Sorry Now?

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Half the do-good groups in the city had discovered the benefit of having fund-raisers while cruising on Lake Michigan.

  Turner took a gulp of beer and continued, “You, my son, and Mrs. Talucci all want me to get married.”

  “Who did your son notice?”

  “A guy at the local auto-parts store.”

  “How butch!”

  “I’m only going tomorrow night because it’s a good cause.”

  John switched the TV over the bar to the nine o’clock news. They watched the lead item, various reports on the death of Christina Mucklewrath with extensive coverage of the reverend’s speech at Soldier Field.

  “Bastard,” Ian said. He tipped his beer stein upside down so John would see he needed more. Paul still nursed his first one. “You know,” Ian said, “he isn’t the only antigay bastard who’s gotten it lately.”

  Paul raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “You heard what happened at the dinner for Veronica Balushka.”

  “A lot of people got sick, something like that?”

  “That’s how the Sun-Times and Tribune reported it, but as an ace star reporter, I know what really happened, just as I know anything and everything there is to know about the gay community in Chicago.”

  Turner ignored the boast and asked, “Are we talking murder here?”

  “Nothing that dramatic. There was a brief item alluding to it in the gay papers. Did you see it?”

  “No. I rarely pick up the gay papers. I’ve barely got the time to look at any newspaper. Plus you don’t deliver.”

  Ian sighed. “I write brilliant news stories, witty columns, biting editorials, and wickedly funny movie reviews and you never see them.”

  “Did you want to tell me about Miss America or not?”

  Ian said, “You remember the woman? Young, beautiful, curvaceous?”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “I suppose so. You did hear she resigned?”

  “Yeah, the guys talked about it. Like Vanessa What’s-Her-Name years ago.”

  “Right.” The current Miss America, Veronica Balushka, had started a series of speaking tours in which she attacked gay people. The controllers of the pageant, wishing to keep their winner nonpolitical, insisted she stop. She wouldn’t. She’d denounced them as closeted gays. Either voluntarily or having been forced to do so, she’d resigned a month ago and then began her latest tour, at times outdrawing the Reverend Mucklewrath. “Like you said, the newspapers reported that a lot of people got sick at a fund-raising dinner she hosted. I happen to know that people didn’t ‘get sick.’” Ian laughed. “They all got the runs.”

  “Huh?” Paul said.

  “Diarrhea. The shits,” Ian said.

  “I didn’t need a more graphic explanation. What I meant was, How does this connect with being antigay?”

  “Rumor had it FUCK-EM was involved,” Ian said.

  FUCK-EM was a radical gay organization, fed up with the inability of other gay groups to change the world quickly enough to suit them. Turner knew they had a branch in Chicago. He also knew the acronym stood for nothing except the group’s “in your face” attitude.

  Ian took a swallow of his recently refilled beer and continued. “I tracked down the rumor to my usually impeccable sources. I can’t prove it, but I’m sure it wasn’t the food they served that caused the problem. I think one of the members of FUCK-EM got into the kitchen and put something into the food and gave them all the runs.” Ian laughed.

  “You didn’t put that in the paper,” Paul said.

  “Nope. Couldn’t prove it. It happened out in one of the suburbs—Schaumburg, I think. You should call the cops out there. See what they say.”

  “I can’t imagine there being a connection,” Turner said. “Or are you trying to say there’s an international gay organization called the Queer Avengers, righting wrongs, protecting the weak, and doing good?”

  “Make fun. It was exceptionally well planned. Only a limited number of people had access to the kitchen. No one claimed to see anything unusual. They haven’t got a clue, certainly not a suspect.”

  “Normally, murderers—or any type of serial killers—don’t branch out to other crimes. Some kind of pattern develops. There’s no connecting method here,” Turner said. “Besides, she must have lots of other enemies. We aren’t the only ones who get singled out for attack by ignorant bigots.”

  “Do you have any clues in this one?” Ian asked.

  “Right now it’s the usual routine police work. Nothing promising at the moment.”

  They ordered another round of beers.

