The Castro '76

by G. P. Field

  Israel patted the outside of his front trouser pocket and felt the comforting outline of his wallet. Perhaps he had been too hasty in judging this man. Perhaps he was just as he seemed: an overly gregarious fellow tourist with little regard for personal space. He jogged down the path and made it to the ferry just as the gangplank was about to be pulled back. Fellow travellers stared daggers at him as he crossed onto the boat. He buried his head in a newspaper on the way home to avoid any further eye contact. Karl Malden and James Garner had been nominated for the upcoming Emmy Awards but he saw no mention of his famous confidante, or his popular television series.

  Israel was surprised to find Castro Camera bursting with life and action by the time he returned. Scott was in the front room attending to a backlog of customers and Harvey was behind the curtained partition, holding court with a cadre of formal and informal political advisors. Israel waved briefly at Harvey as he slipped past the mob on the way up the back stairs. His bag was already packed and ready to go, the sheets he had borrowed washed and dried. He snuck down the stairs and past a preoccupied Harvey on his way out but Scott noticed and beckoned him over before he made it to the door.

  ‘Hello Israel, I’m sorry I was such a bitch before. It was nothing personal. I was mad at Harv and I was taking it out on you, so yeah… I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, I appreciate your apology.’ He saw Scott glance at the suitcase. ‘I wasn’t going to run away without saying goodbye. I just thought I would go and find a place in a hostel so I would be out of your hair…’ He declined to mention the lack of a guest bed, let alone guest bedroom.

  Scott pursed his lips. ‘Well, okay. You are also welcome to stay if you want. I mean, please don’t leave on my account.’

  Harvey brushed through the partition curtain and beamed at Israel. ‘Hey now houseguest, what’s going on here? You’re not slinking away without saying goodbye to your old friend are you?’

  Israel gave a wan smile and couldn’t meet his eye.

  Harvey put his arm around Israel’s shoulders. ‘Now now, I was just ribbing you. No need to look so serious.’ He paused and caught Israel’s eye. ‘But you are going to come out with us tonight, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. I have been dying for some company 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 tabletop. A few awkward minutes passed as semi-naked bodies writhed in front of him on the dance floor. Scott waved down the occasional passerby and yelled in their ear. The knot of people with Harvey at the center 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 then 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, the other two flinching backwards. Israel and Scott clunked down their glasses and gave chase as Harvey tore towards the door, his own glass still in hand.

  Outside, he
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 fuelling 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 before 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 at the bar. Instantly he felt more alert.

  A conga line of suitors shimmied their way into Don Sharpe’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 what he says, I want to stay here.’

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

  ‘He said he wanted to go back to the Midnight Sun or go home to bed. You know what, I don’t care.’ He pouted and watched Israel. ‘I’m sick of babysitting him. He wants to go off on a big night – then let him. 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 intoxicated.’

  ‘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 were moving 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 seems in good hands.’

  Scott raised his eyebrows and looked heavenwards. ‘Yes, I told you that 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 out, shall I?’ Scott tried not to look too eager as he pushed away his chair and headed in that direction.

  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 big 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 glare and tried to stay calm. ‘I got the impression that the police weren’t very interested in the case. Captain Barnes indicated that you, in particular, didn’t have much time for homosexuals, and that Bart Nelson was the only one really looking into it.’

  ‘Well, he was right and he was wrong. I think guys going with guys just ain’t right. It makes me feel sick to my stomach watching some of the shit that goes on in these places… But he was wrong about me not being interested in this killer. You know, the history of the United States is littered with folks killing people of colour, jus cos they was people of colour, and no other damn reason besides.’ He flicked his hand towards the bar dismissively. ‘These people, they ain’t my kind a people, but they are people.’ He paused and looked around the dimly lit bar again. ‘Besides, I know who the killer is. So does a whole bunch of other cops. He knows that we know who he is too. He’s been rubbing our noses in it.’ The detective’s eyes wandered around the bar from group to group. ‘But there’s one thing that he don’t know yet – he don’t know me. ’

  Israel followed Don’s gaze. ‘You mean the killer is here, right now?’

  The detective’s eyes wrinkled at the corners. ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. I think you might be surprised by who it is. Tell me: that honky you been hangin with, did I see him drawin a little picture of me back at the Midnight Sun?’

  Israel arched an eyebrow. ‘Well yes, but he’s a very nice man, he’s the last person who…’ His voice trailed off as he saw Scott returning from the bar to their seats.

