by Neil Randall
More importantly, we’d planted a wire in the apartment, concealed in a skirting-board directly below the main window, the one looking out on the street, so I could listen in to whatever was being said inside.
First three hours: no unusual activity, bar G. passing the window every now and then –once holding a telephone (but there must’ve been no answer, because he didn’t speak at all), another time, bare-chested, with what looked like a stocking over the top of his head.
A little later, he played a record – a Judy Garland album, probably a greatest hits compilation – and ran himself a bath. Once immersed in the tub he sang along to Over the Rainbow in a high, caterwauling type of voice.
At approximately eight o’clock in the p.m., G. left the apartment on foot. He wore hot pants, stiletto heels, a crop-top, falsies, or a brassiere filled with tissue paper, to give the impression of a sizeable bust. On his head was a curly blonde wig, over his shoulder, a slim leather handbag.
I got out of the car and followed him down to Fakes, one of the more notorious faggot joints in the area. From across the street, and the sidewalks were busy at this hour, with people spilling in and out of bars, diners, or queuing for the movie theatre, I was able to conceal myself behind some trash cans, remaining completely inconspicuous, watching G.’s activities through the bar’s big plate glass window.
Theatrically, he embraced numerous males, exchanged many kisses on the mouth, talked with great animation, gesturing with his arms, throwing back his head and laughing. He drank two cocktails from a long-stemmed glass. He danced and flirted with several new arrivals before finally pairing off with one man in particular. After what looked like an intense conversation, G. and the mark went and sat in a booth concealed from view.
It got dark. Loud music and colourful strobe lights started to pound and flash from Fakes and the other bars in the area. Every time a door opened, a wall of sound; a thumping bass line or frantic disco beat would blare out. Not so many people were on the streets now, which made my vantage point a little more exposed.
At just after ten o’clock, G. exited the bar, hand in hand with the same man I’d seen him talking to earlier, the mark he went and sat down with, a man wearing a tight T-shirt and flared denims. With a wary look over their shoulders, they cut down an alley-way that ran behind the back of Fakes.
To be safe, I waited a full minute before crossing the street, and ducking down the same alley-way, a dank, dark, narrow space, only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. Up ahead, a light to the rear of Fakes illuminated an alcove, what looked like a former entrance that had been bricked up. From this alcove, I could see human shapes, shadows cast against the concrete path, moving this way and that. Careful not to make a sound, I crept towards the light. The closer I got I could hear rustling and panting breath, a slapping sound, that of flesh against flesh. Angling my head, I saw the two men, G., naked from the waist down, bent over double, hands clasped around his ankles, showcasing surprising suppleness, while the mark, standing, his hands on his hips, sodomised him from behind, occasionally slapping one of his buttocks.
“Yeah, yeah,” panted G.. “I want you to hurt me, humiliate me, treat me like a piece of trash, destroy me.”
Their coupling went on for a very long time. When I first clocked them in flagrante delicto, I checked my wristwatch – ten past the hour. When I checked again, and it was nearly half-past, I decided to withdraw – there was nothing more to see here.
When the mark finally shuffled out of the alley-way, I made a foolish mistake – acting rashly, because G. didn’t immediately follow him. Approximately four minutes elapsed – still no sign. So I dashed back across the street, and peered down the alley-way, only to bump straight into G..
“Hey, what are you doing, buddy?” he said, puckering lips which looked to have been covered in a thick reapplication of crimson lipstick. “Say, are you Rolando?”
Thinking on my feet, I said as indifferently as possible, “No. I ain’t no Rolando. I’m just looking for a place to take a piss.”
“A piss!” he said, affecting outrage, a hissy fit. “Get away from me, you barbarian, you animal. Respectable people don’t piss in the streets. There are plenty of establishments around here with perfectly good restrooms.”
As he stormed back into the club, I mumbled out a vague apology, turned and crossed the street, back to my previous spot, behind the trash cans.
