The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  Do I sound envious? I hope not, for everything in Mrs. Lashaw's ethos is the opposite of mine. She embraces the ornate while I'm drawn to the austere; she fancies gilt while I prefer black; she likes couture while I slop around in jeans. But, I remind myself, it's not she who is the object of my scrutiny, rather her suave and stylish husband whom I've seen cruising the Gulch attempting to rent underage male flesh.

  From the Main Library I walk to Pacific Heights, our poshest quarter, though there are those who would argue for the enclaves at the tops of Nob and Russian hills. Stately mansions, meticulously renovated Victorians, vast art deco apartment houses. Personally I find this neighborhood boring: few contrasts, everything smooth and groomed, svelte women, perfectly behaved children, nannies with European accents pushing heirloom baby carriages. The foreign consulates are here, as well as numerous small apartment buildings with molded escutcheons above the doors. Hedge walls, lookouts, tile and slate roofs. I pass the baroque marble palace of a famous romance novelist whose diamonds are said to rival Lashaw's emeralds.

  Mounting the greensward of Alta Plaza, I break a sweat. A pair of fortyish in-shape women in fashionable togs are battling it out on one of the tennis courts. Long rallies and cutting strokes—from a distance theirs appears a friendly match. But up close I hear pants and grunts, glimpse the steely eyes of fierce competitors.

  From the crest of the hill I can see the whole southern portion of the city. The huge antenna on North Peak breaks the pewter sky. There are sunbathers on the slopes, people training dogs, kids playing ball. To the north is Cow Hollow and the mercurial Bay. The sun beats down; the branches are serene. A perfect afternoon in our golden City by the Bay.

  Crossing Divisadero I ask myself what I'm doing here, what I expect to find. I uncap my Contax, preparing for action . . . though I expect to do nothing more than quickly view Lashaw & Crane's San Francisco home.

  The houses here are huge. There is an area of mansions with grounds, not the stuck-together townhouses of eastern Pacific Heights. Two turreted Victorians, a Mediterranean villa, a timbered Tudor, a mansard-roofed Norman—the 2600 block of Broadway is a wonderland of retro architectural fantasies.

  The Lashaw house lies behind an iron fence of sharp pointed bars and flamboyant double-swing gates. Surrounded by shrubs and trees, it's not easy to make out its style. It's probably my achromatopsia that's got me confused, causing shapes and textures to blend, which, to a vision normal, would be differentiated by color.

  I walk along the fence, gazing through the bars not the least concerned whether I'm observed. I catch sight of an Asian gardener working with clippers on hands and knees. Though only fifty feet away, he's so intent on his work he doesn't see me.

  I press up against the grate; poke my camera through, snap off three or four shots. Because my Contax is a viewfinder model and not a reflex, it throws off little sound. Through it I can make out large leaded windows and a great wooden door set back within a recessed entrance. I move a few feet, peer through my viewfinder again; see that the entrance ceiling is actually a groin vault. Then, noticing that the tops of the windows are arched, I recognize the architectural style. The Lashaw house, faux ecclesiastic, is built like a rectory, a manse suitable for a prince of the church.

  I walk to the end of the property, take another shot, then slowly pace back, peering in all the while. Just as I pass the main gate, I hear a mechanical sound. The gate doors begin to swing out. Then I hear a familiar growl.

  Varoom! Varoom!

  As I turn to the street, I bring my camera to my eye. A Mercedes 600 SL is hovering just twenty feet away, convertible top down, driver sporting full head of air-blown hair.

  Varoom! Varoom!

  Mr. Crane is impatient; the gates are opening too slowly for one so important as himself.

  Without thinking I start taking his picture, walking backward along the side of his car. I can smell the oily heat of the engine, the finely painted metal hood baking beneath the sun. Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap! I'm out in the street now, taking three-quarter back views, and although the gates are now fully open, Mr. Crane is not driving in, rather he is turning in his seat giving me the eye as I move around the back of his vehicle, through the cloud of its exhaust, and approach him again from the driver's side.

  Whap!Whap!Whap!Whap!

  This is fun! Reveling in my outrageous conduct, I feel the same surge as when I throw down an attacker in aikido class.

