CORRECTION: It turns out that one of  the suspects below, Russhia Lee Pittman of Fortuna, gave police a fake name and it fooled them for long enough for them to issue this press release with that fake name, rather than her real one. See here.

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Fortuna Police Department press release:

On Thursday, January 26, 2023 at approximately 8:17 A.M. Officers contacted a known wanted subject in a vehicle in the  Strong’s Creek Plaza area of Fortuna. Fortuna K9 “Blitz” assisted and as a result of the contact and investigation, Officers  arrested three subjects, recovered a loaded stolen Glock 19, 9mm semiautomatic pistol and seized over a half ounce of  Methamphetamine. The three subjects were arrested on the following charges; 

Marco Antonio Alverez (age 31 of Fortuna) was arrested on the charges of, PC 29800(A)(1) Felon in possession of a  firearm, PC 30305(A)(1) Prohibited persons in possession of ammunition, PC 25400(C)(2) Carrying a concealed stolen  weapon, H&S 11370.1(A) Possession of controlled substance while armed with a loaded firearm and H&S 11377(A)  Possession of controlled substance.  

Garret Alexandre Gibbs (age 33 of Fortuna) was arrested on charges of, H&S 11377(A) Possession of controlled  substance and PC 1203.2(A) Violation of probation.  

Russhia Lee Pittman (age 40 of Fortuna) was arrested on charges of PC 25400(C)(2) Carrying a concealed, stolen weapon,  H&S11370.1(A) Possession of controlled substance while armed with a loaded firearm and H&S11377(A) Possession of  controlled substance.  

In a separate incident, on Saturday, January 28, 2023 at approximately 12:00 P.M. Officers observed a vehicle code  violation on a vehicle in the Riverwalk Drive and Kenmar Road area of Fortuna. Officers initiated a traffic enforcement  stop on the vehicle. Fortuna K9 “Blitz” assisted and as a result of the enforcement stop and investigation Officers arrested  two subjects, seized a loaded Charles Day Field HP, 9mm semiautomatic pistol and seized approximately a half ounce of  Methamphetamine. The two subjects were arrested on the following charges; 

William Mark Stuart Melton (age 52 of Eureka) was arrested on the charges of, PC 29800(A)(1) Felon in possession of a  firearm, PC 30305(A)(1) Prohibited persons in possession of ammunition, PC 25400(C)(1) Carrying a concealed weapon  in a vehicle, H&S11370.1(A) Possession of controlled substance while armed with a loaded firearm and H&S11377(A)  Possession of controlled substance.  

John Forrest Mastel (age 48 of Fortuna) was arrested on the charges of, PC 29800(A)(1) Felon in possession of a firearm,  PC 30305(A)(1) Prohibited persons in possession of ammunition, H&S11370.1(A) Possession of controlled substance  while armed with a loaded firearm and H&S11377(A) Possession of controlled substance.  

K9 “Blitz” is funded solely through donations and we are extremely grateful of the impact the K9 Program is making  within our community and throughout the county.  

The Fortuna Police Department remains committed to public safety and transparency. Any questions related to this release  can be directed to Lieutenant, Matthew A. Eberhardt at (707) 725-7550.

Press release from the Humboldt County Sheriff’s Office:

Humboldt County residents impacted by the recent earthquakes now have more time to receive assistance in filing for disaster loans. 

The U.S. Small Business Administration’s (SBA) Disaster Loan Outreach Center will be relocating to Rio Dell, extending its operation in Humboldt County to Feb. 10, 2023. Beginning Monday, Jan. 30, the Outreach Center will be moved to the Rio Dell Community Resource Center, located at 406 Wildwood Avenue in Rio Dell. 

“The City of Rio Dell is thrilled to have the SBA disaster loan team extend their time with us,” said Kyle Knopp, city manager for the City of Rio Dell. “It is no question that Rio Dell was hit hardest by the earthquakes, and we hope this extension will be able to connect more residents in Rio Dell with much-needed assistance. If you or your business has been impacted by the earthquakes, I encourage you to visit the SBA Disaster Loan Outreach Center to learn more about the disaster loan assistance program and other help that may be available to you.”

Homeowners, renters, business owners and certain private non-profit organizations impacted by the earthquakes may be eligible to apply for low-interest disaster loans through the SBA to help cover losses due to the earthquake. The Disaster Outreach Center is available to assist residents in determining eligibility and completing applications. 

As of today, over $3 million in disaster loans have been issued to Humboldt County residents and over $330,000 to businesses for earthquake repair and recovery purposes.

“We are incredibly grateful to our federal agency partners at the SBA who recognized the need to extend their presence in our community to connect more community members and business owners in Rio Dell with their services,” said Scott Adair, Humboldt County director of economic development. “During this time where our community, like others, have experienced consecutive periods of inflation and recession, in addition to being impacted by natural disasters, the loan services SBA provides are critical to help the community recover economically.”

In person application assistance is available at the SBA Disaster Loan Outreach Center. Applicants may also apply online, receive additional disaster assistance information and download applications at https://disasterloanassistance.sba.gov/.

 U.S. Small Business Administration’s (SBA) Disaster Loan Outreach Center
Jan. 30 - Feb. 10, 2023 | Monday - Friday, 8 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.
Rio Dell Community Resource Center
406 Wildwood Avenue
Rio Dell, CA 95562

Applicants may also call SBA’s Customer Service Center at 1-800-659-2955 or email disastercustomerservice@sba.gov for more information on SBA disaster assistance. 

The deadline to apply for an SBA loan for property damage is Monday, March 6, 2023. The deadline to apply for economic injury applications is Wednesday, Oct. 4, 2023. SBA loan recipients are obligated to pay this lender back per their loan agreement.

For updated information and available resources regarding earthquake recovery, visit humboldtsheriff.org/emergency.

The first time it happened to Courtney Abrams, hardly anyone believed her.

Someone had drained the more than $700 in cash aid and nearly $200 in food stamps from the electronic benefits transfer (EBT) card the 33-year-old single mother received from the state, just minutes after those monthly payments appeared in her account.

Abrams never got to spend a dime of it, though she hadn’t lost her card.

Abrams, a West Los Angeles College student, called the card company’s customer service line that day to dispute the mystery transactions. She got a replacement card from the county and filed a police report. It took a couple of weeks for money to be loaded onto her new card. She also changed the PIN.

That was last March. In September it happened again. This time it took a month to get her money back, she said.

