Frisco Holiday

 

Title: Frisco Holiday Part Two

Author: Cathay

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Richard wasn't sure of the way home, but he wasn't in any hurry to get there either. He could hail a cab if he wanted to and the driver would be paid when he arrived. B.A. would probably give the cabbie a gigantic tip, Richard thought wryly.

 

Richard followed the tourists once he was out on the sunny street; he didn't know where he was or where he was going, but it didn't matter for now. The street slanted down and Richard looked at the houses in fascination as he passed them. The houses and yards themselves were level, but they looked odd against the sloping sidewalk. Everything was colorful and neat, the yards planted with bright flowers.

 

His thoughts went to this morning and H.M. Murdock. Richard didn't know much about the man, did he? Just that H.M. wasn't rich but he was still willing to help a stranger by offering his bed and his money, with no real hope of repayment. That he knew poetry (he was right about Longfellow, Richard admitted to himself), so he was educated, or at least well-read. That he was kind and had a gentle voice with a soft drawl. Richard smiled. And he looked sharp in his suit and fedora. Richard wanted to muss his hair and straighten his tie, locking with those warm brown eyes. Locking with his body. Richard had to stop that kind of thinking. He wasn't likely to see the man again.

 

The air grew brisker, chilly actually, as he rounded a corner into a large open area full of the scent of the ocean and something more. Fisherman's Wharf. Working men, families, and birds gathered at the Wharf. Richard's walk slowed; he wasn't used to so many people or so much noise. B.A. wouldn't even allow him to go to football games at school.

 

Tourists everywhere here, but this was obviously a place where the fisherman worked too. Richard walked between the storefronts and tables and cases full of seafood, both raw and cooked. He watched as someone ordered a crab cooked up fresh and flinched when the creature hit the steaming cauldron. There were piles of fresh fish on ice and sourdough bread rounds in baskets. The aroma of the cooking crab reminded Richard that he hadn't eaten since last night and he bought a walk-away crab cocktail from a pleasant, aproned man. He dodged burly guys with crates hoisted on their shoulders as he walked toward the water.

 

The Wharf aroma was a distinctive mixture of fresh and cooked seafood and the decaying carcasses of crabs and filleted fish discarded as the fishmongers cleaned their catches. Seagulls swooped down to pick tidbits from the midden, unheeded by the working men. Richard strolled over to the boats, put one foot on the railing, and watched the tourists feed the seals on a pier as he ate. When he was done, he looked out on the Bay, letting his mind wander. He'd have to go back to his responsibilities soon, but he'd like to enjoy this freedom now. He closed his eyes and pictured brown eyes and disheveled hair.

 

Eventually, he grew cold in the strong wind coming off the Bay. He hadn't thought to bring a jacket last night - he hadn't thought at all last night, truth be told. Well, he was going to enjoy himself now, for an hour more, anyway. Richard walked away from the Wharf, the smell, and the crowds, finally turning onto another street that looked busy.

 

The people here were different from the tourists on the Wharf. Women stood in doorways and on the street corners, dressed in tight skirts and wearing too much make up. Some leaned into car windows chatting to men; others - the others looked like they were on the prowl, their eyes never resting on anything or anyone in particular. The men were hard looking or had a furtive look about them, as if they knew they shouldn't be out in broad daylight, but couldn't help themselves.

 

The entire street had a shabby appearance: dust, flyers, and litter all blew around and swirled in front of grimy glass doors in recessed doorways. Store windows were painted over, and advertised 'live shows,' 'girls, girls, girls,' and the less subtle, 'nudes.' Neon lights made the same dim promises in the afternoon sun.

 

Richard was curious about the advertising, but not interested in seeing nude women. Especially not with the limited cash he had. But the street had other shops, posters and old newspaper covering their windows. Apparently, the locals knew what they were looking for because Richard couldn't tell what the stores held.

 

Richard stood near one of the unmarked stores, wondering what to do. He wanted more than to walk around the city, observing life. He wanted something real, an experience he could take back with him to his perfect Pacific Heights world. Should he try one of the stores, hoping that he'd be welcome and it wouldn't be somewhere he'd be embarrassed to be in on this street?

 

An ugly man in a leather jacket came out of a door down the sidewalk and brushed by Richard, apparently on his way to a big motorcycle parked along the curb.

 

Amy's Tattoo Parlor.

 

At least he could tell what it was. Richard looked up and down the street, trying to decide what to do, if he should go into the shop. Getting a tattoo would be an experience and he'd have something to look at and remember his freedom.

 

A bell jingled over his head as Richard opened the door. The shop was a small room with a counter against a wall, a bulletin board over it, and little else. A curtained doorway led to something in the back. It looked neat enough, calming Richard's fears that it would be less than clean. A hospital would be a better place to have needles inserted in his skin, but he wanted an experience, and this was it. A little danger and uncertainty added to the excitement. Richard bit his lower lip.

 

"Be with you in a minute," came a feminine voice from behind the curtain.

 

"Thank you," Richard called back. She sounded friendly enough; maybe this would be okay.

 

No place to sit, Richard idly opened one of the battered loose-leaf notebooks on the counter. It was filled with tattoo pictures and designs and he was soon paging through the books in earnest, looking for something he'd like adorning his body for the rest of his life.

 

He hadn't realized that there were so many possible tattoos. Flowers and hearts and battleships. All kinds of animals, including mythical ones. A great many designs that framed the name of the bearer's choice. Military insignia. Cute ones, serious ones, funny ones.

 

Nothing that appealed to him.

 

Richard almost cut and run when he thought of the finality of getting a tattoo, especially one he didn't even like. The head of Bancroft Financial definitely didn't need a tattoo. B.A. would shake his head. Smitty would be disappointed in him. He cast a look at the bell over the door; he couldn't even make a silent escape.

 

Then a picture on the bulletin board caught his eye.

 

It was a tiger, just the snarling face, but well-drawn on the back of an envelope. He liked the tawny orange of the tiger and the almost-black stripes. The eyes were black with a touch of red and its mouth was open in a roar. Something about the tiger drew him. Richard didn't know why he liked it, but he did.

 

Removing the thumbtack holding the paper, he took the picture down and waited for the physical manifestation of the voice beyond the curtain.

 

It wasn't long before a tall man in a suit came out from the back, accompanied by a feisty-looking girl.

 

"You happy with it, Abel?" she asked the man, smiling.

 

The girl was dressed mostly in black: ankle boots, jeans, and a leather jacket. The jacket was almost completely fastened high on her throat, the strapping not quite concealing a hint of white t-shirt. The only touches of color were from her brown eyes and flowing brown hair and her bright ruby lips.

 

The man grunted assent.

 

"Just see you keep it clean. And no scratching until it's healed!"

 

The bell jingled as the man left.

 

"I'm Amy. What can I do for you?" The sparkling brown gaze traveled up and down Richard's body, lingering in a few places, finally meeting his eyes.

 

Richard wasn't used to be looked at like that, and he blushed. Amy's smile grew bigger, causing him to heat up even more. Uncomfortably, he handed her the sketch of the tiger and pulled his money out of his pocket.

 

"I'd like this design, but I'm not sure if I have enough money. I didn't see any prices."

 

If possible, Amy smiled even more, her eyes merry. "That's so I can charge what I like. To the people I like."

 

Tentatively, Richard smiled back. He wasn't used to women (or men) flirting with him, but this was definitely flirting. "So, do I have enough money?"

 

"Sure do." Her eyes never left his, didn't even look at the money he held out. Flirting. "Come on back," Amy led the way behind the curtain.

 

Amy indicated a chair for him to sit on and studied the picture. "A tiger, huh?"

 

Richard looked around the room nervously and was reassured that it had a more clinical feel to it than the front room had. It looked clean, almost antiseptic. Maybe he wouldn't catch some terrible disease from the needles. He sat down and tried to relax. "I'm not sure why, but I like it."

 

"It's a nice design," she conceded. "Where do you want it?"

 

Richard hadn't given that much thought. "What are my choices?"

 

"Arms, legs, back," Amy looked up from the picture and grinned. "Ass."

 

Richard felt himself flush again. "Ah... I think my arm."

 

Amy pursed her lips and Richard thought he heard a muttered, "Shame," as he unbuttoned and removed his dress shirt.

 

"Right here," he pointed to his left upper arm over the deltoid.

 

"Sure you don't want it somewhere a little more - private?"

 

"N-no," Richard stuttered, trying to keep himself from bolting out the door. He concentrated on a spot just above her left shoulder, trying not to encourage her.

 

Amy smoothed a hand over his bare skin, and then used a piece of gauze moistened with alcohol to sterilize the area. He prayed that she knew what she was doing as she checked the picture again and began work. Richard turned his head away, preferring not to see the needle.

 

"What made you decide to get a tattoo?" she asked.

 

Richard tried not to jump as the needle touched his skin. "An impulse, really. I wanted a new experience. I was walking down the street, and saw your shop."

 

"Lots of new experiences for you out on that street, I'm guessing." Richard sensed laughter in her voice, but it was a friendly laughter. "But I'm glad you stopped in. Most guys get a tattoo to prove something."

