Brotherhood of the Streets

By Jim Lee

It is 1970. Carlos Alvarado and Johnnie Littletree, known to each other as Knuckles and Geronimo, are a pair of urban outcasts. They can't stay out of trouble for long. A local cop likes to harass them every chance he gets. Under the cloud of the draft and Vietnam, they are about to turn eighteen. The streets have taught them how to survive, but now it's time to choose how to live. The street punks move on in their separate ways, one driven by hate and the other by hope. Sooner or later, they have to collide in a showdown nobody wants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684565122

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Brotherhood

of the Streets

Jim Lee

Copyright © 2019 Jim Lee

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-68456-513-9 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-68456-512-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part II

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Part III

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part IV

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

For the young who refuse to stop caring.

Prologue

Nobody paid attention to the man in midnight blue. They didn’t notice the lack of a tin shield on his shirt. They tried to ignore the Smith & Wesson dangling at the end of his arm and the frozen look on his face. Best not to get involved, particularly when someone has a gun—no matter who it is or seems to be. Just give him a wide path. Don’t look him in the eye.

Nobody paid attention except the sergeant. He came out of the building right behind the young cop and followed at a discreet distance. The rookie ambled, trancelike, for nearly a block from the county building’s fake marble facade. An old wino peeked out from an alley as the badgeless cop passed by. He stared for a moment or so, took a swig from his thunder jug, and slumped down behind an overflowing trash bin, an anonymous human stain blending with the others.

The policeman wandered south on Hill Street, but apparently, one direction seemed just as good as any other. A traffic officer at the Second Street intersection, too occupied with the possibility of disobedient vehicles to notice the gun or missing badge, waved a quick, professional greeting, like an old army NCO grudgingly saluting a second lieutenant. The vehicle choreographer wasn’t noticed. The slate-gray uniform with white hat and gloves zapped back to the downtown traffic. The sunshine sparkled happily off his spit-shined shoes.

By the time the zombielike cop got to Third Street, he began to rate some attention from pedestrians. He now penetrated a neighboring world populated by feverish bargain hunters with torn jackets mixing with winos, junkies, and discount hookers. Street people. People keenly aware of their surroundings. Like crippled rats.

At Fourth Street he caused a minor rear-end collision by crossing against the light. The traffic officer had to break up a fistfight between the angry drivers of the mildly rumpled cars. A ragged fanatic across the street yelled something mostly incoherent about Doomsday and Jesus.

The young cop didn’t pay attention to any of this.

Three winos sharing a bottle in Pershing Square vacated their park bench when they saw the officer approaching. The young cop sat down and put his hands over his face. He started to sob. Very quietly. Very privately.

A commotion erupted across the street. Two juveniles had stolen something from a tiny variety store and were fleeing in the direction of the small park. Shaking his fist in a helpless rage, the proprietor shouted racist obscenities in a high-pitched voice and Eastern European accent.

The teenagers stopped long enough to laugh and flip the finger at the old man. Then they saw the officer sitting on the park bench. They sprinted toward the underground rest rooms. The cop didn’t stir. He just gazed at them as though he had seen them before.

One of the young thieves stopped at the top of the stairs. The cop looked at the kid. The kid looked at the cop. Some sort of communication happened.

The other thief, now halfway back up the stairs, broke the mood. Hey, turkey, what you doin’, man? You crazy or sumpin’? Come on, before that pig gets movin’.

The kid joined his partner. They rushed down the stairs arguing. The pig watched the stairs until the juveniles disappeared into the concrete bowel of the city. Then he covered his face again.

The sergeant showed up. Despite his slightly bulging midsection, the walk from the Hall of Administration had not left him winded. Those years of pounding a beat in the Northeast Division had left him in better shape than he looked. He stood across the street from his junior colleague and scratched his head. He just stood there watching, watching the cop with the missing badge.

Part One

Street Punks

1970

Chapter One

Carlos casually sauntered into the discount variety store. It was a small, mom-and-pop neighborhood place with no employees. The owner was a tired looking man of about sixty with a cheap toupee and an old, stained tie. He stood by the cash register glaring at his one and only customer as though the kid were about to rape his parakeet and steal his dentures.

