by David Stukas
“Yes, that might be a good idea. Actually, why don’t you call Detective McMillan and see if he can tell you anything that might help us.”
Monette left, and as I began to put things right, I called McMillan and tried to get something out of him. He answered on his cell phone.
“Robert, good to hear from you. Yes, after questioning Chet, it seems that he’s scared shitless about his wife finding out about his dealings with Cody. Not only does he have a hostile partner who’s trying to take over the import business he runs, but get this: His wife threatened to divorce him if she finds out he’s been having sex behind her back again.”
“Again? You mean he’s done this before?”
“Over and over again, apparently.”
I thought about Monette’s question for Michael to research: Does Chet have anonymous sex in public places? Touché, Monette. I then thought of a question on my own.
“So far as we know, the only person who paid off Eric Bogert was John Bekkman, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he showed me his bank statement. Plus, we got a court order and examined Eric’s bank statements as well. There’s a withdrawal from Mr. Bekkman’s for forty thousand dollars and a deposit the next day in Eric’s for the same amount.”
Another thought sprang to my mind.
“But wasn’t that rather stupid of Eric? I mean, depositing the money, that I assume was in cash. It leaves a paper trail.”
“Robert, in all my years on the force, I have seen very few criminals that were really cunning. The really smart ones never get caught. But the bulk of them haven’t made good plans, or they slip up somewhere along the line and do something stupid. Some are just plain dumb. Eric was no mastermind.”
“I gathered that.”
“Robert, I have something to ask you,” McMillan said. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. From the poignant, soft sound in his voice, I could tell what it was going to be.
“Robert, would you go out on a date with me tonight?”
Even though I had anticipated his question, I was still shocked. Shocked that someone else was interested in me, and shocked that McMillan was still pursuing me even though he knew that I already had a boyfriend, albeit a long-distance one.
“Um, gosh. I, I ...” I stammered, trying to think fast. Did I want to jeopardize my present relationship with one of the best men I have ever met in order to perhaps have some fun? The funny thing was, I wasn’t bowled over by McMillan. I began to suspect that my fascination in him was that he seemed fascinated with me. It was a new feeling and I liked it. Perhaps, besides the sex, this was what really lit Michael’s fire—the knowledge that someone wanted him, if however short the duration.
“On one condition,” I relented.
“Whatever you want, Robert.”
“That we keep this strictly a date and no hot-and-heavy. Not right now.”
“You got a deal.”
I wish he hadn’t put it quite like that. My guilt was already having me feel like a two-timing whore. But hadn’t Marc told me to go out and explore, to live, as Auntie Mame said in the movie? The problem was, he didn’t exactly say how far I should explore. But I put it down to the fact that, by nature, men were beasts, the operative word being beasts. I just wanted to explore my sadly underex-plored beast side.
“I’ll pick you up at Michael’s at eight o’clock.”
I hung up and decided not to call Marc on this one. Already, I was traveling down the road to perdition. No, I think I was skipping.
I told Monette what had happened—or was going to happen—with McMillan, and she took the only position that a good friend could take under the circumstances: as neutral as Switzerland.
“I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, Robert,” she said.
“But that’s what I’m afraid of, Monette. The right thing would be to stay home and watch reruns of Ab Fab while even people in Bangladesh go out and have a good time. But I’m tired of always doing the right thing. Look where it’s gotten me.”
“I think you just told yourself what to do—you’re just not listening.”
“You mean that you think I should go out?”
“No, not what I think you should do ... but what you want to do. You know what your heart is telling you to do.”
“It’s not my heart that I’m worrying about. I’m confused whether I’m listening to my heart or whether my penis is doing all the talking.”
“So what if you listen to your penis once in a while? You’re only human.”
“Do you ever listen to your vagina, Monette?”
“Yes, all the time, Robert.”
“And what does it say?”
“It says for me to get a date because if there isn’t some action down there soon, my parts will freeze up from lack of use.”
“So if I go out on this date, you won’t think of me as an amoralistic whore?”
“Listen, you will never become a whore, amoralistic or otherwise—it’s not in you.”
“So what’s on your plate tonight, Monette?”
“I’m going to go through the CD of photos tonight, watch reruns of Ab Fab, then go to bed.”
“I think I’ve just made up my mind about tonight.”
“Go, have a good time,” Monette said, blessing me in the process. “Just remember that asking to wear his handcuffs on the first date is considered a little forward.”
19
I’m Getting Closer, I Can Feel It
That night, the amoralistic whore went two-timing and had a great time. We had dinner, then went for drinks at a jazz club. We talked the whole night about everything except murders, bodybuilders, and photo CDs.
When the time came to say good night and he pulled up in front of Michael’s building, there was that inevitable, uncomfortable moment where the two of us stared through the windshield and into space, waiting for one of us to make the first move. McMillan, as I expected, made it.
As tenderly as an infant surgeon, he held my chin in his hand and slowly turned my head to face his. He closed his eyes and pulled my lips toward his, violating our earlier agreement to keep the night platonic. I felt trapped, enjoying the carnal spark that ignited between us, but at the same time felt that I was being disloyal and dishonest to Marc. What to do, what to do?
