Blood and Bacon
“She up there on the steps, Officer,” a black woman in a yellow washdress said, pointing at a pealing porch, her hair a mass of pink sponge rollers that looked like sausages.
“She bad cut up!”
Lopez’s shirt was sticking to him where his back had rested against the leather seat in the patrol car on this hot, sticky night near Candlestick Park in South San Francisco. He could see the lights blooming above the park and he thought briefly of the tickets for the game tonight his brother had offered, which he couldn’t use because it was his shift and he needed the money. His back itched as he pulled the shirt away and went up to the dirty, white frame house. His new partner, Sutter, also black but tall and thin where Lopez was short and overweight, followed. Lopez thought Sutter seemed calm, composed, although he didn’t know him well. They had only been partners for two months, after Lopez’s partner was shot in a burglary arrest turned murder near the airport. It was hard getting used to being with a new man in a situation where you had to have each other’s back. They were investigating what sounded like yet another murder, called in by a hysterical female who wouldn’t give her name. Driving by the address, they saw a few people standing around and got out to investigate when the woman in the washdress pointed to the porch.
Lopez and Sutter pushed through the group of people to where a young, black woman lay, her limbs grotesquely bent underneath her on the steps. She was slight, pretty and sad, her stockings rolled down to her knees in the heat, dressed in a black sundress that barely covered her ample breasts. There was a deep knife wound in her stomach that poured blood out and down the steps. She groaned.
Sutter bent down and tore the blood-soaked dress away. The wound was large where a knife had ripped her open.
“Good God Almighty!” Lopez screamed. Get some packing and call for a bus. She doesn’t have much time.
“How about moving back folks,” Sutter said, pushing against the crowd as he went back out to the car. “Go on home. We’ve got it.” Nobody moved. Lopez pushed the wound together, trying to stop the bleeding.
Through a screen door, he could hear a TV and conversation. He turned the woman’s face and her eyes opened slightly.
“Who did this to you? What’s his name?” Lopez asked softly. The woman’s eyes moved, looking at a spider on the step move slowly away, and then closed and opened. She didn’t answer and seemed already in some other place.
“Joe Foster”, said the woman in the yellow washdress and curlers, “but he gone home.”
Sutter was back carrying the bandages and they packed the gaping wound. There wasn’t much to her and she had lost a lot of blood. He and Lopez lifted her down to the bottom of the steps so she could lay flat. She still had a pulse, but was breathing heavily. Where was the ambulance? It was probably too late for her.
“You stay here until the bus gets here,” he told Sutter. “I’m going inside, see if I can find out who did this.” He drew his revolver reluctantly, tired of trying to stop people from hurting each other. Half a dozen blacks were watching a ball game. The Dodgers were leading the Giants 4-2 in the fifth. Lopez recognized one of the women, Cora Bailey. He’d arrested her for prostitution a few weeks back. She saw him and got up off the floor, where she had been leaning against a chair, and straightened her dress.
“What the fuck you want?” said a lanky shirtless man, crunching his beer can in one hand. “This ball game sucks anyway.” Everybody else was watching the game and didn’t look up. The reception turned snowy and the shirtless man got up to adjust the aerial. “God-damned TV”, he said and opened another beer from the 12-pack on the floor.
“Where is Joe Foster?” Lopez asked, keeping the gun pointed down at his side. It was hot on this August night. A dented, noisy fan spun the air uselessly. He could feel the sweat running down inside his shirt over his ample belly, which bulged above his belt.
Cora looked over at him, the whites of her eyes showing against her dark skin.
“In there,” she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “What you want him for?”
“He cut up the lady out there?”
“Oh yeah, she OK?” Cora didn’t seem upset. Was it always this way, a violent death a part of the day as unremarkable as the next beer? They hadn’t noticed that Lopez had a gun.
“Not really,” he answered, but Cora had already turned back to the TV and wasn’t listening. Halicki had just struck out Garvey and all eyes were on the screen.
There was noise from a room in the back and Lopez followed it. Foster was there in the kitchen, an oily, smelly place with a bare light bulb and peeling flowered wallpaper. He was frying bacon. It was shriveled in the pan and the grease popped and burned. A six-pack with three left and one open sat on the counter.
Foster, a big man, naked to the waist and sweaty, lit a cigarette and tended the bacon. There was perspiration running down the sides of his face, but he didn’t seem nervous about anything other than his frying pan. Lopez looked around the dirty room, the garbage can was overflowing and flies buzzed around. A clean knife lay in a pan in the sink.
“There’s a lady outside all cut up,” said Lopez, staring at him and trying to read his reaction. There wasn’t any. “You use this?” He picked up the knife with his handkerchief, the water dripping on the floor. There wasn’t any blood on it, but Foster could have washed it off.
“What lady?” Foster answered, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look at Lopez.
“The one bleeding on the porch”.
“Didn’t cut her. Just trying to fry some bacon here, and its getting burned.”
