by Chris Kenry
“Why?” Ray asked again, leaning against the counter, a confused look on his face.
“I can explain,” he said again.
“Let’s hear it,” Ray said.
“Start talking!” Carey chimed in, shaking her fist menacingly at her newly tied captive.
“Carey,” I scolded, “why don’t you go and get our guest some water or something.” She started to protest, but my glare stopped her and she turned reluctantly toward the kitchen, giving MacNamara’s chair a little kick on her way out. We stared at him, waiting. He cleared his throat.
“You know I’m a reporter?” he said. We nodded.
“Well, what you probably don’t know is that I’m researching a story on your business. I’ve been following you for about two months now, and I’m just about ready to publish.”
I’m sure I went pale because I felt all my blood, indeed all my energy, fall down to my feet.
“I know all about Harden Up, and the food stamps, and the microbusiness program....” He was checking off all of his knowledge on his fingers, which he had easily loosened from their bonds.
“I know about your Web page and advertisements, about the movie you’ve just made, about your relationship, financial and otherwise, with Frank Glory, and I think I know most of your clients, although what’s going on with this last one, I haven’t quite figured out yet. Which is why I was sneaking around the yard.”
Carey came back in and angrily dropped the six-pack of beer she held when she saw that he’d loosened his cord. She pushed his hands back in and was pulling the cords tighter when I told her to stop and set him loose. She looked at me, disappointed, but could see again from the gravity of my expression that she shouldn’t argue and slowly unwound him. He thanked her, but remained seated where he was and continued grinning the same self-satisfied grin.
“But why?” Ray asked again. It was a question that had certainly been exercised that day.
“Why!” he said, surprised that we’d even ask such an obvious question. “Because it’s a great story! A career-defining story. No one’s ever had a story like this in Denver before. It’s got everything: sex, money, welfare, police involvement, the Catholic Church; I could go on and on....”
I slumped down into a chair. Ray was now pacing back and forth.
“How did you find out about us?” he asked, pausing and turning to MacNamara.
“I can’t really say. It was a friendly tip and I promised not to drag him into it.”
“Who was it?” Ray said, his voice deep and low, his eyes locked on MacNamara’s.
“I can’t say, really I can’t.”
Carey then grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled his head back, and moved her face right up next to his.
“You’d better talk, asshole!” she said threateningly. I was beginning to regret the boxed set of Van Damme videos I’d given her last Christmas, when it hit me. I sat up.
“It was Carlyle, wasn’t it?” I said.
He said nothing. Carey brutally twisted her handful of red hair.
“Ow, yes!” he cried. She released him.
“Shit!” said Ray, pacing the room. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Shit, indeed. We each opened a beer, and as we drank them, MacNamara told us all about how Carlyle, whose family owns Tally-Ho, had approached him with the story of a gay prostitution ring. How he had then investigated it and followed us around and discovered the microbusiness connection. How he had rented the space next to ours and poked around some more. He even confessed to breaking into our office and to accessing our computer files.
“Which are quite neat and concise,” he said, nodding over at me.
“Thank you, I guess.” But at that point I hardly felt proud of my professionalism.
He knew we paid taxes, he knew how much we’d grossed last quarter, and he knew I’d been receiving help from, and had cosigned a loan with, Hole.
“This is going to be great!” he said, rubbing his hands together. Carey went up and smacked the side of his head.
“You can’t write about this!” she said angrily. “Our parents will find out! ”
MacNamara chuckled and rubbed his head where it had been smacked. I felt anxious again. I had realized there was a risk of their finding out from the graduation ceremony, and a risk of their finding out from the Denver Business Daily, but this was worse than I could ever have imagined.
“Look,” I said, leaning forward on my chair, figuring I’d try to resuscitate the “family argument” I’d used on Ray earlier in the day at James’s apartment.
“It’s true, my father will crucify me and then burn my body on the cross if you write this story, but forget about me for a minute. If you do go ahead with it, a lot of people are going to get hurt. I mean, the clients are mostly just lonely old men, except for the prick you’re protecting, of course, but their families will be torn apart by this. And then there are the guys I’ve got working: most of them use the money to pay for college, one sends money home to his family in Thailand, one supports his dying lover.... Don’t you see what this is going to do?”
He didn’t even flinch.
“I can’t help that,” he said, very matter-of-fact. “If I don’t write the story Carlyle will just tip off someone else who will, or worse, the police, who are already on your tail anyway.”
Carey gasped, and we were all silent.
“How do you know about the police?” I asked anxiously.
“Like I said, I’ve been following you. I’m not the only one.”
“And you’re sure it’s the police?”
He nodded emphatically.
“We’re going to jail anyway,” Ray said somberly, from where he stood by the fireplace, smoking. Carey looked at me. I swallowed hard and looked at Ray, who was staring down into the empty, black cavern.
I had never thought of jail or getting into any trouble with the police. Oh, I knew somewhere in a rarely visited corner of my mind that it was always a possibility, but I’d had so little trouble from the police in the past year that jail never really occurred to me. Carey booted MacNamara’s shin.
