"I just want to say one last thing to you, Don. Listen to this. Listen carefully. I was thumbing through your Proust a while ago and came upon a line that jumped right out at me. It seemed so apt, so perfect. It was Swann talking to Odette, but it could as easily have been me to you. He says to her, Swann says, 'You are a formless water that will trickle down any slope that offers itself.' How about that? 'A formless water that will trickle down any slope that offers itself"
He waited.
I said, "Yeah. How about that? Quite a phrasemaker, Proust. The man was a genius, no doubt about it."
"He summed you up in fourteen words. Goodbye."
"Actually, it's probably less harsh in the original French, andHello? Timmy? Hello?"
With a phone company click he was gone.
"A formless water." I'd done it.
I ate a slice of pie, got change for a dollar from grandson, went back and piled some dimes by the phone. I dialed the apartment. No answer. I dialed my service. No messages.
Later. For sure.
Back in my booth I went over the Trefusis-Greco-McWhirter-Deem-Wilson-Fisher situation in my mind yet again. I had my coffee cup refilled twice. My head buzzed with heat, fatigue, and caffeine, and I swiped at flies that weren't there. One dropped into my coffee cup.
I couldn't figure any of it out. I still was nagged by the idea that I had not picked up on something crucial, but I didn't know what. I had been preoccupied, and that had been my fault, mostly.
I remembered my meeting with Lyle Barner. I got out my address book, went back to the phone, and made a credit card call to San Francisco. It was nine-thirty-five in Albany, three hours earlier in California. He'd probably be home.
"Yyyyeh-lo."
"Hi, Buel. Don Strachey. You sound chipper enough."
"Don, you old faggot pissant! Son of a bee! You in town, I hope?"
"Albany. Grandma's Pie Shop on Central. We shared a Bavarian cream here once."
"Ah, so we did. And if my rapidly deteriorating memory serves me, the pie that night was the least of it."
"If Grandma had known."
"Well, shithouse mouse! If this doesn't beat all! An old trick calls me up from three thousand miles away six years later, when last Tuesday's passes me on the street today and looks right through me. Son of a bee."
"You sound as if you're in good shape, Buel. Still out there organizing the masses for the socialist judgment day?"
"Oh, yeah. In a manner of speaking, I am. To tell you the truth, Don, I am now actually gainfully 67 employed. Can you believe that? I work at an S and L."
"You into that too? When I knew you, your sexual tastes were more or less conventional."
"That's a savings and loan. Hercules S and L. It's all gay. No more rude tellers and huffy loan officers for the brothers and sisters. It's a new day, Don. I love it. And we're growing like crazy.
B of A's gonna have to either come out of the closet or move to Kansas."
"B of A, what's that? Belle of Amherst? Basket of apples? What?"
"Bank of America. Owns half the city, and the suburbs all the way to Denver. But not for long.
Hercules is flexing its mighty muscle."
"I can't wait to see your logo."
"So, how you doing back there in Depressoville? How's Timmy?"
"Oh, Timmy's fine, fine. The reason I called was I know a gay cop here who needs to make a move. Is San Francisco still recruiting among the brethren?"
"In a small, halfhearted way, yes. You want a name? I'll get you one if you want to hang on."
I said I did. He came back on the line a minute later with a name and phone number. I wrote them down.
"Thanks, Buel. This might help. As you can guess, the revolution has not yet reached the Albany Police Department. Speaking of which, one of your city's most notorious troublemakers is with us in Albany this weekend. Do you know Fenton McWhirter?"
"Oh, sure. Everybody knows Fenton. We worked together on the first Harvey Milk campaign.
Fenton rubs a lot of people the wrong way, but I always thought he was okay. There's nobody more dedicated to the movement, that's for sure. And, I suppose, nobody more ruthless. Fenton can be counted on to make some noise at least, one way or another."
"Ruthless? How so?"
"Oh, let's see. Let me count the ways. Do you remember the story that went around about how Harvey had a brick thrown through his own window to get more press attention and public support? I happen to know that Harvey didn't do it at all. He might have known about it, but it was Fenton's idea, and Fenton tossed the brick. And it worked."