Sutter walked into the kitchen, his upper lip rising at the mess and smell of the place.
“Ambulance is here,” he said calmly. “They don’t think she’ll make it to the hospital.”
“Cuff him,” growled Lopez, raising his gun up to point at Foster. “You have the right to remain silent. You are not required to say anything to us at any time or answer any questions.” Foster didn’t look angry. In fact, he had no affect at all.
“Where you taking me?” he asked as they started out. “Bacons all burned.” Lopez turned off the stove and moved the skillet back. He wrapped the knife in his handkerchief.
“45th.” Sutter answered grabbing his arm. “Why’d you go after her?”
“She my woman. He was feeling her all over. Not no more, not no more.” It was as though cutting her was a way of expressing simple disapproval.
The stretcher was being rolled out to the ambulance as they walked to the squad car. Foster looked down at the still form under the blanket.
“She done. I got him, too.”
Lopez and Sutter looked at each other knowing the night was just beginning.
“Put him in the car. I’m going back inside to ask some questions,” Lopez said. He opened the back and put the knife into an envelope, then headed back inside where the Dodgers were still ahead in the 9th and no one saw anything.
“Went to the store for some cigs and beer and she just laying there,” said one.
“I didn’t see nothing since Joshua’s single,” says another.
“What’s all the fuss and questions,” asks the lanky black. His legs draped over a torn chair, he popped another can of beer.
“You shut up!” said Cora, “Leave him be. These people just doing their job.” She needed points for the next time she was arrested.
“What’s her name? The lady who got cut?” Lopez asked with everyone staring at the TV.
“Don’t know,” said a woman, pregnant and sunk into a chair, her dirty legs spread out to make herself cooler. “Bernie, Beanie, no that ain’t it.” And she looked back to the TV.
“Cora?” Lopez asked firmly.
“Name is Bernice Brown, lives up to Daly City. Comes down sometimes.”
“Shut up!” somebody said. The Giants had just scored in the bottom of the 9th. “They finally movin.”
Lopez shrugged. It was a bad night. Just too hot. He wasn’t going to get anymore here. And what they were holding back wouldn’t put the lady’s gut back together. He slammed the screen door and stood on the porch looking down at the red stain on the step. He wondered if anyone would wash it off. The ambulance siren faded in the distance.
“Oh shit,” somebody said inside as Thomasson grounded out to end the game.
Lopez walked slowly out to the squad car where Foster sat in the back, silent and handcuffed. Sutter was listening to the radio crackling, giving an address to another patrol.
‘Yes,’ he thought. Sutter’s calm and quiet might be a good change. Lopez sighed and started the car.
“She bad cut up!”
Lopez’s shirt was sticking to him where his back had rested against the leather seat in the patrol car on this hot, sticky night near Candlestick Park in South San Francisco. He could see the lights blooming above the park and he thought briefly of the tickets for the game tonight his brother had offered, which he couldn’t use because it was his shift and he needed the money. His back itched as he pulled the shirt away and went up to the dirty, white frame house. His new partner, Sutter, also black but tall and thin where Lopez was short and overweight, followed. Lopez thought Sutter seemed calm, composed, although he didn’t know him well. They had only been partners for two months, after Lopez’s partner was shot in a burglary arrest turned murder near the airport. It was hard getting used to being with a new man in a situation where you had to have each other’s back. They were investigating what sounded like yet another murder, called in by a hysterical female who wouldn’t give her name. Driving by the address, they saw a few people standing around and got out to investigate when the woman in the washdress pointed to the porch.
Lopez and Sutter pushed through the group of people to where a young, black woman lay, her limbs grotesquely bent underneath her on the steps. She was slight, pretty and sad, her stockings rolled down to her knees in the heat, dressed in a black sundress that barely covered her ample breasts. There was a deep knife wound in her stomach that poured blood out and down the steps. She groaned.
Sutter bent down and tore the blood-soaked dress away. The wound was large where a knife had ripped her open.
“Good God Almighty!” Lopez screamed. Get some packing and call for a bus. She doesn’t have much time.
“How about moving back folks,” Sutter said, pushing against the crowd as he went back out to the car. “Go on home. We’ve got it.” Nobody moved. Lopez pushed the wound together, trying to stop the bleeding.
Through a screen door, he could hear a TV and conversation. He turned the woman’s face and her eyes opened slightly.
“Who did this to you? What’s his name?” Lopez asked softly. The woman’s eyes moved, looking at a spider on the step move slowly away, and then closed and opened. She didn’t answer and seemed already in some other place.
“Joe Foster”, said the woman in the yellow washdress and curlers, “but he gone home.”
Sutter was back carrying the bandages and they packed the gaping wound. There wasn’t much to her and she had lost a lot of blood. He and Lopez lifted her down to the bottom of the steps so she could lay flat. She still had a pulse, but was breathing heavily. Where was the ambulance? It was probably too late for her.
