San Francisco, 1970
Duncan & Brady
Well it’s twinkle, twinkle little star,
Long come Brady in his po-lice car,
He’s got a mean look right in his eye,
He’s gonna shoot somebody just to see him die.
King Brady loved dealing out pain.
Gretchen loved strawberries. She’d started her morning with strawberry shampoo. Now, hours later and ninety minutes into her evening shift, she still smelled of strawberries. She’d purchased two flats of them at Nakamura’s fruit stand in Half Moon Bay for her first ‘bartender’s treat,’ a Friday afternoon tradition at Traders Saloon. Behind the bar, she was making plates of strawberries skewered on colorful toothpicks. She nibbled as she worked. The strawberries were fresh and juicy.
On the bar, chafers bubbled with melted chocolate. Customers and waitresses were dunking and eating strawberries as fast as Gretchen could prepare them. To accompany the strawberries, she was also making pitchers of Strawberry Daiquiris. They too were going fast.
At a window table, two young women in business clothes were sipping daiquiris and eating Gretchen’s chocolate strawberries with obvious relish. She hoped they’d say something nice to Charlie Lin, Traders’ owner, if he stopped by.
As the pitchers went out, Gretchen stood behind the bar in her black nurse’s shoes, slacks, and white sleeveless blouse. The thick, soft soles of her shoes made her a little taller, almost 5’2″. She liked that. She wore a red velvet ribbon holding back her thick, honey blonde hair. She fanned a stack of bar order tickets and brushed a vagabond tendril of hair back into place. When a cocktail waitress brought her drinks tray to the counter, Gretchen gave her a little plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries and smiled as she took the drink order. Then she leaned toward the waitress, nearly touching heads with her.
Speaking softly, in her gentle Cajun accent, Gretchen said, ‘You should have been here las’ night, Carla. Outside the window, a big yella moon was rising out of the bay. It was so bright that the gas lamp out front threw a long, soft shadow all the way down Folsom Street. And you know just when everything was douce some big fat cop, he come in all mean and spoil everything. He slap Lewis, that boy who janitor here, down on the floor and kick him hard. Lewis never hurt nobody, no. An’ you know, after that that cop, his name Brady, he look at me like an ol’ gator look at a puppy playing up ‘side the bayou.’
‘He’s trouble, honey. You stay away from him,’ Carla replied.
Gretchen continued, ‘Then, he grin to himself, not me, and jus’ turn and gator on out the do’. The way he look at me, I don’ think that man like a woman, not the way a man supposed to, no! He crave something else.’
Carla interrupted Gretchen, leaning over her bar tray and dropping her voice, her lips just inches from Gretchen’s ear, ‘You don’t know about Brady, honey. King Brady. You were lucky. He’ll hurt you, especially you. He’d notice your colour. That’s probably why he hurt Lewis, because he’s black. Don’t get in his way. Don’t cross him. You just say ‘Yes, Sergeant Brady,’ and don’t you ever look in his face or smile at all!’ Carla took her tray, pivoted, and melted into the crowd.
Glancing outside, Gretchen paused, tilted her head to the left, and smiled past Carla at the front door, a blush dawning. The smile wrinkled the corners of her eyes. She stood as tall as her new shoes permitted, hoping that her hair hadn’t fallen loose again. Duncan, the late shift bartender, was just coming in. She caught his eye with her smile, but he just nodded and looked down, a shock of hair falling over his eyes. She wondered was he like that, shy? Maybe he didn’t think she was pretty. Some boys didn’t.
When they had worked together a week ago, he loosened, smiled a little. She thought then maybe he liked her. Washing glasses together they talked, but not about him, about people and ideas, about life in Louisiana, about books.
Carla returned with another drink order and Gretchen asked, ‘Carla is ‘Duncan’ that boy’s first name or his last name? He’s mignon.’
Smiling, but shrugging her shoulders, Carla left an order and took another tray of dipped strawberry back into the crowd.
Duncan was all anyone called him, but she thought maybe he was an Emil or Francois. She’d ask him tonight. He talked like a college boy; talked about the sea and the things that live there. Gretchen had told him her full name, Gretchen-Marie Dardar. He pronounced it soft and proper, like her home folks did, not like a Yankee. He said his mama’s name was Marie. He had kind eyes. Gretchen liked Duncan’s eyes.
