sauntered by the fashionable Zuni Café. Smart little tables with crisp white tablecloths had been set up on the sidewalk to take advantage of the Indian summer weather. Patrons resplendent in chic black business suits were eating and drinking while waiters bustled to and from the bar.
A hundred yards away from the café was a homeless encampment. In the center of the camp a man was asleep. Surrounded by cardboard and goose down sleeping bags, he was enjoying the sunshine. His young-old face was serene. His pencil-thin legs were crossed, and his feet were emblazoned with bloodstains. His wrists bore the marks of recent contusions. A circus of green flies whirled around his head. Buried in rags, he was no more substantial than a pile of leaves fallen from a tree. A tiny sparrow with brown wings and a fluted beak pecked at the blood on his feet.
The civil defense siren went off, as it did every Tuesday at noon.
The Brinks money had been gone for six hours.
SEVEN
R ICHARD ROOD GAVE the farmer’s market in the Civic Center a hard look. The brick-paved plaza was swamped with sea gulls. Winos were sitting by the fountain. Senior citizens from Chinatown swarmed around merchants selling Fuji apples from Sonoma, mushrooms from Mendocino, fish from the bay, and almonds harvested near Firebaugh.
The place gave Richard the creeps. It reminded him of his days as a drag queen. Back when he was a man-child in an ash blonde wig, a satin gown, and a cashmere stole, hustling businessmen from suburban Marin in the bars on Geary Street.
He was in a dive one night in 1979, a balmy May evening with no fog or wind. Spring was only a week long in the city and Richard had been enjoying the rare warm weather. A guy came in, ordered a whiskey with water, and said the faggots were rioting on Market Street because of Dan White.
A former policeman turned politician, Dan White was from a working-class neighborhood known as Visitacion Valley. He had shot and killed the mayor and a gay public official at city hall the previous November. He had been put on trial for two counts of first-degree murder, but the jury had let him off easy, and he was sentenced to eight years in prison.
Hearing the news, Richard ran down the hill from Geary in his stocking feet, holding his high heels in one hand. At the corner of Turk,drag queens were trashing a liquor store. The ground floor windows of the State Building on McAllister had been wrecked. Eleven police cars in a row were burning in the Civic Center. Sirens were going off. Windshields were exploding. Richard skipped over to the first cop car in the line, broiling inside a casket of flames. He tore the wig from his scalp and threw it in the fire.
That had been a long time ago. He was different now. Wasn’t a womanish boy, didn’t get up in drag. Didn’t waste his time stealing from drunken old white men in bars. The town had changed along with him. You just can’t kill the mayor without a backlash. There was less housing, no jobs, and a permanent army of homeless.
Wending past a fruit stall laden with twenty-pound bags of oranges, Rood drifted through the Civic Center to Market Street. An assortment of police vehicles, several battered vans, three bullet-pocked Humvees, and a dozen patrol cars, barricaded the boulevard’s four lanes. A repairman in an asbestos jumpsuit was climbing a ladder to rewire the telephone lines that had fallen down during the Brinks crashing. A platoon of cops in powder blue combat overalls and white riot helmets were stationed behind a sandbagged control point at a Muni bus stop.
Standing at the curb, Richard was infuriated. The scar on his forehead was tender. His radar was up. There were just too many police in the street. Made him feel like a rat in a cage. He thumped his chest with a fist. No way in hell was he going to let them get him. He hoofed it down the block toward Sixth Street. An aged wino in a mackinaw called out to him from a porno shop doorway, singing,
A hundred yards away from the café was a homeless encampment. In the center of the camp a man was asleep. Surrounded by cardboard and goose down sleeping bags, he was enjoying the sunshine. His young-old face was serene. His pencil-thin legs were crossed, and his feet were emblazoned with bloodstains. His wrists bore the marks of recent contusions. A circus of green flies whirled around his head. Buried in rags, he was no more substantial than a pile of leaves fallen from a tree. A tiny sparrow with brown wings and a fluted beak pecked at the blood on his feet.
The civil defense siren went off, as it did every Tuesday at noon.
The Brinks money had been gone for six hours.
SEVEN
R ICHARD ROOD GAVE the farmer’s market in the Civic Center a hard look. The brick-paved plaza was swamped with sea gulls. Winos were sitting by the fountain. Senior citizens from Chinatown swarmed around merchants selling Fuji apples from Sonoma, mushrooms from Mendocino, fish from the bay, and almonds harvested near Firebaugh.
The place gave Richard the creeps. It reminded him of his days as a drag queen. Back when he was a man-child in an ash blonde wig, a satin gown, and a cashmere stole, hustling businessmen from suburban Marin in the bars on Geary Street.
He was in a dive one night in 1979, a balmy May evening with no fog or wind. Spring was only a week long in the city and Richard had been enjoying the rare warm weather. A guy came in, ordered a whiskey with water, and said the faggots were rioting on Market Street because of Dan White.
A former policeman turned politician, Dan White was from a working-class neighborhood known as Visitacion Valley. He had shot and killed the mayor and a gay public official at city hall the previous November. He had been put on trial for two counts of first-degree murder, but the jury had let him off easy, and he was sentenced to eight years in prison.
Hearing the news, Richard ran down the hill from Geary in his stocking feet, holding his high heels in one hand. At the corner of Turk,drag queens were trashing a liquor store. The ground floor windows of the State Building on McAllister had been wrecked. Eleven police cars in a row were burning in the Civic Center. Sirens were going off. Windshields were exploding. Richard skipped over to the first cop car in the line, broiling inside a casket of flames. He tore the wig from his scalp and threw it in the fire.
That had been a long time ago. He was different now. Wasn’t a womanish boy, didn’t get up in drag. Didn’t waste his time stealing from drunken old white men in bars. The town had changed along with him. You just can’t kill the mayor without a backlash. There was less housing, no jobs, and a permanent army of homeless.
Wending past a fruit stall laden with twenty-pound bags of oranges, Rood drifted through the Civic Center to Market Street. An assortment of police vehicles, several battered vans, three bullet-pocked Humvees, and a dozen patrol cars, barricaded the boulevard’s four lanes. A repairman in an asbestos jumpsuit was climbing a ladder to rewire the telephone lines that had fallen down during the Brinks crashing. A platoon of cops in powder blue combat overalls and white riot helmets were stationed behind a sandbagged control point at a Muni bus stop.
Standing at the curb, Richard was infuriated. The scar on his forehead was tender. His radar was up. There were just too many police in the street. Made him feel like a rat in a cage. He thumped his chest with a fist. No way in hell was he going to let them get him. He hoofed it down the block toward Sixth Street. An aged wino in a mackinaw called out to him from a porno shop doorway, singing,
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