I went back to the office and phoned Mark Deslonde at Sears Automotive Center. I asked him if he was certain it was Zimka he’d seen in Trucky’s parking lot that night, and he said almost certain-at least it had never occurred to him that the man he greeted in the Olds Toronado had not been Zimka.
I asked Deslonde not to mention any of this to anyone, and he said he wouldn’t. He said if Timmy and I went out Wednesday night, maybe he’d see us. He told me he’d be with Phil, and as he said it, I could see him doing his angled-grin-and-head thing. I said, yes, I hoped we’d run into him, which was the truth, and hung up.
I called my service and was told a Chris had phoned me and said she would call back. She had left no number. I told the service I’d be at home, then drove over to Morton. I stuffed the bag of grass into the Major Gray’s chutney jar in the refrigerator and slipped the letter from Frank Zimka to Billy Blount into the jacket of Thelma Houston’s
“I’m Here Again” alongside Blount’s letter from his parents. I thought about steaming that one open, but decided to wait and see if it came to that.
After half an hour of sit-ups, push-ups, and jogging in place, I set the phone on the bathroom floor and showered. While I shaved I spotted another gray hair in my mustache. I lectured myself on the special rewards of going gentle into that good night, left the gray hair, and got into my jeans and sport shirt. Then I had second thoughts, went back to the mirror, and ripped the little fucker out. There was just the one, which would have looked damned silly all by itself, an affectation.
At six Timmy let himself in with his own key. He had French bread and salad makings and suggested I “do a quiche.” I laughed and opened the freezer door. I caught sight of a Mama Cadenza’s frozen lasagna embedded in the Arctic wastes of my freezer compartment, found a screwdriver, and pried the aluminum tray full of hard orange stuff out of its cardboard container, which was stuck in there for good.
While we waited for the lasagna to heat up, Timmy listened to the Haydn Quartet in G Major in the stereo headset and I watched Dick Block eye his cue cards suspiciously and recite the little snatches of Albany news written on them. The Kleckner murder was not mentioned, but two sentences were devoted to the Saturday-night raid by Bergenfield police on the Rat’s Nest, “a controversial bar patronized predominantly by members of the gay community.”
We ate the orange and yellow food and waited for Chris Porterfield to call. She did not. At eight Calvin Markham and a SUNY friend stopped in, and we played hearts until around ten, when they left for a quick foray to the Terminal before heading home. Timmy decided to stay over, and we got out the Scrabble. At a quarter to twelve, with the score nearly tied, he went out with
“pomelo,” a kind of grapefruit, so he said. I looked it up. “A kind of grapefruit.”
We went to bed. I’d always loved the sight of Timmy’s milk-white skin under the blueish glow of the streetlight outside my front window, and I was sitting there running my fingers over all the different parts of him as he lay uncovered beside me when at exactly five before midnight the phone rang.
“Hello. Don Strachey.”
“This is Christine Porterfield. I’d like to know who you are and exactly what your game is.” A strong, confident voice.
I said, “I’m a private detective hired by Billy Blount’s parents to get him out of this thing. Their idea of what getting him out of this means may be different from mine, or yours, or Billy’s. I’m interested in hearing Billy’s and I’d like to talk to him. I have this idea you could help me with that.”
“Mr. Strachey, what if I told you that Billy doesn’t need any help. That he’s safe, and happy, and he’s starting to make a new life for himself. You know that Billy and I understand each other we’re very close, and you’ve found that out. So why don’t you just take my word for it that he’s all right, and tell the Blounts not to worry. Will you do that?”
“I’m glad he’s okay,” I said, “because I keep hearing nice things about him, and I don’t think he deserves any more grief. But it can’t last, and I think you know that. Billy’s too young to spend his life looking over his shoulder. The police have already traced you to Cheyenne, and if you’re with him, it’s only a matter of time before you stumble. That will be disastrous for both of you.”
A hesitation. Then: “Look-thank you for telling Margarita about the Cheyenne police. We appreciated that. But we’re not really in Cheyenne, and we’re with people who know how to help us-how to help Billy. They’re not amateurs at this, and they know what they’re doing. Actually, I’m coming to Albany in a week or so-Billy is getting the support he needs from other people here. Maybe we can get together and I can reassure you. Though I’m afraid there really isn’t much more I’ll be able to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“There’s another thing,” I said. “And I hope you’ll give this a lot of thought. Billy did not commit a murder-we both believe that.” In fact, I wasn’t a hundred percent certain of this, but I was nearly there. “But someone did kill Steve Kleckner,” I said, “and the odds are that he’s still in Albany. If he took a life once, he could do it again. He may, in fact, be the man who attacked a friend of Billy’s Saturday morning and wounded him. Only Billy knows exactly what happened the night of the Kleckner murder, and he has a responsibility to someone-maybe someone he knows-to help identify the killer before he kills again. If I could just talk with Billy about that night-for now that’s all I’ll ask.”
Silence. Then: “Just a minute. Can you hold on for just one minute?” She sounded irritated, frustrated.
“I’ll wait.”