* * *
Traders’ customers were the usual assortment: soldiers and sailors in uniform looking scared, hookers in uniform looking sexy, businessmen looking at hookers. And tourists – just looking. All of them were getting tipsy on Gretchen’s Daiquiris. It was going on 9:00 o’clock; customers were wandering out in pairs into the night.
Lewis, the busboy and custodian, came in and nursed a beer alone at the other end of the bar. Gretchen took him a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries she’d set aside. He grinned his thanks and popped one into his mouth.
When Carla came back to the bar, she took a long drag on the cigarette she had burning in an ashtray at the service counter. Gretchen dropped her voice and returned to her monologue, ‘You know that Lewis, he got hurt in Vietnam. He step on a mine, cain’t see in his left eye, hurt his legs too. After that Brady knock him down, Lewis he hurt so bad he couldn’t get up by himself. I help him off the floor. You think a po’lice would show Lewis some respect. You know, Lewis a war veteran and all, but that Brady just laugh at him.’
‘Gretchen, honey, listen to what I’m saying! You stay away from Brady. You should be worrying about yourself, not Lewis.’ But Gretchen was already looking away, trying to catch Duncan’s eye.
Tying on his apron, Duncan came under the bar, smiled, and dragged a clean bar towel down toward her. ‘Bonsoir, ‘T’chen,’ he said softly, ‘You smell like strawberries and have chocolate on the tip of your nose.’ Gretchen looked down, blushing again. He had remembered her family pet name! She wondered if he knew how homesick she was; how much she’d like to dance a Cajun Waltz, maybe with him, hear him say her name again. Gretchen thought, later she’d see if there was a Cajun tune on the juke box.
* * *
Outside the night air was heavy with jasmine, sandalwood incense, and marijuana. The sidewalk was strewn with daffodils in the wake of a posse of hippies, still visible up the block. In the alley a clutch of black men shooting craps were illuminated in pastels by flickering neon bar signs, their rich laughter occasionally lacing the night. Down the block where the shadows were darkest, a cigarette glowed behind the windshield of a badly listing squad car.
Detective Sargent William Brady occupied most of the front seat of the car. Littered with food trash, it stank of whiskey, nicotine, and sweat. He worked alone, hadn’t had a partner in the twenty years since the disbanding of the Chinatown Squad. Nobody in the department wanted to work with Brady. He was a pariah.
Imminent mandatory retirement and departmental self-interest saved him from dismissal. Brady enjoyed himself, gouging restaurants, liquor stores, pimps, and pushers. He took drugs, booze and money, especially money, savoring the desperation he caused.
He lit another Chesterfield from the end of his last and dropped the butt, still burning, to join others beneath his window. Fog was rolling in from the bay. Next to him in the front seat, a black zippered sports bag and a snub-nosed revolver. In his huge hand the battered chrome pistol looked like a child’s ugly toy. He stroked the gun absently as he drew on his cigarette.
Half-closed, Brady’s eyes sunk deep in his face. Daydreaming – the new, skinny little high yella bitch working at Traders. He was going to have fun with that one. Smiling, he dozed, but his reverie soured – a cathouse in Mission District. He’d been having fun, rousting teenaged sailors, slapping around the girls, taking money. Then, a little black whore he’d cuffed to an iron bedstead … the skank slipped the cuffs, grabbed his crotch and took one clean swipe with a straight razor hidden under the mattress… Brady bled. The bitch died hard.
He woke with a jerk, sweat running down his back; a fresh ache in his crotch. He knew those desk faggots downtown called him ‘Queen Brady,’ laughed at him behind his back holding up one finger. But he was more man than all of them. He knew how to use a women better than those college-boy cops could imagine. He’d use up that new nigger. He’d take all the time in the world with her. Taking another pull of Jack Daniels, Brady eased back.
* * *
He stirred, looked at his watch; closing time, just right. Unfolding his gut out of the Ford, he scattered cigarette butts and trash. Inky green fog swirled around him, Traders Bar a faint glow across the street. Whiskey had not eased his pains. His back and knees ached. His head pounded. The pills he’d boosted from a pusher had given him heartburn, made him dizzy. He’d settle that score. Right now, he had more pressing business. An old comodo dragon, Brady ambled into the night toward Gretchen-Marie.
