Gutter Angels

Children at Play

Fear

The sounds got to me after a while. Always looking over your shoulder, you know. Hearing things. Not sleeping. I’ve never been in jail before.

The First Time

He tied off his arm and jabbed for a vein. He hit it real hard and blood spurted in his face. He turned white like he was going to faint. Hey, what’s the matter, Bobby? You seen a ghost, man?

Sounds and Smells

The sing-song rap and fleeting loudness. Mostly banging and loud noises, ripping, tearing, a cappella. A cappella madness. At first, none. Then always. The letters. Nine. M.M. I remember the first time. You’ve got the gun? John Mac asked.

Then, puke and beer. And fried stuff, you know, coming out of the windows of the Mexican kids’ houses. It was all over.

The night went on. Some fancy men’s colognes. Bobby stole them off a train. "Come on, man. Share some of that shit with me. You didn’t pay nothing for it. I gotta score Theresa tonight. Yeah, I’ll get her. You wanna bet?

Home #1

We were watching TV. They started arguing. The black kids wanted to watch one show; the white kids wanted to watch a different show. All hell broke loose. Guys had blades they snuck in and they started swinging them all over the place. John and I started to take a walk. The guards were just watching and laughing. ‘Let the bastards kill each other. The blacks were getting the better of it. John and I started to hustle. We couldn’t run or we’d be obvious. A big huge black guy stepped in front of us. Hey, aren’t you a Shaughnessey, from the Projects? He said to John, I know your brother, man. He’s alright. Let’s get away from this shit. We took a walk with Felton. John always thought his name was Fountain." He never believed me until two years later when I showed him Fenton’s name in the paper. He had won a basketball scholarship to USC.

Pills

Bobby started selling pills. He made big money. He got Theresa to fuck him when no one else could. We could never figure it out, but he never sold nothing but pills. Then he got set up. A guy he had dealt with a long time. Got him in a car. Had a shit load of pills. Bobby was paying $16,000—cash. The cops surrounded the car. He said there were eight cops and all of them had their guns drawn. They got the money and the pills. Bobby got six years, but he got out in two and a half.

Chicks

It’s best to ditch a chick after a couple of months. I mean, after that, it gets really boring and they lay all this shit on you. But those first few days—the first time you get their pussy, the first time you wake up at their place, see different shit with your eyes when you first wake up, someone else’s shit—it gives you a rush. I always know it’s time to go when I start to know where they keep shit in their apartment, like they ask you, Please pass me a screwdriver, and you know where it is. Being here, I guess I don’t have to worry about it one way or the other for a while."

- Bobby’s first letter from jail

Jeffrey’s Troubles

Jeff was bleeding, not real bad, but no bullshit either. Slashes on his bare chest. It was summer and hot. The girls fawned all over him. They all wanted to be the one to take care of him. Only Lorraine realized how fucked up he was at the time. None of the of us would listen. They jumped me on Darien Street, he said. Johnny Mac took the lead. Let’s get Mark and Tom. Danny’s go a gun. I got a gun. He turned to me. You coming? he asked. We found out years later that Jeff had cut himself. Richie had seen him do it.

Home #2

Bobby had some money left when he got out of jail. He had been selling for a long time before he got caught. Trouble was he had this Jones. In his case, heroin. Most of the rest of us were dust, toot, and crack. Some speed freaks. But Bobby liked horse. He spent $20,000 and checked into this place in La Jolla. A thirty-day residential program. He was there with famous athletes, even a police chief who had developed a penchant for coke. When they gave him his walking papers at the end of the month, he left with about a 30% chance of staying off the shit, a better one of dropping another twenty grand at the same place sometime real soon.

Weird Shit

Jeff kept doing weird shit even after he quit doing drugs.

One day, Jeff came back to the corner with about thirty hats, so I asked him, "Hey, Jeff, where the fuck did you get all the hats?

I was bored at lunch time. He said. He was working at a clothes factory downtown.

So what did you do? I asked.

I ran down the fucking street grabbing hats off peoples’ heads. Jeff said.

Shit, I said.

I got some fucking nice ones, he said. Do you want one?

Bobby’s Little Brother

Bobby hated what was happening to his little brother. His real name was Sam, but we all called him Punkrat.

Punkrat sat on the front steps of his mother’s house while she was at work. He smoked dope, played Two Live Crew on his boombox, and swore at the top of his lungs at all kinds of people passing by: FUCKING ASSHOLE MOTHER-FUCKER. GET THE FUCK OFF MY FUCKING STREET.SHITHEAD.

Punkrat was getting fat. He got a wicked case of the munchies every time he smoked and he smoked every day. He ate Fritos and drank Pepsi in two-liter bottles. He ate Twinkies and Hostess Cupcakes and Ruffles Potato Chips.

Bobby was always a good athlete. Punkrat never played sports.

Bobby tried to tell him what to do but he never listened.

Punkrat was only thirteen when he got shot by some guy he cursed at. When he got out of the hospital you could see him the same day sitting out there, playing his tapes, smoking, eating, shouting.

Home #3

We did it all at night; prying the plywood off the windows to get in, all the decorating, the hanging out.

It was a vacant building. Two stories. It was our place—for getting high, for talking, for growing up. For fucking.

The cops never caught us, never, for anything. It took two years before the city tore it down. We all watched the wrecking crane—clenching and unclenching our fists with every crunch of the big metal wrecking ball against the old, brittle wood.

We made the place look really nice. We found furniture in the garage and hauled it up there. We even put pictures on the walls.

Taxis

Richie walked off the curb in the middle of the street.

