A pair of stout diesels approach, sporting engineer's boots and Oakland A's caps backwards on their heads.
"Hey, Hilly!"
"Dina! Jude!"
They eye me slyly as they pass.
Hilly smiles. "They think we're on a date."
"They can think what they like."
"Right!"
I'm not sure how I feel about these undertones. I think I find them amusing. What interests me is why Hilly's extending herself. What does she want from me anyway?
I like the Castro, its parade of purpose and flamboyance, tank tops and tattoos, tight asses, pert tits, piercings, muscles, leather, flesh. Some call it a ghetto, but for me it's a vital portion of the city, alive with young men and women steamy with sexual energy. I believe it's that energy and the freedom it implies that ultimately enrage the bigots. I don't think they hate gay people for what they do in bed; what they can't stand is how much they enjoy it.
Hilly leads me to a solid wooden door. A discreet brass plaque identifies it as The Duchess. The moment Hilly opens it we confront a wall of sound—loud talk, laughter, heavy metal music. It's dark, but I can see the place is crowded with women. I smell beer, cooking oil, cologne, cigarette smoke, sweat.
"What do you think?" Hilly asks. "They give great grilled tofu."
"It's not the clientele," I assure her, surveying the crush. "But looks like it might be hard to talk."
"So true . . . and so sad!" She beams. She wants to be agreeable. "I know another joint, quieter . . . around the corner."
She leads me to the kind of nondescript coffee shop you'd expect to find near a bus terminal. The patrons are quiet, the booths are upholstered in plastic. Perhaps it survives as a refuge from the funky dives around.
"No tofu here,"' Hilly says, "but they make good salads."
When the waitress comes we both order low-fat Caesars. After she moves away Hilly and I stare at one another. Hilly smiles first.
"Shanley told you to kiss me off," I say. "So why'd you call me?"
"Aren't you glad?"
"Sure. But what d'you say we cut the crap?"
"Fine." She turns serious. "I don't like Shanley. We're supposed to be partners. He treats me like an underling. He's homophobic too."
"File a complaint. Isn't that what people do?"
She narrows her eyes. "I've been waiting a long time for a case like this. Now that I've lucked into it, I'm not about to let it go."
I stare at her.
"Don't get it, do you?"
"I'm trying," I say.
"Solve it and I'll never take shit again. Not from Shanley or any of the other assholes down on Bryant Street. I'll be queen of the heap, one of a handful of cops who get written up, one the public knows and trusts. If I stay in law enforcement I can go to the top. If I decide to get out it's an easy move over to politics." She licks her lips. "Cops dream of stumbling into a case like this. It's cop heaven . . . and now I'm at the door."
I'm amazed by her outburst. This isn't good cop Hilly talking now, this is one tough, ambitious woman.
"I still don't—"
"Why you? Because you knew the victim. Shanley thinks you've given all you got. I think you've got more to spill."
I think about my photos of johns. But she can't know about them.
"Did you speak to any of Tim's friends?"
"They're not keen to talk to cops."
Her eyes twinkle. "Think they'd make an exception?"
"Because you're gay? No. You're still the law."
She shrugs. "You're the one who called Lubow, right?" I shrug in turn. "Jason Lubow. The Examiner. He says it was a woman who wouldn't give her name. Anyhow, he won't write anything. Shanley's got him in his pocket. He's persuaded Lubow to cooperate."
"Why're you telling me all this, Hilly?"
"I want press coverage, too. You can help me with that."
"Why should I?"
"You're pissed, Kay. I saw it in your eyes the other night. Your buddy was mutilated. You want this solved as much as me . . . and you know I'm on the right track."
"Pissed" seems a bland word for how I feel, but maybe Hilly, lost in her ambition, can't identify with my raging sorrow. Anyhow, it doesn't matter if she reads me right; what's important is that I read her.
"I might be willing to help," I tell her, "but it can't be a one-way street."
The wily smile again. "Tell me what you want."
"Photographs."
"Of what?"
"Tim's body, head, limbs, torso, the marks too, and photos of the crime scenes, Willow and Wildcat Canyon."
