I put my hand on her arm and said, “What I really want to do is help. Maybe one of us could just sit in. I’d be very quiet. In the background.”
“You’d be recognized,” Jantoro said. “I assume people on that floor already know who you are. What we’d get is a circus atmosphere. A recognized public figure who just happens to be sitting in on an interrogation could raise all kinds of questions.”
I began a protest, but Jantoro interrupted, “I understand you’re upset, but we’ll handle it. It’s what we’re trained to do. We care as much as you do about solving this.”
I asked, “By this, do you mean the bombing or who’s been making these threats?”
“Both,” Jantoro said.
“Shouldn’t there be a police guard on Mr. Mason’s room?” Smithers asked.
I said, “I’ll want somebody from the security firm present at all times.”
McCutcheon nodded. “Oscar’s down there now. I’ll arrange for a twenty-four-hour-a-day rotation.”
“A uniformed police officer might have a strong detrimental effect as well,” Smithers said.
“That won’t be a problem,” Jantoro said. “Although, you do realize, that if someone wanted to murder Mr. Mason, he or she could have killed him when they were placing the note in the drawer.”
“Wouldn’t there have been witnesses?” I asked.
“You’d think there would have been to whoever put the note in,” Jantoro said. “Since no one saw the person place the note in the drawer, I think a possible assumption is there was no witness and if they wanted to kill him, they could have.”
We sat in appalled silence and digested this information. I realized what Jantoro had said was obvious. I should have thought of it.
Mrs. Mason said, “You’re right. I think they wanted to frighten us. They’ve succeeded with me. If they wanted to kill him, they would have.”
Other gay people had paid a higher price for being open than Tom or I had so far. I felt guilt because Tom wouldn’t be in danger if he didn’t know me. Maybe they’d kill him to get at me. Killing someone isn’t always the most vicious revenge—making people suffer a grievous loss for the rest of their life insures getting even to the greatest degree.
My frustration had continued to build. Hiring guards and police protection seemed purely defensive. Between Tom and me, I’m almost always the more cautious one. If there’s a hesitation to be had, I’ll think of it. It’s not that Tom’s particularly hotheaded, it’s just that I’ve usually found that proceeding cautiously is more effective than rushing off blindly. But I was really upset and frustrated. The police wanted me out of their way, but I had to do something to make it seem as if I weren’t simply being overwhelmed by circumstances beyond my control. I thought several moments, then announced, “I’m hiring a private investigator.”
“You think that will help?” Mrs. Mason asked.
“If I hire someone, I’ll feel like I’m taking positive action. The police don’t want us interfering, but I can still do something.” I looked at McCutcheon.
He said, “I think the police have a lot more chance of finding anything out. They have files, background, computers, and especially personnel who can question people, take notes, write reports, coordinate efforts.” He shrugged. “But you can spend your money any way you want.”
Jantoro said, “Any outside interference will be frowned on.”
“I’m going to do something,” I stated. “You won’t let me be at the interviews. Fine. I’ll hire my own interviewer. I’ll hire an entire goddamn agency if I want to.”
No one denied me my right to be inflexibly stubborn or my right to spend my money in a possibly useless activity. My innate caution had given way to frustration, anger, and fear. Our discussion finished, Mrs. Mason and I returned to Tom’s room.
I was tired. I was working on only three hours of sleep. I felt out of control, unreasonable, and irrationally stubborn. The note had me shaken. Every time I thought about it, I began to tremble. I wasn’t sure whether this was from rage or fear; probably both. Calm in the face of chaos wasn’t new to me, but I was closer to the edge now than I’d ever been while pitching. Throwing baseballs was a job. This was personal.
9
Two hours later I was in the offices of Borini and Faslo, the largest, most sought after, and most prestigious firm of private detectives in the city. Their offices covered the entire twenty-second and twenty-third floors of the Sears Tower.