You gonna buy something?

I dunno.

Got any money?

I’ll let you know if I see anything worth spending it on. Right now I’m just looking around.

Don’t take all day. I got better things to do than watching you.

What’s the matter, mister? Don’t tell me you’re afraid I might steal something. I’m really shocked and insulted by that.

You said it, boy, not me.

Carlos considered a comeback insult, but the sight through the grimy front window distracted him. An all-too-familiar seasick green sedan pulled up at the curb directly across the street. Good old hassle-the-juvies Mendoza. Christ, didn’t that dude ever give up?

Sergeant Mendoza sat behind the wheel, furiously chewing gum. He loosened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. He tapped his partner on the shoulder.

What is it? asked the other cop.

Mendoza paused a moment then faced the other man. He didn’t know which bothered him more: that suntanned, earnest look or that blond, blue-eyed, never-had-to-fight-for-acceptance, Grandma’s cookies, Sunday Baptist image.

Something going down in that store that I don’t see, Joe?

No, I just thought we’d park here so I could listen to my ulcer sing the latest soul tune. Speaking of soul music, watch that third rate juvie bastard in the store hang himself, Barney.

You don’t think he’s made us, eh?

Hell no. Does it look like he has?

Well, no—not apparently, anyway. But we are kind of obvious, aren’t we?

Sure, to somebody with a brain maybe. Look at him in there, Barney. Shit. He’s too goddam dumb to keep an eyeball this direction. That and his attention being on what he’s gonna rip off. Those jive-ass dummies are all dumb, dumb as hell. The joint’s full of ’em, partner. The one’s that ain’t on welfare are up the river.

I take it you know this kid?

How’d you guess?

What’s his name?

Mud, when I get my claws on him. Did you see that?

See what, Joe?

He just put something in his pocket.

I didn’t see him take anything.

Mendoza watched the kid step out of the store to the crumbling sidewalk. He instantly reached through the car window with the portable gumball flasher. He quickly secured its magnetic base to the roof and pushed his partner at the passenger door. Go get him, Barney! I’ll bring the unit around. Go on. Hurry up before he makes us and decides to run. Those thieving bastards can run like hell.

As soon as he saw the white cop leap out of the car, Carlos bolted down the street managing not to laugh.

Mendoza, flasher blinking madly and the siren wailing his favorite tune, squealed out in a U-turn and burned rubber. The gum-chomping sergeant screeched to a halt as the perp and his partner darted across the unit’s trajectory and into Sycamore Park. By the time Mendoza scrambled out of the car with his drawn service revolver, the big white cop apprehended the suspected perpetrator with a flying tackle. He had the kid frisked and cuffed and was reading the Miranda Warning when the sergeant arrived. Carlos sat cross-legged with his back against a tree.

On your feet, punk, growled Sergeant Mendoza.

Carlos just sat there with a big, infuriating smile.

I told you to get to your feet!

Suck my big, black dick, chump.

Don’t piss me off, boy. I mean it. You’ve pushed far enough.

Oh, can it, Mendoza. Put the gun away before you hurt yourself or harm this alleged juvenile offender. I want to hear a charge or see a warrant. Now.

You think you’re really sharp, don’t you, Alvarado? What I got in my hand is all the warrant I need.

You got any idea how corny that sounds, man?

Barney, yank that smart-ass to his feet.

Barney didn’t yank Carlos, but he pulled him up to a standing position by the tree.

I see you got yourself another new partner, Mendoza. The last one get his fill of you roughin’ up the juvies too? Carlos turned to the other cop and asked, How do you like working with him so far, pig?

The name is Barnsdall.

Congratulations.

Thank you.

Gosh and gee-whiz, Officer Barnyard, sir, am I suspected of a crime?

Barney looked at his partner inquiringly. His expression asked Mendoza what he had on the kid he didn’t know about. Mendoza was too busy hating the young Puerto Rican to pay attention to Barney or to waltz around with legal pains in the ass like probable cause or other undeserved rights.

Didn’t I ask you for a charge or a warrant? Don’t I have rights anymore?

Shut up. Don’t need you getting uppity with us. Mendoza sneered.

