Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Well, now what do we do? Wait?”

  “I've never been very good at that.”

  “Do tell,” remarked Janice.

  “Besides, who knows what's going on in there?”

  “Okay, so let's just go up and confront them. We knock, go in, and see how much the two of them will tell us.”

  “That won't work.”

  Staring at the large, dark structure, Todd didn't want just part of the truth. He wanted all of it. And if Janice and he asked them directly, pushed them even, he doubted they'd get everything they needed to know.

  “No,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “I'm going to just check something out. You wait here.”

  “What?”

  He took a pen from the dashboard, found a scrap of paper, scribbled something, and said, “If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, call this number. My car phone's right here.”

  “That's ridiculous.”

  “Just wait here, you'll be fine.”

  “Of course I'll be fine, but, Todd, you can't do this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “God, when it comes down to it, you're just a boy after all, aren't you?” began Janice, raising her hands in frustration. “You can tell a bimbo to wait in a car like a dog, but you can't tell a dyke. Particularly, especially, a lawyer dyke. Got it? It's just too stereotypical.”

  “But—”

  “Todd, I'm not going to wait here like Barbie while you go off and play G.I. Joe.”

  “Okay, you want to go see what's going on?”

  Janice rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

  “You go and I'll wait here. See, there's a phone in the car,” said Todd, picking up the receiver, “and in case anything weird happens, one of us should stay here to call.”

  “Oh, good Lord.”

  Janice peered out the side windows. She turned and looked out the back. Then leaned forward and looked toward Jeff's.

  “All right, all right. This is a shit neighborhood and I don't want to go traipsing around. Not up to that house anyway,” she admitted. “But you're going to pay for this—literally. My meter's running, got it? I'm billing you for every minute. My firm's regular rate.”

  “Just call this number if I'm not back in fifteen minutes.”

  “Right. And I'm going to smoke inside your car too!”

  “Fine.”

  Todd climbed out and shut the door. As he rounded the front of the car the passenger window opened quickly and Janice poked her head out.

  “Todd, just don't be real butch and do something stupid, okay?”

  “What do you want me to be, a fairy?”

  “Yeah, just this once, would you?” She added gently, “I mean it, be careful. We've already lost Michael.”

  34

  “0h, God, Corky, I just couldn't believe it,” said Jeff, turning from side to side and checking his figure in the front hall mirror. ”I looked up and there he was. Jesus H. Christ, I never thought he'd just come marching right into the bank like that. God, he's ballsy. I thought I was going to have to call the guards and have them drag him away.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I don't know, he's such a prick. He wanted to know all about you, actually. All about when you and Michael did it. You know, fucked. My Lord, some people just get so hung up on sex.” Jeff waited a moment, then flopped his right hand at the wrist and added feyly, “Of course, I didn't tell him everything. Only a few tidbits. You know, the real juicy ones.”

  Rawlins shook his head, took off his leather coat, threw it on a chair, and said, “I'll have to deal with that later.”

  “I'll say. You know, Todd would be absolutely crazy with jealousy if he ever found out you went over to Michael's after he was at the Gay Times.”

  “Hey, like I told you, I bumped into Michael down at the bar just after he'd seen you. He was all upset, so later on I just went over to give him a little comfort.”

  “Yeah, right, you testosterone tiger, I know the comfort you give. All I'm saying is Todd would go ballistic, so watch it.”

  “And I'd be reprimanded if my department ever found out, so keep that flaming trap of yours shut. Shit, you haven't told anyone already, have you?”

  “Good heavens, no, Corky dear,” he said. “But be careful. Todd's hot to find out what really happened. He really is the suspicious sort. Persistent too.”

  Jeff leaned forward, dabbed at the blue shadow that still remained on his lids. It was too blue, he thought. It really hadn't gone with the dress he'd worn tonight, the silver one. It made him look too cheap. Then again, maybe it was just these lights. Maybe onstage it was okay. He looked again, closed his left eye, then made a face.

  “Oh, ish,” he moaned. “This color I wore tonight is just so tacky. I mean, how could I have been so stupid? I wonder if anyone was laughing at me.”

