Please don't worry. I shall not attempt to trace you. I know better than to press myself unwanted. But if one day you should express a desire to see me again, be assured my bags are already packed.
Please, if convenient, keep me apprised of things and tell me that A. too is well and safe. I hold you both most dearly in my heart.
With great affection,
David deG.
My hands are shaking. Whatever does this mean? Sure doesn't sound like the cuddly Uncle David I heard about. More like a tragic and passionate lover, I think, one who did a wrong and in turn was wronged. But who is A.? What did they do? And exactly how many years ago is "so many"?
The fog is lifting. Starting to blink, I slip on my shades and head for the bus stop on Market. There's a side of me that wants to phone Mr. deGeoffroy at once, tell him what's happened. Another side is reluctant to get involved in a relationship which appears to have been so disturbed. But if Tim has family, they have a right to know he's dead. And I have many questions.
Manhattan directory assistance lists only one deGeoffroy. I take down the number, dial.
My opening is awkward. I introduce myself as Tim's friend. Tim, I say, always referred to Mr. deGeoffroy as "Uncle David." Babbling on, I detect impatience on the other end.
"Is something wrong?" he asks.
"Well . . ." Tongue-tied, I wish I'd rehearsed.
"Yes," he says, "something's terribly, terribly wrong."
The voice is cultured, with a British inflection. But not truly British, I decide. More stagey, like the learned theatrical English of an actor.
"Explain yourself at once!" he demands.
"He's dead," I whisper.
A gasp, a long pause and then a sob followed by a wail. Not knowing what to say, I stay quiet.
"I should ask you how this happened, I suppose. But I'm not sure I want to know just now. Or is this a trick, a canny little hoax cooked up by that naughty lad?"' Dead silence, as if he's holding his breath. "Say that it is. Please say it is!"
"No, not a hoax," I tell him. "Sadly not."
"Yes . . . sadly," he murmurs, "I believe you. I don't know you, but I believe you are sincere. It would be too cruel to be otherwise."
He is weeping vigorously now. I wonder how long I can bear witness to his grief. Then I start to bawl myself. It just comes out of me in a way it hasn't till now. Delayed reaction, or is it because at last I've found someone with whom I can share my heartache, someone who also loved Tim, who truly cares? It's so strange what we're doing, total strangers sobbing together on a transcontinental call. But it feels real to me and also right. Everything else has been so crazy, so why not this?
"'Forgive me," he says, choking back his tears. "I seem to have started a chain reaction." I imagine him smiling as he says it. "Now please tell me about the other. How is she?"
"I don't know who you mean."
"You don't know her?" He sounds surprised.
"Who?"
Silence, then: "Perhaps another day. Forgive me, my dear, for asking again for your name. This time I shall write it down, your number too. I'll call you back tonight if that's all right. I do want to talk more, but, if you'll forgive me, not just now. Now I must try and—how do they say it these days?—begin to process my pain."
After putting down the phone I sit still for several minutes. I'm moved and also mystified. Who is this man? And who is the one he calls both "the other" and "she"? Is it the "A." referred to in his letter?
I take an early aikido class. Rita puts us through some tough drills. We line up facing her; then each of us attacks with all our might. She deflects, compliments, criticizes. When it's my turn she slams me hard into the mat. The pain is sudden, harsh. I cry out. Feeling betrayed, I'm furious and scream at her: "Why me?"
Rita laughs softly as she helps me up. "Why not you?" she asks.
Later she pairs me with a big guy, Tom, six three, 220 pounds, long slick black hair, wiry chest hair curling out of his gi jacket. Tom's a novice. He can't believe he's been assigned to practice with a petite woman.
Rita whispers: "Nice stud muffin, huh?"
I shrug.
"Show him what we're about," she says.
Somehow Rita knows when a student needs to let off steam. She's my instructor, has instructed me to teach Tom about centrifugal force. I have no choice, I must do as sensei commands.
The first time I sweep him, he hits the floor with a thud.
