I want to find her now . . . if only to mourn with her and tell her where her brother's ashes were scattered. But I want far more, I want to know the secrets, how the twins survived after they ran away, their whole story, everything. Also I want to see this creature who so closely resembles Tim. I long to photograph her face.
Courtney Hill has given me a lead: Hard Candy. I know the place though I've never been inside. Along with Eros and ATF, it's one of the cutting-edge SoMa clubs where hip young people go to dance, score, indulge fantasies of decadence.
On my way home I plot my moves. I'll ask Sasha to take me, or turn up on my own and ask for Amoretto, or show around a photograph of Tim and ask if anyone's seen a woman with his face.
I pause outside my building, then walk into Sterling Park. I want to check if my bag of groceries is still on the bench. It's not. In its place I find a piece of torn brown paper bearing Drake's billet-doux: "Thanks again." This time the signature's a simple "D."
My phone's ringing as I come through the door. I'm still thinking about Ariane as I pick up. The woman's voice is East Coast and refined. She tells me her name is Marjorie Wilson, and before I can ask how I can help, she identifies herself as Sarah Lashaw's assistant.
I sit down. I'm not expecting this. Have my provocations finally forced forth some fruit?
"Sarah is extremely interested in your work," Marjorie gushes. "She wants very much to meet you. There's a project she'd like to discuss."
"What kind of project?"
"A photographic one, I imagine."
"Commissioned photographs?"
An awkward laugh. "It would be best to discuss that with her, don't you think?"
Since Lashaw's my suitor, I decide to have some fun. "I gotta tell you, Ms. Wilson, I think there may be a misunderstanding here."
"I assure you she's a great admirer."
"That's nice, but the fact is I no longer do commissioned work."
Another laugh. "Oh, I think she understands that, Ms. Farrow. I did the research on you and I can assure you I was thorough." Pause. "Do you ever get up to St. Helena?"
"Not often." In truth, I realize, it's probably been a couple of years.
"Sarah's asked me to invite you for lunch tomorrow. If that's not inconvenient."
"Tomorrow . . ." I stall to clear my head. "Don't know. I don't own a car."
"That won't be a problem. Our driver will pick you up and have you back in town by dark." A little pause. "Shall we say in front of your place tomorrow, eleven a.m.?"
I think a moment. No one in her right mind declines an invitation to lunch with Sarah Lashaw. As for a "project,"' it's hard to imagine it doesn't concern the photos I took of Crane.
"That'll be fine," I tell her. "How should I dress?"
"Oh, you know—country. We're all pretty casual around here."
I'm freshly bathed, wrapped only in a kimono, staring at the city through my telescope, when Sasha buzzes from downstairs. It's nearly midnight. I ring him in, then tilt the telescope up. It wouldn't do for him to find me snooping on the Judge.
He comes bearing gifts, a bouquet of roses in one hand, a split of iced champagne in the other.
"Is this courtship, Sasha?" I ask as I dodge into my kitchen to scrounge a pair of flutes.
"I'm a romantic," he answers from the other room. "Perhaps the last one," he adds as I return, glasses in hand.
I kiss him. I'm flattered, grateful too. It's been a long time since a man came to me with flowers and drink. Sasha's lips taste faintly of mint mouthwash. So thoughtful, handsome, hygienic! What more could a girl want?
He pops the cork with precision, spilling nary a drop. We sit and sip. He tells me he's had an easy night—no knife or gunshot wounds, two falls, one heart attack, one not serious stroke, a couple of broken arms.
"Sounds like bliss," I say.
He gazes at me. His eyes are incredible. I could easily get lost in eyes like his. I imagine many women have.
"Do you ever do the club scene?" I ask him.
"There's s a Latino one I like. Venceremos in the Mission."
"How 'bout Hard Candy?"
He smiles. "I hear it's wild."
"Been there?"
"Once," he admits. "My date insisted."
"Well, one night soon I'm going to insist too."
His eyes enlarge, he grins. I've surprised him. . . which is good. Now he's wondering if I do drugs, triad sex, or, God help him, SM. Yes, poor Sasha, I can see, is falling ever deeper into lust. I set down my glass, take his hand, lead him into my bedroom, appropriately lit for another night of love.
I not only don't have clothing I consider "country," I'm not even sure what kind that is. Also, I'm angry at myself for inquiring as to the proper dress as if I care whether I blend in or not. Since I'll be damned if I'll cater to Sarah Lashaw, I squeeze into a pair of jeans, pull on a pair of cowboy boots, don my leather jacket, then thread the jeans with my only concession to fashion, a turquoise and silver concha belt I bought last winter in Santa Fe.
