The handsome black-haired resident standing above me smiles down, the ironic smile of a cynic. There's no pity in his face but lots of curiosity. I'm a case. He's had me X-rayed and scanned. He's seen my insides. His skin is dark, his eyes liquid, lustrous.
"They sure did a job on you," he says. He speaks with the accent of an Oxford don.
I peer about. The E.R. walls are white. Medical equipment gleams. The gurney I'm on is narrow and hard. Phones ring. Nurses stride briskly past. Every so often I hear soft chimes followed by softly uttered cryptic announcements on the hospital P.A.
I look back up at the resident. He is Indian. A stethoscope is nicely draped about his neck. I read his name off the little bar pinned to his white coat: Dr. C. Patel. "They call me Sasha," he says. Sasha Patel. Nice name, multicultural. I smile. He smiles. He likes me. He tells me I'll be fine.
"Two black eyes, cut and swollen ears and cheeks, contusions, abrasions, two ribs very tender but not quite cracked. They're going to hurt, those ribs. I wouldn't laugh too much if I were you. Try not to cough either. Better still, don't yawn. You're on morphine now. The Tylox I'll give you may cause a headache. I don't think there's a concussion, but if you feel dizzy or strange, come back right away. Understand?"
"You're not keeping me?"
He smiles, shakes his head. "I'm sending you home."
"How did I get here?"
"By taxi. The driver told the nurse some bum bundled you in."
"That bum, as you call him, cleaned me up. He saved my ass."
"No," Dr. Patel says, taking my hand. "I cleaned you, I saved your ass."
I look up at him. I wouldn't mind kissing him. The most I can offer now is a grin.
"See, that didn't hurt so much." He turns serious. "'Who did this to you?"
"Three men."
"Not a spouse?"
"I don't have a spouse."
"What did they want?"
"My camera."
He's a skeptic, Dr. Patel is. "A beating like this just for that?"
"Well, it was a very fine camera," I tell him, "'and I think there was something else."
"What?"
"A message, a warning—to stay away."
"Good God! Why not send a letter?"
"A beating's more emphatic, I think."
He raises his eyebrows. He's an ironist, I can tell. He's also solicitous. The hospital, he informs me, must report the incident to the cops. He plies me with painkillers, three kinds, two for fallback in case the side effects of the Tylox are too severe. He tells me I have a good supple body which helped prevent more serious injuries. He tells me I'll feel pain for a few days, but that the more I move about, the better. Finally he asks me for a date on one of his evenings off. I gently decline. The nurse who escorts me to a cab tells me Dr. Patel is a ladies' man. "And we love him for it," she adds, "this town being . . . well, you know how it is."
Back in the sweet cocoon I call home, I take my sore body to bed. I'm lucky. Bones could have been broken, I could have been raped and sodomized. And that may yet happen, I think, for I have no intention of heeding such a tastelessly delivered message. From this point I shall be on guard; I shall not be taken again by surprise. My greatest concern is my camera. I have several spares but my Contax and I were as one. Well, you win a few, lose a few, better to lose a camera than to end up in traction. Perhaps one day soon I'll buy myself a new one. Till then I'll manage with what I've got.
It takes me four full days to recuperate, and even then, in the mirror my face looks like shit. Like a boxer's after a brutal fight, I think, but of course I wasn't in a boxing match. I was attacked from behind.
I go out a couple of times, slowly walk a block, then return home. The rest of the time I spend in the darkroom, or on the phone, or despairing over my soreness and marveling over my luck.
What, I ask myself, is the worst thing that could happen to me short of premature death? The answer's simple: to lose my vision. Without my eyes, defective though they are, my life would be an empty torment.
My snaps of Marcus Crane are great. I'm thrilled I took the time to unload the roll; better to have lost my camera than these precious images. It's the full sequence that makes them work, me and my camera circling him while he twists to keep me in view, at first unperturbed, debonair, finally breaking as he understands I'm a threat. This, for me, is the beauty of black-and-white vision and photography—the way it can distill the essence of an individual, cut through the mask, reveal the person's core. I see much evil in my final image of Marcus Crane. I shall print the entire sequence in Exposures: "Cornered Chicken Hawk."
