Scorpio Rising by Alan Annand

Author:Alan Annand
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, crime, suspense, mystery, noir, psychic, private investigator, astrology, palmistry, criminal profiling
Publisher: Alan Annand

Chapter 40

San Francisco

Shortly before midnight, Detective Jim Starrett parked his car on Market Street a few blocks northeast of Castro. Before leaving home he’d showered and splashed on a bit of Alfred Sung. He wore faded jeans that hugged him like a second skin, and a silk shirt with the top three buttons undone, revealing a silver chain and the key to his sailboat nestled in his abundant chest hair.

He strolled up Market, glancing into the windows of antique stores that lined the street. By the time he reached Castro Street, he was seeing men to women in a 20:1 ratio, and even the women were gay. Castro was a sloping street along which all the action gravitated to the block between 18th and 19th. Although it was Wednesday night, the sidewalk was thronged with guys who’d converged on the neighborhood to check out the scene. Men clustered at the corner of Castro and 18th, debating which of many clubs to hit. Starrett had the same problem, but for different reasons. Instead of a good time, all he wanted was a good lead. At least he wasn’t going in blind, having in hand the list of bars Munson had given him.

In the next hour, he worked his way through Man 2 Man, The Back Door, Moby Dick and Rock Hard. In each, he mentioned Bernie Lang’s name to the bouncer at the door and showed a photo from The Marin Independent Journal, Lang looking smart and prosperous in a leisure suit. Three times out of four, the photo jogged a vague recall in the bouncer’s mind but no tangible information. Starrett repeated the process inside with bartenders and waiters. As his search elicited doubts or sympathies, Starrett was occasionally offered consolation by a number of willing substitutes. He didn’t know whether to credit this attraction to his appearance or the scent of Alfred Sung, but wrote it off to the latter, sparing himself the deeper issue of confronting the former.

Starrett visited another three clubs – Daddy’s, Pendulum and Midnight Son. It was after one o’clock and he was tired, ready to call it quits as he approached the last place on his list, a club called No Woman No Cry. Beneath the marquee stood a bouncer in his mid-twenties, a black guy with about two hundred pounds hard-packed on a six-foot frame, bare-chested and nipple-ringed, wearing white leather pants with rhinestone-studded suspenders and a white leather bill cap.

“I’m lookin’ for someone,” Starrett told the bouncer.

“Ain’t we all.” The bouncer ran a feral eye up and down Starrett, getting a noseful of his cologne.

“Name Bernie Lang ring a bell? Fifty or so, dot-com nouveau riche, likes to party, maybe into rough trade.”

“Sounds like a lot of people. I can’t do nothin’ with that.”

“Can you do something with this?” Starrett showed Lang’s photo.

“I know him. But he ain’t into rough trade. Trannies more his thing.”

“Yeah, that too,” said Starrett, keeping up with the pace.

“You look like a cop. What’s your angle?”

“I am a cop.

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