The clouds hang low and hold sway over the narrow streets and piss-coated sidewalks of Pioneer Square. Defying them and pushing through the quiet, an unmarked box truck pulls in adjacent to the alley-side entrance of the Hope Tree Shelter and Commissary. Ben, a forbidding and harsh man in his mid-50s, leaves the lights on and engine running, some early morning radio show muffled and barely audible. He tumbles out of the cab and heads around to the roll-up, eyeing the windows and shallow balconies up and down Washington St.
He works the lock and latch, pulls the door up and the ramp down, then leans his bulk against the truck, waiting. He lights a cigarette – Turkish Royal, Colibri lighter – and braces against the cold.
It’s about 30 seconds before the door along Post Alley swings open. The man is lean, ragged, wearing a soiled Dickie’s work jacket and saltwater-stained toe boots.
“Hey Amos,” Ben says. “Is Ross up?”
“In the lobby.”
Amos braces the alley door with a cinder block. He gestures and four other disarranged shelter residents gather up from inside. They follow him out into the damp air. Ben gives them the speech – food and supplies in boxes, distribution in bags, you’ll get yours later, yada yada – but they ignore him and get to work separating the cargo.
“Just leave that alone,” Ben points to the massive deck box along the back wall near the cab. He enters the shelter.
It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the fluorescents. He squares his shoulders and shifts his cigarette between his teeth, stalks through the room between wood-finished cafeteria tables and past frameless posters of Rainier and Olympic National on the walls – unintentional reminders that nature is a luxury poverty can’t afford.
Ross slouches over one of the benches that flank the stairwell past the kitchen, thick tattooed arms crossed over his stomach, gunmetal gray hair and goatee, long-suffering grit in his eyes and bags beneath them. He looks soul-tired. “Sean was mine,” he says. “My business.”
“Yeah, well. He became the Co-op’s problem.”
Ross’ voice is gravel. ”Tell me what happened.”
“He got arrested. A rub-and-tug sting down by Maynard. Our friends in SPD intercepted, but… the dumbass wanted to talk. We need him found in the Square.”
Ross’ eyes refocus. He heaves himself up with effort, 320 lbs of threat imposed. “Trying to make this out to look like us?”
Ben holds steady. “We’ll make sure no one gets picked up. We just need him found around here to tell the story.”
“Uh huh. Junkies jumpin’ junkies.”
Ben, sensing Amos standing behind him at the threshold, asks over his shoulder, “Hey, how many bags in the truck?”
“Counted 7.”
Ben smiles shit and authority. “A gift. $240k. From your friends in Mergers & Acquisitions.”
“I don’t trust generosity.”
“Strange trait in your line of work.”
Ross arches his back and sighs deep and low – acquiescence, or high blood pressure? Finally: “Amos, it’s getting cold in here. Close the door for a second, huh?” Ben’s too busy basking in the heat of Ross’ flaring pride as he hears the door latch shut. He doesn’t see Amos swinging the cinder block at the back of his head. He feels it, though. Then, sprawled on the PVC flooring, he feels it again – the block cracking over his face, but his face cracking louder. Blood and teeth choking him, and he can’t see a fucking thing. He doesn’t feel it the third time.
• • •
Later that morning, the sun rises on a Seattle Times headline – nine separate massage parlors raided overnight, a 3-week sting that saw the arrest of 23 girls and over 50 customers. The de riguer mentions of human trafficking, regressive law enforcement tactics, and the ethics of sex work feature heavily.
The Seamstress, on the other hand – the street compact penned and distributed by Seattle’s low-income and homeless – runs a story about a restorative justice art exhibit being erected at Gas Works Park – neo-socialist chic for 30 year-olds with $3000-a-month apartments.
Neither of them mention the two bodies found together, broken faces and filthy clothes, just Southwest of Pioneer Square. Because nobody wants to read that.
~ fin ~
John Von Rader is a cybersecurity professional and – when able to pull himself away from his wife, children, and huskies – a writer living in Denver, Colorado. The Kings of Emerald City is his first published work. You can find him online @johnvonrader and john.vonrader.
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