by Josh Thomas
Next came a live report about a house fire in the suburbs. Kent and Jamie headed for the door. “How did Channel 5 get that?” Kent asked quietly.
“It’s nothing but file footage. The Dayton station heard about my story from last Thursday, so they rehashed it, you can tell by their focus on me. Then Darla did a retake on the voiceover ‘for’ the network, and the ABC station here pulled it off the satellite. It looks like news, but it’s really cost-cutting. It’s cheaper for the Indy stations to pay Dayton than to do it themselves, even though it should be their own local story. Knowing Darla, she sold it herself for the residuals. God, I hate local TV.”
“You’re really well-known over there, aren’t you?” Jamie didn’t reply. “I can see why. So, what do you think it means?”
The cab was waiting for them. “Every station in town will mention it at 11:00, and The Sun might give it a graf two days from now. That was Channel 7’s 11:00 program at 10:00 on Channel 5. That means the competition gets a preview of what Channel 7 has, and they’ve got an hour to see if their own affiliates have the story, since it was 7’s lead. Soon it will be on all five stations. That means our killer’s been put on notice. Ever since he dropped Glenn off at the Slough, he’s been waiting for his reviews.”
“Jeez, that’s sick.”
“Why kill a bunch of people if you don’t want to be famous? But Ferguson witnesses, if any, are also alerted. Poor Gary, I hope he’s not watching.”
“The ‘put on notice’ part bothers me. I hate for him to know we’re onto him. Darn.”
“Hope for witnesses, man,” Jamie replied, peering unseeing at the darkness as the car took off. “If people have a right to know anything, it’s that there’s a serial killer in town.”
They talked about the conflict between police work and journalism. Then Jamie prepped Kent for the bar. “Let’s review why you’re going undercover at all.”
“To familiarize myself with the Gay community.”
“Good. But more than that, Chez Nous is where Mr. Ferguson disappeared from. Your suspect hangs out there, it’s a place he and Glenn had in common. You’re in ‘A’ ball now, no more rookie league.”
“Thanks for the promotion, coach.”
“It’s a Monday, so there won’t be much crowd, a perfect night to initiate you. An impulse tells me our killer does not come out on weekends when the bars are crowded. Like with Haney, a sweet, lonely drunk in the corner, it’s easier to pick someone up during the week when there’s less competition. And Glenn was picked up on a Tuesday after a holiday. Now be forewarned: this place is cruisy, with sexual overtones. They’ll assume you’re Gay. Don’t take it personally, you’re here to do a job.”
“Right. Should we stay together or stand apart?”
“Apart. If we’re together they’ll think we’re a couple.”
“There are couples in Gay life? Is that common?”
“Puh-lease, this is A-ball,” Jamie demanded, incredulous and impatient and, as he looked at Kent, less impatient. “Sorry, man. Of course there are couples in Gay life, 40% of us. You don’t think Gay people fall in love? Glenn and Gary did.”
“I never thought about it before. They weren’t just roommates, huh?”
“Kent, Gay people are exactly like everyone else, except that… we’re not. Know what I mean?”
“I’m trying. So it’s not all just, um, one night stands?” At the rest stop?
Jamie rubbed his face, looked out the window. “Please, Kent, try to understand. I was with my lover Rick through vasculitis, amputations, wheelchairs, chemo, prostheses, heart attacks and death at 34. Does that qualify as love, or not?”
“It sure sounds like it.”
“We’re just like everyone else except we’re Gay. It’s two men or two women, and that changes things, but we want the same picket fence, shaggy dog and IRA as everyone else. We have the same loyalties, the same virtues and problems. Rick was with the Marines in Beirut, for God’s sake. I’m proud to have known the man.”
Kent looked out his window. What could he say? A Marine, in Beirut. “I’m sorry.”
Jamie couldn’t handle doe-eyes right now, there was a killer to catch. “Don’t worry. Keep asking questions, you’re doing great. If I react testily, please forgive me, it’s only because… I so want you to understand. I need that. These victims do.”
“You’re very patient with me. I need to start thinking of you guys as normal, don’t I?”
