South of Broad (32 page)

Sheba says, “Don’t worry about it, Molly. I couldn’t do it, either. For the stupidest reason on earth, one that you will hate me for admitting.”

“You can tell us anything,” Ike says. “We’re not capable of hating you.”

“Because he’s my goddamn father. And here’s how screwed up he’s made me: I still love him because of that, and only that. He’s my dad and he’s Trevor’s dad. I’d love to see him disappear, but I don’t want to see him die.”

As she weeps, I observe Sheba and think that she has invented herself out of masks so numerous she can no longer select her own legitimate face out of the museum she has cultivated to hide herself in. Because she is an actress, she has fashioned an entire career out of identity theft. Sitting there, I find myself believing her completely, yet not really knowing if she has spoken the truth. It is difficult to trust a woman who has built herself out of a house of exits and not marked a single entrance.

“What else do we need to know?” Ike asks us as a group. “We’ll make this as fast as we can, Sheba. This has been terrible for you, for all of us.”

“Knowing your dad, why did you believe he was really dead, Sheba? Even with what was supposed to be his ashes?” Betty asks.

Sheba shrugs. “That’s what they told me in New York. They found his ID. I got the ashes.”

“When did this happen?” Ike asks.

“A few months ago,” she says.

“So how does he know you’re out here?” Niles says.

“Herb Caen told him Sheba’s address,” Molly says. “Sheba’s father was staking out Trevor’s old apartment. Hell, Leo’s written a bunch of columns about Trevor’s apartment, too.”

“That’s enough for tonight, Sheba,” Ike says.

“But there will be more?”

“Why the obsession with you and Trevor?” Molly asks.

“A simple game. One of absolute control. One that brooked no rebellion,” Sheba says. “My dad called himself master. He called us slaves. He said it was the simplest and most ancient and most honorable game on earth. And he once said, ‘Here’s my promise to you: it will never end.’ When he raped me in L.A., he confessed to me that he only had children because he wanted someone to fuck for the rest of his life. ‘Having twins was a surprise,’ he told me. ‘Double the pleasure, double the fun.’”

CHAPTER 17
New Denizen of the Washbag

O
n Friday we begin the difficult process of saying good-bye to the dying men we have been bringing lunch to for almost two weeks. The farewells are trying and emotional for all. Though Open Hand warned us about the dangers of growing too attached, the nature and seriousness of the duties have changed everything about us. We spend much of the day weeping as we make our departures. Already, we have found four dead men in the hotels we serviced in the Tenderloin. That we have failed to locate Trevor weighs heavily, that sense of imminent failure causing despondency in most of us and surliness in Sheba. None of us has ever encountered such indomitable courage, relentless wit, and passion for life as we have since our lives intersected with these disease-ravaged men.

My soul feels tired as we head into the Washbag. The waitress Leslie greets us with a hug; word has spread among the regulars that there still have been no sightings of Trevor.

“I wasted everybody’s time coming out here,” Sheba says. “I’ve put everybody’s life in danger. And we still don’t have jack-shit to show for any of this.” She stops herself and collapses into tears. There is no acting here, only despair, and she begins whimpering like some small, soft nocturnal creature. Before we can respond, Leslie comes running to our table from the front room, breathless.

“Something odorous and homicidal this way comes,” Leslie says.

“What do you mean?” Ike asks, rising out of his seat.

“A huge black guy. Obviously homeless. Says he needs to talk to you guys.”

Sheba has gained some control of herself, and it is she who first makes the connection. “That creep on the cable car! The one who tried to steal my purse.”

I say to Leslie, “Make the biggest steak you’ve got with all the works. Bring it out to that first bench in the square.”

Niles and Ike are already on the street, talking to the only linebacker for the Oakland Raiders who lives in the backseat of a junkyard car.

“Maybe he has news,” I say to the women following me as I reach the tense convocation taking place on Powell Street. “I ordered dinner for our man here,” I tell Ike and Niles.