* * *
Inside Traders, two couples remained from an earlier birthday group. In the back room, they were playing pool and laughing loudly. Gretchen, off duty, had changed into a knee length, sleeveless cotton dress her Nana Dardar called her ‘robe Orphan Annie.’ With a crocheted shawl, she was just warm enough for the summer night. She wore sandals and felt pretty; proud of her strong, shapely legs. Standing by the jukebox, she put in two quarters to play Jolie Blonde, the only Cajun selection, twice. Dancing gently by herself, thinking of Duncan, she returned to the front bar.
Duncan was shy! He’d almost stammered, but had spoken to her in soft schoolboy French, asking if she would care to have coffee with him asoir! He had sea foam eyes and fine straight teeth. He must be six feet tall, slim and strong. She had wanted to bounce on her toes, but just looked straight into his eyes and replied ‘Mais oui,’ certain that even a schoolboy could understand the ‘yes’ in her smile.
Unnoticed, Brady loomed in the shadow just inside Traders’ door, his eyes following Gretchen as she danced. Then, silent as a falling anvil, he moved. Gretchen paused mid-step. Later, she couldn’t say whether it was a darkening of the karmic charge of the room or maybe her guardian angel, but she felt peril. She turned just as Brady grabbed for her bare shoulder. He stumbled. Off balance, he lurched into her snarling ‘bitch’ and dropping the sports bag from his left hand.
A nightmare dance: Gretchen swung at Brady only to have her fist trapped in his massive paw. She drove her knee deep into his crotch with all her strength. He released a low moan, tears forming. Doubling over, his pistol clattered to the floor. She broke free. Slowly, he stood fully erect, an enraged Grizzly. Riveted to the floor, she faced Brady watching helplessly as he slipped something black over the knuckles of his right hand. Again, he rumbled toward her, seeing only Gretchen.
Then, a gentle hand on her shoulder pushed her aside. Duncan faced Brady. Taller than Gretchen, he still looked up at Brady. Gretchen thought of a surfer at the base of a massive wave. In Duncan’s extended hand was Brady’s own dirty toy gun. As they collided, there was a ‘pop,’ nothing more, the gun’s report smothered in Brady’s gut.
Then silence – a foghorn, the mechanical sound of the juke box searching for a record. In that silence, Gretchen thought how gracefully Duncan moved. She knew he would dance with her someday.
Brady, still as a sphinx, eyes red hot. A small brown hole formed just to the right of his necktie. Eyes unbelieving and confused, he glared at Duncan, and then Gretchen. Wordless, he turned and shuffled out into the fog.
She took Duncan’s hand. In the back room, the birthday group again broke into laughter. Just coming into the front bar, Lewis looked at the couple, took in the situation. Gesturing toward Brady’s sports bag, he motioned them to take it saying ‘Run now. Allez vite! I’ll clean up and close.’
The jukebox wailed ‘Jolie Blonde’ as Gretchen and Duncan ran together out the back door, past the gamblers, and into the deep, foggy night.
Twenty minutes later, the flattened, spent slug imbedded in the wall of Brady’s ascending aorta burst free followed by a gently pulsing stream into his chest cavity. Locked inside his dirty police car, a dead cigarette in his mouth and whiskey staining his crotch, Brady died. Since nobody in the neighborhood dared approach the sleeping King, his death went undiscovered until the following afternoon. A rookie uniform cop found Brady slumped down, a red velvet ribbon in his left hand.
Well ol’ King Brady was a big fat man,
Doctor reached out took a hold of his hand,
Felt for his pulse, doctor he said,
I believe to my soul, King Brady’s dead.
* * *
At sunrise later that morning, a dark young man with a pronounced limp stood alone near mid-span on the pedestrian walkway of the Golden Gate Bridge. His bicycle leaned against a sign which warned of a $500 fine for throwing or dropping of anything from the bridge. Smiling broadly, Lewis lobbed Brady’s gun and watched as it flashed in the sun and rolled end over end to meet the surface of the cold Pacific Ocean two hundred feet below.
With raptor’s eyes, Lewis might have seen the couple in the cockpit of a junk rigged sailboat a little further out. There, a pretty girl and a young man had just unzipped a sports bag and found it stuffed with cash. The sailboat and her sailors were bound for the deep green sea. Gretchen liked that. So did her ‘Francois.’
