The Castro '76

by G. P. Field

  The Castro '76

  The Castro '76

  Midpoint

  The Castro '76

  GP Field

  Newcastle, NSW

  Copyright © 2015 by GP Field

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  GP Field

  Newcastle NSW 2300

  www.gpfield.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are used for atmospheric purposes. Apart from where public figures are cited any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  The Castro ‘76

  He scanned the room slowly, an artist seeking inspiration. Naked from the waist up, a man sat alone near the back corner, his massive biceps and bull neck exposed in an all-male mating display. The Artist watched and waited. He slipped the heavy art paper from his pocket and flattened it on the table in front of him. The dimpled texture felt good against his palm. His eyes stayed fixed on his muse, his head unnaturally still. Eventually, he looked down and made the first crucial line. Soon he was lost in the sketch, his hand a blur. The minutes sped by until it was ready. He stepped gingerly through the crowd towards the bull-necked man.

  ‘Hi there … I’m new here.’

  The Bull snorted and took a swig of beer, cradling the bottle gently in his thick, workman’s hands.

  ‘I … I made this picture of you … ’ He slid the thick paper across in front of the man.

  The Bull glanced at it and slid the paper back with a wrinkled brow. ‘Not bad.’ He had a tar gravel voice.

  ‘Thanks. Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Suit yourself, pretty boy. What you looking for down here anyway? Rough trade?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The Artist watched as the Bull leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. A primal odour drifted across the table between them ‘Well … that was a nice little picture you drew of me.’ His eyes narrowed and he smiled without mirth. ‘Want to go find some place to play?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They pushed their way through the seething mass of bodies and found fresh air. At the door, the Bull leaned over and whispered in his ear: ‘Are you sure you’re up for this, pretty boy?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ the Artist whispered back, his voice hoarse and strained in his own ears. Their eyes met and he wondered if his excitement looked like fear.

  They walked two blocks before the Bull stopped and pushed him into a narrow alley running between a warehouse and a second-rate office block. Deep in the darkness of the corridor the Bull grunted and slammed him up against the wall face first. He let his body go limp and counted to ten before he tensed and spun inside the man’s arms. Their lips met with crushing force. The Artist felt disgust build inside him as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. As the wall opposite materialised, he took a deep breath: it was time.

  He dropped his shoulder and snapped his full weight into the Bull’s chest. The big man stumbled. The blade was held underhand; the hilt nestled between thumb and forefinger. He stepped forward, weight on the left foot and drove deep into the man’s belly. A gasp of surprise and he felt the slick, wet innards cover his hand. He pulled out, and plunged upwards again. A strange noise like air escaping a hose and the Bull crumpled.

  He walked around the man, silent and cautious. One final strike snaked into the right flank, the wicked blade sliding easily between the ribs … and he was gone.

  May 13th 1976

  Israel Wren’s brown suede flares slapped rhythmically against his ankles as he strutted down the wide street. A pod of muscular, gym-toned bodies in Levi 501s (and not much else) lounged about on the corner of Castro and 18th. One or two heads turned as he passed by.

  The bright colours of the advertising on the shopfronts glinted in the spring sunshine. Every now and then he would stare wide-eyed at sequinned jackets, tie-dyed T-shirts, skin-tight jeans, funky moustaches or huge backcomb hairstyles held in place by gallons of hairspray. The place was a wonderland of extravagant colour and movement. No one on the street blinked an eye at the two bare-chested men walking towards him holding each other’s hands. Their ears were full of jewellery, their hips swinging like Zulu matrons. Israel smiled quietly to himself as they walked by.

  Israel found Castro Camera on the bottom floor of a quaint clapboard building. Harvey was serving a customer and waved to him from behind the counter with his typical dimpled smile. Israel had met Harvey Milk six months earlier at a club in Soho, London. The pair had struck up a conversation at midnight and by five in the morning they were good friends. After Israel wrote a letter to Harvey telling him he was coming to San Francisco, Harvey wrote back to tell Israel not to book a hotel room.

  ‘Israel Wren, come and give me a hug, you beautiful man,’ uttered Harvey as he approached the slender, coffee-skinned figure. They embraced briefly, Harvey full of joy and enthusiasm, Israel with his typical formality and reserve.

  Harvey held Israel at arms length: ‘So you’re here for some kind of crime conference?’

  ‘A meeting of the International Criminological Association.’ Israel flashed a shy smile.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you he was a doll?’ Harvey commented over his shoulder. A man Israel assumed to be Harvey’s partner, Scott, had just stepped out of the darkroom, his sleeves rolled up.

  ‘Sure. He’s cute as a button,’ replied the fair-headed man, barely bothering to glance up.

  Harvey raised his eyebrows, took Israel’s elbow and steered him back out through the glass front door. ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s just grumpy at the moment because of all this.’ He flicked his hand towards the billposters and placards plastered across the shop window. It’s Time for Milk… Milk for Supervisor.