A dark Mercedes pulls up promptly at eleven. The driver is female; her name's Brit. She speaks with a Scottish brogue, is polite, formal, wears a sharply tailored black suit, white shirt, black necktie, black chauffeur's cap with shiny brim.
I feel almost kinky as I settle into the back seat, luxuriating against the butter-soft upholstery. Still, remembering that someone up north wants something from me, I vow not to allow myself to feel flattered.
The drive is uneventful . . . or perhaps so smooth and comfortable it lulls me into a reverie. After we cross the Golden Gate, I close my eyes and remember the feel of Sasha, his hairless silken chest and lovely satiny ass. I spent a lot of time riding his dark thighs last night, staring into the deep dark pools of his eyes. Even the condom he used felt sleek. All his moves were perfect. My South Asian Lothario!
There's something magical about the Napa Valley, particularly in autumn after the grape harvest, when the vines stand clean and bare. The air is fresh, the sky clear, the hills glint beneath the sun. It's paradise, a Northern California Eden. As we roll through the vineyards, I have trouble imagining this land could be more beautiful in color.
Before St. Helena, we cross over to the Silverado Trail, then wind through the hills. At one point, just past the sign for a vineyard named Stag's Leap, I'm amazed to see a magnificent full-antlered flesh-and-blood stag literally leap across the road.
A mile further we turn into a track between stone columns, then start to climb. We circle the hill, at the top reach a straight and formal alley of eucalyptus. At the end I spot the stone and clapboard house, scene of the lavish picnic depicted in House & Garden.
The house is beautiful, serene, perfect in its proportions, grand but not at all ostentatious. Its facade speaks of that mythical protective place called "home" where no unpleasantness intrudes—a place of inviolate security one can always return to, a fortress against the harshnesses of the world.
If one in ten thousand of us comes from a home like this I'd be much surprised. No rancor here, no parents quarreling over money, no dirty dishes in the sink, crumbs in the toaster, dust balls beneath the beds. Here the linens are changed daily, no one uses a bath towel twice, one is enveloped by the aromas of the garden, the tinkle of wind chimes, the babbling of a country brook.
Even as the car rounds the circle that ends the drive, I squirm at the smugness of it all. Casual indeed! In this dream house, I suspect, the look of every nook and cranny will be calculated for maximum effect.
Marjorie Wilson is waiting for me. She's not the efficient gray-banged type I expect, rather a clone of Brit the chauffeur—young, poised, well put together. It takes her but an instant to size me up.
"Brit was fast today. Sarah's still at her tennis lesson. Why don't we go down to the courts? We can wait there while she finishes up, or if you prefer, I'll show you the pool. We've all shapes and sizes of swimsuits if you'd care to take a dip."
I opt for the courts. We stroll through the front hall of the house, then into a perfectly proportioned living room decorated to the nines. A vase of fresh-cut flowers sits on every table. The huge stone fireplace is loaded with perfectly arranged white birch logs. We pass through a set of brass-hinged French doors to a flagstone terrace that runs the length of the house. From here the views are extraordinary, embracing the valley from Oakville to Calistoga, a crazy quilt of vineyards between two rows of wild-growth hills.
A clay tennis court is situated fifty yards below the terrace. Marjorie guides me down to a shaded area furnished with cushioned wicker. Here, waiting on a table, is a perfect frosted pitcher of fresh lemonade. She pours me a glass while I watch Sarah Lashaw play out her steely heart against her coach.
She's a powerful player—I see that at once. She has a merciless serve, a mean two-fisted backhand, a somewhat weaker forehand yet plenty strong enough. She's dressed for exertion in a plain white V-neck T-shirt, white cotton shorts, white socks with tassels and immaculate white tennis shoes. She wears one of those sunshades that consist of a bill supported simply by a band, thus showing off her locks of frosted hair. Her face and forearms are glazed as she runs about retrieving every shot her shirtless muscular trainer pounds to her across the net.
She's also, I quickly learn, a woman who doesn't like to lose.
"Well, cock-a-doodle-doo, Roy!" she hoots, when, at the end of a sustained volley, her trainer smashes a shot between her legs.
"Too fast for you?" he taunts.
"Never too fast, you wart!"
I glance at Marjorie. She meets my eyes and shrugs, as if to acknowledge that, indeed, Mrs. Lashaw sometimes does get riled while indulging in stressful sport.
I quickly gain the impression of an undercurrent between Lashaw and Roy. He's in his mid-twenties while she's probably fifty-five, but he shows her no deference or respect. On the contrary, he seems to enjoy flaunting his superior power while showing off his well-developed chest. Rather than playing the roles of employer and trainer, they behave like lovers engaged in a stylized fight. Yes! her tennis game would seem to say, you're bigger and stronger than me, but I can take whatever you dish out and smack it right back in your face!
