Cold Serial Murder

by Abramson, Mark

  Tim remembered funerals too, but not so much from childhood as from recent years. They were his only church-going experiences of late. Most of Tim’s friends preferred to be remembered the way Jason was. A few drinks and toasts to his memory would be plenty for Tim when his time came but some gay people, no matter how ostracized they had been by their church while they were alive – and unable to have a church wedding – still insisted on the pomp and pageantry of a big church funeral.

  And they could well afford to, some of those rich old queens Tim waited on at Arts over the years. The church was as happy to get its hands on their inheritance as the undertakers and caterers with whom they’d made “pre-arrangements.” The bars where they’d spent a fortune in their lifetimes were happy to rake in the bucks from their friends for one last big bash.

  Tim couldn’t remember now, but he supposed he said his prayers when he was a kid – right along with the rest of them. As a small child he probably prayed for a sought-after toy like a boy who wrote a letter to Santa. What did he expect? It didn’t take many Christmases to figure out which of his wishes would come true. Did he talk to God and did God answer? Tim couldn’t be sure, all these many years later, just as he couldn’t be sure that it didn’t work out exactly the way they said it did either. When he didn’t get what he wanted, they told him, “God works in mysterious ways,” and that was that.

  Tim was only a boy when his grandmother died. That was when it really kicked in. That’s when he remembered starting to see things in his dreams that sometimes happened in his waking life. That was when the grownups whispered about his grandmother’s “gift” being passed along and they started watching him closely.

  Tim remembered rolling over onto his back in the middle of the night. He could smell his mother’s dry scent of gin or bourbon and old perfume and he would know she was there in the dark. Afraid to open his eyes, he’d whisper, “Mom?”

  “Yes Tim. I’m right here.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I came to see if you need anything.”

  “No, I don’t need anything. I’m fine. Go back to bed.” The last traces of the vivid Technicolor dream he’d been having were skittering away like roaches under the kitchen light bulb. Then he dared to open his eyes and his mother would not have made a move from her chair in the dark. She would still be sitting there… staring at him.

  Pot helped. It was Friday afternoon when they went for a walk in Golden Gate Park. Tim lit a joint and offered some to his Aunt Ruth, but she declined. She hadn’t smoked with him again since that first day when she arrived in town, the day they found Jason’s body. Neither of them intended to go to Stow Lake today, where the French student’s body was found, but here they were. Tim stood in the sun in the parking lot and felt the violence hanging in the air like the smells from a nearby trashcan. He’d stopped to use the funky old restrooms near the rose gardens, but his Aunt Ruth waited until they got to these newer spotless facilities. Tim waited outside for her and sensed the smell of blood and fear in this spot, not to mention the angry insanity of the man who wielded the knife.

  Tim didn’t mention it when Ruth came out. It was another perfect San Francisco afternoon and none of the hikers, joggers, dog-walkers or mothers pushing strollers seemed aware of the recent violent murder nearby.

  That night, Ruth would have been happy to go to bed early, but when Artie called she agreed to come into Arts and help out. Tim came along too and it got busy again. Both Arturo and Artie kept saying they needed to hire more full-time employees with both Jorge and Jason gone. Ruth couldn’t agree more. The new nephew that Arturo was supposed to be training didn’t even bother to show up that night, so Tim helped out in the kitchen. Jake was moving slowly all evening while he complained about the soreness of his latest tattoo. Ruth hated to think where on his body this one might be located. She was squeamish about such things.

  Ruth slept blissfully late on Saturday morning and awoke to the sad peaceful howls of distant foghorns on the bay. There was still no sound from Tim’s bedroom, so she crept out the apartment door and down the front steps to pick up the morning paper. The little girl named Sarah was just outside the gate with a pregnant and pretty blonde woman. She was surrounded by grocery bags and searching for keys. Ruth turned the latch to unlock the gate from the inside. “Hello Sarah. How are you, dear?”

  “Aunt Ruth!” She jumped up into Ruth’s arms.

  “Is this your Mommy, sweetheart? Hi, I’m Ruth Taylor, Tim’s aunt from Minnesota.”

