The Castro '76

The Castro '76

  GP Field

  Newcastle, NSW

  Copyright © 2015 by GP Field

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  GP Field

  Newcastle NSW 2300

  www.gpfield.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are used for atmospheric purposes. Apart from where public figures are cited any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  The Castro ‘76

  He scanned the room slowly, an artist seeking inspiration. Naked from the waist up, a man sat alone near the back corner, his massive biceps and bull neck exposed in an all-male mating display. The Artist watched and waited. He slipped the heavy art paper from his pocket and flattened it on the table in front of him. The dimpled texture felt good against his palm. His eyes stayed fixed on his muse, his head unnaturally still. Eventually, he looked down and made the first crucial line. Soon he was lost in the sketch, his hand a blur. The minutes sped by until it was ready. He stepped gingerly through the crowd towards the bull-necked man.

  ‘Hi there … I’m new here.’

  The Bull snorted and took a swig of beer, cradling the bottle gently in his thick, workman’s hands.

  ‘I … I made this picture of you … ’ He slid the thick paper across in front of the man.

  The Bull glanced at it and slid the paper back with a wrinkled brow. ‘Not bad.’ He had a tar gravel voice.

  ‘Thanks. Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Suit yourself, pretty boy. What you looking for down here anyway? Rough trade?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The Artist watched as the Bull leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. A primal odour drifted across the table between them ‘Well … that was a nice little picture you drew of me.’ His eyes narrowed and he smiled without mirth. ‘Want to go find some place to play?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They pushed their way through the seething mass of bodies and found fresh air. At the door, the Bull leaned over and whispered in his ear: ‘Are you sure you’re up for this, pretty boy?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ the Artist whispered back, his voice hoarse and strained in his own ears. Their eyes met and he wondered if his excitement looked like fear.

  They walked two blocks before the Bull stopped and pushed him into a narrow alley running between a warehouse and a second-rate office block. Deep in the darkness of the corridor the Bull grunted and slammed him up against the wall face first. He let his body go limp and counted to ten before he tensed and spun inside the man’s arms. Their lips met with crushing force. The Artist felt disgust build inside him as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. As the wall opposite materialised, he took a deep breath: it was time.

  He dropped his shoulder and snapped his full weight into the Bull’s chest. The big man stumbled. The blade was held underhand; the hilt nestled between thumb and forefinger. He stepped forward, weight on the left foot and drove deep into the man’s belly. A gasp of surprise and he felt the slick, wet innards cover his hand. He pulled out, and plunged upwards again. A strange noise like air escaping a hose and the Bull crumpled.

  He walked around the man, silent and cautious. One final strike snaked into the right flank, the wicked blade sliding easily between the ribs … and he was gone.

  May 13th 1976

  Israel Wren’s brown suede flares slapped rhythmically against his ankles as he strutted down the wide street. A pod of muscular, gym-toned bodies in Levi 501s (and not much else) lounged about on the corner of Castro and 18th. One or two heads turned as he passed by.

  The bright colours of the advertising on the shopfronts glinted in the spring sunshine. Every now and then he would stare wide-eyed at sequinned jackets, tie-dyed T-shirts, skin-tight jeans, funky moustaches or huge backcomb hairstyles held in place by gallons of hairspray. The place was a wonderland of extravagant colour and movement. No one on the street blinked an eye at the two bare-chested men walking towards him holding each other’s hands. Their ears were full of jewellery, their hips swinging like Zulu matrons. Israel smiled quietly to himself as they passed by.

  He found Castro Camera on the bottom floor of a quaint clapboard building. Harvey was serving a customer and waved to him from behind the counter with his typical dimpled smile. Israel had met Harvey Milk six months earlier at a club in Soho, London. The pair had struck up a conversation at midnight and by five in the morning they were good friends. Israel wrote a letter to Harvey telling him he was coming to San Francisco and Harvey wrote back to tell Israel not to book a hotel room.