Carlos spit out a bitter laugh. "Don’t want no negroes getting outta place, huh?"

If you say so.

I’m gonna let you in on something, turkey. Sure, I’m black, but I’m still a spic—just like you, man.

Then how come I never see any darkie relatives at my family reunions?

’Cause Mexicans ain’t got enough class to be niggers.

Officer Barnsdall managed to cover his involuntary chuckle.

You stinkin’ PRs ought to go back where you come from, Mendoza snarled at the kid.

"My people are born legal American. We don’t have to swim the Rio Grande at midnight like you no-balls Mexicano cowards. Let me see your fucking green card, you grease-ball Aztec maggot-muncher."

His partner caught him and held him off the grinning teenager, but it took a major effort Mendoza was pleased to notice. The older cop enjoyed showing Barney he was stronger than he looked. Mendoza realized his five-foot-eight body with the beginning of a middle-age spread contrasted comically with the big white cop, especially in a physical moment like this, but he didn’t see anybody with a Polaroid camera.

Come on, Joe. Don’t get so hot, partner. He’s playing you like a cheap tin whistle. Can’t you see this is exactly what he wants?

And it’s exactly what this prick has got!

Damn it, Joe, cool down.

You don’t know a thing about this, Barney. These punks got no business on the street with decent people. They’re nothin’ but cockroaches asking to get stepped on, and I mean every single damned one of them. Let go of me!

Sorry. No can do, not till you—

My folks ain’t wetbacks!

Carlos laughed like this was better than a Jerry Lewis movie.

Barnsdall looked like he wanted to shout in the sergeant’s face but was able to restrain himself. Instead, he chastised his partner in a loud, hissing whisper, "For crissakes, Joe, think! This is an unarmed juvenile in handcuffs. Is he worth blowing your pension? Is he really worth it?"

Joe Mendoza is no wetback!

Carlos laughed again and quipped, Tu es un hijo del perro.

Barnsdall had to restrain a lunge from Mendoza. He could feel the sweat of rage tickle the back of his neck as he struggled against Barney’s grip. The street punk pushed a little harder. Didn’t that kid ever let up?

Tus hermanas son las putas de Tijuana, man. Tu es un gringo con un nombre latino. El puerco Mendoza. Puerco! Puerco!

Finally managing to break away from Barnsdall, Mendoza grabbed Carlos by the shirt collar. Carlos laughed in his face. With all the witnesses beginning to gather around now, the sergeant knew the kid prayed the pig would hit him, hopefully with just enough force to cause a little blood. A little pain and a messy face would be well worth wracking his balls with the police department. But Mendoza regained control of himself, as he had always done when it seemed certain he would commit that one big mistake. Sergeant Mendoza had a very short fuse, with Carlos Alvarado, anyway, but he’d been around a long time. Joe Mendoza knew the score long before this pain-in-the-whatever delinquent polluted the barrio.

Pendejo!

Give it up, Alvarado. I know what you’re trying to do, and it ain’t gonna work. You might as well speak English because your Spanish stinks.

Your partner got any idea how long you been on my back, pig?

No reply.

I think it’s called harassment, ain’t that right? Carlos made sure he spoke loud enough for the growing crowd of gawkers to hear and said to Barnsdall, You go along with harassment, honkey?

I’m not a honkey any more than you are a nigger.

You calling me a nigger, Officer Barnyard?

You know better than that. And the name is Barnsdall. You did get the officer part right, though.

Take a real good look at this face so you can see how much I care what you think.

If you don’t care what I think, why did you pull this silly, immature stunt? Seems to me you care a lot what I think, and what Sergeant Mendoza thinks too.

Mendoza had to respect how Barney could throw the punk’s badmouthing right back at him. He could see reluctant respect for Barnsdall sneak into the kid. It almost looked like Alvarado actually liked the young cop.

This your first day with this chingado, man? Come to think of it, I ain’t seen you around the neighborhood at all.

Yes, this is my first watch with Sergeant Mendoza. And yes, I am new to the division. Any more questions?

Yeah. Hey, Mendoza, how many partners you gonna go through before you retire and give everybody a break? I bet the whole world hates your ass, cabron.

