The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  "Let me hold you, dear." He reaches for me.

  Without thinking I lie beside him. Immediately he wraps me in his arms. I feel his strength, then his body tremble as he sobs against my hair. Soon I'm sobbing too. I feel as I did with David deGeoffroy, relieved to be with someone with whom I can share my grief. It doesn't matter to me that Jerome Tattinger most likely met Tim on the street. All that matters is that he loved him enough that now, hearing he is no longer in the world, he weeps.

  We lie this way for several minutes, soothing each other until finally we lie still.

  "He was so beautiful. It hurts me to think of his body broken. You know, my dear, I sometimes imagine him when I sing, his face, the curve of his lips, those incredible eyes. His comeliness has been an inspiration to me. As it will continue to be. Something so special about that boy. . ."

  I wait in the oval living room while he splashes water on his face. When he rejoins me he's wearing a dark silk dressing gown and monogrammed slippers, carrying a bottle of chilled champagne.

  "A toast to his memory?"

  I nod. He wraps the bottle in a napkin, pops the cork and pours us each a glass.

  "Dear Tim, wherever you are, may you always have good cheer."

  He clicks his glass against mine, then drains it off.

  "I'm a not especially attractive fifty-eight-year-old man," he confesses. "Nevertheless, I like to think he held me in some esteem. Oh, I paid him for his services and we played all kinds of nasty games. I would grovel before him, beseech him to hurt me." He laughs. "He often did. But still there was something deep between us, something money can't buy." He refills his glass. "Intimacy, my dear. You see, in my foolish self-indulgent life I've lain with many boys, but with very few have I felt such trust."

  I like listening to him. He is, I understand, a world-class singer renowned as much for his dramatic abilities as for the warm, sonorous timbre of his voice. To listen to him is to harken to him, for his voice is like a magnet.

  He tells me he is on the road nearly the whole year long, fulfilling engagements in opera houses around the world. In each city he has a favorite hotel, usually a favorite suite, and in most a favorite boy he has selected after numerous tryouts and escapades.

  "In Milano there's Roberto. In Paris . . . Jean-Louis. Hans in Vienna, Roger in London, Dick in New York. But the one I loved best was my beloved Tim, he of the green eyes and what I call the ephebe's girdle. He had such a slim hard pale hairless body, you know—such a big heart, such a tender touch. . . ."

  Ephebe: the Greek word for adolescent male, the very word I used to describe Tim to myself. Hearing Jerome employ it, I share with him my conception of Tim as a gentle warrior of the city, perhaps doomed to being a sacrificial victim of its lust.

  He loves my concept. It appeals, he tells me, to his Wagnerian taste for mysticism, melodrama, archetypes.

  Within half an hour he finishes off the rest of the champagne, then retreats to his sanctum sanctorum to fetch another bottle from the minibar.

  "So you met Amoretto?" I ask when he returns.

  He raises his eyebrows, grins fiendishly. "I did indeed!"

  "She, Tim and you... ?"

  "Yes, my dear, and, if you'll allow me, the word for what we did is . . . partouze. Oh, I know—on the vulgar street they call it a 'sandwich,' in the suburbs a 'threesome.' The mathematical types, I believe, say 'three-way.' I much prefer the French word. Listen to it again: Par-touze . . ." He enunciates slowly, drawing out each syllable. "Delicious the way it almost imitates the slippery sucky sounds one makes. So delightful, wicked, sinfully carnal and hedonistic." He burps. "Actually, I rather enjoyed the ordeal—which is not to say I'd want to partake again."

  "It was Tim's idea?"

  "Oh yes! Innocent little me —I would never have thought of that!" He grins, a mock expression of lechery. "He said he had this twin, which made me very excited. Then he mentioned the twin was a she, which caused a certain deflation, shall we say. But when I finally saw them together, how much alike they looked, and discovered how incredibly kinky she was. . . well, all I can tell you is that afterward I knew I'd had an—experience."

  "And the two of them—with each other—?"

  "That, my dear, was the best part! Brother and sister! Like Tristan and Isolde. The depravity of it! The absolutely scrumptious degenerate depravity!" He scowls. "Cost me a damn fortune too. A scene like that, you know, doesn't come cheap."