 

Richard didn't want to tell her that he was trying to prove something too. That he was in charge of himself, that the family and business didn't own him.

 

"Almost done," Amy said a few minutes later.

 

He was surprised; he'd thought it would take longer. "Already?"

 

Amy smiled again. She had a nice smile. "Yes. It doesn't take long, not with something this size."

 

"Great."

 

"Look, if you want new experiences, you should come to the dance on the pier tonight. It starts at eight o'clock. It's held at one of the old warehouses, but they string up lights and there's a band, as well as records when they take a break."

 

"I don't know," he said, although the idea of pursuing some of the music he had heard last night, the happy dancing music, was intriguing.

 

"It's lots of fun," Amy wiped his arm with a towel. "I'll write down the address for you. Look for me, okay? I'm Amy Allen."

 

It did sound interesting, but Richard wasn't sure he'd still be on his own by then. B.A. was probably looking for him. Who was he kidding? B.A. had probably consulted with the FBI by now. "I'll see what I can do."

 

"Here," Amy handed him a mirror. "How's that look?"

 

Richard examined the tiger carefully, turning the mirror this way and that. It looked good, better than the sketch. "It hurts, but you did a wonderful job," he said sincerely.

 

Amy smiled again and Richard smiled back more certainly this time.

 

"It does look very nice on you. It'll be sensitive for a while. Keep it clean and don't scratch it."

 

"Thanks," Richard handed her the rest of his money.

 

"Hope I get to dance with you this evening," she waved him out the door, having pressed a piece of paper with the address into his hand.

 

Richard held his dress shirt flung over his right shoulder. His ribbed undershirt would have to do out in the street; his arm was too tender for him to think of pulling anything over it just yet. Richard checked the tattoo again, hardly able to believe he'd done it. A visible sign of his rebellion. If only he could share this with someone.

 

=~=

 

"No sign of him yet, B.A.?" Smith asked, straightening Richard's bedroom again. He was missing the kid.

 

"I'll know where he is by this evening, John, and that's a promise." B.A. growled, applying the screwdriver to the new locks he was putting on the windows. "I've known him almost all his life. He was feeling trapped, but he won't shirk his responsibilities."

 

"Yeah, he's been holding on for years, planning what he'd do when he finally got his trust fund next year and could have some freedom. Who could blame him for taking a little time for himself now that things have changed? Think we should call his mother?"

 

"And worry her, too? No, not unless I don't have him this evening. I've called in some help to poke around the city, put some feelers out...."

 

Smith looked out the window over B.A.'s shoulder, noting the trellis Richard seemed to have climbed down. Fuschia leaves and flowers were on the courtyard below, showing the damage Richard had inflicted on the plants. As Smith watched, a tall blonde woman crossed the courtyard. Distantly, he heard the doorbell ring.

 

"Could that be some of your reinforcements?" Smith asked.

 

B.A. paused in his work, brushing wood shavings from the window casement. "Tall, blonde, too cool for words?"

 

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Disdainful."

 

"I gotta talk to her," B.A. put his tools away neatly in their case. "She's good at research and finding people. She's agreed to help. Discretely. Just what we need."

 

"Glad someone has a plan," Smith muttered as he followed B.A.

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

H.M. leaned against a wall across and half a block down from the tattoo parlor he'd seen Richard Bancroft walk into a few minutes ago. He ignored the prostitute who kept looking at him. She acted as if she wasn't sure if he wanted her services or her territory. He avoided eye contact, hoping Richard would come out of the shop before he was picked up for loitering in the red light district.

 

When Richard left his room, H.M. hadn't been sure what to do. He couldn't force the man to stay, and Richard certainly wouldn't stay if he knew H.M. was a reporter. But H.M.'s feelings were starting to run deeper than wanting the story and needing to win the bet with Stockwell. He liked Richard for himself. Naïve and innocent, with enough poise to survive waking up in a strange man's bed without panicking. Despite that, the younger man was unworldly and H.M. was afraid he'd get hurt in the city without someone to watch out for him. It hadn't been a difficult decision to grab his coat and hat and head out the door.

 

He'd followed as Richard made his way to the Wharf and chuckled as the guy stared at the houses and ran into people on the sidewalk. Richard bought crab, H.M.'s own gaze calculating as Richard's lingered on the muscled fishmongers. Richard had eaten the cocktail hanging over a railing, smiling as people fed sea lions. The sun hit him just so when he stared out at Alcatraz; he looked like an angel, his wind-tousled blonde hair a halo surrounding his face. H.M. had just watched him, lost in his own thoughts for a time. Richard had left the Wharf after a while, scattering gulls as he started back toward North Beach. At first, H.M. had thought Richard was going back to his, H.M.'s, room, and his heart skipped a beat, but instead Richard had wandered some and ended up here on Broadway. H.M. had thought he'd have to intervene when the biker had brushed past Richard, but Richard had barely seemed to notice him. He'd looked up and down the street, and then he'd suddenly entered Amy's Tattoo Parlor.

 

H.M. wished he'd had a camera to capture any one of these moments this afternoon, but Frankie had said he was busy and couldn't make it, not even for a cut of the money. Not that H.M. had told Frankie that he had a chance at an exclusive with Richard Bancroft - couldn't trust that to phone lines. Once Frankie had stated that he had a date with Leslie and wasn't willing to postpone it, H.M. had clammed up. He had to think of some way to get pictures, though. They were part of the deal with Stockwell, and H.M. still wanted - needed - that money.

 

The door to the shop opened and Richard came out, looking around the street. My god, H.M. thought, straightening up. Richard's blue trousers were riding low on his hips, a ribbed sleeveless undershirt neatly tucked into them, and a belt holding them up. He was carrying his shirt over his shoulder like an up-scale version of James Dean.

 

H.M. crossed the street and walked toward Richard, feigning nonchalance by slowing his walk and casually glancing at the stores and signs. He bumped into Richard's shoulder, swinging him around.

 

"Ouch!"

 

H.M. stopped. "Oh, sorry!" He didn't have to pretend his surprise at the reaction; he hadn't meant to hurt Richard.

 

"Oh, it's you!" H.M. said, pretending to suddenly recognize him. "Are you okay?"

 

Richard glanced down at his arm, drawing H.M.'s attention to the fresh tattoo. H.M. hadn't thought the kid would actually get one and was a little surprised. He seemed too straight-arrow, not enough of a rebel to do something so out of character for a rich kid. Maybe there was even more to Richard than H.M. thought, and what he'd already seen was throwing him for a loop.

 

"I really am sorry. Got a tattoo, huh?"

 

Richard smiled, innocence and all teeth, pure enjoyment. The look took H.M.'s breath away. "Yeah, what do you think?"

 

H.M. made a point of studying Richard's arm, smiling a little at the tiger. "Nice." How had he come up with that image? Had he heard H.M. calling him 'tiger' last night? "So that was your mysterious appointment?"

 

"Mmm," the blue eyes met H.M.'s and then skittered up and down the dirty street. "I have a confession to make."

 

"Confession?"

 

"I'm playing hooky from my family responsibilities," he almost whispered. "I ran away last night."

 

H.M. had to continue to pretend that he didn't know this was Richard Bancroft he was talking to. "Trouble with your parents? Girlfriend? Musta been a reason."

 

"Nothing like that," Richard dismissed with a wave of his hand.

 

"You wouldn't run away for nothing," H.M. let genuine concern creep into his voice. Why was Richard Bancroft roaming the San Francisco streets by himself? H.M. hadn't given it much thought before. "You in trouble?"

 

"No, just needed some time away. I didn't intend it to be more than an hour or two, but I fell asleep," Richard frowned. "I'd better get a taxi back. They're probably missing me."

 

H.M. noticed that he didn't say they'd be worried about him, and he felt a surge of protectiveness. "Before you do, why don't you take some time for yourself?"

 

"I suppose... an hour or two, maybe," Richard sounded reluctant.

 

H.M. didn't mind urging him. He'd get the story and a chance to know Richard. No one would be hurt. "Why not the whole day? Give yourself a treat."

 

"Mmm," Richard looked like he was considering it. "I could do some of the things I've always wanted to do."

 

"Like what?" H.M. smiled, confident now that he'd have the rest of the day with Richard. He didn't examine too closely why that made him feel so good.

 

"Anything I want to," Richard smiled back at him and it was like the sun had gone nova. H.M. was dazzled. "Visit a sidewalk café. Walk through Golden Gate Park. See the view from Coit Tower. Have fun. Maybe some excitement. Doesn't sound like much, does it?"

 

A sidewalk café, H.M.'s mind began working. Frankie had said he was meeting his girlfriend, Leslie, at Caffe Trieste. It wasn't far from here and Frankie always carried a camera, even when he wasn't working.

 

"It sounds great. Tell you what, why don't we do all those things? Together."

 

"But don't you have to work?" Richard asked hesitantly.

 

"Work, nah!" H.M. brushed that thought aside. "Today is going to be a holiday! Sidewalk café? I know just the place," H.M. said, indicating that Richard should follow him.

