Nightcrawlers

15

JAKE RUNYON

Paul Venner, Troy’s lover who worked in the Castro leather shop, wouldn’t talk to him. Venner was in his twenties, had orange spiked hair and a tattoo of a scorpion under his right ear and a muscled body encased in black leather pants and an orange T-shirt with the words QUEER POWER emblazoned on the front; he wore his hostility toward both heterosexuals and cops like another motto on the sleeve. He stonewalled every question Runyon put to him by saying aggressively, “No comment. Buy something or get out, you don’t belong here” or “Hey, you’d look good in cowhide and chains” or “How about a fur-lined jock strap, they’re on sale this week.” Runyon didn’t bite on any of it. Nothing ever showed on his face unless he wanted it to, and he showed Venner nothing but a flat stare the entire five minutes he was in there. When he said, “You’d better watch yourself, kid, or you’ll end up in the hospital like the other three victims,” and got another smart-ass comment in return, he walked out. The Paul Venners of the world, the hard-line haters, the self-involved screw-everybody-else jerks gay or straight, deserved whatever they got.

Another visit to Jerry Butterfield’s house-a refurbished post-1906 earthquake cottage with an add-on garage-also bought him nothing. Still nobody home. On the back of one of his agency business cards he wrote his cell-phone number and a brief call-me-it’s-important message, and wedged the card into the doorjamb above the lock. If he didn’t hear from Butterfield by seven or eight tonight, he’d follow up again himself.

Next stop: Hattie Street.

Keith Morgan was fifty or so, heavyset, sad-eyed. Lines and wrinkles calipered a small mouth, scored his cheeks and neck; even his head beneath a sparse combing of brown hair showed faint furrows. His first-floor studio apartment in the big, blue Victorian was dominated by framed photographs of a thin bearded man alone and in candid shots with Morgan, and prints and lithographs of dogs of one kind and another. A live dog, old and shaggy, of indeterminate breed, followed its master everywhere and never left him alone; it showed no interest in Runyon. Cataracts made its eyes look like blobs of milky glass.

Morgan had no problem with Runyon being straight or a detective. He listened to a brief explanation for the visit, nodded, showed him into the apartment, turned off a TV tuned to a noisy talk show, offered him something to drink, and then sat in a creaky recliner with the blind animal at his feet. The room smelled of dog and some kind of food with a lot of curry powder in it.

“Troy,” he said. “Well, I guess I’m not surprised he’s the cause of trouble.”

“Why is that, Mr. Morgan?”

“Wild young fool. The kind with no sense. Won’t listen to anybody, think nothing bad will ever happen to them and they’ll live forever.”

“Promiscuous, I’ve been told.”

“Lord, yes. He had a parade of lovers in and out.” Wry mouth. “He even propositioned me right after he moved in’offered to trade sex for his rent. I refused, of course. I would have even if I owned the building.”

“Yes?”

“I’m HIV positive,” Morgan said.

“I see. Recent diagnosis?”

“No, I was diagnosed more than ten years ago. Amazing the disease hasn’t killed me by now. My partner wasn’t so lucky. He died nine years ago. Probably infected by me, though that’s not certain.”

Runyon said, “I’m sorry,” and meant it.

“So am I. But you learn to live with it. Learn to live without sex, too. I gave that up when Dave died.” His lips moved, shaped something that might have been a ghost of a smile. “I felt it was the least I could do to honor his memory.”

“Did you tell Troy you were HIV positive?”

“I did, and he still offered me safe sex. See what I mean by wild young fool?”

“He moved out two weeks ago, is that right?”

“He vacated his room two weeks ago, yes.”

“Why the distinction?”

“He didn’t move voluntarily. I kicked him out.”

“For what reason?”

Morgan sighed heavily. At the sound, the blind dog raised its head and keened the air; when the sound wasn’t repeated, the shaggy head went down again on stretched-out forepaws.

“I found out he was underage,” Morgan said. “Troy looks much older, but he’s only seventeen.”

“How did you find out?”

“From his brother.”

Runyon said, “Brother?”

“That’s right. You didn’t know he had a family?”

“I don’t know much about him at all. What’s the brother’s name?”

“He didn’t say, but when I confronted Troy, he called him Tommy. He showed up here one day looking for Troy. He… well, he was belligerent and abusive.”

“Homophobic?”

“Probably. No, definitely. He called my home a ‘fag house.’ Why did I let an underage kid live in this ‘fag house,’ he said.”

“What’d he look like?”

“There’s a resemblance to Troy, but he’s darker, not as good-looking. In his early twenties.”

“Tall, slender?”

“That’s right.” Morgan frowned, ran the tips of his fingers across his lower lip. “You seem to know him. I take it you think he’s one of the men responsible for the assaults.”

“Pretty good chance of it.”

“I’m not surprised. Belligerent, abusive, homophobic, and not very bright-a lethal combination. His brother is underage and gay, so he’s taking out his anger and hatred on Troy’s lovers.”

