The Castro '76

by G.P. Field

glare and tried to stay calm. ‘I got the impression that the police weren’t very interested in the case. Captain Barnes indicated that you, in particular, didn’t have much time for homosexuals, and Bart Nelson was the only one who gave a tinker’s cuss.’

  ‘Well, he was right and he was wrong. I think guys going with guys just ain’t right. It makes me feel sick to my stomach watching some of the shit that goes on in these places… But he was wrong about me not being interested in this killer. You know, the history of the United States is littered with folks killing people of colour, jus cos they was people of colour, and no other damn reason besides.’ He flicked his hand towards the bar dismissively. ‘These people, they ain’t my kind a people, but they are people.’ He paused and looked around the dimly lit bar again. ‘Besides, I know who the killer is and so does a whole bunch of other cops. He knows that we know who he is too. He’s been rubbing our noses in it.’ The detective’s eyes wandered around the bar from group to group. ‘But there’s one thing that he don’t know yet – he don’t know me.’

  Israel followed Don’s gaze. ‘You mean the killer is here, right now?’

  The detective’s eyes wrinkled at the corners. ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. I think you might be surprised by who it is. Tell me: that honky you been hangin with, did I see him drawin a little picture of me back at the Midnight Sun?’

  Israel arched an eyebrow. ‘Well yes, but he’s a very nice man, he’s the last person who…’ His voice trailed off as he saw Scott returning from the bar to their seats.

  Don followed his gaze. ‘You better go and keep him company.’ His giant hand suddenly gripped Israel’s upper arm. ‘But you be careful brother, there’s some strange shit going on out there.’

  Moments later, Israel re-emerged from the shadows. He was just in time to greet a sour-faced Scott as he returned. ‘What’s the matter, my friend?’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t there when I went to the bar,’ Scott sighed. ‘Just my luck.’

  ‘Who wasn’t there?’ asked Israel disingenuously.

  ‘The big black Adonis. I just wanted to meet him, to bask in his aura.’ Scott gave him a hard look. ‘But don’t get any ideas, you know I’m loyal to Harvey.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ muttered Israel. He flicked his hand towards the bar. ‘The man you refer to has returned to his place. Perhaps you could go and meet him now?’

  ‘Pah, just my luck. No… I’ve lost my place in the line now anyway.’

  They both watched intently as more hopefuls surrounded big Don after his reappearance. He fielded all manner of advances. Brazen attempts to touch him or rub up against him were treated with a disdainful flick of the wrist or elbow. The message was clear – you can look, but don’t touch the merchandise.

  Most interviews consisted of a smile or two, a few stilted words, a toss of the hair or some other coy gesture and eventually a resigned slump and a move away into the depths of the Neon Chicken. As the next, newly disappointed suitor sidled away from the action a new pretender to the crown took his place in the line up. There was something about the new man in line that interested Israel, some faint gesture or body position that reminded him of someone. Someone he’d seen recently.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’ Israel asked Scott. Scott just nodded as he kept up his vigil-like observation of the activity near the bar.

  Israel slid through the crowd to take a closer look at the newcomer in the line while he bought more drinks. The man never turned around and Israel spent his whole time at the counter staring at the back of his collar. Who was it? Why was his back and posture so familiar? The bartender returned. Israel was about to make his way back when another familiar face materialised in front of him.

  ‘Hey there, Israel.’

  ‘Hello, Lieutenant Bart,’ said Israel, putting down the drinks and shaking the man’s hand warmly. ‘I think I know why you’re here.’

  Hobart Nelson scratched his head briefly and then pointed in the direction of Detective Sharpe. ‘It was Don that called me about half an hour ago. He said he had something to show me.’

  As Bart Nelson shifted his weight, the man in the line finally made it to his interview with Don Sharpe. Israel recognised the face instantly – the man from the boat. The man who came from Wichita for his brother’s wedding… the sandy moustache was gone now though… an interesting development. Why would he shave off his moustache? For the wedding? As Israel was processing this new information, Don Sharpe reached over, slipped his arm around Wichita man and hugged him in tight. Israel’s jaw slackened as he watched the two men in their embrace. They had their backs to him now and they were looking down at something held between them at waist height. Suddenly, they moved towards the door together.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment, Lieutenant.’ Israel picked up his drinks and pushed back through the crowd. Hobart Nelson frowned after him.

  ‘Here you are, Scott.’ He plonked both drinks in front of his companion. ‘I just have to…’

  Don Sharpe and Wichita man were already gone. Israel made for the door. At the entrance he turned back and scanned the room. Bart Nelson had abandoned his post and was nowhere to be seen. Israel’s sharp eyes narrowed as he looked back towards where he had just left Scott. He was also gone. What was going on? He stood at the door, eyes darting about in a moment of indecision before he turned and stepped out into the night.

  On the street Israel twisted his head back and forth as he looked for the silhouettes of two men… nothing. Where could they have gone? He stalked a few yards to the left and ducked into a residential side street. There was no traffic and it was quiet except for the occasional saxophone note drifting out from the club behind him and the swish of traffic in the distance. He stepped silently past the entrance to a narrow alley and then stopped. Deep in the darkened laneway he heard the scuffle of footsteps.

  And you know this is it. The lyric drifted through his mind as he edged silently into the narrow gap and waited for his eyes to adjust.

  The muffled sounds summoned him closer. Someone moaned. It sounded shockingly loud and close. He held his breath as the scene gradually unveiled. The giant held a man pinned against the wall face first. The figure squirmed and writhed in Don Sharpe’s grip. Suddenly the man against the wall pulled loose and spun. The two men came together as one seething, panting mass in the darkness. Out on the street a car crawled past. Israel stood motionless as the headlights reached into the darkness for an instant.

  ‘Knife, knife,’ he yelled. Then the light was gone.

  Sharpe grabbed the man’s forearm and held it, knife immobilised for a moment. With his right hand he grasped the man by the throat and lifted him off the ground. A terrible, strangled gurgle emanated from the smaller man. His feet started kicking out in panic. Sharpe kept him airborne, his huge hand wrapped around the man’s throat.

  Israel moved closer. He could see the figure against the wall kicking and struggling. ‘No, stop – you’re going to kill him.’

  Sharpe turned his head slowly to face Israel, his expression blank as the body against the wall convulsed. He kept the chokehold. The body of his victim went limp. The Doodler was gone forever.

  ‘You can let him go… he is dead.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Sharpe kept his grip strong. There was no sense of remorse or wrongdoing. At length he let the body slide down the wall opposite.

  Israel dived down and looked for a pulse in what he already knew was a futile cause. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘Yeah, I did.’ Sharpe rolled his eyes in the dark, the whites showing and receding. He stepped towards Israel and towered over him. ‘Go... Go away and forget you ever saw this.’

  Israel stood and held his ground. ‘I don’t know if I can do that Don.’

  ‘Hey,’ the big man lost his cool and gave Israel a shove, sending him reeling into the alley wall. ‘I’m out here keeping folks safe and keeping shit like that off the street.’ He pointed at the slumped form of Wichita man. It was t
he man who tried to make polite conversation with him on the Alcatraz ferry, the man who had stood over him while he slept only yesterday afternoon.

  ‘If you take it further,’ growled the big policeman, ‘then I’ll contest it. I’ll say it was self-defence and you know I’ll win.’

  Israel nodded slowly before he turned and walked back down the alley, his shoulders slumped. Out on the street he saw Bart and Scott as they trotted towards him.

  ‘Have you seen Don?’ asked Bart breathlessly.

  Israel shook his head mournfully. ‘No detective, I have not.’