San Antonio Burn
an excerpt

Part One -- Tool

Chapter One

She wore that silly, wise-ass smirk of hers. That one where her laughing eyes told you she knew something you didn’t, but it didn’t really matter because she was about to happily let you in on the secret. But then, just like she kept doing each time before, she pirouetted away across the wave tops, bare feet spraying crystal droplets of water everywhere, long dark hair flying in front of her face. I floundered helpless in the shoals along the shore, unable to catch up, unable to hear the words she tossed carelessly away into the wind.

This time a trumpet fanfare emanating from what seemed like the clouds (or did it come from the heavens above?) dragged me out again, out of the dream, disoriented. I thrashed amongst the blankets, bitterness fouling my mouth with the dawning realization of another return to my reality.

The trumpets came from my cell phone. I rumbled my name into it, more warning than greeting. Antonio Calabrese’s bass voice hurtled me further into the real world.

“Jackson, David Ambrose has been shot. I need you here, at Highland. You have to jump on this right now.”

I grunted assent. Antonio hung up, not explaining further. I tugged on jeans, hiking boots, a clean shirt, my black leather jacket. The red luminous numbers on the bedroom digital clock glowed 3:04 at me in the darkness. Fifteen minutes later I found my boss and best friend in the surgical waiting room at Highland Hospital in Oakland.

Antonio threw one huge paw over my shoulder and pulled me into a corner of the dingy room. I took in the peeling paint in the corner, the dirty walls, the worn- and cigarette-burned blond wood and orange cloth furniture scattered around the room. In the midst of a tight cluster of folks near the far door I recognized Mrs. Ambrose, crying loudly in the arms of a huge man in greasy overalls wearing a fierce but caged look on his face. The Right Rev. Wilfred Jenkins hovered over them, murmuring softly in prayer, flashing angry eyes into the far corner where a knot of police officers stood around uncomfortably in stiff blue uniforms. Bill Joplin, the sergeant who handled media relations for the Oakland Police Department, nodded distractedly at me in greeting.

In the weirdly green light of the overhead fluorescents, Antonio’s bald skull glowed unhealthily, and his gray walrus mustache drooped in a deep frown. Ugly lines etched a face that could only be described as haggard.

“What happened?”

“OPD shot David. In Clinton Park. There was a fire tonight at that sweatshop furniture factory near the freeway that David’s been organizing.”

“The one with the illegal immigrants?”

“That one. OPD says the fire is arson. Jackson, they say David started it…”

“Bullshit.”

Antonio looked grim. “They say he was watching the flames when the fire trucks showed, acting strange. A plain-clothes cop showed, the firemen pointed David out. When the cop tried to question David, they say he resisted, threatened the officer with a weapon of some sort. Cop says he shot in self-defense.”

Anger tightened my face. “How bad?”

“Two in the chest. He’s been in surgery nearly an hour. I called you as soon as I got here.”

The last year had taken a toll on Antonio. In the nine months since he’d put me on the payroll of the ILWU newspaper, as local president he’d negotiated two major contracts and waged a strike at a shipping company at the Port of Richmond. So far we were 3-and 0, but now Antonio was in the middle of a lockout with a large luxury cruise ship line that wanted their dockside workers to pay sixty per cent more for health coverage. With pressure ratcheting up on him, Antonio had been leaning on me more and more for trouble-shooting and less and less for article writing. From the feel of the room, I didn’t think I was going to see the keyboard of my laptop any time soon.

“What was David doing there?”

Antonio shook his head. “I don’t exactly know. Edna,” he nodded to the weeping Mrs. Ambrose, “is in no shape to talk. But David’s been working late a bunch, meeting the factory committee after midnight. They’re naturally pretty cautious, worried the company gets wind, I.N.S. sweeps in.”

“Anybody else hurt?”

Antonio’s face kind of crumpled in on itself. “There was a full graveyard shift in there. I hear it’s pretty gruesome.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Antonio gave me a hard look. His voice had that no-nonsense edge it took under extreme pressure. “Clear him.”

I turned on my heel and strode over to Sgt. Joplin. He separated slightly from the group of policemen, turned his body so we could talk privately.

“Bill,” I said evenly.

“A bad night, Jackson. Going to be worse before dawn I fear.”

“Your people okay?”

“I hear a couple of fireman got burned, nothing too serious.”

“How many factory workers?”

The sergeant shook his head, shrugged, downbeat. The guy had always treated me right while I worked for the mainstream press, I thought Joplin a decent human being. It didn’t mean the next part of the conversation was going to go well for either of us.

“Who shot Ambrose?”

“I can’t tell you that, Jackson. Not right now. You know that.”

“I want the police report, first thing.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Very definitely not going to happen.”

“Look, Sergeant. I know you’ve got a job to do, and you also know that if it was a white cop, while in plain clothes, who shot Ambrose…” I let it hang. Joplin looked very uncomfortable. “A respected union organizer, a deacon in the largest black church in Oakland…” I stopped, applied pressure from a different angle. “The union lawyers are going to be all over you and your boss in the morning, anyway, but if you help now, early, so we can figure out what really happened, maybe they won’t start screaming to the press, too.”

Sgt. Joplin was shaking his head. “No, no, no. This one is going by the book. No special treatment.” He rallied. “And we know what happened. Ambrose torched the building, and resisted…”

“How long are you going to persist with that crap story?”

Joplin looked away towards the wall. I turned and watched the family. The Rev. Wilfred Jenkins was still scowling at the men in blue. He didn’t look on my white face with any favor either. “I’d think about that, I really would.” I eyed Sgt. Joplin carefully. “Something’s wrong here, Bill,” I said in a low voice. “You’re too defensive if you thought this was a righteous shoot.” I changed tactics again. “Who’s the scene commander?”

“Captain Wilson.”

I nodded, inwardly pleased. “Wilson’s good, fair. Call him, tell him I’m coming. Tell him to talk with me, let me look around. The press is already there anyway, right?”

Joplin looked at me finally. “Jackson, I wish I could…”

”Sergeant, you can. Tell him I’m acting under the authority from the union’s attorneys. I won’t mess the scene up.” If Joplin stonewalled me, I was going over anyway. But it would be nice if Wilson felt enough heat to not consider me a mosquito best swatted.

“Can the union keep Rev. Jenkins muzzled?”

“Honestly? No. But we can try. Mrs. Ambrose is a strong union member, too. She might be able to, at least in the beginning. Hopefully that’s all we’ll need.”

Joplin nodded once, pulled out his cell phone, and turned away from me. I headed for my car.