The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  "This man"—she is studying my Crane series—"at first he doesn't know what to make of you. You confuse him, threaten him. He's accustomed to masking himself and at first he does it well. Quickly he comes to hate you. I'm sorry to tell you—his hate goes deep. It fills him. He is a man who can hate easily. Beneath his mask, you see, he's a man who hates himself."

  She turns to me, shows her most sibylline smile. "Yes, your pictures are like stories." She pats me on the knee. "Proof of their power." She picks up the shots of Knob. "Not much here. He buys, sells, trades. One of your hustlers, I suppose, though there's something that separates him from others you've shown me. He's older, harder, tougher. He's got a vicious streak."

  She picks up the Werewolf shot. "Here he looks different. He wants to show you his scorn, but, like the first man, he's afraid." She looks at me. "You know how, after we hurt people, we study them closely to see how deeply we have cut?" She taps her forefinger against Knob's face. "That's how he's looking at you here. But he doesn't find what he wants. Instead he sees strength—which surprises and awes him. Yes, he's afraid of you, Kay. And he will hurt you again if he can."

  I feel sweat break out in my armpits.

  "The two with him?" I ask.

  "Kids."

  "So you don't think they're bad?"

  "Only in a gang. Then they'd pile on. But alone"—she shakes her head—"they're cowards."

  The sky is dark by the time I reach the Hampshire Arms. The grunge on its granite facade is lost in shadow. The same lackadaisical gum-chewing kid with bad skin is sitting behind the desk. He's the opposite of Snooty at The Sultan's Tent. There they guard their guests; here they regard them as whores and all their visitors as johns.

  Doreen's in, Alyson's out. Doreen invites me up, but, as usual, begs me first to walk around the block while she cleans up. When finally I present myself the room is, also as usual, not cleaned up, and redolent with booze.

  Doreen sits at the dresser in a camisole applying eye makeup. I notice a tightly curled jockstrap at her feet.

  "Hey, Bug!"' She pecks my cheek, then lightly strokes my arm. "Great biceps, dearie. Get some tats, spike up your hair, pierce your brows, go punk."

  I sit on the bed, watch her skillful moves as she wields her eyelash brush.

  "Business is off. Soon the holidays'll come, then the short cold days of winter. What I need now is a new john, deanie—someone handsome and flush who'll take me to Hawaii."

  "I hope you find him, Doreen."

  "Don't know." She shrugs. "Either I'm losing my looks, or the pickin's are gittin' slim."

  I show her my Werewolf photograph.

  "Yeah, Knob and his flunkies. They don't look pleased."

  She turns back to the mirror.

  "The flunkies—do they have names?"

  "Price and Pride. Frick and Frack." She shrugs. "One on the right's Tommy, one on the left—they call him Boat."

  "Uh-huh." Doreen draws her eyebrows with an economy of motion that would do any girl proud. "I once asked him about that. He said his given name is Bato, which means something like 'Hey, kid!' in Serbo-Croat. His family lived in France, and the kids there starting calling him Bateau. Later, when he moved to the States, that got translated into Boat."

  "How old is he?"

  "Fifteen tops. Jailbait. Tough on the outside, mushy as caramel underneath. It's that sweet candy part, dearie, that they like. Ass skin's soft as a baby's, the puniest patch of body hair and cock hard as a spike."

  "Knob and his flunkies—what's the deal there?"

  "Come on! You know! He rents them out, high prices too. Ever notice how he protects them, barely lets them out of his sight? He's their mom, they're his pussies. . . and come to think of it, the most valuable commodity on the Gulch.'

  She finishes up her eyes, turns to face me, cocks her head. "Why so interested, dearie?"

  "The three of them beat me up. And that's not the half of it." I tell her about the break-in, the things they wrote on my walls. The sexual insults shock her.

  "Positive they did all that?"

  "I've got a witness."

  "What're you going to do?"

  "Still thinking about it."

  "Want some advice?"

  I shrug.

  "Leave it alone, Bug. Whatever hard feelings Knob had toward you, they're over now that he's put you down. But raise the stakes and he could do you serious harm. There're rumors about him, dearie—and none of them are nice."

  I thank her for her counsel, but don't commit either way. In fact, I have a plan, but need more information before deciding whether it'll work.