  Paul tiptoed into Jeff’s bedroom. It was after one. Brian had picked Jeff up from Mrs. Talucci’s when he got home, as Paul knew he would. He felt very lucky to have a son like Brian who cared so much for his less-able brother.

  Paul Turner had the normal anxieties any parent would about his teenage son. Did he try drugs? Would he be able to resist the peer pressure to do stupid things? Would he get drunk one night and end up smashed to pieces on an expressway. Was he trying sex? Was he being careful?

  Paul remembered the conversation he’d had with Brian about condoms two years ago. Brian had been fairly amused, had simply told his dad he knew what they were and knew where to get them, if and when he ever needed them.

  Paul stayed out of his son’s bedroom. He didn’t want to know if there were porno magazines stashed in the bottom of the closet or condoms in the dresser drawer. When guests visited, he closed the door.

  Jeff lay in bed peacefully, light from the street below drifted through the boy’s window. From it Paul could see the scar revealed by the covers gathered below his son’s back. He sighed wistfully. He’d never gotten over the stage of knowing if he had all the magic power in the universe, the first thing he would do was touch his son’s back and cure him. He thought of Christina and then imagined anyone trying to hurt either of his sons. He knew he’d never let that happen. He sat on Jeff’s bed. With the back of his hand, he caressed the soft skin of his sleeping son’s face.

  FOUR

  Saturday morning Paul Turner woke up to the sound of his older son talking to a friend on the phone. He heard him laugh raucously and then lower his voice. Turner felt no breeze as he glanced out the window. None of the leaves on the old oaks moved the slightest. The heat of another cloyingly humid day surrounded him. One of these years he wanted to air-condition his place. He took a shower and dressed in faded jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt with the University of Illinois Chicago campus logo on the front.

  He wanted to get the morning chores done as quickly as possible. He had agreed to meet Fenwick at one to requestion the reverend and try to pick up any details on the case. He might even give the Kankakee and the Schaumburg police a call to check on what Ian had told him the night before. First he had domestic chores to attend to.

  He started a load of wash, supervised Brian as the trash got taken out, refereed a brief argument between the boys—Jeff wanted to wear one of Brian’s rock-group T-shirts. Vacuuming, floor scrubbing, bathroom cleaning all got done amid various grumblings, not all of which came from the two younger members of the household.

  Tranquillity finally reigning in the house, he and Brian walked out to the garage. Paul had helped Brian buy an old car. Brian had insisted on a used Trans Am, even though Paul had told him they’d spend most of their time fixing it. In the six months since they had bought it, they had spent most Saturday mornings in the garage fixing it or taking it to the local mechanic so he could work on it. Early on Paul had installed a heater in the garage so they could work on it through the winter. He guessed that if you totaled up the amount of time the car had run without a problem, it would probably add up to less than a full week.

  An hour into the work Paul squirmed out from under the car, followed by his grease-encrusted son. “We’ve tried everything else. It’s got to be the starter switch,” Turner said.

  Brian nodded. “Can we get it today? Can we get it put in before
you have to go to work?”

  “I don’t remember saying you could use the car tonight.”

  “Dad, this is too important to tease about. Let’s go to Vargas’s now.” He nudged his dad. “You’ll get a chance to talk to Ben.”

  “Talking to Ben and him talking to me does not mean he is gay and wants a date.”

  “Dad, I know how he looks at you. Even I know he’s interested.”

  Paul shot out a hand to grab his son. Brian wasn’t quick enough to dodge away. They wrestled briefly, grinning at each other.

  Finally Brian slipped away. Turner panted slightly, eyeing his son askance. “You’re getting too big to wrestle with, and how come you know so much about who I need to date?”

  “One, you’re getting old, and two, I go on dates and you don’t. It works pretty much the same with girls, Dad.”

  Paul smiled at his son. “I guess I remember.”

  “That was so long ago,” Brian said.

  “You want the car fixed or not?” Paul said.

