Widows' Watch

by Nancy Herndon

  They climbed into a blue Ford Escort, whose paint had long ago disappeared from the hood and roof, and headed for the Gemini Lounge, where they talked to Barney Allsop, bartender-owner.

  “Sure I know Lance,” said Barney. “So what’s up? You cops gonna start harassing gays again?”

  One cop steps out of line, and all the rest of us pay for it, thought Elena. “We understand Lance worked here.”

  “Yeah. Four or five years ago, when he was in college.”

  “How did he happen to choose this particular job?”

  “It paid good, and he was trying to get through school without any support from his family.”

  “Family too poor to help?” asked Leo.

  “The old man discovered Lance was gay and kicked him out.”

  So much for Gloria Ledesma’s theory that Lance had caught homosexuality at the bar, thought Elena.

  “Not that they were paying his tuition,” the bartender continued. “His father was a first class s.o.b. Whoever offed him did Lance a favor, but if you’re trying to pin it on Lance, forget it. He’s not the violent type.”

  “You know who Lance’s friends are these days?” asked Leo.

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.” Barney Allsop turned away and began to rearrange his liquor shelves.

  “Was Lance in here on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday?” Elena asked.

  “Sure, he’s in here all the time.”

  “Which night?”

  “Every night.”

  “Was he in here Monday afternoon?”

  “Sure was.”

  Elena looked around the bar, which was practically empty.

  “He says he was home sick with the flu,” said Leo.

  “So maybe it was some other afternoon.”

  Elena and Leo made a few more stabs at pinning down smart-mouth Barney Allsop, failed, and went to the state university where they checked yearbooks for graduating English majors, then the alumni files. They found one creative-writing graduate from Lance’s year who was listed as a shoe salesman in the Westside Mall.

  When they arrived at Shoe-gri-la, the one salesman was trying to sell a pair of gold evening sandals to a woman with thick ankles. “They’re wonderful for formal occasions,” he assured her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Ninety dollars is pretty expensive.”

  “Are you F. Scott Manning?” Leo asked the salesman, flashing his identification.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  Leo drew him aside. “We understand you were a friend of Lance Potemkin at the university.”

  “I knew him,” said Manning. “We were both creative-writing majors.”

  “We’re looking into Mr. Potemkin’s background,” said Elena, edging F. Scott toward the counter in back.

  “You think he killed his father? That was his father who got shot the other day, wasn’t it? Or maybe you’re looking for homosexuals. He’s gay, you know.”

  “We know. Can you tell us anything about his relations with his family?”

  “He wrote some very Freudian poetry in a class we took together. Father-figure as the Great Satan. You know.” He glanced over at his customer, who was still preoccupied with the price of the sandals.

  Elena wrote down “Great Satan,” doubtful that you could convict a man on his poetry. “Could you tell us who any of his friends were at that time?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you who his best friend was. Professor Donald Mallory. That’s how Lance got his A in Renaissance Poetry. A lot of us were really ticked off about that. We graduate and can’t get decent jobs, and Mallory moves to Herbert Hobart to teach Shakespeare to a bunch of rich kids and takes Lance with him. Now Lance is getting published, and I’m selling shoes.”

  “Have you got a bow to clip on these?” the customer called, glaring at Leo and Elena. “I was here first, you know.”

  “A bow?” The salesman suppressed a look of horror and, grabbing a display card, circled the row of chairs separating him from the woman. “I have just the thing you want, ma’am.” Selecting a pair of wide gold bows with gaudy rhinestone accents, he clipped them to the instep straps of the sandals. Elena, who could see the result from her place by the cash register, wondered how anyone could consider spending ninety dollars on a pair of shoes after making them look that bad.

  Leo beckoned F. Scott back. “Would you know whether Professor Mallory and Mr. Potemkin are still—”

  “—making it?” asked the shoe salesman snidely. “How would I know? Lance doesn’t belong to any of the local writers’ groups. Why should he? He gets published.” F. Scott scooted away again. “They’re stunning on you, ma’am,” he said to his customer. “I’d never have thought of the bows.”