  "Tommy and Boat—any difference between them?"

  "One's got lighter hair, but that's not what you mean." Doreen ponders. "Boat's softer than Tommy, more naive. Tommy's more your smartass type, Boat's more your runaway kid."

  "Thanks, Doreen."

  She looks into my eyes. "Think about what Mama told you, dearie—don't mess with Knob. He's the kind who'll squirt you with lighter fluid, toss in a match, watch you burn, lick his lips and walk off whistling a merry tune."

  Knowing my new hotel-quality mattress has arrived, Sasha comes to me at midnight with a bouquet of irises, pocketful of ace bandages, twinkle in his liquid eyes and devilish plan.

  Lovingly he ties my wrists to the bedposts, spreads my thighs, ties them back to the handles of the box spring, then produces a feather with which he tickles my parts. I giggle and squirm, thrash and laugh, my nipples swell, I go creamy until all I can think of in this rapture is requital.

  "Please, please, please . . ." I moan.

  But sweet dark Sasha enjoys inflicting pleasure. I writhe until I reach a point beyond endurance. Finally my lover comes upon me to deliver me from desire. I cry out, tremble, give myself up. I want to draw out every quantum of his passion, employ him to help me mount crest after crest of pleasure. And so I do until at last I arch, then fall back released.

  It takes a long time for the vibrato in me to subside. Meantime Sasha, who smells as usual of sandalwood, whispers to me the erotic secrets of multi-armed Hindu deities and their consorts, fleshly means, he promises, we will use to join together and pierce our earthly prison.

  "Insights! Revelations! Orgasms like bolts of lightning!"

  "Sounds great," I tell him, burying my face in his shoulder. "I'm crazy about you. You know that, don't you?"

  I feel him quiver with delight.

  Then, as an afterthought: "Next time, Doctor, I'm tying you!"

  They have a wood-fired oven at Giordano's, the kind that fills the restaurant with an aroma of wood smoke and baking pizza crust. The walls here bear a sooty patina, there are plain wood tables, creaky old chairs, a long bar frequented by local characters and an array of framed and inscribed photographs of movie stars and famous figures from the worlds of sports and California politics.

  Joel and I are sitting with Enrico ("Call me Ricky") Puccio in the proprietor's booth opposite the cash register near the door. From here Ricky can greet his friends as they pass in and out. He's a short, stout, balding guy in his fifties, dressed in dark trousers, white shirt with French cuffs, and flamboyant tie. He doesn't look like an ex-cop, rather like what he is—an ebullient, happy, hospitable host at a very busy dining spot, adept at greeting guests.

  I glance around. Though it's past two-thirty, most of the tables still are filled—tourists, people from the financial district, local store owners, North Beach regulars. There's a plate of olives in olive oil on every table, a basket of bread sticks and a bottle of wine from the Giordano family winery. The pastas and calamari salad here are famous. Another house specialty is the antipasto plate of fresh mozzarella with tomatoes, basil and roasted red pepper. But in the end it's the pizza that brings them in—the best pizza in town.

  Ricky has stood to shake hands with a man I recognize, a lawyer friend of the Judge. When he rejoins us, he apologizes.

  "Room'll clear out soon. Now eat and drink. When things settle down, we'll talk
."

  This suits me. I'm dying of hunger. But Joel is unhappy. He likes focused interviews. Today he's at the mercy of an extrovert.

  I recall the evaluation of Puccio in the confidential Internal Affairs report: "Sloppiest of the bunch, apparently ignorant of police norms and procedures." Well, I think, Ricky may have acted sloppy and dumb back then, but he sure runs a sharp operation now.

  Shortly after three, he joins us in a buoyant mood. I switch on my tape recorder.

  "What can I tell you, guys?" he asks. Then, before Joel can reply, he touches my arm. "Give my best regards to your pop, Kay. Tell him to come in sometime and that his money's no good here. Tell him I like to feed old pals."

  "As I told you," Joel says, "we're doing a piece on the T case. And that, of course, includes Sipple."

  Ricky stares at Joel, then pops up, this time to speak to an elderly woman in the back.

  Joel shakes his head. "He doesn't want to talk."

  "Why's he seeing us?"

  "Wants us to like him."

  "Do we?"

  "Not yet," Joel says.

