The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  "Cowardly little shits!" he says when I repeat the story. He promises I won't have to deal with a new detective; he'll have my case attached to Tim's. "We told you to leave the investigating to us. Lay off now, Kay. Trust us to do our job."

  My next call's to Dad at City Stone Ground. He's horrified but quick to dissuade me from acquiring a gun.

  "A threat mean as that, darlin'—of course you take it seriously. But with a good lock they won't get in again. Packing a gun—that's different, that's taking it to another level. You'll need a permit and, if it's going to do you any good, a firearm combat training course. You're better off living defensively for a while—staying off dark streets, and, when you go out, being sure to watch your back."

  Good advice, but I'm not so enamored of his next suggestion, echoing Shanley's, that I leave the matter to the cops.

  "I'm not playing Nancy Drew here," I remind him. "I'm a photographer working on a project."

  "Pretty dangerous project sounds like to me."

  "Yes, dangerous," I agree, "but have you ever known me to chicken out?"

  A brief pause while Dad thinks that over. "Never, darlin'—I'm proud to say."

  "I'm going to keep on doing what I've been doing," I tell him, "and we'll just have to see what they do next."

  Midmorning I contemplate walking down to Polk to buy a selection of organic fruits and vegetables for Drake. Then I decide that would look too much like a bribe. This isn't a game, I remind myself, and Drake's not a pet.

  I repair empty-handed to 'our' bench in Sterling Park, take a seat and wait for him to show.

  I sit there undisturbed for twenty minutes, straight-backed and apprehensive so he knows I'm waiting for him, not just resting my bones. From the excitement last night he's certain to know what happened and he may know a good deal more. So why is he keeping me waiting like this? Is he timid, afraid of getting involved? Or is he afraid I'll be angry with him for inadequately guarding my home?

  I pass the time thinking about George Sterling, poet of the city for whom this park was named. There are San Franciscans who still call him "our Baudelaire" because of his famous couplet: "The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast/ Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon." Born just after the Civil War, he was a great pal of Jack London and Ambrose Bierce. The latter wrote him: "You shall be the poet of the skies, the prophet of the suns." For years he was a local romantic literary figure. Theodore Dreiser described him as hovering over the city "like a burnished black holy ghost." In 1926, in his room at the Bohemian Club, he killed himself, like so many in his circle, with cyanide.

  I hear a branch snap behind me.

  "That you, Drake?"

  "It's me." From his voice I can tell he's close, just a few yards behind the bench. I don't turn for fear of scaring him off.

  "Want to sit with me awhile?"

  He takes a seat at the opposite end, leaving an empty space between us. Knowing he's eyes-shy, I glance quickly at him, then away.

  "I looked for you when I came home last night."

  "I saw you."

  "But you didn't show yourself." No response. "You know what I found upstairs?"

  "They did bad things."

  "Yes, Drake. They tore up my place, ripped my clothes, ruined my computer. They wrote awful things on the walls. Threatening things." Again, no response. "Did you see them?"

  He whispers: "Yes."

  "Want to tell me who they were?"

  This time, when he doesn't answer, I turn to engage him. He's staring out across the path toward a clump of Leptospermum trees whose thick exposed roots undulate like serpents.

  "Help me, Drake. Please."

  He bites on his lip. The sun glints off his hair. "No cops," he says.

  "No cops. Just you and me. I have to know so I can protect myself. You understand, don't you?"

  Silence, then: "I went to college, Kay."

  For a moment I'm puzzled, then I understand. I'm talking to him like he's a child, stupid and uneducated. He wants me to know he's not.

  "Chemistry major," he adds. "I didn't graduate. Too much stress. But I got good grades." He sighs. "Maybe someday I'll go back and finish."

  "Which college?"

  "Reed,"" he says casually.

  I believe him. He could be a brilliant boy, high-strung, mentally disturbed but with an I.Q. in the stratosphere. The streets of Berkeley are filled with emotional cripples, clever kids who somehow got off track. So why not also the Hermit of Sterling Park?

  Time now to let him talk. I've made my plea; I can only hope he'll tell me what he knows. Meantime we engage in neighborhood gossip, not the kind I'd be likely to hear from anyone else, rather Drake's own odd angle on people as viewed through the prism of his madness.