  Israel shrugged and smiled. ‘It is no matter, my friend. I can see you are very busy on the campaign trail. I am more than happy to find accommodation elsewhere.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Israel. Don’t be silly. Scott’s just upset because I haven’t found enough time for him lately, we’ve both been working so hard lately trying to balance managing the campaign with running the store.’ An irrepressible grin spread slowly across Harvey’s face. ‘That’s why I’m taking him on vacation.’

  ‘That’s very nice. When are you planning to go?’

  ‘Now, I’m afraid: Just the two of us on a road trip down to Carmel, starting tonight. I’ve got a great little hideaway booked for a couple of nights and a great bottle of Chianti lined up to go with our home-cooked pasta. So … I’m sorry to abandon you Israel, but I really need to do this.’

  ‘As I said before, I’m happy to find other accommodation …’

  ‘Well, Scott and I have talked about it and we’d love it if you could do some flat-sitting for us. It’s a win–win right?’

  Israel’s eyes darted towards the pavement.

  ‘Don’t worry. Come, we’ll get you fixed up for tonight.’ Harvey ushered Israel back inside the front door. ‘Look, if you don’t like it you can go find a hostel or something tomorrow.’ Ignoring Scott’s stares he steered Israel past the big red couch and the barber’s chair in the front room of the camera shop to a section at the rear curtained off by Persian carpets. ‘The stairway to heaven. Come and have a look.’ Harvey pointed out a set of stairs at the back.

  The apartment was pokey and dark apart from the big bay window in the lounge room.

  ‘Harvey, Sammy’s here … He’s got some news.’ Scott’s voice echoed up the stairwell.

  Harvey tilted his head back down the stairwell
, raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Sorry Israel, it never stops when you’re running for office.’ He stepped closer and spoke sotto voce. ‘I’m gonna grab Scott and slip away by five, so I’ll have to catch up a bit later okay? In the meantime make yourself at home.’ He fished out a battered key ring and tossed it casually to Israel. Then he winked and headed back down the stairs.

  Israel crossed the lounge to the bay window and pulled back the sheer day curtain. A vehicle that looked like it required its own postcode rumbled past on the street below. It was a good thing they had such wide streets. He dropped the flimsy material and took a few steps across the room to the threshold the only bedroom. Inside, an enormous bed was the sole piece of furniture, somehow shoehorned into the space by an act of domestic wizardry. Israel’s forehead wrinkled and he sighed as he considered the implications.

  After a moment of deliberation he marched to his small suitcase, knelt and pulled out a pair of lightweight Zeiss field glasses and a hat. Closing the case, he hung the binoculars around his neck and carried the bag to the top of the stairs. He planted it by the balustrade before starting to descend, his footfalls quick and light.

  The strained tones of anxious debate reached him before his feet found the bottom landing. Three of them huddled together at the back of the curtained-off room. Harvey’s face was grim, his lips pressed white together as he watched a slender man wearing a ridiculous orange jumpsuit wave his hands at him in annoyance. Scott’s face was pale and his eyes darted nervously between the two men. They all looked up as Israel stepped into the room. The conversation ceased.

  ‘I am sorry to intrude on your conversation, gentlemen. I was just on my way out.’ Israel breezed across the room.

  Harvey threw out an arm as he approached. ‘Wait. Have you got everything you need? Sorry to leave you in the lurch. It’s just we had some bad news …’

  Israel looked from one solemn face to another. ‘I am sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?’

  Harvey shook his head but stepped across, silently guiding Israel into their huddle. ‘There’s been another killing. They’ve found another body.’ His tone was measured; a bald statement of fact that Israel guessed was designed to lower the hysteria.

  ‘Another victim of the Zodiac Killer?’ Israel hazarded.

  ‘No, there’s another one out there … One that just goes after us …’ Harvey opened his palms to include the two men beside him. ‘He’s a pick-up killer who’s been operating here in San Francisco for the last couple of years. He cruises the valley, finds a willing partner and then goes off somewhere private and stabs them.’

  ‘They call him the Doodler,’ added the aggravated stranger in the jumpsuit. ‘People say he sketches guys and then comes on to them. Flatters them with their own picture. Then they go outside for … you know … and then he kills them. Creepy, huh?’

  Harvey rolled his eyes towards his companion. ‘The Doodler – I think it’s a horrible name.’

  Israel coughed politely. ‘I agree. It is an awkward name for a serial killer. There will be many local policemen at the meeting I will be attending. Perhaps I can ask around about this ‘Doodler’. Maybe I can find out what they are doing about this case, or if they have any leads?’

  Harvey’s face twisted into a wry smile. ‘Don’t count on it, Israel. They don’t care about us fags and they’ve got a lot on their hands with all the other crazy things that go on in this city.’

  Israel waved the comment away. ‘Nonetheless, I will try to find out as much as I can, I solemnly promise you.’

  Harvey touched Israel on the shoulder. ‘That’s sweet of you Israel. I wish you good luck with that… I think you’re going to need it.’

  ‘I, ah … thank you, Harvey … I have left my case at the top of the stairs. I am going out for a walk now to clear my head and give you and Scott some space.’ He noticed Scott nodding at the floor in silent commendation.

  ‘Can I ask you, is there a big park or open space nearby? Preferably one that is home to a variety of birds?’

