File Under Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “What was the problem there?”

  “That confrontation on the television show wasn’t their first fight. They’d come near to blows several times over the years. Their animosities went quite far back. They were lovers a number of years ago.”

  “Karek and Charley?”

  “Yes. It was a rocky relationship. They lived together for a short time.”

  Somehow Karek had left out this little detail. I wondered why. I said “I’ve talked with Mandy Marlex. I’m going to be talking with Albert Bergland. How was Charley’s relationship with him?”

  “I don’t like Albert. I think Charley was mostly indifferent to him. Albert didn’t have a lot of money. If there was one thing you could count on Charley for, it was that he would know how much people were worth. He may have been my brother, but that doesn’t mean I was blind to his shortcomings.”

  “How about in Charley’s past? Any conflicts there?”

  “He had occasional boyfriends. I never heard there was any lasting ill feeling after he broke up with them.”

  “Do you know why they broke up?”

  “Charley never really discussed his relationships with me. He’d bring a lover to a family event once in a while. Not often. All of us get together to vacation in our place in Aruba every year. He bought one the last time.”

  “Do you remember any names?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “I was told he hired call boys.”

  “That sounds like vicious gossip. People are envious of the rich and famous.”

  “Were you worried last night when he didn’t come home?”

  She gave me a thin smile. “He kept very late hours. We own half of this floor. He could be gone for a week, and I wouldn’t notice. Half the time we didn’t know if we we’re in the same city. Our secretaries coordinated most family things.”

  “Did everybody in the family get along?”

  She said, “I appreciate that you’re concerned for your friend, but my family and my trust fund and our company are off limits to you.” She stood up. “I have a great many things to take care of.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry to have intruded. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  21

  I met Professor Albert Bergland at the Rainbow Café.

  Bergland was about four-foot-ten. He had blue eyes and a white goatee. He looked about as tall as the ax that had been used in Fitch’s murder. He may not have been big enough for the part, but I figured anybody with an ax can sneak up on someone and do plenty of damage.

  After our orders arrived, Bergland dropped a dollop of something from a hip flask into his coffee. “Brandy,” he said. “Would you like some?”

  I declined.

  I said, “I checked your web site.”

  “You were shocked?” he asked.

  “Not particularly. Is there something there I was supposed to be shocked about?”

  “Well, it’s not the usual liberal gay palaver. I’ve seen you on a few shows. I assume you believe all that commie line about what gay people should do, how they should toe the left-wing line.”

  I said, “I’m more interested in your relationship with Charley Fitch.”

  “Pah. Charley still believed that gay rights laws were a good thing. We need less government, not more.”

  “Yes, but if you’re dedicated to less government, why don’t you concentrate on important parts of less government? Why concentrate on having there be less government connected with protecting people’s rights? Why not fight about having less of the kind of government that takes away people’s rights?”

  “We do that.”

  “Funny, I didn’t see it on your web site or in any of your arguments.”

  “Did you want a philosophical discussion, or are you here about Charley’s murder? Billy Karek begged me to talk to you. I’m not sure I like you.”

  “Seems to be a lot of that going around the past two days.” I was the one who needed information here. I said, “I’m sorry if I was offensive. I’m trying to help my friend. I was hoping you could help.”

  His look became a little less hostile.

  “Did Charley have enemies?”

  “I’d put it that he didn’t have many friends. He had lots of acquaintances. He had intimacy issues.”

  “Political issues between him and everybody else or psychological issues with intimacy?”

  “Maybe both. The main thing is, he didn’t have a lot of people skills. He had trouble being close to people. I don’t think he’d been on a date in a long time.”

  “Maybe he didn’t find anybody who was his type to ask.”

  “That may have been true, but nobody asked him either.”

  “Maybe they did when you weren’t around.”

  “He confided in me.”

  “I’d heard you and he had a relationship, but also that you had strong animosity toward each other.”

  “Our differences were strictly political, not personal. We have been friends for years. He and I would talk on the phone. Charley wasn’t a bad guy. Our friendship transcended politics. I think he was closer to me than I was to him. He needed me more than I needed him. I have friends. He was kind of lost, lonely. When he wasn’t talking about politics, he didn’t have much to say. Kind of the ultimate Sixties-type radical, not much personality outside of his politics.”

  “But no specific quarrels? Karek said you weren’t friends.”

  “Karek hadn’t been close to Charley in years. They were lovers once, you know?”

  “I’d heard.”

  Bergland said, “As far as suspects go, I think you should try that family of his. I heard there was all kinds of intrigue. That sister is a piece of work. She’s odd. I’ve only met her a few times. She seemed more aloof than Charley and totally without his passion. She never seemed to have many people skills either. Charley was overtly hostile, very verbal. Mostly she radiated hostility and disdain, as if the rest of us weren’t worth the time it took her to tell us how useless we were.”

  “She seemed okay when I talked to her. I had an introduction from a friend.”

  “That helped break the ice.”

  “Did Charley and his sister fight?”

