by Dorien Grey
If all the gay cops on the force served openly, Tom’s actions would still have been considered heroic, but that he was the first of our own on the force to whom the community could point with pride…well, it elicited a rather unrealistic degree of hope that other gay officers would somehow begin opening their closet doors. Still, it was hope, and the community clutched at it.
While this was all, indeed, kind of euphoric, it was also a bit more than altruistic. The hard fact of the matter was that Tom was not openly gay to the department and while the department’s reaction was yet to be seen, it was almost inevitably going to be negative, and harsh.
*
I arrived at the office Monday morning to find a message from Lieutenant Mark Richman, asking me to call him. The message didn’t say “immediately” but it didn’t have to. I didn’t get calls from Lieutenant Richman unless it was important.
I put the plastic lid back on the Styrofoam cup of coffee I’d picked up at the diner downstairs, dialed City Annex—the name given to the extension of the City Building built to house Police Headquarters—and asked for Richman’s extension.
“Lieutenant Richman.”
“Lieutenant. This is Dick Hardesty returning your call.”
As usual, on the phone, he was all Police Lieutenant efficiency. “Thanks for calling, Dick. I was wondering if you might be free for lunch today. There’s something I’d like to talk over with you.”
Now, I wonder what that might be? my mind asked.
“Sure, Lieutenant. The park or Sandler’s?” We’d established a sort of pattern, in the several cases I’d worked on in loose conjunction with Richman, of meeting either at the fountain in Warman Park, or at Sandler’s Café, both of which were about two blocks from City Annex where the police department headquarters were located.
“How about Sandler’s? Noon?”
“I’ll see you there.”
I knew full well Richman knew I’d been with Tom at the shooting, and I also knew full well that it wasn’t the shooting he wanted to talk about. Richman was officially in Departmental Administration, but he apparently wore a lot of hats. He worked closely with the head of the Homicide Division, Captain Offermann, and it was as Offermann’s legman that we had had most of our previous contacts. But in this instance I was pretty sure this call was more related to his administrative duties than to Homicide.
*
I didn’t even try to call Tom. I knew he still wouldn’t be answering his phone, but I was curious if he’d had any contact from his department superiors. I decided to either wait until I heard from him, or I’d drop by on my way home.
I got to Sandler’s early, of course, and was on my second cup of coffee when I saw Richman come in. The more I saw of that guy, the more attractive he became. I knew part of my attraction was something of a matter of “forbidden fruit” (no pun intended) in that Richman was unrelentingly straight. But that didn’t make him one bit less sexy. He was in full uniform, which was just a little unusual since he was normally in civies when we met outside of his office.
He came directly over, shook hands, and sat down opposite me. The waiter had followed him to the table, so he didn’t say anything until his coffee was poured and the waiter moved away.
“We’ve got a problem.” He did not look directly at me as he placed his napkin on his lap.
“I know.”
He reached for the sugar and poured about a quarter-cupful into his coffee, then picked up the spoon and began stirring, slowly. His eyes moved up to mine and locked on them, as was another part of the ritual of our meetings.
“If Officer Brady is gay…” I knew and appreciated the fact that he would not ask me directly, “…the repercussions can be gravely serious for the department, especially now. Chief Black is a good man, and I think he’s exactly what the department has needed for some time. But he has powerful enemies, and he hasn’t been here long enough to fully establish his control. There are still too many…” The waiter returned, order pad and pencil in hand.
Without looking at the menu, Richman ordered his usual meatloaf platter and I ordered the turkey club I’d seen written on the chalkboard in the window as I’d come in.
Richman watched as the waiter headed off for the kitchen, then picked up in mid-sentence: “…of Chief Rourke’s cronies around who were perfectly satisfied with the way the department was run in Nineteen-thirty-three and see no reason for it to change. They resent Chief Black’s vision of what the department should be, and will do anything in their considerable power to undermine him. Most of them will be retiring within a couple years, but until then, Chief Black is going to have to keep a very tight rein. The question is, frankly, if he’d be able to handle such an explosive issue right now, given his short time on the job.”
As usual, once eye contact had been established between us, it was broken only to blink. I didn’t get the impression that I needed to do anything other than listen at the moment, so that’s what I did.
Richman took another sip of his coffee and set the cup down. “The issue of gays on the force is serious enough without its being compounded by the fact that the officer in question is married to Chief Black’s goddaughter. The fact that Brady is married is a strong factor in his favor: Most of these old-timers simply can’t comprehend that somebody can be both married and gay at the same time. The old ‘he’s married so he can’t be gay’ mind set. That he was at a gay bar with an openly gay man can be explained by the fact that you are an old friend of both him and his wife. But the ‘guilt by association’ factor is always there. Now, if he were to come out publicly and deny being gay….” He looked at me, studying my face, and gave the barest hint of a smile.
“He wouldn’t do that. Tom’s a man of honor and strong principle. Why should he have to deny something that has nothing whatever to do with his qualifications as a police officer? It’s like asking someone to deny being a Democrat, or a Republican: It’s totally irrelevant and nobody’s damned business.”