In November it happened again. Now she changes her PIN every month, the night before she gets her benefits, hoping to outsmart the thieves.

“I was, like, maxing out credit cards, doing promise-to-pay, talking to my landlord, letting him know my money got stolen,” she said. “It was a lot of exposure … having to plead your case with these people in a situation that sounds kind of far-fetched.”

It’s not so far-fetched now. State and county officials say that a rash of thefts is wiping out the cash and food benefits from thousands of low-income families’ electronic benefits cards in California and nationwide.

Millions gone

The thefts, which cost the state tens of millions of dollars to replace each year, have sent recipients scrambling to pay bills and household expenses, and flooding social service departments with reimbursement requests. The state proposes to upgrade the cards’ security features at a cost of $50 million in next year’s budget.

‘I feel that the EBT system was like the last place where things are so unsafe and so poor in terms of consumer protection.’
— Lena Silver, an associate director at Neighborhood Legal Services of Los Angeles County

California uses EBT cards to deliver financial assistance for several programs, including CalFresh, which gives food aid to 2.8 million families a year and CalWORKs, which gives cash to more than 300,000 families a year. Smaller programs include assistance grants to refugees and immigrant crime victims.

Low-income Californians reported $29.7 million in cash welfare stolen and $4.7 million in food aid stolen in the 14 months from July 2021 through last September, the latest month for which statewide data was available, according to the Department of Social Services.

In CalWORKs, the theft amounted to less than $100,000 a month in mid-2021 and had risen to more than $4 million a month by last fall. The department is estimating an average of $6 million a month will be stolen this fiscal year, rising to $8 million a month in the year that begins in July, according to the California Department of Social Services budget documents.

What has been stolen in California so far amounts to a sliver of the total benefits California issued to all recipients — less than 1% of the cash benefits and less than a tenth of 1% of food aid.

Minutes to lose

Still, the amount of EBT theft has nearly doubled since 2019, budget documents state.

It’s not clear what has prompted a nationwide spike in benefits theft last year. The consequences are particularly acute in California, which provides more generous cash grants than many other states. Advocates say pandemic-era boosts in food aid also meant bigger losses than usual from recipients’ accounts.

Often the theft occurs minutes after the benefits are transferred to their cards.

It takes much longer to be made whole. Several recipients told CalMatters it took weeks, or even more than a month, to get benefits reimbursed amid the rising theft.

The state social services department in 2013 instructed counties to replenish money to victims within 10 days of a theft report, but exceptions meant to catch fraud can slow that process.

For example, if an aid recipient reports more than one theft within six months, social workers must flag their next claim for investigation.

Many recipients say they have been victims of theft more than once in recent months. Giovanna Roman, a Ventura County mother and community college student, said it happened to her three months in a row last year. She now receives her benefits through direct deposit, she said.

A vulnerability

One reason safety-net benefits are vulnerable to electronic theft, advocates say, is the cards have long lacked a security feature banks began putting on their credit and debit cards in late 2015 – security chips.

A chipped card doesn’t come in contact with hidden, illegal “skimming” devices, which are designed to copy information from the card’s strip.

To make purchases or withdraw money, EBT card users must swipe the cards’ magnetic strips.

A state public service video demonstrates how thieves can install skimming devices onto card readers to steal card numbers from the cards’ magnetic strips, and the thieves use hidden cameras to capture the cardholders entering their PINs.

The thieves can then create counterfeit cards to access the funds.

Until last June, the state’s EBT cards didn’t even include the three-digit “CVV” security codes typically on the back of credit and debit cards that banks use for an additional layer of fraud prevention.

The state added those codes, but the three months of data afterward show that benefits theft continued to rise, according to state figures.

Low-income Californians reported $29.7 million in cash welfare and $4.7 million in food aid stolen in 14 months.
— California Department of Social Services

The state social services department is proposing to spend $76.5 million over the next three years to upgrade EBT cards with “enhanced security features,” according to Gov. Gavin Newsom’s budget proposal. Department spokesman Jason Montiel did not answer a question about whether that means chip cards specifically.

Advocates and — in a recent motion — the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors are urging the state to go that route.

Consumer standards

“To improve the security of the EBT system itself, so that people who rely on this very minimal food and cash assistance to survive, to bring their EBT system up to the same consumer standards that everyone else enjoys is the ultimate goalposts that we all need to be reaching for,” said Lena Silver, an associate director at Neighborhood Legal Services of Los Angeles County, which has been flooded with calls from clients whose benefits were stolen.

Silver pointed out that, in contrast to cards sent to poor Californians receiving assistance, the state intended to send chipped cards to the recipients of its tax refunds to relieve inflation and high gas prices last year.

“I feel that the EBT system was like the last place where things are so unsafe and so poor in terms of consumer protection,” Silver said.

The recently issued Middle Class Tax Refund cards were issued by a different department, the Franchise Tax Board. Spokesperson Andrew LePage said the agency chose its debit card vendor, Money Network, partly because it could provide some chipped cards.

Since October the board has sent out 9.4 million debit cards, though many of those were issued without chips due to supply chain shortages. The agency has received reports of fraud and theft of those benefits, too, but it won’t say how much or how many cards lacked chips.

LePage said the vendor reports the fraud rate is “well below” 1% of the money issued.

Taxpayers pay

While most of the benefits on EBT cards come from federal funds, California taxpayers foot the bill to reimburse victims of theft. California has reimbursed CalWorks recipients for stolen funds for years, and in November 2021 the state became the first to do the same for CalFresh food aid recipients, after advocates sued the state.

In December, Congress approved a spending bill allowing states to use federal funds to reimburse victims of food stamp theft that happened after Oct. 1, 2022.

Meanwhile, California is blocking suspicious EBT transactions, including ones made out-of-state, state officials told advocates in December.

The social services department also is helping counties process reimbursement claims more quickly, and “multiple investigations are ongoing,” Montiel said.

In September, Los Angeles prosecutors announced they charged 16 people in an alleged EBT fraud ring after they were caught with 300 cloned EBT cards, amounting to $400,000 in stolen benefits.

Contra Costa County prosecutors in December charged two men with burglary and theft after they were arrested with 50 fraudulent cards and card-skimming equipment.

Clearing hurdles

The state also plans to reduce the number of hurdles theft victims must clear to make a claim and get their benefits replaced. Cash welfare recipients previously had dispute transactions with the card company and file a police report before filling out a theft claim form with the county welfare department, which advocates said was burdensome for some clients.

