Russian River Rat Read online

  Russian River Rat

  Book 3

  in the

  Beach Reading Series

  Mark Abramson

  Published by Lethe Press

  Maple Shade NJ

  Copyright © 2009 by Mark Abramson.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Also by Mark Abramson

  Praise for the Beach Reading series

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1 — Start the Novel

  Sneak Peek at Book 4: Snowman

  About the Author

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief citation or review, without the written permission of Lethe Press.

  Lethe Press, 118 Heritage Avenue, Maple Shade, NJ 08052.

  www.lethepressbooks.com

  [email protected]

  Book Design by Toby Johnson

  Cover by Ivan Vera

  ISBN 1-59021-141-3 ISBN-13 978-1-59021-141-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Abramson, Mark, 1952-

  Russian River rat / Mark Abramson. -- 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm. -- (Beach reading ; bk. 3)

  ISBN 1-59021-141-3 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Gay men--California--San Francisco--Fiction. 2. Castro (San Francisco, Calif.)--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.B758R87 2009

  813’.6--dc22

  2009040308

  Also by Mark Abramson

  Beach Reading

  Cold Serial Murder

  Praise for

  Beach Reading, Books One and Two

  “Bret Harte—the writer, not the wrestler—helped found the literary convention of local color while living on the California coast. 150 years later, Mark Abramson—the writer, not the producer—makes his own contribution to that rich tradition by applying his verbal pointillé to San Francisco. In this first novel of an upcoming series, lovelorn Tim Snow becomes collateral damage after the collision of politics and partying… and love’s rôle in both. Clever and sexy with a ton of heart (and Harte).” —Instinct Magazine

  It’s been a while since Armistead Maupin delighted readers by the Bay with his serialized Tales of the City, but fans of this type of light confectionary fiction will not be disappointed by Mark Abramson’s first two entries in his Beach Reading series. Equally San Francisco-centric, these volumes feature main character Tim Snow, a waiter at Castro Street’s Arts Restaurant, his bosses Artie and Arturo… lots of San Francisco name-dropping, quirky characters and the kind of you’ve-got-to-be-kidding coincidence that happens only in fiction. —Jerry L. Wheeler, Out Front Colorado

  “Abramson’s first in a series of books to come, this charming tale takes place in that shining homo beacon in the bay—San Francisco. Whether it’s celebrating disco queernery, battling homophobia or getting over that pesky ex, this book’s got you covered. And who ever said that protests were unflattering? Provocative yet short, its title says it all—only wait much longer and it may be more like Subway Reading.” —Brandon Aultman, HX Magazine, New York

  “I just received Cold Serial Murder, the second book in Mark Abramson’s series on gay life. I could not wait to get started reading it so I took yesterday afternoon off, turned off the phone and sat down in my favorite chair to lose myself in it. From the get go let me say that it is not only as good as Beach Reading, it is even better. Mark Abramson knows how to tell a story and he does so with a lot of references to gay life today. Abramson is the kind of guy I could fall in love with if his writing is anything like him. He creates real characters—we all know someone like the guys in the book and we get the sense that we are not just reading a book but that we are participating in the experience that we read about.” —Amos Lassen, Eureka Pride

  In this second of his “Beach Reading” series of light thrillers, Abramson further develops the likeable and relatable characters he introduced in that enjoyable first book (same name as the series), and again provides a story that perfectly captures the cohesive spirit of the Castro community. While mystery purists may prefer a few more “red herrings” to complicate the solving of the crime, the author obviously intends for the series to entertain rather than challenge, and it succeeds wonderfully on that level. A clang from a streetcar, and five golden stars out of five! —Bob Lind, Echo Magazine