"Deuce!" Roy calls out the score, then sets up to serve. Whish! His shot aces by her. Swish! She swings at it even though it's passed.
"Pee-yoo!" she exclaims, as Roy announces they're at set point.
I raise my camera, start shooting as they play the point back and forth, alternating shots down the line and crosscourt, forcing one another from side to side. Suddenly Roy breaks the rally by rushing the net.
"Ho ho!" Lashaw shouts.
But he bats back her returns until he wears her down; then he tips the ball across and watches amused as she rushes and stumbles in a fruitless effort to snag it back.
"Game, set, match !" Roy savors the words, as Sarah pulls herself up off the clay.
She brushes the dust from her hips, turns to him and crows: "You'll pay for this later, Roy-boy."
Spotting me, she turns her back on him.
"Kay Farrow! How great to meet you!"
I gaze into the fabled eyes. She extends both hands as if I'm a dear old friend. When I take hold, she pulls me against her hard warm moist body so I can feel her extraordinary power.
Roy rates no further attention, not even an introduction, as Sarah, with Marjorie two paces behind, walks me back up to the house.
"We've lots to talk about," she says. "Just give me ten minutes to shower and change, then we'll sit down to lunch."
The feast is served on the terrace on a table laden with a hand-embroidered cloth and gorgeous hand-painted ceramic plates. Conventional pleasantries and San Francisco gossip accompany scallops and crab over angel-hair pasta, garden-fresh mesclun, raspberry sorbet, accompanied by a local Chardonnay.
After the meal Marjorie excuses herself. Sarah leans forward as soon as we're alone.
"It's terrific to get to know you, Kay. I've long admired your work. Your show at Zeitgeist last year, those poor battered women, their eyes so proud—it really knocked me out."
An extremely handsome woman, she looks ten or fifteen years younger than her age. She's dressed in a prairie skirt and dark silk blouse. I try to imagine her wearing emeralds. To me, I believe, they would show as a bright mid-gray, slightly darker than her eyes.
"Marjorie says you had me researched."
Sarah smiles. "You don't believe I saw your show?"
"Did you?" I ask, meeting her eyes.
"Check the gallery guest book," she says merrily. "You'll see."
A good response I'm also flattered . . . though I promised myself I wouldn't be. But how could my brand of art connect to anything in her life? I reach into my camera bag, flick my little tape recorder on.
"Why did you invite me?" I ask.
She stares directly at me. When she grins, engaging crow's-feet form around her eyes.
"I'd like to buy some of your pictures, Kay. Negatives as well as prints."
I shake my head. "I don't sell negatives. No photographer does. You must know that."
"I do, but in this case there'd be no need to keep them. It would be a condition of the sale, based on appropriate compensation, that the pictures would never be reproduced."
I can't believe she's being so brazen. Is she desperate, or testing me for weakness?
"I'm not a blackmailer, Sarah. I don't take pictures of people to sell them back."
"Of course not! I didn't mean to suggest—"
"But you did. You implied I can be bought. I can't. So if it's my pictures of your husband you want, neither prints nor negatives are for sale."
She fixes me with a fierce withering gaze, like the one she directed at Roy on the tennis court. It's not the charming grin of the society page she's showing now, but her true face, the one that announces its owner gets what she wants. It's a face I'd like to photograph so much I reach beside my chair for my camera. I pick it up, start to bring it to my eye, when I feel her hand upon my wrist.
"No pictures today," she says quietly, in a tone all the more frightening for being so certain and still. She tightens her grip. My wrist begins to hurt. Our eyes lock.
"Take your hand off me," I demand.
She flashes the society page grin. "Of course, my dear." She lets go. "No need to get testy."
I lower my camera. "I won't take pictures of you without permission, not here in your house. But outside you're fair game just like everybody else. You're a public figure, as is Mr. Crane, especially when he cruises Polk Gulch in his Mercedes looking to rent himself a hunk of male ass."
"Fine." She grins. "That's just fine. Got it all out of your system now?"
"Most of it,"' I say. "How 'bout you?"
"I'm doing fine too."
"Good."
"Let's talk straight."
"Yes, let's. Why did you ask me here? Surely you didn't think you could buy me off."
She nods. She wants me to understand she's impressed, that she respects my guts for standing up to her even in her own rigorously controlled milieu.
