Cole Shoot Page 3

  “Oh stop it Marco!” Mei threw her hands over her face and rocked back and forth in the seat.

  The other kids on the bus paid little attention to the two gigglers. The students of Golden Gate Training Center varied widely in the severity of their mental and physical development. In the case of Marco and Mei, they were among the higher functioning kids with symptoms of Downs Syndrome. The center was helping them learn life skills, as well as modified academics, to make them capable of independent living. They were old friends who had been at the Center since junior high. Now, as part of the senior class, they were being weaned more and more from the guidance and constant supervision they had received for so many years.

  This year they were given responsibilities and jobs in and around the school to give them the confidence and experience they would need to find and keep a job. Marco worked in his family’s Mexican restaurant evenings and on weekends. Mei, on the other hand, had been sheltered and smothered by her parents since birth. Her parents were successful merchants and ran an import business in Chinatown. She struggled with the thought of independence. Her parents, though supportive, were hesitant to embrace the idea of her striking out in the world on her own, no matter how limited. Mei was the baby of the family and six years younger than her closest sibling and almost fifteen years younger than the oldest. They intended for her to stay under their wing until they died.

  The thought of what would happen then never entered their minds.

  “Everybody out! The Disneyland Express has reached Trainingland!” The bus driver used his microphone to send the occupants of his bus into squeals of delight and scattered yells of “Oh Sal!”

  The Golden Gate Training Center was a former parochial school which the archdiocese of San Francisco sold to the non-profit for a dollar. The pillared entrance and big, green door were intended to welcome the students with a nonthreatening feel. The halls and classrooms were far from the typical industrial greens and beiges of most “training centers”. Instead each area of the school was decorated in yellows, soft pastels, and grassy greens. Even on the foggiest San Francisco mornings, the décor was like walking into springtime.

  The staff was a jovial mix of longtime Special Ed teachers, social workers, and fresh, young college grads with degrees in Alternative Education and Psychology. The “mother superior” of the Center was a veteran teacher, educator, and administrator named, Maggie Strout. She may be just a few months from retirement, but she showed no signs of slacking off. Confined to a wheelchair since a childhood bout with polio, Mrs. Strout was a fierce advocate for the rights of the disabled. The few times someone was foolish enough to see her chair as a sign of weakness, they found themselves on the losing end of the argument. Maggie Strout possessed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the rights and laws regarding any group unable to advocate for themselves due to mental or physical limitations. Both staff and students adored her.

  This is not to say The Golden Gate Training Center was the Garden of Eden. Like any organization, there are those who don’t fit the mold and rub and chafe just little enough not to be removed. Overall though, the workings of the school were such that both students and families loved the staff and facility.

  Today though, Marco and Mei would see firsthand the kind of prejudice, hostility and cruelty the world holds for them. What they weren’t prepared for, however, is what would be visiting their favorite class.

  THREE

  “Thank you, Chief Fitzgerald. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. The Mayor will now make a few remarks regarding the recent tragedy at the Chinatown New Year’s Parade. We will then a have a brief opportunity for questions. Mr. Mayor.” Sandra Clements, the press officer for the Mayor’s office, yielded the podium.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I think Chief Fitzgerald has summed up the facts of this case very well. Thank you, Chief. What I want to talk about is what these senseless shootings mean to the people and City of San Francisco.

  As a boy my mother had a favorite song. She must have sung it a million times. ‘If you’re going to San Francisco be sure to wear some flowers in your hair’.

  As we approach the spring and summer months this City comes alive. There is a special magic to the history and atmosphere of our city that draws people from around the globe who want to experience that special something that we all love. In 1967 San Francisco became famous for the “Summer of Love”. I will not allow this summer to be known as the “Summer of Blood”.

  I would call on all of our citizens, Black, White, Chinese, and Hispanic to look into their hearts, into their neighborhoods and communities, and ask themselves, “Is this the kind of city we want?” A place where our citizens are not safe attending one of our oldest and best loved traditions, The Chinese New Year’s Parade? I’m asking you please, if you know of anything that will help bring the perpetrators of this senseless and despicable crime to justice, call the hotline that should be at the bottom of your television screen.

  As a people, and, as the community of peoples within San Francisco, we cannot and will not become captive to lawless thugs who care neither for our city nor for our traditions. You have my word, as Mayor of this amazing city, that I will, along with Chief Fitzgerald and the men and women of the best police force in the world, bring an end to this violence and bring back the comfort, safety, and magic to our streets once more.”

  Cole turned and walked away from the television in the lobby. On the elevator ride to his office, Cole slipped off his tie, rolled it, and shoved it down in his jacket pocket. His reflection in the shiny, brass elevator walls looked oddly strange to him. The dark suit was far from his normal work wear. Cole put his thumbs in his ears, wiggled his fingers, and stuck out his tongue at his reflection. He grinned at his own foolishness. As the doors opened he felt completely satisfied with himself.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sage. Messages. There is a young man waiting for you in your office.” The gray-haired, unsmiling secretary from the clerical pool thrust her hand out with several pink message slips.

