The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  As I walk toward the Bay, I recognize a sports car, a silver Mercedes 600 SL, patrolling Polk. The driver guns his engine. He's a hawk, I know, one of the rich ones who often hang around. The car's flamboyant but the occupant thinks he's invisible in darkness behind the glass.

  One little-known fact about us color-blind: We can see through most camouflage. In World War II we were used as bombardiers, and many of us are good at spotting birds and snakes whose coloring conceals. The reason, of course, is that we're not distracted by color, concentrating instead on tonal values and shapes. So I'm able to make out the man in the Mercedes, not clearly but well enough to recognize him. It's Baldy, the guy I saw talking earlier with Knob.

  Then, as he drives by, gunning his engine again to show off his power, I catch a glimpse of his profile and from that understand more: I've not only seen him before, I've surreptitiously photographed him several times. I didn't recognize him at first because he wasn't wearing his toupee.

  I shiver as I climb the Chestnut Street steps. It's windy on Russian Hill. Too late now to safely venture across Sterling Park, so I follow Chestnut, turn right on Hyde, pass the crooked block of Lombard on my way up to Greenwich beside the cable car tracks and the endless cable that rumbles beneath the street.

  My building's at the crest. Constructed in the 1920s, slim and elegant, it offers some of the city's finest views. The rent's high; I sacrifice to live here, but have never regretted it. If by some fluke I should someday strike it rich, I'll probably buy a few things but I won't move.

  I let myself in through the gilded grille door, step into the elevator cab, push the button for the ninth floor. For me it's early. I adore the night; no photophobia, colors mean little, I don't feel caged in and my vision's at its best. I needn't blink, rarely have to squint. Horizons are limitless. It's a world of grays, a world I can roam and understand.

  I enter my flat, go to the living room window. The whole city lies before me like a bejeweled carpet spread across the hills. The high-rises of the financial district glow against the inky sky. The Bay Bridge appears delicate. Coit Tower, illuminated, is a pillar of power sprouting from the peak of Telegraph Hill. Some say it resembles a giant nozzle, but I always see a phallus. The water in the Bay looks like roiling oil. Oakland, a distant galaxy, twinkles in the east.

  I move to my telescope, still aimed at the penthouse. Now the living room lights over there are on.

  So tell me, Judge, what are you doing tonight? Reading a brief, meditating over Justice, or perhaps bedding down some girl, young, slim and petite the way you like?

  I spend half an hour gazing through the telescope, swinging it slowly across the city. Strange how the windows lit up night after night are usually the same.

  There's something comforting in this. I like checking on windows I know, seeing familiar furniture, lamps, flickering TVs . . . familiar people too, like the night-gowned lady on Leavenworth who putters endlessly in her kitchen, or the long-haired guy in the high-rise on Green who performs slow tai chi exercises on his terrace late at night. They're like friends, these stay-at-homes. I respect their privacy; I'm not looking to catch them in their undies. When I do stumble upon an intimate event, I usually turn my telescope away. It's not that I'm so high-principled; with a camera in hand I'm a mad-dog voyeur. But San Francisco is a city replete with telescopes, and since we must live together here, we observe a certain code.

  The lens in the lighthouse tower on Alcatraz revolves. High-masted ships, tied down at the Hyde Street Pier, creak on gently lapping waves. On the street a car passes in low gear, emitting an expensive growl. Is it Baldy in his Mercedes, unable to score, grinding out his frustration on the hill?

  I'm seized by dread. I must have closed my eyes, fallen to sleep on the couch. I wake up suddenly, terrified. Did I hear something in the distance, a scream, a wail?

  I listen attentively. A sound is missing. It takes me several seconds to understand: the rumble of the Hyde Street cable; they turn it off around two a.m. So . . . it was silence that woke me up.

  I stretch, stand, go to my telescope, frame the Judge's penthouse once again. Now the windows are dark, the roof limned by moonlight. San Francisco is asleep.

  I move to my bedroom, pull down the blackout shades, take off my clothes, slip naked beneath my sheets. I want to dream tonight, perhaps even dream in color. To do this once is my longest-held desire. To really understand what people mean when they call something blue or green, to see tomatoes as red instead of black, to see the sun as yellow instead of a shade of off-white, to understand the true meaning of such expressions as "I'm feeling blue this morning,"

  "He's yellow, a coward," "I'm green with envy," "Look at that red-hot mama dance !" I wish!

