Detective Steven Rush (2) The Beat Assasin

*Detective Steven Rush (2) San Francisco P. D.*

          (The Beat Assisign)

    Junior Detective,  Mallone and I approach the front of the Beat generation hang out. The two-story building has a karge bar downstairs and upstairs is a reading room and balcony where you can look over the railing at the activity in the bar below. Stained glass plaques, old photos in wood frames and murals  are everywhere. The decor on the walls and ceiling give a cluttered and claustrophobic feeling, but have an almost endless supply of artistic and interesting images and patterns to look at.

       As the Cadillac meat wagon hauls off the new stiff, I ask one of the uniforms milling around where the principles were stashed. He informs me they're being detained inside the saloon, waiting for us to show.

      The hand-carved wood door we're approacing  is located on the corner of  the building, at the intersection of Broadway and Columbus Avenues. Above the door is an ornate sign announcing, 'Vesuvio Cafe.'

      Next door to the popular bar is the famous City of Lights book store and publisher where Ginsburg publishes his books.

      Before going in, I take a gander at the ten-foot-long colorful murals. They cover both outside walls of the first floor of the 1905 Italian Renaissance revival building.

    I got all the history info from a bartender on one of my trips here. I found everything about the saloon fascinating. It took four stiff drinks to gather all the dope on the joint. The building used to be a restaurant, but when the new owners were refurbishing many years ago, they ran out of funds and kept the sign.

     Once we're inside, I spy two uniforms standing by two guys sitting at a table just ahead. Two other male witnesses  are being guarded by another pair of uniforms standing by the next table

      The place isn't  busy on a Thursday morning. The few  patrons present  are listening  to a bearded Beat poet, spewing doomsday poetry about the ills of modern society and the dreaded conformity of it all.

      He's  perched on a giant winged back wicker chair placed against the wall, adjacent the long wooden bar. He has a cigarette in one hand and  a Bavarian beer stein in the other. A cat in shades is sitting on a tall stool next to him,  dramatizing  the lines of the poem with his bongos.

      Me and my new partner saunter up to the first table where Allan Ginsburg is parked with a guy in a second-hand tweed suit, similar Ginsburg's.

      The Beat poet and author is bearded and about thirty. His curly dark hair is receding prematurely.  His chrome dome is bald halfway up on the top of his brain bucket. He's sporting a pair of dark horn rimmed coke bottles and looking pretty shakey.

      He peers up at me and frowns. "I see the heat is here just in the nick of time to save the day," he says, apparently trying to get his cool back.

    "A bad attitude isn't going to help find the killer of your boyfriend!" I shoot back, in no mood to be fucked with.

    "He wasn't  my boyfriend!" he says as he's slumping a little in his chair. "He was with Jack Kerouac, here… I apologize for my rudeness, earlier," he sighs. "I guess I'm still a little shaken."

   "Not a problem, Mister Ginsburg," I say, getting out my notepad and pen. "Do you have any idea who might wanna  harm you or your friends?....This was obviously an assasination and an attempt on your life!"

       Ginsburg offers up  a sad smile. "That list would be longer than my arm, I'm afraid. I've made a lot of enemies by attacking modern  institutions such as your police state and modern society in general."

    "I can't say you're on my Christmas list, either, Ginsburg," I answer. "I do respect your courage in standing up against the pressures of society to conform….. But I'm thinking more of any actuual threats to your life or to your friends."

    He thinks about it for a few seconds. "There is one thing," he finally says.
   
    "And that would be?"

     "I'd rather not go into that here," he says. "The walls really do have ears."

    "We'll take this to the station," I tell him. "Consider yourself  in protective custody for a few hours. Do you need medical attention for your wound?"

     "Swell!"he grouses. He offers his wrists and says, "Just take easy on the rubber hoses. Forget the bullet damage. It just grazed my arm. It didn't even  tear my sleeve. Let's get this charade over with!"

      I turned to Mallone. "Take those two witnesses to headquarters in a squad car. Put 'em on ice in the waiting room until I can get to them."

    "Right, Sarge!….I'll round them up."

     I head toward the front door, just behind Ginsburg. As I'm about to hit the sidewalk, I hear the poet in the wicker chair winding up. "Children of Big Brother…..surrender to the devil's holy power! Bend over snd take your fucking like loyal Americans!"

     Scattered clapping follows after the last line of his rambling poem.

      On the street, I turn to Ginsburg. "That's pretty defeatist stuff, isn't it?"

    "The brother was just telling it as it is, Copper!"

     I shake my head and chuckle. "I Guess it all depends on which reality fits you best," I say.

   "Philosopher turnkeys?" he says in surprise "What's next…talking monkeys?"