The Castro '76

by G.P. Field

since I arrived.’ Israel responded, immediately regretting his choice of words.

  Scott bestowed a smile on him for the first time. ‘Well, go and find yourself a place to stay and we’ll see you back here when you’re ready to go out and have some fun.’

  After consulting his Frommers guidebook, Israel found a small, clean room in a boarding house in the nearby Haight Ashbury district. He showered and shaved in the communal bathroom and then dressed in his funkiest gear before heading back towards the Castro.

  Harvey sat on the red sofa in the front room dressed in casually elegant slacks and a button-up shirt with an enormous collar. The scent of Pino Silvestre cologne hung in the air.

  ‘Harvey, my friend.’ The two men embraced in an easy, unencumbered fashion. ‘Please, tell me, how was your trip? Was it all that you hoped for?’

  Harvey shrugged and grinned as Scott flitted down the stairs.

  ‘Sorry boys, I always seem to be the last one ready to go, I don’t know why.’ He looked from one to the other and flicked up the collar of his linen jacket. ‘Who’s hungry?’

  The three of them dined together at Garcon, a quiet little French place on 19th street. ‘Mr Harvey! Mr Scott! And you have brought a friend! Very nice, very nice.’ The handsome Chinese owner ushered them to a table with a street view.

  Once they were seated Israel leaned towards his companions confidentially, but Harvey put his finger up and gave him a subdued grin and a raised eyebrow. Israel looked like he was about to say something but held off as the owner returned with three daiquiris balanced in a triangle.

  ‘Welcome. These cocktails are on the house.’ He set them down with great ceremony and then engaged Israel. ‘Any friend of these gentlemen is welcome here.’ He bowed lightly and disappeared into the kitchen.

  They touched glasses.

  ‘Welcome to San Francisco, Israel,’ said Harvey. ‘I’m sorry we haven’t had much time to catch up yet; hopefully we can fix that tonight.’ He ducked his head closer and glanced at the kitchen door. ‘I bet you’re thinking how strange it is that a Chinese man runs a French restaurant.’

  Israel nodded and smiled politely.

  ‘Huan’s wife, Mai Lynn, was one of the last students at L’école des Trois Gourmands in Paris.’

  Buoyed by this unexpected news, Israel ordered lemon sole and coq au vin and they both turned out to be exceptional. Harvey had a bottle of decent Californian chardonnay and he made sure Israel’s glass was topped up as they ate and chatted amiably. The tone of the conversation changed when Israel mentioned his famous visitor.

  Scott gasped. ‘Oh my god! You were alone in the apartment with him! What did he want?’

  Again, the three heads conspired.

  ‘He wanted to speak with Harvey. He seemed very agitated by something.’

  Harvey’s face dropped.

  ‘But I managed to convince him to confide in me instead.’

  The heads came closer.

  ‘Tell us, tell us,’ hissed Scott.

  ‘Well… it was about this man… the man that sketches before he kills.’

  The Midnight Sun nightclub burned neon pink in the night. Harvey marched towards it from the restaurant with the other two in tow. Israel thought Harvey looked like a man being summoned by a palpable force, a flake of metal to a magnet.

  ‘Hey Tino, got room for a couple of extras?’

  ‘Sure Mr Harvey, you’re a VIP now, ain’t ya?’ The black-leather-clad man with the Bronx accent ushered them in past the line of people waiting at the club door.

  Inside the nightclub, the crowd clamoured to be heard above the DJ. Harvey waved back toward Scott and Israel as he was sucked away to the bar by a vortex of well-wishers.

  Scott leaned in towards Israel and tried to yell above the deafening noise: ‘…like this since he started…’ Scott rolled his eyes.

  ‘… going to destroy, our casual joys…’ thundered the music in response.

  ‘… at least get us a drink…’ scowled Scott.

  Israel shrugged at him and drummed his fingers abstractedly on the table-top. A few awkward minutes passed as semi-naked bodies writhed in front of him on the dance floor. Scott waved down the occasional passer by and yelled in their ear. The knot of people with Harvey at the centre moved from the bar, the comet tail of hangers-on stretching and then dissolving into the crowd.

  Suddenly a heavy hand clapped Israel on the shoulder and he turned with a start. His head had to tilt upwards to take in the huge, dark frame of Detective Don Sharpe. Israel’s eyes flared in surprise at the big man’s knowing smile before the giant’s frame drifted off.

  Another hand grasped at his sleeve. Scott raised an eyebrow and leaned in close. ‘Who was that?’ His eyes followed Sharpe across the room.