"Is that so?"
"Another time ol' Fenton got pissed off at some cop who'd roughed him up a little at a street demonstration but didn't leave any marks to speak of. Fenton went out and found some deranged hustler over on Turk Street and paid him ten bucks to break Fenton's nose with a pipe. Then he tried to pin it on the cop. Naturally it didn't stick though. You can hardly get them on the real stuff. Say, is Fenton back there recruiting for his famous gay national strike?"
"He's trying. But he's having his troubles."
"The last I heard, he and his lover-what's-his-name-were thinking of calling the whole campaign off. Fenton's so wacky that none of the fat cats will bankroll the drive, and he's practically flat out, I hear. No dough for rallies, nothing. It's too bad, in a way. Fenton has all of Harvey's cosmic idealism, but none of his personality or political savvy. We're still making headway, Don, but it's just not the same anymore, without the heroes."
"Yeah. That's true. You know, Buel, this is some fascinating information you've given me."
"Fascinating? How so?"
"Well, I've run into Fenton a number of times in the last thirty-six hours. And now I have this whole new perspective on the man. It's… fascinating. Depressing too. Look, Buel, I have to run. Gotta see a man about a finger."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Take care now, Don. See you at Christmastime, maybe, if I get back there to visit 68 the folks."
"Sure thing. And thanks again, Buel."
"Good talkin' to you."
I went back to my booth, shoved the plates and cups aside, and laid my head on the table. I slept soundly for five minutes and had very bad dreams. One of them woke me up, and I ordered a fifth cup of coffee.
Oh, Fenton, I thought. Say it isn't so, Fenton. end user
15
Bowman was seated in the driver's seat of his car, which was backed around to the rear of the barn. The young plainclothesman sat at his side. I walked up to the open window and barked, "Gotcha!"
He gave me his city hall gargoyle look. "What the fuck you talkin' about, Strachey? Geddada here!" "Where's McWhirter? He still holding up?" "Still asleep, far as I know. Mrs. Fisher and her lady friend are upstairs with the air conditioner running. My men won't get into place until after midnight, so as to not disturb the ladies. I've got a man inside the house who'll be there all night to reassure the gals-they still don't know about this army I've got deployed-and to keep McWhirter under control. My only concern is, who's going to keep you under control, Strachey? I do not want you gumming up this operation. You understand that?
You screw this up, and you are kaput in the state of New York. Capeesh?"
"Check, Ned. Capeesh, kaput. Where's the ransom money?"
"Already out there in the mailbox. A man's in the woods across the road keeping an eye on it."
"I hope he's one of your best."
He chortled. The underling alongside him chortled too. I walked on into the house.
The kitchen light was on. A uniformed cop sat at the kitchen table gravely considering the Times Union sports section. He looked up. "Who are you?"
"Inspector Maigret," I said, and walked on down the hall.
I opened the door to the guest room where McWhirter was staying and went in. I snapped on a table lamp and shut the door. McWhirter did not awaken. He lay atop the flowered sheets, stretched out on his back in a pair of jockey briefs with a frayed waistband.
The shorts barely contained a healthy erection. I averted my eyes somewhat.
I rummaged through a canvas traveling bag that lay open on the floor. It contained a pair of Army surplus fatigues, jeans, T-shirts, a reeking sweatshirt, socks, toilet articles. Underneath these was a recent copy of Gay Community News and assorted letters and postcards. I read McWhirter's mail, all of it communications from various contacts around the country, gay organizations or individuals he planned on visiting, or had visited, during the gay national strike campaign. I found no mention in any of this of an untoward or criminal plot.
I opened a beat-up old L. L. Bean backpack that contained more clothing, of a smaller size.
Greco's.
McWhirter stirred. His right arm flopped twice against the sheet. His erection throbbed. I got one too. I looked away and pretended to myself that I was Buffalo Bob Smith. After a moment, McWhirter's breathing, evened out again, as did mine. Above me I could hear the snapping and fretting of TV voices and the distant whirr of an air conditioner.