  The shrill ring of the phone cuts through my dream. I awaken with a start, grasp for the receiver, knock the apparatus to the floor. I fumble for it; bring the handset to my ear.

  "Bug?"

  "Yeah?"

  I hear sniffling. "It's me, Crawf."

  "Crawf! Jesus, what time is it? What's going on?"

  "Tim," he says. "You were waiting for him."

  I check my watch. Seven a.m. "What're you telling me? That he just showed up?"

  A long pause. "He's gone, Bug."

  I'm silent. Then I start to tremble.

  "You know that old black guy, Rory, the one sells empty soda cans?" I know the man he means. "He was messing around an hour ago, going through this dumpster on Willow. Found these parts, you know—body parts. Got spooked, called the cops." I hold my breath. "They came right over, dug around, found a head." No! "It's Tim. He's dead, man." Crawf is sobbing now. "Someone wasted him . . . then cut him up."

  CHAPTER TWO

  I throw on last night's clothes, pull on sneakers, grab my camera and a heavy set of shades. I don't own a car; can't get a license because of the achromatopsia. For a moment I think about phoning for a cab, then decide to go on foot. I know that if I move fast I can get over to Polk and Willow in ten minutes.

  At the door I expect to be hit by harsh morning light, but soupy fog has settled over Russian Hill. The light's subdued, the tones muted, so I hang my shades around my neck and take off bare-eyed across Sterling Park.

  Sorrowful foghorns resound from the Bay. I take the steps two at a time, then, on Larkin, begin to jog, causing my camera to bounce against my chest. I turn right at the Chinese church, descend to Polk, then run flat out.

  Few people about. Most stores are shut. Grocery trucks are making early deliveries. Half-awake people blinking at newspapers sprawl at the tables in front of Starbucks. A lithe young woman in black sweatpants races past; except for a sports bra she's bare above the waist.

  The fog's less thick here, I start picking up glare. I slow to fit on my wraparounds. Once on the Gulch, I notice a change in mood. The trash is out, the sidewalks are littered, but instead of the usual morning energy, I sense despair. Homeless men and women, reclining in doorways, peer out with haunted eyes.

  I spot the patrol cars three blocks up, parked at angles, lamps whirling on their roofs. I know the lamps are red but they appear dark to me, revolving beams of charcoal light.

  Crawf, in white T-shirt and jeans, sits slumped on the curb, head cradled in his arms. I settle beside him, put my arm around his shoulder. He turns to me, sobs against my jacket.

  I wipe away his tears. He's freshly shaved and his long blond hair smells of coconut shampoo.

  "Thanks for calling me, Crawf."

  "You two were tight. Lucky I kept your card."

  Gently I push back his head. I want to look into his eyes. "Tell me what happened."

  Crawf blinks. "Some john, I guess. One of the bad ones. Must've been."

  That much I already figured out.

  "How come you're sure it's Tim?"

  "Rory said so. And that old bag lady, Marge. Tim used to give her money. She went up to the cops, made them show her."

  "That's what I'm going to do."

  I stand, uncap my l
ens, approach a mustachioed cop standing in the intersection of the alley. His hands are linked behind his back. He rocks back rhythmically on his heels.

  "Pardon me." He turns slowly. Just as he notices my camera I squeeze off a shot.

  "What're you doing?"

  "Taking pictures."

  He puts out his hand. "Press pass?"

  "Don't need one. This is a public street."

  "This is a crime scene, ma'am."

  I sweeten my tone. "I hear the victim was a friend. I want to see him, make sure."

  He stares at me. Confused by my shades, perhaps he wonders if I'm a druggie. "Stay here. I'll check with the detective."

  He stoops under a band of tape suspended between sawhorse barriers, approaches a frizzy-haired man in a rumpled suit. They confer, Frizzy Hair turns to me, beckons. I cross the crime scene line.

  "I'm Detective Shanley," he says. "Who're you?"

  "Kay Farrow."

  "You knew the victim?"

  "I think so. I hope not."

  "Yeah. . . ." He gazes at me. "Why the shades?"

