless. Although this caused me concern, I tried to make light of
it: “Looks like you've been on a three-day drunk, Amazon.”
“Anybody got a
cigarette? I'm dyin' for one.”
My jaw dropped in
disbelief. “You've taken up smoking?” She's the one who
always made me brush my nicotine-tinged teeth for 15 minutes before
letting me kiss her. “Now I know something's wrong.”
She sank down in a plush
armchair and took amateurishly shallow puffs on a one of Angie's long
brown cigarettes. “I got fuckin' fired, that's what's wrong.”
“Oh no,” Angie
groaned in sympathy. “You? I can't believe that! When did it
happen?”
“Couple-a days ago. I
wasn't fired, exactly - encouraged to resign is more like it.
The manager told me that if I cooperated with the cops and quit
without causin' a scene, he'd write me a really good letter of
recommendation.” She gestured to a beer-stained business envelope
on the table. Then she chuckled without humor and said, “Sheeit, I
got about 20 bucks in the bank, still owe this month's rent and part
of last month's, and yesterday I found out that by quitting my
job, I ain't eligible for fuckin' Unemployment!”
I patted her slender
shoulder and said, “Now don't get all depressed about your bills -
we got you covered. Anyway, I'm sure you'll find a job in no time -
”
Angie: “But what did
the cops have to do with it?”
Tina: “Aw, well, they
claimed there were crimes
goin'-on inside the hotel - mostly when I was workin' the
front desk.”
“Let me guess,” I
interjected. “A.J. was involved in it.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
According to what Tina told me next, Hilton Hotel Security had been
cooperating with a Sheriff's Office investigation of A.J., pertaining
to crimes allegedly committed there. It took little time for the
police to link her with A.J., since some of Hilton's security guards,
not to mention her co-workers, were already aware of their on-again
off-again relationship. Then Tina said bitterly, “I loved my job
and wanted to work there forever. I had no fuckin' idea what A.J.
was up to, and if I did, I would never stand for it!”
“What, exactly, was
he accused of doing?” I
asked, although I already knew or had deduced many of the details, of
which I had no inclination to share with her at this moment.
“Drugs - what else.
You know I ain't got nothin' to do with fuckin' dope! And then
the cops asked me if he ever brought young chicks there - underage
chicks. You think I would put up with that pervert shit?” Her
rhetorical question sounded a bit on the defensive side, and I
couldn't help wondering if she knew more than she let on. But as I
had never known her to lie about anything, she deserved the benefit
of the doubt. I still remembered the time that she called A.J. a
child molester right to his face, in reaction to his illicit
dalliance with Marta.
Angie, who was
half-sitting on the arm of Tina's chair, abruptly changed the
subject. “Me and Denny were talking the other day - we want you to
live with us.”
Tina thoughtfully
exhaled a stream of smoke and then replied, “Last time you guys
asked me to move-in with you, I made some long speech about not
wantin' to give-up my independence. I'd feel like a fuckin' leech if
I move-in with you now.”
I said, “Oh, screw
that b-s, Amazon. We love you, and we want you with us.” Angie's
caressing hand reached out for Tina's.
Her cat-like brown eyes
shining with tears, Tina said, almost inaudibly, “Me too.” Then
she added, with a wan smile, “At least yer not livin' in that
nasty-ass trailer anymore.”
* * *
Within a few days of
Tina moving into our apartment, some of our neighbors became keenly
curious about the unusual trio who lived next door. I tried not to
encourage the attractive middle-age married couple down the hall, who
had hinted broadly that they too were in an open relationship. The
cute 18-year old girls who shared an apartment nearby now gave me
huge smiles whenever we happened to run into each other. Having
lived there only a very short time, I merely responded with a tight
smile and friendly nod.
As Tina settled into her
new home, she told me a little more about the police interrogation
she had undergone: “...And the cops showed me surveillance photos
of two Asian dudes - I could tell they were taken in the hotel
parking lot. I did recognize one of them in particular, from when
they checked-in at the desk. He had dead, glassy black eyes like
Jaws or somethin', like he'd just as soon cut yer throat as
lookatcha. After I looked at the photos, this asshole detective
started talkin' some stupid shit about how I supposedly let these
guys register under fake names, like I'm part of some conspiracy.
Hell, both of them paid cash up-front, so what do I care what names
they used?”
“So, these guys were
tied-up with A.J. somehow,” I presumed.
Tina shrugged her
shoulders. “I wouldn't know, and the cops weren't sayin'.”
A few days later, while
eating lunch in the Xeno cafeteria, I glanced at a discarded
newspaper on the table and took notice of this article:
Victim
ID'ed in Nightclub Drive-by Shooting
A
man shot and killed outside a downtown Seattle club early Saturday
morning has been identified as Anthony Davis of South
Seattle...Davis, age 36, was released on bond from the Prince County
Jail on May 10th,
three days prior to being gunned-down in front of The Joint, a
popular nightclub featuring recorded hip-hop music...The club has
been the scene a string of violent incidents dating back to
1984...Davis, reportedly a top lieutenant in the BWM street gang, was
arrested on drug charges last April 3rd
during a Sheriff's Office sweep of residences rented or owned by BWM
gang members. Davis was already wanted on an outstanding warrant in
Snohomish County for his alleged participation in a drive-by shooting
in Everett, but that charge was later dropped due to lack of
evidence...
As the initial shock of
learning about Davis' death faded, I thought it strange that he had
been let out of jail at all - the court had originally denied him
bail since he was considered a serious flight risk. But now it
seemed he had cut some sort of deal with the County Prosecutor. If
that was true, it very well could have been the reason behind his
murder.
There had been many
shootings, stabbings and brawls at The Joint over the years, so I had
barely taken notice of this latest incident. From what little I
remembered of the initial report, the victim had been machine-gunned
by a man on a motorcycle. The shooter had worn a visor-ed helmet and
unremarkable clothing, making identification impossible.
Certain Asian gangs
favored the utilization of assassins on 'cycles, although there was
no evidence of it in this case, merely my own speculation based upon
Davis' apparent link to Asian gangsters. Was it only coincidental
that soon before he was bailed-out, local and federal law enforcement
began making a nuisance of themselves to the major heroin smugglers
and human traffickers on the West Coast?
Copyright 2014 by K.D. Bishop
No comments:
Post a Comment