“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 checking 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.
“Stand up,” he said.
“What?”
“Stand up, give me your car keys.”
She didn’t do it right away, so he took the gun out and showed it to her again. Then she did it. Got up on her feet, good and scared now and not trying to hide it anymore. Fished the keys out of her coat pocket.
“Toss them over here.” He caught the ring left-handed, dropped it into his own pocket. “All right, now move. Door to the kitchen over there.”
“Why? That where the phone is?”
“Shut up.”
“Listen, man, if you-”
“I said shut up!”
He gave her a shove through the door into the kitchen, crowded her over to the basement door and made her stand to one side while he unlocked it one-handed. He pushed it open, switched on the staircase light.
“Go on down there,” he told her.
“Why? What’re you gonna do?”
“Shove you down the stairs, you don’t walk down by yourself.”
She walked, quick, without looking back at him following behind her. Cold and damp down there usually, even in nice spring weather, so he’d left the furnace turned up to seventy for Angie’s sake. Warm now, she’d be warm. Good. But as they started across the concrete floor he could hear her crying and that took the good away and made him feel sad. He hated it when she cried. He wanted her to be happy, laughing. Crying cut into him like a knife. But not as deep as when she started yelling, screaming, making his head hurt. And when his head hurt he got mad and the pain got worse.
The former owners had built the room down there, next to the alcove where the washer and dryer were, for some relative of theirs. It had a toilet and shower, and a bed and other furniture that they’d left behind. He hadn’t had to do much except close off the window, put a door and lock on the closet, reinforce the other door and add a hasp and padlock. He rattled the padlock getting his key into the slot, and the crying stopped inside. He slid the lock off, pushed the door open. Dark Chocolate went in this time without being told. He put the Saturday night special away in his pocket before he followed her, so Angie wouldn’t see it.
Angie was sitting on the bed, the sheet and blanket pulled up to her neck, her pretty little face all scrunched up and wet with tears. The big round eyes stared at him, at Dark Chocolate, and he saw the fear in them. It put an ache in him. He couldn’t stand to see her scared and unhappy. He loved her so much.
“Don’t be scared, honey,” he said. “Daddy’s here now.”
“You’re not my daddy.”
“Sure I’m your daddy. Didn’t I give you a nice present?”