  “Oh, hello. I’m Jane. Thanks for letting us in. What perfect timing. It’s nice to finally meet you. Tim told us you were coming to visit. My husband Ben is parking the car. We usually do our grocery shopping early on Saturday morning before it gets too crowded at Safeway. Sarah just adores your nephew. Here comes Ben now. I want to introduce you.”

  Ben set down the case of laundry soap from his shoulder and removed his baseball cap to reveal a full head of red hair. He shook Ruth’s outstretched hand and then wiped his brow before he put his cap back on. He was built like a lumberjack with piercing green eyes. Ben reminded Ruth of the statue of Paul Bunyan outside Bemidji, Minnesota.

  Jane said, “Ruth is Tim’s aunt from Minnesota. I was just telling her how much Sarah adores Tim.”

  “You bet she does. Tim is a great guy. How long are you in town for, Miss Taylor?”

  “Call me Ruth, please. Well, for another week or so, I guess, if Tim can put up with me. I keep meaning to find a hotel room, but whenever I mention it he changes the subject. I’m getting used to the couch. Tim’s crazy about your little girl, too.”

  Ruth didn’t remember if Paul Bunyan’s hair was red or not, although she thought he wore a cap over it. She wondered if his eyes were the same color green. Ruth had never seen a picture or a statue of his wife Lucette, but Jane might as well be the model for her. All that was missing was Babe the blue ox. It was clear that little Sarah got her porcelain skin from her mother and her fine, coppery hair from her father.

  Sarah said, “Uncle Tim calls me ‘magic,’ Daddy.”

  “Well… maybe you are, kid.” He picked up his daughter to give her a peck on the cheek and set her down again on the top of the three steps inside the gate. “Maybe you are.”

  Jane said, “If we’re not careful Tim will spoil her rotten. We’re lucky to have such a good neighbor…well, I should say neighbors. Have you met them all yet?”

  Ruth said, “Up until today I guess I had met everyone except you two. Oh no… I forgot that I haven’t met Malcolm yet, but I did meet his sister.”

  “We don’t know Malcolm well,” Ben said. “He’s the newest tenant and the youngest. We rarely hear him and he’s right next door to us. He must be away a lot… seems nice enough, though. Jane and I are the token breeders in the building.”

  “I see,” Ruth said and tried to stare at Jane’s protruding belly. It seemed to be growing, even as they stood there.

  “I think we’re the only ones on the entire block!” Jane laughed.

  “Well, there are a lot of gays, it seems, but I’m an outsider, too. Heterosexual, I mean… like you two… breeders?” Ruth tried the same word Ben had used, even though it didn’t sound right coming from her lips.

  “Do you have any family, Ruth?” Ben asked. “Other than Tim, I mean?”

  “I had a daughter. I mean… I have a daughter, present tense… Dianne… but she’s married and lives in Texas now.” Ruth spoke of her daughter with such a touch of sadness in her voice that the young couple looked at her with sympathy.

  “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you, Ruth,” Jane said. “Tim has been looking forward to your visit for a long time.”

  “And it’s nice to meet Sarah’s parents at last. Children can be such treasures. I often wish I’d had some others… I mean… some more,” Ruth glanced at Jane’s belly again. “Do you need help with those groceries?”

  “No thanks Ruth,” Ben said. “I can get them just fine. See you later…
”

  Ruth took the Chronicle back inside and tiptoed down the hallway past Tim’s bedroom. She turned on the coffee maker. She had finally learned to do that much in a strange kitchen. Then she poked her head out the back door and saw that the fog was stretched across the sky in a ceiling of white fleece. The sun wouldn’t reach the back garden for quite a while if it came out at all today.

  Ruth was eager to see if there was anything more in the newspaper about the French boy whose body was left in the trunk of a car in Golden Gate Park, but she found nothing. The best thing she discovered in the Saturday Chronicle was the crossword puzzle from the previous Sunday’s New York Times. Ruth got a pen from her purse. She didn’t think Tim would mind if she worked on it a little.