  The woman looked pleased.

  “And those are wonderful shoes for dancing,” added F. Scott.

  “Well, I guess I’ll take them, but I don’t know what my husband will say about the price.”

  Elena and Leo thanked the shoe salesman for his cooperation and drove off in their Escort. “I hope we don’t have to do any big movie-type car chases in this baby,” said Leo.

  “Yeah. Feels like it’s going airborne on the curves,” Elena agreed as they snaked their way up the mountain toward Herbert Hobart University, where they discovered that Professor Donald Mallory was out of town at a Modern Language Association meeting, his plane not due in Los Santos until six o’clock. They were informed of this by Lance, who flushed when they asked to see Mallory.

  “Are you still investigating me?” he demanded. “I gave you my father’s gun. I let you search my apartment without a warrant and take my bicycles. What more do you want? Do you have to—to harass my colleagues?”

  Elena wished there’d been some way to get at members of the English Department other than going through Lance.

  “You seem to be over your cough,” said Leo.

  “What cough?”

  “You said you had the flu. Your landlady has it, and she’s coughing.”

  “She didn’t get it from me,” Lance muttered.

  “She didn’t hear you coughing either,” said Leo.

  Looking anxious, Lance hit a button on his computer. The printer burst into noisy life, and paper began to inch over the roller to the accompaniment of ratcheting sounds. Elena wondered whether he was hoping to drown out further questions.

  “Where do you figure you got it?” Leo asked.

  Lance shrugged. “One of the students, I guess.”

  “Maybe we should check the clinic,” Leo said to Elena. “See if any students have flu.”

  “You want to see anyone besides Dr. Mallory?” Lance asked, mouth tight.

  “Who’s in?” said Elena.

  “I’m in,” said Angus McGlenlevie, breezing into the departmental office. “Did you finish those proofs, Lance?”

  “Someone had to,” said Lance.

  “And a fine job you do,” said Gus. “I’m sure the printer won’t mind waiting the extra day.” He squinted at Elena and Leo. “I remember you,” he said. “You’re the cops who didn’t offer me any protection last spring when Karl Bonnard was trying to kill me.”

  “We caught him before he got to you, didn’t we?” said Elena.

  “Well, he killed poor Howard. I’m having a hard time hiring post docs now. They think they’re going to get murdered. I had two turn me down this fall.”

  Lance muttered something under his breath, which Elena took to be uncomplimentary. “Perhaps we could speak to you for a minute, Professor McGlenlevie,” she said, and they trailed him down the hall to his office.

  “Rapture on the Rapids,” he said, gesturing to page proofs on his desk. “Should be out by Christmas.”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Lance Potemkin,” said Leo.

  “He’s not my lover.”
r />   “Whose lover is he?” asked Elena bluntly.

  “Couldn’t say. He and Donald Mallory were an item for a couple of years, but that broke up about six months ago.”

  “Do you know anything about Lance’s family?” asked Elena.

  “Didn’t even know he had one,” said Gus. “Are you still seeing Sarah?”

  “We have dinner occasionally,” said Elena. She didn’t like the way he put it. Sarah was a friend, not a lover.

  “Don’t believe everything my ex-wife tells you about me,” said Gus.

  Elena grinned. “I don’t have to. Everyone I interviewed on the acid bath case told me about you.”

  “All ladies, I presume. All good, I hope.” Gus beamed at Elena. “I am popular with females—young and old.”

  “Except for Sarah,” Elena murmured.

  “Ah well, Sarah.” Gus shrugged dramatically. “Sarah is a fine woman. Just a bit uptight about matters sexual.”

  Like flagrant infidelity in a husband, thought Elena.

  14

  Thursday, September 30, 7:30 P.M.