I’d asked McCutcheon for a recommendation. Like me, he only knew of Borini and Faslo by reputation. They had been on the cover of Chicago magazine and had had flattering profiles in the Sun-Times, Tribune, and Daily Herald. Their first notoriety had come when they’d gotten banner headlines while uncovering dirt in a divorce case between a pro hockey player and his wife, a messy affair involving custody warfare over three kids under the age of six, millions of dollars, a mistress for him, and a gigolo for her.
My fame had gotten us an appointment with Frank Borini and Daniel Faslo late on a Sunday afternoon. Their offices were furnished mostly with gargantuan plants, and strips of chrome outlining every flat surface. It struck me as sort of a rain forest in chains. The only other person I saw was in a distant office—a man in his twenties typing rapidly.
Borini was slightly over six feet tall and looked to be in his early forties. He combed the remaining strands of his heavily greased hair straight back from his forehead. Faslo was around five-eight. He kept the remaining strands on his nearly bald head cut short in bold assertion of a military-style brush cut. Both wore dark gray suits.
We sat on cherry-colored leather chairs around an oak coffee table. After everyone was comfortable, I said, “I want to hire you to investigate who blew up the block on the North Side and to find out who’s making threats against my lover and me.” I gave them details.
They waited until I finished, then smiled indulgently. “You’re joking,” Borini said.
I didn’t smile. “No.”
Their smiles faded. Faslo asked, “Do you understand the impossibility of a private firm trying such an undertaking?”
“I hire you. You investigate. What’s the problem?”
I saw Faslo biting back another smile. He said, “We are not mini-James Bonds here. We do divorce work and domestic surveillance. We investigate industrial sabotage and computer crimes. We help in numerous extremely complicated court cases. Nobody here carries a gun. We don’t have access to police, FBI, or ATF files. They’re the ones you should go to.”
I reiterated my anxiety about the personal nature of the attacks.
“You’ve told all this to the police?” Faslo asked.
I nodded.
Borini said, “I appreciate your concern and the nature of your involvement, but, really, the official government agencies should be the ones to handle it. We don’t have the resources. We are not an international-terrorist fighting organization and we don’t want to be. We don’t have exotic lone-wolf detectives with machine guns and a penchant for violence. That’s television, not reality. And what if we got a reputation for hunting terrorists? Then wouldn’t we become targets ourselves? I think so.”
“I will pay you a million dollars—half now and half when you find out who has been making these threats, and a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus if they go to prison.”
That stopped them. Normally, I hate flashing my money around. See, there’s this thing I’ve learned about being fabulously wealthy. People generally pay some kind of attention. Not only am I paid millions as a baseball player, but before the sexual-orientation publicity, I made almost as much money from endorsements as Michael Jordan does. I’ve saved my money and put it in nice conservative, steady moneymaking investments. Basically, I’m still a kid from a rural farm in the South and reasonably shy. I know that might be hard to believe about a famous athlete, but it’s true. For the first few years the money kind of turned my head, but not anymore. The number of those dopey “collectible” figurines I bought
years ago in airports around the country is embarrassing. And Tom is good at bringing me back to reality. Nothing like being filthy rich and your boyfriend telling you that your teeth need brushing before making love. But if I’ve got that much money, why shouldn’t I use it at a moment like this?
Faslo asked, “You’re willing to spend that kind of money on just the threats, not the bombing?”
“If the two are connected, both.”
“It’s a lot of money,” Borini said.
“Why didn’t you have someone investigate the threats before?” Faslo asked. “You must have reported it to the police.”
“The police did investigate. They got nothing. I thought there was no more to be done. Now, I want to try you guys.” I sat forward. “Look, I just want to protect myself as much as possible. The security guards are one thing, but that’s mostly defensive. If I hire investigators, I feel like I’m doing something, taking some action.”
“You realize,” Faslo said, “that it is extremely unlikely that we would find out anything that the police haven’t? While I’d hate to pass up a massive fee, really, we are not the ones you should go to.”