While jotting down notes, I heard another burst of rolling sound, music coming from Fakes, spilling out of the opened door. I looked up. G. and another guy, much like the first mark, and with the same wary look over his shoulder (no doubt checking for a squad car), ducked down the same alley-way.
This time I didn’t bother to reconnoiter the scene. One: it was too risky, having just clumsily interacted with the subject, letting him see my face. Two: I had no doubt as to what was taking place round the back there.
In all, there were six other visits to the alley-way, with six different men. Most of the sex acts went on for ten-plus minutes, and were presumably of a purely anal penetrative nature. Two visits, however, were much briefer, under five minutes, which may indicate acts of oral sex. In the original incidence, I saw or heard of no evidence of prophylactics being used, only three references to a branded lubricant. After each sex act G. received a cash payment (I saw him slip money into his handbag), how much, I was unable to ascertain.
At half-past midnight, G. walked alone to Collars and Cuffs, a nightspot a few hundred yards from Fakes, but the doorman refused him admission, citing intoxication and unsuitable attire.
“Do you know who I am, you silly little freak?” shouted G. “I’ll have your job for this.”
Seemingly at a loss, still agitated by the scene with the doorman, G. smoked a cigarette under a bright orange street light, one hand on his hip, one foot tapping away impatiently. After three or four pulls, he tossed the cigarette to the sidewalk, scrunched it out with a stiletto heel, and proceeded to another nightspot called Charlie’s. Outside, G. ran into two middle-aged men dressed in well-cut suits. After a brief exchange of words, they hailed a taxi. Here I feared I might lose them, but heard G. say to the driver:
“It’s just a few blocks, but my heels are killing me.”
To my relief, after running back in the direction of G.’s apartment, I spotted all three of them walking inside the building through the front entrance, jostling each other, laughing loudly.
As fast as I could I crossed the street, slipped inside my car, and put the earpiece into my ear. Through a burst of rolling static, I could clearly make out three voices: G. girly, theatrical, fairy tones, and two much deeper male voices, both with a hint of the East Coast about them, New Yorkers, maybe.
G: Right…drinks, drinks (sound: padding feet.)
Man #1: Fuck the drinks, baby. You got yourself a couple of stiff cocks to suck on here.
Sounds: Giggling, more padding feet.
Man #2: Yeah. We ain’t come up here for no fancy booze, but to get that pretty little mouth of yours working.
I looked up to the window just as G., clearly visible in the lamplight, drew the curtains.
G: Whoa, look at the size of these things. (Sounds: sucking, squelching noises, the odd low grunt and moan.) I – I don’t think I’ve ever seen ones this big before.
This continued for approximately three minutes. Then the subjects must’ve gone through to the bedroom, for I heard more rustling, chairs being scraped across a tiled floor, more giggling. After that, all I could make out were bed springs squeaking, a lot of huffing and puffing and groaning.
A few minutes before dawn, the two strangers slipped out of the apartment, looking bleary-eyed and dishevelled.
Day Two
It was a little after three o’clock in the p.m. when G. reappeared, walking out of the building, crossing the street, and entering the diner. There he stayed for approximately one hour. When I reconnoitered, I saw him sitting at a window seat alone, flicking through
a glossy magazine, but was unable to establish whether he had eaten a meal or simply drunk coffee (on my second pass, a waitress was topping up his coffee cup).
When he returned to the apartment he immediately made a phone call.
“Is that Rolando? No, no, you don’t know me, sweetie…some very naughty boys at Fakes have been telling me some very naughty things about you…yeah, that’s right, baby, I go all the way. I’ll do things to you that you wouldn’t believe…right away? Well, aren’t you just peachy keen? Ooh, don’t worry about that, honey pie, just bring yourself. Leave everything else up to me…you know the address, right? Great. I’m getting all excited just thinking about it…of course you can bring a friend. The more the merrier…Yeah, that’s right, fifty bucks, and you can do whatever you wanna to do me.”