Taxi! Taxi! he shouted.

The cabbie stopped the car sharply. He had on a black leather, snap-brim cap.

How much does it cost to go downtown? Richie asked him.

I don’t know, the guy said. Let me ask the dispatcher.

I was standing right behind Richie. I started to giggle. The driver didn’t hear me.

It’s about twenty-five bucks, the cabbie said to Richie.

Richie turned away. Thanks, he said. Thanks a lot, mister.

You wanna go there?

No, Richie said. I never wanted to go there. I just wanted to know how much it cost.

Richie and I both laughed out loud. The cabbie drove away, mad as hell.

One time, Richie flagged a taxi and asked the guy the time. The cabbie pulled out a gun and lectured us on being wise guys. He spoke in a southern drawl, and all the time he talked he waved the gun around in the air, all the time pointing it straight at us. The whole time Richie hid behind me. This was before Johnny Mac, before any of us had guns.

Doctor Jeff

Gina lived in a house on the corner of Patton Avenue with one of those excitable little Mexican dogs and a hyperactive kid. We hated the dog and her son was a pain in the ass, but for a time we hung out at Gina’s almost every night. It was winter and it was the only house we were welcome in. Every Friday and Saturday night we pretty much trashed the place, but Gina didn’t seem to mind. She was the type who liked attention. I kind of admired Gina. She managed to rent a place and pay for it all by herself. She had nice furniture and stylish clothes. And she only did drugs on weekends. She was decent looking except she had a mouth that turned down like a grouper’s and she was so skinny she had no tits. Some people said she turned tricks, but I never believed them.

Jeff said he loved her. It was the only time I ever heard him say that.

One night in February Jeff went down to Hancock Liquor and hit a delivery and hit a delivery truck for a case of vodka and two cases of Kahlua. When he got back with the stuff Gina made a run to the Seven-Eleven and bought five gallons of milk.

At eleven o’clock the dog and the kid were still running around like crazy.

First the dog was chasing the kid, then the kid was chasing the dog. The kid was only three or four. The dog was only a foot from the ground. The dog barked constantly, and the kid never stopped screaming. You could hear them even over the stereo.

It was Richie’s idea to put vodka in the dog’s dish. He’d had a run-in with the dog before. The dog had bit through his sneaker—a new pair of Nikes. Richie loved telling the story, but I think he kept it from Gina.

I picked up the bad-tempered bag of shit and drop kicked it against the wall.

Richie offered to take the dog for a walk so it got good and thirsty. Gina was moved by his kindness. The kid wanted to go, but Richie wouldn’t let him. While they were gone, I dumped the water out of the dish. Richie poured out a good four ounces of vodka, and the dog lapped it up eagerly. It was in a kind of stupor for a while, and dog seemed to be trying find Gina. The dog passed out in the kitchen.

When Richie told Jeff about it, Jeff nearly died laughing.

It might work for the fucking kid too, he said.

Jeff had Gina on the couch, and he had a fifth of vodka. He was drinking straight from the bottle. Gina had a beer.

The kid was jumping up and down on the couch beside them and shouting about the dog.

I did a year of medical school, you know, Jeff said.

Bullshit. You’re not old enough.

It was a special program.

Jeff dropped out of school, but when he went, he was real smart and he got his GED without even studying. He was dusted when he took the test.

Jeff had Louie get him a shot glass. After one, the kid kept jumping. After the second one, he curled up on his mother’s lap and went to sleep.

I told you it would work, he said.

Jeff started hitting people and kicking them out. He got a knife out of the kitchen.

The kid’s got to sleep, he said. Get the fuck out. Everybody knew what was going on, but you didn’t fuck with Jeff when he was crazy like that. We all left.

Jeff was taking off his clothes even before the door was shut. Gina was crying on the couch next to the kid, who was still sleeping.

Through the window I could see Jeff stroking her hair softly and gently. He was whispering to her but I couldn’t make out the words.

Peter Scavotti was using a cane because his leg was numb from smoking so much dust. He smashed two of Gina’s windows as he left. By the time Jeff came out after him we were all gone.

The End

We were all standing in front of PJ’s, a bar with no windows, where they served beer in paper cups because of the fights. Johnny Mac had had it out with Richie inside and we all got thrown out. I was home from college for the summer; it was my first day back.

The streets were wet from a brief June shower and the wet pavement looked like black leather.

A group of Mexican kids was walking on the other side of the street. All the apartment buildings around PJ’s were filled with Mexicans now. That’s all that was moving in. My mother told me to be careful with my wallet. She said they were good pickpockets.

Johnny Mac started it. He called them names. Hey, you fucking greaseballs, he said. Go back to your own fucking country.

The kids ignored him.

Cut the shit, Jeff said. We. don’t want any fucking trouble tonight.

Chinga su madre, John Mac shouted.

That did it. There were six of them. And it was me and Jeff, Richie, Johnny Mac and Peter. The biggest one came at Johnny Mac with a knife. Mac struck first. He knocked the guy down with a straight right to the mouth. A second kid slashed Johnny’s face. That’s when Jeff stepped in—right between them. You asshole, Jeff said.

He said it to Johnny Mac. The knife went about four inches into Jeff’s gut. It was a hunting knife.

As the guy pulled it out, he spat in Jeff’s face. He slipped the knife back in his belt, under his jacket, and the six of them ran off.

Richie caught Jeff as he fell. There was blood everywhere. Jeff didn’t say another word.

When the ambulance finally came, the paramedics said Jeff had died almost instantly.

Peter had had a gun,