“They threatened to call the cops on me when I tried to go inside,” Macklin Tijuana Jones says, with true indignation.

“You don’t fit their client profile,” Ike says in his most appeasing voice.

“You promised five grand if anyone found your little faggot.” Macklin is sitting on a park bench as the rest of us stand. “Where’s my money?”

Ike says, “Where’s our friend? The money doesn’t change hands until we’re shaking hands with Trevor Poe.”

“I found him,” Macklin says. “Like I said I would. I proved myself trustworthy. Now I want my money.” He takes out the flyer that we spread over the length and breadth of San Francisco and studies it as though it were a treasure map of infinite worth. “That’s him, okay. I’ve seen him with my own eyeballs. Saw him yesterday.”

Leslie comes into the park carrying a tray full of food and a six-pack of beer. With some solemnity, she places the tray on Macklin’s lap and says, “We fixed the steak medium-rare. Is that okay with you, hon?”

“Just the way I like it, ma’am,” he says. “My compliments to the chef and please add a thirty percent tip to my bill.”

We watch as Macklin begins to eat dinner with surprising delicacy and enjoyment. Then I remember that he was once an NFL star and knew how to conduct himself in the best restaurants of any city. “Gentlemen, ladies, this is a fine, fine meal.”

“You’ve seen Trevor Poe?” Ike demands impatiently.

“With my own two peepers,” Macklin answers between bites.

“Can you get us to him?” Ike asks.

“Your boy’s in trouble, lawman,” he replies. “Yeah, I can get you to him. But getting him out’s going to be hell.”

“Where is he?” Sheba cries.

“Bunny’s got him,” Macklin replies.

“Who’s Bunny?” Ike asks.

“You don’t even want to know,” he says, concentrating on his food. He points his fork at us. “Tell you what. Meet me at eight in the morning on Turk and Polk Street.”

“You’ll take us to see this Bunny?” Ike asks.

“Hell, no. Bunny’d kill me if he knew I was leading cops to his place.”

“You afraid of somebody?” Ike asks. “That don’t sound much like you.”

“Bunny played for the Raiders a few years before I did,” Macklin says as he resumes eating. “Bunny Buncombe, wore number eighty-nine. White boy who played for Florida State. He weighed three hundred pounds then. Bet he weighs in at four hundred now. He’s mental. Bad crazy. Not cute crazy, but mean crazy. He’d kill his own mother and sell her used Kotex for a cough drop.”

“What a beautiful image,” Fraser says.

“Watch your language around my wife,” Niles growls.

“We came out to San Francisco for a vacation and a few laughs,” I say. “And we get to meet our friend Macklin again. Sheba’s dad shows up for another go at the father-daughter dance. Now we find out Trevor’s developed a friendship with a four-hundred-pound whacko named Bunny.”

“Why would Trevor stay with someone like Bunny?” Betty asks in bewilderment. “He’s always hated that kind of man.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, ma’am,” Macklin says. “Your friend Trevor’s a prisoner of war. Like the rest of the pansies locked up in Bunny’s house. He can’t leave. Not allowed to.”

“He’s an adult,” Fraser says. “He can leave if he wants to.”

“Hey, society lady, I’ve seen people go low in the Tenderloin. Hell,
I’ve
been low in the Tenderloin. But Bunny has built his own kind of hell there. It may be worse than hell. I’ll have to die to find out, won’t I? Anyway,” he says, finishing his meal and laying his napkin on the tray, “I’ll meet you nice folks at eight in the morning, and we’ll see what we can do. There’s a coffee shop run by a Mr. Joe on the east side of Polk near Golden Gate. Meet me there.”

“How do we know you’ll be there?” Ike asks.

“Five thousand reasons. You come ready to rumble. Bunny’ll kill every one of you if you try to interfere with his little lifestyle. By the way, your particular faggot ain’t doing so good. And I’ll bet one of you’s gonna get killed by Bunny.”