"My husband has a complicated nature,"' she explains. "He has his desires, as I have mine. Neither of us has ever done anything to intentionally harm another person. If we stray sometimes, make mistakes, then our transgressions are only the faults of passion and of love." She pauses. "Sometimes by error people get hurt. Whenever that happens we try to set things right. That might involve some form of payment to alleviate the injury. Of course there are wounds that money cannot salve, though in my experience a significant cash payment can go quite a way when coupled with a sincere expression of remorse. As you know, Kay, we all have our longings and desires. This world we live in is a difficult place. We can only do our very best not to make it worse."
It is as pretty a speech as I have heard, and, delivered so frankly, calmly, without a waver of the eyes, contrived to soften even the harshest critic's heart. But my wrist, still smarting from her grasp, tells me this is a woman who will use any means, sweet or brutal, to get her way. So I take a moment to analyze what she's said, ferret out its rotten core. It doesn't take me long: Our transgressions are only the faults of passion and of love. Oh, yes! We only wound in the names of eros and amour! Never out of selfish lust, never because the flesh of another is for us but fodder! We buy bodies, and if the fragile souls within should sometimes break, it is but the flaw in the carnality all humans share.
"The hormone defense," I mutter.
She turns indignant. "What?"
"Everyone has his peccadilloes. But see, Sarah, I take pictures. I don't judge."
"Then what good, may I ask, do your pictures do?"
"You said my Transgressions show knocked you out."
"Surely you don't intend—"
"I'll tell you what I intend. A friend of mine, a street hustler, was killed. Savagely, brutally, without pity, most likely out of lust. Perhaps to someone like yourself a person who does that sort of work deserves whatever he gets. I don't see it that way. Anyhow, before he was killed I recorded his life on film, and that meant also documenting the life of the street where he worked. Your husband appears in a number of my shots soliciting minors for sex. He's well known on Polk Gulch. He cruises around there in his fancy car. He's what the street kids call a chicken hawk, which means he preys on underage boys. That's not a mere 'fault of love,' Sarah—that's a criminal offense. As you undoubtedly know, I trapped him with my camera the other day. The shots are great. At first he preens, tries to laugh me off, but in the end he looks like a cornered rat. Okay, what do I intend to do with those pictures? Right now I've no idea. If they're relevant to the murder of my friend, I'll publish them. If not. . . well, I may just publish them anyway. I probably wouldn't feel this way if, a few hours after our shoot, I hadn't been jumped from behind in the little park in front of my house. One of the men who jumped me (he also stole my best camera) is someone I've seen acting as flesh merchant for Mr. Crane. By the way, when your husband's out cruising he doesn't wear his toupee. I guess he thinks that's a good disguise. But still, for some reason, he likes to flaunt his car. Cars, you know, bear license plates. So, you see, it wasn't hard to track him down."
"That's it?"
"Pretty much."
The indignation in her eyes cannot be described. She is utterly, irrevocably outraged.
"It would appear there's no dealing with you."
I shrug. "Not on the terms you're used to."
"What terms then?"
I hand her my card. "Tell Mr. Crane there's no need to hide behind your skirts. Tell him to get in touch, we'll have a talk and, depending on how it goes, I'll see what I can do." I glance at my watch, show concern, suggest it's time for me to leave. "You can also tell him I want my Contax back. . . if, by chance, he knows where it is."
On the drive back to the city I sit in the front seat beside Brit. She's stiff, monosyllabic, until I ask her about the tennis trainer, Roy.
"Oh he's a lad, Roy is," Brit says, amused.
"Does he live at the house?"
"Has his own suite above the garage."
"Pretty sexy guy. He and Mrs. Lashaw—are they, you know. . ?"
"I'm no gossip, ma'am."
But from her grin it would appear Sarah and Roy play all sorts of games.
Back home, agitated, I phone Sasha at the hospital, persuade him I'm too tired for a visit and suggest, in recompense, that we do Hard Candy Friday night.
"Like a real date?" he asks.
"You got it, Sasha."
"Can we dress up?"
"The whole nine yards!" I promise.
I try to calm myself by meditating for a while, but I'm still too hyped by my day in the country. What should have been a pastoral interlude turned into a nightmare. In the process I've made a powerful enemy.
Feeling the need to regroup, I grab my camera and head out for the Gulch. But I'm careful as I cross Sterling Park; even with Drake watching out for me, I have no wish to be sandbagged again.
Tonight the Gulch is sweet, the air warm, the regulars posing in their usual places. I find Doreen lingering at the corner of Polk and Bush.
"Missing you, Bug," she says.
I tell her I've been trying to sort things out.
"Story of my life." She laughs. "Good luck!"