The social services department in late January issued a new policy removing requirements to call the card company and file the police report, adding card theft victims are “strongly encouraged” to report the theft to police and prosecutors.

Abrams said she would feel more secure if the cards were chipped. Beyond all that, she wants to get her money back with less scrutiny. The numerous calls and rounds of paperwork she had to file made her feel like she was being accused of fraud, she said.

“If my bank card gets stolen and someone uses it, I don’t feel like a criminal, calling and saying, ‘Hey, my bank card was stolen, can you turn it off and reimburse me?’” she said. “They have protection against that thing specifically. It happens all the time.”

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CalMatters.org is a nonprofit, nonpartisan media venture explaining California policies and politics.

The California reparations task force on Saturday concluded two days of public hearings in San Diego, making some key decisions and inching closer to their July deadline for their final set of recommendations.

The task force agreed on Saturday to recommend that the state create the California African American Freedmen Affairs Agency to implement recommendations by the task force.

The Reparations Task Force has been meeting throughout California to help state officials examine how slavery and systemic racism have harmed African Americans and how the state should respond. Gov. Gavin Newsom signed the 2020 law creating the task force, which is expected to develop reparations proposals for the Legislature by July.

The Freedmen Affairs Agency would process claims for reparations and work with various state agencies to handle other recommendations.

Most of the task force also agreed to extend their work for another year, to oversee the implementation of their recommendations. Assemblymember Reggie Jones-Sawyer, a Los Angeles Democrat, abstained from that vote, while the other eight task force members voted in favor of extending their work until July 1, 2024.

In September, Newsom vetoed a bill by Jones-Sawyer that would have extended the deadline for the task force’s recommendations.

Residency required?

Task force members also appeared to agree Friday that there will be some form of a state residency requirement for people to be eligible for compensation for the harms caused by slavery and racism. But the parameters of the residency requirements remain undecided.

For example, it remains unclear if people who suffered from one of the task force’s designated five categories of harm while living in California, but have since moved out of state, would be eligible for reparations.

Those five categories of harm against Black people include the unjust taking of properties, devaluation of Black businesses, housing discrimination, mass incarceration and health harm.

Most task force members said they were leaning toward setting a current residency requirement, meaning to be eligible the person has to be living in California. But no official vote was taken Friday or Saturday.

Cheryl Grills, a task force member and clinical psychologist with an emphasis in community psychology, said she is concerned that some vulnerable people, such as children in foster care or people just getting out of prison, would be heavily burdened having to meet overly-specific residency requirements.

“We want to be as inclusive as possible, because the harm is everywhere. It’s omnipresent and it touches all Black folks,” she said.

Special populations

About 6.5% of California residents, more than 2.5 million people, identify as Black or African American.

About 20% of California’s 60,000 or so foster children are Black, as are large percentages of California’s 95,000 state prisoners, nearly 14,000 federal prisoners and 44,000 or so county jail inmates.

Task Force Chairperson Kamilah Moore indicated she may support allowing for compensation to certain people who have been harmed while in California but have moved out of state.

“We shouldn’t necessarily punish people for the harms they endured, but for not being able to withstand the state-sanctioned atrocity,” said Moore, who is a reparatory justice scholar and attorney.

The task force also discussed and preliminarily approved recommending the state close as many as 10 state prisons, but it debated what should be done with the sites. The panel discussed recommending selling or leasing the properties or using the spaces as teaching or training locations.

A full list of the task force’s several dozen “preliminary recommendations for future deliberation” was published on the Department of Justice’s website.

‘We want to be as inclusive as possible, because the harm is everywhere. It’s omnipresent and it touches all Black folks.’
— Cheryl Grills, task force member and clinical psychologist

Other recommendations include allowing incarcerated prisoners to vote and receive a fair market wage for work, making zero-interest loans available to Black-owned businesses and homebuyers, and providing college scholarships to Black high school graduates.

No ‘tokens’

Any reparations program would need to be enacted by the Legislature and approved by the governor.

The meetings Friday and Saturday at San Diego State were the first of in 2023 and the 12th public hearings since Secretary of State Shirley Weber wrote the legislation creating the panel when she was an Assemblymember.

Weber attended the meeting Friday morning and received a standing ovation from about 100 people in attendance. She urged task force members to push their recommendations forward and said she hoped the task force’s work would become a model for a national effort of reparations.

“It’s like a baby; if you don’t get it out, it’s not going to live,” Weber said. “Make sure your recommendations will really change the experience and life for African Americans. We don’t need token things … Make sure your recommendations are going to have a lasting impact.”

U.S. Sen. Cory Booker, a Democrat from New Jersey, on Jan. 24 reintroduced federal reparations legislation that would establish a commission to consider proposals for reparations for African American descendants of slavery.

A similar bill to create a national commission to study reparations for Black Americans has been introduced in Congress in various forms over the last three decades. The last bill advanced out of the House judiciary committee for the first time last year but did not go further.

Reparations elsewhere

On Friday and Saturday, task force members also heard about how current U.S. tax law benefits the wealthiest members of society, the large wealth gap between Black and white citizens, and about various reparations efforts in other cities and counties.

The task force’s nearly 500-page interim report presents national data showing that in 2017, 3.5% of all U.S. businesses were Black-owned, while 81% were owned by whites.

The median Black household net worth in 2019 was $24,100, less than 13% of the median net worth of white households at $188,200. State-by-state data was not available.

San Diego Mayor Todd Gloria also spoke Friday and applauded the task force. He shared his personal experiences as the first person of color elected as the city’s mayor. Gloria is Latino, Native American and Filipino.

One public commenter criticized Gloria for not yet initiating a San Diego reparations task force like other cities, such as San Francisco, Berkeley, Sacramento, Oakland, Hayward, Vallejo, Culver City and Los Angeles, as well as the counties of Alameda, San Francisco and Los Angeles.

The next set of state public hearings will be on March 3 and 4 in Sacramento. Agenda items will be posted on the Department of Justice’s website when available.

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CalMatters.org is a nonprofit, nonpartisan media venture explaining California policies and politics.

[Just discovering this LoCO feature?
Find the beginning by clicking here.] 

CLEAN BREAK

by

Lionel White

CHAPTER NINE

1

Four years he had been waiting for it. Waiting for this day, this Saturday in the last week of July.