  "Excuse me! Miss!" Finally the chicken hawk squawks! He whips off his dark glasses, perhaps expecting me to do the same. I disappoint him. Then I'm surprised. He's beaming, showing me the face of a bon vivant.

  "Ah, sorry paparazzo at work! Or should I say 'paparazza'?" He grins.

  "You got it!" I stick my camera in for a close-up. Whap! I notice faint adolescent acne scars on his cheeks.

  "Why me?" His voice is calm, polite.

  "Why not you, Mr. Crane?"

  He nods, amused, guns his engine. Varoom!Varoom! Then he tilts his head to expose his profile. He's preening for me! I can't believe it.

  "My best side," he says, grinning again.

  "Thanks. I need good clear shots."

  "I had no idea people find me so handsome."

  I'm impressed by his sangfroid. This, I realize, is one slick dude. I lower my Contax, peer directly into his eyes. "The ones I took on Polk weren't all that clear. And of course you weren't wearing that pretty wig."

  He holds the grin; then, for a second, the mask starts to crack. A glimmer of confusion, perhaps humiliation. Does he wonder who I am? A blackmailer out to expose his secret life?

  Whap! I take a final shot, then step back. That'll be the good one if I caught him right. He studies me, then blinks, as if etching my features on his memory. Varoom!Varoom! The car lurches into the safe interior courtyard of his manse, leaving black skid marks on the pavement at my feet.

  In the echoing lobby of the Hall of Justice I pick up the envelope Shanley has left for me at the reception desk. No note inside, just the key to Tim's studio. From there it's not much of a walk to his building on Mission.

  I feel sad as I mount the steps. The cat-piss and roach-spray smells are the same. This time an aria from Tosca wafts sensuously down the stairwell from an upper floor.

  On the landing I look around. The fire extinguisher is in place. As my eyes rise to the molding above, I consider leaping up to see if there's anything there. Quickly I dismiss the idea. I'm too short, and besides, I already had Crawf fetch Tim's spare key, the one I later gave to Shanley, the one I'm now holding in my hand.

  There's police tape on the door. I cut it neatly, using the edge of the key, let myself in, softly close the door behind. From Hilly's description, I'm expecting a mess. But that's not what I find. Yes, the room looks different, the floor is covered with loose down from Tim's slit-up sleeping bag, the stuffing of his futon is strewn about. But his clothing and possessions have not been randomly tossed. Rather I detect a certain rigor in their arrangement—underwear in one pile, jeans in another, sweaters in a third. There's something about this sorting that touches and confuses me, something caring, perhaps even loving, I think.

  I go to the kitchen, search beneath the sink, find a box of garbage bags, tote several back to the living room and start cleaning up. I throw in the torn futon and bedroll, the perishable food in the refrigerator and all the stuff in the bath—toothbrush, razor, shampoo. When I'm done with that I pitch Tim's clothes into two large nylon duffel bags and a backpack I find on the closet shelf.

  Back out on the landing the Tosca recording seems even louder. I haul the garbage bags downstairs, stick them in one of the trash cans in back, discover some discarded cardboard boxes, carry two of them back up. These I fill with Tim's Walkman, shoes, boots, and books. Then I carefully remove my photographs from the wall.

  Something's wrong. One of them is missing, the Angel Island shot. Someone, it appears, has carefully removed it. I see marks where the tape previously adhered.

 
; Now everything's packed except the Body Heat poster, kitchen utensils, a couple of plates, glasses, a frying pan and the paltry furnishings. Since these items have little value, I decide to leave them for the next tenant. I haul the duffels, backpack, and boxes out to the landing, and prepare to relock the door.

  I hesitate. I know the cops have searched the studio; I also know they're pros. But still . . . I look up at the molding again.

  I go back inside, take Tim's wobbly desk chair, place it against the wall, climb onto it, start running my fingers around the molding that rings the room. This exercise takes a while; after each sweep of my hand I step down, move the chair a few feet, then step up again. I'm about to give it up when my fingers brush against something metallic. I stand on tiptoe, reach up, bring the object down. A key. To what? It's far too big for Tim's box at Mail From Home, it's clearly not a bank safety-deposit-box key and it doesn't match the key to his room. But interestingly, it's the same size and make. I pocket it and leave.