Was it Crane who had me beaten? I think so, though it could also have been Knob acting on his own. Anyhow, I know Crane and Knob are pals, that Knob brokers Crane's chicken dinners. I also know Knob hates me, and I'm almost certain he was the one who called out "Bug. . ." to make me turn. Later, instructing the others to "hurt the bitch, make her howl," Knob's particular intonation came through. Yes, it was his show, perhaps just payback for dumping him in front of his boys. If Crane was involved it was strictly as paymaster. If so, I think, he probably wasn't Tim's killer, since in that event, he'd most likely have ordered me killed.
David deGeoffroy is due in tomorrow. We're to meet at his hotel. Sullivan's has everything arranged for a Friday scattering of the ashes. It's up to me to get some of Tim's friends to come along.
Before I do that, however, there's someone I want to find, the strange boy who lives in Sterling Park. Walking with trepidation into the Greenwich Street cul-de-sac, I start searching for the place where I was mauled.
It isn't hard to find. The alley of trees is gorgeous as ever, the gravel has been freshly raked, the resin aroma of Monterey pine perfumes the warm autumn air.
I caress the side of the tree against which I was thrown, then kneel in the dirt. How miserable I was, yet exhilarated too, all my senses alert. During those painful seconds, I believe, my thought processes went dead. It was pure feeling that suffused me: helplessness and terror.
Carefully I lie down in the position in which I was held, then twist and turn allowing the sensations to flow back. I feel weird doing this, but believe it's necessary for my recovery. When I stand up again, I feel purged. Nietzsche, I believe, had it right: what does not kill me can only make me stronger.
The youth is standing before me now, not twenty feet away. He has appeared silently out of the shrubbery. He stands still as a statue, his beard so wild it hangs down like a tangle of vines. His huge eyes meet mine, not sharply, but in wonderment. He sends me a signal that he has come in peace but that he will feel more comfortable if I don't approach.
"Hi," I say shyly.
He nods. From our last meeting I know he's not exactly talkative.
"I came here to find you—to thank you," I tell him. "You took good care of me. Thanks for putting me in that cab."
"You were asleep," he says, voice sonorous. I smile; these are the first words I've heard him speak.
"I guess I passed out. You were kind to me. I live close by. I've seen you many times."
He nods again, as if to say he has seen me too. I wonder: Has he observed me standing naked in my bedroom window at night staring out at the Golden Gate?
"Can I bring you something? Food?" He shakes his head. "Drink?" Again he declines. I was wrong about him; I thought he'd ask for whiskey. "Are you sure? Nothing at all?"
He smiles again, sweetly shakes his head, then withdraws back into the shrubbery like a ghost.
At nine p.m. I prepare to go out. My ribs are still sore, my cheekbones are still bruised, my eyes are still black, but I don't put on makeup to cover my marks. I also make a point of carrying a camera, the old Nikon Dad gave me when I first took up photography. I want this trek up the Gulch to be a statement.
I cheat a little, take the bus as far as Sacramento Street. Since walking's still painful, there's no point in strutting if no one's around. Dismounting, I peer about. I don't see anyone I know . . . which
is fine since I felt less than stylish stepping off the bus.
On the next corner, California, I run into Slick and Remo. They look closely at me, but don't say anything about my bruises. Still, it's clear they've heard what happened. News has spread by Gulch telegraph. Now word will spread that Bug is back, undaunted by her ordeal ... with a different camera too, a big black one, twice as big as the old one.
Soon others surround me: Doreen and Alyson, Scott, Silky, Fizz, Toad and Wrench. I tell them about the scattering of Tim's ashes, invite them all to come along. They nod but I doubt any of them will show. It's one thing to regret the murder of a friend, another to engage in public mourning.
"Where's Knob?"' I ask innocently, looking around. Eyes are lowered. Slick says he saw him in The Werewolf.
"Well, remember," I announce, "I'm still working on my book. So you'll still be seeing me around."
"You're always welcome here, Bug," Doreen says.
A chorus of approving nods. Heart thoroughly warmed, I thank them and continue on my way.
Outside The Werewolf, I question my sanity. Yes, I want to show these people class, but I've been injured and am in no condition for a fight. I don't think Knob will pick one in public, but I can't be sure. Still, I know, I must complete my mission, so I straighten up and shoulder my way inside.
