“You live at the shelter?”
Terrence nodded. “Yeah. My mother’s fourth husband and I didn’t exactly get along. He thought he could have his way with me whenever he wanted. I found out how much I could get paid for that shit and ran away.”
Anthony’s situation was different, but he could relate. His mother had needed him too much for running away to have been an option. Her second husband liked to smack her around almost as much as he liked to drink. Anthony remembered how much he’d enjoyed hitting the man, and how once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. His mother had called the police. Charges had been filed. She visited him in jail and told him with tears in her eyes that it was time for him to move on.
The camera shutter clicked. “Penny for your thoughts,” Terrence said, beaming.
“Did you see Daniel on Christmas Eve?” His question hit a chord with the boy.
Terrence’s face fell. “He wanted me to go with him, but I had to stay and watch something on television I’ve seen before. If only I’d gone with him….” Terrence fisted a tear from his eye.
“You can’t change the past, no matter how much what if’ing you do.” Anthony wished he could think of something better to say, but that was all he had. “You take pictures all the time?”
Terrence gaped at Anthony like he’d asked if the grass was green. “Yes. It’s what I do.” He dug through his bag as he talked. “Daniel and I were working on a picture-heavy story of our life on the streets. We’re talking Pulitzer.” He pulled out a stack of five-by-seven photographs. “Want to see?”
Even without Terrence pointing him out, Anthony recognized Daniel in several of the black-and-white pictures, including half a dozen from different angles of Daniel clutching his bangs as he wrote, his brow furrowed with concentration. In another, a shirtless Daniel sat on the bed, stretching—his hair wild from sleep and his mouth open in a wide yawn.
“That’s my favorite picture of him,” Terrence said. “Such a sweetheart.” His expression hardened. “Guys on the streets from tough neighborhoods can take care of themselves. Girly guys like me learn how to fight before we can read.” He looked Anthony in the eye. “I go straight for the balls. Works every time.”
Anthony moved out of range. Prison and his wilder days had taught him that a good first punch could be the difference between victory and defeat. A well-placed kick to the groin at least guaranteed a head start.
“Daniel couldn’t fight to save his life,” Terrence continued. “The other guys walked all over him. He didn’t know how to stick up for himself and was so spoiled he could barely wipe his own ass. Hard to believe two parents could turn on a kid so fast.”
“So you took him under your wing?” Anthony already knew the answer, but he enjoyed talking with Terrence. As long as he wanted to talk, Anthony’d listen.
“Yeah. Somebody had to break him in. Better me than some smelly perv with a boner and ten dollars to spend.”
They flipped through another stack of pictures. These photos captured the boys at work, standing on street corners, leaning against walls or streetlights, leering at passing cars. Terrence had photographed the boys from the previous pictures engaged in conversations with the drivers of at least a dozen different cars.
Anthony picked out one picture of each car he saw in the photographs and held them up to Terrence. “Can you get copies of these for me?”
“For ten dollars you can have them,” Terrence replied. “I’ve got the negatives.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“MATTACHINE SOCIETY?” Beau furrowed his brow. “Never heard of it.” He took the flyer from Philip. “What is it?”
They were sitting on the sofa watching reruns in Beau’s apartment. Philip had waited until the supper dishes were cleaned up to mention the group he’d met at the Lincoln Memorial. “A civil rights organization for men like us.”
Beau paled. “Are you serious?” His tone of voice was enough to make Philip regret having brought up the subject.
He nodded. “Yes. They’re having a meeting tonight at seven. I’d love for you to come with me.”
Beau leaned away from him, horrified. “There’s no way I could ever go to something like that. I’m a teacher, for God’s sake. Why do you think I left you at the Lincoln Memorial? What would happen if anyone at school found out? I’d lose my job and never teach again.”
“Forgive me, Beau, I wasn’t thinking.” He was right, but Philip had never given in to such fears himself. Life was too short. Though he’d never stand on a soapbox and proclaim his sexual preference, he wasn’t ashamed of who he was either. Never had been, and he wasn’t about to start now. “How terrible it must be to live in constant fear.”
Beau nodded. “That’s why I left Georgia. I thought teaching in a big city like Washington would make it easier to keep my private life separate. What about you? Shouldn’t you worry too? Don’t you work for the federal government?”
“I do,” Philip acknowledged. “But I’m fortunate to work for educated men and women with more progressive views on the subject.”
“So they’re breaking the law?” Beau said, his tone condescending and sarcastic.
“Not exactly,” Philip replied, his agitation growing. “Officially, they follow the rules—but they don’t ask a lot of questions. Enforcing the hiring ban would be counterproductive, so the board looks the other way.”
“That could change if you draw a lot of attention to yourself.” Beau placed his hand on Philip’s knee. “Please, let’s not fight about this. I’m only watching out for your best interest.”
Deep blue eyes framed with thick black lashes made Philip think of the ocean. Damn, Beau was handsome, and probably right about the risk. But living in fear wasn’t Philip’s style. The Russians could drop a nuclear bomb on them any day or the world could end. Worrying about things that might never happen took too much time and energy.