  This time no music in the stairwell as I carry the duffels and boxes down. I hear a door open on an upper floor, then shut after a few seconds as if the person changed his/ her mind about going out. It takes me three trips to get everything down to the front hall. I leave the stuff there while I go out to find a phone.

  The Tool Box is a gloomy bar. A couple of guys in black T-shirts are playing pool. They and the bartender, a bear in tank top sporting grotesque tattoos, glance up when I walk in. Determining my gender, they smile to hide their disappointment.

  I use the pay phone by the lav to call for a taxi, then start back toward the tenement. A few steps out of The Tool Box I freeze. At the end of the block a person is turning the corner. For an instant I'm certain it's Tim. The hair, bearing, walk, seem the same . . . yet something too, I know, is wrong. Perhaps it's his height, I think, as I rush up to Grace Street to check. Turning the corner myself, I'm suddenly blinded; the late-afternoon sun slams into my eyes. I blink, turn, examine the afterimage before it fades. It's not Tim, it's someone shorter, but then of course it has to be since Tim is dead. I recall how, in the months after my mother's death, I occasionally thought I saw her on the street. It took me a while to understand that I made this mistake because I wanted to see her so very much.

  Waiting for my taxi I think about afterimages, a byproduct of achromatopsia. Since they're a coping mechanism, achromats who wear shades from an early age generally don't experience them.

  What happens, according to studies I've read, is that very bright light immediately saturates my rods, but the moment I close my eyes the light level fades to a point where my retinas are able to pick up and retain an image of what I "saw." The emergence of an afterimage is similar to the emergence of a photographic image on a sheet of exposed paper when placed in developer. But unlike the photographic variety, an afterimage is transitory, lasting only a few seconds, just long enough for me to examine and identify people or objects invisible when I try to see them with open eyes.

  When my cab arrives, I load everything in, drive to my building, haul the duffels and boxes into the elevator. I have little storage space in my apartment but Tim's possessions are so meager I find room for them in the back of a closet.

  I phone Tim's landlord, Murray Paulus, tell him I've cleaned out the studio, that he's free now to rerent it. When he mutters something about not being given the customary thirty days' notice, I point out that homicide victims generally don't know their fates in advance.

  Paulus is caught short. "Hadn't thought of that," he says. "Guess you're right. Kinda different when the tenant's mortally sick." His voice brightens. "I got a deposit, so the hell with it!" He hangs up.

  Lord praise you, Mr. Paulus!

  Attorney J. F. Judd is not so kind. He still wants his $1,250.

  "Tim died penniless," I tell him. "You can't get blood out of a stone."

  "No, but I can go to small claims court and make trouble for his executrix."

  "That's not me," I tell him. "I'm just a friend. He didn't leave a will."

  "Intestate and no assets—I've heard that one. Still, someone's gotta pay. I don't work for nothing, not when it's cleaning up after someone's dirty deeds."

  "Just what dirty deed did Tim do?" I ask.

  "Took money from an undercover vice cop. The guy hired him to take a blow job."

  "How'd you get him off?"

  "Entrapment pure and simple."

  "Well, Mr. Judd," I tell him without much regret, "seems this time you're going to have to eat your fee."

  A little after six I phone Hilly at home.

  "Hi ya," she says cheerily. "I was going to call you tonight. I got goodies!"

  "Great!"

  "Not the stuff on your dad—that's going to take a while. But I got a complete set of crime scene photos. Not bad, huh?"

  I'm impressed. I really wanted those pictures.

  "What can I do for you?" I ask.

  In the short silence that follows, I imagine the gears meshing within her brain.

  "I know a little about you, Kay."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as . . . you used to work for that free rag, Bay Area News."

  "That's right. Years ago. I was staff photographer."

  "Still connected there?"

  "What's on your mind?"

  Another pause, more grinding of the gears. When she speaks again, her voice is a purr.

  "I want a reporter I can trust, someone ambitious, who'll protect me as a source. I want someone, preferably female, who wants to win the fuckin' Pulitzer prize. I want—"

  "I know exactly what you want, Hilly. You want what Shanley's got, a reporter in your pocket."