  Corona Heights Park was a short but steep walk from the Castro. It took Israel about fifteen minutes before he stood, breathing hard, at the top of a treeless windswept hill. Below him San Francisco sprawled out towards the bay in a long rambling panorama. The sun peeped out from behind a travelling cloud and then disappeared. The skyscrapers downtown stood grey and foreboding in the distance. He found a bench to sit on and took a moment to observe the wildflowers that bloomed on the otherwise stark hillside around him. After a few quiet minutes, his sharp eyes spied a nest in a rocky crag about fifty feet away. He lifted the binoculars from his chest to take a closer look. As he waited patiently, he detected the faint scent of cologne on the gentle breeze blown in from the ocean. He turned in his seat as a portly man approached walking a large curly haired dog. The man puffed to a stop and let the dog off its leash. Israel looked away and raised his binoculars to hide his annoyance. He was not averse to dogs but they did tend to frighten off his birds.

  Over the years he had formed something of an affinity with birds. From a distance, the freedom of flight, the lightness of their existence seemed attractive. Careful observation, however, showed that behind the plumage their lives were as harsh and as that of any other animal, sometimes more so. As if to prove his point, the shaggy hound bounded into a stand of nearby poison oak, flushing a small flock of sparrows out of their shelter and into the dangerous, open skies. Israel watched as the birds darted for cover, heads perpetually twitching and turning in heart-racing vigilance. Beauty, danger and freedom all packaged in tiny balsa-boned bodies. The man and his dog sidled away and peace returned.

  An hour later, with fog rolling ominously in from the Pacific, Israel started his downhill route. As he strolled back towards the shops and bars on Castro Street his head was clear and he felt calmer than before. He had resolved at least one issue that had been troubling him. When Harvey and Scott returned he would find a place to stay in a local hostel. He wandered languidly down the hill and turned down Market Street looking for a place to eat. He eventually settled on a quaint-looking Italian place near the corner of 14th.

  ‘Are you dining alone tonight, sir?’ asked the friendly waiter as he guided Israel to a table near the window.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Oh, well then, let me recommend the osso buco. It’s the chef’s specialty and it goes great with a glass of red wine.’

  ‘That sounds appetising. Do you sell red wine by the glass?’

  ‘Just the house red, but it’s not bad.’

  ‘I will go with your recommendation then.’ He watched closely as the darkly handsome waiter produced a pencil and wrote his order with a flourish.

  It didn’t take long for the food to arrive and the waiter was right about the wine. It wasn’t bad, but the sharp edges dropped away when accompanied by the deep, savoury flavours of the meat.

  He ordered an espresso as the waiter came to take his plate away. A siren suddenly came to life on the street outside and they both peered out the window as a black and white police car wailed past them.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Israel looked earnestly into the waiter’s dark brown eyes.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you always use a 12B pencil to write your orders?’

  The man looked at the pencil in his hand and laughed. ‘Nah, this is the only thing I could find around here to write with. The boss likes to do sketches in his spare time.’

  ‘Oh, I see… Have you heard of the Zodiac Killer?’

  ‘Sure, who hasn’t?’

  ‘What about the Doodler?’

  ‘What’s that, a cartoon character?’

  Israel didn’t bother to correct him and asked for the bill. He sighed as he finished his espresso and glanced at his wristwatch. It was past eight now, so the coast should be clear for him to return to Castro Camera without stepping on any toes.

  The front of the shop was in darkness and he fumbled with the unfamiliar lock before
he managed to slide the big bolt out of its housing. Inside, he groped for a light switch on the near wall but found nothing. He wished Harvey had taken the time to familiarise him with the building. He felt his way across the darkened front room with caution. The creak of a footfall on the floor above him brought him to a halt. Could they still be here? The flick of a lighter and the unmistakable smell of tobacco smoke wafted down the stairwell. He didn’t think Harvey smoked, but he wasn’t sure about Scott.

  He tried to convince himself to go up. It was probably just a friend of Harvey and Scott’s. But how did they get in? A light under the stairwell gave him the answer. He walked around and discovered a back door that he had not realised existed. He tried the handle – unlocked. No forced entry then. And why would an intruder hang around smoking cigarettes? There was only one way to find out. He turned back towards the foot of the stairs.

  At the top, he paused next to his suitcase. Across the room, bathed in dramatic lamplight, an elegant figure sat cross-legged on the sofa.

  ‘Oh!’ The exclamation escaped from Israel unbidden.

  The familiar, handsome visage highlighted in the pool of light looked up. ‘Hello there, sweetie. Did you bring Harv with you?’

  The deep, syrupy voice was undoubtedly the one that went with this face. There could be no question – it was him!

  ‘Good evening, mister …’ Israel was at a loss as to how to address this god-like man.

  ‘You can call me Roy, cinnamon skin. And you can close your mouth now. You look like you’re trying to catch flies.’

  Israel’s jaw snapped shut and he searched for something reasonable to say. The situation was surreal and all the words in his head were rendered ridiculous.

  ‘So, my friend, do you know where Harvey is?’