muscular, hurried toward me. He wore tight levis and a leather bomber jacket over a white t-shirt. As he stepped beneath a streetlight, I saw he was carrying something in his right hand. A gun. Aimed at my stomach.
“Henry,” he said in a friendly voice, “I’ve been shouting at you for the last block.” His dark hair was cut short and he wore a carefully clipped moustache. He was good-looking in an anonymous sort of way. A Castro clone.
“I don’t think I know you,” I said.
“Well, we’re going to be good friends before the night is over.”
He kept the gun on me while he raised his left hand in the air and motioned toward us. A moment later a car — black, Japanese, four-door, with its lights out and no license plate — crept up beside us. Two other men were in the front seat and one in the back. The two in the front and my friend with the gun were not only dressed identically but, as far as I could see, might have been a set of triplets. The man in the back seat differed from the others only in that he was a blond. He stepped out of the car and approached us.
“Hello, Henry. Just relax and do what you’re told and everything will be fine.”
“Sure,” I said, as the car came up directly behind me.
The blond reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black bandana, of the kind allegedly used by some gay men to indicate their sexual specialties. I didn’t think that he was signaling me for a date. Smiling, he brought the bandana over my eyes and tied it at the back of my head.
“Put your hands out, please,” he said.
I put my hands out slowly. They were bound with rough twine. I was led by the arm into the back seat, where I was wedged between the two men. Lest I forget who was in charge, the dark-haired man pushed the nozzle of the gun against my side, just below my ribs.
The motor started and the car jumped forward. It was pretty quiet outside, so I assumed we were traveling on the periphery of the city. I had no sense of time. Finally, we stopped and the only noise I heard was the sound of the sea as someone unrolled a window and the windswept in.
It occurred to me that I was about to be killed. I wondered if it would hurt. I wondered if there was an after- life. I supposed that I was about to find out. It was too bad I hadn’t gone to dinner with Grant.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
A voice that I recognized as belonging to the blond said, reasonably, “Don’t ask questions you don’t expect answers to.”
My arms were pulled out in front of me. I felt something cold and liquid dabbed at the inside of my arm at my elbow. The smell of alcohol filled the car.
“Nice biceps,” the blond said. “You lift weights, Henry?”
“No,” I said. “It’s heredity.”
“You’re lucky then,” he replied. “I have to lift pretty hard to stay in shape.”
The needle hit me with a shock, and I jerked my arms back.
“Steady,” the dark-haired man said, holding the gun against my neck. “Stay cool.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“We have some questions for you,” the blond replied. “This will make it easier for you to answer them.”
Minutes, or hours, passed. My tongue felt heavy in my mouth. Things stopped connecting in my head. I struggled to stay awake but it was like trying to keep my exhausted body afloat in a warm sea. It was so much easier just to give up and go under.
“Sodium pentothal,” I muttered in a voice that I vaguely recognized as my own. “Truth serum.”
“Very impressive,” the blond said. “Now relax.”
“It doesn’t work,” I murmured, half to myself. “Results aren’t admissible in court. I won’t tell you — anything I — don’t want to-”
“Quiet now,” one of them was saying. I couldn’t tell which anymore. “Rest. Later we’ll talk.”
I heard a roaring in my ears that was either the ocean or the sound of my blood.
6
Something scampered across my ankles. I opened my eyes in time to watch a rat’s tail disappear between one of the two garbage cans I was wedged between. It was still dark. There was a wall behind me, a street-lamp far away, and even more distant, the noise of traffic. My head felt like glass, as if the slightest unplanned move would shatter it. I turned my wrist and slowly brought my watch to my face. It was one-thirty. I had left Grant’s apartment just before ten — three and a half hours lost. I tried to remember. We had driven around a lot and someone asked me a lot of questions but I couldn’t remember what had been said or whether I’d responded. And then I passed out. And now I was awake.
Sort of.
I lifted myself up and found that I was standing in an alley that dead-ended into a brick wall. At the other end, I saw a light and started moving toward it. The light seemed to move away and I kept running into things, trash cans, piles of boxes, the wall. This is not a dream, I told myself, though the atmosphere was as fetid as a nightmare. Finally, I reached the lamp-post and hugged it, closing my eyes and waiting for things to stop spinning. When I looked again, everything was more or less still as I tried to get my bearings.
There was a wide, dimly lit street beside me and warehouses all around. The spire of the Transamerica pyramid, surrounded by the other downtown skyscrapers, loomed ahead of me. Judging by distance, I concluded that I was somewhere south of Market. I made my way up to the first intersection and read the street signs, Harrison at Third; one block south of Folsom and about eight blocks east of the gay bars where I might find help. I headed north to Folsom and turned left, feeling worse with each step as I became more conscious of my nausea and my aching body. The street was full of shadows and silences, and the darkness seemed unending. Had I been in less pain, I would have been terrified.
As I walked down the street, I attempted to puzzle out the identity of my abductors. All roads led to Robert Paris. They had been waiting for me when I came out of Grant’s building. Whether Abrams had called them or they’d followed me into the city, it was clear that my nosing around had not gone unnoticed. Aaron had warned me I was being watched. Until this moment I hadn’t believed him. The judge wanted to know how much I knew about Hugh’s murder. Apparently, I didn’t know enough to be gotten rid of. Yet.
Ahead of me I saw men walking up and down the street. I came to a corner and looked up. There was a red neon sign on an angle above a door. It said Febe’s. I crossed the street and stood at the open doorway. Directly inside the entry was a brown vinyl curtain that reached to the floor, and beyond it I heard muffled noises. I pushed through the curtain just in time for last call at one of the most notorious leather bars in the city.
Two men were playing at a pinball machine on my left. One of them wore black leather pants, shiny in the dim light, and a leather vest. The other wore jeans, a t-shirt and a collar around his neck studded with metal spikes. He sipped from a bottle of Perrier. To my right there was a curved bar bathed in red lights. All heads turned toward me. In my slacks and gray polo shirt I was in the wrong clothes for Febe’s. The atmosphere began to change from curiosity to hostility.
I had now been standing at the door for more than a minute. The bartender, undoubtedly thinking I was a tourist, scowled and started to come out from behind the bar. I took a couple of steps toward him and then passed out.
I was awakened with a hit of amyl nitrate.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, pushing the donor’s hands out of my face. “Enough.”
The hands withdrew and a voice asked, “You all right?”
“I’m better,” I said, sitting up from the floor.
The bartender knelt beside me. He was wearing a tight pair of levis and a pink bowling shirt with the name Norma Jean stitched above the pocket. Most of his face was lost behind a thick beard, but the concern in his wide blue eyes would have done justice to my mother.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll just call a cab and you can go back to the St. Francis or wherever you’re staying and sleep it off.”
“I’m not drunk,” I said, slurring my words. “Drugged. I was drugged.”
“Against your will?”
