Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

course, to tell him about their outing at the marina. Why harbor any more secrets than absolutely necessary? “Oh, yeah,” he replied as breezily as possible. “It was nice. We bought pasta salad at the Marina Safeway.”
    His partner’s sandpaper cheeks dented in a smile. “Is that place as cruisy as it used to be?”
    “Got me. I was too busy lusting over the pasta.”
    “I hear that.”
    Polly burst into the greenhouse, looking less collected than usual. “It’s for you, Michael. The cops.”
    “What?”
    “On the phone. Sounds important.”
    Shit. His-parking tickets. How many were there, anyway?
    “He says he knows you.”
    Brian chuckled. “An old boyfriend, probably.”
    “What’s his name?” Michael asked.
    “Rivera, it sounded like.”
    Michael looked at Brian. “He is an old boyfriend.”
    “What did I tell you?” Brian looked pleased with himself. “I know you better than you do.”

    He took the call in the office. “Bill. How’s it going?”
    “You remember, huh?”
    “Of course. Good to hear your voice.” How long had it been, anyway? Six years? Seven?
    “Same here.”
    “What’s up?” He half wondered if he was about to be asked for a date. For all Bill knew, Michael was still single, still looking for somebody to play with.
    “I’m down at Northern Station. We’ve got a friend of yours. At least, he gave us your name. He’s not making much sense, I’m afraid.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Joe something. He won’t tell us anything else.”
    He thought for a moment. Joe Webster. The guy Ramon Landes was looking after. The one with dementia.
    “He’s got no ID on him, but I didn’t wanna turn him over to a hospital unless…”
    “Real tall and skinny? About thirty, with brown hair?”
    “That’s him,” said Bill. “You know him, then?”
    “Not very well. I took an AIDS workshop with him. We have some friends in common. I’m surprised he even remembered my name.”
    “Do you know where he belongs?”
    “Well, I know his Shanti buddy…”
    “Could you call him, tell him to come pick him up?”
    “Sure. Did he…uh…do anything wrong?”
    “Well,” said Bill, “he kind of…accosted someone. It was nothing serious. We haven’t charged him with anything.”
    “I see.”
    “We just need to get him home safely.”
    “O.K. Thanks a lot, Bill. I’ll take care of it.”

    As luck would have it, Ramon wasn’t at home, so he left a terse message on his machine and took off for Northern Station on his own. When he announced himself, the sergeant at the desk hollered “Rivera” over his shoulder and buried his beefy face in the pages of Iacocca .
    Bill was there in a matter of seconds. “Hey…long time, buddy.”
    Resisting the urge to hug him, Michael shook the cop’s hand with exaggerated heartiness. “Hey, kiddo. You’re look-in’ great.” Bill had thickened a little around the waist, but he wore it well in his uniform. His civilian clothes of yesteryear—Qiana shirts and overstitched designer jeans—had never done justice to his sex appeal.
    “You still over there…what’s it called?”
    “Barbary Lane.”
    “Yeah, that’s it. Damn.” He shook his head, seemingly lost in memory. “I haven’t been there for a long time.”
    “Actually, I moved away a few years ago. I’m over in Noe Valley now.”
    “Take a load off,” said Bill, pointing toward a row of plastic chairs. “I’ll get him.”
    “Wait.” Michael grabbed his arm.
    “Yeah?”
    “What exactly did he do?”
    “Oh…well, he kind of…harassed some Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
    Michael repressed the first comment that came to mind. At the moment his job was to look responsible. “He assaulted them, you mean?”
    “Not really.” Bill made a notation on his clipboard. “Just waved something around for a while.”
    “What?” Michael scanned the room guiltily, as if there were Jehovah’s Witnesses present, or grownups who might overhear them. “You mean his…?”
    The cop shook his head with a dry smile. “Somebody else’s.” Reaching below the desk, he retrieved a plastic shopping bag and handed it to Michael. “Check it out.”
    Inside the bag was a box bearing a glossy likeness of Jeff Stryker, the porn star.
    “What the hell?”
    “Read it,” said the cop.
    The label said: The Realistic Jeff Stryker Cock and Balls. Incredibly awesome in size! Molded directly from Jeff’s erect cock! Looks and feels amazingly realistic!
    He opened the end of the