  ‘Israel Wren, come and give me a hug, you beautiful man,’ uttered Harvey as he approached the slender, coffee-skinned figure. They embraced briefly, Harvey full of joy and enthusiasm, Israel with his typical formality and reserve.

  Harvey held Israel at arms length: ‘So you’re here for some kind of crime conference?’

  ‘A meeting of the International Criminological Association.’ Israel flashed a shy smile.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you he was a doll?’ Harvey commented over his shoulder. A man Israel assumed to be Harvey’s partner, Scott, had just stepped out of the darkroom, his sleeves rolled up.

  ‘Sure. He’s cute as a button,’ replied the fair-headed man, barely bothering to glance up.

  Harvey raised his eyebrows, took Israel’s elbow and steered him out through the glass front door. ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s just grumpy at the moment because of all this.’ He flicked his hand towards the billposters and placards plastered across the shop window. It’s Time for Milk… Milk for Supervisor.

  Israel shrugged and smiled. ‘It is no matter, my friend. I can see you are very busy on the campaign trail. I am more than happy to find accommodation elsewhere.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Israel. Don’t be silly. Scott’s just upset because I haven’t found enough time for him lately, we’ve both been working so hard lately trying to balance managing the campaign with running the store.’ An irrepressible grin spread slowly across Harvey’s face. ‘That’s why I’m taking him on vacation.’

  ‘That’s very nice. When are you planning to go?’

  ‘Now, I’m afraid: Just the two of us on a road trip down to Carmel, starting tonight. I’ve got a great little hideaway booked for a couple of nights and a bottle of imported Chianti lined up to go with our home-cooked pasta. So … I’m sorry to abandon you Israel, but I really need to do this.’

  ‘As I said before, I’m happy to find other accommodation …’

  ‘Well, Scott and I have talked about it and we’d love it if you could do some flat-sitting for us. It’s a win–win right?’

  Israel’s eyes darted towards the pavement.

  ‘Don’t worry. Come, we’ll get you fixed up for tonight.’ Harvey ushered Israel back inside the front door. ‘Look, if you don’t like it you can go find a hostel or something tomorrow.’ Ignoring Scott’s stares he steered Israel past the big red couch and the barber’s chair in the front room of the camera shop to a section at the rear curtained off by Persian carpets. ‘The stairway to heaven. Come and have a look.’ Harvey pointed out a set of stairs at the back.

  The apartment was pokey and dark apart from the big bay window in the lounge room.

  ‘Harvey, Sammy’s here… He’s got some news.’ Scott’s voice echoed up the stairwell.

  Harvey tilted his head towards the stairwell, raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Sorry Israel, it never stops when you’re runnin
g for office.’ He stepped closer and spoke sotto voce. ‘I’m gonna grab Scott and slip away by five, so I’ll have to catch up a bit later okay? In the meantime make yourself at home.’ He fished out a battered key ring and tossed it casually to Israel. Then he winked and headed back down the stairs.

  Israel crossed the lounge to the bay window and pulled back the sheer day curtain. A vehicle that looked like it required its own postcode rumbled past on the street below. It was a good thing they had such wide streets. He dropped the flimsy material and took a few steps across the room to the threshold of the only bedroom. Inside, an enormous bed was the sole piece of furniture, somehow shoehorned into the space by an act of domestic wizardry. Israel’s forehead wrinkled and he sighed as he considered the implications.

  After a moment of deliberation he marched to his small suitcase, knelt and pulled out a pair of lightweight Zeiss field glasses and a hat. Closing the case, he hung the binoculars around his neck and carried the bag to the top of the stairs. He planted it by the balustrade before starting to descend, his footfalls quick and light.

  The strained tones of anxious debate reached him before his feet found the bottom landing. Three of them huddled together at the back of the curtained-off room. Harvey’s face was grim, his lips pressed white together as he watched a slender man wearing a ridiculous orange jumpsuit wave his hands at him in annoyance. Scott’s