  Ricky returns scratching his head. "Sipple, Sipple—oh, yeah!" He beams. "Nearly forgot about that. Now why'd you bring it up? There's good things in this life like weddings and graduations, and there's crap like Sipple you want to forget ever happened. Know what I mean?"

  But soon we get to it. Ricky's too loquacious, can't abide the silence that follows. So he starts off on a riff accompanied by an array of gestures and expressions sufficient to mime his feelings to the world.

  "They called us buffoons! Know what that means to an Italian? Got any friggin' idea? Clowns, fools—it's what we yell at the politicians when they march them off to jail for graft. So don't be so sure we were all that stupid. Maybe we weren't stupid at all." Again Ricky touches my arm. "You know your pop, Kay. You know how smart he is. If he was stupid that night, then that was about the only time he was—right?" He shakes his head vigorously. "Maybe we were a few good cops doing a dirty job best we could." He shows a secretive grin. "Maybe there was a lot more that happened back then than met the eye. . . ."

  He doesn't tell us what that might have been. Rather he retells the story we already know, but from an outsider's point of view. All the while, there's a look of complicity in his eyes that implies we share a secret about the matter, which, by mutual consent, none of us will broach.

  "Now let's take a look at who was there that night, all right? I'm talking about the sworn officers, no one else."

  Ricky takes a lick at his thumb, sticks it up.

  "First we got Wainy Waincroft, straight-arrow sergeant, last of the true blue-flame believers. You don't make Sarge being an asshole, least not in good old S.F.P.D. Sure, old Wainy had a temper, he could knock a guy around it came to that. Busted a few heads in his time, no doubt of it. Not a college man, no. . . but few in those times were. Ragged around the edges—you betcha! But stupid?" Ricky shakes his head. "I never heard anyone call Wainy stupid, not until Hale, that is."

  He prongs his forefinger.

  "Next you got Billy Hayes. Squirrelish little guy, eyes like a rodent, but shiny, hear what I'm saying? Shiny little eyes, not dull. Billy was a boxer. Did you know? Was City Golden Gloves finalist in the bantamweight division, thought about turning pro, went into the cops instead. Boxed for us awhile as a welterweight. Was Potrero Station champ a couple years. Coached kids in the Activities League and they loved him for it. Sweetest little guy, Billy. Best hand-eye coordination you ever saw. He could pack one helluva wallop. So was he dumb?" Ricky shrugs. "Good clean record. Never lost any evidence, made his share of collars, but then boxers act like dummies sometimes, all that bobbin' and weavin' , you know—all those punches to the head. Softens up your brain, they say, though funny no one ever noticed any softening in Billy till Inspector Jonathan Topper Hale—let's call him 'Halo' since that's what he puts around his head!—yeah, not till the old Halo himself brought it up."

  Ricky sticks up his middle finger.

  "Jack Farrow. Truly kingly man. Worked bunko five, six years in Chinatown with Rusty Quinn, made more collars there than the Chink cops worked with 'em. Learned the lingo, built up a network, ended up with an army of deep throats up Stockton, down Grant. You didn't mess with old Jack. Sweet guy, but not one to take any crap. They say he could swing a nightstick good as anyone in Central. Course when they transferred him to Park Station, maybe he turned slow and dumb. Funny thing though—no one I ever spoke to noticed it."

  His ring finger rises.

  "Me? Better let someone else tell you. My ma, the old stove out back—she taught me never toot my own horn."

  Ricky raises his pinky.

  "Which leaves us with Louie Vasquez, number five. Kind of odd man out his being Hispanic and the way he approached the job. Now the squawk on Louie was that he acted real bright, going to college at night, betterin' himself, all spit and polish, shoes shined like mirrors. But the deeper squawk, the locker room skinny, was that Louie was an intriguer. Not too big on swingin' the stick, not Louie. More the gabby type. Yak, yak, yak. But when the shit hit the fan, they said, old Louie, he was more 'n likely to take off on those bright shiny shoes of his."

  Ricky places his hand flat down on the table, fingers spread as far as they will go. His nails, I note, are beautifully groomed, but his hand is quivering, the knuckles losing color as he presses down hard with his palm.