Richman nodded. “In a perfect world…. But how we’re able to handle this entire situation depends to a large extent on the reaction of the gay community.”
The waiter arrived with our lunch, and we ate in silence for a moment, dropping our mutual eye-lock with the conversation.
When I felt the pause had gone on long enough, I said: “So what, if anything, would you like from me?”
Don’t say it! I cautioned my crotch.
The eye-lock resumed, Richman waited until he’d dipped a forkful of meatloaf into the gravy around his mashed potatoes, conveyed it to his mouth, chewed a bit, and swallowed, before gesturing toward me with his fork and saying: “I’ve already heard the rumors—Brady’s being looked on as a community hero: and if he is gay, that’s completely understandable. To have the department looked on favorably for a change by the gay community would normally be a real plus. But the hardliners definitely won’t see it that way.
“We’ve done everything we can to encourage the mainstream media to act responsibly and not make an issue of the rumors. Luckily, most of them are on Chief Black’s side and so far they’ve done a good job of just sticking to the pertinent facts of the incident. Of course there are no guarantees that someone won’t see the opportunity to boost sales or ratings too tempting to resist. We’ll just have to wait and see.
“But while we have very little control over how the general public views this incident, we have absolutely none over the gay community, and it’s the gay community that holds the fuse and the match.”
I’d hardly touched my sandwich, but took a few bites while Richman took a momentary pause to scoop a forkful of succotash through the mashed potatoes and into his mouth. Having done so, he shook his head slowly, swallowed, and resumed talking.
“We have a slight advantage, too, in the fact that very few if any of the old-schoolers have a clue as to what’s going on within the community. But you can be sure they’re going to suddenly be very alert to every ripple this causes. As long as the s
tory stays within the community, the chances of the hardliners being able to grab something and run with it is limited. But the minute articles start cropping up in Rainbow Flag or ‘Go, Brady!’ banners show up on the front of gay bars, or the activists decide to hold a rally or march on city hall to demand ‘more’ gay cops, we’re all in deep shit.”
He finished his coffee, laid his knife and fork on his now empty plate, and edged it slightly forward toward the center of the table to indicate that he was done. Then he again resumed our eye lock.
“So, the bottom line is this: Chief Black’s enemies are looking for any reason to discredit and even get rid of him. They would love nothing better than to use this incident as a chance to get at him by demanding that he fire Brady. That would be an unmitigated disaster, for the department and for any hope it may ever have had to improve relations with the gay community. To fire a cop for saving the lives of three members of that community would send a horrific message and do incalculable and possibly irreparable harm.
“We don’t want the gay community to give them a reason. At this point no one…” and both his facial expression and the tone of his voice got his message across clearly “…knows for sure that Tom Brady is gay. And we’re going to do our level best to make sure that no one on the force officially asks. From everything I’ve heard, Tom Brady is a damned good cop, and like it or not, if he is gay and wants to keep his career, the gay community has to cooperate.”
I knew without question that he was right, but wasn’t quite sure just what he wanted me to do about it.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” I said, “but I’m hardly what anyone would consider a ‘community leader’—they’re the ones you should be talking with.”
The waiter came to take our plates and ask if we wanted dessert. Richman asked for some peach cobbler— That man is a bottomless pit! I thought, inexplicably flashing on a split second of erotic fantasy—and I passed. The waiter poured us more coffee, and turned to get the cobbler, which was in a cooler just a few feet from our table.
“We would if we could,” Richman said when he’d left, reaching again for the sugar and again picking up the conversation where it had left off, “but we’re skating on very thin ice, here, and no one from the department can approach these people directly without giving the hard liners even more ammunition. The official stand of the department regarding this shooting is that it involved an off duty officer who arrived on the scene—the circumstances of how he happened to be there are totally irrelevant. We don’t want sexual orientation to enter the equation. We have, as I said earlier, the advantage that most of the hardliners can’t accept or even comprehend the idea that a man can be married to a woman and have sex with another man. Totally beyond their ken, and we want to keep it that way.
“So while you may not consider yourself a community leader, you’ve got contacts with the people who are. Glen O’Banyon, for one; and you’ve got close links with the Bar Guild. Try and get them together with the gay papers and the Gay Business League and anyone else who will listen. Just ask them to please, please keep a low profile on this thing. You’ve got a right to be proud of Officer Brady whether he’s gay or not, but don’t give the hardliners any more reason than they already have to use Brady to destroy the Chief.”
He was silent again, and we finished our coffee as the waiter brought the check.
“On me,” Richman said, reaching for it.
*
I found a message from Tom when I returned to the office, asking me to call, but called Glen O’Banyon’s office first. His secretary, Donna, told me he was in court, but that she would have him call me as soon as he possibly could. I then dialed Tom’s number.
Lisa answered the phone. “Brady residence.” Obviously, she’d taken the day off work to be with Tom.
“Lisa, hi, it’s Dick. Is Tom around?”
“Sure, Dick. Hold a second.” I heard the receiver being set down, and a moment later picked up.
“Hi, Dick. Thanks for calling back.”