The Werewolf's a shadowy place, far more frightening to me than The Tool Box. Combination meat rack, gay bar, piss stop for the street, it's a place to trash out, choose a piece of chicken, or just shoot up in the toilets. There're females in here, some of indeterminate genitalia, preops, postops, a few girls looking to become boys. This is also a place where elegant pervs and goths come on weekends to slum.
I push my way through the crowd. Brushing against people does no wonders for my bruised ribs. Trying not to wince, I put on a stoic face. I spot Knob over by the wall, hanging out with the acolytes who witnessed his humiliation at my hands. Did they join him in the ambush? If so, are they proud to have gone three-on-one against a woman?
"Knob."
"Bug."
Our greetings are strained. I nod slightly to the acolytes. They smirk.
"Been looking for you, Knob."
"Here I am."
"We're going to have a little ceremony for Tim. Thought maybe you'd like to show, being one of the leaders on the Gulch."
Knob grins, then guffaws. The acolytes follow suit. Yet the eyes of all three appear uneasy; they don't know what to make of me, what I intend.
An unctuous grin. "Looks like someone roughed you, Bug."
"Yeah, someone tried to, three of them in fact. Jumped me from behind. Brave boys, very brave."
"Too bad." He lowers his eyes to my Nikon. "Camera's not so nice. Lost the other one, did you?"
I meet his eyes. "It's s not the camera that's important, Knob. It's the film inside. You know—the evidence." I raise Dad's Nikon, trip the shutter. Whap! Knob is stunned. Whap!Whap!Whap! Finally the steely eyes blink before my gaze.
Enough! I tell myself. Cut it off.
And so I do, turning my back, casually shouldering my way out through the smoke to the street. I leave high-pitched squeals of laughter behind, but I don't think they're directed at me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Until I discover his real name, I think of my park inhabitant neighbor as the Youth. And though he's declined my offer of food and drink, I nonetheless fix him a picnic. I place several containers of prepared tofu, a package of sliced cooked ham, a packet of pretzels, three apples, two bananas and a can of Coke in a square Styrofoam carton, which I tie up with ribbon. All this I deliver to the very place where I was sandbagged. No sign of him, but I'm pretty sure he's near, watching over his domain. I place the carton on the bench where he cleaned me up, scrawl "From Kay" on top, pirouette and depart.
The Magician: I'm not sure what I expect as I sit in the lobby of the Mark Hopkins Hotel awaiting Uncle David's entrance. We've arranged recognition signals; I'll be dressed in black with a camera around my neck, he'll wear a polka-dot ascot. Our rendezvous is set for three p.m. Already he's a quarter-hour late.
When finally he appears I'm amused. The man perfectly matches his voice. If ever in the future I need a "dapper gentleman" for a shoot, I'll seek one as debonair as David deGeoffroy. Tall, ramrod-straight, his soft gray hair beautifully cut into overlapping locks, he has a Clark Gable pencil-line mustache, wears the requisite ascot plus matching handkerchief in the breast pocket of his blazer, sports brilliantly polished English shoes and, to top off the effect, carries an ivory-headed walking stick which he twirls jauntily as he surveys the lobby.
Spotting me he raises his eyebrows. I smile; he advances.
"My dear Kay—at last!"
He surprises me by bowing and bringing my hand to his lips. Old World manners. I feel ridiculous standing before him in leather jacket, T-shirt, sneakers and jeans.
Instantly I like him. He's handsome, his grooming's impeccable, his smile engaging. He looks to be in his late forties, but in excellent condition, reminding me of the sleek sort of man my mother used to call a "racing tout."
"Shall we stroll?"' he asks. Again I notice the theatrical accent. "Or would you prefer a drink?"
"A walk sounds good."
As we leave the hotel, he salutes the doorman with his stick.
I guide him around the Pacific-Union Club into Huntington Park. Since it's a dazzling day and I wish to conceal my bruises, I am wearing my darkest wraparound shades. The dark red lenses activate the rods in my eyes by tricking them into thinking it's night.
When David asks if my eyes are weak, I briefly explain my malady.
"So you don't see colors?"
"None," I tell him. "Just the lightness and darkness of things."
"Must be a bit like experiencing the world in grisaille."
I'm pleased by this remark, which demonstrates a knowledge of art.
