The Castro '76 Read online

the sheet of thick paper he’d been holding in his hand in frustration and tossed it on the table before saying goodbye. After Nelson had gone, Israel leaned over and un-scrunched the paper. The detective had been taking notes on the last session about handling physical evidence. Israel wondered if he always took notes in pencil.

  The seminar was only a single day affair and it was over in a few short hours. The organisers had cited the pressing need to get police back out on the streets, but Israel suspected cost was factored in too. The Westin St Francis didn’t look cheap. Israel headed home on the tram. He watched as office workers in checked sports coats rubbed shoulders with longhaired hippies and braless girls in hotpants as the carriages clacked and squealed through the streets. He looked up and realised his was the next stop.

  His shoes echoed on the wood flooring of Castro Camera as he headed upstairs to change. He flicked on the television in the lounge room. The news reported that the body of a woman named Carol Lee Booth had been found near her home in South San Francisco. She had been missing since March. He gave an involuntary shiver and changed the channel.

  Israel made doubly sure all the doors of Castro Camera were locked before he left to find a quiet table for one. He hoped this would be his last dinner alone. The conference was over but he had one more night before he left for London. Harvey and Scott were due back tomorrow afternoon and he planned to do some sightseeing in the morning to pass the time until they arrived.

  He woke the next morning with a sore back after a listless night on Harvey and Scott’s sofa. A dark shadow hung in the recesses of his mind. A fragment of a dream drifted in and out of his consciousness so quickly that only the faintest sense of it could be touched. The shadow of something bad; there was fear there, but more than fear - there was anger. Deep, simmering, vengeful anger burned away at the edges of his being. He blinked at the ceiling and swung his legs off the couch.

  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 Wichita man shoved his 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 and he frowned 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 own famous confidante, or his popular television series.

  Israel was surprised to find Castro Camera bursting with life and action by the time he returned. Scott was in the front room attending to a backlog of customers and Harvey was behind the curtained partition, holding court with a cadre of formal and informal political advisors. Israel waved briefly at Harvey as he slipped past the mob on the way up the back stairs. His bag was already packed and ready to go, the sheets he had borrowed w
ashed and dried. He snuck down the stairs and past a preoccupied Harvey on his way out but Scott noticed and beckoned him over before he made it to the door.

  ‘Hello Israel, I’m sorry I was such a bitch before. It was nothing personal. I was mad at Harv and I was taking it out on you, so yeah… I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, I appreciate your apology.’ He saw Scott glance at the suitcase. ‘I wasn’t going to run away without saying goodbye. I just thought I would go and find a place in a hostel so I would be out of your hair…’ He declined to mention the lack of a guest bed, let alone guest bedroom.

  Scott pursed his lips. ‘Well, okay. You are also welcome to stay if you want. I mean, please don’t leave on my account.’

  Harvey brushed through the partition curtain and beamed at Israel. ‘Hey now houseguest, what’s going on here? You’re not slinking away without saying goodbye to your old friend are you?’

  Israel gave a wan smile and couldn’t meet his eye.

  Harvey put his arm around Israel’s shoulders. ‘Now now, I was just ribbing you. No need to look so serious.’ He paused and looked serious for a moment. ‘But you are going to come out with us tonight, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. I have been dying for some company