In aikido the cliché is apt: the heavier they are, the faster they attack, the harder they will fall. He springs up, smiles to show me he doesn't mind, we bow to one another, then immediately I throw him down again. This time he doesn't get up so fast and his smile isn't so sweet. Since I have nothing against him, I imagine that he's Knob, and relive the glorious moments of my payback. I toy with him a little, then dump him hard. Rita helps him up, brushes him off. We bow to one another. His eyes show pain.
After class, to show there're no hard feelings, I invite him for coffee on Chestnut. He tells me he's an actor. He wants to know why Rita overmatched him.
"She wants you to understand size and strength can be a disadvantage," I tell him, "that aikido's about blending energy, not just applying techniques."
"I already knew that."
"Yeah. . . but did you feel it?"
He gazes at me, rubs his shoulder. "Now I do," he says.
David deGeoffroy phones back a little after six. The first thing he asks is whether he's caught me at a bad time.
"Not at all," I assure him. "I've been waiting for your call."
This time his tone is different. He sounds charming, almost merry. He's inquisitive, wants to know all about me—my age, what I do, how I knew Tim, how and when we met.
On the later point I'm cautious. Not knowing how Tim has presented himself, I don't say a word about hustling, turning tricks or johns. I simply say I've been photographing him, employing him as a model. After a while, when I feel I've revealed enough, I try to turn the conversation around.
"It's your turn," I say. "I know you're in show business. What exactly do you do?"
He seems amused. "I thought you knew. I'm the Magician."
The Magician! I didn't know there was a "the Magician" in Tim's life.
"The one who taught him to make coins disappear?"
"That . . . and a few other things." He pauses. "May I ask you a favor? I'd love to see some recent photos."
I promise to FedEx several in the morning. "What about the rest of the family?" I ask.
Another pause. "There's no one left."
"Just yourself?"
"In a manner of speaking," he says.
We banter on. He insists I call him David; in turn I request he call me Kay. Soon we're "Daviding" and "Kaying" each other like long-lost friends, a weird sort of intimacy since we've only met telephonically over a tragic loss.
When I tell him Tim's San Francisco friends called him Rain, I can almost feel David glow.
"I like that. Name suits him. He was always a bit moody. But so sweet, so very sweet." He pauses. "It's been so long since I've seen him, so many years. The silence, you know, the awful roaring silence. Then, out of the sky, like a bolt, comes his note. I have it here. I want to read it to you." He clears his throat. "'I'm well, happy, working as a waiter, trying to make ends meet and make sense out of life and all that happened. My juggling's gotten rusty but my close-up work's still pretty good. If you get this let me know. Tim.'"
He's ready now, he tells me, to hear how Tim was killed. I decide to give it to him straight.
"Shot in the throat. Cops don't know by whom. And this is the bad part—mutilated afterwards."
A very long silence this time. "Cut up, you mean?"
But how does he know that? "You sound as if . . . like you expected it."
"I don't know quite what I expected," he says. "It occurred to me, that's all—that it would be of a piece, so to speak."
I don't know what he's talking about, and there's someth
ing detached in his tone that makes me mad.
"Well, you seem to have processed your pain quite nicely."
"Please don't think poorly of me, Kay."
There's nothing I can rejoin to that, especially as his response is so mild.
"There are things to be arranged," I tell him. "Tim's burial, cremation, whatever. What do you want me to do?"
"I never thought about it. Cremation, I suppose."
"Out here?"
"He was happy there, wasn't he? Why don't you make arrangements and let me know. Keep it simple, dignified." He asks me to choose a funeral home, have them call him. He'll put it all on his credit card. "When everything's ready let me know and I'll fly out. Then we'll meet . . . and really talk."
I prepare myself a salad, devour it, then eat an apple, then another. I stare out the window for a while, then telephone Dad to ask if he can run a license plate.
"Can't do it myself," he says, "but Rusty'll do it if I ask." Rusty Quinn is his old partner, still on the force.
I give him the first three digits from Baldy's plate, then the make and model of the car.
"What's this for, Kay? If you don't mind my asking." I tell him. "Why not turn this over to Shanley? It's his job."