“I can find another agency.”
“Yes, you’ll probably find someone to take your money. They may even lie about how effective they will be.” Faslo shrugged. “I can’t prevent that.”
“What about the note at the hospital?” I asked. “You must be able to ask questions about that.”
Faslo said, “I need to talk to my partner for a few moments.” They rose and left the room.
“I wish I knew more about these guys,” McCutcheon said.
“You want me to have you investigate the investigators?”
“Lot of that going around these days. Might not hurt for me to make a few more calls. Having a reputation is one thing. Knowing their real background is another.”
After fifteen minutes Borini and Faslo reentered the room. Borini said, “The police are better equipped to do any investigating in what is undoubtedly a complex matter. However, if you give us a retainer of fifty thousand dollars, we will commit resources to finding out who has been threatening you. Obviously this will include asking questions at the hospital about the note. We will not directly involve ourselves in the bombing investigation. As we said, even if we cared to, we do not have the resources for such an undertaking. We promise to follow up every lead we get. As long as you understand, Mr. Carpenter, that we guarantee nothing. That if we come up with any information about the bombing, we will be giving it to the police as well as you. It is most likely that we will come up with nothing. Your offer of a million dollars is out of line. I hate to let it go. At the moment we’ll take the much lesser amount. As I’m sure you know, money is not always the answer, nor is greed. Who knows, we might get prestige from having Scott Carpenter as a client.”
“I want to be there when you ask questions at the hospital.”
“No,” Borini said. “You are hiring us because we’re professionals. We know our business. You would be in the way.”
“I’m the client.”
“And you’re rich,” Borini said. “We know that, but we’re going to do this our way.”
“I guess you will.” They weren’t giving me a lot of choices. So much for throwing my money around to get instant gratification. Tom would advise me to stick with chocolate to fill this latter need.
We left. It was after six. The Loop was nearly deserted of traffic. The weather continued perfect. The sunset was golden orange, soft pinks, and soothing blues. The enjoyable warmth of the day was fading to a pleasantly cool evening. I slumped in the passenger seat of McCutcheon’s Hummer. Several times I almost nodded off as we drove to the hospital.
The last streaks of sunset hung in the sky as I talked to the doctor and Tom’s family outside his room. There had been no change in his condition.
10
The first thing I noticed when I woke up was dull pain all over, and a feeling that I’d been drugged. I noted that I was in a bed, and I was looking out a window at the end of a sunset or the beginning of a sunrise. I heard the murmur of voices at some distance. I wondered why an IV tube was attached to my arm. I shut my eyes and slept.
11
McCutcheon drove me home.
I phoned Tom’s school number for substitute teachers and left a message on the machine. I called several of Tom’s close friends from work to give them the news.
In the living room I turned on the stereo system and then shut off all the lights. I let the glow from the city outside and the digital readout on the stereo illumine the white carpet and the white furniture. I picked out a tape I’d made from all my county-and-western CDs. It consisted of the softest ballads and the most melancholy and sappy songs of the past thirty years. The best part was all of Mary Chapin Carpenter’s slow songs at the start of the first side of the tape. Even Tom likes those. I rewound it to the beginning. I lay on the couch and let her voice soothe me. I did my best to suppress the still undimmed memories of the carnage I’d seen. My exhaustion finally overcame my swirling thoughts. The last song I remembered was Lyle Lovett singing “Step Inside This House.”
I woke in the living room to full morning. I called the hospital. They thought Tom was sleeping and not in a coma anymore. I showered, dressed, and called security. McCutcheon picked me up, and we hurried over. Tom wasn’t awake, but the doctors were hopeful.
