The tongue flicked again, but the blue eyes remained fixed on Runyon’s. “Why all these questions? What does this Troy have to do with me getting bashed?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Troy hangs out at The Dark Spot, you work at The Dark Spot, Zalesky and Exeter are regulars at The Dark Spot. All three of you had sex with Troy—”
“Not me. How many times do I have to tell you I don’t know anybody named Troy.”
“—and then all three of you got beat up. That’s more coincidence than I can believe.”
“I don’t care what you believe. It was random . . . random bashing of random victims.”
“Because you want it to be?”
“And you want it to be something else—payback for imagined sins, queers getting their just desserts. Right? Homophobic bullshit. Joshua was right about you from the beginning. You’re a homophobe. Why don’t you admit it?”
All that in the same weak, calm voice as before. Maintaining eye contact. Stonewalling. Kenneth Hitchcock was the kind of man who refused to admit fault or accept responsibility for his own actions, would go to any lengths—lie his soul straight to hell—to keep his structured life and his image intact. Self-centered, shallow, small-minded.
“One more chance to be straight with me, Kenneth. Where can I find Troy?”
Faint, weary smile. “How can I be straight when I’m gay?”
Runyon stood up, turned away—
“Mr. Runyon.”
—and turned back to look at the man in the bed.
“If you say anything to Joshua about this theory of yours, he won’t believe you. It’ll just make him hate you all the more. You don’t want that and neither do I.”
“What I want is the truth.”
“The truth is, I care about your son and he cares about me. We’re not casual lovers. I mean it, our relationship is a lot stronger than that.”
Runyon said nothing.
“And I want you to know—I won’t hurt him.”
“No? Buddy, I think maybe you already have.”
Joshua was sitting on one of the chairs in a waiting area near the elevators, elbows propped on his knees, a bottle of mineral water on the floor beside him. He’d rallied some, now that Kenneth was out of danger, but he still looked exhausted. His head came up when he heard Runyon approaching. All in one motion, then, he was on his feet with the bottle in his hand.
“You shouldn’t have stayed so long. He’s still weak.”
“Yes he is,” Runyon said. “Very weak.”
“He needs his rest. What were you asking him?”
“Questions about what happened.”
“Then why didn’t you want me there?”
“It’s easier to talk one on one.”
“You didn’t pry about anything personal, did you? Our relationship? My private life is none of your business.”
Runyon had no intention of passing on his suspicions or his opinion of Kenneth Hitchcock. Joshua wouldn’t believe it, Kenneth had been right about that, and it would add fuel to the bad feelings between them, but that wasn’t the reason. Even if he hadn’t been forced out of the first twenty years of his son’s life, he’d still keep this kind of thing to himself. Joshua was an adult; adults made their own decisions and their own mistakes. He’d find out what Kenneth was when this gay-bashing business was over, or eventually in some other way. Live and learn the hard way.
He said, “None of my business, that’s right. You asked me to do a job, I’m trying to do it. That’s all.”
“All right. Did he remember anything helpful?”
“Not much.”
“Well . . . I’d better take him this water, make sure he’s okay.”
“Be a good idea to get some rest yourself. How’d you get here? Bus?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll wait for you, give you a ride home.”
“No, thanks. I’ll stay until visiting hours are over.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Suit yourself,” Runyon said. “Couple of quick questions before you go. You spend much time at The Dark Spot?”
“What does that . . . No, not a lot of time. Now and then, but Kenneth isn’t comfortable with me around while he’s working. It makes him nervous.”
“You know a guy named Troy? Early twenties, blond, angelic face?”
“Troy? I don’t think so. Why?”
“Roundabout lead I’m pursuing.”
“Did you ask Kenneth? He knows all the Dark Spot regulars.”
“I asked him,” Runyon said. “He doesn’t know Troy.”
Gene Zalesky was home tonight, but not as friendly as he’d been on Monday. He left the chain on when he answered the door, said through the opening, “I have company. Can’t you come back tomorrow?”
“I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“What is it? I told you everything I know Monday night.”
“Not everything. Not about you and Troy.”
Thick silence this time.
“Better let me in,” Runyon said.
Reluctantly Zalesky complied. Nervous concern showed on his bruised and bandaged face, and his cynicism seemed tempered with resignation. No bluster or defiance, though, which meant he was going to be cooperative. The Gene Zaleskys of the world were usually cooperative when push came to shove: survival mechanism of the intelligent and downtrodden misfit.
They went into the antiques-strewn living room. It was empty; not even the Angora cat was in evidence. If Zalesky really did have company, the guest had been installed in another room. Zalesky preferred not to stand tonight; Runyon watched him lower his battered body onto a Victorian love seat, half turned to his left so that his weight rested on his nonbruised buttock, one leg splayed out in front of him. An awkward position that gave him a vulnerable aspect. Calculated, maybe, so Runyon wouldn’t be too hard on him.