  "The white-haired lady with the schnauzer," he says, "the one who talks to her dog all the time?"

  I nod.

  "I've heard what she says to him. She talks about current events. She'll say, 'The situation in Russia is grave, isn't it, Leopold?' That's the dog's name. And then she'll wait for him to reply. He doesn't of course, but she pretends he does. Then she'll say, 'I'm not sure I agree with that view, Leopold. There's an economic aspect I think you've overlooked.' She'll talk to him like that for a whole hour, walking him around the park. Then she'll stop right in the middle of the conversation. 'Go on, Leo! Go on, boy! Make poopy for Mommy! Make good poopy now!'" Drake turns to me. "See, she calls him Leopold when they're talking like intellectuals, but just plain Leo when she remembers he's a dog."

  Drake continues with tales of other Russian Hill eccentrics. Our neighborhood has its share. Some of his vignettes are sad, others charming, all reflect his offbeat view.

  Suddenly he claps his forehead. He looks at me, then away.

  "Three of them. It was dark. I'm not sure, Kay, but I think the same ones beat you up. One waited across the street. He had a phone. The other two went in carrying bags. Then I saw beams in your rooms."

  "Beams?"

  "From flashlights, beams crisscrossing in the dark. They were there ten minutes. When they came out the three of them crossed here . . . and out this way." Drake gestures toward the steep steps that lead down to Larkin.

  "Did they pass close?"

  "Maybe twenty feet."

  "Did you recognize them?"

  Drake ponders. "One of them. I've seen him here a couple of times. He comes into the park, watches your place. He never sees me."

  "How do you know he watches my place?"

  "I figured that out last night."

  "Can you describe him?"

  "Stocky, muscular." Drake combs his fingers through his scraggly beard. "Buzz cut, goatee. He's not a nice man."

  You sure got that right! I think.

  "Did he go upstairs?"

  Drake shakes his head. "He was the one with the phone."

  "If I showed you some pictures do you think you could pick the men out?"

  Drake smiles. "Like the police?"

  "But not for them, Drake. Just for me, okay?"

  "I'll try.''

  "That would be a big help."

  "You're my friend," he declares.

  I reach across the bench, take his hand. "I have to go. I've still got a lot to do."

  He pulls his hand away. "One thing . . ." His voice sounds urgent. "The . . . mmmmman who cccccomes."

  The stutter is new to me. Feeling his tension, I try to relax him with a smile.

  "What man?"

  "The dark one who comes to see you very late."

  "That's Sasha."

  "Is he your bbbboyffffriend?"

  "Well . . ." I smile. "Come to think of it, I guess he is."

  Drake smiles sweetly, apparently relieved the dark man is not a stalker. But leaving him, I realize he's not only my secret admirer, but also a kind of stalker himself.

  Returning home, I find Andy installing my new lock and alarm. His handyman is in the bathroom unplugging my toilet with a plumber's snake. Inspired by these efforts, I go t
o work. My first call is to the Kavakian Carpet Cleaning Company to arrange a pickup and steam cleaning of my rug. Then I call Beds Unlimited and order a new queen-size mattress.

  I call my favorite photographic supply house, order a new Beseler 45MXT enlarger with Aristo cold light head, 50mm and 75mm Rodenstock enlarging lenses, a new grain focusing scope and twenty boxes of assorted printing papers—all to be shipped by next-day air. I consider ordering a new Contax G1 but decide to put that off. Perhaps my stolen camera will turn up; meantime I'll keep working with the Nikon.

  A new computer can wait; a telescope cannot. I phone Omega Optics and order a new Celestron. Now, with my credit card nearly maxed out, all I need is undies. I slip on a pair of shades and take the Hyde Street cable car downtown. At Nordstrom I go mad in the lingerie department, a first for me since I usually buy underwear at discount. On my way home, clutching my purchases, the cable car rattling up the hill, I realize my real work lies ahead—making hundreds of new prints to replace the ones destroyed. But no matter. There is satisfaction that my negatives, my capital, escaped unscathed.

  Sasha's managed to switch night duty with another resident and will be by in an hour to pick me up. Since he was so sweet last night, I decide to please him. I apply lipstick and eyeliner, put on a black silk blouse and pants over my sexy new black lace bra and panties, and slip on black pumps instead of boots.