  “I heard she called the tune for that trust. She had the largest percent of the voting block, and she knew how to work the bunch of total loonies in that family. If Charley wanted something, he had to kowtow to her. The rest of the family didn’t care much for Charley.”

  “Because he was gay?”

  “Because he was a prolifigate left-wing commie. He spent all that capitalist-earned money on all these silly do-good causes.”

  “If the government isn’t supposed to help them, and those who get rich shouldn’t be helping them…”

  “That leaves them to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.”

  Scott has more patience for debating people than I do. I ignored the opening for a politically correct back and forth and said, “I heard he hired call boys.”

  “He may have. I saw him with a few young things once in a while. I knew they weren’t dates. I also was too discreet to ask how much they cost.”

  “How’d you know they weren’t dates?”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  I said, “Who benefits from Charley being dead?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I won’t have someone to debate on talk shows, but that’s not much of a benefit.”

  22

  I met with the writer of Blithering Bullshit. He’d responded to my message of that morning. The columnist printed reams of blind items about feuding local gay politicos, nearly famous gay business people, and the not-as-famous-as-they-wished-they-were gay hangers-on. Even including all these categories, this was an extremely limited bunch. I figured these folks must all know each other in at least a peripheral way, and that writing a column about them was kind of an incestuous thing to do. His column appeared in the newest bar rag, Party On, which had more blank space on its pages than ads. The publication w
as the personal whim of a group of gay doctors who decided that investing in a gay newspaper was a good thing. Being nuts or taking poor investment advice is not limited by one’s sexual orientation. The editor’s lover was the writer of the column.

  Fortunately, Scott and I had had the good sense to invite everyone in the Chicago gay media, including the editor of the rag and the columnist/lover, to our wedding. A dubious decision at the time, now turning out to be fortuitously helpful.

  The writer of the column was Benjamin Awarjak. We met at the Starbucks coffee shop on Broadway at Roscoe. We sat in the comfy chairs in the back. He squirmed with anticipation. He said, “I’ve wanted to talk to you so much since the wedding.”

  Actually, what he did for the next ten minutes was give a stunningly boring monologue about how tough his job was as truth teller to the community. I let him ramble. He was about five-foot-eight with hair died yellow on top and presumably naturally black below. He was overweight but wore loose clothes to cover any bulges. He might have been in his late twenties or early thirties.

  When he finally wound down, I asked, “Did you know Charley Fitch?”

  “Did I know him? Well, I’m here to tell you, there is dirt, dirt, dirt there to be known. Everybody’s saying you found the head. Did you really?”

  “Yep.”

  “The Chicago Tribune doesn’t print that kind of thing, but I’ve heard it from several sources.”

  I said, “I haven’t been keeping it a secret.”

  “What’s it like finding a head?”

  “Not nearly as much fun as people seem to imagine.”

  “Oh.” A snippet of a pause. “Was there a lot of blood?”

  “I guess I’m a little reluctant to talk about the details. The memory is still pretty raw.”

  “Of course. It must have been awful for you.” He sounded about as sympathetic as a hooded cobra might just after it struck its victim. He sipped his drink.

  “Can you fill me in on Charley’s fights in the community?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes my dear. I’m sure you’re investigating who did it. I heard you were friends with Lee Weaver, the one the police arrested. I hope if you find anything out, you’ll give me a call. I’m helping you here, and it would be great if the scoop came out in our paper.”

  “You’ll be on my list of people to call.” I didn’t say how far down the list he would be. Most likely right after all the people in the Chicago phone book. Did he really think the news would wait for a weekly paper? Lack of a grasp of reality didn’t seem to be limited to any sexual orientation, either.

  He said, “Well, Snarly Bitch, and everybody loved calling him that, was hated, hated, hated. I’ve never heard a more perfect nickname. Once, I heard someone call him ‘snarly bitch’ to his face. One of the more enjoyable moments of the past party season. It was a vicious fight.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last winter at a big New Year’s Eve party. One of the lovers of one of the workers at the clinic made the crack. Marty Bennet, ex-worker, I might add.”

  I barely remembered Bennet. My memory said he worked as one of the underlings to Ken Wells.

  Awarjak was gushing forth with the story. “Drinks were thrown. Tears were shed. It was the hit party of the winter season. Everybody talked about it for weeks.”

  And this is the world I was getting the gay kids ready to join? Although I knew the drama queens were in the great minority, they sure thought they were in the vast majority. And you were to respect their feeling of superiority. I didn’t give a rat’s ass. I swallowed all this critical claptrap. I wanted information, and I knew a cue when I saw one. I said, “What exactly happened?”

  “Well, Snarly just walked into the party and started attacking people, although not anybody who might be a big donor to the clinic. He attacked under the guise of humor. Picking on people’s outfits, or sneering at older gentlemen who appeared to be with someone significantly younger. Just rude, rude, rude. Marty Bennet’s lover, Spike or Butch or some other hyper-masculine name, responded to Snarly in this deep, deep, deep rumbly voice almost too soft to hear. You know, like the bass on the stereo on high but the volume low.” Awarjak leaned toward me and whispered. “I almost came in my pants just listening to him.”