 

=~=

 

"I don't see what the problem is, Mr. Smith," Carla shook her blonde head. "I'll approach him, flirt a little, and he'll be eating out of my hand in no time. You said he's never even been out on a date, Mr. Baracus?"

 

"Well, yeah," B.A. turned away, as if to avoid the rest of the conversation.

 

Hannibal smiled at his friend's discomfort. B.A. still didn't want to admit that Richard wasn't interested in women, even after all these years. Of course, other than that crush the kid had on Hannibal when he was about fifteen, he hadn't shown much interest in either sex.

 

Carla continued briskly. "The front door approach works best in these situations."

 

"I'm just saying you might want to use a little more finesse," Hannibal returned, pointing his cigar at her. "Blind side him at the least. Catch him unaware."

 

She pursed her lips. "You're paying me for my expertise. I'll be in touch when I have him."

 

With that, she walked out the door.

 

"Oh, yeah, B.A.," Smith said scornfully, looking after the woman. She was beautiful; had to give her that. But imposing, too sure of her charms. "Richard will just run to this one."

 

B.A. had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "She's very good at her job. She'll get close and lure him in."

 

Smith laughed wryly. "There's more than one reason he's twenty-four and never been on a date, B.A.  I keep telling you, but you don't want to believe it. You'd better have a back-up plan."

 

B.A. sighed. "A Plan B wouldn't hurt."

 

=~=

 

They sat at a table along the sidewalk and drank their coffee, espresso for Richard and iced coffee for H.M. It was reasonably warm here, the sun still shining around the fog that seemed to always be moving in. A few more hours and it would be dark and he'd, no doubt, lose Richard's company. This was his opportunity to get the information he needed to write his exclusive. And to get to know Richard, even if there was no future in it. H.M. frowned at that, but he had to be realistic. Why did even the thought of never seeing Richard Bancroft again make his chest tighten?

 

"So, why did you run away?" H.M. asked, playing with his napkin.

 

"Mmm?" Richard dragged his eyes away from the street traffic and people, and smiled at him. "Nothing important. I was just feeling too much pressure and wanted a break."

 

"Couldn't you tell someone?"

 

"Nothing anyone could do about it," Richard replied and then lowered his voice. "My father died last week, and I'm responsible for my mother and sister."

 

"I'm sorry about your father."

 

Richard looked up at him, blue eyes clear, resigned. "Nothing to do about it. I barely knew the man; I hadn't seen him in five years. He always chose work over his family. My mother and sister come first for me."

 

"What are your plans?"

 

Before Richard could answer, the door of the café swung open for a customer and H.M. heard Dougie's voice inside intoning, "Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland where you're madder than I am," and was thankful they were sitting outside. The last thing he needed was to listen to Ginsberg's ramblings delivered by Dougie Kyle. H.M. considered moving on to another café, but he'd spotted Frankie coming toward them.

 

Frankie fit into the beatnik crowd with his casual clothes and overlong hair. Today his straight black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, sleek and shiny as the leather vest he wore. Occasionally Frankie had been known to run with the bikers in town. People seemed to forgive artists for being bohemian, and Frankie was an artist with a camera.

 

"Frankie, nice to see you," he stood up to greet his friend. "Come meet Rick - "

 

Richard stood up and shook hands.

 

"You know," Frankie cocked his head at Richard, as they took their places around the tiny outdoor table. "You look exactly like - ow!"

 

Frankie grabbed the ankle H.M. had kicked and glared at him. H.M. looked back calmly, taking a sip of his coffee. He hadn't thought it was safe to tell Frankie about the story once Frankie had said he was too busy to work on it, so Frankie didn't know what was going on. H.M. had to rely on Frankie figuring it out now. In the meantime, he had to keep him from giving away that H.M. knew this was Richard Bancroft and that they were journalists.

 

"Well, I guess I'll be going," Frankie said, getting up from his chair, totally misinterpreting the  situation.

 

"No, no," H.M. said, motioning to Frankie's chair. He needed Frankie. He just didn't need Frankie to spill the beans on this. "Sit down. Join us."

 

Frankie dropped into the seat, looking puzzled. "Just until Leslie gets here."

 

"We were just talking about ourselves, Mr. Santana," Richard said. "What do you do for a living?"

 

"I'm in the same line of work as H.M., here - Hey! Watch it!" Frankie jumped up again, this time holding his wet trousers away from his body. H.M. picked up his capsized coffee glass.

 

"Oh, sorry, Frankie." Sometimes H.M. wished Frankie was a little swifter in the mental department. He was a good man to have on your side, at least he was if you had the time to explain everything thoroughly.

 

"Look," annoyance was strong in Frankie's voice as he pushed his chair under the table. "I can take a hint. I'll see you around."

 

"No, stay," H.M. insisted. "Just be a little more careful not to spill."

 

"Who? Me?" Frankie said in indignation. "I haven't spilled anything!"

 

"Yes," H.M. caught his eye and held it. "You have."

 

"You're the one who's been doing the spilling," Frankie muttered, dabbing at his pants with cold water.

 

"Oh, please sit down, Mr. Santana," Richard pleaded. "The waiter is just bringing your drink."

 

"Thanks, Rick," Frankie settled down again, picking up the coffee cup and taking a sip. "He's crazy," Frankie indicated H.M. "You're all right, but he's crazy. You know, without that tattoo and with a haircut, you'd be a dead ringer for - "

 

This time H.M. kicked Frankie's chair out from under him, sending the photographer over backwards onto the sidewalk. "Hey!"

 

Several customers helped him up.

 

"You need to be careful, Frankie, and stop slipping."

 

"Are you crazy? I'm not the one - "

 

Frankie was starting to look as if he wanted to punch someone. H.M. stood up and put his arm around the other man. "Look, you may have sprained your neck. Come on in here and let me take a look," H.M pushed Frankie into the café.

 

The interior was quieter than the street, only the sounds of table conversation and Dougie intoning more of 'Howl' - "I'm with you in Rockland where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again…."

 

"What's goin' on, H.M.?" Frankie cast an irritated look at Dougie and then back at H.M. "That's Richard Bancroft, the new head of Bancroft Financial, and you know it! All his interviews were canceled today and you're sitting having coffee with him in North Beach?"

 

"I ran into him on the street." H.M. didn't elaborate on that, not willing to tell Frankie that Richard had spent the night in his room. No need to broadcast that tidbit. They had enough with the tattoo and anything else they picked up today.

 

"What would you do for five grand, Frankie?" H.M. asked. "He doesn't know who I am. Stockwell promised me five thousand dollars for an exclusive."

 

Frankie's eyes widened and he whistled softly through his teeth. "Stockwell did?"

 

"Shook on it and everything," H.M. held up his fingers in oath. "I'll split it with you sixty-forty if you take the pictures. Deal or not?"

 

"He should take some killer pictures. He's a good-looking guy and I think that charm will come through on film. And what a smile! Deal."

 

The praise of Richard made this next bit easier; H.M. found he didn't like other people making observations like that about the kid. "Give me fifty dollars."

 

"Wh - what?" Frankie sputtered, grabbing his wallet pocket as if to protect himself from theft.

 

"Hey! I'm tapped and he isn't cheap. Espresso, forgodsake! What's wrong with regular coffee?"

 

Frankie handed over the money. "This is not part of the split. I want it back on Saturday."

 

"Yeah, yeah. Let's go to work," H.M. said, leading the way out of the café, afraid that Richard might have wandered off . He sighed with relief when he caught sight of the blonde head. Richard was putting the shirt back on again, covering the tattoo.

 

The waiter had cleaned up the table, and fresh coffee awaited them as Frankie and H.M. took their seats. Frankie took a couple of cigars out of his vest pocket, offering them to Richard and H.M. H.M. waved his away.

 

"A cigar?" Richard took it, rolling it around in his fingers and sniffing it, listening to the crackle of the leaves. "I've never had a cigar before."

 

"Really?" H.M. smiled at Frankie encouragingly.

 

Frankie grinned back, taking out his special cigarette lighter. It could start fires, but it also concealed a small camera. Frankie used it to take candid pictures when he didn't want people to know they were being photographed.

 

"My very first," Richard assured them.

 

Frankie took several pictures as H.M. showed Richard how to prepare the cigar and get it lit. Finally, Richard was able to lean back in his chair and take a few puffs.

 

"What's the verdict?" H.M. grinned at the picture that the boy presented. So relaxed, his lips around the cigar…. H.M. shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "Should we come up with a schedule?"

 

"A schedule?" Richard sat up straighter, a slight look of panic in his eyes.

 

"Not for anything serious!" H.M. reassured him, covering Richard's hand on the table. "Just for fun."

 

"Oh, no schedule!" Richard stood up, branishing the cigar. "Let's just go!"

 

H.M put some money on the table as he prepared to leave. "Are you ready, Frankie?

 

"Frankie!" A thin woman with short puffy hair greeted Santana. Her high heels clicked on the cement and she was swinging a fashionable purse. Leslie Becktall, fashion model.

 

"Leslie!" Frankie's hand went around the woman's waist and he kissed her cheek.

 

"Bye, Frankie," H.M. said as he left with Richard Bancroft. He laughed as Frankie scrambled after them, leaving his model behind.

