Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  “Whatever.”

  Kahn shook his head at the clerk and then turned and walked past Westboard and out into the night.

  The next night, Matt Westboard was off work. He sat in his small apartment, nursing a beer. His surroundings were tasteful, but sparse. A desert print hung on the wall.

  He was staring at the picture of his parents that sat on top of the muted television. His mother’s broad smile shined out at him, but it was his father’s brooding eyes that he concentrated on. Eyes that had always judged harshly and found him wanting. Eyes that now rejected him utterly.

  Matt raised the bottle to his mouth and sipped. He wondered why he cared what his father thought. He supposed that it was somehow hard-wired into a son to care, regardless of whether he wanted to or not.

  The knock on his door roused him from his thoughts. He put his beer on the table and snapped off the television set. At the door, he peeked through the peephole.

  It was Craig.

  He felt a rush of emotions all at once. Anger. Guilt. Regret. Longing. He stood by the door for a long moment, collecting himself.

  Craig knocked again.

  Matt removed the chain and unlocked the door. When he swung open the door, Craig flashed a smile at him.

  “Hey!” he said.

  Matt kept his manner neutral. “Hi.”

  “Can I come in?”

  He thought about refusing him, but reconsidered and stepped aside. Craig strode confidently into the small apartment and Matt closed the door behind him.

  “Man, I thought I was going to get arrested for sure,” Craig said. “That other cop was an asshole.”

  Matt didn’t answer.

  Craig spotted the beer on the coffee table and pointed at it with raised eyebrows. Matt nodded and Craig picked it up and took a long swig.

  “Ahhh,” he said, grinning. “Canadian.”

  Matt remained by the front door, feeling awkward. Finally, he asked, “Why’d you come here, Craig?”

  Craig took another drink of the beer, then walked toward him. “To say thanks. Why else?”

  “Thanks for what?”

  Craig gave him a confused look. “For making that other cop give me a break.”

  Matt shook his head. “That was his decision.”

  “Come on,” Craig said. “That asshole?”

  “That asshole.”

  Craig looked at him carefully. After a moment, he took another step forward. “Are you telling me that you never said one word to him to get him to cut me a break?”

  “Not a word.”

  “’Cuz I definitely cut you a break, so I figured you were just returning the favor.”

  “You cut me a break? How do you figure that?”

  Craig gave him a knowing look. “Come on, baby. Are you telling me that everyone on your department knows? Are you really and truly out?”

  Matt swallowed. “No. Some people know, but…not everyone.”

  “Exactly,” Craig said. “My guess is probably not most people. So the last thing you needed was me pointing fingers and telling that other cop that he couldn’t arrest me because I’m your boyfriend.”

  “You’re not my boyfriend,” Matt told him.

  Craig put his hand to his heart. “Ouch,” he said sarcastically. “Okay, then how about if I told him he couldn’t arrest me because I fucked you a few weeks ago?”

  “It wouldn’t have stopped him from arresting you if that was the decision he had in mind,” Matt said. Sweat trickled down his sides and he wondered if his voice sounded as wavering as it felt.

  Craig smiled deviously. “But that’s not the point, is it, love? The point is, he would then know your little secret. And he did not strike me as the kind of guy who keeps secrets like that to himself.”

  He wasn’t, Matt knew.

  “No,” Craig said, taking another step toward him, “I think he’d probably turn on his lights and siren on his way to find the first cop to tell about that little morsel. Don’t you?”

  “Maybe,” Matt said.

  The two stared at each other for a moment. Craig’s expression was playful, with an undertone of sarcasm. Matt struggled to keep his neutral. Finally, he said, “I should thank you, I guess.”

  “You guess?” Craig said, stepping toward him again. He was close enough that Matt could smell his cologne. It was a musky scent that filled his nostrils. “Well, I can take all the guesswork out of it, Matt. I’m here to thank you.”

  He stepped in close, reaching around Matt’s waist with his right arm and pulling him toward him. His mouth found Matt’s in a rough, wet kiss.

  Matt turned his face away and pushed Craig back.

  “What the fuck was that?” Craig asked, surprised and angry.

  Matt wiped his mouth. “I can’t be with you again, Craig.”

  “What? Why not? Because of the bookstore thing?”

  Matt nodded.

  Craig cocked his head at him disbelievingly. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

  “I’m a police officer, Craig.”

  “No shit. I know that. It turns me on.”

  Matt ignored him. “I can’t be associated with anyone involved in criminal activity. It’s non-negotiable.”

  “Criminal activity?” Craig looked at him, agape. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  Matt shook his head.

  Craig’s mouth tightened. “So was it criminal when I was doing that to you in your bedroom over there?” He pointed over Matt’s shoulder.

  “No.”

  “But it’s criminal down at the bookstore behind a closed door? Is that it? Come on, Matt. That’s a fucked up law.”

  Matt nodded. “It may be. But it is the law.”

  “That is nothing but blind obedience,” Craig said. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “Fine,” Matt said. “But there’s something else, too.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t be with someone who would be down at the bookstore having sex with strangers.”