“At least I will, won’t I, MacNamara?” Ray said. “Jack and the other guys will probably get suspended sentences or maybe just community service, since it’s their first offense. Johnny will get deported, but it’s my third time in court, and I don’t think I stand much of a chance, do I, MacNamara?”
“You’ll need a good lawyer,” he conceded, rubbing his leg. We were all silent, lost in our own scenarios. Until then my only worry had been the reaction of my father, but that seemed small and much less important when I looked at Ray, who was more downcast and despondent than I’d ever seen him before. I looked at MacNamara, who wasn’t saying anything, but was still smiling smugly, waiting for one of us to speak up.
Maybe it was because I was feeling so at ease around dead bodies, but the thought of killing him occurred to me then. I knew I’d never be able to do it and that it would only lead to more trouble down the line, but it was, nevertheless, somewhat pleasant to consider. I was so angry and tired and on edge that I could easily imagine strangling him and burying his body in one of the dogs’ numerous holes in the backyard. But when I thought about it, it wasn’t him that I wanted to bury—it was the whole story of the life I’d been leading for the past year. I wanted to cover it up and make it go away, which was confusing because on the one hand I was so proud of all I’d done and accomplished, but on the other hand I was realizing how much it placed me outside of society’s boundaries. In the eyes of the majority I was an outlaw, an outcast; my behavior was outlandish! Not to mention illegal. I’d tried to hide it, tried to disguise it as something other than what it was, but it looked like I couldn’t hide it anymore.
As I sat there staring at MacNamara it was suddenly terribly, horribly, ghastly apparent that the story was going to come out and that there wasn’t a thing any of us could do to stop it.
Or was there ... ?
“Hey, you all look like I
just passed a death sentence,” MacNamara said, standing stiffly and taking center stage. “The article’s going to be written whether you help me or not, but if you help me maybe we can work out some deals about concealing some identities. I mean come on! It’s not that bad! You’re gay! The gay community loves a scandal, worships porn stars! You’ll be mythic figures when all this gets out.”
“Somehow this is not how I envisioned my fifteen minutes,” I said.
“I understand.” He chuckled. “But don’t you see, this can have any spin you want to put on it. Think of the Mayflower Madam or Heidi Fleiss—they made lemons out of lemonade, but they didn’t squeeze their stories for even half of what they were worth. Now, you ... you guys are smart; you could go far! It’s all a matter of marketing, and you’re both obviously talented in that area. I can see you on the talk-show circuit, then maybe a lecture series, and of course you’ll write a book. I’ve got connections. I know the right people. I can help you guys.”
Yes, I thought to myself, connections. And that’s why you’re driving a seventy-five Volvo.
“The more you help me the more I’ll help you.”
“When have you decided the article is coming out?” I asked.
“Well, I’d hoped to have it come out just before your graduation. That way I could get the maximum exposure. I can break the story before the police; that’s the beauty of it! I’d like to have an exclusive on you but you probably won’t do that, will you?”
“Uh, no,” I said. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t think you’ll need one, because this article is never going to make it into print.” He and Ray both looked at me questioningly. I now moved to center stage and pushed him back down into his chair.
“You mentioned that the Carlyle family owns Tally-Ho, did you not?”
MacNamara nodded.
“And it was the younger one who tipped you off to the story?”
Another nod.
“How much is he paying you?” I asked. MacNamara said nothing. “That’s it, isn’t it? He is paying you. He’s paying the rent on your office. He’s financed a little ‘sabbatical’ for you so you can write your little ‘novel,’ hasn’t he?”
MacNamara smiled but said nothing. Carey grabbed his hair again and yanked his head back.
“Ooww!” he cried. “Yes! He’s paying me. So what! He’s my employer!” I walked over next to him and leaned my face down next to his.
“Which brings us to the question of why?” I motioned for Carey to release her grasp. She did so and he again rubbed his head. I continued.
“In the course of all your investigating and poking around did it never occur to you to investigate the reason for his dropping the story in your lap? I mean, it does seem strange, don’t you think, for him to suddenly become so interested in one of the family businesses?”
Ray was smiling, albeit nervously. MacNamara looked confused, but was listening very closely.
“The fact is,” I said, moving next to Ray by the fireplace, “we are in possession of a very incriminating videotape in which Mr. Carlyle the third has a starring role. A videotape he evidently did not mention to you. A videotape that you obviously did not find in your frequent forays into our office. A videotape that we will be forced to release copies of to Carlyle Senior, and to the media, if you persist in pursuing our story.”
MacNamara’s brow was arched, but I saw that he suspected I was bluffing.
“Ahh, you don’t believe me? Well, why don’t we take a little trip back to the office and I’ll show you,” I said, gesturing to the door. “I think you’d find it most interesting.”
And so, minutes later, we had all piled into our respective vehicles and were speeding toward the office.
“Do you think it will work?” Ray asked. I shrugged my shoulders. I really had no idea.
“It’s pretty risky,” he said. “We’re already in a lot of trouble, but this is blackmail.” I nodded but said nothing and continued driving. I knew it was a gamble, but I was betting that MacNamara was more financially mixed up with Carlyle than he’d let on.