"Why?"
"For a book I'm doing documenting Tim's life."
She ponders. "What about copyright?"
"Police pictures are public property. Anyway, I won't use them the way they were shot. I'll blow up details, collage them, create something new."
"Interesting . . . hmmm . . . I think I could manage that. A few prints here and there won't be missed."
"There's more."
She smiles. "I figured. What?"
"Anything in the T case file on my dad."
She laughs. "Don't want much, do you?"
"Would that be so hard to get?"
"If it's in an I.A. report it'd be damn near impossible."
"Suppose it's in his personnel file?"
"Retired cop? I never asked for anything like that. Don't know if I can."
"Of course you can, Hilly." I bear down. "You've already got your justification. You're looking for the new killer's source—who knew what, who's the leak. To investigate you'll need to read the files of everyone involved—from Inspector Jonathan Topper Hale right down to Patrolman Jack L. Farrow."
I reach for the tab. Hilly mildly protests, but allows me to pick it up. She's worked a long hard day; she's tired. Our little mind game's worn her down, but it's invigorated me.
She walks me to the Muni stop at Market and Castro. We agree to think things over and let each other know. She gives me her home phone number, urges me to call whenever I like. As we wait for the bus she tries to lighten up.
"Ever make love with a woman, Kay?"
I look at her. "Now how did I know you'd get around to asking that?"
She's amused. "Doesn't seem to make you uncomfortable."
"I'm sex-positive," I tell her. "Can't be otherwise and spend time on the Gulch."
"Suppose not. . . ."
She seems disappointed. The truth is I never have slept with a woman, but I don't feel like answering her question. She's shown me a lot of herself tonight, some of it unattractive: a willingness to manipulate, to forge temporary alliances, anger, ambition, greed for success. As nice as it might be to reciprocate, I decide to follow one of Rita Reese's favorite aikido maxims: Never let your opponent see all of your face.
"Can I take your picture, Hilly?"
She turns a little to the side, demure. But I've already got my Contax up. Click! Then, as she reverts to her cocky self, I hit her again twice: Click!Click!
"You clever lynx!" She grins.
The bus is coming.
"Night."
"Night, Kay."
She waves as I jump aboard.
Too early to go home. I get off at Market and Polk, walk through Civic Center Plaza to the Gulch. This is my first expedition since my run-in with Knob. It's been four nights. I'm curious to see if things have changed.
On my way I think about Tim. He could have made a different life for himself if he'd settled in the Castro, found a decent job, met someone he liked and settled down. Perhaps that's what he had planned for his retirement. But then it occurs to me he did have a connection to the Castro: he kept a private mailbox there.
The first thing I notice on the Gulch is that things are back to normal. The dealers are out, the hustlers are at their stations, the street people—AIDS victims, homeless people, freaks, drugged-out adolescents—are clustered on the usual corners outside the sex stores and saloons. The second thing I notice is that there're
no more Timothy Lovsey posters on the posts. Every single one has been torn down. So much for Shanley's hope of soliciting information. So much too for the first street exhibition of my photographs.
I spot Knob ahead at the corner of Fern conferring with his two favorite pretty boys, the ones I think of as his acolytes. As I approach I detach the lens from my Contax, button it up inside one jacket pocket, the camera body inside the other. Knob and I have some unfinished business. Never advance with weakness, Rita says.
He notices me coming, pretends he doesn't. Does he really think I'll just pass by? Disputes on the Gulch tend to get resolved. But then I'm only a girl.
Aikido is a defensive art. Before I took it up I studied karate. One step past Knob I wheel around, kick out at his stomach, then straight-arm the side of his head. As he struggles to keep balance, I smash him in the head again. As he goes down, I kick at his knees, then sweep him to the ground.
He writhes on the sidewalk. There's blood on his face. His acolytes stand over him. They gape.
"That's for skinning my knees," I tell him. "We can end it here or carry it on. Your choice, Knob. But if you want a second round, get ready to be hurt."