There hadn’t been a single day, not one of the three hundred and sixty-five days in each of those long, heartbreaking years, that he hadn’t at some time or other thought of how he would be feeling at this exact moment. The moment that he would be waking up in a strange bed in a third-rate hotel, broke, in debt, a parole violator. And knowing that before sunset he’d be either dead or he’d have found the money which would bring him the escape he had always been seeking. The escape which, for him, only money could buy.

It was the first thing that came to his mind as he opened his eyes.

He reached over and took the pack of cigarettes from the night table. He knocked one out and then fumbled around until he found the lighter. Laying back on the pillow, he inhaled deeply; slowly letting the smoke escape from between thin, well-defined lips.

He felt great.

He took another puff, and he spoke in a clear, low voice, directing his words at the dirt-encrusted ceiling. 

“Brother, this is it!”

He laughed then, realizing that he was talking to himself. Turning his head, he was able to see the face of his wrist watch where it lay on the night table beside the pack of cigarettes. It was exactly eight o’clock.

He had plenty of time.

The telephone was over on the scarred writing desk next to the door leading into the bathroom. He got up, completely naked, and went over to the chair in front of the desk. The curtains covering the single, opened window were pulled apart and he could look directly into a room across the court. The window was closed and too dirty to see much through. He knew, however, that he himself could be seen. He laughed again. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. Today, nothing bothered him.

The clerk at the desk in the lobby told him over the phone that they didn’t have room service. “Hell, we ain’t even got a restaurant,” the voice said. “I can send up a bottle and some ice and soda, though, with a bellhop,” he added.

“Too early,” Johnny said, “but you tell that bellboy to go out and get me a container of coffee, some orange juice and a couple of hard rolls and it’s worth a fast buck to him.”

“Will do,” the clerk said.

There was no shower in the old-fashioned bathroom so Johnny ran a tub full of water. He waited, however, until his breakfast showed up, before climbing in.

The bellhop brought a paper along and Johnny casually glanced at the headlines as he ate. He sat by the open window, stripped down to his shorts. His mind, however, was not on the news. He was carefully going over everything which he had done during the last couple of days since he had left Marvin Unger’s apartment to take the hotel room. He wanted to be absolutely sure he hadn’t overlooked anything.

It had been a smart move, checking into the hotel. He had found himself growing jittery, hanging around Unger. Another day of it and something would have had to give. The tension was too much. For a while he had considered staying at the room up on a Hundred and Third Street, but then he had decided against that. He wanted to keep that place for one purpose and one purpose only.

He smiled to himself as he thought of Joe Piano. Joe hadn’t liked the idea when Johnny had told him that Randy was going to stop by. Joe couldn’t understand what he was doing playing around with a cop. It had taken a little explaining. At least there was one thing about Joe; he hadn’t shown any unhealthy curiosity.

Johnny had stopped by to pick up the suitcase which held the sub-machine gun. Joe, answering the doorbell, had asked him into the kitchen; wanted him to have a glass of wine. It had happened on Friday afternoon. Then they had gone up to Johnny’s room.

“Taking this out now,” Johnny told him, indicating the suitcase. “Tomorrow afternoon a friend of mine is stopping by. He’ll leave a bundle for me. He’s a cop.”

“A cop?”

“Yeah, drives a prowl car.”

“Funny kind of a friend to have,” Joe said.

“He’s O.K. A very special cop.” Johnny winked at him. “He’s leaving this bundle for me sometime around six or six-thirty at the latest. I’ll be in early in the evening to pick it up. And that’s the last you’ll see of me.”

Joe nodded, noncommittal.

Johnny took a folded bill out of his watch pocket. It was a fifty.

“I’d like to see that Patsy gets this,” he said.

“That isn’t necessary,” Joe told him. “I can take care of Patsy all right.”

“I know,” Johnny said. “But he’s a good friend of mine.” 

Joe said nothing but he did reach out and take the bill. Johnny left soon afterward.

“The idea of that cop leaves me cold,” Joe told him as he walked down the long hallway to open the gate for him, “but any friend of the boy’s has got to be all right.”

Johnny found a cab on Second Avenue and told the driver to take him to Penn Station. He carried the suitcase into the lobby and found the bank of steel lockers. Checking the suitcase, he took the key and put it in an envelope. That night he had a messenger service drop it off at Big Mike’s apartment.

Buying the brief case had been easy. He got the kind you carry under your arm and that you close with a zipper. The duffle bag had been harder to find. He finally dug one up in a chain sporting goods and auto accessory store. It was made of heavy canvas, leather reinforced and had a drawstring at the open end. Folded flat, it just fitted into the brief case.

When he had called Fay around nine o’clock at her home, she had quickly memorized the number he gave her and then had gone out to a pay booth and called him back. She’d wanted to see him, but he had told her it would be better if they didn’t meet.

“It’ll only be another twenty-four hours,” he’d said. “Then it’s the rest of our lives, kid.”

She told him that everything was ready. He detected the slight quiver in her voice and he hung up as quickly as possible. He knew that she’d be better off not seeing him; not even talking with him.

And then he’d gone back to the hotel. There was nothing else to do. Getting to sleep had been a problem. He knew it would be and he’d considered taking sleeping pills, or perhaps a half bottle of whiskey. But he’d decided against either escape. He wanted to be sure to be in top form the next morning. He didn’t want a hang-over or even as much as the trace of one. He didn’t want the dopey feeling that the sleeping pills would be sure to leave.

The lack of sleep itself wouldn’t bother him. It would, in fact, merely keep him keyed up and tense. That he wanted.

But he had slept. In spite of everything he awakened in the morning feeling completely relaxed and completely rested.

Now, as he slowly ate his breakfast, he tried not to think of anything but the immediate moment. Everything was set in his mind, his plans were made down to the finest detail. He didn’t want to think about what might happen during the crucial hour this Saturday afternoon. Thinking about it wouldn’t help. He’d already done his thinking.

Johnny Clay left the hotel at eleven o’clock. He checked out, carrying the leather suitcase he had used at Unger’s in one hand, the brief case in the other. The suitcase held the new clothes he’d bought during the last two days. The old stuff he left upstairs. He was wearing the slacks and the checkered sports coat he would wear that afternoon at the track.

It was a warm day and he was tempted to remove the coat, but then decided against it. Under the coat he had two shirts; one a soft tan with an open collar, over that a deep blue shirt, the collar closed. He wore neutral tan, low shoes, tan socks and a soft gray felt hat with a wide brim, turned down in the front. In his coat pocket was a second rolled-up, light-weight felt hat, powder blue with a low crown and a narrow brim.