Mendoza clenched his fists. His fingernails dug into his sweaty palms. But he maintained control of himself and this time made no move toward the kid.

Carlos grinned as though he had just won the Irish sweepstakes. Mendoza knew he would lose face by backing down or lose his badge by taking control. No way to win this time, Mendoza—no way, Jose. In front of all these streetwise barrio witnesses, if the good ole sarge didn’t kick ass, he had to just take the teenager’s loudmouth abuse and look like a no-balls fool. If he did do anything about the situation, it could be called police brutality on a juvenile. All these barrio witnesses weren’t exactly on his side, regardless of Alvarado’s skin color. They’d love to see a cop, even a Latino cop, cut down to size. No matter what, the punk would end up the winner in this confrontation.

Barnsdall took his partner aside to speak to him confidentially. You got yourself together yet?

Yeah, yeah, I’m okay now. But I tell ya, Barney, I ought to punch his teeth down his rotten welfare gullet. Locking him up is too good for him, but I’ll have to settle for it. Too bad he’ll get dumped back on the street before the day’s out, but at least he’ll get another taste of juvenile hall. Better than nothing, I suppose.

Come on, Joe. You know we have to cut him loose.

What the hell are you talking about?

Unless you got something on him I don’t know about, he’s—

What about shoplifting? asked Mendoza. Last I heard, stealing, even if it’s just shoplifting, is still against the law, Barney. We both saw him take—

"Take what, Joe? What? Did you actually see what he took?"

Didn’t you frisk the thieving bastard?

Of course I did. You saw me do it.

There’s your probable cause, Barney. Where did you put what he swiped from that store?

I didn’t find anything I know for sure he took. I didn’t see anything.

"You didn’t find anything? Not a single damned thing?"

Nothing on him, Joe. Maybe he pretended to steal just to get you upset. If he really took anything, he had to have ditched it, and he never went out of my sight. I went after him because you did. I didn’t witness anything in the store. Whatever you saw I missed. What did you see him take?

Mendoza spat out his gum in disgust. You sure go by the book, don’t you, partner? I’ll have to show you some real police work, not all that crap in the manuals—real-life stuff. I think you need a dose of street-smart common sense.

What do we charge him with, Joe? Tell me so we have a righteous bust.

Resisting arrest.

"Arrest for what?"

Oh, for—

Officer Barnsdall went back to the suspect and quietly removed the handcuffs. Carlos rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. Then he laughed at the policemen, flipped them the finger, bowed ceremoniously to the amused onlookers, and ran off. Joe Mendoza, much to the entertainment of the crowd, stood there shaking and cursing long after the perpetrator disappeared from his sight.

Mendoza was too upset to drive. His partner took the wheel while he sat there brooding over Carlos Alvarado. God, how that punk could get under his skin. He had never known anybody, anybody at all, half as good as that kid at baiting him. Every time he saw that bastard he wanted to rip out his gizzard and stomp on his crotch.

You sure he was clean, Barney?

No weapon, no dope, no merchandise. What more can I say?

Are you absolutely positive about—

Yes, sighed Barney, for the thousandth time, Joe, I’m positive, sure, dead certain. All right?

He must have tossed whatever he took in one hell of a hurry.

No way. I would have seen it. I told you back there he was never out of my sight for a fraction of a second. Honest. Boy Scout’s honor, cross my heart and hope to get dead.

They stopped at a red light, and Barney fired up a cigarette. As the signal changed and they pulled into the intersection, Mendoza broke his brief silence. That street punk spotted us at the store and set up the whole phony runaround.

That’s possible, I suppose, but what for?

Christ Almighty, Barney, can’t you see past your own nose? The sole purpose of that stupid episode was to make me look like a stupid ass to the world.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Sure, it does—he hates my guts.

I think you just solved the case, sarge. Now that is a brilliant piece of detective work. Barney grinned.

Just a little street sense is all. It comes with experience if you live long enough to get it. That’s why you wet-behind-the-ears people should listen to guys like me.

Right.

How old are you, anyway, Barney?

Twenty-nine.

Shit, I got socks older than you. I’m almost old enough to be your old man.

How about that. Barney sighed.

Pay attention to me on the job, and you might have a chance to make it to thirty.

