Safe at Home

by Alison Gordon

  “Are you talking about trading Joe Kelsey?”

  “We’re not talking about trading anyone. Kelsey did what he did. I don’t have to like it, but the organization believes that it’s his business, like I said. If that causes problems with other players that can’t be worked out, the organization will do what it can to accommodate the requests of any player who wants to leave.”

  “Have any players demanded to be traded since Kelsey came out of the closet?” asked an American reporter who hadn’t been around for Swain’s original outburst.

  “In the heat of the moment some players said things they may now regret,” Red said. “We have told them where the organization stands. We’ll see what happens.”

  “You keep talking about the organization, Red,” I said. “Does that mean that you don’t agree with their position on Joe?”

  “I am a member of the organization, too,” he said.

  “Did Ted lay down the law, Red?” asked Bill Sanderson, referring to Ted Ferguson, the team owner.

  “What are you trying to get me to say?” said Red, angrily. “That I don’t like it? All right. I don’t like it. But my feelings about homosexuals have nothing to do with the job we have to do, which is win a pennant. As long as Joe is doing the job on the field, which he is, better than some of the other guys I won’t name, I have no beef with him.”

  “But how can a queer in the clubhouse not affect the team?” asked Keith Jarvis, the weasel from the Mirror. “Get real, Red.”

  “We’ve won two games since Ms. Henry’s story appeared. We’re doing all right on the field.”

  “What are you going to do if the fighting continues?”

  “I’m assuming right now that some people might come to their senses when they understand how things stand. If not, we’ll have to see.”

  Several reporters began to shout out questions at once.

  “Look, fellahs, I’ve said all I have to say about the subject. Give me a break. I got a day off, too, and I want to start enjoying it.”

  Grumbling slightly, they filed out of the room. I hung back. I wanted to talk to the manager about the Japanese player for my sidebar. He had started to strip off his uniform. As his jersey cleared the top of his head, he saw me there.

  “For Christ’s sake, what are you doing here? Haven’t you caused enough trouble? I’ve got nothing to say to you, hear me? Nothing. Nada. Zip. Sweet fuck-all. So just fuck off before I say what I really mean.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Joe, Red,” I sighed. “It’s Watanabe. What do you think so far?”

  “Too early to tell,” he grunted. “I don’t think they have the wherewithal to make it in the big leagues. Don’t print that. He made a nice play today. We’ll have to see if he can hit big-league pitching. Besides, he’s so polite he gives me the creeps. Don’t print that either.”

  “I would have thought you would like a player that shows the manager some respect.”

  “Well, yeah, there is that. But it ain’t natural, all his yes sir, no sir, all the time. I’m afraid he’s going to bow to me or something. Christ, no one ever told me it was going to be like this. I’ve got a faggot in left field and a Nip at short and I’m expected to manage them like normal ballplayers.”

  One leg out of his uniform pants, he stopped and looked at me.

  “DON’T PRINT THAT EITHER,” he shouted. “And get out of here and let me get my clothes off.”

  “See you Tuesday,” I said. “Have a nice off-day.”

  I think I heard him growling as I left and went down the hall.

  Chapter 25

  I filed my game story and two short sidebars, about Watanabe and the brawl, from my office at home. When Christopher Morris phoned, I arranged to meet him at The Fillet of Soul, a restaurant specializing in southern cooking. We’d eaten there the last time he was in Toronto, and he told me he’d been dreaming of their ribs and collard greens ever since.

  I called Andy and explained that I had a hot date with my sports-writing hero.

  “Why don’t you join us?”

  “And talk baseball all night? No thanks,” he said. He sounded weary.

  “He can actually talk about other things,” I said. “That’s why I like him. Come on. It will do you good.”

  “What time are you meeting him?”

  “In an hour. Eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. If I’m not there by eight-thirty, go ahead without me. Maybe I’ll join you for a drink afterwards.”

  “Please try to make it,” I said. “You could stand a hearty meal.”

  “I said I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

  “You don’t have to bite my head off,” I said. “I just want to see you. Since when is that an indictable offence?”

  “I’m exhausted, Kate. I’ve been reading computer printouts all day long. The staff inspector is on my back. The FBI is still in town.”

  “All the more reason to relax and forget about it for a couple of hours. It’s Sunday night, for God’s sake.”

  “I’ll try, really.”

  “I know you will. And tomorrow night, Joe and his friend are coming. I’d like it if you could be there.”

  “If I can, I will. And I’ll get there sometime tonight. I promise.”

  I showered and changed into a pair of slacks and a green silk shirt that matches my eyes. On the way out, I stopped by Sally’s. They were having dinner. Elwy was there, too, looking up at me without shame from his own plate of table scraps.

  “What a lovely family scene,” I said. “Where is David? Off being sincere elsewhere?”

  T.C. laughed. Sally didn’t. I mentally slapped myself in the face. Sometimes I think I should get a tongue transplant.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just stopped by to see if you guys can come to supper tomorrow night. Joe’s coming, with his friend Sandy.”

