Re: RARA-AVIS: Recommendations (Try Malone) Feed Back
required
Takhoman@aol.com
Sun, 19 Jul 1998 15:49:30 EDT
Tacoma. Spring. 1963.=20
The Temple Theater's Saturday night premier had just ended. Two
movie goe=
rs
wait for the Number 48 at 11th and Pacific. They stand several
feet apart.
High school steadies. A lovers tiff.
A greaser attempts a quick pick-up. The boyfriend confronts
him. "She's w=
ith
me buddy". The greaser jams a pearl handled .22 into the
boyfriend's fore=
head.
"I'm from Naw Yawk. We have a way of dealing with punks like
you", he slu=
rred.
The grease ball had had his kicks. The boyfriend somehow talks
him into m=
oving
on.
A police cruiser appears. The boy asks, "Should I tell the
cops?" The gir=
l
responds. "What for. He didn't do anything." The boy is silent.
They boar=
d the
bus. He broaches the pick-up attempt. Her attitude is smug.
"Into every l=
ife a
little rain must fall", she responds. They debus, cross the
street and he=
ad
down "M" towards 37th.
The light goes on. She hadn't seen the gun. Susan Charlene
never realized=
the
rain drops to which she was referring is the "Sweat of the
City" and are =
made
of lead.
Tacoma. Summer. 1995.=20
That was my first brush with those deadly drops and the
experience was fa=
r
less erotic than Susan.=20
My name is Paul Malone. I now chuck out an investigative
newsletter some =
city
mucky mucks would like to see buried in a toxic landfill.
Economic Specia=
list
Mariza Craig is no exception.
The week had been far from typical. Salt tablet weather. A T.
V. appearan=
ce on
"Across the Fence". Questions that multiplied faster than Li'l
Abner's
Schmoos. A hole in the ground next the city's famed Cliff
House. Possible=
City
Charter violations on the Foss.
So when Saturday night showed her voluptuous form I was more
than ready f=
or
the steak special and a few drams at my home away from home.
Cranking up =
the
old brown beater I tooled down "M", hung a Ralph on 39th and a
Louis in t=
he
back lot of Lincoln Lanes. Rain threatened with dark flannel
gray clouds
hanging low in the sky. The Railsplitter Lounge was dimmer
still with a
smattering of regulars scattered about. Dick at his usual
perch. Bruce wi=
th
his pull-tabs. Robert ordering his double V.O. with coke and
extra ice in=
a
cylindrical glass. And Chef Don poised to take my dinner
order.
I slid in next to Tenpin, the proprietor. He offered liquid
refreshment. =
I
accepted. He talked of a recent trip to Bali. His talk of
Island life lun=
acy
melted away the tension of the week like Grade A butter on
freshly steame=
d
Tacoma Boy's Incredible corn.
Dinner devoured and the regulars off for other unknown sport, I
was left =
alone
to my own convoluted thoughts. The intrigues of the up coming
political
season. Was McGavick successful in her Police Department
inquires or as u=
sual
had it become a forgotten issue? Would anyone dare file against
the Big E=
bb
for mayor?
It was some time before I was brought back to full
consciousness by a mel=
odic
voice asking somebody if they cared for another pop. That
somebody was me=
. The
sweet voice belonged to Barb, the joint's mixologist. We were
alone.
Barb is a dish with great gams and a face that's easy on the
eyes. She'd =
grown
up in the neighborhood. We'd been classmates from different
years. We hav=
e
commonality. We talked.=20
Barb was working up the following week's drink special when the
leftovers=
from
the Yakima Pub drifted in. The noise level escalated. The
Splitter was on=
ce
again in full swing.
It was 1:30 a.m. when "the noise" brought dead silence. It had
the heavy
handed impression of someone pounding a short rapid staccato on
the windo=
w. An
urgent plea to be let in. The back door had been locked early.
Several lo=
oked
but no one was there. Nobody was on the streets sans a man on
the corner =
of
39th and Yakima.=20
I stepped outside. "Did you hear that noise?" "Yes", he
answered, "It was
gunfire." Reentering the bar I suggested 911. Nobody bought
into it. I to=
ok a
post at a window booth. In less than one the first prowler
pulled up. Wit=
hin
three there were six. A scene right out of COPS.=20
By 2:45 the only remaining vehicle was the crime scene van. The
side of a=
n old
family home cum three unit flop has been peppered with 9 mm
rounds. A sin=
gle
shell casing had been found. It was late. The hour pulled me
home.
The next afternoon I was back counting bullet holes. A male
occupant in t=
he
mid level flop asked, "Whad choo lookin' at?" My reply was
simple. "Bulle=
t
holes." "Whad the hell da yu care?", he snarled. "I'm a
writer." His atti=
tude
did a 180. "Well don't get youself fired over what yu write,
but here's w=
had
yu shud say. You tell everybody that who ever did this is a
bunch of G__ =
D___
M_____ F___in' jellyfish. We'd wadn't even home when it
happen", he said.
Maybe he was lucky. Or maybe he knew what was coming. Either
way, this ti=
me,
he'd missed being drenched by the "Sweat of the City"
Tacoma. Summer. 1998=20
Three years later and a half a block away ten others weren't so
lucky.=20
My live-in Molly McGuire and I had opted for a rare no City
business week=
end.
Coming out of hibernation late Sunday afternoon I directed the
blue bombe=
r to
Tenpins. Molly had opted for Bingo. Taking a left on Park off
38th and ri=
ght
on 39th I unknowingly had driven into one of the worst crime
scenes in th=
e
City's history. Upon entering the Railsplitter Chef Don hit me
with a qui=
ck
account. A blood bath at the Trang Die Caf=E9. I hit the
street. I talked=
to
reporters, people I know, strangers. The story came together.
On Sunday
morning at 1:30 a.m. three gunmen entered the Trang Die and
proceeded to =
open
up with automatic weapons. They'd used the Fourth of July merry
making to=
mask
the sounds of their gunfire. They sprayed the outside of the
building on =
their
way out as getaway cover. Motive unknown. Of the 16 known
inside at the t=
ime
of the attack, five dead, five wounded. Eighteen hours later
the last bod=
y was
hauled out. Two days later massive evidence followed.
I spent the following week in the district talking to cops,
business owne=
rs,
John Q. Public. I attended public meeting. I went to memorial
services. W=
hile
the press portrayed the ten as innocent victims another story
began to em=
erge.
Supposedly only Vietnamese allowed. Talk of heavy sports book.
Massive
gambling debts owed. Drugs. Prostitution. One victim under
investigation =
for
home invasions. Stolen goods. A fencing operation. A hang out
for known
criminals. A six inch thick rap sheet. The only accusation
missing was t=
he
protection rackets. The rumors grew hair.=20
Several were confirmed by sources in the department, others by
those in t=
he
district the dicks had talked to. Another massacre came to
mind. This one=
2019
miles away. Chicago. 10:30 p.m. St. Valentine's Day 1929. Two
hundred rou=
nds
fired. Seven dead in a garage on Clark Street. Known members of
the Bugs =
Moran
gang. Capone suspected. No arrests made. My senses tell me that
69 years =
later
that won't be the case in what has dubbed Tacoma's
"Independence Day
Massacre".=20
In a few weeks the vividness of this atrocity will fade as have
the other
killings in the district over the past several years have. Life
will res=
ume
its normalcy until once again the "Sweat of the City" rains
down her dead=
ly
leaden force.
Respctfully submited,
Paul Malone
#
# To unsubscribe, say "unsubscribe rara-avis" to
majordomo@icomm.ca.
# The web pages for the list are at http://www.vex.net/~buff/rara-avis/.