The door opened. A cold breeze made its way inside. I looked back. A tall figure stood, ramrod straight with a buzz cut. Revere. I scooted past the trash-talking cops and said, “You made it.”
He surveyed the scene and walked to the bar. “What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Laphroaig.”
He rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Your sainted Irish ancestors know you’re drinking Scotch whiskey, you wretched heathen?”
“They weren’t purists when it came to alcohol,” I said.
Revere ordered a Hooker Irish Red. While Nate worked the tap, Revere said, “So. Christopher Warren. What set you onto him?”
“He lied on the golf course. Said he saw a flashlight no one else saw. And every time I ran into him, he brought it up. Once he registered as fishy, I noticed his sneakers. From there, it was just a matter of forensics.”
He accepted his beer from Nate and set bills on the counter. “Drink’s on me,” he said. He raised his glass and said, “Sláinte.” I repeated it.
A roar went up from the crowd. We looked over. “Ha!” Wright yelled. “Take that, youngster.” He threw his hands into the air.
“Looks like Wright beat Billy,” I said.
“No surprise there,” Revere said.
“So, how are things at the Eastern?” I asked.
“Same old, same old. There’s rumblings that the acting head might not get the permanent appointment.” He rubbed his nose. “Politics. It’s all bullshit.”
Finnegan and Wright came over. “There he is!” Wright said. “Our favorite turncoat.”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” I said. “Detective Revere is an invited guest.”
“Invited to celebrate our solving a murder that stumped the staties!” Finnegan said.
“Hello, Wright. Hello, Wrong. So gracious in victory,” Revere said. “I’d expect nothing less. Or more.” Wright and Wrong. Not bad, for nicknames. Right up there with Wright and White.
Billy wandered over, a little off-keel.
Revere said, “Well, Chief, I got to hand it to you. You guys did all right.”
Billy interjected, “You’re a good detective, Chief.” He pointed. His finger made circles as he rocked on his feet. He probably thought he stood perfectly still.
“You okay, Hoops?” Finnegan asked, one hand out, ready to prop if needed.
Billy waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “Fine. Fine. This guy.” He stabbed his finger at me. “This guy solved the murder. And now that little shit who killed Cecilia can spend years in prison getting fucked in the ass.” Revere winced. “Serves the little homo right.”
“Billy,” I said, “I’ve told you. Chris Warren’s not gay. He’s a sexual sadist. He had girlfriends. And by all accounts, he abused them too.” Now that Chris was behind bars, lots of people felt free to share their feelings about him. And they weren’t that he was so quiet and polite that they never saw it coming.
“Pervert,” Billy said. He swayed. Finnegan stepped closer. “Never convince me he’s not gay.”
“Billy, it’s done,” I said. “Enough with the gay slurs. Why don’t you go ask Nate for some water?”
He belched softly. Covered his mouth. “’Scuse me.” Then he frowned and said, “When did you become such a faggot friend, Chief?” He giggled.
He was drunk. He’d had too many beers. He wouldn’t remember half of what he said when he awoke tomorrow with sore eyes and a heavy skull. It would be so easy to say nothing. To let it go. But I’d been letting go of these things for years. And look what damage it had done. I’d resolved to stop running. Maybe now it was time to stop hiding.
“Hey, Billy.” I tugged on his shirtsleeve.
“Yeah?” He smiled, his teeth large and bright. A happy drunk now, all his animosity forgotten.
“I’m gay,” I said.
“What?” He reeled backward.
I pulled at his shirt. “I’m gay. A butt pirate. A faggot. Queer. Ass bandit. That’s me.” I jerked my thumb toward my chest. A trail of sweat ran down my back, caught on the storm-predicting vertebrae.
He tugged away from my grasp. Looked to the others for help. Finnegan and Wright stood, wide-eyed and silent. Revere watched, a smile at his lips. He knew. Or had known. From his friends in New York? Maybe. Or maybe he was just a good detective.
Billy shook his head. Licked his lips and said, “Nah, you’re playing with me.” He wagged his finger. “Can’t be true.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“’Cause.” He hiccupped. “Because.”
“Because I don’t fit the profile?” I shook my head. “You’re such a rookie.” A tremor started in my hands. I flexed my fingers. I’d done it.
“How about that water?” Wright asked, jerking his thumb toward the bar.
“I don’t—” Billy said, but he followed Wright.
Finnegan said, “Excuse me,” and headed for the cops.
My eyes followed Finnegan. He leaned into Hopkins and whispered something. Hopkins looked at me, then away. I looked around Suds. The cops, clinking bottles together. Billy and Wright, heads close, talking. Donna at the bar, listening to them, her eyes the size of coasters.
“Maybe I should go,” I said. I could start rehabbing my bathroom. I’d been reading those old Time Life series books on home improvement. Maybe I could see about replacing those pink and black tiles.
The door opened. And in walked Dr. Saunders, his hair disheveled by wind. He spotted me and waved.
“Oh, I think you should stay,” Revere said. He clapped his meaty hand on my shoulder. It felt like an anchor. “Definitely stay.”
This book owes much to many.
My Novel Incubator group midwifed the heck out of this book. My amazing instructors, Lisa Borders and Michelle Hoover, helped me revise and market this work, and I am so grateful for their efforts. My fellow students: Lisa Birk, Carol Gray, Michael Nolan, Patty Park, Hesse Phillips, Elizabeth Chiles Shelburne, Ashley Stone, Mandy Syers, and Gerald B. Whelan—thank you for inspiring and encouraging me. I can’t wait to hold your books in my hands!
To Grub Street, for challenging me with every class, workshop, and event I’ve attended. I’m lucky to be part of such a wonderful writing community.
To everyone at MIT who has made my day job a pleasure and who has encouraged my “other” job, especially those in Computing Culture, High-Low Tech, Lifelong Kindergarten, and the Finance group at the Media Lab.
To my agent, Ann Collette, for loving Thomas Lynch as much as I do, and for gambling on both of us.
To my editor, Dan Mayer, for giving me the hard truth (you should get rid of the ghost) and for providing so many smart, insightful suggestions.
To my friends who are a delight and are always understanding when I go off the map to write: Karen Brennan, Maggie deLong, Jeff Hawson, and Tracey Schmidt.
To Sayamindu Dasgupta for taking a very good picture of me.
To my family, especially my parents, who always encouraged me to write. And to Grandma Gayle, who once sassed back with, “Well, my granddaughter wrote a book!”
And to Todd, for living with me and my characters every single day.
Stephanie Gayle is the author of My Summer of Southern Discomfort. She’s twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for her short fiction, which has appeared in Kenyon Review Online, Potomac Review, and Minnetonka Review, and elsewhere. She co-created the popular Boston reading series Craft on Draft. When not writing, she is often playing board games. Her Settlers of Catan skills are exquisite.
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Idyll Threats Page 27