The glasses had dark green lens. His first move after leaving the hotel was finding a cab. He ordered the driver to take him to La Guardia Airport.

He checked the suitcase at the airport and then went to the restaurant and ordered coffee and toast. He spread the early edition of the World Telegram on the table and turned to the sporting pages.

At one o’clock Johnny left the airport in another cab. He was carrying the brief case under his arm.

He arrived at the race track at one-forty.

The cab driver had been willing to go along with him. Johnny told him he’d give him ten bucks for the cab and pay his entrance fee into the grandstand. And he wanted to be taken back to New York after the races.

“The only thing is,” Johnny said, “I got to leave the second the seventh race is over. Have an appointment back in town and I won’t have any time to spare. I’ll plan to be out at the parking lot by the time the race ends. I won’t wait for the results. I want you to be there and ready to leave.”

It was O.K. with the cabbie.

“Hell,” he said. “I’m getting paid, I’ll be there. Anyway, I don’t bet ‘em; I just like to see them run.”

They’d found a parking space in the lot at the south end of the track. The cab was one of the last cars in the lot, which would make it easy for them to get out. Johnny got out of the back, slamming the door. He reached through the window and handed the driver a ten dollar bill.

“Buy your ticket out of that,” he said, “and use the change to try your luck. You be here waiting when I get here and you get another ten when we pull into New York.”

“I’ll be here.”

Johnny turned toward the clubhouse. The brief case was under his arm. He walked slowly. He had plenty of time.

# # #

2

It was as he knew it would be. He never yet had gone to a track without that feeling. That strange, subtle sense of excitement. Even as he stood at the box office buying his ticket, he became infected by it. There was something about the track that always gave it to him.

The first race was already over and done with and the crowd, for the moment, was quiet. But he caught the inevitable undercurrent of excitement.

Walking through the downstairs lobby and stopping off to buy his program, he found himself unconsciously fingering the loose folded bills in his pants pocket. He laughed quietly to himself. Here he was, on the threshold of a caper which would mean more than a million dollars, and he couldn’t wait to get the program open and place a bet on the second race.

Walking up the stairs, he went through the main lobby and passed within thirty feet of the bar behind which Big Mike was rushing drinks to an impatient clientele. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the door marked “Private.” The one leading into the main business offices and the one out of which he knew he would be coming before that afternoon would be over and done with.

He also quickly looked in the direction of the other door. The door which was set flush into the wall and through which he would have to pass in order to get into the employee’s locker room. The door which would have to be surreptitiously opened from the inside to permit his entrance.

He was aware of Big Mike moving behind the bar. There was no sign of Maurice and no sign of Tex.

He went out into the stands, out into the hot yellow sunlight. He had to shoulder his way through the crowd at the door. He found a seat well up in the stands and slouching into it, he dropped the brief case between his feet on the concrete floor. He opened the program and looked over the horses in the second race. Then he looked up and checked the morning line.

When the horses reached the post for the second race, Johnny stood up. He took off his hat and left it and his program on the seat. Then he made his way back into the clubhouse. He went to the ten dollar window and put down a win bet on the number three horse. The tote board had it at eight to five.

Johnny didn’t want to start the day depending on long shots to come in.

The number three horse won by three and a half lengths.

Returning to his seat after he collected his winnings, he glanced at the clock as he passed Big Mike’s bar. His wrist watch was less than a minute slow.

He was back again at the buyer’s windows long before the fifth race started. This time he did what Unger had done several days before. There were a half dozen ten dollar windows and he went to each of them in turn. By the time he ended up he had a ticket on every horse in the race.

When he got back to his seat, just before the horses left the post, he found a large, red-faced woman sitting in it. She was holding his hat and program.

He stood in front of her for a moment, undecided. She looked up at him and grinned.

“Just had to sit down for a second,” she said, breathing heavily. “I’m exhausted.”

She started to stand up and he smiled at her.

“Stay where you are,” he said. “I’ll stand for this one.” She began to protest, but he insisted. She had handed him his hat and program, looking grateful.

He walked down through the stands to the rail as the horses were running. When the sixth horse came in, he didn’t have to search through the tickets to find the right one. He had put them in order.

He was about tenth in line at the window—George Peatty’s window.

Johnny held his thumb on the ticket as he pushed it through the grill. He was watching George’s face.

Peatty’s face was yellow and his mouth was trembling even before he looked up. And then, a moment later, as he reached for the ticket, he lifted his eyes and stared directly at Johnny. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. He counted out the money and pushed it through the grill work.

At four-twenty, Johnny was leaning against the wall some five feet from the door leading into the locker rooms. He had the scratch sheet in his hand and was resting it on the brief case. He held a pencil in his other hand and was making casual marks on the sheet. But his eyes were not seeing what his hands were doing.

His hat brim was pulled well forward and the dark glasses concealed his eyes.

Johnny was watching the end of the bar where Tex stood. He didn’t move when the fight started.

Once he had to step aside as a large man pushed past him. But he still didn’t make his move. Didn’t make it until he saw the door of the private office open.

It was while they were rushing Tex toward the exit stairway that Johnny sidled over to the entrance to the locker room. Every eye in the lobby was on Tex and the detectives surrounding him when Johnny felt the door move behind him. A second later and he turned and quickly slipped into the employees’ locker room.

George, pale and his hands shaking, quickly closed the door behind him. He looked for a moment at Johnny, saying not a word. Then he turned and a moment later had disappeared in the direction of the exit leading out behind the cashiers’ cages.

A quick glance around the room showed Johnny that there was no one in it, unless they were in one of the line of toilet stalls. Johnny didn’t have to look at the diagram he had in his pocket. He knew exactly where Big Mike’s locker was. The duplicate key was in his hand.

It took him less than half a minute to open the locker and take out the flower box. A moment later and he had slipped into one of the toilets and had closed and latched the door.

He was assembling the gun and inserting a clip of shells as the horses left the lost for the start of the Canarsie Stakes.

Johnny had opened the brief case and was taking out the duffle bag when he heard the door slam.

Two men entered the room and they were standing not ten feet away. From their conversation, Johnny knew at once that they were cashiers, taking a breather while the race was being run.

“What the hell was that fracas out there?” one voice said.