"Because Shanley's kissed me off and there's probably no connection anyway."
Dad mulls that over. "Cops aren't supposed to run license plates for private parties. It's a pretty big favor to ask."
"Fine, Dad," I tell him. "I'll hire an investigator. Just thought—"
"I'll take care of it," he says.
Feeling cooped up, tired of looking out the window, I walk down the other side of Russian Hill into North Beach. I always like walking here, charmed by the neighborhood, the Old World coffeehouses populated by a mix of Italians, bohemians and tourists, the flourishing pizza parlors emitting wonderful aromas, the funky street life and the small, almost quaint district of raunchy live-action sex shows. There's something harmless about North Beach, put on and theatrical, a far cry from the desperation and danger I feel on the other side of the hill. Life on the Gulch is sour, the flesh market there for real. On North Beach it's more like a dating game, like play.
I wander, peering into cafes, then spend an hour browsing at City Lights Bookstore. I glance through the latest photography books, see work I respect but nothing that challenges my eye. What about my own project? Will Exposures expand people's vision? I compose a subtitle: "Life and Death of a Street Hustler." Will anyone buy it? Will anyone care? I must think they will, otherwise my work is pointless.
I turn on Greenwich Street, ascend Telegraph Hill. I rarely walk here during daylight; I like the neighborhood but feel awkward blinking my way around. And there's something else: nostalgia. The Judge lives up here. I used to visit him often, arriving even before the sun had set, so anxious was I for his company. Nowadays I watch over Telegraph from my perch on Russian. To actually walk here seems like a trespass.
Greenwich dead-ends at Grant Street, but there're steps for pedestrians that lead up to Kearny, and from there it's just a few paces to the building I know so well.
It smells sweet up here; there's the fragrance of wild fennel and night-blooming shrubs mixed with the resin scent of the Monterey cypresses that compose the woods around Coit Tower. I'm so accustomed to viewing this place from a great distance through a lens that I'm surprised by the intimacy this sweet aroma conveys. Suddenly I feel heady. My pulse starts to race. It's been a while, but I recognize the sensation. I know I must leave; the feeling's too intense. I turn and run back down the hill, skidding and nearly falling on the incline.
CHAPTER SIX
Having never arranged a cremation before, I call Sullivan's, the mortuary that took care of my mother. I speak to Randy Sullivan, grandson of the founder, explain the situation and the fact that Timothy Lovsey's body is in pieces. Randy, grasping the problem, instructs me how to get the parts released. He quotes me a price with an additional option of a boat trip to scatter the ashes at sea.
"Will you want some kind of service?" he asks.
I tell him no, nothing formal, that most likely some friends will gather, say a few words, and leave it at that.
"Sounds like just what the deceased would have wished for," Randy says.
After I hang up I wonder why he put it that way, since he obviously has no knowledge of the deceased or his preferences.
I phone Shanley. He listens politely as I tell him I've contacted David deGeoffroy in New York, that Sullivan's will be taking care of the body and that I want to wind up Tim's affairs, including termination of his lease and removal of personal effects from his studio.
Shanley's helpful. Clearly he prefers me as supplicant to the angry shutter-happy female he's been dealing with. I even detect a smidgen of warmth in his voice as he asks how I'm holding up.
"Pretty good," I tell him, "considering the circumstances."
"Glad to hear it. Hilly and I were talking about you just this morning. We think you've been great. Let me know if there's anything I can do, not just on this—on anything at the Hall of Justice. I don't claim to swing a lot of weight, but there're plenty of folks here owe me favors."
Is this the kiss-off Hilly told me about? Is this how cops handle it these days, so nice, polite, eager to assist? If I get a Health Department citation for improper disposal of photochemicals, will Shanley get it fixed?
Dad's busy time starts at four in the morning and tapers off after ten. These are the hours when he and his Russian émigré helpers bake the loaves, deliver them to stores and restaurants and sell the main part of the day's production to walk-ins. Dad has one of those numbered-tag dispensers on the counter so customers know whose turn it is. He likes calling out the numbers, looking the customer in the eye, fulfilling the order with dispatch. Fine bread is his joy, good service is his pride. City Stone Ground, he wants you to know, is no kind of hippie joint.