On Hemlock I spot Slick posing with a hustler I barely know, the one they call Sho because, Tim told me, he's three-quarter Shoshone Indian. Sho is handsome, grave, with dark skin, shoulder-length black hair parted in the middle and lovely quasi-Asian eyes.
"I hear you take pictures," he says when we're introduced. "I need some head shots, eight-by-tens, to get my modeling career off the ground."
I tell him I don't do glamour shots, but I'll be happy to shoot some outdoor candids if he thinks they'd help. We agree to meet the following afternoon at five. Just then a big Jaguar pulls up. The boys, nervous, move toward it.
"Gotta go, Bug. This is our date," Slick says.
I watch as they climb into the backseat, one dark, the other albino, hired for the evening to do God-knows-what. It takes all my self-restraint to keep from taking pictures, but tonight I don't want to get anyone upset.
I walk for a while, stopping to schmooze with acquaintances, trying to regain my fascination with this tawdry strip. But though the territory is familiar, an important person is missing. I feel like a widow returning to a city where a great romance was born, hoping to find the same beauty in the streets, finding instead only piercing loneliness.
Knob is standing beside the door of an all-male video shop near Sutter, thumbs hitched casually in his belt. He's grinning at me, the grin of a cougar awaiting the nightly prowl of a yearling deer. Will I pounce or won't I? his grin seems to ask. And since I'm not feeling particularly yearling like this evening, I dare to stop and meet his eyes.
"Still stomping the Gulch, Bug?"
"Any reason I shouldn't?"
"Figured you'd gotten enough by now. Don't want to gild the lily, do we?"
What the hell is he talking about? Have Lashaw & Crane already put out another contract?
"Amoretto," I say. I don't know why; the name just springs into my head.
"Yeah, what about her?" Knob replies coolly.
I laugh, continue on my way, flabbergasted by his response. He didn't say "Who?" or "What?" or "Fuck off!" He said "What about her?"—which means he knows who she is.
Joel Glickman calls at eleven to say he's seen Hilly.
"She made me meet her at this western bar. She was the only woman there and I was the only straight guy. She said we were safer there than anyplace else. She says she meets you at The Duchess."
I laugh. "What'd you think of her?"
"Friendly, smart, straightforward enough . . . until experience proves otherwise."
"Is she onto something?"
"Too early, kiddo. With these case-in-progress deals it's barely one in five. Remember, this isn't a whistle-blow. She's got a theory. Maybe she's right, maybe not."
"But it's worth a shot?"
"Definitely." Joel pauses. "I want to see Hale."
Jonathan Topper Hale: how I'd love to photograph him! "Didn't he retire south?"
"Uh-uh, he's still in the area. Lives in Oakland. And, from what I hear, is still obsessed with Torsos."
"Does he know about Tim Lovsey?"
"I hope not. I want to be the one to tell him." Joel pauses again. "Wanna come along?"
Friday evening: When Sasha rings from downstairs I'm still dolling myself up. Maybe "dolling" isn't quite the right word, more like garnishing myself. I've applied several stick-on tattoos to my upper arms, the black New Age calligraphic kind. I've also painted my lips with black lipstick (if I'd used red it would appear black to me). My leather pants are secured by my concha belt. Now I'm snapping on a leather bracelet with chrome points. I buzz Sasha in, then return to self-adornment. I'm wearing a black lace bra, but can't find anything that looks good on top.
Sasha is even more decorous. No longer in his serious-young-physician mode, he wears a tight black muscle shirt, black spandex pants, a chain-link belt that hangs loose about his hips, and a black leather motorcycle cap embellished by another length of chain.
We preen for each other, then get down to business—how best to drape my torso. Sasha thinks the bra is all I need.
"Underwear as outerwear," he says, "that's the hot new look."
Actually it's a style that's five years old, but being unfashionable doesn't bother me; I only wish to be desired.
"Want me to go bare belly?" I ask.
"Why not? Half the women at these clubs do."
"I don't know . . . I think I'll feel naked."
"Let me decorate you then."
I follow his instructions, remove my bra, then sit backwards astride a chair. He sits behind me and begins applying more temporary tattoos to my back. When he's done, he escorts me into the bathroom, where I have mirrors on opposite walls. Together we inspect his handiwork. I look like a Kandinsky from behind.
"Very futuristic," Sasha remarks.
Fine! I'll wear just the bra, my embellished skin taking the place of fabric. But Sasha has brought me a gift, a black leather collar with spiky points. He puts it on me lovingly as we both face the mirror. I like it. It matches my bracelet, says I'm kinky, and at the same time: Don't get too close, my throat's inviolate.