“Just some drunken bum giving one of the bartenders a hard time. Christ, did you see Frank leap into it with that blackjack!”

“It’s time one of those god damned Pinkertons earned his dough,” the first man said.

Johnny smiled grimly.

They’d be earning their dough in another three minutes, he said to himself. And if these guys didn’t get out before then, they’d be earning theirs, too.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, the two men began to move away. Johnny’s hand reached for the latch.

# # #

3

Maxie Flam couldn’t have weighed a hundred and ten pounds dripping wet. But in order to keep his weight down, now, at thirty-six, he not only had to starve himself, he had to take the pills and he had to really work out.

He was thinking, as the horses came up to the starting line, that thank God, he only had another season to go. Then he’d retire. He’d be through with the tortuous routine once and for all. And he was doing something that damn few jockeys had ever been able to do. He was retiring on the money he had saved since the day he had ridden his first mount back when he was in knee pants.

Maxie had played it smart. He’d never bet on a horse in his life. Even today, with Black Lightning’s broad back between his spindly legs, he hadn’t bet. He knew Black Lightning was going to win. Knew it just as sure as he knew his name.

Almost unconsciously his eyes went up to where Mrs. Galway Dicks sat in the box with her two daughters and the men who had accompanied them to the track.

Mrs. Dicks had been upset as she always was. It annoyed her when Maxie wouldn’t put a bet on the horse he was riding. She had wanted to get someone else, but the trainer had insisted on Maxie. The trainer was smarter than Mrs. Dicks would ever be.

“But I can’t understand, Maxie,” she had said. “You say we’ve got to win. So why don’t you put something down on the horse yourself?”

Maxie hadn’t bothered to explain.

“I never bet,” he’d said, and let it go at that.

There may have been better jockeys—although in complete and unassuming fairness, Maxie told himself that there hadn’t been a great many of them. But even the greats, Sande and the rest of them, had ended up broke. They may have booted in more winners, but they’d still ended up broke. Not Maxie. He didn’t have to be the greatest, but by God, he was one of the smartest.

At the end of this season he’d have a quarter of a million in annuities. And then he was going to quit. He’d go down to his breeding farm in Maryland and he’d never see another race track as long as he’d live. And the only thing he’d ever ride again would be the front seat of a Cadillac convertible.

Maxie was smart.

Black Lightning reared up as a horse moved in next to him and Maxie instinctively pulled slightly on the rein and his mount danced sideways. Maxie spoke softly and soothingly under his breath.

And then they were off.

Maxie didn’t rush it. He knew he had this race in the bag, but there was no reason to rush. He knew what Black Lightning could do. Not only that, but he also knew approximately what every other horse in the race could do.

Passing the grandstands on his first time around the track, Maxie kept his eyes straight ahead.

He was conscious of the crowds; he even heard, dimly in the background of his mind, the roar from the packed stands. He was aware of the color and the tension and the high excitement. But it all left him cold. He’d been in the saddle too many years to any longer feel the vicarious thrill. He was a cold, aloof, precision machine. A part of the horse itself. He was at the track for one reason and one reason only. To win the race. Nothing, nothing else at all interfered with that thought.

Going into the backstretch on the second time around, Maxie knew exactly where he stood in relationship to the other horses in the race. He spoke, in a low soft voice, almost directly into the horse’s ear from where he leaned far over Black Lightning’s neck. His crop just barely brushed the sweat soaked flanks of the animal.

He began to move out ahead.

It was like it always was when he had the right horse under him. He was in. He knew it.

He went into the far corner and he lengthened the gap between himself and the others by a half a length. And then he was starting around the three quarter mark and getting set for the stretch. He had decided he would spread the gap by about a length and a half. He was sure, dead sure. But he’d take no chances. It was always possible one of those others would open up.

His eyes were straight in front, on the dusty track about twenty yards ahead of Black Lightning’s nose.

He never knew what happened. One second and he was sitting there, almost as though he were posting a horse in a Garden Show. Knowing, never doubting for a second that in another few seconds he would hear the old familiar roar which would let him know he was coming in in front.

And then it happened.

Later on, when Mrs. Dicks saw him in the hospital and Leo, her trainer, stood beside her and they asked him about it, he was still unable to say exactly what it was.

He only remembered that everything had been fine there, for that moment.

And then, before he knew it, Black Lightning had gone to his knees and Maxie himself was flying through the air. Hitting the track spread-eagled, he was instantly knocked unconscious.

He never heard the hysterical, agonized screams of the other horses as they piled into Black Lightning. He didn’t hear the crack of breaking bones, didn’t see the blood which quickly splashed and then soaked into the soft dirt of the track.

He didn’t hear the wailing sirens of the ambulances as they raced across the infield.

He was completely unconscious of the sudden, horrified hush of that vast crowd in the stands. A hush which in the very intensity of its suddenness was more dramatic and perhaps even more terrible than would have been the wildest and most fanatic screaming and shouting.

The leaden slug from the 30-06 didn’t kill Black Lightning. It took him just below the right eye and tore into the cheek until it struck bone and then plowed upward and came out through the back of the skull leaving a huge, four inch wide gap.

The hoof of the number three horse, crashing into that bloody gash, tore Black Lightning’s brains out through the side of his head.

# # #

4

Alice McAndrews looked up from the typewriter. Her soft, sensuous mouth opened wide and her large blue eyes, upon which she had more than once been complimented, began to pop. She started to scream.

Holding the stock of the sub-machine gun under his right arm pit, Johnny Clay tightened his left hand on the neck of the crunched up duffle bag. He whipped it out and caught the girl across the face with it before the sound reached her lips.

And then he stepped back a pace and faced the four people in the room. His voice was just barely audible.

“One sound,” he said, “one sound from any of you and I start shooting!”

The two men counting the money on the top of the wide table froze. Their hands were still in front of them, half buried in green bills. The other one, the one with the forty-five strapped to the holster at his hip, stood at the water cooler, and didn’t move.

Alice McAndrews began to cry and then quickly swallowed. A second later and she slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

One of the men at the table began to move toward her. “Leave her,” Johnny said.

“You!”

He pointed his gun at the man nearest him, one of those at the table. “Take that duffle bag and start filling it. And you,” he looked at the other man, “go over and take that gun out of the holster. Be awfully careful how you do it. Take it out and lay it down on the floor. Then I want the two of you to turn around and face the wall.”

Johnny tossed the canvas sack onto the table.

