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in a mock toast to the neon-blue light beginning to outline his shimmering reflection.

Where I grew up, street hustlers were commonplace. Sometimes the hustle doesn't turn out quite as expected. I think the characters here reflect people I knew growing up.

Case #005036

    [Transcript washed]

    Yeah, Eric White, that's my real name. But most folks, those on the street anyhow, just call me Smooth. Probably don't even know my official payroll name—'n the truth is I ain't made any payrolls for a long time, you unnerstand. Let's see, I guess it goes all the way back to when I first come to the Coast and started hustling. 'Bout all I had back then was a gift for bullshit and my looks—wasn't quite so scuffed-up then, you know. Anyhow, started steering johns for a couple of hookers in the Tenderloin.

    [washed]

    Nah, man, a steerer and a pimp is different. Steerer, he just works for a kinda finder's fee, you might say—small change and freebies. Don't run no mommas.
    Anyhow, the black pimps kinda liked my style—in their line, style is everything. They used to laugh and say: Tha' white boy be runnin' his own line a mommas soon cuz he one slick-talkin' muthah-fuckah, he smoover 'n silk and tha's a fac' . Well, Smooth stuck, but I never did move up to pimping. Uh-uh. Too hectic, you know, with the ass-kickings, drugs, busts, and all. Truth is I didn't cotton to no dude cutting off my johnson for rustling one a his ladies. And, man, some a them black cats wielded a mean razor. So, I usually ran a lower-key scam of some kind or another, you know—finding T.V.s or V.C.R.s that fell offa trucks in South S.F., or selling fake mass transit fast passes downtown, or even playing my guitar for hat money where the tourists wait for the trolley. Stuff like that.

    [washed]

    That's right, by myself until me 'n Frankie hooked up. Yeah, ole Frankie Thunder—is that a great name or what?

    [washed]

    Yeah, I am pretty sure it was his real one or maybe short for Thunderbird, or something like that. I guess I ain't real positive, but I know he came from Seattle and was Indian. When I first met him he was still fighting in the ring, but at the tail end of his career. The fight guys said he was good way back—once put Bobo Olson on the seat of his pants. Anyhow, we started hanging out, shooting pool, going to the track, stuff like that. He always attracted the babes, and he sure wasn't cheap. But all of a sudden the State Commission suspended his license 'cause Frankie failed a physical. And some a the fight guys said it was 'bout time—that Frankie had fought a few rounds too many. And he did have this kind of trembling in his hands that came and went, and sometimes his speech was funny, like he'd been drinking or was loaded even when he was stone-ass sober. The fight guys said he was the same way as Ali, you know—whatta you call it, Parker's? Something like that.
    So there he was, thirty-four years old, no money saved, no straight skills, no future...We became partners.

    [washed]

    Nah, I didn't feel sorry for him—I hadn't felt sorry for anyone since I'd taken my first ass-kicking back there in the Tenderloin, trying to pull a murphy on the wrong john. And it wasn't true what the fight guys said, not exactly anyways, 'cause when we was running a scam, Frankie's hands were as steady as your landlord's counting the rent money, and his speech as sharp as the crease in a car salesman's pants, if you know what I mean. So me and him been making it for eight years or so, lots of different deals—'cept for the time he pulled a six-spot in county for B 'n' E. Boy, I was damn lucky that time 'cause, just before The Man slammed Frankie, I done my Carl Lewis outta there, you know. Some folks'll tell you that's typical, Frankie taking all the chances, me taking the big half a the pie. But that's weak chicken, man, 'cause me 'n' Frankie have always been equal partners, fifty-fifty right down the line. But it's true, he's usually the arm, I'm the