“What exactly did they say?”
“The usual slurs. Faggot. Queer. Boyfucker.”
“Nothing else?”
“I don’t remember. My God, I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I thought… I really thought they were going to kill me. And for what? Just because I was born different from them. Men like that..”
Runyon said, “Everybody needs someone to look down on.”
“I’m sorry… what?”
Line from a song by Kris Kristofferson, one of Colleen’s favorites. But he said instead, “They’re blind haters. Different scares them, threatens them. They can’t understand or accept it, so they look down on it, hate it, try to destroy it.”
“Neanderthal behavior.”
“Neanderthals and assholes-the world’s full of them.” Exeter laughed a little, ruefully. “Amen to that.”
“So you were out for a walk when it happened, is that right?”
Hesitation. Eye shift.
“That’s what you told the police. Not so?”
“I… well…”
“I’m on your side, Mr. Exeter. Better be honest with me.”
Another hesitation, longer this time. Then, “I was afraid David would find out where I’d been. He was out of town on business, he has a sales job with IBM and he travels a good deal. Usually, I stay home, but sometimes… I get so lonely I just have to go out for an evening…” Another apology.
“Where’d you go that night?”
“Castro Street. One of the bars.”
“Which one?”
“A place called The Dark Spot.”
The Dark Spot again.
“David doesn’t like it much,” Exeter said, “I suppose it’s too tame for him. He’s into… other things. So I only go there when he’s out of town.”
“Do you know Gene Zalesky?”
“Gene? Yes. Those animals beat him up too.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Not very. Just casually.”
“The Dark Spot one of his regular hangouts?”
“Well, I’ve seen him there a few times.”
“Kenneth Hitchcock? Must know him too.”
“Yes, I know Kenneth. He… well, never mind.”
“What were you going to say?”
Eye shift. “It’s not important.”
“Suppose you let me be the judge of that.”
“It’s just that… well, you said he’s your son’s partner.. ”
“Whatever you tell me goes no farther than this table.”
Exeter said uncomfortably, apologetically, “He’s a flirt.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“With the customers. Some more than others. He…”
“Comes on to them? Makes dates with them?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.”
“Gossip or rumors to that effect?”
Exeter avoided eye contact again. His pale face wore little beads of sweat now. “There are always rumors,” he said.
“About Kenneth and Gene Zalesky?”
“No. No. Gene likes… well, younger guys.”
“How young?”
“I didn’t mean that’s he a pedophile, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything, just asking questions.”
“I’m sorry, I…” Exeter shifted position, winced, and made a pained sound in his throat that evolved into a series of short panting breaths. It was several seconds before he spoke again. “My ribs… they’re not healed yet. I still have trouble breathing sometimes.”
Runyon nodded. “We were talking about Gene Zalesky’s preferences.”
“Young men. Late teens, early twenties. Kenneth Hitchcock must be almost thirty.”
“Any young men in particular?”
“No. He’s not into long-term relationships.”
“Ever see him with a young blond guy with an angelic face?”
“… Angelic?”
“Zalesky’s description.”
“Oh my God.”
“What is it?”
All of a sudden Exeter was scared. “I have to go,” he said, “David will be home, I can’t… his dinner…” He started to get up.
Runyon caught his arm, held him. “Who is he, this young blond guy?”
“Please, I…”
“What’s his name?”
Fidgety silence. Then, “Troy.”
“Troy what?”
“I don’t know his last name. He… oh, Christ!”
“What’s got you so upset, Mr. Exeter?”
“I can’t… if David ever finds out…”
“You and this Troy, is that it?”
“One night, that’s all it was,” Exeter said miserably. “A… one-night stand. David had been away two weeks, a business trip to Hong Kong, I was so lonely… it just happened…”
“When was this?”
“Last month, three or four weeks ago.”
“Where’d you meet Troy? The Dark Spot?”
“Yes.”
“Take him to your apartment?”
“My God, no. We went to his room… Troy’s…”
“Room? A hotel?”
“No, an apartment house not far away.”
“What apartment house? What address?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Sure you do. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“I was… I had a lot to drink that night. Somewhere in the neighborhood. Uphill toward Market. I swear that’s all I remember.”
“Is Troy a regular at The Dark Spot?”
“Recently. I saw him there two or three times before that night.”
“With Gene Zalesky?”
“I’m not sure… maybe…”
“How about a redhead with freckles?”
“No, I don’t think so. But he was… popular, you know? Different guys…”
“Promiscuous?”
“Yes. But safe sex, he was smart about that.”
“Is he one of the customers Kenneth Hitchcock flirted with?”
“Well, he liked to sit at the bar.”
“Last time you saw him was when?”
“Not since we… that night.”
“But he does still hang out at The Dark Spot?”
“I don’t know, I suppose so. I’ve only been there once since… the night I was attacked… and Troy wasn’t there then.” Exeter glanced nervously at the wall clock. “I really do have to go. If I’m not there when David comes home, he gets very angry.”
“We’re almost done,” Runyon said. “Does Troy have a car?”
“Car?”
“Did he drive you to the house where he lives?”
“Oh. No, we walked. It wasn’t far.”
“So you don’t know if he owns a car.”
“I’m sorry, no. Why are you asking all these questions about Troy? He couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the bashings.”
Runyon said, “No more than The Dark Spot could,” and let it go at that.
Gene Zalesky wasn’t home. Or if he was, he wasn’t answering his doorbell.
Next stop: The Dark Spot.
Runyon had been to the heart of the Castro, the section between Market and Twentieth Streets, a few times before. Driving and walking both, familiarizing himself with the area and with Joshua’s world. He’d done some background research on the district as well, for the same reasons. Twenty-five years as a gay ghetto, beginning in the pioneering days of gay liberation in the early seventies; the days when dilapidated storefronts and bars and other rough edges were considered a righteous emblem of the oppressed homosexual cause, and almost all the businesses catered to gays and lesbians. The ravages of AIDS had nearly destroyed the Castro in the early nineties. When it began to show signs of life again, it was no longer a closed community; chain stores and upscale boutiques and fast-food outlets and other businesses catering to straights as well as gays elbowed in and slowly changed the face of the neighborhood. Yuppie families moved in, too, buying up and renovating some of the old Victorians. Now rainbow flags flew openly next to American flags, shops dispensing clothing and symbols of gay culture rubbed shoulders with others peddling urban chic and Starbucks coffee and Radio Shack computers, old-fashioned meat-market clubs like The Dark Spot and Queer Heaven stood cheek by jowl with brew pubs and sports bars.
At five-thirty on a week night, the district’s jammed streets and sidewalks were a heterogeneous mix of gays and straights, whites and a variety of ethnics. Young mothers with kids in tow walking next to men in tight leather pants and open leather vests with nothing underneath. Suits and ties, motorcycle jackets bristling with studs and looped with chains. Orange spiked hair and crew cuts. Elaborate tattoos, body piercings, nose rings, nipple rings, and wedding rings. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll coexisting, sometimes peacefully, sometimes violently, with family values and the conservative urban lifestyle.