The Angels of Catastrophe Read Free Page A

weed? C’mon, I know someone. What do you want? Mexican? Homegrown?”

    His connection was Scott Smith, who used to be the lover of the murdered San Francisco Board of Supervisors member Harvey Milk. Nowadays Scott was selling pot to pay the rent on his Seventeenth Street flat. Nothing too extreme, just a small enterprise. Paul informed Durrutti that Scott was having complications because he still had some of Harvey’s papers. Not that they were a problem for him; he liked having them in his house. But the public was clamoring for the stuff. A lot of institutions were interested in buying the dead gay liberation hero’s archives. Scott didn’t know what to do.
    Paul made a phone call to Scott and set up everything. “We’re cool,” he said. “Let’s proceed.”
    They paraded west on Eighteenth Street, going by Mission High School to the Castro District. Paul’s hound’s-tooth check coat flapped around his ankles as he walked. His legs were longer than Durrutti’s and he moved much faster. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his beard was coming out iron-gray, rendering the green in his eyes a lighter shade of blue. He said, “Did I tell you me and my boyfriend broke up? That was a pain in the ass. I don’t ever want to go through that divorce crap ever again. You invest everything you got into someone and then they throw you away like toilet paper. That ain’t right.”
    Durrutti was embarrassed by Paul’s confession and he stammered, “I’m sorry to hear this. What went wrong?”
    â€œYou know me,” Paul said, glad to give his opinion. “I don’t hide my feelings. If I care about someone, they know it. If I’m ticked off at them, I snap and so we had a fight and he said that was it. Our fucking relationship was
over.” Paul turned his head to appreciate a hummingbird in flight, zipping over the rooftops. “Looking back, I don’t think I was that hard to live with. Hell, I paid the rent on the apartment and when we went out drinking at the Stud, I paid for his beer. What a gutless wimp he was. I need a real man in my life. Someone I can count on when the shit gets weird.”
    Paul was selling weed too, but he wasn’t saying anything about it, typical of him. No one ever knew what he was doing, he was so secretive. Mister undercover. When they hit Scott’s front steps, he went rigid, the drug dealer in him coming out in full force. His body language became paramilitarized; shoulders hunched, hand out. He barked at Durrutti, “Okay, you got the money?”
    â€œYeah. So what can you get me?”
    Paul tapped his foot, getting impatient. “Don’t be smart with me. I’ll get what I can get. What do you want?”
    â€œI’ve only got a hundred and eighty bucks here.”
    â€œThat won’t get you shit. Nothing, really. Just some low-rent ragweed. It might get you some of that Mexican sinsemilla.”
    â€œIs it good?”
    â€œOf course not. What a dumb question. It’sjust cheap. That’s what you’re paying for. You’re getting a bargain price, just no quality.”
    Durrutti pondered his options for a millisecond. The price of a bag wasn’t worth what you got, but he was nervous and wanted to get high. This was his best bet. Defeated, he said, “Go for it.”
    â€œGive me the cash and wait outside, okay?” Paul examined
Durrutti and grinned. “On the other hand, you’re gonna attract attention just standing here. When was the last time you shaved? Maybe you should take a walk around the block and blend in with the surroundings. Act like a civilian.”
    Durrutti shoved a wad of greasy one- and five-dollar bills at him. Paul stashed the cash in his coat, muttered something incomprehensible to himself and then he legged it up the long flight of stairs to Scott’s flat.
    Durrutti took a stroll around the block and