  Harmony discovered, among those she met before Lance Potemkin’s standing-room-only poetry reading, members of the English Department and students at Herbert Hobart University, poetry lovers who were familiar with Lance’s sexual orientation, and bicycle racers who were expecting Lance to do them proud on the High Road to Taos. Lance had no sooner read his last line of verse, received enthusiastic applause, and been congratulated by English Department Chairman Raul Mendez and Professor Donald Mallory, who was chairing the session, than hands began to wave in the audience.

  “I see we’re going to have a lively discussion,” said Professor Mallory.

  Without waiting to be called upon, a young man in a pleated shirt rose to his feet and said, “Is it true, Lance, that the police are harassing you about your father’s death?”

  “Gay activist,” murmured Ferdie Baca to Harmony. He was a graduate student in creative writing at the state university. After being introduced to Harmony, Ferdie had stuck to her as if he’d found his one true love. “His name is Orion Massine. He’s the lead male dancer in the Border Ballet.”

  Lance flushed. “They’re questioning me,” he admitted.

  “What’s this?” Professor Mallory looked alarmed. “I didn’t know anything had happened to your father.”

  “You’ve been at the M.L.A. meeting. He was murdered Monday,” said Lance. “Probably a robbery.”

  “Of course, it was,” said Orion, “but are they looking for a robber? No, they’re after a gay.”

  Harmony was glad to see that she wasn’t the only person convinced of Lance’s innocence.

  “Look, Orion—” Lance protested.

  “Your civil rights are being violated,” said the dancer, “and it’s because you’re homosexual.” A murmur of assent rose from the gay activist contingent.

  “There are three charges of discrimination against the police department by gay and lesbian officers,” said a young man with the muscles of a body builder.

  Harmony peered at him with interest.

  “And there’s Mac and Lennie,” said a thirty-fivish woman with a Dutch-boy haircut and plaid knee socks. “They were asleep when some narcotics team kicked down the wrong door. Then when the cops didn’t find any drugs, they arrested Mac and Lennie for being in bed together.”

  “That’s one lawsuit we’re going to win,” said Orion.

  “They’ve been raiding the Sappho Club ever since you filed that suit,” complained the woman.

  “Lesbian social club,” murmured Ferdie. Harmony nodded. She’d never been to a lesbian social club. How interesting! Would Elena agree to visit?

  “They’ve even been nosing around my store.”

  “Feminist bookstore,” Ferdie murmured.

  “As if a book about matriarchal society is going to corrupt the morals of American youth.”

  “Those of us who know you, Lance, know that you wouldn’t have killed anyone, even your father, who probably deserved it. We’ve all agreed that we’ll kick in for your defense fund,” said Orion.

  “I don’t need a defense fund.” Lance had turned pale.

  “Have they brought you in for questioning?” asked Professor Mallory.

  “Twice,” Lance admitted. “Yesterday and today.”

  “Typical,” said Orion. “They don’t have enough to arrest you, so they make a spectacle of you in front of your colleagues.”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” said a man who was painfully lean with a weathered face and a receding hairline. “They won’t let him race at Chimayo.” Rumbles of indignation circulated among the bicycle contingent.

  Lance looked miserable. “One of my mother’s neighbors saw a bicycle in the alley the day my father was killed, so the police confiscated both of mine as evidence.”

  “Lance is Los Santos’ only hope to bring the cup home from that race,” said the president of the Los Santos Cycle Racers’ Association, who sported an aerodynamic crew cut and a double-breasted navy sport coat. “A local athletic hero, and he’s being kept from bringing glory to the city. As all of you know, I don’t hold with unnatural sex but, by God, when the police start interfering with serious bicycle racing, it’s time to stand up and be counted.”

  “Thanks, Hoke,” said Lance dryly.

  Harmony thought the remark about unnatural sex rather tactless.

  Then Gus McGlenlevie with his frizzy red beard and combat fatigues stood up and said, “You’ve got it all wrong if you think he’s being harassed because he’s gay.”

  “Sit down,” yelled the gay activists.