  She irritated Cole. Virgie was a grump. She didn’t like him and it was very evident from her sneers, tone, and curt notes she frequently left on his desk. Maria, a cheerful little cutie with big eyes, and a “guess what I’ve been up to” smile, worked as Cole’s secretary since he came to the paper. She went out on maternity leave and decided not to come back. Since then, the position was put on rotation with the sub pool. Virgie, with her girth and grimace, had occupied the desk for the last two weeks. “Occupied” being the key term, because it had been an occupation, and about nine days too long to suit Cole.

  “Who is he?” Cole asked.

  “Your new intern.”

  “My what?”

  The woman shrugged and spun her chair around to answer the phone. “Cole Sage’s office.”

  “Take a message.”

  Cole opened the door to his office. He stood for a long moment looking at a figure sitting in a side chair, obscured by the morning’s paper.

  “Good Morning?” Cole said his hand still on the door knob.

  There was no response. “Good morning!” Cole said a bit louder, the tone of welcome gone from his greeting. Still the figure sat unmoved.

  Cole crossed the short distance from the door to the motionless figure and grabbed the top off the newspaper and gave it a swift yank upward.

  Smiling up at him was Anthony “Whisper” Perez. “Hi, Cole.”

  “Anthony! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m your new intern!” Anthony said jumping to his feet.

  Cole gave the handsome young man a bear hug. He hardly recognized the person standing in front of him. Gone was the flannel-shirted hoodlum he first met in the southern California Mexican bar. Instead, a clean shaven young man, in grey slacks and a camel blazer, with a fresh haircut, and a stiffly starched powder blue oxford cloth shirt, stood grinning at him.

  “I can’t believe it! How’d this all happen? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?�
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  “When the University said I needed an internship for my Masters, I called Mr. Waddle and asked him if it were possible to do it with you. He said he would take care of it. So, here I am.” Anthony grinned. The hoarse whisper was not as pronounced as when they first met, but the damage of his throat being slit still was evident.

  “You look terrific. I love the glasses,” Cole said, like a proud father.

  Anthony self-consciously pushed the round, wire-framed glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

  The phone rang.

  “I thought I said take a message,” he called through the open door.

  “It’s the police!” The voice came through the door with a harsh blast of sarcasm.

  Cole smiled at Anthony and did an exaggerated raising of his eyebrows as he picked up phone.

  “Cole Sage.”

  “Hey Cole, Leonard.”

  Leonard Chin was one of San Francisco’s best detectives. Cole and Chin not only had a strong working relationship but they were just something short of being friends. Not to say that Leonard Chin wasn’t great for a quick lunch meeting in some hole in the wall Korean or Chinese culinary wonderland, just don’t expect an invitation to his house for dinner. He gave Cole some good solid leads for stories from time to time, and in return Cole was always willing to share information with him.

  “We had another shooting last night,” Chin continued, “looks like it’s connected to the Parade mess. Two dead. You’re on the Parade witness list so I grabbed you. Isn’t Kelly Mitchell a friend of yours? I grabbed her too. I’m doing follow up.” Leonard Chin was as matter of fact as a Detective could be.

  Chin knew very well Kelly and Cole were more than “friends”. It was just his strange way of trying to be funny.

  “Yes, Kelly was with me. Where was the shooting?” Cole asked.

  “16th and Potrero, Bunch of CPC Locos, across from McDonalds. They were hanging out in front of the brick warehouse there.”

  “Seems like a long way from Chinatown. Are you sure it was connected?”

  “A woman leaving Safeway saw a car full of Asians blow through the light and open fire. Of course she has no idea what color, what kind, or how many of these guys were in the car.”

  “How’d she know they were Asian?” Cole asked.

  “I quote, ‘it had one of those pagoda thingies on the mirror’. You know, we all have those right?” Chin said sarcastically.

  “Or a fat bellied Buddha on the dash,” Cole quipped.

  “So can we get together later? I’ll take your statement,” Chin said.

  “That would be great, there’s somebody I want you to meet.”

  “Tognetti’s?”

  “That would be great, three-ish?” Cole asked.

  “Done. See you then.”

  Cole turned and smiled at Anthony. “Looks like it’s time to go play journalist!” Cole quickly flipped through his messages and tossed them on the desk.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Anthony said already standing by the door.

  “Got a pen?” Cole asks rummaging around on the top of his desk.

  “Here.” Anthony tossed Cole a pen.

  “Thanks,” Cole said making his way to the door.” Now what are you going to write with?”

  “Oh, OK I see how this is going to be!” Anthony laughed, and followed Cole out the door.

  * * *

  The Tamale Parlor sits between an awning manufacturer and a linen supply company and has the reputation of having the best tamales in the city, possibly the world. For four generations it’s been owned by the Gutiérrez family. The dream has always been to pass down the restaurant to the next generation in the Familia Gutiérrez, but the only child of Tito and Josephina was born with Downs Syndrome.

  Marco was a happy baby and a delightful child, but as he nears his eighteenth birthday it is apparent, as high functioning as he is, he will never be able to take over the Tamale Parlor. That is not to say he doesn’t do a wonderful job greeting people, serving their drinks, and occasionally taking their order, but the pressure of much beyond that has shown Marco’s limitations.