  “Come on, gorgeous,” said Rawlins. “Let's get to work.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Work, work, work. That's all I do. By day I count money, by night I belt out tunes.”

  “And now you count money again.”

  “Oy, what a life.”

  Jeff hit another light switch and led the way through the front parlor, which was filled with overstuffed furniture and covered with woodwork—oak and mahogany—used in Victorian extravagance. One of Jeff's forebears had built this place, an entrepreneur from Boston who'd come out here, wiped out the northern woods, and made a small fortune.

  “This place always amazes me,” commented Rawlins.

  “Yeah, my great-granddaddy, the lumber queen. He was as much a show-off as me. Look at this millwork—it's everywhere and as thick as frosting on a wedding cake.”

  Jeff led the way into the dining room, where the floor was inlaid with strips of mahogany, the doorways framed with wooden lattice, and the walls decorated with mahogany wainscoting and an intricate built-in buffet. In recognition and respect for the money—albeit dwindling—they'd inherited, his heirs had never painted any of the wood, leaving it as a memorial to their one semigreat relative. Yet one hundred years later Jeff, the family outcast, was the only one in his extended family who dared live in this dilapidated neighborhood, all the others having picked up their skirts and fled to the suburbs.

  “Personally, I think the old man got a little carried away. I mean, I've always said, woodwork is like makeup: Too much can ruin the whole effect.” Jeff went over to one of the old gas fixtures on the wall, struck a match, then opened the valve and brought a flame to life. “That's not to say I'm not all for a little flair and drama. Aren't these old fixtures marvelous?”

  “Looks a tad dangerous to me.”

  “Think romance, Corky. Hot romance.”

  “Yeah, right. You have all the papers, don't you?” asked Rawlins.

  “I told you I did. Don't worry.” Leaving the fixture burning, Jeff nodded and patted a small leather briefcase. “I did it at lunch when most everyone was gone. It wasn't that hard, really, once I knew what to look for. Here, let's spread it all out on the dinner table and see what we've got. How about you, you didn't have any problems, did you, sweetheart?”

  From his pocket Rawlins lifted the small envelope. “It was right there in the mailbox, just like I'd hoped. One little bill that had all the account numbers on it, that's all.”

  “God, I work in a bank and I just had no idea that embezzling was so easy.” Jeff laughed slightly and then yawned. “Why didn't I think of this? With this kind of money I could be dressed in diamonds from head to foot. Can't you see me in some sparkly tiara?”

  “As if that wouldn't be a dead giveaway that something was amuck.”

  “Oh, good Lord, you're as much a stick in the mud as TV Todd. Just think, I wouldn't have to work at the bank and… and wouldn't I look great with some real jewels? After all, diamonds are a girl's best friend. A red wig and maybe I could pass for Fergie.”

  “I think the Queen Mum is more like it.”

  “Oh, stuff it, Corky, would you? You gotta live, you k
now. You gotta take a bite of something and enjoy it while you're here. That police job really has made you all uptight, you know it?” He stifled another yawn. “I'm bushed, and this is going to take a while to go through. You want some coffee? I make it with a lot of character.”

  “Sure. And black.”

  “Strong and black. Just like that boyfriend of yours. Remember that one, what was he, number thirty-five?” Jeff said coyly, starting toward the kitchen.

  “Like you say, stuff it.”

  “Silly boy, after all these years don't you think I know absolutely everything about you and where you've put your heart?”

  Rawlins shook his head and muttered, “Just give me the fucking papers, would you?”

  “Right there in my briefcase. It's all in a file. All in order too. Three years' worth of data.”

  Jeff lingered in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at his longtime friend Steve Rawlins, Jr. He was good at hunches. Remarkable, actually. And there was something he'd been meaning to ask Corky. But, he wondered, should he? Might it not stir up things? Well, who cares? He had a right to know. This could affect him as well.

