The Castro '76 - An Israel Wren Mystery

1

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.