His place on Union Street served as a home away from home for all of us, a vacation wonderland. He opened his doors to us and proved an indefatigable lover and sightseer of his adopted city. So it feels like a homecoming to us as the jet lands in Oakland and a limousine transports us to the mansion on Vallejo Street owned by the producer, a man named Saul Marks, which he has offered to Sheba in her search for her twin. The house is Italianate with a view of the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, Sausalito, and the white linen majesty of the city itself. The laconic Irish chauffeur tells us to call him Murray.
“What did you have to do to get the producer to give you this house?” Betty asks Sheba, whistling as Murray helps us get our luggage inside the ornate entryway.
“I had to play with his little weenie,” Sheba replies. She gives Murray a lavish tip, then directs us to our various bedrooms. She apologizes as she sends me down into the entrails of the house, where I have a bedroom without windows, then says, “I’ve ordered in some Chinese. Meet up in the dining room after you unpack.”
When I make my way upstairs, I find my noisy group of friends gathered in front of a massive window watching the sun set against a cloudless Pacific in a wilderness of blue. The sun blisters the waters with a seething gold, then a flare or red, followed by a pink-fingered, rosy exit left.
Betty says, “Sunsets make me believe in God.”
Molly adds, “They make me know that one day I’m going to die.”
“Tell me why we brought Molly again?” Fraser smiles at her best friend and sister-in-law.
“Comic relief,” I suggest.
“It’s one more day we’ll never see again,” Molly says. “One day closer to our own demise.”
“I just think it’s prettier than shit,” Ike says, pouring a drink over at the bar. “I always noted that white people thought too much.”
As we feast on the takeout that is far superior to any Chinese food I’ve tasted in the South, we moan over dishes that we never had until Trevor brought us out to San Francisco in the early 1970s. Niles reminds me that I once outraged the minuscule Charleston Chinese community by claiming that all people of Chinese ancestry forgot how to cook as soon as they crossed the South Carolina state line; this was after my first two-week visit in Trevor’s flat, which served as my honeymoon with Starla.
Fraser says, “I’m wearing down. The liquor’s good, the vino’s great. But we’re out here for a reason, and I already miss my kids. Give me a job, Sheba. Tell me what to do tomorrow.”
Sheba hands us all copies of a long list of names. Her efficiency at this is real, and it’s moving. With rare patience, Sheba has waited for the proper moment before she springs into the business side of this hunt. From a beautiful doe-skin briefcase, she hands us each a folder filled with hints and possibilities and rumors that have accrued around the last sightings of Trevor.
“Betty and Ike, I’d like you to present yourself to the police department, tell them what you’re doing here, and ask them for any assistance possible. Leo is meeting with his columnist friend Herb Caen. The list contains the names of all the gay men who’ve been friends or lovers of Trevor’s over the past fifteen years. Or musicians who’ve played music with him. Or hostesses who hired him to play piano at their parties. I’d like my Junior Leaguers, Molly and Fraser, to track down any clues from this list. Let me show all of you something. This is a photograph of the last time I visited Trevor here.”
“Did you stay with Trevor?” Ike asks, studying the photograph.
“I’m a movie star, honey,” Sheba snorts. “I don’t do flats. I do penthouses at the top of the Fairmont.”
“What a peasant loser you are, Ike,” Molly teases. “To think that a movie star would even think about parking her butt in a flat.”
Sheba ignores Molly. “Remember, Trevor and I haven’t been close all these years. He kept in much better touch with all of you. We reminded each other of a hideous childhood we were both in a hurry to forget. I’ve pinned all of your assignments on your pillows. You’ve got the necessary maps and the folders. Some of you’ll be pounding the pavement for the first couple of days. That’s you, boys. One of the worst things about dying of AIDS is that you’re penniless at the end. You end up in a fleabag hotel at the end of the line.”
Fraser gets down to business again. “Who was the last person to see Trevor?”
“His doctor at the AIDS clinic in the Castro,” Sheba responds. “He told me Trevor had lost twenty pounds in the last two years.”
