The Angels of Catastrophe by Peter Plate Read Free Book Online

She fought with Frankie about it night and day, arguing Freddy was a negative addition to their household.
    Being among the general population was too much for Freddy, more so than for Frankie. He couldn’t get a job because he hardly knew how to write his own name. He got busted for shoplifting—boosting a bar of soap at Walgreen’s Drugstore—and a warrant was issued for his arrest. Freddy was wily as a cockroach hiding from the exterminators. He avoided the cops for several months until one day a plainclothes police officer in the Mission recognized him and initiated a chase.
    Freddy gave his pursuer the slip and dashed back to his hideout on treeless, garbage-swept Geneva Avenue. The sun was beating down on him as he bustled into the in-law cottage with his Robert Redford hair all disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned and sweaty. Durrutti was in the baby crib playing with a .38 bullet his daddy had given him as a toy. Doby and Frankie were sitting on the sofa watching television with the sound turned off. Frankie was shirtless and unshaven and had a beer in his hand. Dobie was holding his other hand as she stared at the TV screen. Freddy danced around the living room in a near-epileptic fit, banging his knees against the coffee table.
    â€œThey found me! This is it! The fucking cops are coming to get me!”
    He was practically in tears. A tough ex-con he was not. Neither was his host. Frankie and Freddy were good-time
criminals. The soft kind. They were incapable of graft. They didn’t know how to rob banks. They weren’t hooked up with any gangs. They were journeymen crooks with no skills. They’d never hurt anyone—which was why they were failures. Balls of stainless steel they did not have.
    Doby made like nothing was wrong. Freddy’s problems were not her business. Her husband, being his former cell mate’s chief confidant, was more sympathetic. He stood up, let go of his wife’s hand and took another swig of beer. Then he handed the can to Freddy, put his arms around his friend and gave him a manly hug. “Go hide in the bathroom, dude. I’ll keep them outside. You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ve got your back.”
    Freddy finished off the rest of the beer in a single swallow. His handsome face exploded with relief. “You’re a genius, man! Thanks!”
    He dragged himself into the john and slammed the door behind him. He locked it and jumped in the bathtub, pulling the aqua blue mildewed shower curtain around him where he stood.
    A split second later two cops plowed through the cottage’s front door without bothering to knock. The first cop had his gun out, not a good sign. He pointed the weapon at the television set, then at Frankie. The other cop shouted, “Where is the bastard!”
    Durrutti had put down the bullet he was weaning himself on and stared at them with an infant’s indifference. Frankie jackknifed from the couch and spread his arms out in a placating, diplomatic gesture. His pulpy face was studded with unhealed jailhouse cysts. His mouth was a
geography of tics. He wasn’t sophisticated enough to cope with this brand of trouble and he wasn’t smart enough to admit it. He bellowed self-importantly, “Wait a minute, gentlemen! What’s going on? You just can’t barge in here like this! What do you want?”
    Neither policeman answered him. They didn’t even condescend to look at him. Bare-chested, scrawny Frankie had his jeans held up by a motorcycle chain biker belt. His skinny arms were covered with unfinished India ink tattoos. He was a teenaged battlefield. The cops searched the junior one bedroom apartment, which took them less than a minute. They stormed into the bathroom and found Freddy trying to climb out the window.
    Freddy’s yowling was silenced by the mushy thud of a nightstick when it connected with his nose. The cops handcuffed him face down in the tub. Doby said to