They cruised in silence a while. Mendoza had Barney pull over several times so the sergeant could check IDs and basically give a bad time to every group of adolescents beginning to congregate on the street. Wherever he saw more than two kids together, they could expect to get rousted by the good ole sarge they all knew and despised. Later on, the tired topic of Carlos Alvarado seeped into the patrol car small talk again. He really went all out trying to get me to blow my cool.

He did more than try, partner. Barney chuckled.

The sarge was not amused. He felt about ready to get pissed off all over again just from thinking about that juvie nemesis. No matter what he did, it didn’t get me to touch one kinky little hair on his skull, now did it?

Joe decided he could see what went on in his partner’s mind: the usual bleeding heart crap tempered by the need to survive in the world of the streets. So-called rights were one thing, but practical necessity another. A partner could well be any cop’s lifeline. Besides, racial prejudice in the department was certainly not limited to Joe Mendoza, not by a long shot. Nor was it limited to any specific ethnic group: black, white, brown, red, yellow, or sky-blue pink.

Mendoza realized that neither guy riding around in this unmarked but easily identified unit would ever change the world. He’d been around too long and seen too much to believe anything else. The streets were the streets, simple as that. Just play the gritty game and see who ends up breathing. He decided he had his new partner pegged already. He’d seen a lot of them come and go, so he didn’t expect any surprises. There was a shitload of Officer Barnsdall types: a big herd of social workers with badges in the department these days. It sure wasn’t like when Mendoza got started in learning the ropes from old-time cops with no save-the-world illusions. He knew what Barney would say before he opened his mouth. He knew how he would react to any situation. He wondered what it would take to get Barney to draw his weapon or punch a suspect. Just trying to picture something like that almost gave him a good laugh.

The tiny universe inside a police car was a very close one, and no place to make an enemy. Any big-city cop had to know that to survive. Clark Barney Barnsdall felt uneasy with this man, uneasy beyond his dislike of Mendoza’s attitude, even though he did grudgingly respect the man’s years of experience in the streets. But respect did not take away that uneasiness.

Beyond Mendoza’s racial hatred and jaundiced attitude toward teenagers, far beyond the Alvarado episode, something truly menacing stirred within the sergeant. Maybe Barney should see what he could learn from Carlos Alvarado. The kid had clearly had other run-ins with Mendoza. He made a mental note to go through the juvie rap sheets too. What was he getting himself into? He knew he shouldn’t go behind his partner’s back to check out the problem between Joe Mendoza and Carlos Alvarado. Better he should concentrate on what the sergeant’s police experience could give him rather than concern himself with that big-mouth street kid. But on the other hand…

Every instinct screamed at Barney to ask for a different partner or transfer to a different division. But that would make him look bad and maybe adversely affect his professional future. He wasn’t a few steps from retirement like his partner. Barney’s future stretched out in front of him, not behind him. Last week he’d been in uniform over at Wilcox Division. After promotion to plainclothes and the resulting obligatory transfer, to Northeast Division on this occasion, he’d look like an ingrate if he asked for another transfer this soon. Besides, Joe Mendoza’s hard-won knowledge of the streets could make the difference in staying alive in the proverbial tight spot, but the poison in that man’s heart had Barney intrigued, to say the least.

Mendoza’s renewed grumbling slapped through the younger cop’s daydreaming. Mark my words, Barney. I’m gonna get that son of a bitch. Oh, his day is coming. Sooner or later that garbage-mouth punk is going to slip up, and I’ll be there making dead sure he gets the big hurt. If it takes me till I croak, I’m going to get that—

Ready for a code seven? Barney interrupted with a heavy sigh.

Yeah, why not.

*****

Several young people sat at the counter in the small café. When they saw the two plainclothes policemen enter, they quickly paid up and left. Joe and Barney might as well have worn neon uniforms with strobe badges. Mendoza led the way to his usual booth. A reluctant waitress brought the sergeant a cup of coffee and handed a menu to the new guy.

The usual? she asked as more of an observation than a question.

Mendoza nodded and reached for the sugar.

Welcome to the barrio, Officer Barnsdall.