  Israel tried to explain, but either his voice was lost in the noise or his accent was too much for Scott.

  Scott shrugged and threw up his hands in frustration before he bent towards Israel’s ear again. ‘Whoever he is, he’s damn sexy.’

  Israel watched with interest as Scott glanced in the direction of the departing detective.

  Oblivious to Israel’s stare, Scott slid a napkin in front of him, produced a ballpoint pen and made two or three wistful strokes before Harvey’s star crashed back into their solar system.

  ‘Woo, this is fun guys, you gotta try it…’ Harvey jiggled his hips in front of them as he waved a martini. Israel noticed that very little was spilled.

  Harvey leaned in close like he was going to whisper. ‘Let’s go to the Neon Chicken!’ He roared with laughter as the other two flinched backwards. Then he tore towards the door. Israel and Scott clunked down their glasses and gave chase.

  Outside, Harvey stopped abruptly, finger pointed toward the sky. Israel and Scott crashed into him as they followed close behind. Scott grabbed Harvey’s wrist laughing. ‘Hold up, hold up, you’re acting all crazy tonight Harv.’

  ‘You’re right dear – I forgot something.’ Harvey took three steps back to Tino at the door and swallowed the rest of his martini in a single gulp. Then he curtsied as he handed the empty glass to the black clad bouncer and spun away into the darkness.

  Harvey led them through the back streets of the Castro, weaving around on the footpath in front them and laughing wildly. The heady combination of alcohol, freedom and popularity seemed to fuel his mania. He stopped, grabbed Scott and gave him a kiss. ‘I love the nightlife baby… I really, really do…’

  By the time they reached the next glowing outpost, Israel was tired and ready for bed. He yawned as they stepped through the low-key entrance into the next club. Set up rough, ready and relaxed, the Neon Chicken was the epitome of an old-time bluegrass speakeasy. The laid-back jazz of Cannonball Adderly drifted through the smoke as it settled over huddled groups scattered about the place. Israel cast his eye over the roguish patrons swept in off the late night streets. Attracted by a hubbub at the bar, he spied the oversized slab silhouette of Don Sharpe. Instantly he felt more alert.

  A conga line of suitors shimmied their way into Don’s vicinity. He met and talked with people politely enough, but Israel noticed the occasional hard-eyed glance into the crowd.

  ‘You know what… I’m tired of this place,’ announced Harvey, his tone petulant. He made for the exit followed sharply by Scott. Israel sat down and watched.

  A minute or so later Scott appeared back at Israel’s side. ‘Whew, that man takes some watching. You know what? I don’t care where he wants to go, I want to stay here.’

  Israel shrugged. ‘Where does he want to go?’

  ‘He wanted to go back to the Midnight Sun or go home to bed, he couldn’t decide. You know what… I don’t care.’ He pouted. ‘I’m sick of babysitting him. If he wants to go off on a big night – then let him go. I’m more interested in that.’ He nodded his head towards the ebony shadow at the bar and his admirers.

  ‘Are you sure Harvey will be all right?’ asked Israel. ‘He appeared quite i
ntoxicated.’

  ‘Oh yeah, he was with that Democrat crowd. They’ll make sure he gets home okay. He means too much to them.’

  Israel slid off the bench and wandered towards the door. Out in the street a group of six or seven men moved down the sidewalk. He could just make out Harvey’s shirt on the other side. He would be okay – for now.

  Back inside, Scott was still staring intently at the bar area.

  Israel gave him a nudge. ‘Harvey appears to be in good hands.’

  Scott raised his eyebrows and looked heavenwards. ‘Yeah, I told you didn’t I? I’m more interested in that big dark man. Where did he go?’ He gestured to where Detective Don Sharpe had been standing. ‘I’ll go and see if I can find him, shall I?’ There was a touch of the devil in the way he said it and he tried not to look too eager as he pushed away his chair.

  Israel watched him go.

  ‘Yeah, good luck with that, man.’ The voice behind Israel was quiet thunder. He spun and saw a big black index finger beckoning him into the shadows. He slipped off his stool and slid into the darkness at the edge of the room.

  The man bent down. ‘Shoulda known you academic types would be hanging out in pansy bars.’ His face was non-committal.

  ‘Unlike yourself, detective?’ parried Israel.

  ‘I’m here on business, my man. My pleasures lie elsewhere.’

  ‘What business is that, detective?’

  ‘I think you know,’ growled Don Sharpe, his tone ominous. ‘You were asking me about it at the conference.’

  Israel met the man’s