  A fluffy gray cat slithered by, and Jeff said, “Hello, Pussy-wussy. How are you tonight? Bet you're ready to go out and gobble up some naughty little mice.” Jeff picked up the cat and cuddled it. “Say, Corky, there's not something going on between you and TV Todd, is there?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I don't know, just the way he looked when he mentioned your name. You know, he was more than upset. He was kind of in knots.” Stroking Pussy, he added, “And you kind of get the same way whenever I mention his name. Here, I'll say it again and again: Todd … Todd … TV Todd … Todd …”

  “Shut up, Jeff,” snapped Rawlins, glaring at him. “You know, sometimes you're a real pain in the ass.”

  “Well, I can sense these things. After all, I'm quite tuned in to my feminine side.”

  “Everyone knows that, Jeff.”

  “Well, just don't forget a zillion years ago I was the first to figure out about you and Michael.” He took a deep sigh. “Poor Michael, what a pity. If only he hadn't been such a goddamn good accountant.”

  Oh, dear Lord, Jeff thought sadly as he passed through the pantry and into the kitchen. What a world. Poor Michael, mutilated like that. Awful. The first of the Banditos to leave this pathetic place. Who would have imagined? And it wasn't AIDS that got him either.

  “Didn't we have fun, the three of us?” called Jeff, crossing through the kitchen and to the back door. “I mean, it was the greatest, wasn't it, growing up in Linden Hills?”

  “Yeah, it was fun.”

  “Fun? Fun? It was magic.” Jeff opened the door, tossed out the cat, and said, “Eat 'em up, Pussy.” Then he mused, “That lake and our bikes. Shit, we got into a lot of trouble, didn't we? Do you remember the time we toilet-papered that teacher's house? What was her name? The biology teacher. Miss … Miss Thatcher, wasn't it? Gawd, was that hysterical or what? All that toilet paper hanging from that old pine tree in her front yard. I've never thanked you, have I? You know, no one else would let me hang out with them. Do you know that? You and Michael were the only ones who were friendly to me.”

  From out in the dining room Rawlins offered, “You were funny.”

  “Funny? Funny my ass, I was queer. And you two were too. We just didn't know it. No, correction. I always knew I was queer, I just didn't know what it meant. None of us did. No one knew diddly about sex, really. Not until puberty anyway. But all the other boys were afraid of me, I think, because I was different. You know, the sissy. Unlike you and Michael, I was the obvious one. But you and Michael, well, you didn't see how different I was from everyone else, but how similar I was to you two. Right? Don't you think? And then miracle of miracles, we became this cool little group.” Jeff listened, waiting for an answer, then realized that his friend had put on some music. “Corky, you faggot, can you hear me? Corky? Turn down the flicking music and answer me, you ding-a-ling!”

  When no reply came over the voice of Al Jarreau, however, Jeff shook his head and started bustling around the kitchen, losing himself in memories. He didn't know what he would have done without Corky and Michael. Gone crazy, perhaps. They took Jeff everywhere with them. Fishing. Skating. To the movies. And sliding. Oh, God. They loved sliding. On cardboard. The faster the better, even when it was twenty fucking degrees below fucking zero. Once they'd put him on a toboggan and sent him down this icy hill over by the picnic pavilion. And then he'd smashed into a tree and broken his ankle. As Jeff now put a pot of water on the stove, struck a match, and lit the gas, he laughed, for he'd never looked more butch in his life than in that clunky foot cast. Oh, the girls at the Gay Times wouldn't believe it. Sometime he'd have to show them a photo.

  He heard some floorboards creak in the old house and called over his shoulder, “Is that you, girlfriend? Want anything to eat?”

  When no reply came, he glanced back, saw no one. Oh, that Corky. He was probably deep into the papers already, trying to figure out how to find even more money. All work, that boy. Always had been.

  Well, Jeff, for one, was hungry as hell. All that dancing, he thought. And singing. The stage lights too. They sucked energy out of you. Performing always made him famished, and he turned to the refrigerator. Screw the diet, he needed to eat. Today had been much too stressful. No, the whole week had been too stressful. Peering into the fridge, he found some cold pasta and picked out a bit. Divine, he thought, and knowing he had to have more, he pulled out the whole bowl and set it on the counter.