Under the crumpled clothing in Greco's pack I found a bound volume, Moonbites: Poems by Peter Greco. I read two, and they were Greco: simple-hearted, avid, appealing. Yet the craft and originality just weren't there. It was, as Richard Wilbur had cruelly put it, "the young passing 69 notes to one another." Greco was less young than he used to be, and maybe there was other recent more accomplished work. I hoped so. I wished that Greco were a fine poet, the kind that gives you the shakes, turns you upside down in your chair. I feared that he wasn't. I wondered if he knew it. I guessed he would. I wanted to find himactually kidnapped, and not involved in some idiotic scam with McWhirter-and spend some time with him again.
I thought of Timmy. I figured he'd probably end up in some dumb orgy somewhere that night, and the next day enter the priesthood, a dry-cleaning order, no doubt. And I would find Greco, set him free, and run off with him. To Morocco, maybe, where I could do consulting work with Interpol while Peter reclined on a veranda by the sea and wrote-mediocre poetry. That's what I'd do.
I laid my head against the side of the bed where McWhirter slept and realized how utterly bone-weary I was. I yawned, then made myself think startlingly wakeful thoughts. It wasn't hard.
I replaced the poetry book in the backpack and came up with another volume, a hardbound book whose final pages were blank, but which otherwise had been filled in with handwritten dated short paragraphs. It was Greco's journal. A private matter ordinarily, but under the special circumstances I began to read the recent entries.
July 30 — Staying at Mike Calabria's in Providence. Air heavy, hot, suffocating. Mike big, noisy, generous, funny. Fenton heartsick at reception in Rhode Island. Newspaper refers to him as
"Frisco Minority Activist." What that? Eleven men sign on; $12 raised.
Aug. 2 — New Haven hot, Yalies cool. No students, but two cafeteria workers sign pledge. Stayed with Tom Bittner, here for a year researching colonial anti-gay laws. Great seeing Tom. Cicely still with him; I slept on porch.
Aug. 5 — The Big Apple. Gay men everywhere — and nowhere. Temperature inversion over city produces vomit-green cloud. Could barely breathe. Fenton went unannounced to office of New York Times editor, but…
McWhirter groaned, raised his head, blinked at me. I let the journal fall back into the knapsack.
I said, "Just the man I want to talk to."
"What? What the fuck are you doing in here? Where's-? Oh, God."
"That wasn't Peter's finger in the package. You would have seen that. You said nothing. Why?"
He did a double take, then bridled. "What the fuck is going on? What time is it?" He grabbed at a wristwatch on the bedside table, glared at it, then wrapped it around the circle of white flesh on his wrist. "Christ, it's not even eleven yet."
"You ignored my question."
He lay back against the headboard and examined me sullenly. Suddenly he snapped, "Of course I knew it wasn't Peter's finger! Of course I would know that!"
"You didn't mention it to anybody. That strikes me as odd. It gets me to thinking."
He blinked, looked alarmed. "Jesus! Do the cops know?"
"Know what, Fenton?"
"The finger-that it wasn't-"
"Where did you get it? I've been wondering. Men's fingers are hard to come by. Not as rare as… hens' teeth. But rare."
"Where did I get it?"
"Or whoever."
He sat up with a jerk and Hung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet stank. I backed away and eased onto a desk chair.
McWhirter's face had reddened. He sputtered, "I know what you think."
"What do I think?"
"That I set this up."
"Why would I think that?"
"Because I-You must have found out that I play the game by rules I didn't make. Rules that I don't like but that somebody else made, and for now they are the rules."
"Your nose is a little cockeyed. I hadn't noticed it before, but now I do. How come?"
In his confusion, he couldn't help grinning daffily. "You heard that story? Great. Well, so what?
It's true. Other people had been bloodied by the cops that night, the fucking savages. But those cops had taped over their badge numbers. The one who hit me hadn't. And I had his number.
Simple justice."
"Simpleminded justice. You became one of them."
"Ho, Jesus!" He shook his head, looked at me as if I were a bivalve. "The same old liberal bullshit. You should be a judge, Strachey, or write newspaper editorials."
I said, "You're digging your own grave."