  Disclaimer

  Despite any resemblance to living and/or historical figures, all characters appearing or mentioned in Russian River Rat are fictional except: Marlena, Karen Black, Miguel Hidalgo, Ellen DeGeneres, Tennessee Williams, Suze Orman, Tony Bennett, William Faulkner, Donna Sachet, Diana Ross, Matthew McConaughey, Judy Garland, Loyce Houlton, Harvey Milk, Norma Shearer, Lena Horne, Halle Berry, Bob Hope, Michael Jackson, Joan Crawford, Lawrence Welk, Paulette Goddard, Jo Ann Castle, K.C. Dare, Michael Tilson Thomas, Goldblatt, Ryan White, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Bernard, Shelley Winters, Charles Pierce, Bette Davis, Anne Murray, Lucille Ball, Tegan and Sarah, Liza Minnelli, Sal Castaneda, Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys, Anna Nicole Smith, Steve Paulson, Rosie O’Donnell, Gustav Mahler, Rachel Maddow, Lily Tomlin, Rock Hudson, Rupert Everett, Liberace, Elton John, Jake Gyllenhaal, Ruta Lee, John Goodman, Margaret Hamilton and Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my New Orleans resident tour guides, Michael Bologna and Ric Rolston for the generosity of their time and wealth of information and for driving me around to all the cemeteries I could ever want to visit in a lifetime.

  Chapter 1

  Tim Snow woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of crisp raindrops bouncing off the skylight over Nick’s bed. He yawned, stretching out his arms, and slid over to the empty side of the bed, from where he could see a near-naked Nick working at the stove. Tim smiled at the apron strings highlighting Nick’s bare ass, at the pair of gray woolly socks with red heels.

  Tim plumped up the pillows behind his head and pulled the covers up to his neck. Nick must have heard the bedsprings creak because he turned around, the ponytail of straight blonde hair bouncing, and blew Tim a kiss. “Good morning, handsome.”

  Tim smiled before returning the kiss. “What’s cooking? Mmmm… nice outfit.”

  Nick tugged at the front of the apron. “Don’t want to get hot grease on the family jewels.” He then turned off the stove and poured Tim a mug of coffee. “How did you sleep, Snowman? Any crazy dreams?”

  “Come back to bed, and I’ll tell you about them.” Tim pulled the covers far enough for Nick to climb in and position himself half on top and half beside him. “Let that coffee cool off a little while I warm you up.”

  Nick’s house had been a Monte Rio vacation cottage in the 1930s modernized over the years. He’d added a carport under a new deck that wrapped around two sides and overlooked the Russian River. The kitchen had been refurbished, and a more efficient wood-burning stove installed in one corner of the living room. He’d kept the knotty pine walls that reminded Tim of the cabins he’d once visited besides a Minnesota lake.

  “I thought I wore you out last night.” Nick nuzzled into Tim’s ear.

  “I know, but this is my last morning here. I have to go back to the city today.” Tim reached around the back of Nick’s head and pulled him closer, releasing his ponytail at the same time. “I love your hair long and loose like some wild jungle cat.”

  Nick growled and shook his hair in both their faces. “I’m as hungry as a lion. How about you?”

  “Starved.”

  “Don’t move. We can have breakfast in bed.” Nick went back to the stove. “It seems early for rain. I guess summer’s officially over. I love that sound on the skylight, though.”

  “Me, too. I could get used
to this, you know. I could really get used to this.” It had been too long since Tim had felt so welcome in another man’s bed. So welcome, he didn’t want to ever leave it.

  Ruth Taylor poured herself a mug of fresh coffee and sat down at the glass-topped table on the little brick patio of her new apartment. She let her shoulders sag, stretched out her legs and wiggled her fingers and toes. It was time to let go of the tension of the long drive, two thousand miles, from Minneapolis, the stress of her divorce, all the packing and moving. It was time to settle in to the laid-back pace of San Francisco and begin her new life.

  The movers had finished unloading her household at Collingwood Street several hours before she’d crossed the Bay Bridge. She had collapsed atop the bare mattress. She tisked at her puffy reflection in the mirror and had to hunt through too many boxes to find her toothbrush. At least she knew the layout of the apartment well from her last visit; her nephew Tim had rented the place before her.