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

They walked from Caffe Trieste to Pioneer Park and Coit Tower. H.M. and Richard walked together along the sidewalk, with Mr. Santana trailing along behind. Frankie, as H.M. called him; they were obviously friends. Richard felt a little resentment at the other man's presence. He had thought that he'd be alone with H.M. for the day, but he was determined to make the best of the situation and enjoy what time he had with H.M.

 

Richard had seen Coit Tower from the Bay Bridge before. The building was tall, but sitting on Telegraph Hill made it stand out in the city skyline. It was dedicated to firefighters, and in the past Richard had thought it looked like a gigantic firehose nozzle sticking up in the sky. Now it took on a different look, a more interesting one. Tall and proud. Erect. Mmm…He shot a quick glance at H.M., hoping the man couldn't read minds.

 

"C'mon," H.M. called from the entrance steps with Frankie. "Let's go in. We can go to the top and check the view."

 

Richard hurried to join them, and they all entered the building.

 

"Wow," Richard whispered under his breath. Murals covered the rotunda walls, even up and over the doorways. "Did the same artist do all of this? It looks like - "

 

"Diego Rivera," H.M. was walking around, studying them seriously himself. "But he didn't paint them. His style was the inspiration to hold them together, but over twenty different artists painted the scenes. California life in the 30's."

 

"Oh!" Richard exclaimed, looking at a picture of a cowboy. He blushed when H.M. gave him a speculative look and hurried on to a part of the mural depicting California farming. Why did he always end up blushing around H.M? Hell, he'd grown up in Europe; he was sophisticated. The look of one man shouldn't do this to him.

 

They spent a few more minutes in the rotunda, but it wasn't enough time to take everything in. Frankie didn't look at the walls at all, but he did smoke a couple cigarettes and play with his lighter several times. Richard wondered why he'd joined them if he wasn't interested in where they were going. Richard, for one, could have done without him.

 

H.M. quietly followed Richard around, drawing his attention to a detail here and there, like the farmworkers gathering calla lilies in a field in one picture. His interest in the murals reflected Richard's, his comments meant to extend Richard's enjoyment. He was obviously an intelligent, educated, sensitive man.

 

They gravitated toward the elevator. Richard thought they were going to leave Frankie behind, but he jumped into the elevator just before the doors closed. The ride up was fast and they followed the other tourists farther up some stairs to the observation area.

 

"Wow." Richard said it again quietly, but it was heart-felt. "The view up here is fantastic."

 

Richard walked over to the edge and looked out on the city. From here he could see both the Bay Bridge spanning the south part of the Bay to the east, and the Golden Gate Bridge between the ocean and the mouth of the Bay to the northwest. This had to be the best view in the entire peninsula.

 

To his right, the Bay Bridge stretched over to Oakland in the distance.

 

"That green spot in the middle of the Bay Bridge is Treasure Island."

 

"Can we go there?" Richard asked, thinking it might be fun to explore an island, especially an island with a name like that.

 

H.M. smiled as if he could read Richard's mind. "No, it's a military base. Civilians aren't allowed."

 

Richard continued along the horizon, taking in the spire clock of the Ferry Building and then following the street that ran parallel to the shoreline, The Embarcadero, and the spines that poked out from the shoreline into the Bay - the piers. One of those was where the dance Miss Allen had told him about would be taking place tonight.

 

Next, on the tip of the peninsula, came the Wharf where he'd eaten his crab cocktail and watched people feed the seals. Alcatraz was visible in the Bay, so close, and Richard wondered about how safe it really was. Had anyone ever escaped from the prison?

 

"That's the Presidio," H.M. pointed to a large green area on the San Francisco side of the Golden Gate. It looked like an enormous park. "I don't think you can make it out from here, but the Palace of Fine Arts is just this side of it. It's in ruins, but might be interesting. And before you ask, the Presidio is off bounds too, but we can go to Golden Gate Park and cross the Golden Gate Bridge."

 

Richard gazed out at the Golden Gate Bridge again as Frankie lit yet another cigarette. The fog was making the bridge look like a fairy tale structure, rising out of clouds.

 

"C'mon, kid," H.M. said and Richard shivered slightly at the nickname. "Let's pick up my car and get going before it's dark."

 

=~=

 

Richard drummed his fingers against his knee, impatiently waiting for H.M. to get back. H.M.'s blue and white Metropolitan convertible was posed to take the switchbacks of Lombard Street, 'the crookedest street in the world.' Richard could see the brick-paved street and the flowers and other landscaping at every turn. Pretty, but the day wasn't going exactly the way he'd hoped.

 

He and H.M. had done a tourist's afternoon of San Francisco. They had tromped around the back trails of Golden Gate Park, looking for the odd gardens that were tucked all over the park. H.M. had brushed against him on the narrow trails. They had climbed over the ruins of the Palace of Fine Arts. H.M. had grabbed his hand to help him over the rubble. They had crossed the Golden Gate Bridge in the Metropolitan and then parked on the other side of the Bay to get out and walk back to the midpoint of the bridge. The wind whipped at his hair and shirt, and Richard had watched the sailboats on the Bay. H.M. had put an arm around his shoulder as they walked back. "Wouldn't want you blowing off the bridge," he'd said with one of his big smiles.

 

All that was nice. Very nice. It would have been even better if they'd been alone, but Frankie Santana had been there every step of the way. He was always hovering over them, watching them, and Richard was getting very frustrated with the man's presence. He wanted H.M. to himself.

 

Right now, Frankie was on his motorscooter at the foot of the hill, waiting for them to drive down. Richard grimaced. Frankie Santana talked too much, he smoked incessantly, he had poor taste in clothing. And he was impervious to clues that he wasn't wanted.

 

What was keeping H.M., anyway? Richard twisted around, hand leaning into the driver's seat. There he was, talking to a man on the sidewalk across the street. H.M. had a great sense of humor and he was so kind. He was also tall and lean, and had the warmest smile Richard had ever had directed at him. H.M. must have seen him looking, because he smiled and waved at Richard as he continued to talk to the stranger. Richard smiled and raised a hand to wave back.

 

He was starting to straighten up in his seat when he saw H.M. shake hands with the man, apparently ending the conversation, and Richard tried to turn around again to watch H.M. walk back to the car. His empty hand was suddenly grasping for a support, and he almost fell back against the dashboard before his hand found something solid to rest against. But that only lasted a moment as the sleek round object gave way under this hand.

 

The car started to move.

 

Richard couldn't help it; he let out an unmasculine scream. It seemed like the thing to do when you were in the passenger seat of a car that had just slipped out of gear and was positioned on top of one of the steepest grades in San Francisco. Especially when you had just been thrown backward against the dashboard as the car started down the hill.

 

Richard tried to sit up and get his bearings, but the angle of the car was making it impossible. He needed to reach the brake to get the car stopped. As he righted himself, he saw H.M. running after the car. Then the car jumped a curb and Richard bounced back against the dashboard again.

 

At least the curb (and the flower garden it contained, Richard thought) slowed the car down. The car crashed down into the street as it cut across the switchback, and then jumped the next curb. Richard didn't have time to get his balance as the car bounced up and down the curbs and street. He was starting to think he was going to end up in the Bay when H.M. vaulted into the driver's seat.

 

"I got it," he said, smiling.

 

The smile disappeared when the car jumped again on its rollercoaster ride, but Richard appreciated the effort to reassure him. H.M. had the car stopped before it left the street again. They were both breathing hard, and Richard threw his arms around H.M. for a moment in relief.

 

Damn. Just damn.

 

Pulling back, too embarrassed and confused to look at H.M., Richard got out of the car. He knew H.M. was looking at him; he could feel his body tingling with it, but he couldn't meet H.M.'s eyes. Had H.M. hugged him back, in that brief embrace? Richard wasn't sure.

 

Up the hill, Richard could clearly see the destructive path the car had made taking the direct approach down the hill. A straight line plowed through carefully tended gardens. Plants were crushed and torn, and not a few clung to the car itself.

 

"Oh, boy."

 

H.M. joined him, leaning against the hood of the car. "Yeah."

 

Frankie ran up to join them, breathing hard. He lit a cigarette and surveyed the damage. "What happened?"

 

Richard blushed again at the damage he'd done and the fact that Frankie was there to witness it. Worse yet, Frankie gave H.M. a sarcastic thumbs-up at Richard's expense. He felt like a complete fool. Was there anything that could make this situation worse?

 

"Uh-oh," Frankie said in response to the sound of police sirens close-by. "I'll meet up with you by the fountain, H.M!"

 

"Chicken!" H.M. yelled at the retreating figure, laughing. He looked at Richard sheepishly. "Just you and me, kid."

 

Richard liked the sound of that. Their eyes met and held for a moment. "Guess so."

 

H.M. must have known Richard had accidentally put the car in gear, but he took all the blame when the police arrived.

 

"Officer, I didn't have the brake on and my tires weren't turned to the curb. Totally my fault."

 

Richard felt a little guilty when H.M. got the ticket, but also relieved that he didn't have to give his real name to the police and in front of H.M. He didn't want H.M. to know that he'd been lying to him. He'd have to find out how much the mess would cost to fix, ticket included, and make sure H.M. wasn't out the money.

