and jars of paint in symmetrical rows.
“You the painter?” he asked.
“No. Kenneth.”
“He’s pretty good.”
“Yes, he is. I wouldn’t have thought you’d like expressionist art.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know. Is Kenneth here? I’d like to meet him.”
“No, he’s not here.” A muscle spasmed in Joshua’s cheek. “He’s in the hospital.”
“Yes? I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Three days now and his condition is still critical.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
Hesitation. Then, in an angry, anguished rush: “He has a fractured arm, four cracked ribs, a broken cheekbone, and a punctured lung, that’s what’s the matter with him. Among other injuries. His face.. God, his poor face…”
“What happened?”
“He was beaten up. They used some kind of club.”
“They?”
“Fucking homophobes. Gay-bashers.”
“So that’s it. Known to him?”
“I don’t think so. He’s been under heavy sedation… confused when he’s awake. He can’t seem to remember much, just that there were two of them.”
“When and where?”
“Last Friday night. Saturday morning. He was on his way home from work, he moonlights as a bartender three nights a week at The Dark Spot on Castro. They must’ve been cruising for another target, it was late and he was alone…”
“Another target?”
“He wasn’t their first victim, the bastards.”
“How many others?”
“Two in the past two weeks. I know the second man.”
“Yes?”
“Gene Zalesky. He… used to be a friend of Kenneth’s.”
“How badly was he hurt?”
“Not as badly as Kenneth. He’s home now.”
“Was he able to provide descriptions of the attackers?”
“Young, early to mid twenties… the same pair.”
“Driving what kind of vehicle?”
“An old pickup truck, black or dark blue.” Joshua went to one of the chairs, slumped down on it. Runyon stayed where he was. “I told Kenneth to be careful, ask somebody to give him a ride home, take a cab if he had to. But he wasn’t afraid, he didn’t believe it would happen to him… Goddamn them! Goddamn them?”
“Easy, son.”
“Don’t tell me that. That’s what they kept saying.”
“Who?”
“The cops. Bullshit, that’s all. They didn’t care. Just another fag beating. File a report and forget about it.”
Runyon said, “It doesn’t work that way,” but they were just words. It did work that way, much of the time. And not just in crimes against gays or other hate crimes-in nearly all low-profile street felonies. Too many crimes, too many criminals, too little time and manpower. Too many excuses and too much apathy.
Joshua said bitterly, “I thought you didn’t lie. Isn’t that what you told me in December?”
“All right. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry. What good is sorry?” Shuddery breath. The blue eyes were moist now; shifting emotions, pain the most intense. “He could die. Kenneth could die.”
“His condition that critical?”
“Internal bleeding. The doctors had trouble stopping it. It could start again at any time…”
It seemed for a few seconds that Joshua might break down. Runyon felt an impulse to sit beside him, give him a shoulder to lean on. Didn’t do it because he knew the gesture would be rejected. What his son wanted from him had nothing to do with fatherly solace.
Joshua made a visible effort to pull himself together. At length he said, “I hate this,” in a shaky voice. “Kenneth is the strong one. I’m no damn good in a crisis.”
Runyon said, “I am.”
“I just… I don’t know what to do.”
“You’ve already done all you can. Calling me was the right thing.”
For the first time Joshua looked at him squarely. “Could you find them, stop them before they kill somebody?”
“Maybe. No guarantees.”
“Would you? If I hired you, paid you…”
“No.”
“But you just said-”
“I’ll do what I can, but not for pay.”
Silent stare.
“You’re my son,” Runyon said. “That’s all the reason I need.”
3
TAMARA
Vonda said, “Well, I met this guy.”
“Uh-huh.” So what else is new? Tamara thought.
“A couple of weeks ago at a club in SoMa. We danced and had some drinks and he asked me for my phone number and I gave it to him. I was a little ripped or I probably wouldn’t have.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He kept calling me up and I gave in and I’ve been out with him a couple of times. A really nice guy, and gorgeous… I mean a real hunk. His name is Ben, Ben Sherman; he played football when he was at UC Berkeley. He has a good job, he works for a brokerage company in the financial district.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Saturday night we went out again, dinner and dancing, and afterward… well, he invited me to his place on Tel Hill, he’s got a great apartment up there, terrific view and everything…”
“Let me guess. You ended up in bed.”
“I wasn’t going to, it just happened. I mean, you know me, I don’t usually sleep with a guy until I get to know him first.”
Oh, yeah, right. She’d been friends with Vonda since they were sophomores at Redwood City High. Shared some wild times, their gangsta period when they’d chased with some rough homies, smoked weed, done all kinds of stuff that came close to crossing the line. Vonda looked a little like a young Robin Givens, slim and sleek but with a J-Lo booty; guys had been all over her since her boobs started to show. She’d lost her cherry when she was fifteen, must’ve slept with fifty different guys before and after she cleaned up her act.
“How was it?” The usual girl-talk question.
“Oh, great. Wow. The best ever. I mean, Ben really knows how to treat a woman in bed. But it wasn’t just sex.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No lie. There’s a difference, you know there is. Sex is one thing, making love’s another. I thought I’d made