He stares up at me with a mixture of surprise and respect. He wipes away the blood.
"I been feeling bad about shoving you, Bug. Guess we're even now." He shows me a shit-eating grin. "You sure know how to punch."
My first inclination is to extend my hand, but I'm wary of a feint. I nod, give him a shit-eating grin of my own, then leave it to the acolytes to lift him and clean him up.
Varoom!Varoom! Between Bush and Pine I hear the roar of a car in low gear. Looking around, I spot the same Mercedes 600 SL I saw cruising the night I thought Tim stood me up. I can't see the driver through the reflecting glass, but I know it's the same bald chicken hawk. Quickly I unbutton my pockets, snap together my camera, take aim at the license plate and shoot. Just then the car swerves abruptly into Sacramento Street, then races up into Pacific Heights.
No sign of Crawf; perhaps he really did go down to L.A. I don't see any more cops than usual. The Shillelagh is back in business. Passing The Werewolf, I spot Slick standing at the bar, deep in conversation with the bartender; his albino complexion makes him prominent in the dark room of shadowy men.
On the next block I come across Alyson lingering in the doorway of The Snafu. We greet each other. Her lipstick's messy, her wig bedraggled. I ask after Doreen.
"On a date," Alyson confides.
We chat awhile. I smell gin on her breath. She confirms that Crawf left town.
"Cops been around?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Just the first couple of nights. They don't care, you know. To them, dearie, we're trash. Just trash."
I spend a few minutes peering through my telescope: no lights on in the Judge's penthouse and nothing else interesting to be seen. Since there's still film in my camera, I set up lights and a tripod, prepare to take self-portraits. I pose against the nightscape to the east, stare into my lens as honestly as I can. Rapidly I whip off the rest of the roll: Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!
I'm still wired; no way I can sleep. I take the exposed roll into the darkroom for processing. Nothing like darkroom work to quiet the mind.
I'm pleased with my results. The shots at Wildcat Canyon are appropriately moody, not surprising with all the mist and rain. The portraits of Dad are as I imagined they'd be, pictures of a solid, honest man. My second last shot of Hilly, catching her special mix of self-centered brashness and vulnerability, is superb.
As for Baldy's license plate, it's barely legible, very small due to my wide-angle lens and blurry since he'd already started to drive away. But with a magnifying glass I can make out the first three digits. Enough to trace him, I think, since there aren't that many twelve-cylinder Mercedes coupes around.
As for my self-portraits, I'm unimpressed. I look all right, I guess, but there's something vacant in my face; my eyes appear flat, as if I'm in a daze. In a sense, I know, I am. The events of the last week have taken their toll. I seem to have entered a dreamworld where people speak without affect of dismembered torsos, limbs and heads. I look at my self-portraits and long to see myself as fierce. I wish that like a tourist I'd handed my camera to a passerby on Polk. Then I could see how I looked when I knocked down Knob.
When Carl Sandburg wrote: "The fog comes on little cat feet," he was writing of Chicago, "hog butcher for the world." ' Here in San Francisco the fog has its own manner of approach, sometimes bounding through the Golden Gate like a panther leaping through a hoop, fierce, growling, ready to scrap and flay at everything within. This is the consequence of a sharp collision between very cold, deep Pacific Ocean water and hot Central Valley air that creates, then draws off mist . . . resulting in our famous teeth-chattering San Francisco summers.
It's mid-autumn now, normally fog-free, but there have been sporadic anomalies in our climate. Today the fog is a thick gray syrup. Since fog is a lot easier on my eyes than brilliant light, I decide to venture out.
I'm armed with my Contax and a list of seven private mailbox-service stores in the Castro, copied from the Yellow Pages. My mission: to discover Tim's box and, by so doing, discover. . . I'm not really sure. My method: to systematically visit each store and show the proprietor Tim's picture. However, on the Van Ness Avenue bus, I think up another approach, less methodical but a lot more fun. I'll try to put myself in Tim's shoes and psych out the place that would have appealed to him most.