 

=~=

 

Back in the car, H.M. drove them around the city. Let Frankie wait for a while at the fountain. H.M. had to admit to himself that he just wanted more time alone with Richard.

 

They took another swing through Golden Gate Park, then stopped at Playland-at-the-Beach. They visited a fortuneteller, rode the beautiful (fast!) Loof Carousal horses and went down the bumpy three-story high wooden slide in the Fun House. H.M. was disappointed that neither of the last two things drove Richard into his arms again. H.M. had been terrified when he'd seen the car roll down the hill and over the curbs; it had been a relief that the kid was safe.

 

H.M. finally fed the kid at Playland, too. They hadn't eaten the entire day; H.M. had suddenly realized that he was hungry as they passed the It's It stand. The ice cream sandwiches were soft, the oatmeal cookies in them chewy, perfect for a late-afternoon snack. But H.M.'s went uneaten as he stared at Richard's chin, stilling an urge to lick the chocolate and ice cream off him, wondering if Richard's lips were cold and would taste of the cinnamon in the oatmeal cookies.

 

Next they drove by Fisherman's Wharf and down The Embarcadero.

 

"Oh!" Richard exclaimed, straining out of his seat. "There's a dance there tonight."

 

"The one at the pier?"

 

"Yes. It sounds like fun."

 

H.M. saw the hopeful look on Richard's face and he couldn't deny him anything right then. "We can go, if you want."

 

"Please!"

 

So, that was settled. H.M. would have at least this evening with Richard. And now, he found, the evening wasn't enough either.

 

They parked a few blocks from Market Street. H.M. reached across Richard to open his door so they could both get out the passenger side on the busy street.

 

He froze for a moment when he realized how close he was to Richard. He could smell his own shampoo in Richard's hair, could feel the heat from Richard's skin. He could tell Richard was holding his breath, but he couldn't tell if it was attraction or fear on Richard's part.

 

H.M. pushed the door open. Richard didn't move right away, and then he scrambled out, holding out a hand. H.M. let Richard help him out of the car; the handclasp lasted a little longer than it strictly needed to. They smiled at each other, eyes meeting again. Attraction.

 

"Where are we going?" Richard asked.

 

"Up to where Market, Geary, and Kearny Streets meet," H.M. replied, suddenly happy.

 

The sidewalks were just as busy as the street, crowded with businessmen, tourists, and other people, including panhandlers. H.M. ignored everyone but Richard; he was used to making his way around San Francisco in the car or on foot.

 

Richard seemed to be looking everywhere at once, taking things in. H.M. wondered if the kid had ever actually walked on a sidewalk before today. More likely he was driven anywhere he needed to go by a personal driver.

 

Richard looked around the streets, curious about everything, but the only thing he was paying attention to was H.M. He could feel the man at his side and it seemed right to him. Richard stopped abruptly when H.M. did, not sure why H.M. had brought him to this intersection.

 

"This is Lotty's Fountain," H.M. gestured.

 

Richard looked at the drinking fountain dubiously. It was one of the ugliest things he'd ever seen. Made of cast iron, shaped like a lion's head, it had probably been considered quite regal in its day. Last century, maybe.

 

"It was a gathering place for people in 1906 after the earthquake. The survivors still meet here on the anniversary of the quake every year." H.M. nodded at the drying flowers at the fountain's base. "Sometimes people leave memorial tokens to the people who lost their lives in the quake and fire."

 

Obviously, this place meant something to H.M. for him to include it on a tour of the city. Richard waited for him to explain, but wasn't disappointed when he didn't. Maybe one day. Richard stared at the fountain, startled at his own thoughts. When had he started thinking he would see H.M. beyond today? He didn't know, but he wasn't questioning it right now. If only he had more control over his own life.

 

Their companionable silence was interrupted by the return of Frankie.

 

"Hey! H.M! Rick!" Frankie called as he dodged cars, crossing the street.

 

"Frankie," H.M. said, as he joined them. "We're going to the party at the pier tonight - you know the one."

 

"What? Oh, sure, H.M." Frankie scowled at the fountain as if it offended the artist in him. "We have hours yet. What's next?"

 

"Uh, Frankie," H.M. said, giving the guy an intense look. "Don't you have to check on that business development?"

 

"Development?" Frankie looked startled.

 

"Yeah, that business development of yours." H.M. emphasized the word 'development.'

 

Richard wondered what was going on. The looks the other two men were exchanging obviously had deeper meaning. He looked closely for any sign that H.M. was upset, but he didn't appear to be. Richard relaxed a little.

 

"Oh, yes! Development!" Frankie motioned toward his motorscooter with his lighter. "I'll take care of that right now and meet you at the dance!"

 

"Good. See you there!"

 

Richard was relieved to have H.M. to himself again. The fortuneteller at Playland had said, "follow the truth in your heart," and Richard had every intention of doing just that.

 

 

 

Chapter 7

 

H.M. quelled the urge to grab Richard's hand and hold it as they walked along The Embarcadero toward the pier where the dance party was being held. The scent of the Bay was strong and damp and fresh, but the fog rolling in seemed ominous against the black sky, patchily obscuring stars. This was going to be the last time he saw Richard, the last few hours he'd spend with him, and his heart thudded heavily at the thought.

 

The day had been fantastic, but for H.M. the best part had been at Playland-at-the-Beach. "Follow the truth in your heart," the fortuneteller had said, and H.M. was all for that. He was all for exploring what he was feeling for Richard, this urge to be near him, to see his smile and listen to his voice. But there wasn't enough time.

 

It seemed like Richard felt the same way about him, but H.M. was being cautious. He didn't want to mis-read Richard and startle him. On the other hand, Richard was so shy that nothing would happen if H.M. didn't initiate it. It was a dilemma he'd been puzzling over most of the day.

 

H.M. felt Richard's fingers on his arm, running down the length of it, and coming to rest in his hand, interlacing their fingers. Richard gave him a little squeeze, his hand warm and soft, comfortable there. Maybe he wasn't as shy as H.M. thought.

 

As they walked out onto the pier, H.M. could already hear the music coming from the old building.

 

/Maybe baby, I'll have you. Maybe baby, you'll be true. Maybe baby, I'll have you for me./

 

The live band might be playing a Buddy Holly tune now, but H.M. knew the evening would include a mix of styles, including swing and big band music. Dance music. He wasn't looking forward to watching Richard dance with girls for the next few hours.

 

The warehouse was almost dark. Two bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling providing some general lighting; most of the illumination was from strings of white lights hung on the walls and ceilings. The band was set up in a corner by a hi-fi with stacks of 45s next to it. A few people were sorting through the records. The big room was crowded with people, most gyrating and hopping to the music, not apparently partnered.

 

H.M. paid the dance covercharge, keeping an eye on Richard. The kid was tapping his foot to the music, his body almost humming. It would be fun to watch him dance tonight, although H.M. couldn't help but be jealous of his future partners.

 

Putting his wallet away, H.M. decided to take a chance. He grabbed Richard's hand, and pulled him out to the dance floor. The mob easily absorbed them, no one paying attention to who was dancing with whom.

 

H.M. watched Richard as Richard watched the other dancers, obviously trying to match his moves to theirs. Had to give him credit. The last twenty-four hours had been filled with totally new experiences for the sheltered young man. Yet he continued, as much as he was able, to blend in wherever H.M. took him.

 

Apparently more comfortable with the moves, Richard turned his eyes to H.M. and smiled. His face seemed to light up when he did that; his blue eyes gleamed. H.M. could look at him for hours.

 

The music stopped and they moved off to the refreshment area. H.M. bought them both lemonades and they quietly watched the slow dancing as the band took a break and the records started.

 

H.M. frowned at the embracing couples on the floor. Why couldn't he dance with Richard like that?

 

=~=

 

/Since this is the perfect spot to learn, teach me to love./

 

Dancing. How could floating like this in H.M.'s arms be compared to what Richard had been doing only last night in Pacific Heights with the managers' wives and daughters?

 

They were close and intimate in the shadows, one pair of hands clasped together between their bodies, the other wrapped around back and shoulder. Richard pressed his face into H.M.'s shoulder and neck, warm and comforting, breathing him in. They swayed in a rhythm only vaguely indicative of the music, feet barely moving. No one leading, no one following.

 

It had seemed so natural when H.M. had lured him over to this dark corner of the warehouse. Richard had thought they were going outside through a side door for a walk along the pier. Instead, H.M. had stopped and held out a hand in invitation to dance. Richard had taken it gladly, and somehow he'd ended up pressed against H.M.

 

Not that there was anything wrong with that; his body was telling him it liked the proximity very much. Richard's hand moved up to touch H.M.'s neck and felt the little quiver that went through their bodies.

 

/Should the teacher stand so near, my love?/

 

He could stay like this forever, Richard thought. Richard hadn't been expecting to dance with H.M., but it was perfect. Swaying gently, his thoughts lost in the nearness and H.M.'s cologne.