Chapter Two

The place stank. It stank and it rotted. It reeked of old food dribbled and dried on countertops, stale sweat, and dust balls. Just like the shit-hole they’d left not all that long ago. Johnnie needed a break from it. He had to get out, if only for a little while.

As he stomped for the door, his mother called from the couch, Where you going, boy?

Out.

Sara had trouble hearing him over the sound of the television. She rose almost to a sitting position, spilling potato chips onto her belly. I asked you where you was going, Johnnie.

Out! Out, goddam it! If you’d turn down the noise on that bitch-box for two lousy minutes, maybe you could hear what I was sayin’ once in a while.

That ain’t no way to talk to your poor, suffering mother, Johnnie Littletree. After what I put up with all them years, you got no right. First your mean, wicked drunk of a daddy—may the bastard rest in peace—and now you. Tears began to spill and slowly run along the sweaty creases of her face.

As usual, Johnnie missed whatever point she tried to get across in the midst of her rambling. Ma, are you trying to tell me something in particular, or are you—

Just going out, huh? I heard that junk talk before. Look where it got us.

For crissakes, Ma, I’m just going for a walk. What the hell is the big deal about that?

Watch your goddam language, boy.

Are you through yet? I need some fresh air.

All right then. Run and along and play. But don’t be getting into trouble, boy. I ain’t so old I can’t whup your ass.

I ain’t looking for no trouble.

Johnnie stared at his mother a moment. No, she hadn’t whupped him for several years, but she really wasn’t all that old either. She appeared and behaved as though she were far more advanced in years than she actually was. She had given birth to Johnnie at the ripe old age of sixteen, so she hadn’t made it halfway through her thirties yet. She can do whatever she wants with her life, he had concluded some time ago, ain’t no sweat off my whoopee. If she wants to turn herself into a fat old bag, it ain’t nothing to me.

He loved his mother, but he didn’t respect her. How could he? Loving son or not, what could he do about it? Why did she have to let herself go to hell like that?

What you looking at, boy?

Don’t make no difference.

You better promise me, Johnnie.

"Promise you what, Ma?"

That you ain’t after no trouble when you go through that door. That’s what, smart-mouth.

I promise. Okay?

Hah! Your word ain’t worth coyote piss on a dead cactus.

Then why do you want me to promise—

Don’t you be using that tone with me, young buck. You ain’t never up to any good if you can help it. And don’t you dare think I don’t know that. Sometimes I wish I never seen the likes of you. I swear, if it wasn’t for—

Johnnie left, slamming the door behind him and leaving her to jabber away at her old Motorola escape machine. The television was about as likely to listen to her as he was anyhow. In one ear and out the other. Getting out of this trap of an apartment for a while felt like the high from a bucket-size pipe of Acapulco gold.

Outside the cramped apartment the city air caressed him like a pure desert breeze. Johnnie started off down the street, buoyant in his temporary release. Surveying his new turf, he grew close to actually feeling pleased. For the first time in his life he could actually perceive something in a positive light. This area was no downer, not by a long shot. Sure, he stood in the middle of the barrio, but everybody has to start somewhere. At least it wasn’t that God-forsaken reservation. Damn, how he hated that place. Nothing there but dust, warm beer and missionaries. But here, wow! Here was more town than he had ever dreamed possible.

Man, just look at it! Streets, traffic lights, chicks, pool halls, all-night restaurants, alleys—crumbling concrete blocked into rectangles and intersections as far as he could see. Mile upon mile of territory full of people and full of, well, full of everything. Endless rip-off opportunities where everybody doesn’t know everybody else.

Now Johnnie knew what it meant to be high without dope. He brushed a strand of unruly hair off his face and closed his eyes to listen to the traffic. Beautiful. Yeah, this would do just fine. He could wrap himself up in the asphalt layers of opportunity and lose himself forever. He took a deep breath and grinned. He could hardly wait for the sun to go down so he could look at the lights.

His daydream suddenly got interrupted by a loud swoosh and squeal. He hadn’t noticed he stood right at a bus stop. The surly driver called out in a bored voice, You getting on or what, kid?

Why not? Johnnie replied as he hopped up the steps. It could be very useful to check out an adjoining area. While he fished in his pocket for the exact