“That’s the best thing you’ve ever said. Don’t focus on the difference, focus on the similarity. Mr. Ferguson was a happily married man. His homicide is like every other one you’ve ever worked.”
They arrived at the bar. Jamie went in first. Kent waited a minute, then walked into pitch darkness. Slowly his eyes adjusted through his shades. Dance music was subdued but bouncy. The bar was straight ahead. Jamie took possession of a Bud Light, said a few words which brought a laugh from the bartender, and headed to his left, toward pool tables. Everyone in the room watched him walk away.
Then they looked at Kent. He felt conspicuous. It wasn’t his clothes, Jamie’s suggestions were right on target. He felt conspicuous because he was in a gaybar.
Don’t think about it. He ordered a Miller Lite, and tipped big as he’d been taught. Overhead was a huge rainbow-striped flag, just like the little one Jamie had put on the Red-Haired Boy’s grave. Kent wondered what the flag meant.
These people aren’t too bad. Kinda weird-looking, some of them, but okay. Half of them look normal even. I wouldn’t have guessed if I saw them on the street.
They hug each other a lot. And they laugh, they seem to enjoy each other. Nothing wrong with a little show of affection in their own bar, he decided.
In the corner were two guys wearing leather jackets, tank tops and longjohn underwear designed to outline their equipment. Blatant, like homosexuals on the TV news. One was okay-looking in a grungy, street kind of way. The other was fat and had tattoos. Kent stared briefly. Dressed alike, maybe they’re lovers. He turned away.
The music sure wasn’t his style, but he noticed he was tapping his foot.
Jamie moved through his field of vision, opened a glass door in the back and went through it. Thirty guys followed him, jockeying for position. There is more to this place than I realized. I better start moving around, they’ll think I’ve taken root here.
***
The guy at the pool table is a hustler. Long hair, the bored look of the not too bright; a little chunky in the middle, are there a lot of customers for that? There was one tonight; a bald man was plying the guy with drinks and using every opportunity to paw him as he lined up a shot. Kent tried not to curl his lip at the display.
A test at 11:13: he had to go to the bathroom. Where is it here?
He saw a guy coming out of a swinging door at the back of the pool room. No one else headed that way. Kent waited a minute to make sure. He set down his bottle, walked with casual wariness, pushed through the double doors. Two urinals, a partition between them, thank goodness, nobody.
At 11:20, a man in his twenties came up to him, sporting a buzz cut, earrings, Spandex trunks and a T-shirt reading “I’m Not Gay But You Sure Are.” Kent heard his own blood circulating.
“How ya doin’?” the guy asked.
“Pretty good,” Kent replied evenly. Then, “How are you?” The guy looked normal enough for what he was, maybe a student.
“Tired of this place,”Not Gay said. “You’re studly.You wanna come to my place and fuck?”
Kent swallowed and recited his lines. “No thanks, I’ve got a lover waiting for me. I’m headed home myself.” To his huge relief, the guy wandered away.
At 11:40, another man struck up a conversation with some comment about the crowd tonight. Kent decided on a light but friendly reply. This man looked like he had his act together, a bank teller or an insurance worker. “Do you play pool?” Jamaal asked.
Kent played pool. Easily beat the guy, who came up and shook hands. �
�Nice game,” said Jamaal. Then he moved away to give Kent space. Kent relaxed. ***
It was getting late when two guys across the room caught his attention. Slowly his blood ran cold.
They were in love, it was obvious. No one else existed. They talked only to each other; they touched constantly, one sitting on a stool, his lover behind him, arms around his chest, kissing his neck, his ear, his hair. Then they’d shift, take a drink, and touch again, a hand rubbing a thigh, a knee; little kisses on the lips. And no one around them thought a thing about it.
Did the sight of them arouse him? Not in the least. They terrified him.
He’d never been touched that way. He’d never been loved by anyone the way these two loved. But for some reason—here, now, panic time, in a gaybar?—he could start to picture being loved like he wanted to be.
He stood stock-still. He couldn’t look at them, he couldn’t not look.
They couldn’t see him stare because of the sunglasses, so he was safe; not that they had the least awareness of his existence. Only one person mattered, and it wasn’t him.