He sighed before he said, “I guess I should have expected this.”
“Chickens and lies, Mr. Zalesky.” Runyon sat on another piece of Victoriana facing him. “They both come home to roost.”
“Homilies from a detective. I’m impressed.” The sarcasm was thin and bleak. “But I don’t see what difference it makes in your investigation, my relationship with Troy.”
“You lied about it.”
“For personal reasons that have nothing to do with the beatings.”
“I don’t know that. Neither do you.”
Zalesky gave him an analytical look. “You’re good at your job, aren’t you. The manhunter type. I don’t think I’d want you coming after me.”
“Then tell me why you lied about Troy.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“You know about him, about us . . .”
“Not as much as I need to know.”
“I was trying to protect myself, that’s all. You can understand that.”
“Protect yourself from what?”
“Well, my God, possible criminal charges, of course. My company is fairly conservative—they tolerate gay employees, but they take a dim view of negative publicity involving one of us. This beating I suffered is bad enough, but the other . . . if that came out and charges were filed, I’d be fired in a New York minute.”
“What kind of criminal charges?”
“Troy is underage,” Zalesky said. “You didn’t know that?”
“No, I didn’t. If The Dark Spot serves minors, that’s their problem—”
“I don’t mean drinking age, I mean the legal age of consent. He’s seventeen.”
“So that’s it. A molestation charge, that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I don’t mess around with underage kids.”
“Neither do I,” Zalesky said miserably. “If I’d known his real age, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with him. I swear it, I wouldn’t have. But he doesn’t look that young, even
with that sweet face he looks twenty-one and he claimed to be twenty-one.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “You don’t ask to see someone’s driver’s license in a crowded bar.”
“Bartenders are supposed to. Didn’t Kenneth Hitchcock or one of the others card him?”
“Evidently not. I told you, Troy looks twenty-one, acts twenty-one . . . I’ve never seen any seventeen-year-old as outwardly mature as he is.”
“How’d you find out his real age?”
“He told me. One night after we . . . he let it slip while we were talking. My God, I’ve never gotten out of a bed faster in my life.”
“His bed or yours?”
“Mine. Of course I threw him out immediately. I may be a fool, but I’m not stupid.”
“When was this?”
“Three weeks ago. A Friday night.”
“Seen him since?”
“Once, at The Dark Spot. A few days later. We didn’t speak.”
Runyon asked, “What’s his last name?”
“He said it was Scott, Troy Scott.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“No, I don’t. I can’t say why . . . I just had the impression he was lying.”
“And you didn’t ask.”
“Why should I? Not everyone in my world uses his right name.” Wry quirk of his mouth. “It’s the nature of the beast.”
“You know where he lives?”
“He has . . . had . . . a room in a house on Hattie Street.”
“Had?”
“I heard he’d moved out. Somebody mentioned that . . . I don’t remember who. And I don’t know where he went.”
“Where’s Hattie Street?”
“Off Upper Market. A few blocks from here.”
“Number of the house?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s a large Victorian, three or four shades of blue, with a rainbow fanlight over the door. There’s no other like it in the block.”
“What kind of work does he do?”
“He said he wanted to be an engineer.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.”
“I . . . don’t think he has a regular job.”
“Hustles? You give him money?”
Zalesky chewed his lip. He said, embarrassment in his voice, “I was afraid you’d ask that. Yes, I gave him money. We called it a loan but we both knew it was nothing of the kind.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred dollars over a period of time.”
“How much time?”
“A week or so.”
Two hundred. Troy hadn’t gotten anywhere near that much from Exeter, not for a one-night stand, but he’d got something, probably. How much from Kenneth? Others? Pretty good living if Troy was as promiscuous as advertised.
“What about his background?” Runyon asked. “He tell you anything about himself when you were together?”
“Not very much, no. He was reticent about that. Every time I asked him a personal question, he said, ‘I’d rather not talk about the past. Now’s what I’m interested in.’ ”
“Any hint as to where he’s from?”
“The Bay Area. He wouldn’t say where, but . . . I think it might have been South San Francisco.”
“Yes?”
“I mentioned South City once, in some context or other, and he made a face and said something about it being an armpit.”
“Where’d you first meet him? The Dark Spot?”
“Yes.”
“And he picked up others there besides you.”
“Oh, yes,” Zalesky said. “Variety was what Troy was after, not any kind of couples thing. God, he was a horny little bastard. Couldn’t get enough—” He broke off, words and eye contact both. “Sorry. You don’t want to hear the details of my sex life or his.”
“Who else did he sleep with?”
“Does it matter?”
“Names, Mr. Zalesky. As many as you’re sure of.”
“You won’t say where you got them?”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“All right. Jerry Butterfield is one I’m sure of. And . . . Paul Venner. That’s all I can think of at the moment.”