I told him where I’d been and gave him a rundown on my conversation with Richman. “So you’ve got some pretty heavy support in the department.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to need it. And I think Richman is right in asking the community to keep it cool.”
“Have you had any word from the department?”
“Not a word. Jake called to see how I was doing but….”
Somehow, I read a lot into that last word, and I got a small knot in my gut. I’d have expected he would have been swamped with calls from his fellow officers. That the only guy who’d called was the one whose life he probably saved…shit!
But there was only a moment’s pause before he continued: “The reason I tried to reach you is that my dad’s coming into town tomorrow to get ready for the union contract talks. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with us at the Montero?”
“Sure. I’m looking forward to meeting your dad.”
“You’ll like him.”
“Hey, he’s your dad. How could I not like him?” I knew that one of the major reasons I was being invited was to provide Carol with a “date”. God, what stupid, stupid games! But I didn’t resent them for playing it: I just wished it wasn’t necessary.
“Seven thirty?”
“Great. You want me to drive?”
“It might be a little easier, if you don’t mind.”
“And we’ll meet Carol and Lisa at the hotel?” I asked, teasing.
“You’re a riot, Hardesty!”
*
I had a lot of people I wanted to call, but decided it best to wait until I heard from O’Banyon first. He was, after all, the key to organizing the people in a position to do something—or, in this case, to not do something.
Luckily, O’Banyon returned my call within the hour, and I quickly outlined my meeting and conversation with Richman.
“He’s right, of course,” O’Banyon said, “and whatever we do should be done quickly. And we need a place to meet….” There was a brief pause while we both thought.
“How about the M.C.C.? It’s centrally located, and I know Reverend Mason would be glad to cooperate. I’m sure we could use one of their meeting rooms.”
“Good idea. Why don’t you give him a call and see if we can get one for…what…tomorrow night around 5:30? I’ll call Lee Taylor at the Gay Business League right away, but then I have to get back to court. Could you do me a favor and call the editors of Rainbow Flag and…what are those two bar papers? We might as well make sure we don’t leave anybody out.”
“Bottoms Up and Tattler. Sure, I can call them all. Can I say I’m calling for you when I talk to them? I don’t think ‘Dick Hardesty’ by itself would be much of an incentive for anyone to come to a meeting.”
“Of course. And you know the president of the Bar Guild, don’t you?”
“Mark Graser. Yeah. I can call him, too.”
“I’d appreciate it. And if you can think of anyone else who should be there…. And we should probably just try to get the word around generally. The more people who know what’s going on, the better.”
“I’ll get right on it. Give me a call at home tonight, if you can, and we can bring each other up to date.”
“I’ll do that. And now I’ve got to call Lee Taylor and get to court. Later.”
*
As soon as we hung up, I got out the phone book to look up the number of the M.C.C. and called. I was in luck when I heard, “Metropolitan Community Church: Reverend Mason speaking.”
I got right to the point and invited him to be part of the meeting, since he had a strong voice in the community. He was glad to cooperate, and offered us the large basement room normally used for the church’s Sunday School. He quickly added that he’d be sure there were enough adult chairs to seat everyone. I thanked him and made a mental note to stop by the store on my way home to pick up a couple pounds of coffee, sugar, powdered creamer, and some Styrofoam cups. I knew Tony would be sure there w
as coffee available, but since the church was run on a tight budget, it was sort of a tradition for those who used the church for social events to restock whatever supplies were used.
I had to rummage through my desk drawer to find copies of Rainbow Flag and Tattler…I didn’t have a copy of Bottoms Up and would have to make a quick run the two blocks to Hughie’s—the closest gay bar to my office—to pick one up. I looked for the editors’ names and their phone numbers, then called.
Charles Conrad had just taken over as editor of Rainbow Flag and was doing a really great job with it. I’d never met him, but knew his predecessor. So I was a bit surprised, when I introduced myself and told him I was calling for Glen O’Banyon, to have him say: “Oh, yes! Dick Hardesty: You were with Officer Brady at the shooting!”
Now, how in the hell did he know that? I wondered.
Probably because he’s a newspaper editor, Dumbo, my mind answered. They get paid to know things.
“Uh, yes…” I said.
“I’m glad you called,” he said. “I was going to try to get in touch with you. We’d like to interview you and Officer Brady for the cover story we’re doing for next week’s issue on the shooting.”
Uh, not if I can help it, I thought.
“That’s just the reason I’m calling, Mr. Conrad. We’re having an important meeting of community leaders tomorrow evening at 5:30 at the M.C.C.. Mr. O’Banyon specifically asked that you be there, and I strongly recommend it.”
“Is it in regard to Officer Brady and the shooting?”
“While I can’t go into specifics right now, yes.”
“Then I’ll be there. I’m sure you can appreciate what a story like this means to the community. A hero cop! A gay hero cop! What a story!”
If only you knew, I thought, but said: “I agree. So we’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Count on it,” he said. But before I could say goodbye, he said: “We’ve been trying to reach Officer Brady ever since the shooting, but he’s not taking our calls. Could you put in a good word for us? And will he be there tomorrow?”