  Paul had told Brian about his sexual orientation when the boy was eight years old. He didn’t think Brian understood it completely then, but he was glad he had told him at that age. Early on he’d been able to resolve questions and confusions about a father who was different, and Paul’s openness and honesty over this issue led the two of them to develop a closer relationship than most fathers and sons. He had told Jeff last year, and so far the results had been the same.

  They walked the half block to Vargas’s Auto Parts Store. The Saturday-morning crowd milled around the pumps in front, the service bays in back, and the parts counter in the middle. Ben Vargas smiled when he saw them, finished with a customer, and came over to talk.

  Turner observed more closely than usual Vargas’s body and mannerisms. They’d gone through grade school and high school together. He knew Ben had gone away to college and he’d heard he was living in California. His boyhood friend had returned several months ago, when old Mr. Vargas retired and left the business to his son.

  Ben stood an inch or two taller than Paul. He wouldn’t be called handsome, but some might call him rugged. His hair hung a trifle longer than was usual in the neighborhood. His white shirt clung to broad shoulders and tapered into a pair of faded jeans that Paul admitted he noticed every time he came in. He looked up from the crotch of them now and saw Ben’s eyes on his.

  They discussed auto parts, Brian’s foolishness in buying the Trans Am, old Mr. Vargas, now living in Florida; all while Ben let his help wait on other customers. They promised to get together for a cup of coffee at some indeterminate time in the future. They made almost the same promise to each other every time they spoke.

  At one that afternoon Turner made his way through the building humidity and ninety-degree temperature. Wilmer and his stench did not greet him at the station door. Maybe he took Saturdays off, Turner thought, though Wilmer always seemed to be around.

  First he called Sam Franklin in the crime lab. Sam said, “They used a .38 double-action revolver with a silencer on the end. Standard-issue cop gun in this city, except for the last part. Took us three hours to find the bullet in the sand. Lucky it was in one piece. Not much else to tell you. Almost seems like a mob execution.” They talked a while longer, but Franklin had little other information. Turner thanked him and hung up.

  He called California to ask about Jason Thurmond. He tried the sergeant he talked to the day before, but Sergeant Dooley was not available. It took fifteen minutes’ worth of transfers to get her home phone number. He had to repeat his name, rank, and reason for calling three times. He suspected that in that time someone called Chicago to check on his validity.

  He called her home and the line was busy.

  Fenwick came in as he finished the call. They forced their way through the humidity to the car and drove to the Oak Street Arms. They ran into an ethnic parade moving down Michigan Avenue. Even with the police trying to smooth their way through the streets it took twenty minutes for a five-minute trip.

  Sweat drenched both of them as they entered the air-conditioned bliss of the hotel. Upstairs, Donald Mucklewrath said, “What do you want to see my father about?”

  “We’ll tell him that,” Fenwick said.

  “You’ll tell me.” The son stood between them and further access to the suite.

  Turner sighed. Fenwick was good at this sort of thing. He mixed the right amount of menace and innocence as he said, “Fine, we’ll get warrants, arrest you and the reverend as material witnesses, and talk to both of you down at the station. I’m sure we could notify the press on our way.”

  Johnson walked in at that moment carrying a sheaf of papers. Turner noted Johnson’s ashen look, and the fact that the papers shook in hands that trembled.

  Turner told him they needed to see the reverend.

  Johnson’s voice didn’t rise above a whisper, “He’s free.”

  “What’s going on?” Donald asked.

  “I told him the truth,” Johnson said.

  “About what?” the thirty-five-year-old son asked.

  “Everything,” Johnson said.

  “Which way?” Fenwick asked Johnson.

  The older man nodded toward a doorway on the left, from which he’d emerged moments earlier.

  Donald followed Fenwick and Turner. In the room the Reverend Mucklewrath knelt at the side of his bed, his elbows resting on the coverlet. Mucklewrath wore a severe black suit and a tie to match. He gazed up at the three of them. Finally, his Old Testament visage fixed on Turner.

  Turner said, “Reverend.”

  The man responded by rising slowly to his feet. Instead of turning to the police he pointed a gnarled finger at his son. “Get out.” Turner thought he sounded like Charlton Heston doing his best God imitation.