  Jerome, intoxicated, is growing woozy, and I'm feeling hurt, for the dumbest reason too. I've discovered that Tim and Ariane did little numbers together for pay, and it pains me that in his copious confessions Tim never said a word. But then, I think, how could he? How would he have broached it? Perhaps he felt that such a confidence would cost him my respect. If so, how wrong he was. I would have loved him all the better for his openness.

  I help Jerome to his bed, where he sprawls upon his back. In the process his dressing gown slips open to reveal flaccid genitalia between pale hairy thighs. Immediately he begins to snore. Nothing musical about him now. I glance at his bureau, where I notice the score for Tannhäuser, a lavish gold wristwatch, a fine leather breast-pocket wallet, assorted coins and ten fresh new one-hundred-dollar bills perfectly aligned. This money, I assume, was intended for Tim in return for a night of delicious violation. Ah, well . . . Soon, I expect, Jerome will find himself a new companion here.

  I tiptoe out, close the door, descend the curving stairs. At the reception desk, Snooty wide-eyes me as I pass.

  "Lovely time with Mr. T.?" he snickers.

  Perhaps he expects a tip. I walk by him without breaking my stride.

  "Goodnight, Carlo," he sneers.

  I sleep poorly. Is it because I'm afraid of another invasion? I think rather it's because Sasha's on duty and cannot be here with me tonight.

  The time's coming, I know, when I must sort out my feelings for him. Unfair, I know, to allow him to love me so earnestly without giving him something substantial in return. When we first started going out, I viewed him as a terrific companion with whom to share laughs, good talk, great meals, great sex. Then, somewhere along the line, my feelings began to change. Now I see him in a deeper way. Yes, I believe I could love him. So why didn't I tell him so at Eden Roc?

  In the middle of the night I get out of bed, go to the living room, unpack my new telescope, set it up on the old tripod and aim it at the Judge's terrace across the way.

  No lights on over there. It's far too late. He always retires early on weekday nights. Still, I use it to explore his terrace, the pots of geraniums, the porch furniture, the three-legged grill on which we used to cook, the round table and tightly woven straw cafe chairs where we sat when we ate outdoors.

  I recall a birthday dinner I prepared for him, a ragout of lobster tails and a simple salad accompanied by my father's bread. Champagne. A tiny cake I bought at an Italian sweets shop in North Beach. One candle only to represent the day . . . but, lest we forget, fifty-four silver stars I picked up at a paper store enclosed with my birthday letter so that they spilled upon him when he opened it up.

  Stardust, he called those fluttering glittering stars. And then he kissed me. That was the last birthday we celebrated. I think I knew then that though I loved him with all my heart, he merely enjoyed my company . . . and the pain of that revelation is with me still. He's fifty-six now. It's been nearly two years since we've spoken or met. I've seen him, of course, quite a few times—from here through a lens, with his friends, a new lover or two, or just lying in his swimsuit on his chaise on a Sunday afternoon, taking the sun while reading a brief.

  They say that those who are abused become abusers in turn, that those upon whom suffering is inflicted will inevitably inflict it upon another even to a greater degree. This, I'm told, is a basic tenet of psychology—that we will do unto others as they have done unto us. Now, standing here spying on the Judge's empty terrace, I take no pleasure in the notion that Sasha may be harboring a love for me which, in his min
d at least, I do not return.

  I spend most of the morning working in the darkroom, then go out a little after eleven with my pack of mug shots to the bench in Sterling Park.

  Again Drake keeps me waiting. Perhaps he's testing my patience, hoping I'll give up and leave. Undoubtedly he's watching me; to watch is his profession. But though he loves me in his strange way and sees himself as my protector, identifying my violators frightens him too much.

  Sympathy enables me to wait him out. While I do I imagine the silent war raging in his head: his every antisocial instinct telling him not to get involved, while his voyeur's love demands he do the gallant thing. Which side will win, the self-sufficient hermit or the lovesick knight? By remaining on the bench, I force the issue. He must come to me or quit this park, his home.