  “You were that near to them?”

  “As close as I am to you right now. The lover was in this fabulous leather outfit. Had the perfect build for it. So few people who wear leather really wear it well, don’t you think?”

  Scott looks fabulous in leather. I didn’t mention this. I said, “The exact correct fashion can be difficult for the unwary.”

  “You are so right. So in that deep voice, he says, ‘Why do you feel such a need to be so rude to those who are in your employ.’ Snarly just went ballistic. He said, ‘I’m busy. I don’t have time to deal with daily drivel.’ And the leather guy said, ‘Everybody’s busy.’ And Snarly said, ‘My job is more important than everyone else’s.’ And the leather guy said, ‘Not in the larger scheme of the universe, it isn’t.’ Snarly was getting redder and redder in the face. Marty Bennet said, ‘Let’s just leave.’ And the leather guy said, ‘No.’ So Snarly said, ‘I do more good for this community in one day than all the others in this town have since Stonewall.’ And the leather guy said, ‘That doesn’t give you the right to be a rude, egotistical, snarly bitch.’ Well, drinks flew. Snarly threw first. I think half the people at the party wanted to dump their drinks on Snarly. Some were too polite. Some didn’t want to get in the middle of a fight. The few clinic employees in attendance were probably terrified for their jobs.”

  “How did it end up?”

  “Well, Snarly insisted the couple be thrown out. He fired Marty Bennet on the spot. Although I heard he rehired him a few days later. He was mercurial like that. The host got them into separate rooms. Everybody cooled down. Snarly left soon after. Marty and his lover stayed to the bitter end. Trying to prove a point, I suppose.”

  “Any other big fights?”

  “Well, there was all that gay right-wing brouhaha. It was even more delicious, delicious, delicious. The old gay left and the new gay right hate each other. It made great grist for my column. Their spats were guaranteed to make good copy. I could almost always count on one or the other side for some kind of dirt for every issue. Lots of times, I’d get one to make a comment and then trot over to the other. They hate each other personally and passionately.”

  “Anyone specifically?”

  “Anybody who I think might be a suspect? Well, there’s the fella the board had as a ringer investigating the fundraising scandals.”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Everybody knew about that. They had this hot, hot, hot guy volunteer.” If he repeated another word three times, I thought I might rip his tongue out for him myself.

  “Who was he?”

  “Timothy Chong. Very slim. Very smart. He got in and I heard the scandal he discovered was going to rip the roof off the secrets in this community. There wouldn’t be a gay community organization that wasn’t touched.”

  “That sounds a little strong.”

  “We’ll see soon enough. There’s a lot of big money in this town. Gay money. One report I heard was that the clinic was going to be revealed as one of the groups that spent the most on overhead and the least on meeting the needs of the clients.”

  “But a lot of it was Charley Fitch’s own money.”

  “Yes, he did add a lot, but he didn’t have near enough to keep such a large organization going. The renovations a few years ago cost a fortune. He’s got nearly half the block on that side of the street. The mortgage payments on all that properly have got to be immense.”

  “Why not just move to a smaller building in a less expensive suburb?”

  Awarjak said, “Prestige. You want an office in a decent neighborhood in Chicago or be exiled to luxury in Berwyn? Please, Berwyn? There is no luxury in Berwyn. It would be humiliating.”

  I wondered if the people of Berwy
n would agree.

  I asked, “Did you know someone from one of the gay papers was investigating?”

  “No. Which paper? Who?”

  It wasn’t as if the knowledge was going to harm Charley. And telling Awarjak might get him to give me more information. I said, “A guy from the Gay Trib. Evan Smith.”

  Awarjak snorted. “Evan Smith is this young, desperate kid. He’s got more student loan bills to pay from Northwestern than any three other people. He doesn’t strike me as very bright. He was investigating? Did he find out anything?”

  He might be willing to sneer at Evan Smith, but he didn’t want to be scooped by Evan Smith. I said, “He agrees with you. There might have been fraud.”

  “I wasn’t investigating per se, but I snooped as best I could into everything in this community. It was all grist for the mill. If it was delicious gossip, I wanted it. I knew what the board was doing because, Edward, my lover, is also on the board. He got me all kinds of inside information. There was more intrigue with those people than there were official votes to take action.”

  “What about the other gay papers?”

  “The Gay Trib likes to think they’re a real paper. I guess they resemble it more than most of the gay rags in this town, but really, gay papers like that are passé. You can find most important news about gay people in the New York Times now.”

  I didn’t mention that a lot of people probably don’t catch the Times every day. I asked, “What do you know about other right-wing people who hated Snarly?”

  “You mean Billy Karek. Everybody saw the clips of their fight on the news. Karek and him had a history. Did you know they were lovers?”

  “I’d heard a rumor.”

  “They were. It started when Karek was a senior in college at Yale. They met at a Pride parade about ten years ago. It was going to be true love and happiness forever. It was the talk of the gay world at the time.”

  I always kind of wondered how I managed to miss all this vital “talk of the gay world.” Either it was a very, very small world, or I had a real life and they didn’t.