  A cat’s cry came from behind a stack of boxes in the kitchen, and her big, furry tabby ambled out the back door to settle between Ruth’s bare feet. She bent to pick him up, and he overflowed her lap. “Did you sleep well, baby? I’ll bet you were glad to get out of that nasty old back seat of the car, weren’t you? Welcome to California. Don’t get any clever ideas about climbing over that wall. I can see the wheels in your little mind spinning already.”

  The cat jumped down and stretched its claws into the dirt where Tim’s cherry tomatoes had given up the ghost. Ruth was glad to see that the rest of the plants still thrived and that none of the vines looked strong enough to provide Bartholomew an escape route.

  Ruth carried her coffee to the living room and sat down in her grandmother’s wooden rocker. It hadn’t been easy to sort through her sprawling suburban home to pick and choose which of her belongings would fit in a city apartment, but the rocking chair made the cut. She intended to leave it to Tim some day, since it wasn’t the sort of thing her daughter Dianne would like. Ruth considered Dianne’s decorating taste downright tacky; Tim would appreciate a family heirloom.

  With a foot she stroked the bare floorboards. Arturo and Artie, her landlords and Tim’s employers and friends—no, she needed to think of them as her friends, too, now—had promised to have the old oak floors refinished once Tim got his things moved out. She had asked them not to fuss, but Arturo had been insistent. “This place was built before the 1906 earthquake, and the floors haven’t been touched in over a hundred years. There’s no time like the present.”

  Artie had added, “Besides, we like to fuss over you, Ruth. We want you to stay for a good long time.”

  A fresh coat of white paint made the place seem larger than she remembered it. She loved the beamed ceilings and the built-in bookcases across from the bay window where she’d slept on Tim’s couch this summer.

  So much had happened since Ruth first arrived in San Francisco for a brief visit, what with the murders and all, that it was hard to put everything into perspective. After all those miles alone on the road, she was thrilled to be back in the city and convinced that she had made the right decision.

  Ruth heard a knock on the door. She left the chain in place as she opened it a crack, until she saw who it was. “Teresa!”

  “I thought I heard your voice out back,” her neighbor said. “When’d you get in, Ruth?”

  “Wait, let me unlatch this thing…” Ruth fiddled with the chain and opened the door wide to give Teresa a hug. “Come in. Come in. I arrived in the middle of the night, and I passed out cold. You must have heard me talking to the cat.”

  “Shucks, I was hoping you’d brought back a man with you.” Teresa laughed. “Here I pictured some big, strong, tanned, strapping corn farmer wearing bib overalls and holding a pitchfork.”

  “No such luck, Teresa. How’re things with you?”

  “There’s nothing much going on in the dating department lately. I get myself all dolled up and go out with the girls now and then, but I never meet a decent fella. Whatever it is I’m serving up, they musta already had for leftovers yesterday.”

  “Now, Teresa… it can’t be all that bad. Maybe you and I should go out together sometime. I’m single too, you know. Come in for a cup of coffee, won’t you?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. I can’t believe you’ve unpacked already and got the coffeepot going. I was gonna invite you up to my place for some,” Teresa said as she shut the door behind her. “Here’s your morning paper, Ruthie.”

  “I’m glad Tim didn’t have the paper stopped.” Ruth tucked the Chronicle under her arm and Teresa followed her back to the kitchen.

  “There’s talk about the Chronicle going under, so you might as well enjoy it while you can.”

  “I hope not. I just have to do the crossword puzzle every day,” Ruth said. She found a mug and rinsed it clean in the sink. “Cream and sugar?”

  “No, thanks, just strong and black is how I like it,” Teresa answered. “One of the gals at work says that about her men, but I’d be better off wishing for ‘straight’ and black. Did you meet that new waiter at Arts? What a cutie-pie!”

  “You mean James? Yes, he started before I left town,” Ruth said. “He’s very good-looking… but he’s not straight, is he?”

  “No, of course not, but he’s strong and black and absolutely gorgeous!” Teresa laughed again. “I was in there for dinner last night with some friends, and he waited on us. What a charmer! I have former students nearly his age, but I’m not too old to look, am I?”

