Nightcrawlers

11

JAKE RUNYON

He hated hospitals.

Six months of them while Colleen was dying, the last six months of her life. Short stays for tests and radiation treatments, longer stays when the cancer worsened, then that last terrible month when they both knew there was no more hope and she kept growing weaker and weaker, becoming a small wasted pitiful thing lying there among all that antiseptic white and gleaming metal. The medicine smells, sick smells, death smells. The pain, the rage he’d felt. The fight to keep a smile on his face and his voice upbeat, and the constant fear that he wouldn’t be able to get through another visit, that he’d break down right there in front of her. At least she hadn’t died in that place. The last few days at home, with him and a hospice nurse at her bedside, had been bad enough. In the hospital, the waiting and the slow slipping away would have been unbearable. He’d’ve broken down for sure.

As soon as he walked into San Francisco General, the sights and smells brought the hate spiraling up into his throat. Irrational, almost pathological-so be it. Before he’d let anybody shut him up in a place like this, stick tubes and needles in him, hook him up to machines, he’d do what he’d thought about doing in those first couple of days after Colleen was gone. He’d put the muzzle of his. 357 Magnum between his teeth and this time there’d be no sweating hesitation, no waffling; this time he’d eat it.

He crossed the lobby fast to the elevators. Fourth floor, Joshua had said. He punched 4 on the panel, and while the elevator took him up there he finished shutting himself down inside, focusing his mind to basics-the only way he could deal with a place like this. Do what he’d come here to do. Get through it. Walk out and away as quickly as possible.

Kenneth Hitchcock was in Ward 6. The floor duty nurse told him where it was. Six beds, three on a side, each one outfitted with privacy curtains. The curtain was partially open at the one on the left, nearest the door; inside, Joshua sat in a chair drawn up close to the bed, holding the hand of the man who lay there. He clung to it even more tightly when he saw Runyon; his face shaped into one of his defiant looks. Runyon acknowledged him with a nod, shifted his gaze to Kenneth Hitchcock.

Well set up, dark, long hair, and a brushy mustache. Handsome, ordinarily, in an actorish way, but not now. Left arm in a sling, upper body swathed in bandages to hold his cracked ribs in place, right side of his face bandaged, the other side tallowish and raddled with lemon- and raspberry-hued bruises. He was awake, his eyes open and reflecting pain. Joshua had said on the phone that his condition had been upgraded to fair, that he’d be all right barring infection or a resumption of internal bleeding.

“Kenny,” Joshua said, “this is Jake Runyon.” Not “my father,” just the name. As if he were introducing a stranger.

“Hello.” Weak voice, ghost of a smile. “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands.”

“My son tells me you’re feeling better.”

“Might live. Wasn’t so sure there for a while.”

“You’ll be fine,” Joshua said. Then again, as though trying to convince himself, “You’ll be fine.”

Runyon said to him, “I’d like to talk to Kenneth alone.”

“Alone? Why?”

“Indulge me. It won’t take long.”

“I don’t know… Kenny?”

“It’s okay. See if you can get me some bottled water, will you? I’m thirsty, and the tap water here tastes like piss.”

“All right, love.”

The term of endearment was for Runyon’s benefit-looking right at him as he said it. Another attempt at defiance. Runyon ignored it. How long before Joshua learned, if he ever learned, that his sexual orientation meant nothing to his father? Family mattered, blood mattered. Gay didn’t matter at all.

Joshua went away without looking at him. Runyon pulled the chair back a foot or so, sat down. Midnight-blue eyes, dull with pain, watched and measured him. What Kenneth thought of him, if anything, didn’t register on his battered face.

“I can’t tell you much,” he said. “Don’t remember much. Doctors say that’s typical in trauma cases.”

Runyon said, “Two men, young, in a pickup truck. One a chunky redhead with freckles, wearing some kind of cap, the other tall and slender wearing a jacket with a hood.”

“That’s more than I remember. Where did you-?”

“First two victims. Gene Zalesky, Larry Exeter.”

“They were luckier. Those bastards almost killed me.”

“You recognize either of them?”

“No. I told you, I don’t-”

“Never saw either of them before? Hanging around The Dark Spot?”

“That type of breeder? No way.”

“Zalesky saw one of them, the tall one, outside The Dark Spot one night. Talking to Troy.”

Kenneth blinked at the name. The tip of his tongue flicked over dry, cracked lips. Belatedly, “Who?”

“Troy. Young, blond kid with an angelic face. Hangs out at The Dark Spot.”

“Lots of guys hang out there. Busy every night.”

“He likes to sit at the bar. Likes company, likes to flirt.”

“That fits half our customers.”

“So you don’t know him?”

“No.”

“I think you’re lying, Kenneth.”

“Lying? Why would I lie to you?”

“Because I’m Joshua’s old man. Because you don’t want him to find out that you’re not as faithful as he thinks you are.”

Unwavering eye contact. “Bullshit.”

“What’s Troy’s last name? Where does he live?”

“How should I know?”

“Tell me the truth, I’ll keep it to myself. Joshua doesn’t have to find out.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Runyon said evenly, “Lots of people slip now and then, cheat on a spouse or a lover. I can understand that-it’s human nature. Forgivable. One thing I can’t forgive is cover-your-ass lying. I don’t like liars, Kenneth.”

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.