“Beginning to look that way.”

“Sick, senseless.”

“Most acts of violence are.”

“Do you think I’m in any danger?”

The question was matter-of-fact, more one of curiosity than fear. The right answer was yes, anybody in the gay community who’d had anything to do with Troy was a potential victim. Runyon gave him the other answer, the one designed to reassure.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan. Tommy and his buddy aren’t going to be running around loose much longer.”

Morgan nodded. Maybe he believed it, maybe he didn’t.

“Was Tommy by himself when he was here?” Runyon asked.

“I didn’t see anyone else.”

“You happen to notice what kind of vehicle he was driving?”

“I’m sorry, no, I didn’t.”

“Was Troy home at the time?”

“No, and a good thing he wasn’t. As angry as Tommy was, there’d have been a scene.”

“He just went away? Tommy, I mean.”

“Not before he said he’d ‘fix me’ if I let Troy keep on living here. ‘Tell him to get his ass back home fast or I’ll come and drag it back.’ His exact words. I don’t like threats, but letting rooms in this building is my responsibility. I can’t afford to lose my manager’s position, or this apartment.”

“So you gave Troy his walking papers that same day?”

“As soon as he came home. Once I verified his age, I had the legal right.”

“How did you verify it?”

The blind dog, asleep now, let out a long, low groaning sound and one of its back paws began a spasmodic twitching. Morgan looked down at the animal, and his sad eyes grew even sadder. “Poor old Doc,” he said. “He’s sixteen, he has arthritis and half a dozen other ailments. I’m going to have to put him down soon.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I hate the thought of it,” Morgan said. “He’s all I’ve had since Dave died. I don’t know how I’m going to get along without him.”

“You could get another dog.”

“Yes. I could. I suppose it’s better than being alone.”

For him it was. For Runyon, being alone was better than trying to replace the irreplaceable. He said, “About Troy. You were going to tell me how you verified his age.”

“Well… I probably shouldn’t admit to this,” Morgan said, “but after the brother left I was so upset I used my passkey to get into Troy’s room. I don’t make a habit of that sort of thing-I believe in everyone’s right to privacy-but under the circumstances… well, I felt justified.”

“And you found what?”

“His driver’s license, believe it or not. It was in one of the nightstand drawers, just tossed in there.”

Which probably meant that Troy had some sort of fake ID that he carried around with him, in case he was carded; that would explain how he was able to frequent clubs like The Dark Spot with impunity.

Runyon said, “His real last name. It’s not Scott, is it?”

“No. Douglass. With two esses.”

“Do you remember the address on the license?”

“I don’t, no. I only glanced at it.”

“Would the city have been South San Francisco?”

“That’s right, it was. South San Francisco.”

Troy Douglass. Tommy Douglass. All right.

“What was Troy’s reaction when you told him to vacate?”

“Oh, he argued a bit at first. Until I delivered his brother’s message.”

“And then?”

“He went pale, said something like ‘Oh no, how did he find me? Why can’t he just leave me alone, let me be who I am?’ ”

“That sounds as though he might be afraid of Tommy.”

“No question of that.”

“You think he did what Tommy told him to, went back home?”

“He said he didn’t know what he was going to do, but I had the feeling he wouldn’t defy his brother. The fear factor. It didn’t take him long to load his belongings into that old car of his and be on his way.”

“What kind of old car? Make, model?”

“A Chevrolet, I think. White, sporty, at least twenty years old. And loud-a loud engine.”

“And you haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“Not a word.” Morgan paused, reached down absently to touch the blind dog with his fingertips. “Do you think you can find Tommy before he hurts anyone else?”

“I’m sure as hell going to try.”

He was just starting down Market Street, heading for the 101 freeway and South San Francisco, when his cell phone rang. He’d never much cared for people who talked while they drove unless it was absolutely necessary, so he pulled over into a loading zone to take the call.

Bill. Still no word from Tamara. No sign of her car in San Leandro. He’d just talked to a friend of hers, Vonda something, and the news he’d gotten from her wasn’t encouraging.

“I think we’ve got a situation here, Jake,” he said. His voice was flat, professional, but there was an undercurrent of tension in it.

“Beginning to look that way. How do you want to handle it?”

“It’s too soon to report her missing. Up to us, at least for the time being.”

“Priority.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. Priority. Where are you?”

Runyon told him. “I can be in the office in twenty minutes.”

“Come ahead. First thing is for you to take a crack at her computer. Then we’ll see.”

“On my way.”

Runyon pulled out into traffic again. He hadn’t let himself think much about Tamara while he was working on the gay bashings. Not because he wasn’t concerned; he liked the woman, respected her, shared a professional bond. Because he’d learned long ago that the only way to do a job right was to concentrate on it-one thing at a time; and because Bill was calling the shots on her unexplained absence. Now that he was needed on that, he quit thinking about Troy and Tommy Douglass and focused on Tamara. Priority. When one of your own was in trouble and there was something you could do about it, you back-burnered everything else.