“Yeah. Not all there, you know? Off the hook.”
“Distracted. Tensed up.”
“Right.”
“What was bothering her, she give you any idea?”
“No. Well, she said something about dealing with a half-and-half, same as I am.”
“Half-and-half?”
“Half black, half white,” Vonda said. “See, I’m dating this guy, a white guy who’s also Jewish, and he’s getting serious, he wants to meet my people and they’re not too cool about the mixed-race thing. So I called Tam to-”
“Did she give you a name, say anything at all about this half-and-half?”
“Just that she was dealing with him.”
“Him. A man.”
“I guess so. That’s the impression I got.”
“Somebody she met and was attracted to?”
“No, not like that. Horace is her man, only man she wants.”
“Some guy who hit on her, kept bugging her?”
“Uh-uh. Didn’t sound like that either. She’d’ve said if it was a sex thing.”
“What do you think she meant by ‘dealing with him’?”
“No idea,” Vonda said.
“Did it sound like an immediate thing-a situation she had to deal with then and there, wherever she was?”
“I’m not sure. That’s all she said. Well, except that race doesn’t always have to be an issue. Be nice if that was true. Then she said she’d call me later, we’d talk then, and cut me off.”
“But she didn’t call you back.”
“Uh-uh. Not last night, not today. Funny-when Tamara says she’s gonna do something, she always does it. You know?”
“I know,” I said.
“How come you asking me all these questions anyway? I mean, why don’t you just ask Tam?”
“She’s been out of the office all day. I’m trying to find her.”
“… Nothing wrong, is there? I mean-”
I said, “I hope not, Vonda. Thanks for your help,” and rang off.
I went and got the DeBrissac file again. As I remembered, he was down in there as a “male Caucasian.” To make sure, I put in a call to the Ballard Agency in Portland. They verified it: George DeBrissac was Caucasian, his ex-wife was Caucasian, and that made it pretty likely the cousin who owned the San Leandro house was Caucasian.
So was this half-and-half part of the “something that went down” on Monday night that’d bothered her enough to do some checking? What had she meant by “dealing with him”?
And the big question: Did he have anything to do with her sudden disappearance?
15
JAKE RUNYON
Paul Venner, Troy’s lover who worked in the Castro leather shop, wouldn’t talk to him. Venner was in his twenties, had orange spiked hair and a tattoo of a scorpion under his right ear and a muscled body encased in black leather pants and an orange T-shirt with the words QUEER POWER emblazoned on the front; he wore his hostility toward both heterosexuals and cops like another motto on the sleeve. He stonewalled every question Runyon put to him by saying aggressively, “No comment. Buy something or get out, you don’t belong here” or “Hey, you’d look good in cowhide and chains” or “How about a fur-lined jock strap, they’re on sale this week.” Runyon didn’t bite on any of it. Nothing ever showed on his face unless he wanted it to, and he showed Venner nothing but a flat stare the entire five minutes he was in there. When he said, “You’d better watch yourself, kid, or you’ll end up in the hospital like the other three victims,” and got another smart-ass comment in return, he walked out. The Paul Venners of the world, the hard-line haters, the self-involved screw-everybody-else jerks gay or straight, deserved whatever they got.
Another visit to Jerry Butterfield’s house-a refurbished post-1906 earthquake cottage with an add-on garage-also bought him nothing. Still nobody home. On the back of one of his agency business cards he wrote his cell-phone number and a brief call-me-it’s-important message, and wedged the card into the doorjamb above the lock. If he didn’t hear from Butterfield by seven or eight tonight, he’d follow up again himself.
Next stop: Hattie Street.
Keith Morgan was fifty or so, heavyset, sad-eyed. Lines and wrinkles calipered a small mouth, scored his cheeks and neck; even his head beneath a sparse combing of brown hair showed faint furrows. His first-floor studio apartment in the big, blue Victorian was dominated by framed photographs of a thin bearded man alone and in candid shots with Morgan, and prints and lithographs of dogs of one kind and another. A live dog, old and shaggy, of indeterminate breed, followed its master everywhere and never left him alone; it showed no interest in Runyon. Cataracts made its eyes look like blobs of milky glass.
Morgan had no problem with Runyon being straight or a detective. He listened to a brief explanation for the visit, nodded, showed him into the apartment, turned off a TV tuned to a noisy talk show, offered him something to drink, and then sat in a creaky recliner with the blind animal at his feet. The room smelled of dog and some kind of food with a lot of curry powder in it.
“Troy,” he said. “Well, I guess I’m not surprised he’s the cause of trouble.”
“Why is that, Mr. Morgan?”
“Wild young fool. The kind with no sense. Won’t listen to anybody, think nothing bad will ever happen to them and they’ll live forever.”
“Promiscuous, I’ve been told.”
“Lord, yes. He had a parade of lovers in and out.” Wry mouth. “He even propositioned me right after he moved in’offered to trade sex for his rent. I refused, of course. I would have even if I owned the building.”
“Yes?”
“I’m HIV positive,” Morgan said.
“I see. Recent diagnosis?”
“No, I was diagnosed more than ten years ago. Amazing the disease hasn’t killed me by now. My partner wasn’t so lucky. He died nine years ago. Probably infected by me, though that’s not certain.”
Runyon said, “I’m sorry,” and meant it.
“So am I. But you learn to live with it. Learn to live without sex, too. I gave that up when Dave died.” His lips moved, shaped something that might have been a ghost of a smile. “I felt it was the least I could do to honor his memory.”
“Did you tell Troy you were HIV positive?”
“I did, and he still offered me safe sex. See what I mean by wild young fool?”
“He moved out two weeks ago, is that right?”
“He vacated his room two weeks ago, yes.”
“Why the distinction?”
“He didn’t move voluntarily. I kicked him out.”
“For what reason?”
Morgan sighed heavily. At the sound, the blind dog raised its head and keened the air; when the sound wasn’t repeated, the shaggy head went down again on stretched-out forepaws.
“I found out he was underage,” Morgan said. “Troy looks much older, but he’s only seventeen.”
“How did you find out?”
“From his brother.”
Runyon said, “Brother?”