“Jesus!” Betty cries. “He was such a puny thing anyway.”
“Then he dropped off the face of the earth,” Sheba continues. “The last time he saw him the doctor treated Trevor for Kaposi’s sarcoma.”
“Oh, no,” Molly says. “That’s not good. That causes those sores and scales on the face.”
“What about Ben Steinberg? Georgie Stickney? Or Tillman Carson?” Betty asks. “They were three of his running buddies when Ike and I were here a couple of years ago.”
“All dead,” Sheba says. “All kids, and all dead.”
Molly rises from her chair and walks over to one of the extravagant windows that take in the lit-up grandeur of the nighttime city. Her silhouette is forlorn and round-shouldered, looking like one of those helpless witnesses who watch the Passion of Christ play out in those innumerable Renaissance paintings. Our group gathers in quiet solidarity around her. The city glitters beneath us like a prodigious swarm of fireflies. My eye catches the Golden Gate Bridge, which looks like a piece of jewelry linking two music boxes. A stringed trio of architecture, art, and hopelessness all gather up in perfect unity as we hover near our damaged friend.
Sheba looks at each of us and says, “Why don’t all of us go beddy-bye now?”
Ike says, “I haven’t wanted to bring this up, Sheba. I’ve been waiting for a good time, but there’s not going to be a good time: where’s your goddamn daddy?”
I watch as Sheba’s face contorts into sudden hatred, then she catches herself. “I don’t like to talk about that bastard. You know that, Ike.”
Ike says, “But you know why I have to ask, and you know why it’s important.”
I say, “We all got to know about your daddy over the years, and none of us has enjoyed it much.”
“If it hurts too much to answer, Sheba,” Molly says, “then don’t.”
“Not good enough, Molly,” Niles tells her. “We’ve got to know at least where he is.”
“You’re right,” Sheba says. “Here’s the short story: after my graduation from high school, he followed me out to L.A. I didn’t know it. But he is brilliant, smarter than anyone. I started working soon as an actress. He found me living in an apartment in Westwood. He raped me.”
“Don’t tell us any more,” Fraser says.
“No, the boys are right, all of you need to know. He held me prisoner, did lots of stuff, but no different from when I was a little girl. I learned to dissociate then. I did it again. Then he let me go, went to San Francisco, and did the same thing to Trevor. Next movie, I hired a bodyguard. My dad almost killed that poor man. What name was I to give to the cops? What description? He’s used a hundred names. Had red hair, gray hair, no hair. Wore beards, mustaches, goatees. Brown-eyed, blue-eyed, green-eyed. Turbaned. Yarmulke. Beret. Baseball cap.”
“Now. Where is he now?” Ike demands. “He’s stalked all of us over the years.”
“He’s dead, thank God. He finally made a mistake. Five years ago, I made that movie in New York. By then, I had enough bodyguards to take on the Secret Service. I was staying at a fancy high-rise. My dad came in disguised as a deliveryman. When he was stopped and questioned by the doorman, Dad killed the man by stabbing him in the heart. An alarm was sounded. He was overpowered. The murder was caught on security tapes. Jack Cross pleaded guilty to murder and was sentenced to life without parole at Sing Sing. He went nuts. Got transferred to a high-security nuthouse, where he jumped off the roof. End of story. No one knows to this day that Jack C
ross was my dad.”
“How do you know?” Betty asks. “We’ve got to know this for certain.”
“Jack Cross wrote me from prison,” Sheba says. “Almost every day.”
“Was that your dad’s real name?” Molly asks.
“No,” Sheba says. “When Trevor and I were born, he was named Houston Poe.”
“But you’re sure he’s dead?” Niles asks.
“I have his ashes in a vase in my place in Santa Monica,” Sheba says. “I should’ve said something to all of you before this. I try to pretend he never lived.”
“To bed,” Betty says, and we hug each other good night. “Do you mind if I check that story out?” Ike asks as he bear-hugs Sheba.
“Not at all, Ike,” Sheba says. “But I’ve got his ashes.”