Jamie walked past them. Kent instantly broke the stare, forced himself to take three deep breaths. And his feet started walking to the other room. Why on earth should he key in on those two? He didn’t want to. When he calmed down, though, he realized Gay men could love each other, like Gary and Glenn did; like Jamie and Rick.
***
At 12:30 Jamie came up to him. “Hi there. Come here often?”
“Nope, this is my first time. What’s your sign?”
“Burma-Shave. Look at the man on the fourth stool from the end. He looks vaguely like someone you’ve seen in a photograph.”
“I’ll do that. Can I buy you a beer as I head past?”
“Mineral water would be nice.”
Kent left, came back in a minute. “Sort of like Lash but a lot heavier. And older.”
“Our photos are older. It’s probably not him, but he’s been following me the last half hour. But not talking, not approaching. I’m uncomfortable. If it doesn’t bother you for me to say this, often enough guys want to talk.”
“I noticed. You’re a magnet to these guys.”
“I want to cut out.”
“Thank God, I’m tired.”
“The bartender’s calling us a cab.”
Kent smiled. “We’re a cab.”
Jamie grinned back, then went outside to wait. Kent watched the man on the fourth stool from the end. He didn’t seem to notice that Jamie left.
Kent walked out. They discussed it; Kent made calls, ran nearby license plates through the computer; no matches. “Lash is an unusual name,” Jamie said. “Can you get his address that way?”
Kent tried, got an address in the 800 block of Pennsylvania Street. “Walking distance,” Jamie told him.
“I’ll assign a plainclothesman to follow him home.” Kent made a call to Post 52—and 30 minutes later, nobody showed up. He was stunned. “’Cause it’s a Gay bar? Those bastards. They don’t even have to go inside, just follow somebody, see who he’s with.”
Jamie patted Kent on the back. “You said you wanted to learn about the Gay community. Buddy, you just did.”
“It’s discrimination, Jamie. It ain’t right!” Kent got pissed. “My own organization lets me down. Sgt. Gillespie’s going to hear about this tomorrow morning, by God. So will Major Slaughter.” He called the post again and ordered the shift commander, a corporal, to assign someone. As he did, the man on the fourth stool from the end walked out alone, headed for Pennsylvania Street. They hid. “At least he didn’t see us,” Kent said in disgust.
What played in Jamie’s head was, “It’s discrimination, Jamie. It ain’t right!”
During the cab ride Kent told Jamie about Not Gay. Jamie shrugged, “He said the same thing to me. He memorized his lines better than you did.”
“I can’t believe guys would say things like that to each other. That’s as blatant as any Straight bar I’ve ever been to. And you’d be amazed at how crude Straight guys can be. Girls too. Some of them are just as bad or even worse.”
“The only difference is that it was a guy who was trying to pick you up, not that he was Gay or Straight or Green. Besides, there are 99% fewer fistfights in Gay bars.”
Kent didn’t have any reply. But he knew guys had to fight sometimes, it was nature’s way. “How do you do it, then, when somebody gets drunk? How do you fight if you don’t use fists?”
Jamie timed his reply. “We engage in polysyllabic debates over exactly which ten movies Bette Davis got Oscar nominations for.”
Kent chortled, “And you always win.”
At the door to their hotel room, Jamie said, “Good job, Majesty. You did great tonight. No one knew a thing, and we want to keep it that way. Good job.”
Kent amazed himself. “Bet you say that to all the queens.” His teeth flashed.
Jamie mumbled, “Yeah yeah yeah,” and pushed inside.
Kent hit the sack immediately, but Jamie had computer work to do.
Half an hour later he stepped outside, pulled his cell phone out, dialed. “Here’s the progress report you asked for. There won’t be another one,” he told the voice mail. “We hit the bars tonight and he did fine, no panic attacks and no neon. Cool, smart, funny, as flexible as you said. He’s quite remarkable. We got discriminated against tonight and he responded perfectly. He’s the best possible cop for this case.
“He’s completely ignorant about Gay people but willing to learn. He also put me in my place a bit during dinner—he’s the Commander, not me.
“There was a possible Lash sighting, but we’re not sure.