I
n the meanest part of the Tenderloin, we meet Macklin Tijuana Jones for breakfast at a place where the proprietor, who identifies himself as “Joe Blow,” is an elderly Vietnamese man. Macklin sleeps in Joe Blow’s backyard, in a rusted-out Mazda up on cinder blocks.

“Order everything,” Ike says, and we do. “Another steak, Macklin?”

“A steak is a fine way to start the day,” Macklin says.

“Where’s Trevor Poe, Macklin?” Ike demands. “You said you knew.”

“I’m a dead man if Bunny finds out I snitched,” Macklin warns, his eyes on the room, watchful.

“No one has to know you’re involved,” Betty says.

“You bring my five thousand?” Macklin asks.

“We got it,” Sheba answers. “Where’s my brother?”

“The little faggot’s your brother?” Macklin asks. “Well, he ain’t gonna be much longer. He’s eaten up with that AIDS shit. Been to the Castro yet? That’s where all the candy boys hang out. When I really get hard up, I go mug me a candy boy up near the Castro.”

“What an inspiring life,” says Sheba.

“Racist bitch,” Macklin mutters.

“Black fucking bastard from planet motherfucking hell,” Sheba says. “I wouldn’t give you five thousand dollars if you delivered my brother in a top hat and golden cane.”

“Get Sheba out of here,” I order Molly. “Where’s Trevor, Macklin? And why do you think it’s him you saw?”

“I told you Bunny was crazy, didn’t I?” Macklin says. “But he’s also smart. Bastard majored in business at Florida State. Son of a bitch graduated too. But got hurt in the pros right away. Used his bonus to buy a run-down boardinghouse in the Tenderloin. He does a little of everything. I buy my drugs from an addict he sponsors. No one cheats Bunny. Guys that do have to grow gills real fast.”

Ike is writing down everything that Macklin speaks. “Meaning?” he asks.

“It’s hard to breathe at the bottom of San Francisco Bay,” Macklin explains.

“Back to Trevor,” Niles says, growing agitated.

“Bunny was smart enough to see he could make money from AIDS. When the candy boys started getting sick, he got up a plan to take their money.”

“The ones we came across were impoverished,” I say. “They might as well be homeless.”

“But they get welfare checks.” Ike turns to Macklin. “Just like you do, I suppose?”

“Yeah, but mine’s gone in a jiff. That’s why I think drugs should be legalized,” says Macklin.

“Christ, now he’s a social reformer,” Niles breathes.

Macklin ignores him. “Bunny knew he couldn’t talk body lice into living in his boardinghouse. But if he found enough candy boys with AIDS, guys on their last legs, no family, no friends, nothing but a welfare check coming in every month? He gets himself twenty candy boys and twenty welfare checks. He gives them a room, enough food to keep them alive, no way to get in touch with the outside world. You don’t have to major in business to see that’d make a tidy profit, after all.”

“AIDS patients die,” I say. “That’s the hole in that theory.”

“Yeah, they die. But he just goes out recruiting for a new candy boy. He gets another welfare check. Bunny’s got a partner in the welfare department whose beat is the Tenderloin. He’s the one that monitors all the checks over to Bunny’s place on Turk Street. Bunny gives the cat a kickback on every check. I told you he was smart.”

Niles asks, “How do you know Trevor’s living there?”

“After y’all offered me money to find Trevor Poe, I went to Bunny for some drugs so I could nosy around. Bunny already knew about some folks searching for Trevor. He took me to meet him, bragging about having him, you know. Bunny said, ‘Say hi to Macklin, piano man.’ He calls him that ’cause there’s an old piano in his room which the little faggot plays sometimes. ‘Hey, Macklin, you’re cute,’ the piano man said. ‘Men like you make me thank the Lord I was born gay.’ It made me want to puke.”