  There it was again. That noise of someone moving quietly. He licked his fingers, peered past the blue flame of the stove and out the other doorway. What was Corky doing in the back hall? He obviously had passed from the dining room, through the pantry, and into the bathroom.

  “I'm in here, darling,” called Jeff. “What the hell are you doing back there? Are you in the John or the back hall? It's such a mess. Be careful, will you? There's mops and stuff. Dear Jesus, I don't want you taking a tumble.”

  But no reply came. Jeff shook his head and quickly picked at a bit more pasta, slurping the long noodles into his mouth. Gobbling them down, he walked toward the rear passage.

  “Corky?” He saw a figure standing there in the dark. “Oh, there you are, you silly. Here, let me get you some light.”

  As Jeff reached for the switch, the figure suddenly leapt forward. Instinctively Jeff jumped back, but the other man was faster and caught Jeff by the wrist. Jeff was about to shout out, but he was clipped on the chin, and pain shot through his head and down his body. An instant later a powerful fist rammed his gut and knocked the wind completely out of him. Jeff grabbed at his stomach, doubled over, gasped for air. Bent over and trying to breathe, he glanced to his

  right, saw the basement stairs. No, please. Don't throw me—

  Suddenly something hard and solid hit him on the back of

  his head, and Jeffs world went as dark as a blackened stage.

  35

  Todd hesitated at the stand of lilac bushes and looked through the branches at the tall Victorian with the burning front-porch light. He glanced back at the Cherokee, saw the black figure of Janice and the tiny glowing orange tip of her cigarette. Then he cut around the end of the lilacs and across an empty lot where a house had undoubtedly once stood. Bending forward slightly, he jogged across the lumpy, uneven ground and hurried for a tree, where he paused and took a semblance of shelter. The lights in the front of the house were lit, as were those in the room with the large bay window. That had to be the dining room, he thought, peering at the curving window that was covered with a light, lacy curtain. He saw a figure move—someone strolling through the room, pausing, then sitting down—but couldn't tell who it was.

  So how was he going to handle this?

  He had no idea, really, but his best reporter's instincts kept pulling him forward, urging him to slip through the shadows of the night. He knew
that he shouldn't expose himself. Not yet anyway. His entire life, of course, had been about maintaining secrecy. From a life of hiding he had learned the techniques like a master spy. Everyone has a crack. Move forward; find it in the darkness. Expose that crack. Break the armor. Discover the truth.

  As his feet thumped across the dirt he peered through the thin, frilly curtains and saw a figure at the dinner table. Broad-shouldered, steady. Todd moved closer still, crouched behind a bush. He heard the deep bass of music from within the house. And there was Rawlins. The bastard. Sitting at the large table, he was sorting through a stack of papers. Periodically his hand would reach up and touch something. A calculator, Todd realized. Sure, he was tabulating an account of some sort. Money, to be sure. Didn't it always boil down to either money or the passions of love and hate?

  The now-vile memories of the previous night stirred Todd's gut. Rawlins's firm but gentle touch, his deep, earthy scent, his—

  To hell with the bastard, thought Todd, still shocked that he had been so thoroughly duped. His first instinct was to hurl a rock at the window, charge forward, and yell at Rawlins or some such thing. But he had to ascertain where Jeff was in this sprawling house. It wouldn't do to confront Rawlins and then have Jeff spring out of nowhere. God only knew what the two of them were up to. And in any case, in this neighborhood Jeff was more than likely to have a gun, perhaps only a purse-sized one, but deadly enough, for sure.

  Still bent over, Todd scurried across the drive past the dark garage. There was a light on in the back. Jeff had to be back there. The kitchen? A den? Todd crossed into the side yard, paused at a large old fuel tank—a rusty cylinder that smelled of heating oil—and leaned a hand against it. He surveyed the backyard and saw no other houses, only a weedy slope that led down to the railroad tracks. There was no other drive either, which was good. If by chance there was someone else involved, they wouldn't arrive unnoticed. Janice, at least, would take note.