Free Dirty in Cashmere by Peter Plate

outcome. That was the formula.
    â€œSure thing, Branch.”

 
    TWENTY-SIX
    Rita was in Eternal Gratitude’s doorway, observing a black man in a motorized wheelchair peel up the sidewalk, a boom box in his lap belting out James Brown’s “Night Train.” She reached under her dress and plucked at a bra strap cutting into her collarbone.
    It was a calm Sunday afternoon. No rain had fallen. The sun even made a cameo, before getting sandwiched in clouds. The morning had been another story. 2-Time fielded several calls from Life club owners. One in the Mission, two others in the Sunset district. All were victims of overnight raids by the feds—a prohibition was coming down the pipeline.
    2-Time decided to get ready for it. In a quick deal he copped a thousand tabs of Life from a Tenderloin wholesaler. A guy with a manufacturing lab at Turk and Jones. But the batch was cut with strychnine, 2-Time vomiting five minutes after downing a tab. Now he’d just gotten off the phone with Heller.
    â€œHeller got the shit kicked out of him. He was waylaid by the Honduran street dealer me and him robbed. Heller was coming out of the liquor store at Fourteenth and Valencia when the Honduran shanghaied him back to the Woodward Street apartment and stole all the money. Then he broke Heller’s legs with a baseball bat. Fucking hell.”
    The message was explicit.
    The Honduran would be coming after 2-Time, too.
    Rita hugged herself and retreated inside the club.
    From where I was standing near the chill out room, I watched her stalk to the counter, her high heels clacking on the floorboards. She cut her eyes in my direction, quietly projecting an agenda I didn’t want to touch. Heller, 2-Time, and the feds. Unremarkably, she said nothing about my new coat. To distract myself, I looked at the clock.
    It was time to meet up with Branch again.
    I dread the prospect. Branch is massaging me with threats, insinuations, demands, and generosity. He’s invading me.

 
    TWENTY-SEVEN
    â€œWhat do you know about economics, Ricky?”
    Branch, Doolan, and I were in a back room at the mansion, an enclosed glass-walled porch. Poised on the edge of a purple leather settee, Branch was in a mauve Brioni suit, silk ascot, suede loafers, his gelled hair massed like a storm cloud above his forehead. A tic worked overtime on his jawline.
    I was stone-faced, camping on a plush couch, my kicks tracking dirt into the two-ply merino wool carpet. My cashmere coat was liberally spattered with mud from the street. I was miserable about that. Good clothes were high maintenance, really stressful.
    â€œNot a whole lot.”
    â€œThis is an era of permanent scarcity,” Branch dithered on. “But nowadays there are new markets on the Pacific Rim. Beijing. Singapore. Hong Kong. Seoul. Vancouver. How long they’ll last, nobody knows, because the contamination in San Francisco is putting a jinx on things. We need to fix that.”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with me?”
    â€œThe mayoral race. Ronnie Shmalker has to win.”
    â€œWhat if it’s the other guy?”
    Branch let his eyes do the talking. He didn’t want my best prediction. He wanted one tailor-made, something like his suit. The bullet said: set this jive ass sucker straight. All the money in the universe couldn’t buy the future. It was free. Whether you wanted it or not.
    â€œIt doesn’t work like that, Branch.”
    â€œWhat doesn’t?”
    â€œPredictions. What if I told you economics has nothing to do with the truth.”
    â€œShut your mouth. I’m not paying you for the damn truth.”
    â€œSo when do I get some paper?”
    â€œWhen you make the right prediction.”
    â€œThe one you want.”
    â€œYou got it. Ricky? What race are you? I can’t tell.”
    â€œMy dad was white and I don’t know what my mom was.”
    â€œWhat does that make you?”
    â€œI’m