Approximately one hour and twenty minutes after the phone call, two men, one white, one black, both in their mid- to late thirties, both with short, neat haircuts, both well-dressed, raincoats over what looked like expensive suits, got out of a taxi, paid the driver, and walked into the building.
I put my earpiece in and listened. G. was humming a tune to himself, shuffling around the room. From the window, I saw a glimpse of him, wearing a much darker, longer wig than last night, although the rest of his attire was not observable.
Sounds: Two knocks at the door, door unfastening, a chain, latch, hinges squeaking.
G: So good to meet you, such strapping boys…ooh, I can just tell this is going to be great. Can I take your coats, gentlemen?
Sounds: rustling, footsteps clicking over tiles, chairs being scraped back.
G: That’s right, sit yourselves down. Now would you like me to mix you a drink or –?
Sounds: rapid movements, a slap, a thud, a crash, a soft whimpering noise, like crying.
Man #1: Stop your balling, fairy. You know why we’re here. And it ain’t gonna cost us no fifty bucks, neither! Take her down, Johnny, get that gag in her mouth. Let’s get her into the bedroom, let’s fuck her ass until she bleeds, let’s rip this fairy in fucking half!
Sounds: ripping clothes, tape tearing from a reel, muffled sobs, crashing and banging.
I looked up to the window. One of the men, the white man, pulled the curtains shut.
After that, all I could hear were squeaking bed springs, panting, the occasional exchange of breathless words, muffled sobbing.
This went on for approximately three hours, until the men reappeared, hailing a cab directly outside the building, and disappearing amongst the early evening traffic.
Exactly ten minutes after they left (and I made a note of this), G. made a telephone call.
“Oh, Pauly, I’ve just been attacked, assaulted in my own apartment…Yeah, yeah…I’m all busted up and bleeding. I can’t get it to stop…Yeah, yeah, it was nasty. These two guys, friends told me to call them, said they were…no, no, they didn’t even have the decency to use any rubbers…could you come over and look after me, Pauly? Please, honey. They hurt me real bad. I don’t think I can clean myself up on my own…No! I don’t wanna go to the emergency room…come on, Pauly, I’ve always been there for you in the past…how can you say it’s my own fault! Why, you bastard! All the things I’ve done for you…No! Don’t bother calling tomorrow; don’t call me ever again!
In all I maintained close surveillance of G. for sixteen weeks. According to medical experts, the virus would take approximately three months to show up in a blood test, but, other symptoms – rashes and weeping sores on the genitals, scabs on the chest area, blood in stools, vomiting, and general virus-like, flu symptoms: high temperature, cold sweats – could all manifest within days of unprotected intercourse. Towards the end of this period, I followed G. to a medical drop-in centre, one that specialised in sexual infections. He stayed there for three hours (presumably due to the numbers of people awaiting treatment), before walking back to his apartment, a brown bag, undoubtedly containing medicines of some kind, wedged under his arm.
After the surveillance period, when we accessed his medical records, we found reference to nearly all the above symptoms. Tellingly, none of the anti-viral medication he was prescribed had any effect whatsoever. The following month, G. was referred to the county hospital for more extensive tests.
In the interim, I tracked down many of the males G. had had unprotected intercourse with. Nearly all had sought out medical help, and nearly all had failed to respond to treatment, too. In several extreme cases there were reported seizures, strokes, cardiac episodes, internal bleeding and rapid hair loss. Clearly the bodies of those infected couldn’t deal with the strength of the virus, the way it attacked the immune system.
In the local press, practitioners were quoted as saying that the numbers of people, mainly promiscuous homosexuals, recently admitted to hospital with severe, debilitating, symptoms (and they listed many of them) had reached epidemic proportions. In short, the experiment in the homosexual community has been an unqualified success. In a handful of months, hundreds of gay men were visiting clinics or emergency rooms. A few months after that, we had our first reported fatality.
Day One-Hundred and Fourteen
Subject P.