  Donald Mucklewrath said, “What’s going on, Dad?”

  “You knew, didn’t you?” the reverend said. “Don’t try to deny it. Johnson has told me all about himself, what you knew, and what you yourself are guilty of. Now, get out. I will deal with you later.”

  Donald swayed back and forth as if he might faint, opened and closed his mouth as if trying to speak.

  Mrs. Mucklewrath hurried into the room. “I just talked to Johnson.” She spotted the police and abruptly stopped speaking. She eyed them all coldly.

  The reverend said to his wife, “I need to talk to Donald at a more appropriate time. Could you?”

  She marched over to Donald and said to him in what Turner thought was a surprisingly gentle voice, “Come with me, please, Donald.” They left.

  Mucklewrath walked slowly to a cushioned chair next to the window. Fenwick and Turner followed him and sat on a small couch.

  Turner watched his face carefully. He saw furrowed lines around the mouth, and eyes, red spots on the high cheekbones, and a gleam of sweat on the upper lip. The man breathed deeply for several minutes. He stared out the window toward the high-rise next door and spoke without turning to them.

  “Yesterday morning I knew God was with me. He’d granted me all the happiness he could give to a human. A beautiful family, a loving wife, a calling that I find deeply satisfying, an organization committed to God’s work.”

  He reached out and tapped the glass with his knuckles. “The Lord is testing me. I shouldn’t wonder ‘Why me?’ He tests us all according to our ability to bear the weight of the world.”

  Turner asked, “Reverend Mucklewrath, where did you go late Thursday night and early Friday morning?”

  Mucklewrath still didn’t look at them. He said, “I have no need to answer that question. It has nothing to do with what happened to”—he paused, then finished—“to Chistina.”

  “We need to know, Reverend,” Fenwick said.

  “You think you do, but you don’t,” the minister said. He turned to them with a wan smile on his face. “I’m going to tell you a little story.” He held up a hand to forestall any protests they might make. “In telling the story all of your questions will be answered.�
��

  He moved his chair so it faced the two of them. Backlit by the window light, his face in shade, the reverend placed his hands palm up on his legs and began to speak in a low voice.

  “I imagine you think I’m a fraud like all these other television preachers. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I have no mistresses, no extramarital affairs. I have no involvement in drugs. The books of all my organizations are open to anyone’s inspection. I’m different from all the other preachers. I believe, and I am not out to cheat those who believe. I do not live in a palace.

  “Many of my fellow preachers hate me for my honesty and openness. Many are jealous of my success. Some have been trying to be elected to political office or to influence the process of legislation the way I have. They all failed. I have succeeded. Jealousy is an ugly thing.

  “I have flaws. I trust the people around me to a fault. I believe as God has chosen me, so has he chosen them. I should pay more attention to those around me.

  “That Dr. Johnson consorted with women not his wife distresses me. It seems my son conspired with him and even at times paid for the services of women. Beyond this, I now know my son used his position in the organization to extort enormous sums of money from people who believed in me. You can ask him later. It seems many people were willing to pay him because they thought he could influence me. None of this money went through my organization. You will need to check his personal accounts.”

  “You see how honest I’m being? My own son a liar and cheat. Perhaps he didn’t do something strictly illegal, but what he did was morally reprehensible. I’m afraid he may have done more that Johnson didn’t know about.

  “I have other flaws. One of them is that I don’t sleep well at night, especially when on a speaking tour. The Lord speaks to me at those times. I awake, dress, and leave. I thought my movements a secret. I was wrong. I go to the missions we have set up in each city for the poor and homeless. I go there to the tiny chapels that we build in each shelter. I go there and I pray. Afterward I help out as best I can. I also talk to the faithful on duty. I speak with those who, like myself, cannot sleep and have come to us for serenity. One time I delivered a baby. Sometimes I help wash up the dishes, pots, and pans from the suppers we give. I’ve done lice-infested laundry. I sweep. I do whatever needs to be done.”