“Kenneth Hitchcock?”
“Kenneth? No . . . no, I don’t think so.”
“You’re not a very good liar,” Runyon said. “I already know about Kenneth and Troy. And no, I haven’t told my son. I’m not going to and neither are you.”
“Of course not. It’s none of my—” A sudden thought cut Zalesky off in midsentence; you could see it reflected on his face, like the reaction of a cartoon character when a lightbulb flashes on over his head. “My God, you don’t believe the bashings are random at all. You think they have something to do with Troy . . . those two men singling out Troy’s lovers. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Runyon said nothing.
“Jealousy? But that doesn’t make sense. Those men are vicious homophobes.”
“Not all homophobes are heterosexual.”
“Jeffrey Dahmer types? Hate queers because they hate being queer themselves?”
“You don’t buy it?”
“No,” Zalesky said, “I don’t. Not those two. They’re breeders, straights . . . don’t you think I know the difference?”
“Even though one of them was arguing with Troy one night outside The Dark Spot.”
“They know him, I’ll grant you that. But there’s some other reason for the bashings, for their hatred of gays. There has to be.”
“Jerry Butterfield and Paul Venner,” Runyon said. “Where do they live, work? Where can I find them besides The Dark Spot?”
Jerry Butterfield lived in a private home over near Twenty-fourth Street and had a listed phone number; he was an executive with one of the big computer companies, but Zalesky didn’t know which one. He didn’t answer his doorbell or his phone.
No address or listing for Paul Venner, but he worked in a leather shop on Twentieth and Castro.
Projects for tomorrow.
The big, blue Victorian on Hattie Street was easy enough to find. Somebody’s home once, long-since cut up into single rooms and turned into what passed for a boardinghouse these days. A sign on the front stoop said ROOMS FOR RENT and under that in smaller letters INQUIRE #4. Runyon rang the bell for #4, got no answer. He rang several others at random, one at a time. Three responses. None of the three would let him in or come out to talk to him, but it wouldn’t have mattered if they had. One said he didn’t know Troy Scott, the other two owned up to having seen him, but claimed not to have had any dealings with him. He’d moved out two weeks ago, that was the extent of the information any of them could provide. Talk to Keith Morgan in #4, one suggested, he handled the rentals for the building’s owner, maybe he knew where Troy had moved to.
One more project for tomorrow.
12
ROBERT LEMOYNE
He looked at her sprawled out on the couch where he’d pushed her down. Nobody he’d ever seen before. Scared and trying not to show it. Young, black—dark chocolate. Pretty enough, nice tits, good ass, but not his type. Skinny women, white or light-skinned black, had always been his thing. Like Dinah. Like Mia.
His head had stopped hurting and the anger and confusion were mostly gone now. He was starting to think again, real clear, and he didn’t like any of it. He liked everything to move along in a straight line, according to plan. Unexpected things threw him off. Complications he didn’t understand threw him off. What was he going to do about this one?
He said it aloud. “What am I going to do about you?”
“Better let me go, man,” she said. She kept tonguing her lips, shifting her eyes from his face to the pocket of his coat where he had the Saturday night special. “This is all a big misunderstanding, you know what I’m saying?”
“You were prowling around my property. Why?”
“Stupid mistake. I got the address wrong.”
“What address?”
“The one I’m supposed to be checkin
g out. It’s across the street.”
“What’s that mean, checking out?”
“I’m a private investigator,” she said, “trying to find a guy skipped out on his child-support payments. I think he’s living on this block, in a relative’s house, but I got the address wrong. That’s all.”
He stared at her. “That’s some story.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Private investigator? You?”
“Lots of women in the profession now, black and white. No lie. Listen, if you don’t believe me, call the police, have them check me out.”
“No.”
“Why not? You don’t want to let me go, call the cops and have me arrested.”
“Show me something that says you’re what you say you are.”
“I don’t have ID on me . . .”
“Where is it? Where’s your purse?”
“Purse?”
“In your car? Where’s your car?”
She sat up straighter, tonguing her lips, looking at his coat pocket. Didn’t want him looking in her purse. He kept watching her. Now she had her head cocked a little, as if she was listening for something. What? She’d been snooping around out back . . . what if she’d heard something? Angie. Angie hadn’t stopped bawling since he brought her home, kept calling for her mother. What if Dark Chocolate had heard her?
Private investigator. Christ!
“Where’s your car?” he said again.
That tongue of hers was doing double time. And she was still listening.
“Can’t be far away,” he said. “You think I won’t find it?”
“Why bother? Why don’t you just let the cops check out my ID when they get here?”
“You’d like it if I called them, wouldn’t you. Tell them all about it.”
“All about my stupid mistake, that’s right.”
“All about me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“All about Angie.”
“. . . Who’s Angie?”
She said it too fast. She’d heard, all right, she knew about the kid.
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