  I touch them lightly. "Photophobia."

  His smile's slightly crooked. He looks about forty. In a few years he'll have a turkey gobbler neck.

  "But you can see all right?"

  "Depending on the lighting, yes."

  "This isn't going to be a pretty sight," he warns.

  "I've seen plenty of ugly things."

  "Oh, have you now?" He guides me toward the coroner's van.

  "My dad was a cop,'' I tell him.

  He stops, peers at me. "Farrow. . . . there was this Jack Farrow."

  I nod.

  "Jack Farrow's daughter. I'll be damned." He gazes at me. "How is old Jack?"

  "Happy," I say. "Retired."

  "Now how 'bout that!"

  At the van he takes my arm. "Like I said, Kay—this is going to be rough."

  I remove my shades, raise my camera to defend my eyes. I've been coping like this for years. By interposing a lens I stylize reality and by so doing shield myself from pain.

  I want to shoot even as the coroner's assistant starts to lift the cloth. I'm too horrified. Seeing no body shape, I feel my knees go weak.

  The hair, as always, is wild and beautiful, the oversize eyes still gorgeous. There's a terrible wound in what's left of his neck. His expression spells bewilderment.

  I turn to Shanley. He's holding a handkerchief to his face.

  "Well?"

  "His name's Timothy Lovsey," I tell him. "On the street they call him Rain."

  I start to take pictures.

  "What the hell!" Shanley grabs at my camera. I evade him, squeeze off three more frames.

  "I've been photographing him for months,"' I explain. "These'll be the last shots."

  I lower the camera. He gazes at me.

  "You can't take pictures anytime you feel like it."

  "I think I can."

  He shrugs. "Tell me about Timothy. What did he do? Did he have family? Where did he live?"

  "Where's s the rest of him?"' I demand.

  "We got his arms and legs. Haven't located his torso yet."

  I glare at him. "You better fucking well find it!"

  "Look, lady!" Now he's pissed too.

  "Don't 'Look, lady' me!" I take a step back. "'Scrounge around, Stanley. There're plenty of dumpsters. He used to stand by the one on Hemlock. I'd start there if I were you."

  "We already checked that one," Shanley says. "Come on, Kay, help me out."

  I shake my forefinger at him. Shanley peers at me like I'm a loon. I hand him my card. "Call me when you find the rest of him," I tell him. "Then maybe I'll help."

  I stalk off, turn, take a final photograph. I want to capture the hideous, lonely, sorrowful end, what it's like when you're beautiful as a Greek god, and end up beheaded, your head tossed in a rusty dumpster on an alley littered with discarded condoms off Polk Gulch.

  I grab hold of Crawf, pull him into a coffee shop—not a yuppie place with gleaming chrome machines but a hole-in-the-wall called Roy's, where the counterman's got a cough and there're stale doughnuts and wedges of pie displayed on tiers in a plastic vitrine.

  "You're sweating," Crawf says. He picks up a napkin, wipes my forehead. "Shaking too."

  "I feel bad," I tell him, "like I'm going to puke."

  The counterman gives me water. I drain the glass, motion for a refill.

  Crawf slurps his coffee. "Glad I didn't look. Couldn't take it. I got a really weak stomach."

  "Who was he seeing, Crawl?"

  "Johns? I don't know. Maybe someone new."

  "He told you that?"

  "No, but he seemed different last couple days."

  "Different how?"

  Crawf shrugs. "Like he was angry about something." He wipes his mouth. "I'm getting out of here, Bug. Just made up my mind. Going down to L.A., stay with my brother. Don't think I'll be back."

  "It's no better down there," I warn him.

  "I know. But I'm not going to work the street. I'll sign up for acting classes like I always wanted. Maybe I can make it. What do you think?"

  "Maybe, sure."

  So many of them, I know, share this fantasy, remember it when they get scared or fed up. A few even end up in triple-X films . . . if they have the skill to orgasm on demand.

  Tim only wanted to retire. I think about what he told me. Did he really have fifty thousand saved? If so, could he have been killed for it? Where would he have kept it? In a bank? Not likely.

  I grab Crawf's arm. "Let's check his place."

  Crawf doesn't like the idea but changes his mind when I point out there might be something there he can use.