The receiver was set down with a clunk. I could hear a TV set on near the phone somewhere. The PBS Paul Robeson special ended, and Monty Python came on. That’d be Pacific Time, or Mountain. I’d check. Two minutes went by.
She came back. “I’m very sorry-I do understand what you’re saying, but-I just can’t help you, Mr. Strachey. You said a friend of Billy’s has been wounded. Could you tell me who that was?”
“Huey Brownlee. The attack might or might not have had anything to do with the Kleckner killing, but if the attacker is the same man, I’ve got to talk with Billy fast to figure out what that connection might be. See what I’m saying? Anyway, tell Billy that Brownlee wasn’t badly hurt.
He’s okay.”
“Oh, thank God for that. You see-well, the fact is, Billy did not actually see who stabbed Steven Kleckner, and he has no idea who could have done it. So how could he possibly help you?
Please-try to understand-”
“You mean Billy wasn’t there at the time? He’d gone out, or what?”
“He was-taking a shower.”
“Taking a shower.”
“Billy is quite fastidious in some ways.”
That made sense. I wondered if he also carried an ashtray around with him.
I said, “And no one else was there when he-went into the bathroom?”
“No.”
“Nor when he came out?”
“No. He says he thought he was going crazy. He couldn’t understand how it had happened. The other man, Steven, had fallen asleep, and when Billy came out of the shower, at first he thought the man was still asleep. And then he saw the blood all over the man. He felt the man’s pulse, even though he said he could see that the poor man was dead. Then Billy panicked and ran away.
He did notify the police, but he knew everyone would think he had done it, and Billy was absolutely terrified of being put in prison. Billy does not like to be locked up unjustly. It happened to him once before.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. Would you mind telling me where and when that happened?”
A pause. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Just checking all the angles,” I lied. “Maybe Billy made an enemy there-some real psycho who’d track him down later and set him up as a murder suspect.”
This sounded flaky, but it was the best I could come up with on no notice. In fact another much more logical
notion was beginning to shape itself.
She said, “Mr. Strachey, I don’t want to tell you how to run your business, but that sounds a bit off the wall to me. This happened ten years ago. I know about it because I was there. And believe me, Billy’s only enemies were the lunatics in charge of the place. From what Margarita told me about you, I’d expect you to understand that.”
They both must have been around sixteen when they’d gone in, under the age of consent. “Did your parents have you committed, too?” I asked. “For reasons of ‘poor social adjustment?”
She said, “Yes. On account of our homosexuality. Our ‘sickness.’”
I’d heard stories like Chris’s and Billy’s and had read of such atrocities in the gay literature.
Before Stonewall it was not all that uncommon and is still today not entirely unheard of. But I’d never known anyone it had happened to, and it amazed me that two people could come through it with their minds as cleansed of rage as Chris Porterfield’s and Billy Blount’s apparently were. If
‘they were. I had yet to meet either Billy or Chris face to face.
I said, “What was the name of the place? I’d like to find out if it’s still operating with the same medieval outlook.”
I could have asked her directly what I had in mind, but I might have lost her-and driven her and Billy from the city where I now suspected they were hiding.
She said, “Sewickley Oaks. In New Baltimore. I doubt that it’s changed.”
“How long were you there?” I asked.
“Long enough,” she said. “More than a year.”
“Were you and Billy released at the same time?”
She hesitated, “Oh-yes. We were.”
That was it. I had it. I’d find them.
“Look,” she said, “I really can’t talk to you anymore. I hope I’ve helped you somewhat, and Billy and I do want the murderer to be found. I know, it’s horrible that someone like that is still there in Albany loose somewhere. It’s just that-Billy understands so little of what happened. Even now he’s quite confused about it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I said, “Yes and no. It’d still be better if I could sit down with Billy. For an hour, that’s all.”
“I���I’m sorry, Mr. Strachey. Good luck to you. I mean that. Maybe I’ll see you in Albany.”
“You realize the Albany police will be looking for you when you come back. You’ll meet Sergeant Bowman, a man with his quirks of manner and viewpoint. You won’t like him.”
“I realize that.”
“What will you tell him?”
“I’ll lie. I’ve learned how to do that. Goodbye, Mr. Strachey.”
She hung up.
Timmy had been up on one elbow listening to my end of the conversation. He said, “So?”
I slumped into the easy chair near the daybed where Timmy lay and recounted what Chris Porterfield had told me. Then I told him what I thought I’d learned.
“So, maybe you know now where Blount and Porterfield are,” he said. “But not who the killer is.
Get moving, Strachey.”
I said, “I’ll take what I can get when I can get it. Like Blanche said, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’”
“Scarlett said that. Blanche said-something else.”
“‘Here’s looking at you, kid’?”
“Close enough. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”
“I’ll join you.”
11
In the morning I went to the Albany public library and dug out the Times Unions for the late fall of 1970, a little over a year after Billy Blount and Chris Porterfield would have been committed to Sewickley Oaks. What I was looking for, or thought I was looking for, was not in the index, and I had to slide the microfilm around for thirty or forty issues until I found the short article in the Tuesday, November 24, edition.