I arrive at eleven, watch him through the window. As always, in his white apron he appears the Happy Baker. I don't know where this tendency of mine comes from, this need to turn people into archetypes. The Solemn Judge, the Happy Baker, and now the Enigmatic Magician.
"Dad!"
"Hey, darlin'!"
He grasps me in his arms, enveloping me in a cloud of flour and yeast. As a girl I could never get enough of his hugs. To this day they take me back to a time when I knew I'd always be protected by his strength.
"Got the info for you," he whispers. He holds me back. "Bull's-eye, I think."
Arm across my shoulder, he leads me into his office off the baking floor. From his desk, neatly stacked with folders, bills, purchase orders, receipts, he extracts a slip of paper.
"Rusty ran the plate. When he called this morning he sounded impressed." He hands me the slip. "Take a look."
The first digits of the plate number and the car make and model are matched with a name: Marcus P. Crane. Something familiar there; I've read about this person but can't remember where or who he is.
"Address mean anything to you?" Dad asks.
It's in the twenty-six hundred block on Broadway, one of the fancy parts of Pacific Heights.
"Marcus Crane. Think about it," he coaxes.
"I'm thinking. Give me a hint."
"Read the society columns?"
"Not if I can help
"If you did you'd know Crane is husband of a local legend."
"Sarah Lashaw?"
Dad winks. "You got it, darlin'! She of the fabulous parties and the violet eyes."
I don't have to remind him I can't see violet. He knows my weakness better than anyone. But for years, like most everyone in town, I have heard about Mrs. Lashaw's eyes, their haunting beauty.
"She married Crane ten years ago," Dad says. "He's hubby number three . . . or is it four?" I'm surprised Dad knows this; evidently he does follow society. "Crane's a dud like the others. The difference is he's got better manners. Old San Francisco family. Holds down some kind of half-ass job in finance. Does what
she tells him, holds her chair, hitches the clasp on those egg-sized emeralds she wears."
Now it starts coming back: Sarah Lashaw's violet eyes and the deep green emerald necklace she wears to complement them. The stones may not actually be egg-sized. More like quail eggs, I think.
"Is Crane bald?"
Dad shrugs. "Don't know. But from what I hear, Lashaw is one very tough lady. Best not to mess with 'em, darlin'—not unless you got 'em by the hairs."
At the Main Library I use the microfilm reader to look up references to Marcus Crane. The photos show him with a full head of hair, but his features match those of Baldy. There're many mentions but little of substance. Seems aside from being Sarah Lashaw's husband, he's known more for affability than accomplishments.
Mrs. Lashaw is another story. Reading about her one would conclude she's some kind of social goddess: grand-scale entertainments, masquerade balls on behalf of this or that worthy cause, impeccable taste, meticulously decorated homes, an apparently limitless fortune. But as I read more, what comes through is a portrait of a demanding woman, spoiled and suffused with a sense of her own entitlement.
Using the periodical index, I retrieve articles from back issues of House & Garden, Town & Country, and Architectural Digest. Mrs. Lashaw, I discover, is indeed a handsome middle-aged woman whose natural good looks are bolstered by her lavish surroundings. Vases of fresh-cut flowers fill her rooms. Fine contemporary art adorns her walls. Studying pictures of the calculated interiors of her various homes, I note a horror of empty space . . . as if the filling of the rooms, their overflowing, will somehow mollify the emptiness within.
She is, moreover, an accomplished equestrian. Astride her favorite gelding, Folly, in helmet, jodhpurs and hacking jacket, she beams at the camera, a long thin dressage whip dangling carelessly from her hand. Another spread shows her and Crane picnicking with friends on the vast expanse of lawn before their Napa Valley house. The goodies (recipes courteously provided) are packed in English wicker baskets, while the picnickers recline on Oriental carpets spread upon the grass.
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