About nine, one of Tom’s friends, a drag queen named Myrtle Mae Zagglioni, swept in. Myrtle Mae was known to a few of us as Bryce Bennet, scion to an agribusiness fortune. Myrtle Mae would rather lose his entire wardrobe than have this fact broadcast. The way I heard the story was that ever since he’d run away from home when he was sixteen, Myrtle Mae had tried to live down his wealthy background. When he was young, he supposedly lived a raucous and exciting life: driving a garbage truck in New York for a while; being thrown out of the Peace Corps for radical activities in South America; and picking grapes in California with the United Farm Workers, an avocation particularly offensive to his family. How much of any of these and more were true, I didn’t know. Tom wasn’t sure and claimed he was too discreet to ask. I thought this was a crock. Tom loves gossip as much as the most notorious queeny Hollywood reporter, he just hates to admit it. I know better. I think he just hadn’t found anybody who was willing to tell.
With Myrtle Mae was his sometime companion John Werner. He was in his late sixties or early seventies. Werner always dressed in pastel colors or washed-out grays. He seldom spoke. With Myrtle Mae, if you looked beyond the layers of makeup and the glitter to the lines around his eyes and the wattles he tried to cover over, you could tell he had to be near Werner’s age. It was rumored that they had once been lovers. While they did not live together, Werner accompanied Myrtle Mae to weddings, funerals, and I guessed now, hospital visits.
Werner I didn’t mind. I disliked Myrtle Mae intensely. As far as I knew, he never appeared outside of drag. I don’t mind drag, but like most gay people it irritates me that the straight media usually shows only pictures of drag queens after every gay pride parade. I am unable to explain, and I’m not sure anyone can, the endless fascination the straight media have with drag queens. I hesitate to embrace the theory that this emphasis comes about because drag is seen as the safe way to deal with gay people. The semitragic, overemotional, clownish buffoon as role model? As acceptable icon? Think Amos and Andy in the fifties and how offensive that is today. I believe the prevalence of drag portrayals is a way to keep us marginalized, to keep prominent the message to the silly and righteously Christian that drag is all that gay people are. That we are as pathetic if occasionally amusing as most drag queens are portrayed.
Unfortunately, the straight media’s interest in the dragqueen phenomenon is only slightly greater than that shown by the gay media. I don’t understand that either. Don’t get me wrong. I have a soft spot for drag queens, as I suspect all gay people do, because of their role in the Stonewall riots. Plus, I don’t mind i
f people want to do drag, but dressing up, costumes, and exaggerated effeminacy are not my thing. What can I say? I flunked Halloween as a kid.
The real reason I can’t stand Myrtle Mae, though, is his condescending attitude toward me. I’m sorry that he was picked on by the more coordinated and athletic of his classmates in school. I had nothing to do with it. He always manages to make some snide crack about my being a jock, usually connecting the comment with a vicious swipe at my IQ level. Lots of gay people look down on me because I’m a jock. Even worse, I don’t like opera, don’t know the name of the trendiest art galleries in New York, and don’t know the names of very many long-dead actresses. Nor do I particularly care to change their notions about me. I’m comfortable with who I am. The truth is, I graduated summa cum laude from college. Yeah, my major was PE, but I minored in both philosophy and math. I liked the logic of them. I would be damned if I would defend myself to this or any other shallow creep by mentioning these facts. Tom knows how I feel about Myrtle Mae. I won’t let Tom tell about my college record either. On the other hand, I have also discovered that a college degree is no defense against stupidity.
This morning Myrtle Mae’s impressive bulk was enshrouded in pink chiffon, which barely hid his jiggling flab. I could picture him eating himself to death, a dead drag queen on a heap of candy wrappers, and felt immediate guilt for this thought.
In deference to the slight cooling from yesterday, Myrtle Mae wore a fur wrap. He often proclaimed he did this deliberately to annoy the pro-pet, antifur crowd.
He said, “I saw on the news that Tom was injured. I watched every bit of coverage from the moment it came on until early this morning.” He glanced through the doorway at Tom’s sleeping figure. “Will he survive?”
“They think so,” I said.
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