“That’s Trevor,” I say.

“That’s our boy,” Niles agrees.

“That goddamn Herb Caen article,” Ike says with a shake of his head.

Macklin says, “Yep. Bunny reads Herb Caen first thing every morning. He’s been keeping a close eye on you folks.”

“We need to have a meeting with just us, Macklin,” Ike says, taking a hundred-dollar bill out of his billfold.

“Where’s my five thousand?” Macklin demands.

“That’s when we get hold of Trevor. This is a down payment. Anything else you can think of that might help?”

“One: there’s a broken door on the roof of Bunny’s house. I’ve smoked a little dope up there with the janitor a time or two. How do I know you won’t just skip town when you get your candy boy?”

“Because we’re nothing like you, scumbag,” Niles says to him.

“I may go tell Bunny that I just talked to you,” Macklin says. “Maybe he’ll work out a better deal for me. A man’s always got to look out for himself first. That’s my business philosophy.”

“Bunny’d kill you in a flash,” Ike says.

Macklin considers the wisdom of this observation, and tells Ike: “Your faggot lives on the third floor. His door is painted blue.”

“Go drink a bottle of Thunderbird,” Niles says. “We’ll get in touch with you after the dance.”

Macklin salutes us and Joe Blow, then hurries out to face his sad, disheveled life.

“I’d like to help that guy,” Ike says.

“Put a bullet in the back of his head,” Niles says. “You’d be doing the whole world a favor.”

•   •   •

B
unny’s house is a crumbling Victorian, two doors down from the Delmonico Hotel. We’ve passed by it dozens of times while delivering meals for Open Hand. The squalor of the Tenderloin gains resonance by the presence of these run-down houses that were once beauties. Its front door looks like the entrance to a small-town jail; all the windows are barred. There are no signs of life. The five-story house would fetch millions in Presidio Heights, but I wouldn’t have paid a silver dollar for it in the sad-faced Tenderloin.

Niles and I pretend to sleep on either side of the house, both dressed as homeless men in bad shoes, stocking caps, and scabrous coats from a Goodwill store. Molly and Sheba, looking well dressed and efficient, walk up the front steps and ring the doorbell. For a long minute, nothing happens. They ring the bell again. It hits a deep, rich tone that sounds clearly through the house.

The gigantic figure of Bunny appears at the door. Though pretending to sleep, I keep my eyes fixed on the doorway, the world made bizarre through a squint. Bunny is terrible-looking, deranged.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asks. He has a surprisingly high-pitched voice hiding in his gargantuan body.

Sheba has made herself up to be a plain, mousy woman, and she allows Molly to take the lead role. “Hello, sir,” Molly says. “We’re from the Ladies’ Auxiliary Guild of St. Mary’s Cathedral, and we’re doing a census of the entire parish. The bishop wants to make sure that the Catholic Church is doing all it can to meet the needs of its parishioners. We were wondering if we could come in and ask you a series of questions? We promise not to take up too much of your time.”

“Fuck you,” Bunny says.

“Are you Roman Catholic?” asks Sheba.

“Yeah, I am,” Bunny says. “I’m the fucking Pope, his own self.”

Phase two of our makeshift plan now rolls down the street in the form of a police car. What appear to be two San Francisco cops double-park across the street in front of a sandwich shop. Ike and Betty get out and look over at the two women interrogating the ex-Oakland Raider. Every single inch of them speaks the word
cop
with exhilarating conciseness.

“Should we invite the police over to speak with you, Mr. Buncombe?” Molly asks.

“How did you know my goddamn name?” Bunny asks, his eyes on Ike and Betty.

“The whole street is proud that a former lineman for the Raiders is one of their neighbors,” she answers.

“Who gave you my name?” Bunny asks. “I’ll kill them.”

Molly ignores the threat. “Your neighbors said you take in quite a few boarders. Could you give us an exact figure, Mr. Buncombe?”