Hard Candy, like most SoMa clubs, is housed in a former warehouse. There's something ominous about a stark windowless building on a dark empty street at night. There are piles of glossy trash bags up and down the block, and a homeless man huddled beside a grocery cart on the far side. A dozen snazzy motorcycles are lined up neatly beneath the lone streetlamp, while luxury cars of various makes are parked along the curb.
No sign designates the club, just a neon strip (Sasha informs me it's violet) that outlines the door. A short line of bizarrely made-up and festooned wanna-get-ins clings to the warehouse wall. I take a place at the end of the line while Sasha goes to its head to negotiate.
He returns to fetch me. The bouncer, a hairy guy in leather vest, doesn't crack a smile as he lets us in. Meantime the wanna-get-ins glare at us with hate.
"How'd you swing it?" I whisper to Sasha.
"Fifty bucks," he whispers.
Ouch!
We walk down a narrow, dark, oppressively low-ceilinged corridor until we come to a door padded with tufted leather. Suddenly it opens and music, heavy metal punk, smacks us like a blow across the face.
We step forward, the door closes behind; then, through a confusion of cries, flashing lights, air thick with the aroma of sweat and pot, we make our entrance into Hades.
Punked-out hairstyles, half-nude bodies, glistening writhing flesh—Hard Candy has it all. Perhaps I'm too old, staid, insufficiently coked up, but this kind of bacchanalian extravaganza only hurts my ears. I'm not offended by it, rather I'm bored. But far be it from me to pass judgment. There are worthy people, I know, for whom the late-night scene is a narcotic, an aphrodisiac, a cheat against the drudgery of daily life. A night at Hard Candy is a way to meet a lover, score dope, dance away excess energy and angst. It's a place to indulge all one's most decadent exhibitionistic and voyeuristic fantasies. Bottom line: It's our era's stylized version of that great and eternal human enterprise, the orgy.
On Sasha's advice I've left my camera at home; the taking of photographs and/or videos is forbidden here. Thus, being denied my usual means of response, I have no choice but to step out onto the floor and join the debauch.
Sasha, not surprisingly, is a fantastic dancer. He boogies so well I look good just following his lead. About the time I break a sweat, I feel the approval of others as they grant us extra space. We use it to get into a kind of twist-shag routine. When Sasha starts scissoring his fingers, I do the same.
Gaining the impression we're being discussed, I tune in to snippets of conversation taking place around:
"Great dancer," a female comments.
"She's not half bad herself."
"Good tats on that back."
"Cool collar."
"See them before?"
"Uh-uh. But I like what I see."
"Fresh meat. Let's try and link up."
Sasha whirls me away, then separates again as we go into a series of retro-fifties moves. The music pounds. Sweat runs off my body. I worry my tattoos will wash away. Then I decide to just go with the rush. Soon, feeling the intoxicating effect of rhythmic movement, I yield to the self-obliterating energy all around. Let me become animal, I will, and willing it, feel it start to happen.
We're sitting with four other people at a table on the balcony above the dance floor, sipping vodka and giggling at the goings-on in the passion pit below. We don't know the quartet we're with, but they know one another and are putting out feelers that they'd like us to join their circle.
Proper names, professions, backgrounds—such information is not exchanged. Here it's how you look, dress, dance, present yourself. In the stripped-down ambience of Hard Candy, what you see is what you get.
I decide to drop a bombshell. I make my eyes large, then pronounce the magic word: "Amoretto?"
Heads turn. Lips curl into smiles. Attention is deliciously paid.
"Seen her lately?" a woman asks. Her eyes are made up like a raccoon's.
Heads shake.
"She's like disappeared," the other female says. This one's hair is arranged into spikes that rival the ones on my collar.
"You ought to say 'it.' Like—'It disappeared,'" says the young man to my right, who sports heavily gelled silver hair.
The response to that is such wild mirth I'm led to believe he's spouted a witty line.
"Friend of mine"—it's Spiky Hair speaking again—"she went with 'it' one time. Says all of a sudden she-he-it started plucking coins from her cunt."
"That's nothing!" Raccoon Eyes says. "This gay guy I know tells me she-he-it plucked them from his ass!"
Much tittering over that. Seems everyone has a story. The other male in the group, whose left eyebrow and ear bear multiple piercings, allows as how, since he's actually been to bed with the creature, he's the only one at the table who can authoritatively describe her/his/its genitalia.
"Okay, Kit," Silver Gel taunts, "let us in on the big secret."
Pierced Guy offers an enigmatic smile. "Amoretto' s like one of those, you know, magical goddesses—she can change sex even while you fuck."
"I heard that too," says Spiky Hair. "You go to bed with a hen, wake up with a rooster."
"Like she does you with a strap-on?" Raccoon Eyes asks.