It took less than two minutes to stuff the money in the bag. By that time the girl had begun to moan and move slightly. Johnny ignored her. He edged around until his back was to the door which led out into the stands. He had already snapped the lock on the door through which he had entered the room—the one from the employees’ locker room.

“Brother, you’ll…”

Johnny looked up quickly. It was the man who had had the gun strapped to his waist.

“Shut up,” Johnny said. “Shut up! I’d like to kill a cop. Particularly a private cop.”

He had to speak very clearly. The handkerchief over the lower part of his face made the words seem muffled even then.

He waited until the man at the table was through.

“Now,” he said, indicating the safe in the corner whose door hung half open, “get the rest of it.”

Through the closed door he heard the almost hysterical screaming and yelling of the crowds in the stands. He knew. He knew just what was happening out there.

It took another three minutes to get the money from the safe into the duffle bag. The bag itself was overflowing and there was still more money in the safe.

“That’s all,” Johnny said. “Pull the drawstring on the bag.”

The man, his hands shaking so badly he had difficulty managing it, did as he was directed. Then he dropped the bag to the floor.

“Pick her up,” Johnny said, motioning toward the girl. No one moved for a moment.

“You,” said Johnny, looking at the private guard.

The man reached down then and lifted the girl to her feet. 

The next minute would be the one which would decide. 

Johnny’s eyes moved quickly to the door leading from the office into the room next to it. The room which he knew held the large track staff and in which the real work was done. In that room would be some three dozen persons.

“I’m going to count three,” he said, “and then I want you to open that door. You are to go through it. When you get through,”—he stopped and looked for a second at the cop who was holding the girl—”and drag her with you,” he interrupted himself. “When you get through, just keep moving. I’m going to start firing through that door exactly fifteen seconds after you close it behind you. Now, before I begin counting, hand me that bag.”

The man who had stuffed the bag with the money lifted it and carried it across the room to where Johnny stood. He had moved over toward the single window of the room so that he commanded all three doors. The window was wide open and he felt the slight breeze at his back.

The man dropped the duffle bag at his feet and turned and walked toward the others.

Johnny started counting.

For a split second, as the door opened and the three men and the girl pushed through it, Johnny saw a couple of startled faces in the other room, looking out at him.

He waited only until the door was closed and then he reached down with his left hand and grabbed the bag. It was too heavy and he had to drop the gun.

A moment later, never looking, he heaved the duffle bag through the window.

He didn’t bother to pick up the machine gun again.

Even before he had reached the door leading out into the lobby, he had stripped the gloves from his hands. He was tearing the handkerchief from his face as he opened the door.

The whole thing had taken less than five minutes.

Johnny’s right arm was out of the sleeve of the sports coat and it was half off as he slammed the door marked “PRIVATE” behind himself. He was aware of Maurice standing next to him as he dropped the sports jacket to the floor and pulled the soft felt hat from his head. He heard the shouts then. He saw the man rushing toward them.

He was only dimly conscious of the sound of flesh against flesh as Maurice’s fist smashed into the man’s face at his side.

And then he was pushing through the crush of bodies.

A woman’s high piercing scream kept coming through the din of the crowd as Johnny shoved his way through the jammed lower lobby of the clubhouse. There were no attendants in sight as he left by the main entrance.

The sound of the sirens from the ambulances on the infield was suddenly interrupted by the shrieking of other sirens coming from outside of the track itself.

Johnny realized that the riot call had been sent in.

He found the cab driver starting to leave his seat in the taxi. “My God,” the man said, looking at him with startled eyes, “what in the hell’s going on. Sounds like…”

“The hell with it,” Johnny said. “Fight started at the end of the seventh. I don’t know what it is, but this place is going to be a madhouse in about another three minutes. I got to get into town. Let’s go.”

The driver hesitated a second, then settled back behind the wheel.

“Guess you’re right,” he said. “We get trapped in here and we’ll never get away.”

Turning into the boulevard a couple of minutes later, the cabbie pulled well over to the curb and slowed up as a speeding riot car passed them.

The police officer who had been directing traffic at the intersection was no longer guarding his post.

Johnny dismissed the cab at the subway station in Long Island City.

“In a hurry,” he said. “I’ll make better time on the subway.” He handed the man the second ten dollars.

As he started up the stairs, he was aware of the driver leaving the parked cab and heading for an adjacent tavern. The man probably wanted to hear what might be coming over the radio about the riot out at the track.

Getting off at Grand Central Station, Johnny went upstairs and ducked into the newsreel theater. He had a couple of hours to kill.

He was suddenly beginning to feel faint. He wanted to sit down.

# # #

Tune in next week for the next chapter of Clean Break!

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“I’ve had a vision, And you know I’m strong and holy, I must do what I’ve been told.”
— The Story of Isaac, Leonard Cohen

###

Sometime in my teens, I dropped out of the Christian faith. Not that there was a lot to drop out of — the only time my family went to church was when my “Chapel” Welsh granddad visited, at which time my sister and I were instructed to pretend that this was a regular part of our lives. And this being the UK, we were taught “divinity” as a weekly class at my school in southeast England, the country being officially Anglican. (If it was good enough for the country, it was good enough for our grammar school.)

The first crack in my belief, as I recall, was regarding the Virgin Birth. According to the gospels of Matthew and Luke, Mary was unknowingly impregnated by God. I wasn’t a feminist, of course — this was in the 1950s — but I knew enough about sexual politics to think of it as, essentially, rape. If the Immaculate Conception was promoted as something sweet and wonderful and cause for celebration, I wanted no part of it.

The second crack, and probably the point of no return for me, was when I learned the story of Isaac: God tells Abraham to offer his only son Isaac (Abraham’s wife Sarah originally having had trouble conceiving) as an offering. Isaac is bound — the episode is known as the Aquedah, or binding — and Abraham is about to cut his son’s throat when an angel appears, telling him, lol!, it’s just a test. Miraculously, a ram appears out of nowhere, to be sacrificed in lieu of Isaac. If that doesn’t turn anyone off the God of the Old Testament and the Torah, they have a stronger stomach than mine.