Just as his lips met mine, I farted.
Not a tiny squeaker fart with a slow release in a high-pitched whine that continues higher until it runs out of steam or floats higher than human ears can detect. No, this was a huge, loud, voluminous fart, a B-R-A-A-A-T of a fart that almost shattered the windows of the car, or at least required that they be opened for a few minutes. Freud would have said I did it purposely, to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Maybe I did, but to this very day (where it still haunts me), I maintain that the romantic gravity of the situation made me hold my breath and the lentil soup consumed hours before at dinner did the rest.
The night ended with a few chuckles, followed by a hug and a smile. Luke drove off (with the windows still open) slowly into the night. I had remained true to Marc—for now.
When I got to the apartment, Michael wasn’t there, which didn’t surprise me. Since he had run through most of the men in Manhattan (and several other acceptable boroughs of New York), weekends provided an influx of new meat on which Michael could pounce—and pounce he did like Winona Ryder on an unguarded exit door in a Saks Fifth Avenue dress department.
With the apartment all to myself, I had a good long soak in Michael’s spa then went to bed.
I dreamed of Africa, the Spanish Inquisition being conducted by mice, then of a ski-masked man holding a white cloth in one hand and a bottle in the other. There was a strange, sweet medicine smell in the air. I had only begun to think, what a strange dream this is, when I got the shock of my life: It was no dream. There was a real, live murderer standing only a few inches away from me. The adrenaline hit me like a bucket of scalding
hot water, every muscle in my body ready to spring like a cat. In a millisecond, I deduced that the assailant didn’t know I was awake since I hadn’t yet moved, and anyway I was frozen with fear. It’s funny how, at moments like this, you can spend what seems like hours assessing the situation and deciding on a course of action—when in reality, only a few seconds pass. But the decision had been made—I had the element of surprise on my side and I acted on it.
My foot flew up at my attacker’s groin and connected with a strong thud, sending the thug into a bent-over position. He wobbled back and forth like a drunk on roller skates, then fell to the floor and was strangely silent.
Had I killed him?
I sprang up to turn on the light and found the goon out cold. I reached down to pick up the bottle that had spilled on his chest and was hit by a wave of dizziness. It must be chloroform. I grabbed a T-shirt and covered my nose and mouth with it to avoid any more of the noxious fumes and I carefully righted the bottle without adding my fingerprints to the surface. My kick had caused the assailant to spill enough of the fluid on his chest and neck to knock him out. But for how long? Not having been chloroformed in my life, I didn’t know how long it would work, so I ran down the hall to get Michael to help me in tying the guy up.
I burst into Michael’s room and yelled for him to get up, but there was no response. I turned on the light and found Michael in bed with some guy I couldn’t possibly bring home even with a fist full of gold. Both were out cold, but at least I could hear them breathing. I tried to shake Michael awake, but to no avail. Our attacker must have chloroformed Michael and his trick first, then came to finish me off ... Finish me off. The realization sent a chill right down my spine. If I didn’t wake up when I did, I would probably be kissing the pavement in front of Michael’s building, with Michael and his date splattering nearby. I started shaking uncontrollably, my own mortality staring me right in the face. Sure, I had been threatened with death before, but it had always been obliquely wielded, funneled through notes or phone calls, never approaching me in the flesh and blood. There was, however, no time to waste.
I ran into Michael’s closet to get some belts to secure my prisoner, but found that Michael’s kinky sexual nature came in even handier: Michael had all sorts of handcuffs and leather restraints that he used with certain guys, so I grabbed a handful of them and headed back to my bedroom.
I took the restraints and tied up our assailant so securely that I wasn’t even sure the police would be able to undo him after they arrived. Then I unmasked our visitor, expecting to see a familiar face. Nope. I didn’t recognize him and couldn’t even tell if he was one of the two men who chased Eric out of the gym that fateful day. I called McMillan, who was sound asleep at his house in White Plains, then dialed 911. Before Michael even came to, his apartment was crawling with police and paramedics. In fact, when he came out of his chloroform haze and saw all the uniformed men moving in and out of the room, he asked if he was in Heaven.
“No, Michael, not quite. But we were about this far,” I said, gesturing with my finger and thumb, “from ending up there.”
“No kidding!” he exclaimed. “You saved my life again, Robert!”
It was true. For the second time, I had saved his life. This coup would at least guarantee me several weeks’ stay this summer at his house on Fire Island.
“Oh, Michael, did you find out the answers to the questions I gave you?”
“Yes. Chet Ponyweather is a regular fixture to the Brambles in Central Park. In fact, Tom Rochambeau, a friend of mine, is a regular there, too. Chet was there for almost two hours on the night Eric was pushed to his death, servicing Tom’s member.”
“So that’s where he was!” I said, another ray of light shining on my understanding of what was really going on.
