“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I guess I’m a little uncomfortable.”
“Well, dear boy, you’re perfectly safe with us guys,” Howard reassured me. “We’re gay men but we’re monogamous. I guess you need to get to know us a little better.”
“Good idea,” I said. I folded my arms across my chest, leaned back in my chair, and said, “I’m listening.”
“Derek, tell the nice man all about yourself.” Howard held his hand out, palm up, as if he were introducing a guest speaker. “And try to keep it short.”
Derek told me he was born in Palestine in 1939. His mother was a German-Jewish refugee from Berlin. His father was an English army officer. In 1940, Derek’s father was recalled to England during the Battle of Britain, and his family went with him. In 1945, when the Second World War was over, his parents divorced, and Derek returned to the Promised Land with his mother. They settled in Tel Aviv in 1948, when Derek was nine years old. The British were giving up control of Palestine at that time and the Arab-Israeli conflict began.
“A great value was placed on the toughness of children in those days,” Derek said. “All the boys played soldier, except me.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I played jump rope with the girls,” he smiled. “But I was still able to contribute to the war effort. The boys learned to fight by beating me up and the girls practiced first aid by bandaging me.”
Derek said he and his mother returned to America in 1957, after she married a German count who only seemed interested in counting her money. They in turn counted him out after a few years, and Derek left home with his mother’s blessing and lived an openly gay lifestyle.
“So, your mother was supportive,” I said.
“Totally,” Derek said
Howard and Derek met on a plane in 1984. Derek was a passenger and Howard was a flight attendant. They had nothing in common and had been together since.
Howard told me he hadn’t come out of a great life. He said he knew he was gay when he was twelve years old and tried to keep it a secret.
“As a teenager, I skulked around New York piers, truck stops on the Jersey Turnpike, and under the West Side Highway. It was rather tawdry and dangerous for a scrawny weakling like me. It wasn’t unusual for me to have sex with some conflicted truck driver and then have him kick the shit out of me to prove to himself he wasn’t gay.”
Howard said he took up bodybuilding and the art of self-defense when “I decided no one was going to whip my ass . . . unless, of course, I was in the mood.”
I laughed.
“Are you still interested?” Howard asked hopefully.
“I charge fifty bucks an hour,” I told them, nodding my head.
“I used to charge ten for the whole night,” Howard said. “Or pay ten dollars if necessary.”
“Tell me about Eileen’s testicles,” I said.
“You have a one-track mind for a heterosexual man.” Howard stood up. “First I want to show you Wilton Manors. I think it will make it easier for you to understand everything.”
We left Derek at home and drove to downtown Wilton Manors in Howard’s four-door Cadillac.
“Why didn’t Derek come?” I asked.
“He’s a homebody,” Howard told me. “He loves to read and to listen to music. Occasionally he’ll play the piano. He’s quite good. Me, I’m still a flirt but I’m monogamous.”
We rode in silence for a while until Howard turned onto a busy street.
“This is Wilton Drive,” he told me. “It’s the epicenter of Wilton Manors.”
Wilton Drive seemed like any other small, downtown area to me except ninety-nine percent of the people on the street were men, walking arm in arm, hand in hand.
“This town has twelve thousand residents and around sixty percent are gay people. Twenty years ago, Victoria Park in Fort Lauderdale was the number one gayborhood. Now it’s Wilton Manors.”
“Technically, what’s a gayborhood?”
“Loosely defined,” Howard said, with a flick of his wrist, “a gayborhood is a neighborhood that’s over forty percent gay. Anyway, when George’s Alibi opened in 1997, a lot of the gay community relocated here.”
“What’s George’s Alibi?”
Howard turned into the parking lot of a small shopping center and pointed to a restaurant with a sidewalk café. “That’s George’s Alibi. A guy named George, naturally, converted a boarded-up bank into an openly gay nightspot, and the rest is history.” Howard eased the Cadillac into a parking space and opened his car door.
“Are we going inside?” I asked, apprehensively.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll protect you.”
We stood in the parking lot and looked around.
“Check out the shops,” Howard said.
I read the signs: humpee’s pizza. main street gym. gay mart. java boys.
“Welcome to ground zero,” Howard told me.
“What are Underoos?” I asked, reading a sign in the window of the We’re Everywhere clothing store.
“Underoos is a brand name. Ginch-Gonch is another big name in gay underwear. They have different styles with names like Pocket Rockets and Weiner Eaters.”
“How subtle,” I said as we entered George’s Alibi.