Half an hour later, we were all seated in a row on the edge of the double bed in room three, intently watching Carlyle snort and batter and rape on the small screen before us. Two-thirds of the way through, MacNamara asked us to stop it. I pushed the pause button.
“This puts a different spin on things, doesn’t it?” He was clearly affected and stood up somberly, staring at the images frozen on the screen.
“I think the Carlyles might be reluctant to have this story printed in one of their papers,” I said. He said nothing, but his jaw tightened and I could tell he was angry. Then he smiled at the three of us sitting on the bed, bowed his head slightly, and reached for the door handle.
“I wasn’t kidding about the police,” he said. “They have been poking around. Carlyle tipped off the INS about your kid from Thailand.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, and meant it. He opened the door, but then paused and took his wallet from his back pocket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to me.
“Call me if you change your mind. Maybe we could work something out. I really could help you. If not in Tally-Ho then in one of the other papers.”
I took the card and gave him a cold smile. He turned and walked dejectedly down the hall. I almost felt sorry for him. Had I not been so preoccupied with his revelation that the police were closing in, I probably would have felt sorry for him. But sympathy was not something I could afford to expend just then, as I was stockpiling it all for myself.
I was exhausted, and as Ray and Carey and I lay talking on the bed I could feel the adrenaline that had fueled the day ebbing away. The conversation slowed and we were all falling asleep. Carey stuck her feet up in the air and swung herself up and off the bed.
“Well, kids, it’s been fun, but I’ve got class first thing tomorrow and I’d better go back and let the beasts in for the night.”
Ray and I got up reluctantly and shut off the lights. We grumbled weary good-byes to Carey in the parking lot, and then Ray and I drove the hearse back to his house, where we both agreed that we were too tired to even speculate on our next move. I was, as they say, asleep before my head hit the pillow, and I’m sure I slept almost as soundly as our friend on Mountain Lion Drive.
The next morning I was awakened by the sound of my cell phone ringing. I thought maybe it was James or Marvin so I quickly fished through the pocket of my jacket for the phone and clicked it on.
“Hello.”
“Yes, Jack Thompson, please.”
“This is Jack.”
“Jack, Noah Bernstein here. Hope I’m not calling too early.”
“No, no, not at all.” I sat up quickly, nudging Ray awake.
“I got your message yesterday, but I didn’t really have time to get back to you.”
“About the mix-up with the tape—”
“Yeess ... The mix-up. But I don’t think there was any mix-up,” he said somewhat arrogantly. “I asked for the tape you and the other students collaborated on and I see from the credits listed at the end of—what’s it called? Oh, yes, I see from the credits of Missionary Positions that Mr. Varga was, in fact, in charge of all the cinematography and editing. Although I must say that as an exercise video it is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
I said nothing, could think of nothing to say, but fell back on the bed and held the phone so that Ray could hear, too.
“I’m intrigued,” he continued, “and I wonder about the real nature of your business. A business that has been subsidized by our state tax dollars. Would you care to comment on that?”
“Uh, no. Not at this time.”
“Uh-huh. I’m also intrigued by the family connections,” he continued. “You are the son of Steen Thompson, of Thompson Communications, are you not?”
I rubbed my eyes, hoping this was a bad dream from which I’d soon wake up.
“I had the pleasure of meeting your father some months ago when we d
id a profile of his business for the paper, but I didn’t make the connection between you two until I saw your name on the movie’s list of credits. Now, of course, I’m no authority on the subject, but don’t most people who star in movies of this sort use an alias? A stage name?”
“It’s n-n-not what you think....”
“Oh, no? I’m certainly eager to hear any explanations you might have to offer.”
“Well ...” I began, but didn’t finish, as I could not think of anything even remotely believable to say. There was a long, expectant silence.
“Then let’s review what we do know,” he said. “We know that you come from a fairly wealthy family, and yet you were receiving public assistance, is that right?”
“That doesn’t mean I have money! Look, I can explain....”
“Uh-huh.” He chuckled. “That might be worth hearing.” I heard some pages flipping on his end and knew he was flipping through his Day-Timer. “Why don’t we meet this afternoon, say, two o’clock, my office?”
“Uh, sure,” I said timidly.
“Good. I look forward to seeing you. Tell the receptionist who you are and she’ll bring you up.”
Click.
I pushed the disconnect button, extended my arm over the side of the bed, and dropped the phone to the floor.
We both stared up at the ceiling, our despair filling the room like a poisonous gas.
“There’s always Mexico,” Ray said, and for the next half hour we stayed in that position and discussed several fantasy solutions—flight, murder, ritual suicide—but what we finally decided on was something quite different. We called MacNamara.
When he arrived at the office an hour later we led him next door to his barren office, so as not to be overheard by Josh, and recounted the phone conversation with Bernstein. His reaction was a mix of elation and agitation.
“I knew someone else would pick up on it!” he said, pacing the room and cracking his knuckles one by one. “But he’s only just found out, right?”