“You’ve got someone’s ashes,” Ike says. “You may even have Jack Cross’s ashes. That doesn’t mean they’re your daddy’s.”
When I enter my windowless, claustrophobic quarters in the basement, I am pleased to discover good lighting and a comfortable bed and a wall full of carefully selected books. Sheba has typed out my instructions on a piece of heavy personal stationery and I read them as I undress.
1) Meet with Herb Caen at 9:00 A.M. for breakfast at Perry’s on Union Street. (Sheba will attend the meeting.) Very important he helps us.
2) Go to Trevor’s old address at 1038 Union Street and meet the new tenant, a lawyer named Anna Cole, to see if she knows anything about Trevor or his disappearance. Be flirtatious with her, Toad. Use the charm you claim you don’t have. Make notes of everything, whether you think it’s important or not.
3) Meet the group back at Washington Square Bar and Grill at one for lunch and comparison of notes.
Your favorite movie star, Sheba Poe
I turn out the lights and climb into bed, into a darkness that seems more than dark, living a life that feels much the same way.
When Trevor first moved to San Francisco, he would tease us poor mortals who were doomed to live out our boring lives in South Carolina. He has always been a conversationalist of rare gifts, and in his first years in the city, he would call and talk to me for hours. I would marvel at his easy command of language and his jeweler’s eye for the precise and necessary detail. His first job was as a piano player at a bar called the Curtain Call in the theater district. To the surprise of none of us, he was a sensation from his first night. The great columnist Herb Caen authenticated Trevor’s success by visiting the Curtain Call on the first anniversary of Trevor’s hiring. He wrote that “a young Southern wizard has been tickling the ivories and has become legendary for his witty one-liners and flashing repartee.” Being written up in Herb Caen’s column was a defining moment in Trevor’s career. Trevor sent Herb’s columns to me so I could learn how a truly accomplished writer defined his city with wit, sophistication, and flair.
The next morning I walk into Perry’s and see that Herb Caen is already holding court at the best table in the house. He has surrounded himself with a dewy-eyed bunch of low-key sycophants, two ecstatic owners, and tourists snapping pictures of him. His aura creates a swarm of emotion that is something more than hero worship and a bit less than a Zen Buddhist satori. I have my work cut out for me this morning. Before we left Charleston, I contacted Herb and asked for his help. But now I have to try again to convince him to write a story about Trevor Poe’s disappearance and the search party of his high school friends from South Carolina.
When he catches me studying him, he motions me to his table. “Sorry I didn’t use your friend in Sunday’s column, Leo. Not much of a story there, bubeleh. We’ve got thousands of guys dying of AIDS in this city. I spotted six guys with AIDS in this restaurant this morning.”
“How do you spot them?” I ask.
“You’ll be an expert in a couple of days. Pretend you’re a Russian soldier and you’ve just arrived at the gates of Auschwitz. That starved, haunted look. That look is a death warrant in this town.”
“But you remember Trevor Poe,” I say. “You’ve written about him before.”
“He’s a great guy. Funny as hell. Hell of a piano player. But you’ve got to get me a story. No hook, no story. A gay musician who’s got AIDS? Big deal.”
“Seven of his high school friends flew in from Charleston yesterday to hunt for him. One of them’s just been named the first black police chief in the history of Charleston.”
“Nice story. Maybe if I was a cartoonist doing Mary Worth.”
I laugh and enjoy Herb, as I always did on previous visits. But he goes even further by saying, “You were the best town guide I ever had when I visited Charleston. But I already paid you back for that one. Your story might play in Charleston; it’s old news in Baghdad by the Bay.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Let me buy you another Bloody Mary, Herb. For old time’s sake.”
“You’re not telling me something,” Herb says. “What do you got? What’re you holding out on me?”
“It may be nothing. Big guy like you. Big city. Big names everywhere you look. You don’t need anything from a guy like me. I’ve got to be going now.”
Herb grabs my arm. “Before you go, I need to know the bone you were going to throw me.”