Philip was taking a chance, but had decided to live his life like an open book as much as possible. He’d never volunteer that he was homosexual, but were anyone to ask, he wouldn’t lie about it either—though there had been occasions when he’d found it necessary to omit a few details. He had options and could have made other choices, like marrying some poor girl to throw everyone off. Lord knows he wouldn’t be the first to live a double life. Although the idea of living a lie was abhorrent to him, he hadn’t immediately ruled out marriage. He’d discussed such options with his sister, and she’d insisted no good could ever come from lying about the person he was. Philip agreed and, in the intervening years, had never regretted his decision.
“I doubt my employer would ever find out. For that very reason, everyone in the Mattachine Society but Dr. Kameny uses a pseudonym.”
Beau snorted in disgust. “If the work they do is so great, why hide behind fake names?”
For someone who didn’t want to fight, Beau sure was pushing his buttons. Philip pinched his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry I asked. I’d hoped your curiosity as an educator would trump your fears. Clearly, I was wrong.”
“Mark my words,” Beau said, wagging his finger at Philip for emphasis. “Getting involved with this group is a bad idea. Talking to them in public the way you did Sunday was bad enough.” He stood, putting his hands on his hips. “Honestly, what were you thinking?”
Philip decided not to mention yelling at the deranged speaker. He stood so he wouldn’t have to look up at Beau. “I’m glad I stopped, even if you aren’t. Had I not, I never would have met Dr. Kameny and his friends.”
Beau folded his arms across his chest. “And if you ask me, we’d both be a lot better off.”
The condescension in his voice plucked Philip’s last nerve. “So you’re perfectly fine with the federal ban on hiring, sodomy laws, and harassment of homosexuals by law enforcement?” He tried to calm himself.
“No, I’m not fine with it, but I’m not getting involved.”
“Somebody has to get involved or things will never change. If you
don’t want to go, I’ll go by myself.” Philip walked over to the closet to retrieve his coat. “Maybe one day we won’t have to worry about losing our jobs or being harassed by the police.”
Beau’s sneer said more than his words. “Yeah, hard telling what the cops would have done to your apartment that night without the Mattachine Society.”
Philip drew a deep breath as he slid into his coat. He might as well have been talking to the wall. Beau could keep his head buried in the sand if he wanted, but Philip could no longer stand by. This was the cause Mary had told him to find. He had to get involved—do something to make the world a better place for himself and those like him who were yet to be born.
Disbelief appeared on Beau’s face. “So even though I don’t want you to, you’re still going to the meeting?”
Philip couldn’t decide which angered him more, the challenge in Beau’s voice, his unwillingness to fight for what he believed in, or that he thought Philip should do as he wished. He nodded as he straightened the beret on his head and opened the door. “Yes, I believe I will.” Then he turned his back on Beau, stepped into the hall, and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE MATTACHINE Society of Washington met around a dining room table in an apartment on Harvard Street. Frank Kameny, the man with the glasses Philip had met at the Lincoln Memorial, ran the show. Booted from the Army in 1957 because of his homosexuality, he had protested all the way to the Supreme Court. Losing the case had not deterred his quest for equal rights. He’d formed the Mattachine Society of Washington in 1961 after the Los Angeles-based and nationally focused Mattachine Society fell apart.
Philip took in the group seated around the table and was glad he’d worn his best suit rather than the black jeans and sweater he’d also considered. Besides himself and Dr. Kameny—an intense, dark-haired man in his early forties—the impeccably dressed group included several young men and the fedora-topped lesbian. He’d met them Sunday and knew them by the pseudonyms they used. For his own, Philip had chosen Roland Walker.
Dr. Kameny had explained that the society’s name came from a medieval French fraternity of unmarried men who performed rituals and danced wearing masques on the Vernal Equinox during the Feast of Fools. That group had taken the name from a court jester in Italian theater who spoke the truth to the king when nobody else would.
He didn’t know their real names, but Philip was honored to meet men and women who had picketed the White House about federal hiring policies in April, 1965. Since then, they’d carried signs at the Annual Reminder pickets in Philadelphia each year on Independence Day to remind the world that homosexuals lacked basic civil rights. Philip admired their determination and dedication to what appeared to be a rather hopeless cause.
“I’m so glad you came. You’re interested in joining our society?” Dr. Kameny asked.
“I’m impressed by your passion and commitment to homosexual rights, and grateful for everything you’re doing,” Philip said, fidgeting a little in his seat.
“But it’s not for you?” Dr. Kameny laughed.
“I didn’t say that,” Philip replied. His determination to become involved had wavered. He’d expected to see more members than the few he’d met at the Lincoln Memorial. Four gay men and a lesbian hardly seemed sufficient for the task at hand. “Three days ago I didn’t know groups like this existed. Honestly, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Take your time.” Dr. Kameny beamed, patting Philip on the shoulder. “We’re glad you’re here.” The others at the table nodded in agreement and smiled at him. “Was that attractive man who left you at the Lincoln Memorial your lover?”
Philip grimaced. “No, just a friend.” He took a deep breath and scanned the table, glad he’d come. “My lover killed himself… on Christmas Eve.” He paused, acknowledging the condolences and expressions of sympathy. “The police ransacked our apartment and painted ‘faggots’ on our living room wall.”