  "Five guys," Ricky says, "Wainy, Billy, Jack, Ricky and Louie—and suddenly they all go stupid. Find important evidence in a capital case but don't recognize it as such. Lose said evidence because no one takes care to follow S.O.P. Five guys, competent guys, tankin' on the job. But funny, isn't it, that those five, all bright enough, all with good records, suddenly go flat all together. Like there's this contagious disease, know what I mean? This disease that strikes them all at once. And suddenly they're—what?—bunglers, screw ups, buffoons. Yeah, I do think it's funny. Matter of fact, I wake up sometimes middle of the night and laugh so hard my wife gets mad. 'You dreamin' comedy again, Ricky?' she steams, kicking me in the shins. 'Shut up, paesan', you'll wake Ma and the kids.' But it's still so friggin' funny I gotta bury my head in the pillow to stifle the guffaws."

  Joel and I sit gaping. The riff is finished. Ricky, knowing his performance has been splendid, rises in the manner of a grand seigneur. "'Scuse me now, guys. Gotta consult with Ma out back. Your lunch is on the house. No tips neither. Your money's no good here—least not today!"

  Later, outside on busy Columbus Avenue, I turn to Joel.

  "Do you like him better now?"

  "Actually, I do," Joel says. "He's s got a way about him. The way he talks—it warms you up."

  I walk through the labyrinth of narrow lanes that adjoin the financial district, short little streets lined with old low brick buildings which now house galleries and antique stores, specialty book shops, elegant architects' and attorneys' offices. Jackson Square, Gold Street, Balance, Hotaling, Gibb, Ils Lane—the core of what's left of the once-infamous Barbary Coast.

  The late-afternoon light down here is sweet, shadows are long, you can hear your footsteps as they ring off the cobblestones. I wander here as I allow Ricky's words to float through my head, seeking to net some secret from the depths . . . a secret which floats so close I almost feel I can touch it, but which always, just as it comes within my grasp, slips elusively away.

  I find myself thinking a lot about Ariane Lovsey. From what I've discovered, this woman is so powerful and strange as to make the other players I've met in this pursuit seem but ordinary folk. David deGeoffroy, Jonathan Topper Hale, Jerome Tattinger, Sarah Lashaw—I've met vivid personalities, all bigger than life, spoken with them, entered their orbits. But the one who exerts the strongest force field is Ariane, Amoretto, the one I've never seen.

  I'm spending nearly all my time in the darkroom now, printing out my negatives, assembling my pictures into some sort of visual order. Perhaps, I think, in the rarefied details of the photogr
aphs—the shadows, backgrounds, the very grain of the film—I will discover the hidden pattern that I seek.

  I've always loved darkroom work, working with my minimalist palette of blacks and whites. I feel safe here, protected by the solid walls and door, eyes comfortable in the gloom where my vision is at its best. So much easier to work in dim confined space with paper, film and chemicals than to go outdoors with a camera and confront the inconsistencies of natural light. And, I know, cowardly too. It was Maddy who three years ago told me to get out and walk the streets:

  "You want to photograph people, Kay? Go out and smell them. Get that close. Smell developer and acetic acid and you'll stay a studio photographer. Smell people and you'll start becoming a photojournalist."

  Finally, midafternoon, three days after our lunch with Ricky, Joel calls to rescue me from my cell.

  "We're going down to Santa Cruz. Waincroft's agreed to talk."

  We decide to take Route 1 along the coast; it's the slow way, but it's beautiful and will give us time to unwind and talk. We pass the seal rock beaches, turn south, and a little north of San Pedro Point pass some serious surfers riding awesome waves.

  After Half Moon Bay there's barely any traffic, just miles of empty road running along the coast, rocky portions alternating with state beaches named for the creeks that run down to them from the hills. There's heavy fog here, the road snakes and I feel good sitting next to Joel, breathing the thick salty darkening air. Better, I think, to chug along with him in Melvin than to recline against the butter-soft seats in the back of Sarah Lashaw's chauffeured limo.

  "I haven't spoken to a soul since we lunched with Ricky," I tell him. "Thanks for rescuing me. I've been talking to myself."

  "Not a bad person to talk with," Joel says. "Any thoughts on that lunch?"

  "His five-finger exercise—it haunts me still."

  "Join the club."

  "He must've told us something. By any chance, did you figure out what?"