"Can you tell what color an object is by the particular shade of gray?"
"Sometimes but not always. To me colors take on different values in different kinds of light."
Either that satisfies him or he's too polite to query further. He compliments me on the portraits I sent of Tim. "Beautiful pictures, Kay—full of affection. He looks as I'd imagined. I keep seeing glimmers of the boy." He stops before a park bench. "Shall we sit?"
He props his stick against the seat. An elderly Chinese man performs elegant tai chi katas on the grass.
David touches his finger to his line mustache. "This may be painful for you, but I'd like you to tell me what happened. Not just the bare bones, but the whole story, ugly though it may be. I know this is a great deal to ask, but I'd be most grateful, my dear. I truly would."
How can I deny him? I nod, then tell him the story, not glossing over the more sordid facts.
He winces as I describe the hustling scene on the Gulch, mutters "poor boy" beneath his breath. By the time I finish with the gory details of dismemberment, I see tears forming in his eyes.
"Shot in the throat, then cut up! My God! That's so . . ." ' He brings his hand to his mouth. Like many of his gestures, this one's overwrought though not, I feel, insincere.
"I'd almost say appropriate," he adds, "though it isn't, of course. In no possible way could it be." He turns to me, again touches his mustache. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"
Over the next several hours, David deGeoffroy and I roam the city, stopping every so often for a restroom visit or for tea. We walk awhile, then sit, then get up and walk some more. Our pace is measured. There's a trancelike aspect to the afternoon, the way we move among people in the parks and streets yet seem to exist on a separate plane. My rib cage is sore but I steel myself against pain. I don't want to lose the thread. David's story has everything a good tale should: energy and mystery, passion and regret. Listening, I think of it as the Magician's Tale:
"This, Kay, I confess—straight out of college I was a middling magician, a so-so practitioner of legerdemain. My close-up work
was adequate: card tricks, flying coins, cups and balls, sometimes salt and pepper shakers and stubbed-out, then reconstructed cigarettes. I was good enough to bum my way around Europe for a couple years working street cafés. Whenever I was broke I'd sit at a table, take my saucer from beneath my cup, place a couple coins in it, then practice tricks as if for myself. Sooner or later someone would ask if he could watch. I'd nod at the saucer, and would resume when he added coins of his own. In two or three hours I could make enough to buy myself a simple dinner and rent a humble room."
David pauses, flutters his hands. "Maybe I was better than mediocre. No question, after a while I got slick. My patter was good, movements smooth. Still, I was no master magician, not by any stretch."
One thing I notice as he talks: his extensive repertory of gestures. Touching his forefinger to his mustache, shooting his cuffs, fluttering, then dry-washing his hands—every move seems calculated to divert attention from something else, some devious bit of sleight of hand.
"It was only when I returned to New York that I started getting serious. First thing I worked up a persona—top hat, black cape, cane, white gloves, the works. I became"—David winks— "The Great deGeoffroy." He laughs. "No, not my real name. That's Hyman Goldstein, Brooklyn born and bred. My father was a milliner. Later he and my uncle started a company, Novelties Unlimited. Basically they produced low-end powder puffs."
Offering these background notes, he gives his stick a stylish twirl.
"I ran an advertisement and started to pick up work, kids' birthday parties mostly, affairs such as that. Soon word spread that I was good. It got to the point where I turned engagements down.
"I was making decent money then, spending it too, not just on personal luxuries, though I've always had a taste for the finer things, but most of it on better tricks and lessons in technique. I wanted to become a real magician and that meant constructing an hour-long cabaret act. I wasn't at the grand stage illusion level yet, but would soon be headed that way.
"I took a class with a carnival conjurer, learned juggling, fire-eating, swallowing swords. I wasn't particularly interested in doing these things in public but wanted to master them as a discipline. I also spent a lot on private lessons with a retired vaudeville magician." David smiles. "The Great Alexis! He was great. He'd come out with a saber dressed like a Cossack about to launch a pogrom, then bluff through his act using this marvelous throaty Russky accent. Pretty funny, considering his original name was Terry O'Higgins. But he was effective. Good illusionist too. Taught me a lot—the Needle Trick, Chinese Linked Rings, torn newspapers, silks and billiard ball multiplications.
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