“Got to get it into your column, Herb,” I say. “Got to get a little special attention from you. Otherwise, I fly back South with it.”
“After all I’ve done for you,” Herb grumbles. “Hell, there’s nothing you’ve got I could use. The best scoop in your life wouldn’t make the last line in my column. We play in different leagues, Leo, and you’re smart enough to know it.”
“You’re a symphony orchestra, Herb,” I say. “I’m an ocarina. I got all that. But I’d never let a story walk out the door like you’re about to do. I need you, pal. You’re the best at what you do in the country, but I gotta go now, Herb. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“You’ll get one line tomorrow,” Herb says. “What you got, Leo? Better be good.”
“I need half a column.”
“You’re wasting your time. And mine,” Herb scoffs.
“Bye, Herb. Here’s a number where you can reach me.” I hand him a piece of paper.
“You’re playing me. You’re actually playing me, greenhorn,” Herb says, but with vague admiration. “Tell you what, Leo: half a column. But it better be great. If it’s not, you don’t get bubkes. Comprende?”
“I speak many languages. Including Yiddish and Italian.”
“Spill it.”
“Trevor Poe is the brother of the Hollywood actress Sheba Poe. She organized the search. She came to Charleston to ask for our help.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“I was taught by a master. He taught me to always hold a few cards in reserve. Show them the hat. Never the rabbit.”
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” Herb asks.
“Two ways. First of all, I give you my word.”
“Not good enough, Southern boy,” he says. “Who do you think you’re dealing with, a card-carrying member of the Sons of the Confederacy?”
“I’ll ignore your slur on my background.”
Herb says, “Hot air sells balloons. Not newspapers.”
I remove the perfect stalk of celery from Herb’s Bloody Mary and bite off the leafy top of it. With that signal, a woman dressed demurely in a black leather jacket and silk slacks removes her sunglasses. She rises from a table near the end of the bar, and unties her Armani scarf. She unzips her jacket, and reveals a scant, silvery blouse, as flimsy as a sandwich bag. With a shake of her head, a cascade of golden curls falls around her shoulders. Her stride across the room, however, is purposeful, without the unstudied voluptuousness she brought to every role she played. The entire restaurant is mesmerized by this transformation of a woman who has been sitting in anonymity. The words “Sheba Poe” pass from table to table as she strides with her green eyes affixed on the appreciative gaze of Herb Caen.
“You got yourself the lead tomorrow, Leo
,” Herb says as I rise to leave. “Done with class and brio, baby cakes.”
“I would like to introduce you to the legendary Sheba Poe, Herb. Sheba, this is the equally legendary Herb Caen.”
“I’ll take it from here, Leo,” Sheba says. “See you at lunch.” With perfect timing, she adds, “Baby cakes.” But to Herb Caen, she says, “I’ve lost my brother, Mr. Caen. I need your help.”
I flag down a cab that delivers me to Trevor’s old flat at 1038 Union Street, on Russian Hill. More than half of his Charleston friends have visited Trevor in his well-equipped guest room that overlooks the everlasting busyness and traffic of Union Street. Trevor exploited his large gift for friendship by sharing his place with anyone who could prove an even tenuous relationship with his core group of Charleston admirers. We paid him back by treating him to overpriced meals in the newly acclaimed hotspots that opened with astonishing frequency in a city that lived for sundown. At the beginning, Trevor force-marched all of us to the Castro to show off the gay community. He took enormous pride in serving as a Southern ambassador to his gay demimonde. The South provided him with both cachet and color commentary. Over the years he introduced me to so many gay Southern men, from the Tidewater of Virginia to the Arkansas Ozarks, that I thought I could hang their accents out to dry on a clothesline, separated only by geographic idiosyncrasies and slurred syllables of every stripe. Though his high school classmates knew that Trevor had lived in Charleston for only a year before he lit out for the Castro and its unspeakable pleasures, we had to admit he had developed one of the most authentic Charleston accents any of us had ever heard. His brilliance at mimicking had served him well.