  “Of course not. I’ve always thought window-shopping was one of life’s harmless little pleasures.” She handed Teresa her coffee. They both walked out on to the patio. “How is Tim? I’m dying to call, but I don’t want to wake him. He probably worked at Arts last night.”

  “No, he was off last night. I don’t think he’s even in town. He’s been spending every spare minute with Nick, you know.”

  Ruth smiled. “He told me on the phone that things were going well.”

  “You’ve never seen such love birds, Ruth. I thought Teddy and Lenny were thick, but Tim and Nick are both on cloud nine these days. I think they’re up at Nick’s place at the Russian River this week. Artie mentioned it last night at the bar. Tim went up there for his days off, but he planned to be back in town this afternoon so he could be here when you got in. He’ll be sorry he didn’t have things all ready for you.”

  “What’s to get ready? The place is spic and span. There’s no problem.”

  “Artie said you called from Salt Lake City, so we figured you had at least another day on the road.”

  “I planned to spend the night in Reno, but I stopped for gas and then I kept right on driving. My adrenalin must have kicked in; I was so excited. I only got a few hours sleep this morning, and I’m not even tired.”

  “You made good time, girl.”

  They heard a meow as Ruth’s cat stuck his head out the back door.

  “Teresa, I’d like you to meet Bartholomew.”

  “What a big, healthy-looking guy!” Teresa bent to give the cat a gentle scratch between the ears.

  “He’s a Minnesota cat who is going to spend the first winter of his life without snow, and I dare say he won’t miss it one bit.”

  Teresa lifted her head at a distant sound. “Is that my phone ringing? It must be mine.”

  “You don’t have a cellphone?”

  Teresa shook her head. “Only for gentleman callers.” She sighed. “My kitchen window is open, and Marcia is out of town. Nobody would dare call Arturo and Artie on a morning when they can sleep in. Ben and Jane are all moved into the downstairs of Tim’s house on Hancock Street now, you know.”

  “How are they doing with the new baby… and little Sarah?” Ruth asked.

  “Just fine… both kids as pretty as a picture,” Teresa said. “I’d better go upstairs and make sure that wasn’t my mother calling from Seattle. I think she’s starting to lose it lately. Thanks for the coffee, Ruth, and welcome back to San Francis
co. It’s gonna be just swell to have you living here in the building full time. You come up a little later for something stronger than coffee. My door is always open, you know.”

  “Thanks, Teresa,” Ruth said as they walked to the door. “You’re more than welcome to coffee anytime, too. I guess I’ll have a go at some of these boxes before I run out of steam. I’m probably going to need to sleep for a week. Bye, now.”

  But as she shut the front door, Ruth felt exhaustion roll over her like a heat wave. She didn’t want to bother with all the boxes that were her old life. She carried the Chronicle from the kitchen to the living room, sat down in her antique rocker and put her bare feet on the footstool. The front-page section had nothing but politics and bad news so she set it aside. She reached out for her coffee, but remembered she’d left it on the kitchen counter. She looked around for the end table she always kept beside the chair, but saw it wasn’t at its usual spot but in the corner under a pile of boxes. Then she remembered she wasn’t in Edina anymore.

  She flipped the pages of the Chronicle, and noticed a small headline:

  BODY FOUND IN RUSSIAN RIVER–

  Unidentified Man found near Forestville thought to be Third Drowning Victim this Season.

  Tim must be at the Russian River right now if he was still up at Nick’s place. Wasn’t that in Monte Rio? She tried to remember what Tim had told her, but she didn’t know the area at all. She read on: Canoeists find body of nude male near Hacienda Bridge…

  Bartholomew came to visit her, and she scratched the cat behind the ears. “Well, Bart, I wonder how far Forestville is from where Nick lives. Hacienda Bridge sounds Spanish, doesn’t it? Hacienda isn’t a Russian word, that’s for sure.” Ruth yawned. “I hope Tim comes home soon. I can hardly wait to see him.” Ruth closed her eyes and let the Chronicle fall from her lap onto the floor.

  Chapter 2