  "Kay!" he exclaims when he arrives. "You're all dressed up for a date."

  "Right," I tell him, kissing him on the lips. "A one hundred percent wowie-zowie date. Our first!"

  He takes me to Eden Roc, a dinner club on Nob Hill. We make our entrance descending a curved staircase lit by deco-period sconces. The tablecloths are damask, the waiters wear tuxedos and there's a separate snack menu featuring luxury foods—smoked salmon, foie gras, varieties of caviar. Entertainment is provided by Sheila Hudson, an old-time torch singer, belting out classic world-weary tunes: "When My Baby Left Me"; "I Get a Kick Out of You."

  Sasha says he's amazed at my manner, that I seem almost serene.

  I tell him I am. "Being beaten up, then invaded—it's been bad, but not as bad as I'd have thought. I coped, survived, and here I am. I don't know why, but I'm feeling good."

  "You're a brave girl, Kay."

  "You can say that after you've seen me cry?"

  "Nothing wrong with shedding a tear or two. I occasionally shed a few myself."

  "You" I gaze into his deep liquid eyes, eyes that never fail to move me. "What could possibly make you weep?"

  Sasha smiles. "Lots of things—homesickness, missing my mother, my sisters. Also the miseries of the world, people who starve, patients I try to save and then must watch as they die. Then all the little rudenesses, incivilities, petty meannesses and cruelties of life. Human viciousness . . . as reflected in those awful writings on your walls. I had to paint them over, Kay—I couldn't bear leaving them there to poison your eyes." He smiles again. "I know what you're thinking: 'My hard little brown lover—he's perhaps not so tough as I thought. He's a'—how did Claude Rains describe Bogart in that film?—'a sentimentalist.' Maybe I am. It's not the worst insult, is it?"

  I'm impressed, moved. "I think I'd call you a humanist, Sasha."

  "Ah!" He smiles. "I like that even better!"

  "I think I misjudged you."

  "I believe you did." He gazes at me. "So tell me, how did you judge me until tonight?"

  A tricky question. I have to be careful. "I found you charming." He nods. "Extraordinarily handsome." He bows. "Vain." He smiles. "Sexy." He demurs.

  "But—?"

  "But perhaps also, a little . . . superficial."

  He grins. "Better than empty."

  "You aren't either, Sasha. You're quite marvelous. You know it, and now I know it too."

  He leans forward. "Tell me, Kay—do you think perhaps you might come to love me one day? Can you give me some small hope for that?"

  I don't know what to say, so take the easy path. "Let's talk about it next spring," I suggest. "Meantime, see how things go."

  A little later, Sasha again makes me see colors, rockets that shoot up, explode, branch out, shoot, explode and branch again until the blackness is flooded with brilliant sparks to which I add imaginary hues: jasper, henna, garnet, honey, beet red, blood red, blush . . .

  "I fear for you," he whispers against my neck. "I want to protect you from all the dangers."

  God! This gorgeous man's not only a sentimental humanist, he's a real old-fashioned romantic! Lucky me, writhing in his arms. What was it he called himself—my hard little brown lover? How about my silken-fleshed South Asian prince who licks me with his silver tongue and prongs me with his golden cock? My salty dusty Gujarati doctor who plays me like a flute, makes my body arch, fills my head with what I believe are lovely if colorless rainbows?

  In the morning, as soon as my new gear arrives, I set to work in the darkroom making prints. Not fine prints for exhibition, just legible images so I can again lay out my project on the wall. But first I create a mini rogues' gallery of Polk Gulch hustlers for Drake, all the usual suspects plus Tim, Crawf, Slick, Remo and, of course, Marcus Crane. When I'm done I separate out my suspects, then place them at random in the pack.

  I work like a demon through the afternoon, stopping only to munch fruit. A little after seven, losing concentration, I decide to knock off for the day. In the middle of my shower, I suddenly realize today is the seventeenth. Tonight at nine Tim's devoted J. will be expecting him at The Sultan's Tent.

  Should I or should I not attend the gentleman? I can make decent arguments either way. As I towel off I decide. Curiosity demands I go . . . and I know I'll despise myself for cowardice if I don't.