My first stop, on Sanchez off Market, is a dreary, narrow store stuffed between a barbershop and an auto parts shop. He wouldn't have liked it here, I decide, and move along to the next. This is a modern well-lit full-service place on Castro, offering fax, photocopying, key cutting, the works. I don't like it, no achromat would—fluorescent light hurts our eyes. I decide Tim wouldn't like it either: too antiseptic, not welcoming enough. But the third place, on Eighteenth between Castro and Hartford, seems a likely bet. There's just something about it, including the folksy name, Mail From Home. I think: This could be the one.
I enter. A clean-shaven bodybuilder type in a tank top greets me with a smile. There's a stuffed teddy bear on the counter, a studded cock ring secured around one leg. Yes, I think, this is just the sort of kinky place Tim would have liked.
I introduce myself to the reception-person. His name is Gordon; he has a moon face and beautiful white teeth.
"I have a friend I think rents here. I know this is kind of weird, but would you be willing to look at his picture?"
Gordon nods, sizing me up. I'm hoping he takes me for a friendly butch.
I show him the Angel Island portrait, not from the poster but a print I made myself.
"Sure, I know him," Gordon says. "Box four-seven-five."
I nod solemnly. "Well . . . he's dead."
Gordon is stricken. "Oh, wow! Man! Was it . . ."
He means AIDS. I shake my head. I show him the tiny clipping from the Chronicle.
He reads it. "This is terrible," he says. "Maybe even worse than . . . you know."
"Uh-uh," I say, "nothing's worse."
I tell him I want to close down Tim's box and arrange for his mail to be forwarded. I offer two months' additional rent and whatever Gordon needs for forwarding. As he considers my request, I try to preempt his misgivings.
"Look," I tell him, "I don't have court papers. I don't even have a death certificate yet. But I was his best friend. His family disowned him. They think he deserved what he got. So, do you think you could forget the formalities this time?"
He studies me a moment, takes down my name and address, then goes to the back of Tim's box, pulls out the contents, hands them to me, promises to forward whatever else comes in. When I try to compensate him for this gracious act, he gently waves my money away.
Back on the street, I can't believe my luck. I walk over to Castro, find a cafe, fetch a cup of cappuccino, carry it outside to a table, sit down and examine Tim's mail. There're three items. The
first is a postcard bearing a postmark from Florence, Italy. The front shows Michelangelo's David. On the back is a scrawled message:
Thinking of you, GORGEOUS ONE, missing your silken ... ha! Quite a little threesome we had, yes? David (see reverse) is ALMOST as good looking as you, but, alas, is stone! I shall be back in Baghdad this fall ready for heated pleasures. Till then, G. O., most fondly and devotedly,
Jerome
Second is a letter from attorney J. F. Judd strongly urging Mr. Lovsey to settle his long-overdue account of $1,250 for services rendered in connection with his July 5 arrest for loitering and solicitation. Unless prompt payment is received, the letter threatens, Mr. Judd will have no choice but to take legal action.
Third is a letter bearing a return address in New York. The sender has only affixed one name: deGeoffroy. Something about it strikes a note. It takes me a moment to make the connection. Of course! DeGeoffroy—not Jeffrey or Geoffrey. The letter must be from Uncle David.
I stir my cappuccino, take a sip, wipe my spoon and use it to slit the envelope. There's a fresh hundred-dollar bill inside and a letter written in ink on a single sheet of creamy paper:
Dear Boy!
How kind of you to write. It has been a very long time, but I have not forgotten you or A. I know (and so must you both) that I never shall.
We shared most precious times, the three of us. And then it ended, Poof! as in a puff of smoke. My fault entirely. Be assured I never blamed either one of you. Sometimes it takes a great, indeed an enormous loss to shock one into appreciating how very fortunate one has been. Sometimes, it seems to me, those cataclysmic events took place only yesterday.
I try to understand why you have sought contact after so many years. May I take your note and the good news that you are happy and well as a sign of. . . forgiveness?
I barely know San Francisco, have been there only twice. I do know it's a pretty place. How wise of you to have chosen beauty!
The Magician's Tale Page 8