 

Richard broke away self-consciously as he realized the music had stopped and they were still holding each other. He blushed and looked up at H.M. shyly. Was he making too much out of this devastating feeling? No, it was all right; H.M. was looking at him with the same intensity and interest.

 

=~=

 

Back at the refreshment area, H.M. kept watching Richard. Holding him in his arms had been heaven. He couldn't believe they'd danced together, that Richard had wanted it as much as he had.

 

"Oh, look! It's my tiger!" H.M. was drawn by the feminine voice and turned to the source.

 

A pretty young woman, wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes, she was dressed in black leather. Which made perfect sense, even at this dance, because her bald escort was obviously a biker. A member of a gang, too, his jacket bearing both rockers and the center patch. He had a wild-eyed look that made H.M. a little nervous.

 

"Miss Allen!" Richard exclaimed, putting down his lemonade, and taking the woman's hand. He drew back quickly when the man next to her growled.

 

"Jenko! Stop it!" Miss Allen swatted at her date's leather-jacketed arm. "I told him about the dance this afternoon when I was doing his tattoo. How's that feeling, sweetie? And it's Amy, please."

 

H.M. moved up behind Richard in support against the biker. His hand went out to rest on Richard's arm.

 

"It's okay, Amy. Still hurts some."

 

"What you need is to take your mind off it by dancing," Amy beamed at Richard in a way that H.M. couldn't like. "I think you owe me one, as a matter of fact."

 

Jenko looked as if he wanted to protest too. But then he and H.M. exchanged a look. H.M. couldn't exactly say what was in his, but Jenko's eyes narrowed as they looked down at where H.M.'s hand rested on Richard's sleeve.

 

"You with him?" he asked H.M. gruffly, nodding toward Richard.

 

"Yes." Simple. Claiming.

 

Jenko relaxed then. Amy and Richard went out on the dance floor, sliding into a mellow slow dance. H.M. felt a small twinge of jealousy watching them, and turned to Amy's date, but Jenko had stalked off to join some of his cronies, saving H.M. the trouble.

 

"H.M!"

 

Frankie.

 

"Where is he?"

 

H.M. nodded at the dance floor, taking a sip of his lemonade, wishing it were something stronger. He'd managed to forget about the exclusive for the last hour, caught up in his own evolving feelings. But he had to go through with the story; he needed the money. After tonight, Richard Bancroft would be out of his life and a guy had to look after himself in this world. "His tattoo artist."

 

"Wow." Frankie had a real camera with him now and he snapped a couple of pictures of Richard and Amy in each other's arms. "Richard Bancroft is dancing with a biker's girlfriend? A tattoo artist?"

 

The camera went off again.

 

"Yeah." H.M. couldn't totally keep his feeling, his confusion, out of the word. Better not to look at Richard and Amy, or at Frankie taking pictures of it all.

 

=~=

 

Richard enjoyed the dance with Amy, but he closed his eyes to imagine H.M.'s arms around him again. It wasn't as hard to dance with H.M. as it was with Amy. They hadn't so much been dancing as swaying to their own music.

 

He changed partners a couple of times, not really paying attention to who he was dancing with because he wasn't dancing with the one he wanted. Richard chided himself; he was being rude, ignoring his partners. It wasn't their fault they didn't have warm brown eyes and a gorgeous smile. Shaking himself mentally, he found himself now dancing with a tall blonde woman. She was stylish and hard-looking, but a good dancer.

 

He was settling into the music, trying to catch a glimpse of H.M. by the refreshment table, when she spoke.

 

"Mr. Bancroft, you need to come with me."

 

Richard drew back, "What?"

 

"Mr. Bancroft, they're worried about you," the woman wound her arm around Richard's and started to force him toward the exit. "Time to go home."

 

"No," Richard tried to pull away, but she was strong for a woman. "No!"

 

She kept pushing him. Richard looked around for H.M., catching sight of him still by the refreshments, talking to Frankie Santana. There was no way Richard was going to leave without saying good-bye.

 

"Help!" Richard shouted, struggling as a strange man took his other arm. "H.M! Help!"

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

H.M. set his mind to helping Frankie take some candid flash photos of Richard dancing with Amy Allen. It was difficult focusing on the story for Stockwell, and he only half-listened to Frankie as he watched Richard's movements on the dance floor.

 

When Richard shouted his name, H.M. was already moving toward him. He'd seen the woman grab Richard's arm and push him toward the front doorway, but he'd also seen half a dozen men following the couple's movements and starting to converge on them. They all had the same serious look the woman had; they wore it like a uniform.

 

How much trouble was Richard in? Was he being kidnapped? It didn't matter; Richard had called for help.

 

"C'mon, Frankie!" H.M. surged across the floor.

 

H.M. came up behind the trio of Richard and the woman and man who had him. He knocked aside the guy who had Richard's arm, easily yanking Richard from the woman's grasp and pulling him back into the warehouse. Richard's hand tightened around his. Frankie was screaming behind them, but H.M. didn't stop to see what was happening because more of the men were bearing down on him and Richard from the shadows. 

 

Looking around for a way to escape, H.M. spotted the loading bay doors that were open for ventilation on three sides of the warehouse. He urged Richard toward the closest one, unheeding of the crowd of dancers on the floor. Just as they reached the door, another man made a grab for Richard and got him, pulling him back toward the front door. Richard was trying to kick loose and H.M. rounded on the man, and slugged him through the wide door and into the Bay. There was a satisfying splash as he hit the water.

 

"Jenko!" H.M. heard Amy Allen screaming for her boyfriend. "Help!"

 

H.M. looked toward the voice, and saw Amy working on the woman who had been strong-arming Richard out the door. Amy's hand was twined around blonde hair and she was bearing the woman to the ground, trying to pin her down.

 

Then things got chaotic. Amy's leather-jacketed friends stepped into the fray, fists swinging. Someone turned the record player up. There were still people dancing despite of the fight that had erupted and now consumed most of the warehouse.

 

Another man pulled Richard away, and H.M. brained him with an empty bottle he grabbed from a table. He was shocked when Richard picked up another bottle and did the same to the next guy who came near them.

 

They were separated for a while then, both making their way to the farthest bay door. H.M. kept an eye on Richard, in case he needed help, but mostly concentrated on taking out the men who were trying to reach Richard.

 

Frankie had joined the fight again, apparently having solved whatever problem he'd had that had caused him to scream. He was running through the crowd with his camera as H.M. pushed another man to the floor.

 

H.M. looked up just in time to catch Richard swinging a guitar and smashing it over someone's head.

 

"Hit 'em again, Rick!" Frankie shouted, camera poised. The flashbulb exploded in the dimness of the warehouse as the guitar crashed down again, knocking the man to the floor.

 

The sound of police sirens coming nearer caused H.M. to run over to Richard, grab his hand, and run for the loading doors. The fresh air was welcome as they emerged from the battle.

 

Quietly, quickly, they followed the narrow decking around the warehouse, the sound of water lapping against the piers. H.M. hoped they could sneak back to The Embarcadero and eventually to his apartment without any more notice.

 

Rounding a corner, a fist connected with his face, sending him flying backwards into the Bay. He surfaced just in time to see Richard kick and punch the guy, and then jump into the water himself.

 

=~=

 

They pulled themselves up and out of the water at the next pier, the night and fog a protective cover.

 

Richard was breathing heavily - from the fight, the swim, the sheer terror that someone had recognized him. At first, he'd thought his mother's fears of kidnapping were coming true. Then he'd heard what the woman was saying and realized that Smitty and B.A. must have sent her to collect him. Problem was, Richard wasn't quite ready to go back yet.

 

H.M. pulled him down to sit on a bench as Richard started to laugh a little hysterically. H.M. joined him, and they eventually subsided into grins.

 

"H.M?" Richard looked up at him through wet spiky eyelashes. His eyes stung. "Do you ever feel like someone else is controlling your life?"

 

A hand smoothed over Richard's thigh, doing nothing to slow his breathing. H.M. sighed and looked absently into the distance, as if he were deep in thought. "Yeah. I think everyone feels that way sometime."

 

"I mean," Richard started, needing H.M. to understand, "you think that once you're out from under your parents' thumbs, you'll be able to live your own life. But that's not what happens; there are different controls. Family responsibilities, other people who depend on you to do your job - you can't ever do what you want. You have your duty to all those other people. Why can't you have control of your own life?"

 

H.M.'s eyes caught his then. "I'm a firm believer that we do the things that really matter to us. We take risks, we make the time, we give other things up to get what we most want in life. Because we have to be happy. How can we really live up to our responsibilities if we aren't happy? How can we get through life at all?"

 

Richard's hand reached out and smoothed a strand of wet hair from H.M.'s cheek. Brown eyes were gleaming and there was a trace of a smile on H.M.'s lips, as Richard caressed skin. Richard dropped his hand suddenly, wondering what he was doing.

 

He looked away, embarrassed, trying to catch his breath from the feeling of touching raspy skin and drowning in brown eyes. Richard closed his own eyes, wanting to shut everything else out for a little.

 

A touch on his jaw startled him and he looked up, back into H.M.'s eyes. They were getting closer.