  Craig gave him another astonished look. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize we were going steady.”

  “That’s not it,” Matt said.

  “Then what is it? I thought we were free to fuck whoever we wanted here in America, Matt. Or is that against the law, too?”

  “You can do whatever you want,” Matt told him. “I just don’t want to be with someone who does. It’s not safe. Not physically and not emotionally.”

  Craig’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s it. You’re worried about getting the bug. Well, don’t you fret, sweetheart. I’m clean.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Worried about getting your heart broken, Michelle?”

  Matt moved to the door and opened it. “I’d like you to leave now.”

  Craig made no move toward the door. “You self-righteous prick.” He shook his head in amazement. “You really think you’re something special, don’t you?”

  “I mean it, Craig. Leave.”

  Craig shook his head and took two steps towards the door before he stopped. Matt smelled his cologne again. He remembered how soft Craig’s lips had been. He remembered how patient a lover he’d been, kissing him for what seemed like hours while his hardness press against his belly, pulsing. Aching.

  Matt blinked and swallowed, pushing those memories away.

  “You know what you need?” Craig asked, a bitter edge to his voice. “You need to wake up and face the music.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, I think I may need to make a couple of phone calls tonight. Or post a few flyers. It’s high time that River City’s finest knew the whole truth about Officer Matt Westboard.”

  Matt felt his stomach sink. “Don’t do that,” he whispered. “I’ve worked hard to prove I’m a good cop.”

  Craig’s eyes gleamed hotly. “So what? If they find out you’re queer, that’s all shot to he
ll?”

  “No, but—”

  “You’re ashamed that you fucked me, aren’t you?” Craig asked. “You’re ashamed of being gay.”

  “No, I’m not. But it’s like being a cop. As soon as someone finds out about it—”

  “Then suddenly you’re just a fag?”

  Matt licked his dry lips. “No. But it’ll change how they look at me. It’ll change how they treat me.”

  “That,” Craig said, his voice dark with anger, “is the motherfucking point.”

  “Please,” Matt pleaded. “Just leave my life alone.”

  “I’m doing you a favor,” Craig snarled at him. “You oughta thank me, bitch.”

  He threw the near-empty bottle of beer onto the ground at his feet. The glass shattered and foamy beer splattered onto Matt’s shoes and jeans. Without another word, Craig strode past him and out the door.

  Matt closed the door behind him, latching the chain. Moving woodenly, he squatted to pick up the larger pieces of broken glass, collecting the shattered pieces in the palm of his hand. Above the television, he could feel his father’s eyes boring into him.

  As he cleaned the mess, he wondered if Craig would go through with it. Or if he would he come back, apologetic and seductive. He wondered if he would be able to resist him if he came again, or if he truly wanted to. Then he thought about roll call his next night at work and wondered what he would say to the officers on his platoon. If he ought to say anything at all. And if he did, how many pairs of his father’s eyes would he face?

  As he gathered the broken glass, a small piece cut his hand, but Matt Westboard let it bleed.

  Prank Call

  A woman answered on call number six.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” I said, looking at the names Hank was pointing at in the book. Jeffrey and Kate Parker. “Is this Kate?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Is Jeffrey home?”

  “No. Who’s this?”

  I gave Hank the thumbs up and began the spiel.

  “Kate, who I am doesn’t matter. Let’s just say I’m a friend, all right?”

  “What do you want?” Caution slipped into her voice.

  “To help you. Like I wish someone had helped me.”

  “I’m hanging up,” she said, and I could hear movement.

  “Kate, where’s Jeffrey? Where’s Jeffrey right now?”

  There was a pause.

  “At work.” She didn’t sound sure.

  “At work? Really?”

  “What do you want?” She asked again.

  “I told you. To help you. To give you information I wish someone had given me.”

  “What information?”

  This was too easy. Human curiosity is worse than any other animal’s, that’s for sure. I tipped a wink at Hank, who was grinning like a moron.

  “Let me ask you this, Kate. Have you noticed anything different about Jeffrey lately? Is he working more? Busier?”

  “I – I don’t know. I hadn’t noticed. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Think about it.”

  She did, and didn’t break the connection. I listened to her breath on the other end of the line.

  “I don’t think I like where this is going,” she said after a while.

  “I didn’t either,” I replied. “But sometimes we have to face the truth. Good luck, Kate.”

  I hung up.

  Hank jumped up and down. “She bought it, huh?”

  “I think so.” Suddenly, I didn’t feel so good about the whole thing. “Maybe.”

  “Oh, man, is that guy in for it when he gets home.” Hank reached for the phone book and read the address out loud. “That’s, like, less than a mile away. Let’s go over there and watch the fireworks.”

  “I dunno.”

  “What’s this mopey shit all of the sudden?”

  I shrugged. “Running refrigerators is one thing. This is kinda mean.”

  He waved his hands dismissively. “Ah, bull crap. It’s just fun.”

  “Not for this guy Jeffrey.”

  “I meant fun for us,” Hank said. “Come on. Let’s walk over.”

  I glanced up at the clock. “Fine, but I’m thirsty. Let’s get some soda at the Safeway first.”