  "I always liked his bomber jacket," he says. Then, appalled, he brings his hand up to his mouth.

  Tim's studio is in a tenement building on Mission south of Market. The neighborhood's no treat: a needle-exchange parlor on the corner, a tough leather bar called The Tool Box, from which an odor of disinfectant permeates the morning air. But the building itself isn't bad; the stairwell graffiti's been erased. I smell cat piss and roach spray and am pleased by the sound of Verdi. Someone in the building's playing an old Callas record loud.

  Tim kept his spare key in the hall molding above the fire extinguisher. I'm too short to reach it, but Crawf lunges, brings it down. He tells me he played basketball in high school.

  I hesitate. What if there's someone inside? Crawf must have the same thought for he's poised to run. I meet his eyes, then knock loud. No response. I insert the key.

  The room's empty, sparse, neat as a pin. Tim repainted it a month ago, also installed new vinyl tiles in the bath. I start to take pictures. I want to document his nest, which certainly doesn't appear inhabited by a man with fifty thousand dollars saved.

  No phone; he used the pay phone on the corner. No stereo, just a Walkman on the dresser beside a stack of neatly folded underwear. On the floor his futon, his sleeping bag rolled and tied on top. A trestle desk supports a steam iron, a guide to Mexico and a Spanish-language workbook spread open awaiting study. I turn to the walls: a Body Heat poster and, opposite, a dozen prints of portraits I took of him taped to the plaster. His ravishing, large eyes meet mine. I lower my camera. My anger dissolves. I perch on his bedroll and start to bawl.

  Crawf opens the closet. Six ironed denim shirts on hangers, four pressed pairs of jeans. Sneakers, shoes and boots aligned. No cowboy belt or bomber jacket. Maybe he was wearing them when . . . I choke up.

  "Too weird," Crawf says. Suddenly he looks frail. "I don't know, Bug—maybe we shouldn't've come."

  "You're right. It was a lousy idea. Let's get out of here."

  Crawf nods; he can't wait. I lock the door and pocket the key. If Stanley finds the torso, maybe I'll give it to him. On the stairs, opera music still pouring down, I work to compose my face.

  We cut back through the Tenderloin, past malodorous curry joints protected by grilled roller screens, past a Laotian grocery and a pitiful storefron
t dental clinic. A woman in thigh-high boots, a regular, is out early strutting her stuff. There may be colors on these streets, but everything looks gray to me.

  The Gulch is busy, cars and buses jammed up, pedestrians marching briskly to work. Some regulars are out, people who normally don't eat breakfast till afternoon. Word's spread. I see faces creased with fear: Who's going to get it next?

  Lots of cops, but I don't see Shanley, only uniformed people climbing around dumpsters and emptying bins. A sharp-looking female cop expedites traffic at the intersection of Sutter and Polk.

  I'm sick at heart, my eyes hurt, and my friend was killed. At first I loved him for his beauty, later for his gentleness. Now, I realize, I knew him hardly at all.

  "I'm going home," I mutter to Crawf. He nods, probably glad to be rid of me. "Catch you later."

  Then I remember. "Good luck in L.A."

  "I'll send you a postcard," he says.

  To get away from the traffic and noise I take California over to Larkin, a residential street. I walk slowly. I want to remember Tim as he was, erase the image of his separated head. That he's gone, is dead, cuts too deep. That he was mutilated makes the loss too cruel.

  Who else cared for him beside Crawf, myself and a few others on the Gulch? There was a girl he once mentioned, said he wanted to get us together. He'd told her about me, he said, and she was anxious to meet me too. He was sure I'd want to photograph her. I remember the way he smiled when I asked him why.

  Then there was Uncle David in New York. Tim mentioned him a couple of times. I try to concentrate, remember his last name. I should call him so he can pass word to Tim's folks.

  There's still fog on Russian Hill. Strange how this city has so many microclimates, the banana belt that cuts across Noe Valley, the chilly mists of Seacliff, the bitter-cold summer mornings on Pacific Heights. When there's an earthquake the Marina district, built on landfill, turns to jelly, while on the shale-rock hills we feel the temblors less. It can rain furiously in San Francisco, while the sun bakes Berkeley dry. Sometimes the fog clings to the Bay, other times to the peaks.