  “It’s because he’s a poet,” shouted McGlenlevie. “Those police are vigilantes when it comes to people in the arts. For instance, last spring someone was trying to kill me, but the police wouldn’t even give me protection.

  “And before that, my ex-wife exploded a snail on my plate at dinner, and do you think they arrested her? They did not. And I didn’t meet a single policeman or woman during that investigation who had read a word of Erotica in Reeboks, my best-selling poetry collection. I doubt any of them will read my book of poems on non-homosexual male bonding, Rapture on the Rapids, which should be in the bookstores in December just in time for Christmas. Nineteen ninety-five. Published by the Mile-High Press of Denver, Colorado.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Professor Donald Mallory, “we have a serious problem here, and you’re using it to promote your book. And besides that, you misused the word vigilantes. Vigilantes are people who take the law into their own hands. By definition they can’t be police officers.”

  “I was using it metaphorically, you twerp,” snapped McGlenlevie and started pushing his way toward the lectern.

  “Twerp!” shouted Mallory. “That from a man who writes pornographic doggerel.”

  “Is that your critical opinion? You, who’ve never written a line of original poetry in your life.”

  “I’m a renowned Elizabethan and Jacobean critic,” snarled Mallory.

  “With a following of four or five moldering old scholars who’ve read your pitiful efforts—”

  “I’ll have you know—”

  “You wouldn’t know a good poem if you—”

  “If you’d stop screwing female students, maybe you’d find time to write some decent—”

  “Would you be happier if I was screwing male students like you do?”

  The dignified Professor Mallory raised his fist. Lance grabbed him and tried to pull him away while the chairman of the English Department rose from the front row and said, “Angus, this is beneath a poet’s dignity.”

  “A poet’s dignity is couched in the beauty of his verse,” howled McGlenlevie.

  “Let go of me, Lance,” Mallory ordered.

  Lance was still hanging onto his former lover,
saying, “Come on, Don. This isn’t helping anything.”

  “Gentlemen,” said the chairman, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop this embarrassing argument.”

  “He misused vigilantes,” grumbled Mallory.

  True, thought Harmony, and she didn’t like McGlenlevie’s aura—or his personality.

  “I used it as a poet would—metaphorically,” said McGlenlevie.

  “Shut up,” said the chairman.

  “If I could have the floor,” said the president of the bicycle racers.

  “We’re adjourning the meeting,” said the chairman.

  “It’s obvious that, for whatever reason, Lance Potemkin is being unfairly treated by the police,” shouted Hoke Mitchell.

  “Right,” Orion agreed. “I think we should mount a demonstration. Let them know that the public won’t put up with the harassment of innocent citizens. While they’re picking on Lance, the real murderer’s getting away because the police are fixated on gays.”

  Once the bicycle racers had conferred, their president said, “We’ll support a demonstration. When and where?”

  “Police Headquarters tomorrow morning,” said Orion with noisy agreement from the gay activists.

  Harmony perked up. She did love a protest.

  “I’ll be happy to support a fellow poet,” said Angus.

  Lance didn’t look happy to receive that particular offer, and Harmony wondered whether he disliked McGlenlevie, who seemed quite dislikable, as well as aura-impaired.

  “Are you coming, Mallory? How about you, Dr. Mendez? Is the English Department behind us?” asked Angus.

  Lance, looking alarmed and embarrassed, stammered, “Look, I really don’t—”

  “Oh, stop being so nice, Lance,” said Orion. “We’re supporting you whether you want it or not.”

  Harmony stood up. “If I might make a few suggestions—”

  “Who are you, madam?” asked Dr. Mendez.

  “I’m Harmony Waite Portillo, a weaver from Chimayo, New Mexico, and an admirer of Lance’s poetry.”

  “If you plan to suggest that we stay home,” said the bookstore owner in the Dutch-boy haircut, “let me point out that it’s about time women took their places in the front lines protesting police harassment.”