  Hank rolled his eyes. “All right, but hurry. We don’t know how soon this guy’ll get home.”

  I took my time walking there and again picking out a bottle of Coke. I wandered over to the candy rack for a Snickers bar. To delay further, I tried to get Hank interested in the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated.

  “My dad has it at home,” he said, waving it away. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  Hank took the lead and I trudged along behind him. I drank my Coke and ate my Snickers and neither one tasted very good.

  The Parkers’ home turned out to be a corner lot, right across from a playground. Hank and I sat down on the merry-go-round and watched the front of the house.

  “Maybe he’s already home,” I said hopefully. “Maybe they figured out it was a prank.”

  “No, he’s not,” Hank said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Look,” he pointed. “There’s no garage, the driveway’s empty and there aren’t any cars in front of the house. He’s not home yet.”

  I frowned and we waited.

  Fifteen minutes later, a white sedan pulled up in front of the house. A slick-looking man exited the car calmly and strode toward the house.

  “That guy’s too cool,” I told Hank. “He’ll square it with her.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “We should just go.”

  “You are such a wuss.”

  I clenched my jaw and said nothing.

  I’m sure the next five minutes were filled with sounds all along that street. Car motors, kids, sprinklers, dogs. But I didn’t hear any of it. All I heard was the welcome silence coming from that small rancher on the corner.

  After five minutes, Hank sighed. “Well, damn, man. Maybe you—”

  Through the picture window in the front of the house, I saw two quick flashes of lightning.

  “—were right—”

  In the next millisecond, two loud cracks erupted inside the house.

  We clambered to our feet.

  “What the hell was that?” Hank asked, surprised.

  I opened my mouth to answer. No sound came out. My eyes snapped to Hank. He stared at the house, his jaw hanging open. Then his chin quivered.

  “Jesus, do you think—”

  Panic welled up in my chest, blasting past the shock. “We need to go,” I told Hank. My voice sounded high and squeaky, as if it weren’t my own and belonged instead to a ten-year-old.

  Hank didn’t need any prodding. We bolted without looking back. We ran until we reached our street and separated. We ran straight home to our houses.

  I don’t know what I expected to happen next. Childlike, maybe I hoped it to all go away. But when the cops came to my door three hours later, I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  A hulking officer in uniform loomed over me. His massive forearms were corded with thick muscle. The slight paunch in his belly didn’t do much to reduce the intimidation effect.

  “You been using your phone today, son?” It was a question, but his tone came out flat, making it sound more like an accusation.

  “N-no, sir.”

  We stood at the doorway to my house, him on the porch and me holding the screen door open. My legs trembled while we spoke. Even though he hadn’t threatened me, the only thoughts that kept running through my head were the stories my Dad told about the protests in the sixties. How he’d fought with the pigs. How they’d used clubs. He always pointed to the scar near his elbow when he told that story.

  A look of disappointment spread across the officer’s face when I made my denial. He moved a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other and smacked his lips while he regarded me.

  “I haven’t,” I added. “Honest
.”

  The officer said nothing. He stared.

  Sweat beaded up on my forehead. Large drops ran down my back. I tried to stare back but had to flit my eyes away.

  The officer pulled the toothpick from his mouth and studied the marred up end before flicking it away. When he turned his eyes back to me, they held a hard edge to them.

  “Look, kid. You think we can’t trace calls?”

  I shrugged.

  “You think all calls aren’t recorded?”

  My heart jumped in my chest. I fought hard to keep the thumping under control, but it raced along at breakneck speed.

  They recorded calls?

  The officer nodded his head, as if in answer. “All calls are recorded and held for twenty-four hours, kid.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  The officer reached up and absently scratched his neck. “Now, when we pull the tapes for your phone and check the calls from today, what do you think we’re going to find?”

  My lip quivered. I opened my mouth to reply.

  The clacking of my Dad’s VW Rabbit’s diesel engine stopped me. We both turned to watch him pull into the driveway and get out of dark brown car. An incredible sense of relief washed over me at the sight of his jeans, tie-dye shirt, beads and sandals. His neatly trimmed gray beard and the pony tail that swung behind him as he walked took away the trembling in my legs.

  Dad would know what to do.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked, a slight edge of resentment to his voice.

  The officer eyed him with obvious distaste. “A police matter,” he finally said.

  “Regarding?”

  “A crime,” the officer answered and turned back to me. “Now, you want to answer that question?”

  Dad’s face turned visibly red. He stepped up onto the porch and peered closely at the officer’s nametag. “Excuse me, Officer Bates, but my son has nothing to say without a lawyer present.”

  A tinge of red appeared at Officer Bates’ collar. “He’s eighteen,” he said. “He can speak for himself.”

  My Dad turned his gaze to me.

  I swallowed, turned to the cop and said, “I want a lawyer.”

  Hank’s Dad got him a lawyer, too. We weren’t allowed to talk to each other at school or anywhere until the case was over. When I passed him in the hall the next week, he stared straight ahead and wouldn’t meet my eyes.