  Artie called again that afternoon to ask if Ruth could help him out behind the bar at Arts that night. The number of reservations coming in on the phone was staggering. When Tim covered the mouthpiece of the phone and told Ruth about the call she said she’d be happy to do it. Tim said, “Aunt Ruth, are you sure you don’t mind? This hasn’t turned out to be much of a vacation. You’re only here for a couple of weeks and you’re spending most of your time working.”

  “And you’re only off for this one week… or you were supposed to be, anyway. I don’t need the money, but at this rate my vacation will pay for itself. The customers at Arts are generous with tips and Artie pays me in cash. I’m sure it’s more than minimum wage. I can understand the bind they’re in and it’s kind of nice to feel needed, but Tim… would you rather I didn’t work there?”

  There was something bothering him, but it had nothing to do with work. As much as he loved his Aunt Ruth, he hadn’t had any time to himself lately. He could use the opportunity of a free Saturday night to go out on his own for a change. He could head South of Market and listen for any gossip that was traveling through the leather bars about the recent string of murders. He also had in mind the fact that it had been too long since he’d had sex. “No, it’s fine with me if you want to work, Aunt Ruth. I can find a way to entertain myself in San Francisco on a Saturday night. I’ll manage. You go ahead.”

  He spoke into the telephone again, “She’ll be happy to, Artie. Is five o’clock okay?”

  Ruth was long gone to work at Arts by the time that Tim got out of the shower, dried himself and rolled a joint. It was a chilly summer night, a good night for leather. Tim hadn’t worn his since last winter. Most of it remained stored under Tim’s bed in the same boxes it came in. Jason had helped him pick out everything soon after they met—chaps, boots, a vest and a cap. The jacket was the most expensive thing. Tim had charged it all on a credit card and only recently paid off the balance. He thought it was a waste of money when the bills came in and he made the payments. He’d only bought it for Jason’s sake in a futile attempt to keep him interested but tonight the leather would feel good. With its strange meteorological patterns, San Francisco could provide “leather-weather” during any month of the year.

  He zipped up the custom-made chaps over his tightest jeans and slipped his stocking feet into the shiny boots. Still bare-chested, he eyed himself in the full-length mirror in the hallway and smiled. He tugged at the crotch of his Levi’s and said, “Hey there, hot stuff! Come here often?”

  He pulled on a crisp white sleeveless t-shirt that made his shoulders look like he’d just come from the gym. A narrow band of chest hair curled out above the collar. He pulled on his vest and zipped up his leather jacket. “What do you think, Nana?” he asked the photograph beside the bed. “Your little Tim has come a long way from that barefoot boy in Powderhorn Park on the Fourth of July.”

  Nana’s photograph had the same expression as always. She never answered him. He had trouble now remembering much about her at all. She’d been dead so long he couldn’t remember her voice or her scent. The smell of leather reminded him of Jason. Tim headed out the gate onto Collingwood Street and saw his reflection in windows of parked cars and closed shops on Castro Street. He looked good and he knew that Jason would approve.

  Tim said hello to a couple of guys in front of the 440. One of them whistled and said, “Looking good, Tim! Can I buy you a beer, stud?” Tim was tempted to stop in at one of the bars in the Castro, but it was Saturday night, after all. As long as he had gone to the trouble of getting dressed for a leather bar, he might as well go to a real one South of Market. He could feel the couple of hits he’d taken off the joint and he was in the mood for Folsom Street.

  On the corner in front of the old Bank of America building, now Diesel, a chain that sold worn-looking denims for top dollar prices, Tim noticed something swirling and white besides the fog. He thought he must be so stoned he was imagining things, but then the spinning stopped and an old man grinned at Tim through his thick white beard. Tim expected him to ask for spare change. The man was wearing a tattered wedding dress and a dirty veil studded with seed pearls. On his feet he wore black leather boots like Tim’s, but badly scuffed and without laces.

  Tim just shook his head. Here was someone who’d dropped too much acid in the 1960s. The old man smiled at Tim and said, “Nice day!” He had more gaps than teeth in his mouth and Tim was sure the old guy would ask for a cigarette, but instead he repeated, “Nice day!”