"No way !" Pierced Guy is adamant. "The cock's for real."
"Well, you ought to know!" Silver Gel elbows Pierced Guy in the ribs.
By this time Sasha is giving me a look. He leans over, whispers: "Who the hell are we talking about?"
I want to know more. "Could it've been twins?" I ask.
Pierced Guy screws up his face, spreads his hands. "Wish I knew," he says. "I was just too stoned to notice."
I take Sasha's hand, tell the others we're going back down to the pit. They're a little hurt, taking our departure as rejection, but I must rescue Sasha, who is, after all, a mere ladies' man. These bisexual kids we've been hanging with play in an entirely different league.
"Were you talking about someone human?" Sasha asks me on the stairs.
"Just some club-scene person I want to meet."
"Pulling coins out of pussies and asses. Weird!"
Poor Sasha! He knows all about the insides of people's bodies, but perhaps not so much about their fantasies.
The music here is too percussive, the lyrics to the songs screamed too loud. We've only been here an hour and a half, and already I feel burnt-out. Sasha's proven his skills on the dance floor. Now I'm ready to go home.
Outside, I ask the bouncer if Amoretto's been around.
"Not lately," he says in an ultra-serious tone that tells me he'll provide no more information. But on the way back to my apartment in Sasha's BMW, I consider the fact that when we sat down with strangers, they all knew who I was talking about. One even claimed to have spent the night with her. Knob also knew who she was. So, it would seem that Ariane is notorious in town, at least within a certain set—a fact of which I, in my isolated artist's life on the hill, have until this evening been unaware.
Back at my place, Sasha and I strip one another of kinky attire, then fall into bed. Though it would be my preference to apply rubbing alcohol and sponge off my tattoos, Sasha wants me to keep them on.
"I like you encrusted," he tells me, perhaps not the most romantic words to escape his sultry lips. But he's been good to me tonight, taken me where I wanted to go, so now it's my turn to give him a ride.
In the morning, still half deaf from the heavy metal assault, I pace about my apartment trying to collect my thoughts.
What do I know?
One, that Ariane lived in Tim's building.
Two, that she most likely moved out within the past week.
Three, that living so close, in possession of each other's keys, they surely saw each other a lot . . . yet Tim never let on that she existed.
Four, that just as he hustled on the Gulch, she had her own hustle going at the clubs.
Five, that they seemed to have played an erotic variation on David deGeoffroy's Zamantha Illusion, Ariane going to bed with someone, then switching places with Tim, thus freaking the new bedmate out.
Six, it would seem Ariane deliberately cultivated a bizarre reputation among club people as some sort of gender-bending mistress of legerdemain.
Seven, Ariane and Tim stole fifty thousand dollars from David, and Tim boasted to me he had fifty thousand stashed—which has never turned up.
Eight, it's clear that Tim's hints there was a woman in his life I'd want to photograph were references to his twin, Ariane.
Nine, the day Tim was killed, when he set up a meeting with me, he sounded as if he was scared.
Ten, Ariane's apparent lack of interest in recovering her brother's body and subsequent disappearance suggests she too is scared, perhaps of meeting the same fate.
But what good does all this analysis do me? None ... unless I can locate the girl. From the moment I heard of her I've wanted to meet her. Now I feel I must.
I look up Courtney Hill in the city phone directory. No listing. For all I know, she's from down the peninsula, East Bay or Marin. She's so young she probably still lives at home with her parents. Unless, of course, she's in college somewhere. . . in which case I might be able to find her.
I make a few quick calls: San Francisco State, Stanford, University of California at Berkeley. I'm prepared to make many more, but I luck out at U.C., where, I discover, a Ms. Courtney Dayton Hill is indeed registered as an undergrad.
I leave a message at her dorm, then walk down to Marina Aikido for class. Today my workout partner is Flora, a Philippine diplomat's wife. We practice fiercely, throw one another well, blend energy, get into the flow. When we finish we realize we've been watched. After we bow, the class applauds.
At noon Courtney calls me back, says she just returned to dump her books and found my message. She recalls our encounter very well and was hoping she'd see me again. Yes, she'd be happy to get together and talk about Amoretto. We agree to meet that night at Kabul, an Afghan restaurant in Berkeley.
A little before five I walk over to the Gulch for my photo-session date with the hustler, Sho. He's so beautiful this evening I'm nearly swept away. His hair's parted to the side, his eyes glisten, he wears a black T-shirt that goes perfectly with his dark skin. We walk down to Fort Mason, where I pose him on the lawn overlooking the piers. Wind off the Bay blows his hair across his face. I'm touched by his gestures as he brushes it off. I shoot out a roll, then tell him I have to go. Walking home, thinking of Tim, I feel my eyes tear up.