  Finally he shows up. The noon church bells have rung, a distant work whistle has sounded . . . and he must see by the still way I sit that I will stay here if necessary the entire day.

  "Kay."

  His whisper startles me, seeming to issue from behind my back. Drake has the ability of a Native American tracker to emerge silently from the woods. He can, I believe, stand within yards of people without them even suspecting that he's there.

  "Drake." I softly pat the seat beside me. But just as before, he perches at the far end of the bench.

  "Sorry I'm late," he says. "I've been nervous."

  "I understand." One of his feet, crossed over the other, is shaking. "I brought the pictures," I tell him, "but you don't have to look at them. Your choice."

  "I want to help you," he says. "I'm scared, that's all."

  "I promise you'll never have to talk to the cops, or testify in court, or attend a police lineup, or do anything beyond telling me honestly what you know."

  I turn to him in time to catch his nod. How fragile he is, I think. Perhaps he suffers from some mild form of autism, not so serious as to warrant being hospitalized, but painful enough so that encounters of any sort fill him with severe anxiety, even dread.

  "Are you ready or should we put it off? I can come back later if you want."

  "Let's do it now."

  I nod, set my little stack of mug shots facedown between us on the bench. "What I'd like you to do, Drake, is pick up the pack, turn it over and slowly look at each picture in turn. If you recognize any of the three men you saw that night, set those pictures aside. But look at them all. You might not recognize any, or perhaps just one. That's fine. Don't try and please me—just tell the truth."

  With interpersonal skills like these, I think, I should have become a cop. Except I'm not sure I've been all that skillful, until Drake finally picks the photos up. Then I recall how in my adolescence I actually toyed with the notion of law enforcement work. Dad told me gently I could do many things in life, but, being color-blind, not that.

  I decide not to watch Drake as he examines the faces, believing the less pressure I exert, the more conscientiously he'll perform. Instead I listen to the sounds of the park—the thunk of tennis balls on the courts above, singing birds, whispering grasses, the wind fluttering the leaves. The sound of the city is present too—muffled traffic, the faint ring and clatter of the Hyde Street cable car a block away, muted sounds from off the water, a special blend I've heard nowhere else. Every city, I believe, has its din. The din of San Francisco is music to my ears.

  It's a quirky town of alleys, stairways, culs-de-sac, funny little houses clinging to the sides of hills, some built on stilts. Gulls wheel above the Embarcadero. Ferries crisscross the Bay churning trails of wake. Someone once said that this is a city that looks as if it were built by gods. In fact it was built by innumerable eccentrics, which accounts for its special combination of grandeur and charm.

  "Kay."

  I turn back to Drake. The pack of photos is just where I left it on the bench. He is staring out, as he did the other day, across the gravel park path toward the pines.

  Seeing that he has set no photos aside, I feel deflated. Either none of my suspects is guilty or Drake is incapable of singling them out.

  "Hungry?" I ask. "Want me to get you some food?"

  He turns to me. "Aren't you going to ask?"

  "What?"

  "Did I see them?"

  "Did you, Drake?" I ask softly.

  He nods. "All three. You'll find their pictures on the bottom."

  He stands as I reach for the photos. I pick the pack up, turn it over, and at that moment he slips away. Suddenly I'm alone and he's gone . . . like a phantom who was never here.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Knob and his acolytes: the photos Drake pulled do not surprise me. Yet ambushing me at night in the park is one thing; not that hard to get away with. But breaking into and vandalizing my apartment—whatever possessed them to take such a risk?

  As I walk home I think the matter over. It couldn't be our little run-in at The Werewolf; that was street stuff, bluster. Which brings me back to my theory they were paid to do it. Considering that both their attacks occurred after my confrontation with Crane and my rebuff of Sarah Lashaw, I return to the notion that Crane and Lashaw ordered me hit.

  Fine! At least now I know whom I'm dealing with. And I'm prepared to take this escalation as proof Crane's got something serious to hide. Knob's a street hustler, the acolytes are punks, but Marcus Crane is acting like a man in trouble . . . and I must doubt that his fear of me is over a few fuzzy photographs showing him soliciting on the Gulch.