  Don followed his gaze. ‘You better go and keep him company.’ His giant hand suddenly gripped Israel’s upper arm. ‘But you be careful brother, there’s some strange shit going on out there.’

  Moments later, Israel re-emerged from the shadows. He was just in time to greet a sour-faced Scott as he returned. ‘What’s the matter, my friend?’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t there when I went to the bar,’ Scott sighed. ‘Just my luck.’

  ‘Who wasn’t there?’ asked Israel disingenuously.

  ‘The big black Adonis. I just wanted to meet him, to bask in his aura.’ Scott gave him a hard look. ‘But don’t get any ideas, you know I’m loyal to Harvey.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ muttered Israel. ‘He seems to have returned to his place at the bar now. Perhaps you could go and meet him now?’

  ‘Pah, just my luck. No… I’ve lost my place in the line now anyway.’

  They both watched intently as more hopefuls surrounded big Don after his reappearance. He fielded all manner of advances. Brazen attempts to touch him or rub up against him were treated with a disdainful flick of the wrist or elbow. The message was clear – you can look, but don’t touch the merchandise. Most interviews consisted of a smile or two, a few stilted words, a toss of the hair or some other coy gesture and eventually a resigned slump and a move away into the depths of the Neon Chicken. As the next, newly disappointed suitor sidled away from the action a new pretender to the crown took his place in the line up. There was something about the new man in line that interested Israel, some faint gesture or body position that reminded him of someone. Someone he’d seen recently.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’ Israel asked Scott. Scott just nodded as he kept up his vigil-like observation of the activity near the bar.

  Israel slid through the crowd to take a closer look at the newcomer in the line while he bought more drinks. The man never turned around and Israel spent his whole time at the bar staring at the back of his collar. Who was it? Why was his back and posture so familiar? The bartender returned. Israel was about to make his way back when another familiar face materialised in front of him.

  ‘Hey there, Israel.’

  ‘Hello, Lieutenant Bart,’ said Israel, putting down the drinks and shaking the man’s hand warmly. ‘I think I know why you’re here.’

  Hobart Nelson scratched his head briefly and then pointed in the direction of Detective Sharpe. ‘It was Don that called me about half an hour ago. He said he had something to show me.’

  As Bart Nelson shifted his weight, the man in the line finally made it to his interview with Don Sharpe. Israel recognised the face instantly – the man from
the boat. The man who came from Wichita for his brother’s wedding… the sandy moustache was gone now though… an interesting development. Why would he shave off his moustache? For the wedding? As Israel was processing this new information, Don Sharpe reached over, slipped his arm around Wichita man and hugged him in tight. Israel’s jaw slackened as he watched the two men in their embrace. They had their backs to him now and they were looking down at something held between them at waist height. Suddenly, the two of them moved together towards the door.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment, Lieutenant.’ Israel picked up his drinks and pushed back through the crowd. Hobart Nelson frowned after him.

  ‘Here you are, Scott.’ He plonked both drinks in front of his companion. ‘I just have to…’

  Don Sharpe and Wichita man were already gone. Israel made for the door. At the entrance he turned back and scanned the room. Bart Nelson had abandoned his post at the bar and was nowhere to be seen. Israel’s sharp eyes narrowed as he looked back towards where he had just left Scott. He was gone too. What was going on? He stood at the door, eyes darting about in a moment of indecision before he turned and stepped out into the night.

  On the street Israel twisted his head back and forth as he looked for the silhouettes of two men… nothing. Where could they have gone? He stalked a few yards to the left and ducked into a residential side street. There was no traffic and it was quiet except for the occasional saxophone note drifting out from the club behind him and the swish of traffic in the distance. He stepped silently past the entrance to a narrow alley and then stopped. Deep in the darkened laneway he heard the scuffle of footsteps.

  And you know this is it. The lyric drifted through his mind as he edged silently into the narrow gap and waited for his eyes to adjust.

  The muffled sounds summoned him closer. Someone moaned. It sounded shockingly loud and close. He held his breath as the scene gradually unveiled. The giant held a man pinned against the wall face first. The figure squirmed and writhed in Don Sharpe’s grip. Suddenly he pulled loose and spun. The two men came together as one seething, panting mass in the darkness. Out on the street a car crawled past. Both men turned their heads to look. Israel stood motionless as the headlights reached into the darkness for an instant.