"What?"
"This so-called kidnapping is right in character for you. You stage the abduction, stir up lots of attention and sympathy for the strike campaign-and collect a hundred grand to finance the rest of the drive. I'll bet Dot Fisher doesn't know about it though, does she? Dot's unconventional, but still a bit old-fashioned in certain inconvenient respects, right?"
He stared at me open-mouthed. "You think that? You think I'd do that to Dot?"
"So, where did the finger come from? Explain."
"Look… I…" He was sweating, fidgeting, balling up little wads of chest hair between his fingers. "Look, it is true that I knew it wasn't Peter's finger in that box. Of course I knew. But the reason I kept my mouth shut about it was not the reason you think. I just thought-I figured that the kidnappers-cops probably-were using the finger to scare us. To scare Dot especially, and impress on all of us just how vicious they could be.
"And since we were already having a hard enough time getting that Bowman asshole to believe us, to take Peter's disappearance seriously, it seemed better if I just… kept my mouth shut. And also-Well, shit, I was afraid somebody like you would have heard about-about my reputation.
And that you'd think Peter and I set the whole thing up. Just like you do now. God, that's the truth!"
"Uh-huh. That's what I thought too, Fenton. At first. When I saw that the finger wasn't Peter's, and knew that you must have known it wasn't, I guessed that you were keeping mum in order to feed Bowman's sense of urgency. But I didn't know so much about you then. Now I do. And I have become skeptical. Highly so."
"How did you know it wasn't Peter's finger?"
"Dunno. Guess I'm just one of those people who once he's seen a finger never forgets it."
"Do the cops know this? What you think?"
"Not yet."
"Don't tell them. Please. It's not true! You'll just put Peter in more danger!"
I said, "Fenton, you're a self-avowed ruthlessly devious liar and con man. All for the larger cause. Wicked means to a just end. Pulling a stunt like this would be right in character for you. It fits the pattern."
"That is not true. You're talking like Bowman now. Use friends like that? Brothers and sisters?
Never!"
"It's not your friends you're using. It's me. Strachey, the Millpond flack. I'm the one who came up with the hundred grand."
"Yes, but-I wouldn't have known it wo
uld work out that way, would I? When the ransom note came-and the finger-it was sent to Dot. Obviously by someone who knew that she would be able to get hold of a lot of money from Millpond if she absolutely had to. Somebody so rotten he didn't care at all if Dot lost her home. Do you think I would do that?"
"Nnn. I don't know."
"Or Peter? You've seen what kind of person Peter is. Would he do a thing like that to Dot? Or to anybody?"
"No. I expect not. Unless… unless he didn't know. You could have gotten rid of Peter for a few days on some pretext while you pulled off this elaborate heist to raise money to finance the rest of your bankrupt campaign. Sent him off to do advance work in the next town or something.
And arrange for some other cohorts, up from the city or wherever, to stage the abduction at the Green Room last night."
He peered at me with disgust. "Oh, yes. I have this troupe of actors-McWhirter's Old Vic constantly at my disposal. Sheeeit. And when Peter finds out how I've all of a sudden gotten hold of a hundred thousand dollars? Then what?"
"Nnn. Yeah. Peter would probably give it back."
He continued to stare at me with the nauseated condescension that was his most natural attitude.
What did Greco see in this creep? Was demented single-mindedness Greco's idea of toughness, substantiality, strength of character? My estimation of Greco had begun to fall. I thought of Timmy. Where was he? Why weren't we together?
On the other hand, what McWhirter had just told me made sense. He was ruthless, but I'd heard no evidence that he had ever betrayed his friends. He was devious and cunning, but Greco, whatever his weaknesses, was not. On the one hand this, on the other hand that.
I said, "All right, Fenton. I'm more or less convinced. Pretty much. For now."
"And you won't mention any of this crap you were thinking to Bowman?"
"Not now. No."
He collapsed against the headboard. "Thank you. Now, just get Peter away from… those people. That's all I care about. And then you can say anything about me that you want. Just get Peter back."
"Right. That's what we're all trying to do."
On the other hand,death ds-2 Page 13