  “Oh boy, can we, Mum? Please.”

  T.C. had obviously got over his squeamishness about Joe’s sexual preferences and was ready to be buddies again.

  “Sure. That would be great. Can I bring anything?”

  “No, I’m just going to barbecue if the weather stays nice. If not, I’ll fake it. Nothing fancy. Six o’clock.”

  “See you then.”

  “Drop Fatso upstairs when you’re tired of his company. I’m going to the Fillet.”

  “With anyone we know?” Sally asked.

  “I have a date with an older man,” I said, then explained about Christopher. “His nibs may or may not join us.”

  “Have fun.”

  I decided to take the streetcar on the not-too-remote chance that I might drink enough later to make driving illegal. Also, I hoped I would be coming home with Andy.

  I walked out to Broadview Avenue. The King streetcar rattled along almost immediately, practically empty, having begun its journey two blocks away at the Broadview subway station. I settled into a double seat on the right-hand side for the view across the park to the downtown lights, twinkling in the twilight. It’s the best view in Toronto. A few elderly Chinese were doing tai-chi exercises at the base of the statue of Sun Yat-sen, watched by a couple of Anglo kids leaning on their bicycles. The spring weather had brought Torontonians out of hibernation.

  At the corner of Broadview and Gerrard, dozens of Chinese piled into the car, fresh from their shopping at the grocery stores around the intersection with their displays of exotic produce labelled in elegant calligraphy. An elderly lady sat next to me, then turned to talk to her friend in the seat behind. Neither spoke enough English to understand my offer to change places with the friend, but with sign language we got the switch accomplished, then smiled broadly in cross-cultural fellowship.

  My new seat mate, a stolid-looking middle-aged man in a suit shiny with wear, opened the Planet, turned immediately to the sports section and began t
o read my story. This has happened to me before, and it always gives me a little charge, a mixture of pride and embarrassment. I’m always tempted to identify myself and ask what they think, but I’ve never dared. I’ve also never given in to the temptation to comment on what a fine writer I think the reporter is.

  I got to the restaurant a few minutes early, so I joined the owners at the bar. Tom Jefferson came to Toronto in the sixties to play football. In that era, the National Football League didn’t believe that blacks had the necessities to quarterback, but the Canadian Football League didn’t suffer from that particular bit of mean bigotry. He met and married Sarah and decided to stay after his long and successful career. They opened the restaurant, serving the kind of food Tom had grown up on in Georgia, and it became a second home for visiting athletes, local blacks, and anyone else who loved ribs, fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and jazz on the sound system.

  Sarah, blonde and motherly, though not much older than I am, hugged me when I arrived. Tom, behind the bar, shook my hand. I hadn’t been in since before spring training, so we spent ten minutes catching up on my news, their news, and gossip about some of the other regulars.

  Christopher arrived right on time. Tom and Sarah greeted him like an old friend, despite the fact that he had been there just once before.

  “Scotch for you, am I right?” Tom asked.

  “Good memory, but I think I’ll join Kate in a Martini this time.”

  “Table for two?”

  “Andy might be joining us,” I said.

  Sally led us to a table in the corner.

  “Andy? Do I know him?” Christopher asked.

  “No, he’s not a sportswriter. Just a nice guy I think you might like. Actually, come to think to it, you have met him. I forgot that you were here during the murders last year. Andy, also known as Staff Sergeant Munro, was in charge of the investigation.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ve been seeing him since then.”

  I don’t know why I was embarrassed to tell Christopher this. There had never been anything between us but mutual admiration and friendship. Christopher is almost a father figure to me, professionally. Perhaps that’s why I was anxious for him to like Andy.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I invited him,” I said. “He’s in the middle of a tough case and he could use the distraction.”

  “Not at all. I remember him. Quite a good-looking fellow, I think.”

  “So do I.”

  “What’s the case?”

  “It’s pretty nasty. A series of killings of young boys. Also molesting. They call him the Daylight Stalker.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  I was filling him in on the details when Andy arrived. He had gone home to change and was dressed in nicely fitting jeans and a soft blue sweater. He sat down. Sarah brought our Martinis and a coffee for Andy, who was half on duty. We ordered our dinner. Ribs for the men, fried chicken for me, and collard greens all around.

  “Kate has been telling me about the murders,” Christopher said. “It’s a terrible story. It must be very frustrating for you.”

  “It’s not exactly fun,” Andy acknowledged.

  “It’s a fascinating business, serial killing. My brother-in-law is Montague Browning. Have you heard of him?”

  “Of course,” said Andy, obviously impressed. “I’m a great admirer of his. His book is the best thing written on the subject.”

  “What is it called?” I asked.

  “Studies in Serial Psychopathology,” said Christopher.

  “Snappy title,” I said.

  “It’s not a mass-market book,” Christopher said. “He’s a professor of forensic psychiatry at Columbia.”

  “And he is respected by any homicide cop I’ve ever talked to,” Andy added. “What’s he like?”