A chorus of angry exclamations spread around the table. The cofounder of the group, a man who called himself Warren, glanced at Dr. Kameny and back at Philip. “Was an Officer Benjamin Robinson involved? We’ve linked him to similar incidents.”
“I have no idea.” Philip shrugged. “The officer who broke the news of my lover’s death was rude and unprofessional, but I didn’t catch his name.”
“I’d put my money on Robinson,” Warren said. “Was he bald with a big, solid eyebrow you could use for sweeping sidewalks?”
Philip remembered seeing the bald man with the massive eyebrow at the police station when he met with Sergeant White. Was he the same man who had greeted him at his apartment Christmas Eve? “I don’t remember much about that evening.”
“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Kameny said. “Someday homosexuals will serve openly in law enforcement and the armed forces, and incidents like the one you described will be a thing of the past.”
Philip thought about Roland Walker, the speaker at the Lincoln Memorial, and others he knew with intractable views on the subject. Prospects for change were grim, at best. “That’s a beautiful vision.”
“But not one you share?” Dr. Kameny asked.
“Oh, I’d love for your dream to come true. But change of that magnitude? I don’t see it happening. Not in my lifetime anyway. The opposition is too firmly entrenched. You can’t argue with the Bible.”
“Every journey begins with that first step.” Dr. Kameny shrugged. “Would you like to file a complaint about Officer Robinson? I’m happy to help if that’s why you’ve come.”
“Thank you,” Philip said. “But that’s not why I’m here.” He cleared his throat, taking in the expectant faces around him. If this committed and conscientious group wasn’t able to get the police interested in finding the killer, he didn’t know who could. “After the DC police questioned me about the murder of a young man I met while dropping off gifts at the Relief Society Shelter for Wayward Boys on Christmas Eve, hours before his demise, I hired an attorney. His investigator believes someone is killing male prostitutes in the District.” Every eye in the room was focused on him. “Six dead boys have washed up on the banks of the Anacostia River. The police haven’t linked the cases because the bodies were found in different jurisdictions and, given the lack of interest from the victim’s families, they’re not likely to either.”
Dr. Kameny shook his head. “I saw the story about the boy they found after Christmas. I’m not surprised the police show no interest in finding the killer. We’ve been working to change the homophobic culture of the DCPD since the Gayety Buffet raid back in ’63, but progress is slow.”
“According to my sources,” Warren said, “Tripp Clarkson—the man you heard on Sunday—keeps the police stirred up. He and the chief go to church together. Clarkson is a Bible salesman. Judging from his home in Chevy Chase and his big yellow Continental, he does quite well.”
Dr. Kameny nodded his head. “He also provides the names for Washington Post articles about raids and sting operations.”
Philip gasped. “What kind of person would do such a thing? The man is clearly disturbed.”
“Yes,” Dr. Kameny replied, “he is.”
Philip listened with interest as the meeting continued. In addition to legal challenges to the federal ban on hiring, efforts were underway to combat negative perceptions of homosexuals by religious groups and psychiatrists. When Dr. Kameny adjourned the meeting, Philip glanced at his watch and was surprised to see more than an hour had passed since his arrival.
“Thanks, everyone, for coming.” Dr. Kameny stood. “I’d love to linger for our usual post-meeting discussion, but unfortunately, I have another commitment.” Chairs clattered as the rest of the group followed his lead. “Thank you for telling us about the murders. We’ll see what we can do to pique the DCPD’s interest in finding the killer.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ANTHONY VINCENT spent his third night parked near the bus station, slumped down behind the wheel of his Triu
mph Herald, munching on Bugles and watching for the cars he’d seen in Terrence’s pictures. Eight of the twelve showed up the first night he was out. He’d written down the license plate numbers—four with Virginia tags, three from Maryland, and one from DC—but didn’t see the point in questioning a bunch of unhappy men who’d be horrified that someone knew what they’d been up to.
The men turning up so fast made Anthony think cruising the bus station was a regular activity for them—a theory confirmed when six of the eight showed up the next night. He’d like to find out if any of them had seen anything interesting, but he knew they’d clam up or bolt if he tried to talk to them. They couldn’t know their dirty little secret was safe with him. Blackmailing homosexuals wasn’t his game. Threatening to share revealing photographs or letters with the press or an employer could be profitable, but to him the work was repugnant.
Repugnant. He nodded. That’s the kind of word a wealthy, well-respected attorney would use. A guy like Mr. Walker. If he could squeeze repulsive and reluctant into a sentence, he’d be done with his ten vocabulary words for the day.
Three more of the twelve cars from Terrence’s photographs circled the streets around the bus station—two with Virginia plates and a Pontiac with a West Virginia tag. He’d collected the tag information from a dozen other cars cruising the area as well. The drivers looked like professors, bureaucrats, bankers, and the like. Normal guys. Most were probably married and even had children.
Anthony popped a handful of Bugles into his mouth and shook his head. Try as he might, he couldn’t get his head around the whole homosexual thing. The idea of making out and having sex with another man was…. He struggled to find the right word. Then he smiled. Repulsive.
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