  The happy smiling boy that greets customers at the door with, “Welcome to the Tamale Parlor, Let me show you to your seat!” is loved by the regulars and, even though a surprise to new customers, Marco quickly wins them over.

  The customers of the Tamale Parlor are a mix of neighborhood blue collar workers from the surrounding industrial businesses and suits in high-end luxury cars. It’s a somewhat noisy atmosphere, where lunch time relaxation meets unobserved business meetings. Million dollar deals have been made over a plate of cheese and jalapeño tamales.

  There is one job that Marco is never allowed to do in the restaurant. Even on the busiest day, Marco does not clear tables. Luis made the decision when Marco was about ten that having his son bus tables would look as though, “he was retarded and that was all he could do”. He may have some handicaps, but he was still Luis’s only son and he would have a position of dignity in his place of business.

  Marco was also in charge of playing music from the jukebox. Luis taught him where the “free play” switch was when he was eight. The selections were an odd mix of Canciones de Mexico and Doo Wop oldies. Marco’s favorite was Oogum Boogum by Brenton Wood, but the rule was no more than three plays in an afternoon shift. Marco knew his mother’s favorite song was Carazon Viajero by Tish Hinojosa. When things got quiet after the lunch rush, Marco would go over to the jukebox and push D13. It was always followed by a “Gracias mi querido hijo” from the kitchen.

  When two men in expensive suits came through the door, Marco gave them his standard greeting. One man smiled warmly and called Marco my name.

  “Your usual seat, Eric?” Marco asked.

  “You betcha, buddy. I brought my friend for one of your mom’s green chili tamale specials.”

  “And to drink sir?” Marco put on his best high class waiter voice.

  “Diet Coke. Gil?”

  “Just water for me,” Gil said cheerfully.

  “Right this way, gentlemen,” Marco said leading the way to the table next to the jukebox.

  Most of the lunch crowd was gone and a peaceful calm had come over the restaurant. Josephina came out from the kitchen and greeted the two men.

  “Your regular?” she asked.

  “Yes, Senora. For two.” Eric replied.

  The two men settled into their seats, Marco brought chips and salsa and went for their drinks.

  “Nice little place,” Gil said looking around.

  “My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid. He worked just up the street.”

  “Cool place to celebrate!’ Gil did a soft drum roll on the top of the table. “I think we just may have made the best deal in San Francisco history!”

  “Or at least since the Gold Rush.”

  Marco came with the drinks.

  “Nice kid,” Gil said as Marco left the table.

  “I’ve watched him grow up. “Sucks he’s...” Eric paused, “...you know. He’s the only kid and this place has been in the family for almost a hundred years.”

  The mood chilled a bit as Gil looked around the restaurant.

  “So, escrows closed and we own an office building. Now what?”

  The last customer paid their check at the counter and the busboy cleared their table. The jukebox was serviced earlier and this was the first chance Marco had to look at the new selections.

  “415 McClarren. Got quite a ring to it,” Eric offered.

  “Hey, Marco what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “415 McClarren. How’s it sound?”

  “Like a fast car?” Marco replied, a bit confused about why he was being asked.

  “It’s our new office building!” Eric said like a little kid with a new bike.

  “OK,” Marco said, and went back to reading the new titles.

  “I think we should have a real classy brass sign splashed across the wall next to the front
doors. My worry though is how long it will take to renovate. The three bids from the architects all said at least six months,” Gil said, taking a scoop of salsa with a tortilla chip.

  “I bet if we push we can get it done in three,” Eric reassured.

  “Problem is, none of them could start for at least six weeks.”

  “Until then,” Eric stopped, as Tito approached the table with two steaming plates.

  “Anything else gentlemen?” Tito asked.

  “This is beautiful!” Gil said, smiling up at Luis.

  “We’re good. Thanks Tito.”

  Eric took a big forkful of tamale and raised it in a mock toast, “To 415 McClarren!”

  “415 McClarren,” Gil said, touching a matching forkful to Eric’s.

  “Did they give you a key? I didn’t even notice.”

  “I’ll call to get it re-keyed when the work starts. If you need to get in, there is a key next to the ‘Service Entrance’ sign at the back door. It’s in an electrical box. The backdoor key is in there.”

  Eric put the forkful of tamale in his mouth as Brenton Wood’s Oogum Boogum falsetto added to the celebration.

  Marco walked away from the jukebox and put one hand up on an imaginary steering wheel and used the other to run through first and second gear on his imaginary shifter, “415 McClarren race car, 415 McClarren fast car, 415 McClarren Marco’s car, 415, 415, 415 McClarren,” Marco chanted as he raced his way to the kitchen and out of sight.

  Marco’s mother beamed at her son as he came through the swinging door into the kitchen. “How was school today, hijo?”

  “Good and bad.”

  “Bad? You never say bad. What happened?”

  “First good, mama, first good.” Marco smiled. “A man in a taxi smiled at me. I was in the bus. I said, ‘I love you’ to him. He yelled ‘I love you too’ to me! That was good.”

  “Love is good, hijo. But, I don’t know if you should tell men in taxis.”

  “Love everybody!” Marco said, showing signs of getting frustrated.