 

Richard sighed when their lips met, gentle, tentative brush. H.M. pulled back and looked at him for a moment, as if judging his reaction.

 

A second, longer kiss. Lips pressed against lips, testing, but still gentle. Richard felt the same thrill he'd felt when they had been dancing earlier. This was so right.

 

H.M. ended the kiss too soon again, his eyes darting between Richard's eyes and his mouth. His tongue licked his lips.

 

Was he going to say something? Richard wondered. Was he going to acknowledge what was going on between the two of them?

 

H.M. took his hand and smiled. "Come on. We have to get into some dry clothes."

 

=~=

 

Richard came out of the bathroom, freshly showered and wrapped in H.M.'s robe.

 

H.M. wasn't around, but neither was Dougie Kyle this time.

 

Richard moved over to the window, looking at the stars peeking out between the clouds. He didn't want this adventure to end, but he had to get back to his responsibilities. His holiday had no doubt caused a few business problems, and it was only a matter of time before Smitty, B.A., and whoever they had hired tracked him down again.

 

The door clicked open, and Richard spun around.

 

"Your clothes should be dry in not too long. I borrowed Dougie's dryer. He said he was honored to have your clothing tumbling in his apartment."

 

Richard laughed and blushed. He had a feeling Dougie hadn't stopped there. H.M.'s answering grin gave evidence to that suspicion.

 

"Hope you don't mind," Richard plucked at the robe, H.M.'s robe, watching as H.M. turned on the radio and adjusted it to some gentle mood music.

 

"You can wear my clothes any time," H.M. said, looking as if he wanted to say more.

 

Richard sighed, pulling the robe closer. "You've been so nice to me today."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Taking me places, letting me do the things I've always wanted to do. Not even a thought of what's in it for you. So unselfish."

 

H.M. looked uncomfortable at the compliment. "I brought some wine. I thought we could both use some." He poured Chianti and handed Richard a glass that looked suspiciously as if it used to contain jelly.

 

H.M. sat on the edge of the bed and Richard sank onto the sofa, listening to the music and relaxing. The radio music washed over him as he shared the evening with H.M. It seemed so - domestic to be with H.M. this way. The robe, the music, the wine. Soft breeze drifting in the open window. Quietly talking about their day.

 

The music was interrupted by the voice of the announcer. "No further word on the condition of Richard Bancroft, head of Bancroft Financial. There is speculation of the failure of the coming merger and its impact on the local economy. Almost a hundred jobs will be lost in the area if the merger fails."

 

Richard quietly got up and turned off the radio. "The news can wait until tomorrow. May I have some more wine?"

 

H.M. poured the wine and they both remained standing. It felt a little awkward, but Richard didn't know what to do. He sipped his wine, pretending to look at H.M.'s bookshelves. If something happened between them, he wouldn't fight it. But he couldn't make the first move himself. It wouldn't be right when he had to disappear out of H.M.'s life. This feeling went way beyond physical attraction; it was going to hurt when he left.

 

Richard finally looked over at H.M. "I'd better go now; my clothes should be dry."

 

"I'll go get them," H.M. said, putting down his glass and moving toward the door.

 

Richard closed his eyes as H.M. brushed past him. Suddenly, they were in each other arms. Richard relaxed into that hold, not ever wanting to leave.

 

He felt H.M.'s lips in his hair. "There's something I want to tell you."

 

"No, please. Nothing." Richard nestled a little closer, reveling in the feelings. If only…. Finally, he pulled away. It was late. This would have to be enough.

 

"I need my clothes."

 

H.M. looked into his eyes, and put a hand to his cheek. "I'll get them."

 

=~=

 

They drove in silence to Pacific Heights.

 

"Drop me off at the park. That'll be fine," Richard said as they got nearer.

 

H.M. nodded and made a few turns. The park loomed in the dark, menacing now.

 

"Here?" H.M. asked as he drove around the block.

 

"Yes," Richard said, not worried about exactly where he was dropped off. He had to get away from H.M. before…

 

The car pulled up to the curb and H.M. stopped the engine.

 

Richard looked straight ahead. "I have to leave now. I'm going through the park. You stay in the car and drive away. Don't watch. Just drive away."

 

"All-right."

 

"I don't know how to say good-bye, can't think of any words."

 

"Don't try."

 

Richard turned in the car then and hugged H.M. to him. He swallowed, choking back emotion and letting it all out in his arms and fingers clutching H.M., enjoying the feeling of H.M. doing the same in return.

 

They kissed again. Hunger, need, regret, all wrapped into a single final joining. They were never going to be, torn apart now by Richard's duty.

 

Gently, Richard pulled away. Not looking again, he opened the car door, remembering H.M.'s touch in the same act this afternoon. He left the car, his back held straight. He walked for awhile, and then ran through the park, resisting the temptation to look behind him to where H.M. was.

 

=~=

 

"Twenty-four hours, Richard," John Smith said. "They can't all be blank."

 

He and B.A. had given Richard a few moments to compose himself before descending on him in his bedroom. It was early morning, and they needed to get back on a regular schedule as soon as possible. A day in the business world could make a big difference.

 

"They aren't," Richard replied, pulling his robe on over his boxers.

 

The boy looked different. John narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what it was about him. Tired, sure, but there was more in his eyes than that. Just - more.

 

"What explanation should we give the stockholders? The press?" John probed. "Your mother?"

 

"I was ill. I'm better now," Richard pulled back the covers on his bed, but made no move to get into it.

 

"Richard, I have my duty - "

 

"Don't use that word again," Richard clipped out, suddenly sounding angry. "I'm completely aware of my responsibility to others. I wouldn't have come back tonight if I weren't completely aware. I wouldn't have ever come back."

 

B.A. made a noise, but he didn't say anything. John wondered what had happened to Richard in the last twenty-four hours. Why wouldn't he have come back to his family, the business, the money?

 

"I understand we have a full schedule today," Richard said, his voice more controlled now. "I need some sleep; you can leave."

 

"I'll get your milk and crackers," B.A. said, moving toward the door.

 

"No milk and crackers." There was finality in Richard's voice.

 

B.A. opened the door to leave, but John lingered, wanting to talk to Richard. He wanted to know what had happened to his charge. Richard was obviously not himself, but John'd get to the bottom of it. Richard always confided in him.

 

"That will be all." Richard climbed into his bed, turning his back to the door. "Thank you, John."

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

H.M. sat in his desk chair, staring at the skyline as night turned to dawn, and then on to full morning. His coffee grew cold, but he gripped the cup like a lifeline.

 

He'd wanted to tell Richard everything. Deception didn't seem right between the two of them, even if they were never going to be together again. But Richard had quieted him, and H.M. had respected his wishes.

 

There was only the story to be written now and turned over to Stockwell, and he could consider this chapter of his life closed. He'd collect the five thousand dollars for the exclusive, give Frankie his cut, call the betting even with Stockwell. Maybe he could quit his job and move down to L.A. Or maybe the Chronicle or the Examiner would notice him after this story, and he could move to a respectable newspaper here in San Francisco. Where the Bancrofts lived.

 

He'd learned a lot about Richard Bancroft in the last day, things he never would have learned during a normal interview or press conference. He'd seen Richard's thoughtful side as they studied paintings and old ruins. He knew how important Richard's family was to him, and how his father's indifference had hurt him. He'd seen Richard under the pressure of the Lombard Street accident and the fight at the pier. H.M. might not know everything, but he felt he knew Richard and all the important things about him. All the details were of interest to the business world as well as the social whirl.

 

The Bancroft story would make H.M. famous. It would open doors for him. Richard would understand.

 

Richard was such a mixture - innocence, intellect, and kindness. They had gotten on instantly, in a way that H.M. had never experienced before - physically, mentally, emotionally. Those kisses….

 

A knock on the door startled H.M. from his thoughts. He took a deep gulp of air. Richard? Could it be Richard? He almost tripped in his haste to get to the door.

 

No sooner did he open it than Stockwell came gliding through.

 

"Is it true? Did you get it?" There was an eagerness that H.M. rarely heard in his boss' voice.

 

"Did I get what?" H.M. asked listlessly, sipping cold coffee. He looked out the window. The day shouldn't be so sunny.

 

"The Bancroft story. Did you get the exclusive?"

 

"No, I didn't." H.M. sighed, leaning against a wall, still clutching his coffee cup. He'd so wanted it to be Richard; it was an adjustment to be talking to Stockwell. His mind didn't want to change gears. "There's no story. Want some coffee?" he motioned to the tray.

 

"H.M., you can't hold out on me." yellow lenses flashed. "First, you make that bet with me to get a personal exclusive story on Richard Bancroft. Then, you disappear. The word around the City is that Richard Bancroft wasn't ill at all; he was doing the town. It was in Herb Caen's column this morning. A certain dance out at the pier, bikers, arrests - so, where's the story?"

"No story," H.M. held his hands up, careful of the coffee. "None."

 

"What? Don't think that you'll raise the price by playing hard to get." Stockwell started poking around his desk as if looking for the wayward copy. Hard to get? Oh, no. H.M. Murdock was as easy to get as anyone on the planet right now. At least by one man. "Where is the story?"