After receiving the injection, P., a twenty-six-year-old, mixed race, mother of two, returned to the prefabricated home she shared with her children. This dilapidated dwelling, with boarded-up windows, a busted fence and scruffy overgrown lawn strewn with all kinds of cast-off materials: rusted bicycle frames, deflated, mildewed paddling pool, was in one of the most deprived areas of the city, a virtual shanty town, where armed gangs drove up and down the streets, bums slept out on the sidewalks, emaciated dogs sniffed around overflowing trashcans, young children ran around naked and barefoot, an area with an incredibly high crime rate – particularly rapes and murders.
Within the hour, a rattling Oldsmobile pulled up outside the prefab, and a tall, well-built Hispanic male in tight-fitting denims and a leather jacket, (later identified as Ricardo Garcia, P.’s pimp), got out and entered the property without ringing the bell or knocking on the door.
As with all other surveillance operations, the residence had been fitted with a wire. Therefore, I could listen in to everything that was being said through an earpiece.
Garcia: So yo’ go and get yo’ stupid muthafuckin’ ass arrested! Yo’ expect me to believe that shit?
Sounds: A solitary thwack, slap, a gasp of breath and muffled sobbing (intermittent, as if P. is trying to suck back tears).
Garcia: Now, yo’ listen and listen good, bitch. I lost myself a whole night’s dollar ’cos of yo’. So yo’ better work that pussy of yours down to the fuckin’ bone tonight, yo’ hear me? I got credit with yo’, bitch. I wanna see some serious green. If not, I be takin’ it out on yo’ ass myself. Yo’ understand me?
He beat her some more before leaving, climbing back into his car, and skidding off in a cloud of dust.
In the hours that passed before evening, little of note took place. In the kitchen, P. prepared herself a TV dinner, taking a ready-meal from the freezer, and putting it in the oven. When the food was ready she turned on the television (a melodramatic soap opera of some kind) and sat and ate at the kitchen table, while presumably watching the show. After what could only have been a few mouthfuls (approximately two and a half minutes had elapsed), she got up and scraped the contents of the foil tray into the trashcan, muttering something about “can’t eat nuthin’ after that bastard go hit me so hard.”
At dusk, a fat girl (also mixed race, and later identified as the subject’s younger sister Jermaine) called round to the house with P’.s two young children. In what quickly turned into a heated argument, P. pleaded with her sister to take the children back to the family home.
Jermaine: But momma, she say yo’ gotta look after the children tonight. She say she ain’t no muthafuckin’ kindergarten. I catch hell if I bring them back with me, girl.
Sounds: both children started to sob, pleading, through tears and mounting distress, for the grown-ups to s
top shouting.
P: But look at my face, Jermaine. If I don’t get my ass out on the street and hustle me up some serious dollar, I be in for some more of the same.
The force of her arguments eventually won the sister round. Approximately forty minutes after arriving, she exited the house with the two children, walked up the street and out of sight.
P. took a shower. In the bedroom afterwards, she prepared for the evening, got dressed, sprayed deodorant and perfume, and applied (presumably) creams and make-up to her battered face.
Thirty minutes later (at 9.48 p.m.), she left the house wearing a tight crimson-red top, leather mini-skirt, no stockings, high heels, with a faux-crocodile skin handbag over her shoulder.
I got out of the car and followed her on foot.
P. walked a few hundred yards, six blocks in all, to the corner of Jenson and Mount Street, a lively area with a dozen or so bars close by, strip joints, titty shows, that type of thing.
As I concealed myself across the street, a car pulled up to the sidewalk.
“Hey, baby,” a man, quite young, with shoulder-length hair, leaned out of the window and shouted. P. walked over. “How much for a good hard screwin’?”
P. answered quickly but I was too far away to hear her reply.
The driver pointed across the sidewalk to a disused piece of waste ground round the back of a liquor store, all cracked concrete and rusted wire fences, an area which looked like it was now used as a temporary car park for customers visiting the store.