  Nice day my ass! It’s nighttime and it’s damn cold, but if it makes you feel better, okay, it’s a nice day… Damn! The light turned red and Tim just missed the F-line streetcar clanging its bells and rounding the corner onto Market Street. Even in his leathers, it was too cold to wait outside for the next one, so he turned around to catch the MUNI underground. The old man in the wedding dress followed him down the stairs and started singing that old Billy Idol song about a white wedding.

  The old man sang and spun around and around as Tim went through the turnstile. There was nobody in the glass booth, but the sign said “Please Enter” so the old man did. He went down the stairs on the north side of the tracks to the platform for the outbound trains. Maybe he lived in the avenues or maybe he only wanted to come inside to get away from the cold, though Tim couldn’t imagine that the old guy was feeling any pain. Tim waited alone on a bench. Two men in business suits walked past him down the platform holding hands. They were oblivious to the crazy old man across the way who was still singing until an inbound train came between them. Tim couldn’t hear any more when the doors closed, but he could see the old man’s twisted grin and read his lips that still sang, “nice day.”

  Chapter 11

  The last time Tim had come to the Powerhouse was with Jason. He remembered the rain coming down hard that week—the city seemed to exhale with relief after months of drought.

  It must have been during the phase when Tim worried that Jason was getting bored with him, but a three-some wouldn’t have been out of the question. Three-way sex was never Tim’s idea, but he gave in sometimes when Jason got him stoned enough and insisted on it. Sharing Jason with someone they might never see again seemed a better alternative than not having Jason at all. That last time they were in the Powerhouse together, Jason seemed to know everyone in the bar. Tonight Tim didn’t recognize a soul and he felt more alone than ever.

  He worked his way down the bar toward the foot of the stairs and leaned in to order a beer. That was when he remembered a story Jason had told him—was it that night or an earlier time? It didn’t matter now, but he started remembering the story Jason told about when he used to work there. Tim was standing now at the spot where it happened. Tim took a sip of his beer and felt himself slip into a trance as he felt Jason’s presence. He could almost picture him and hear Jason’s voice from that night so long ago:

  “It was Friday afternoon, getting on toward happy hour. I usually left the flap open at the rear end of the downstairs bar. That was easier than crawling under it every time I needed to go in or out. There seemed to be more deliveries than customers that day and I needed to unlock the liquor room a couple of times or go into the office to look up a phone number. Then I went to take a leak and the place
filled up all at once in those couple of minutes I was gone. That’s just how it goes sometimes...

  I was slammed, but I was catching up in a hurry. That was when I noticed two skinny guys in suits come in. I thought they were liquor salesmen or maybe they were doing some kind of business in the neighborhood. They sure didn’t look like gay guys. Even though I was busy, I noticed that something didn’t feel right about them. There are guys who wear suits all day and wear leather at night, but these didn’t look like those kind of guys or those kind of suits. Their jackets didn’t quite fit and their neckties were a dead give-away that there wasn’t a gay gene within a hundred miles when those two got dressed that morning.

  One of them stood back away from the bar at the front end and the other one walked toward the back. I figured maybe they’d just stopped in so he could use the toilet. I was almost all caught up with my customers when the one near the back came toward me where the flap on the bar was open. He pulled out a gun and said, “This is a stick-up!”

  I wasn’t even thinking. I said, “Fuck you, man! I don’t have time for this shit! Can’t you see how busy I am?” So I slammed the flap down, knocked the gun out of his hand and it hit the floor behind the bar. It went off and the bullet hit a bottle of grenadine. It splattered red everywhere, but at least no one was hurt. Those guys in their bad suits were so freaked out they just ran out the door while I dialed 9-1-1. The cops told us later that the gun was stolen. They got prints off it and it turned out both the guys had a long record. They caught them about a week later trying the same thing at another bar in Oakland.”

  Jason laughed while he told Tim the story. He laughed all the way through it and Tim could hear his laughter now, but it made Tim angry. The more Jason laughed and the more Tim thought about what a close call Jason had, the madder Tim got and he told him so. “You should have just given them the money, Jason! That was the stupidest, most stubborn thing to do! The bar must have insurance against that sort of thing. You could have been killed!”