  "You're smart, Kay. You got me figured. So—do you know someone fits the bill?"

  "Actually I do. It's a 'he.' Joel Glickman. You won't find better. And he's already got a Pulitzer."

  I hear the sharp, sudden intake of her breath. "Wow! Can you introduce me?"

  "Maybe," I say coolly. "I'll lay the groundwork. Meanwhile see what you can turn up on my dad."

  The sky's inky now, moonlight touches the roofs. I peer out my window and fiercely resolve I will never stare out and see, as so many do here, a thousand points of. . .slight.

  I feel jumpy, don't know why. Perhaps I'm still spooked by that apparition on the street. Also, I feel lonely, wish I were sitting someplace busy with a group of friends, a restaurant or bar full of young people drinking, talking, laughing. I miss that kind of fun—which I used to have so often in my twenties. What I miss most, of course, is a lover, someone to hold me and to hold, to hug and lick and kiss. Wistfully I look across the valley. Then I pull on sneakers, grab my Contax and go out.

  The night air is warm, surprising in November. A TV weatherperson says we're enjoying Indian summer. The trees cast sensual velvety lunar shadows on the sidewalk.

  The Hyde Street cable rumbles steadily beneath the street. I cross Hyde, pause at the corner, trying to decide which way to go. Down the eastern slope into North Beach, where I can lose myself in the joyful anonymous crowds, or down the western side to the Gulch to walk among the wounded and dispossessed?

  Tonight it will be the Gulch. But why I am drawn to haunt that street of damnation is a mystery I cannot solve.

  I pass the Alice Marble Tennis Courts. The surrounding high steel fence cuts the moonlight into squares. I hear a dog wail in the distance. Looking to the Bay, I see a great cruise ship, decks and portholes lit, slipping between Hyde Street Pier and Alcatraz.

  Walking on the gravel alley between the trees and benches of Sterling Park, I hear the snapping of a branch. I pause, listen. "Bug . . ."

  A thick voice moans my street name.

  I turn. Just then someone leaps at me from the shrubbery, pushing me so hard I reel into the trunk of a tree. Another, perhaps the one who called to me, straight-arms my shoulder. I fall. Then they are upon me, three of them I think, three silent males dressed in black, two turning me onto my stomach, holding me down, grinding my fac
e into the dirt, while the third climbs onto my back, pulls some kind of fabric sack over my head, then starts beating at the sides of my face with his fists.

  I hear their breathing, sense their gloat, smell their excitement, their bodies, their foul breaths. My camera is trapped beneath me. The metal bites into my breast. I squirm and scream. The fists rain on my ears and cheeks. The gravel of the walkway crushes against my mouth. I taste blood. The beating doesn't last long, perhaps fifteen or twenty seconds, but to me it seems an eternity.

  They get off me. One of them kicks me. The point of his sneaker catches my flank. "Nosy fuckin' bitch!" I squirm to protect myself. "Hurt the bitch, make her howl," orders the thick voice that called to me before. Another kick. I try to howl but can't. The breath's been knocked out of me. I gasp for air.

  Then they are on me again, turning me onto my back. I try to look at them but, head bagged, can see nothing through the cloth.

  One of them grasps at my camera, rips it away. Then they run off down the path. I roll and shake and cry. Tearing the bag off my head, a pillowcase, I hear the pat-pat-pat of their receding steps. Silence. I growl, hug myself, snort out my pain. "Help! Help me!" I cry, but I don't recognize my voice.

  He is holding me, a young man, carefully wiping the dirt and blood from my face with a moist cloth. He sits on a park bench; I lie on it with my head in his lap. I look at him and know immediately who he is: the strange homeless youth with the long hair and beard who has been living in the park for months.

  "Hospital," I whisper. My throat is raw.

  His huge eyes stare into mine. Perhaps he doesn't understand.

  "Get me to . . . hospital," I whisper again. There's dirt in my mouth. I choke, then try to spit it out.

  "Police."

  Fear in his eyes as he shakes his head.

  "Doctor." He nods. "Hospital." He shrugs. "St. Francis. Hyde Street. Close."

  Then I pass out.