“You stay here until the bus gets here,” he told Sutter. “I’m going inside, see if I can find out who did this.” He drew his revolver reluctantly, tired of trying to stop people from hurting each other. Half a dozen blacks were watching a ball game. The Dodgers were leading the Giants 4-2 in the fifth. Lopez recognized one of the women, Cora Bailey. He’d arrested her for prostitution a few weeks back. She saw him and got up off the floor, where she had been leaning against a chair, and straightened her dress.
“What the fuck you want?” said a lanky shirtless man, crunching his beer can in one hand. “This ball game sucks anyway.” Everybody else was watching the game and didn’t look up. The reception turned snowy and the shirtless man got up to adjust the aerial. “God-damned TV”, he said and opened another beer from the 12-pack on the floor.
“Where is Joe Foster?” Lopez asked, keeping the gun pointed down at his side. It was hot on this August night. A dented, noisy fan spun the air uselessly. He could feel the sweat running down inside his shirt over his ample belly, which bulged above his belt.
Cora looked over at him, the whites of her eyes showing against her dark skin.
“In there,” she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “What you want him for?”
“He cut up the lady out there?”
“Oh yeah, she OK?” Cora didn’t seem upset. Was it always this way, a violent death a part of the day as unremarkable as the next beer? They hadn’t noticed that Lopez had a gun.
“Not really,” he answered, but Cora had already turned back to the TV and wasn’t listening. Halicki had just struck out Garvey and all eyes were on the screen.
There was noise from a room in the back and Lopez followed it. Foster was there in the kitchen, an oily, smelly place with a bare light bulb and peeling flowered wallpaper. He was frying bacon. It was shriveled in the pan and the grease popped and burned. A six-pack with three left and one open sat on the counter.
Foster, a big man, naked to the waist and sweaty, lit a cigarette and tended the bacon. There was perspiration running down the sides of his face, but he didn’t seem nervous about anything other than his frying pan. Lopez looked around the dirty room, the garbage can was overflowing and flies buzzed around. A clean knife lay in a pan in the sink.
“There’s a lady outside all cut up,” said Lopez, staring at him and trying to read his reaction. There wasn’t any. “You use this?” He picked up the knife with his handkerchief, the water dripping on the floor. There wasn’t any blood on it, but Foster could have washed it off.
“What lady?” Foster answered, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look at Lopez.
“The one bleeding on the porch”.
“Didn’t cut her. Just trying to fry some bacon here, and its getting burned.”
Sutter walked into the kitchen, his upper lip rising at the mess and smell of the place.
“Ambulance is here,” he said calmly. “They don’t think she’ll make it to the hospital.”
“Cuff him,” growled Lopez, raising his gun up to point at Foster. “You have the right to remain silent. You are not required to say anything to us at any time or answer any questions.” Foster didn’t look angry. In fact, he had no affect at all.
“Where you taking me?” he asked as they started out. “Bacons all burned.” Lopez turned off the stove and moved the skillet back. He wrapped the knife in his handkerchief.
“45th.” Sutter answered grabbing his arm. “Why’d you go after her?”
“She my woman. He was feeling her all over. Not no more, not no more.” It was as though cutting her was a way of expressing simple disapproval.
The stretcher was being rolled out to the ambulance as they walked to the squad car. Foster looked down at the still form under the blanket.
“She done. I got him, too.”
Lopez and Sutter looked at each other knowing the night was just beginning.
“Put him in the car. I’m going back inside to ask some questions,” Lopez said. He opened the back and put the knife into an envelope, then headed back inside where the Dodgers were still ahead in the 9th and no one saw anything.
“Went to the store for some cigs and beer and she just laying there,” said one.
“I didn’t see nothing since Joshua’s single,” says another.
“What’s all the fuss and questions,” asks the lanky black. His legs draped over a torn chair, he popped another can of beer.
“You shut up!” said Cora, “Leave him be. These people just doing their job.” She needed points for the next time she was arrested.
“What’s her name? The lady who got cut?” Lopez asked with everyone staring at the TV.
“Don’t know,” said a woman, pregnant and sunk into a chair, her dirty legs spread out to make herself cooler. “Bernie, Beanie, no that ain’t it.” And she looked back to the TV.
“Cora?” Lopez asked firmly.
“Name is Bernice Brown, lives up to Daly City. Comes down sometimes.”
“Shut up!” somebody said. The Giants had just scored in the bottom of the 9th. “They finally movin.”
Lopez shrugged. It was a bad night. Just too hot. He wasn’t going to get anymore here. And what they were holding back wouldn’t put the lady’s gut back together. He slammed the screen door and stood on the porch looking down at the red stain on the step. He wondered if anyone would wash it off. The ambulance siren faded in the distance.
“Oh shit,” somebody said inside as Thomasson grounded out to end the game.
Lopez walked slowly out to the squad car where Foster sat in the back, silent and handcuffed. Sutter was listening to the radio crackling, giving an address to another patrol.
‘Yes,’ he thought. Sutter’s calm and quiet might be a good change. Lopez sighed and started the car.