  Entering my building, I glance at the security video camera. The lens is small but it gives me comfort. Upstairs, when I turn my key in my new lock, there's a sweet sound as the bolt is thrown. I shut the door behind me and disarm the alarm. If I fail to do so within fifteen seconds, a siren will start to shriek.

  I go immediately to my darkroom, pull negatives of the shots I took of Crane in front of his house, print up the whole series on eight-by-ten paper, squeegee the prints, pin them up and look closely at his face.

  Is this the face of a killer? Perhaps in the final shot. But is it also the face of a man who could cut his victim into pieces in Wildcat Canyon, paint up the torso, then haul the head and limbs back downtown?

  I have doubts. Crane's too suave, his car's too nice; he's not the type to sully himself. Sure, he'd plunder a person's body, use him without qualm—but would he take pleasure in the blood, eroticize the butchery? I don't think so. Still, I must not forget, he is my enemy.

  Joel calls. He's been phoning around trying to locate the four cops.

  "We can't see Hayes—he's been dead five years. Classic gun-in-the-mouth cop suicide."

  Even as I wince, I understand Joel has forgotten about my mother.

  "Waincroft," he continues. "lives down in Santa Cruz. Night watchman at the pier amusement park. I finally got hold of him. Sounded like he does a lot of drinking. Says he wants to think it over before submitting to an interview."

  From cop sergeant to night watchman—what a fall!

  "Puccio's another story. You know Giordano's in North Beach?"

  "Pizza and pasta joint. Great calamari salad. "

  "It's his mom's place. He's the maitre d'. Invited us over tomorrow for a late lunch after the crowd thins out."

  "What about Vasquez?"

  "Since he's still a cop, his interview'll have to be cleared through S.F.P.D. Public Affairs."

  I tell Joel about the break-in, Drake's ID of the perps, my hunch that Knob and his boys are working for Crane.

  "I'm worried about you, kiddo."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "Maybe. . . but admit it, so far you haven't done too good a job."

  He's right, which pisses me off. "So tell me, Joel—what would you do if three guys jumped you, then broke into your house?"

  "Well," he says, "I guess I'd put in a new lock, then sign up for a martial arts class."

  I print up my shots of Knob and his flunkies on poly-contrast, quick-dry them with my hair dryer, place them in an envelope with my eight-by-tens of C
rane, walk down to Marina Aikido, take a class and shower. Afterward I use the pay phone to call Maddy. She says it's okay to come over, so I walk on to her place on Alhambra.

  She looks particularly fragile today, but I know better than to inquire after her health. Still I'm touched when, in the hallway, she takes hold of my arm. After we're seated on her couch, I notice the translucence of her skin, the thinness of her wrists, the delicacy of the cords that protrude from her neck. Her eyes, on the other hand, are sharp as ever.

  "You look good, Kay," she says, "strong, confident. But you've been having trouble."

  How well she knows me.

  "That's why I've come."

  She glances at my envelope. I open it, pull the photos, spread them out. "Not proof sheets this time, just prints."

  Unlike other teachers I've had, slop prints don't bother Maddy. Technical stuff, she knows, can be taught by anyone. She concerns herself with how her students see.

  "These are grab shots of hostile models," she says. "A couple are very good. This one"—she picks up the shot I took of Knob and his boys at The Werewolf, "and this"—she chooses the last in my series on Crane, the one in which he appears about to break. "But you've done a lot of work like this, Kay. You've learned how and you do it well. You shoot them straight and refuse to flinch." She looks at me, questioning. "But you didn't come to hear that. There's something else."

  I ask her if she'll look closely at the pictures and tell me what they say to her about the people.

  "I know this isn't what you usually do, Maddy, but you're so perceptive . . . and I need some good advice."

  She waves her hand to shush me, resumes studying the prints. I watch her as she peers at their faces. I wonder why I have come to her for this when I could have easily shown the shots to Rita Reese. Rita's also shrewd about people; she could tell me whether Knob and Crane are truly dangerous. But Maddy is the only person I know who has come to her understanding of the world through black-and-white photography.