“Question two. George Sheffield. He’s been a big baby for a long time now. Over ten years, according to guys I’ve talked to. Jahn, a furniture designer who is big, big, big now, built an oversize crib for Sheffield years ago. His chauffeur ordered it and paid for it, but Jahn said he recognized the delivery address because he went to a dinner at a gay couple’s apartment right across the hall. And as for John Bekkman, yes, his breakup with his last lover, Drake, was very messy. I think, as my sources tell me, Drake poured a tureen of curry carrot soup over John’s head at Le Cirque three years ago. At least I think it was curry carrot, or maybe it was sweet potato soup with curry. Oh, yes, then he force-fed John a napkin.”
“And do you have the address and phone number of this ex of John’s?”
“Yes I do,” Michael said, handing me a slip of paper.
Michael was all too happy to oblige me, seeing that he owed his life to me—again. It wouldn’t last long because the afterglow would soon be gone and Michael would conveniently forget. The key was to extract as many concessions and favors as you could before the bloom fell off the rose.
Since McMillan would take at least an hour or more to arrive, another policeman questioned me about what had happened. From his investigation, I could ascertain what they had found concerning our attacker. The alarm system had been tampered with—which didn’t matter anyway, since it had not been turned on. The elevator key control had been easily jumped with a plain copper wire. Our assailant had climbed out of a window in the hall and had swung on a rope halfway around the building to reach the apartment’s balcony, entering through a patio door that was unlocked. And the only thing that had fingerprints all over it was the ass belonging to Michael’s date.
When I relayed this information to Monette the next morning over the phone, she was astounded.
“Well, it looks like the police have their hands on part of the team who murdered Cody and Eric. I guess they’re not completely incompetent.”
“You think they’ve been messy?”
“Robert, what I’m going to say about Luke McMillan the detective isn’t how I might feel about McMillan the person, but it seems like he’s missed some obvious clues.”
“You mean like missing the entry point on the window in my apartment?”
“Yes, that was one clue.”
“What others?”
“He never investigated how the window latch got secured again once the intruder had left.”
“Are these points really that important, Monette? It seems like there are so many more bigger things—like who was driving those cars that tried to run me down.”
“The littlest clues often end up being the most important, Robert. How long has McMillan been a homicide detective?”
“I don’t know, Monette. A few years. He said something about working for another division before that.”
“He didn’t say what, did he? It wasn’t the parking violation bureau, was it?”
“No, he wasn’t a meter maid, Monette. It was some special division.”
“Could you find out? We might need to confide in someone in his department who is more on the ball—a superior maybe. I want you to keep your romantic dalliances separate from the job he’s doing. This is your life we’re talking about—you’ve got to have a clear head about this.”
“That makes total sense. But I don’t want to do an end run around McMillan and have him find out later.”
“Don’t worry ... he won’t hear a thing about it.”
“So what’s our next step, Monette?”
“I think we should pay a short visit to John Bekkman’s ex. I have to rule out something there. Let me give him a call and I’ll call you back.”
“Right, bye,” I said and hung up the phone.
Michael, who had actually given his bedmate breakfast, was now standing at my side, waiting to tell me something important.
“Yes, Michael, what is it?”
“Could you tell my trick that last night wasn’t planned? He thinks the whole chloroform, ski-masked-attacker thing was on purpose and the whole episode is giving him a raging hard-on. Please help me.”
“I think I have a man who is perfect for him. Just ask your trick
if he minds riding in the trunk of a car.”
20
How to Curry Favor from an Ex-Boyfriend
A few hours later, we met John Bekkman’s ex at a restaurant for brunch, with us agreeing to pick up the tab. One glance at Drake Hobart left no doubt as to why a romance between him and John was doomed from the very beginning. Whereas John was outdoorsy and dynamic, Drake was the epitome of a forty-plus New York City queen. From the yellow cable-knit cotton sweater thrown lightly over his shoulders to the feminine slipper-like shoes that graced his feet (not to mention his dyed yellow hair that was way too long for the first decade of the new millennium), Drake probably broke out in hives over the thought of ever having to leave the isle of Manhattan. Whatever brought them together in the first place would remain as elusive as what came seconds before the universe’s Big Bang.
“So you dumped a tureen of soup on his head?” Monette asked with a chuckle.
“The whole thing, right there in his seat with everyone watching,” Drake stated proudly. “The son of a bitch just dumped me after seven years. Seven years!”
“Seven years!” I exclaimed. “Is that diamonds? Or is it paper?”
Monette jumped in. “No, I think that anyone who can stay together for seven years deserves real estate, like an island. Capri maybe.”
“Well, he deserved far worse than that for dumping me for Mr. Muscles.”
I shook my head in disgust. “Isn’t that always the way! You have him rolling in the aisles with your wit, you cook like Wolfgang Puck, you subvert your needs to his, and some musclehead catches his eyes with washboard abs and your boyfriend dumps you like Donna Summer dumped her gay fans when she went Christian.”
“Ain’t it the truth!” Drake lamented. “I said, ‘John, you’re dumping me for a guy who works for the circus?’”
Monette and I eyed each other in amazement as if we had just discovered the mother lode. Indeed, we had.
Monette shuddered briefly, then forged ahead.
“The circus, you say? Like Ringling Brothers?”
“No, no. Cirque de Soleil.”