ALBANY DUO ESCAPES MENTAL FACILITY
New Baltimore-Two teenage inmates at Sewickley Oaks, an exclusive private mental institution on Ridge Road, escaped from the medium-security section of the establishment late Sunday night. William Blount, 18, and Christine Porterfield, 18, whose families live in Albany, fled a residential building through a heating tunnel and are believed to have been driven away by unknown persons who apparently aided the two in other aspects of the escape.
According to the local police, a chain securing a door to the tunnel had been cut through from the tunnel side. Officials say the escape appeared to have been carefully planned and executed.
Blount and Porterfield were discovered missing Monday morning when they failed to show up for breakfast, and a search was undertaken. Later, an area resident told police he had been driving on Ridge Road just past midnight Sunday and saw five young people emerge from nearby woods and enter an older model Plymouth station wagon. Two of the five were bearded and “looked like hippies,” the witness said.
Dr. Nelson Thurston, Sewickley Oaks administrator, described the escapees as “mentally troubled” but not dangerous.
State police are assisting in the search for the two.
I made notes on the article, then drove over to Billy Blount’s apartment building on Madison. I wanted to check something I should have checked before. I waited around on the front stoop until the sidewalk was clear, then felt my way through the lock. I still had my lobster pick in hand when I arrived at the door to Blount’s third-floor apartment, but I didn’t need it. The door had been jimmied open, crudely, messily, as if with a crowbar.
I stepped inside and listened. There was no sound except that of the traffic down on Madison. I checked the rooms and found them as I’d left them on Friday.
I knelt by the low bookshelves and pulled out the hardback copy of Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth. Inside the front cover was a handwritten inscription: “Billy-This will explain some things-From your friend, Kurt Zinsser-December 15, 1970.” I copied the words onto my pad.
Back in Blount’s bedroom, I sat on the edge of his mattress and tried the phone. It was still connected and probably had another week or two before New York Telephone would be galvanized into frenzied plug-pulling by the unpaid bill. I dialed the Albany Police Department, and while I waited to be put through to Sergeant Bowman, I noticed it: Billy Blount’s phone book was not where I had found it on Friday, and left it, beside the telephone.
“Bowman!” He made his own name sound like an accusation.
“Don Strachey. I want to report a breaking-and-entering.”
“You’d better watch your step with me, Strachey! I warned you once and I’m warning you again.
Now, what do you want?”
“Billy Blount’s apartment has been broken into. With a wrecking ball, I think. His phone book with his friends’ numbers written on it is missing. I’m there now.”
“You think I’m a goddamned idiot. You’re covering for yourself. You did it. You’re lying.”
“Wrong. I’m tidier than this. I’m a bachelor, remember? Obsessively neat.” I wished Timmy were there to hoot with merriment over that one. “This is definitely the work of a sloppy amateur, except all he walked off with was Blount’s phone book. I think that’s interesting, don’t you?”
“Yes. I do.”
“And puzzling.”
“That, too.”
“I thought you’d want to know, and to check it out around here. See how helpful I’m being?
Before this is over, Ned, I’m going to earn your respect and devotion.” He made a strangling sound. “Anyway, what’s happening down there on your end of things?”
“Listen, Strachey, I wanted to talk to you about that-about “my end of things.’” The sarcasm was like gelignite. “This Al Douglas you sent me chasing after-Bowsie. None of the Greyhound perverts ever heard of the guy.”
“Did I say Greyhound? I meant Trailways. It’s the Trailways station where Al hangs out. Jesus, I’m sorry. Really.”
A silence. “Strachey-are you jerking me around? You oughtn’t to do that. You want names
of people who’ve tried, I’ll provide references. They’ll tell you. Don’t do it. Tell me you’re not fucking me up the ass.” He made a gagging sound and muttered something else.
“Consider yourself told,” I said. “With you, Ned, I’m straight.” My palms were sweating. I held out my free hand to see how steady it was. Not too. I said, “What’d you get from the airlines at La Guardia? Anything?”
“Nah. Blount either used a phony name or didn’t fly out of there at all. I hope, for your sake, Strachey, it was the first. You’re on trial in this town, you know.”
Maybe he just talked like a South End Torquemada and when push came to shove, he’d reveal a heart and mind worthy of Learned Hand. But I supposed he wouldn’t. I said, “I’ll be in touch, Sergeant. Have a nice day.” I hung up.
I searched the apartment to make the sure the phone book hadn’t simply been moved to another spot. It hadn’t. It was gone.
Back at the phone, I made a credit-card call to California. It was just eight-thirty Pacific Time, so I tried the home number of the party I wanted. I’d known Harvey Geddes since army-intelligence days, and we’d stayed in touch through his coming out and into his years as a fundraiser and organizer at the Los Angeles Gay Community Services Center in West Hollywood.
“Hello?”
“Harvey-Don Strachey.”
“Don, what a surprise! I was just leaving for the center. This is great! Are you in LA?”
“I wouldn’t mind if I were. I’m in Albany up to my brain pan in a murder case.”
“Too bad. I’d love to see you. Who’s your client?”
The parents of the accused. Except I doubt he did it. He’s skipped, and I’ve got to locate him and find out what he knows. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Is he gay?”
“He is.”
“Do you think he’s out here?”
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