I take the cable car down to the end of Powell, there board the BART train for East Bay. The ride underwater is smooth and hushed. Emerging at the downtown Berkeley station, I walk swiftly to Telegraph Avenue, where I'm caught up in a swirl of student pedestrians, aggressive street peddlers, panhandlers and hostile handicapped people speeding around too fast in motorized wheelchairs. The smell here's the universal aroma of an off-campus street—cigarette smoke, coffee, frying grease going bad.
First to arrive at Kabul, I take a table facing the door. The lighting's dim, the furnishings sparse, the aroma sensuous, Eastern spices and roasting lamb. Most of the other diners are students. The prices for the specials, posted on a blackboard, strike me as ridiculously cheap.
Courtney shows up fifteen minutes later looking more like a student than on the day we met. She wears the same expensive wristwatch and Celtic cross pendant, but tonight she's shod in Nikes and dressed in a CAL sweatshirt and jeans frayed at the knees.
"Hi!"
She's spunkier than before, in appearance at least more innocent. We exchange backgrounds. She's from Santa Barbara, her father's an attorney, mother a psychotherapist. She went to a private day school, applied to Stanford and Yale, was pleasantly surprised to be accepted at Cal.
"It's very competitive," she says, "but the kids are great—especially if you get along with Asian-Americans. And of course my dad is happy, since tuition's practically free."
She's majoring in rhetoric, which she knows is useless, unless, of course, she wants to make a career in academia, which, she assures me, touching the cross around her neck, she does not. She likes sports, is a member of the women's junior varsity tennis squad, active too in the Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual Students Association—which is how, she tells me, she found herself in the crowd that hangs around Hard Candy on weekends.
She's smart, I discover, cheerful, offbeat, socially courageous and impressed by people with strong personal style. This, she explains, was why she was so attracted to Amoretto, but also, of course, because of the woman's aura of sluttishness and mystery.
"Was it the same with you?" she asks.
"Actually not," I say. "I was attracted to her brother."
She smiles knowingly. "Her animus. I never met him, though I heard the talk. There're people who think he doesn't exist, that she really changes sex. Isn't that like—totally weird?"
I agree.
"No question she's got her macho side. 'Watch out! I'm packing!' Such a turn-on, least for me. But mostly she's quiet, barely says a word. She kinda leads you in with her eyes. In my crowd it's a rite of passage to go to bed with her."
"Which is how you knew the studio?"
She nods, looks at me wistfully. "I'd really like to see her again."
"To sleep with her?"
Courtney shrugs. "Sure, if that works out. But actually just to get to know her better. She's just so fascinating, yet so . . . you know . . . mysterious."
"You say she doesn't talk that much?"
"I found her secretive. When I asked how she learned to do magic she smiled like I was crazy to ask. She wouldn't tell me where she comes from, her real name, anything. She either smiled or changed the subject or did something to . . . you know, my body." Courtney grins. "She had all this incredible apparatus up there. I mean, some of that stuff was huge. I can't imagine how she moved it out."
When I ask exactly what apparatus she's referring to, Courtney giggles.
"You know, those stocks and that incredible wheel! God! Just seeing it made me weak in the knees!"
I recall her little joke when we met, the one about the studio being cleaned out "lock, stock, and barrel." Now that it makes sense, I laugh along with her.
"Was there any kind of . . . arrangement?" I ask timidly.
"Like what?"
"You said she provides this rite of passage. What does she get out of it?"
Courtney gives me a quizzical look. "Pleasure, I hope!"
"Nothing else?"
"You mean like . . . money?" I nod. "How well do you know her, Kay?"
I can see I've upset her, she's wary of answering more queries. Since I seem to have fallen in her estimation, I decide to tell her the truth.
She listens intently as I describe how Amoretto's brother was a Polk Gulch hustler and how he was savagely murdered. I tell her that Tim lived in the same building as Ariane, that they were fraternal twins who as children were part of a magician's troupe. Since Tim hustled for tricks, I hope Courtney will forgive me for asking if Ariane did the same.
"Okay, now I see. Sure, you had to wonder about that." She pauses. "I've heard she charges a lot for scenes. But I gotta tell you"—she peers into my eyes—"she didn't ask me for a cent."
Time to wrap things up. I ask if she'll let me know if she sees Amoretto again or hears anything new about her. I explain that I want to tell her what I did with Tim's remains and talk to her about her twin brother, whom I loved.
Courtney agrees. In front of the restaurant we embrace. Then she walks back to her dorm and I to Berkeley station.