  “A very congenial guy,” Christopher said. “His specialty makes for some pretty gruesome conversations around the family dinner table, but he is a very cheerful chap. My sister is devoted to him, and he’s my youngest son’s favourite uncle. But he’s at the age when mayhem is particularly fascinating.”

  “Like T.C. My tenant’s kid, who’s not quite twelve, thinks Andy is almost as exciting as the baseball players.”

  “I think we are all secretly like that. I was on a jury for a murder trial a couple of years ago, and I dined out on it for a week. Everybody wanted all the details.”

  “So do I,” I said.

  “Just a depressing New York murder. Two neighbours disagreed about a barking dog and one of them ended up dead. The man with the dog just happened to be carrying a revolver in his bathrobe pocket at seven in the morning.”

  “It’s the American Way,” I said.

  “In his neighbourhood, you’d probably carry a gun, too, Kate,” Christopher said. “Try to curb your smug nationalism for a moment.”

  “Do you carry one?”

  “Are you nuts? The things terrify me,” he said. “But I live in a building with a doorman and neighbours who are more likely to bore me to death than shoot me.”

  “I was afraid you guys would spend the whole dinner talking shop about baseball, and you’re talking my shop instead,” Andy said. “Tell me more about your brother-in-law. I’ve heard he’s revising his book.”

  “He’s finished. It’s coming out next month.”

  “And a year later here, probably.”

  “I could send you one, if you like.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Does he deal with the killings in Larchmont?”

  “Ah, the Westchester Creeper, as the tabloids called him. Yes. That was a fascinating character, a classic case.”

  “Who on earth was the Westchester Creeper?” I asked, feeling a tad left out.

  “He killed seven children over a period of six months. He was caught with the kid who was to be his eighth victim. I’m interested, because our guy here seems to be behaving in a similar pattern. I’ve talked to the police involved in it, but I’d be interested in your brother-in-law’s opinion.”

  “Call him. He’d be glad to talk to you. Mention my name. I’ll give you his phone number.”

  “How much like ours was this guy?” I asked.

  “The victims were boys about the same age,” Andy said. “There were similar patterns of rape, mutilation, and murder. The killer turned out to be a local merchant and boy scout leader. He was married with children of his own and active in the church.”

  “It was his background that was classic,” Christopher said. “He was sickly as a boy, no good at sports. He could never please his macho father and watched him beat his mother most nights. He left home at fourteen to escape, and lived on his wits. He built a good, respectable life for himself.”

  “He also got involved in the investigation,” Andy said. “The local force ignored him because he was always underfoot. But he finally left enough clues that he could be found.”

  “It caused the department a lot of grief,” Christopher said. “The parents of the later victims felt, quite justifiably, from their point of view, that the police had ignored evidence right under their noses.”

  “Little wonder,” I said.

  “Not so fast,” Andy said. “You’re talking about hindsight, here. I have to identify with the police on this one. There is nothing more annoying than an enthusiastic amateur cluttering up the investigation.”

  “Looking back, they could see it was a cry for help,” Christopher said.

  “Is that typical of serial killers?”

  “Sometimes,” Christopher said. “Sometimes they let success make them careless, but there is considerable evidence that they leave clues so that someone will stop them.”

  “I wish our guy would oblige.”

  “Well, maybe he has,” I said, and started to tell Christopher about the notes. Andy kicked me under the table.
/>   “Ouch! What did you do that for?”

  “For blabbing on about things that are supposed to be confidential parts of the investigation.”

  “Don’t be silly” I said. “Christopher isn’t going to print anything.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “And if it makes you feel any better, I probably have an alibi for the times of the killings. This is my first trip to Toronto since the playoffs last October.”

  “Of course,” Andy smiled. “I’m sorry. But you will keep this to yourself.”

  “Right,” I said. “So. Hey. Why don’t we talk about baseball for a while?”

  “Great idea,” said Andy.

  Chapter 26

  We all had to work in the morning, so we didn’t linger too long over coffee. Tom and Sarah joined us as the restaurant emptied, bringing a round of cognacs with them. It was a lovely, relaxed evening, far away from the problems on the playing field and the children of the city. I was yawning when Andy parked in the driveway.

  “Come on, you slug,” he said, coming around to open my door and drag me out of the car.

  “Tired,” I mumbled, leaning on his shoulder.

  “Bed,” he replied.

  Arms around each other, we strolled up the walk. Jim Wells was waiting for us.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he asked Andy.

  “I left the number with the desk,” he said.

  “You left a wrong number. We woke up some old lady who subsequently called 911 to say she was getting obscene phone calls.”

  I giggled, but not for long.

  “This concerns you, too, Kate. He left another note.”

  “What about the goddamn surveillance?” Andy asked. “Didn’t our guy see anything?”

  “He had gone down the lane to take a leak,” Jim said, embarrassed. “He found the note tucked under his windshield wiper when he got back.”

  “Who was on duty?”

  “Larsen.”

  “He’s off the case,” Andy said. “Let’s see the damn note.”