  The Sultan's Tent has been carved out of the old Demoine Mansion, a Moorish fantasy of domes, arches, minarets built at the turn of the century by an eccentric sugar baron. Situated on a cul-de-sac off Alamo Square, it dominates the surrounding Victorians.

  Heavily damaged in the 1906 earthquake, it was converted into a rooming house in the thirties. After decades of neglect, it was boarded up in the eighties after being declared uninhabitable by city authorities. Five years ago a pair of smart entrepreneurs bought it cheap, then spent a fortune on renovation. Regilding the domes, retiling the minarets, they turned it into a luxurious boutique hotel catering to visiting soloists, singers and conductors in town to perform with the San Francisco Opera and Symphony.

  Dressed in my usual tough-girl garb, Nikon around my neck, I enter the main courtyard through an arch. At once the sounds of the street are replaced by the rustle of leaves, tinkle of wind chimes, murmur of running water. I'm in an ersatz Moorish garden planted with palms and aromatic plants. At its center is a marble fountain feeding a rectangular pool stocked with lily pads and carp.

  Octagonal lanterns of perforated metal shed soft light upon the paths. I follow one to a terrace where two women in evening gowns sit on a swing couch conversing softly while puffing on attenuated cigarettes.

  Seeing what looks to be a lounge, I pass through another arch, enter a domed room carpeted with overlapping Persian rugs. At the opposite side I find the reception desk. A clock above shows the time.

  "How may I help you?" asks the snooty clerk. He wears a dark blazer bearing the hotel monogram, sports a blond pompadour and manicured nails.

  "Jerome Tattinger please."

  "You have an appointment?" I nod. He looks me over skeptically. "Whom shall I announce to Mr. Tattinger?"

  "Tell him Carlo is here."

  "Carlo?" He raises one eyebrow.

  "You got it." I stare him down.

  Snooty shrugs, picks up a phone, announces my arrival. "Very good, sir!" Snooty hangs up, shows me a leer. "He'll see you in his room . . . Carlo."

  "Which room?"

  "Mr. T. only stays in our Seraglio Suite. Two flights up the curving staircase"—he gestures—"then through the red door surrounded by cherubs."

  The red door looks black to me, but the clu
ster of cherubs gives me confidence. I pull a rope, hear the tinkle of a bell, then a warm bellow: "Enter, Gorgeous One!"

  I take a deep breath and walk in. The first room, an oval, is dimly lit. Silk tenting covers the ceiling and cascades down the walls.

  "In here! The sanctum sanctorum."

  I cross the oval and peer into a second, smaller room, dark and also tented. A plump middle-aged male lies naked on the bed, facedown, rump up, legs spread, supported by pillows.

  "Please . . . I can't wait . . . violate me, Gorgeous One!" he begs, twitching his butt. "Afterward we'll talk and drink."

  Petrified, I remain in the doorway. I can't make out his face.

  "Dammit, boy! What're you waiting for?"

  "Tim's dead," I murmur.

  Tattinger freezes. Then he flops onto his back. "I don't. . .another game—" He sees me, screams, frantically covers himself with bedding. "I thought you were—Oh, God!" He spots my camera. "Please, no pictures. Please!"

  "No pictures," I promise. "I mean you no harm. I was his friend. I found your note in his mail. I wanted to write you but was afraid someone would see the letter. So I came myself. I didn't mean to scare you. Really."

  He peers at me. He's holding bedding to his chin. "Come closer, girl. Let me see your face."

  I approach, curious to see his as well.

  "Sit here on the side of the bed."

  I sit.

  His hair is thin on top, his face puffy, his jowls thick. Neither ugly nor particularly good-looking, I might take him for a banker if it weren't for the compelling quality of his voice.

  "Your name?" I tell him. "Do you know mine?" I nod. "You truly wish me no harm?" I nod again. "You gave me quite a start, young lady." The words roll from him. "Actually, when I heard your voice I thought you were someone else."

  "Another woman?" He nods. "Amoretto?"

  He smiles. "So you know her. Why didn't she come tonight?"

  "She doesn't go out much these days."

  "I see." He squints at me. "Tell me what happened . . . if you can."

  As I tell him how Tim was killed and my commitment to discovering by whom, tears start pulsing from his eyes. I like him immediately for this display, also his lack of shame at being caught butt in the air.