 

"I wasn't able to get it," H.M. said, patiently. A little surprised at himself, even. Until he'd said it a moment ago, he hadn't realized that he couldn't go through with writing the exclusive. The betrayal of Richard would be too much, take advantage of him in a way that would hurt Richard deeply. "I thought I could get it, but it didn't pan out. I have no story."

 

Stockwell looked unsatisfied, as if he planned to argue and threaten a little more, when the door burst open. H.M. looked at it hopefully.

 

"H.M! Wait 'till you see these," Frankie called, waving a large envelope. "Hi, Mr. Stockwell. You got here at the right time! They turned out great!"

 

H.M. went to meet him and promptly poured his cold coffee down Frankie's trousers.

 

"Hey!" Frankie jumped back, clutching the envelope. "Watch it!"

 

"You watch it!" H.M.'s eyes bored into Frankie's. "There you go; spilling again. I've talked to you about that before."

 

"Another pair of pants ruined," Frankie muttered under his breath.

 

"You'd better get those stains out in the bathroom," H.M. took Frankie's arm and steered him toward the tiny room.

 

Frankie pulled away. "Oh, I don't need to do that." Frankie started moving toward Stockwell again. "H.M., did you tell him about - "

 

Frankie landed on the floor, having tripped over H.M.'s out-stretched leg. "Hey!" Frankie sprang up, coming at H.M., slugging him lightly. "Why'd you do that?"

 

H.M. grabbed his shoulders and looked into his eyes, grimacing. "Go home and - Oh, cut that hair! Or be quiet until Mr. Stockwell and I are finished talking."

 

Frankie stilled under his hands and looked thoughtful, but was quiet.

 

"What's going on?" Stockwell demanded, eyeing both of them warily. "What are you two up to?"

 

"Nothing," H.M. assured him, directing his attention to his boss. "There's no story."

 

"Well, Mr. Murdock, see that you attend the rescheduled press conference then. The Bancroft Mansion, eleven o'clock today. You'll do it my way this time."

 

Stockwell stopped at the door, eyes narrowing behind the lenses. "You realize this means you owe me another five hundred dollars, don't you?"

 

"Take it out of my salary," H.M. said, his mouth twisting. Push came to shove, he couldn't write this story, not the way Stockwell would want it. This would cost him, but not as much as betraying Richard would. Money wasn't everything.

 

"Oh, I will," Stockwell slammed the door behind him.

 

"What do you mean, no story?" Frankie looked at him anxiously. "Have we had a better offer?"

 

"Frankie. I don’t' know how to tell you this." H.M. slumped against the wall, unable to meet the photographer's eyes.

 

"Maybe I should sit down," Frankie said faintly, collapsing onto the sofa.

 

"There is no story."

 

"Why not?" Frankie sounded and looked stunned, as if he could see the five thousand dollars flying out of his hands.

 

H.M. sighed. "Not as far as I'm concerned anyway."

 

Frankie looked around the room, finally settling back on the envelope that he was still holding. He sprang up. "The pictures turned out real good, H.M.," he spread them across the bed. "Want a look at them?"

 

"Sure," H.M. wandered over.

 

"Here's his first cigar."

 

H.M. fingered the picture gingerly, a smile on his face. Richard looked….

 

"Oh! Look!" Frankie exclaimed, pulling another photo out of the group. "Lombard Street. I thought, 'Head of Bancroft Financial Knows How to Cut Corners.'"

 

H.M. laughed. "That was a mess!"

 

"This one," Frankie handed him a picture of a thoughtful Richard, on top of Coit Tower with the fog-shrouded Golden Bay Bridge in the distance. "This one could be the key shot for the whole layout. 'Bancroft Heir's Vision.'"

 

H.M. sorted eagerly through the pictures, all of Richard. The picture of Richard crowning the guy with the guitar captured the insane intensity of their struggle at the dance. Frankie was a good photographer. "Wow."

 

H.M.'s smiled turned to a frown as he thought of what it would mean to Richard to have intimate details of his life revealed. Incidents that would embarrass him, especially in the business world.

 

Frankie must have known what the look meant.

 

"He's a public figure!" he protested. "He's fair game! Oh, you're out of your mind."

 

"Yeah, I know," H.M. moved away from the pictures, distancing himself. "I can't keep you from selling them; you'd get good money for 'em."

 

Frankie gathered the pictures up and put them back into the envelope. "Yeah, I know."

 

"You going to the press conference, then?" H.M. tried to get their relationship back to a normal footing. He and Frankie weren't the best of friends, but they were friends and professional colleagues. H.M.'s decision in this was costing Frankie some promised cash.

 

"You going?" Frankie asked indifferently.

 

"Sure," H.M. put his hands in his pocket. "It's an assignment. I'll be there."

 

"I'll see you." Frankie left H.M. alone with his thoughts.

 

=~=

 

The inside of the Bancroft mansion was every bit as beautiful and impressive as the outside. Servants directed them into what looked like a ballroom - ornate woodwork, high ceilings, and mirrors. Carved wooden chairs were set up in rows for the press, and there was a podium for the speaker at the end of the ballroom, opposite the door.

 

If anything could demonstrate the differences between him and Richard, these surroundings did. Casual posh. Luxurious compared to H.M.'s tiny kitchenless apartment. Servants everywhere.

 

H.M motioned Frankie to the front row and sat down, giving the mimeographed sheet he'd been handed at the door a cursory glance. A general statement from Richard Bancroft about the merger and his plans for the company.

 

The front row suited H.M. He wanted Richard to know right away that he was there, so he could get over the shock of seeing him with the press before he started the conference. It was only fair after deceiving him all yesterday.

 

He had to find some way to reassure Richard there would be no indiscreet story, at least not in the Bay Talk News, and not written by H.M. Murdock.

 

Surprisingly, the press corps was multi-national. H.M. hadn't realized that Bancroft Financial was internationally known. The room buzzed with anticipation and speculation about the press conference's postponement from yesterday, but it quickly quieted as an older blonde-haired man took the podium.

 

"Your attention, please," the speaker waited for the noise to die down. "Richard Bancroft."

 

A large black man came out of the door first and H.M. strained to get a look at Richard. He fastened on the blue eyes, taking only a short detour to the tan double-breasted suit sleek along the fine body. H.M. saw Richard's eyes widen as he caught sight of him with the press. The look of disappointment seemed to last a long time before Richard started to speak.

 

"I've provided a general statement. I'd like to answer your questions."

 

"Have there been any changes in the plans for next week's merger?"

 

"None."

 

"Given the differences in cultures, how will Bancroft Financial handle its planned expansion into the European market?"

 

"I have faith in the relations between people," Richard said.

 

H.M. raised his voice, "Speaking for my newspaper, I think your faith will be justified." He hoped that would convey his intentions.

 

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Richard replied, smiling slightly.

 

"Mr. Bancroft," the question came in a strong Italian accent from the back of the chairs. "You've seen all the capitals of the world - Rome, London, Athens. What is your favorite city?"

 

"They are all so unforgettable," Richard began. "It's difficult to -" he paused and his voice deepened. "San Francisco." Richard looked straight at H.M. as he said it.

 

"Despite your illness?" someone asked.

 

"Despite that."

 

The blonde man came forward, the other man hovering in the background. "Photographs can be taken now."

 

The photographers crowded to the front. Frankie smiled at Richard as he took a picture with his cigarette lighter-camera.

 

Flashbulbs dying down, the blonde man put a hand on Richard's arm as if to lead him away. Richard shook it off.

 

"I'd like to meet some of the press."

 

The man beside Richard looked disconcerted, but said nothing as Richard shook hands with the press in the front row. H.M. waited as he made his way to him.

 

"Francisco Santana, SF Photo Service."

 

"How do you do?"

 

"May I give you some photos from your visit to San Francisco?" Frankie held out the envelope that H.M. recognized from his apartment.

 

Richard looked inside, his eyes widening slightly as he stuffed the pictures back in. "Thanks."

 

"H.M. Murdock, Bay Talk News."

 

"Pleased to meet you."

 

The hand was still warm; this was the last touch H.M could ever expect to have from Richard. Their eyes met, and he knew that they were both thinking of other touches more intimate. Too soon, Richard moved down the rest of the row, and then turned back to the podium. H.M. kept his eyes fixed on him as he smiled at the room, and then at H.M. Richard nodded slightly, and turned to the older man and they exited the room.

 

H.M. stood there as everyone else left to write their stories, develop their pictures. Frankie looked as if he were going to stay, but H.M. waved him away, needing to be alone right now. The room cleared quickly, H.M. staring at the place Richard had been, at the door Richard had walked through.

 

He marveled at how a day could so completely change his life. His time with Richard had picked him up like a tornado, spinning and disorienting him, only to set him back down to try to go on with his life as if nothing had changed. But everything had.

 

H.M. took a deep breath.

 

One more look at the door Richard had disappeared through, and H.M. turned to leave. His footsteps echoed as he walked out of the ballroom, leaving Richard Bancroft behind.

 

~the end~

 

 

 

Back to Cathay’s Page

Back to Main Stories Page