“He’s pulling Julie Campbell onto his team, and I’ve suggested that he hire Dr. Steve Helmreich as task force consultant. Steve can keep the group from falling into the jurisdictional jealousy trap. An older, neutral guy might also show the other departments you’re not saying Kent’s better than they are, when Bulldog’s got twenty years’ experience on him. All departments are competent in investigation, it’s the rapid team-building that’s essential. Therefore an outside consultant.
“Most of all thanks for your help all these years. I’m looking forward to seeing you and 300 other hot men at the Midwest Fun Run next month. Oh, but buddy? The next time this happens, do me a favor; assign an ugly dude. Kent is driving me nuts. I saw him tonight in his underwear—wow. I knew you were into psychotorture, but this is ridiculous. You will have hell to pay when this is over. And don’t forget—I’m young, hung and mister, I’m blond, I know exactly how to torture you back!”
He cackled a full ten seconds on Major Slaughter’s voicemail.
30
Message
Kent knocked on the bathroom door at 7:32 a.m. “You ready?”
Jamie, just out of the shower and naked, grabbed a towel in panic, got it around himself, turned his back to the door. “Ready for what?”
Kent leaned through. “For breakfast. I’m starved.”
“No, I’m not ready. I’m not even awake. We worked last night. You said to sleep in!”
“Man, it’s almost 8 o’clock. Half the morning’s gone.”
“What does sleeping in mean to you, ace?”
“Seven o’clock. What’s it mean to you?”
“Ten!”Jamie gave heaven a hand gesture. “Which means I don’t function till noon. Will someone teach this man about Gay time?” Then he chuckled, the guy was just up from rookie league. “Go on, give me 30 minutes. I’m not going anywhere with wet hair.”
It wasn’t wet hair that Kent noticed, but a dramatic, V-shaped back. Athletes always compare and compete. It wasn’t huge, but it was a darn good back.
***
In the coffee shop they traded plans. Kent would call FBI/Quantico to get a copy of Behavioral Sciences’ profile of the killer. He would release it to The Ohio Gay Times; Jamie would have another exclusive, and that would get Louie off his back. “Is your boss going to be a problem?” Kent asked over the la
st of a tall stack of pancakes, eggs and biscuits with sausage gravy.
Jamie sipped heavily-doctored coffee, moved a croissant around on his plate, ate a strawberry. “Louie Mascaro is always a problem. To stay here I’m going to need story out of this every issue, Kent. Something beyond ‘the investigation is continuing.’”
“We’ll come up with something,” the trooper said, his mouth full of wheatcakes, maple syrup and real butter. “We’re a team, you and me.” “Not if sleeping in means 7 a.m., we’re not. If country people had running water you wouldn’t have to get up so early.” “Maybe we can download some over the Internet.” ***
Kent left for his new office—and a telephone harangue with the commander of Post 52. From the hotel room, Jamie checked his mother’s answering machine. It was long distance, so he used his cell phone instead of charging it to his room. “One moment please. You have three messages.” Tape spun; the first was from Casey, just checking in and being thoughtful.
Then: “Hello, Jamie. This is your friend down in Indianapolis.” Jamie sat down on the bed. The same brittle voice…
“I hear you’re casing the bars now. You want a confrontation, we’ll have a confrontation. How’s life on Tad Lincoln Drive? Did you get your mom’s yard mowed?”
A hole opened up in Jamie’s stomach and acid dripped in.
“I just wanted to tell you I know where you are. I read your mother’s obituary in the Sun. Survived by three sons, Daniel of Denver, Stone of Bedford, James of Columbus, Ohio. So that told me where your mother lived and where you are these days.
“You know you’ve written a million stories about Roger’s so-called victims in Newton County, and that red-haired guy, and how you’re from there originally. That was very foolish, Jamie. That was a mistake.”
Jamie reached for his smokes. We were naive then, we thought it would add power to the story. It did add power. But it was read by a killer.
“I must compliment you on your mother’s funeral. Very classy, with the string quartet and all. Of course, I prefer an open casket myself, but I know you fucking Episcopalians have other ideas. Let the corpse be seen, that’s what I believe in!” An obscene giggle.