The Castro '76 - An Israel Wren Mystery

7

A flurry of gulls lifted off the wharf and wheeled away, their cries drifting out over the bay. The Birdman Tour to Alcatraz left from Pier 33. Israel checked the ticket in his hand and found the correct gangplank. A pair of terns perched on the bollard securing the top-heavy tourist ferry. Israel jostled with the tourists as they bundled across the gangplank onto the boat with a clatter of feet on metal. The engines juddered under their feet, the whistle blew and the boat began to pull away. Israel stood outside near the stern and watched the wharf drift into the distance.

            ‘Hey fella. You on holiday? Where are you from?’

Israel smiled and nodded at the slender man wearing flared jeans and an “I left my heart in San Francisco” T-shirt who steadied himself against the ferry rail nearby, but did not reply.

The man inched into his personal space and thrust a fine-boned face with a sandy moustache into his line of sight. ‘What’s the matter, buddy? Don’t you speak English?’

Israel backed away a few inches and deliberately moved his wallet from his back pocket to his front before addressing the intrusive character. ‘No, I’m not on holiday. I’m from London and I’m in this fair city for a criminological conference.’ He watched the man’s eyes as he said the words.

            ‘Oh cool, that’s great. I’m from Wichita, that’s in Kansas if you don’t know. I’m here to visit with my brother Bob. He’s getting married tomorrow over in Oakland.’ He grinned and rubbed his hands together. ‘She’s a great gal, just great. I reckon I’m a tiny bit jealous of old Bob.’

            ‘How nice, please excuse me.’ Israel smiled and nodded before he made his way into the cabin and then headed for the opposite end of the boat. He found a place to stand near the bow and watched as the island of Alcatraz slowly bumped closer.

            Once they reached the island, a young tour guide led them down a path towards the main building. She paused in front of the main entry to address her tourist flock: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Alcatraz still has a reputation for being one of the nastiest jails in the country, but don’t worry, it has now been thirteen years since the jail was closed in 1963, so we won’t be meeting any unsavoury characters on our trip today …’ She smiled and led them on into the main building. ‘In fact 1976 has been a great year for Alcatraz. This year, the island was listed on the National Register of Historic Places …’

The tour was interesting enough and Israel kept up with the crowd. Karen, the guide, led them up to a small, dank room on the second floor. ‘This is the cell of prisoner number 594, Robert Stroud – The Birdman of Alcatraz.’

Israel craned his neck and looked through the crowd. He found Wichita man gazing at the guide with rapt attention and a vacant smile. Israel noticed the man had ended up uncomfortably close to him again. He edged away and frowned as the man shoved a hand into his jeans pocket.

The tour guide continued: ‘Mr Stroud was a dangerous prisoner but found fame caring for canaries, eventually writing a book, Stroud’s Digest on the Diseases of Birds ...’

Wichita’s hand re-emerged with a piece of fine quality paper and small ballpoint pen. He wrote a brief note and shoved the paper back, deep into his front pocket. Karen led the tour group on and Israel let them go, watching the fine boned tourist through slitted eyes. Then he focused on the prison cell in front of him.

 He tentatively pulled the door to the room half closed and then went over to the tiny window. All he could see was a smidge of grey cloud on the horizon. Against the wall there was a rough bunk that was presumably kept there to add colour to the tourist experience. He sat down on the edge of the bunk and stared at the wall opposite.

After a few minutes he stood and moved out into the corridor again. Ignoring the tour group, he found his way out of the building and started to follow a rough dirt track around the perimeter of the rocky island. On the leeward side he found a sunny spot, protected from the prevailing wind. He sat down cross-legged on a patch of mossy grass, his back up against the warm stone that formed his wind shelter. In front of him, an ornamental shrub grew, savouring the same warmth and shelter he had discovered. He was pleased to see an egret’s nest deep in the boughs. As he watched the nest, a pall of exhaustion started to overwhelm him. The long trip, the excitement of being in San Francisco and the two nights on Harvey and Scott’s sofa had started to catch up with him and his eyelids drooped.

            ‘Hey there fella, time to rise and shine! The ferry was going to leave without you but I said “where’s the little coloured fella” and they said “who?”’

Israel’s eyes blinked open and immediately narrowed into slits as he tried to focus on the shadow standing over him. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

            ‘I said, come on little fella, the boat’s going to leave without us if we don’t hurry up.’

A hand reached down and helped pull him to his feet. He blinked quickly and found Wichita man smiling at him.

            ‘I, err, thank you …’

            ‘No problem, we’ve got to look after our foreign visitors now, don’t we? Come on.’ He turned and strode off down the path.

Israel patted the outside of his front trouser pocket and felt the comforting outline of his wallet. Perhaps he had been too hasty in judging this man. Perhaps he was just as he seemed: an overly gregarious fellow tourist with little regard for personal space. He jogged down the path and made it to the ferry just as the gangplank was about to be pulled back. Fellow travellers stared daggers at him as he crossed onto the boat. He buried his head in a newspaper on the way home to avoid any further eye contact. Karl Malden and James Garner had been nominated for the upcoming Emmy Awards but he saw no mention of his famous confidante, or his popular television series.