Years later, I read German philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) on the topic. (Kant, by the way, may have been the first to propose that the Milky Way was one of many “island universes,” a point of view only confirmed two centuries later.) That’s when I realized why I felt so strongly about the Aquedah story. I had been upset at a putative God who put one of his chosen ones to the test, persuading Abraham to sacrifice his son to prove his faith. Kant, however, pointed out that getting pissed at God was the wrong approach. WTF was Abraham doing anyway, believing some strange voice from the heavens? Kant writes, “Abraham should have said to this supposed divine voice: that I am not to kill my beloved son is quite certain; that you who appear to me as God, I am not certain, nor can I ever be, even if the voice thunders from the sky.” (From The Disputes between the Philosophical and Theological Faculties.)

Amen to that, so to speak. It’s probably the oldest defense ever used in a court of law, “God told me to do it.” (For a few examples, check out this.) Murder’s murder, whatever the motive, and Abraham’s near miss was as premeditated and cold-blooded as you can come up with. And no one’s buying the “God defense,” as far as my limited research shows. (I spoke too soon — here’s a crazy pastor with half a million followers who tells his flock, Murder’s OK if God told you to do it. Weird stuff going around this days.)

Lennie Cohen still speaks to me from beyond the grave. Bless his big and kindly heart, whose voice began as polished sand in his first record (1967, Songs of Leonard Cohen) and ended as broken-glass with his last (posthumous) album Thanks for the Dance. In 1968, he recorded an anti-war protest song The Story of Isaac. The lyrics follow the story in Genesis Chapter 22 from the point of view of nine-year-old Isaac: …So he started up the mountain/I was running, he was walking/And his axe was made of gold…

Fifty-five years later, Cohen’s words to the war-makers of today, You, who build these altars now/To sacrifice these children?/You must not do it anymore… seem rather naive and idealistic. Or am I missing something important?

“Yo soy El Hombre Torcido.”

“I am the Crooked Man,” says Marco Alvarez, full-time line cook and part-time busker.

Busking, otherwise known as street performance, is Alvarez’ outlet for expression and his survival skill. Dressed in an outfit that cost him $29 at our local thrift stores, you would not be able to tell that he recently came out of homelessness.

“I only like dressing nice cuz a year and a half ago I didn’t have that luxury,” Alvarez said. “It was cheap, but if you look like you know what the fuck you’re doing, people will think that too.”

He toys with a ring he found on the ground when he was 16 years old and talks about everything without mincing words. He proudly presents himself for what he is.

Honest.

Originally from San Diego, it was a best friend that brought Alvarez to Humboldt County two years ago. He describes it as a storybook town for people with an imagination. But before long, one of his cousins died and he had to travel back for the funeral. While mourning, he had a falling out with his mother and she attempted to run him over with her car. He took this to heart and realized that his family was unreliable and ended up homeless in San Diego.

That is when he decided to return to Humboldt County. But before leaving, he met a man named Richard. Richard made a video of Alvarez in one of the public transit trolleys in San Diego. It was a place of nostalgia, heartbreak, and loneliness for Alvarez. Making the video was a new beginning for his music but the end of his time in his hometown. He sings three songs ending with “Ripped Pants” from the Spongebob SquarePants TV show.

Busking was his ticket up the coast. He traveled from town to town with the mentality “I’ll sleep on the floor and I’ll feed myself” until he made it back in May of last year.

His first couple months back were discouraging. He played the ukulele at the Gazebo in Old Town. His friends told him that no one busks here and he was not going to make any money.

“Exactly! No one busks here so, I will!” Alvarez said.

He learned the nuances of busking from other buskers. He left with two important pieces to the artform. Let’s call them rules of busking:

1. Get attention by offering something for people to interact with that is not you.
2. Perform near a source of revenue.

With these two rules, Alvarez chose to be right outside Livin’ the Dream Ice Cream and uses chalk as a means to draw your attention. He invites you to draw with it or play hopscotch all while he plays the soundtrack for your moment in time.

Eventually, Alvarez’ busking earned him enough to buy a guitar amp at Mantova’s Two Street Music.

“I needed something better, something portable so I can reach more people,” Alvarez said.

He has been singing since he was 17 years old but he sounds like he has been doing it for a lifetime. As it turns out, singing is part of his family history, but they reject it. His grandfather, uncle, mom and dad all sing but they hide it. As a matter of fact, they discourage it.

“My tio Juan starts singing at my grandma’s funeral in Mexico,” Alvarez said. “I heard him sing and I thought why don’t we do more of that!?”

This was the turning point for him to start singing and, in teenage fashion, to rebel.

His singing voice is filled with sharp exhales and lots of movement. It is somehow nostalgic but it is hard to pinpoint. In some ways, he sounds like Cedric Bixler-Zavala of The Mars Volta and Geoff Ricky of Thursday are sharing a microphone. Throw in a little bit of Shakira’s fluctuation then make it acoustic and we have El Hombre Torcido.

Regardless of any inspiration, intentional or not, maybe he is the first of his kind.

Each compliment and dollar he earned physically manifested into notes that he keeps in his pocket.

One is on a torn piece of paper that reads, “Thank you for your music! It’s just what I needed today to feel a little freer. You sing so generously. You don’t hold back any heart. I hope you keep playing always. Happy Journeying.”

Another came from a girl with blue hair who left him a note inscribed on a dollar bill, “Beautiful Voice! Made sitting in the cold worth it.”

Busking started it all but he’s aiming for more. He is now in two local bands and last month he had his first two shows with each. He played at Blondies in Arcata with Crash Monroe and at The Logger Bar with Don Quixote De La Mancha.

Crash Monroe fulfills his need for hardcore throat work — or, to put it plainly, it allows him to scream. The band takes care of the instrumental aspects and Alvarez writes and sings their lyrics. Whereas, Don Quixote De La Mancha is more personal and where Alvarez primarily sings in Spanish.

“Because I sing in English and Spanish, there’s always a few who really see you and appreciate you.” Alvarez said. “There is a power to my voice and I want to learn to master it.”

Alvarez has tons of anecdotes of his interactions with people all over California. But there is one in particular that will not leave him. When he first began busking in Old Town, there was an old homeless woman always sleeping in front of Eureka Books. She would listen to him until one day she decided to approach Alvarez as he was packing up.

She pulls out 60 dollars from her pocket and hands it to Alvarez. He would not accept her money but she insisted on paying him for his music. After a while she stopped showing up.

A year later, he was approached by a woman using a walker and she said, “You don’t remember me but I was homeless and listened to you. I’m not homeless anymore.”

That type of resiliency is what Alvarez preaches in his music and when you talk to him. His plan now is to make a name for himself in Humboldt County and beyond, while also continuing to busk with no end in sight.