The place was jammed with men: short, tall, fat, thin, young, old, good-looking, and homely. I checked the time. It was not quite seven.
“George’s has three shifts every night,” Howard said. “From four to nine it’s the cocktail crowd, ages forty to sixty. The younger ones you see here at this hour are usually hustlers or tourists.”
“Are the tourists gay?”
“It’s an eclectic group,” Howard said. “The gay tourists are cruising. The straight tourists are curious. From nine to twelve you see the in crowd: attractive, single, young professionals looking to meet someone. From twelve to four in the morning you get all the sluts looking to get laid. I come here almost every night around now to shoot pool and to have a few drinks. I know a lot of the people here.”
To prove his point Howard said hello to several men on his way to the pool tables in the back of the room. He was invited to play.
“Will you be alright if I shoot some pool?”
“Sure,” I said, unsurely. I saw an empty seat at the crowded bar and sat down.
I looked at the men at the bar. They looked at me. Mr. Johnson looked away. Some of the men stared brazenly, some furtively, but when I didn’t make eye contact they quickly lost interest.
The body language of the older men at the bar was loud and clear. They understood they now had to pay for what came free and easy in days gone by too fast. Their well-worn faces could no longer be cleaned and pressed enough to hide the wrinkles and age spots. Complicated comb-overs couldn’t cover hairless heads of fools who only fooled themselves. Their “use by” date had expired and their futures were less comforting than the memories of their pasts.
“Can I buy you a drink?” someone asked from behind.
I turned slowly and saw a smiling man wearing eye shadow, face powder, and a touch of lipstick. Under the makeup, he appeared to be my age.
“I’m not gay,” I told him.
“Of course not,” he said. “My name’s Gill.”
“I’m serious, Gill,” I said. “I’m not gay.”
“None of us here are,” he laughed.
“Gill, one more time,” I said, starting to stand. A red spot popped before my eyes and Gill must have seen it, too.
He stepped back and held up his hands in a passive gesture. “No offense,” he said, “but you do know this is a gay bar, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know.” I sat down again and took a deep breath. “I’m here with a friend.”
“Is your friend gay?” Gill asked hopefully.
“Yes, but he’s married,” I said.
“Oh, you mean he’s still in the closet.” Gill sounded disappointed.
“No, he’s not,” I said, defending Howard’s gayness.
“He’s married to a man.”
“Does your friend happen to be Howard Larkey?”
“How did you know?” I asked, surprised.
“Well, first of all, I see him shooting pool over there” - he pointed to the tables-”and second of all, Howard and Derek refer to themselves as married. It’s too bad the state of Florida doesn’t agree.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The state of Florida doesn’t recognize same sex marriages,” Gill said.
“Apparently, that doesn’t bother Howard and Derek.”
“Oh, it bothers them,” Gill said, rolling his eyes. “Without legal status, gay couples lose about one thousand federal and state benefits - like parenting, jointly owned property, annuities, pensions, wrongful death benefits. Would you like to hear more?”
I shrugged to let Gill know I didn’t care one way or the other.
“Did you ever hear of the Defense of Marriage Act?”
I shook my head.
“It’s an act of Congress that bars federal recognition of same sex marriages and allows states to make their own decisions,” he explained. “In other words, Uncle Sam won’t let Uncle Max marry Uncle Judd because a marriage isn’t a marriage unless there’s a penis and a vagina involved. Tits are optional.”
I felt fingers on my back.
Oh jeez, Mr. Johnson reacted.
I saw Gill’s hands in front of me, so it wasn’t him.
“I see you’ve met the local gay lawyer,” Howard said, patting my back now.
I sighed, and Howard sensed my relief.
“Did you almost punch me just now?” he asked, removing his hand.
“You can’t sneak up on me like that,” I said, unhappy.
“Especially not in a gay bar,” he added and he slapped his palm on his forehead. “Duh, what was I thinking? Sorry.” He turned to Gill. “He’s not gay, you know.”
“That’s the first thing he told me.” Gill made a sad face. “How disappointing.”
“Do you know who he is?” Howard said.
I knew Howard was about to introduce the Boca Knight to the gayborhood, so I grabbed his shoulder and squeezed a random nerve ending.
Howard winced and got the hint.
“We have to go,” I said, getting off my bar stool and pulling Howard with me.
“Who are you?” Gill wanted to know.
“Nobody,” I told him.
“We’re all somebody,” Gill said, waving a fond farewell.
When we were outside, I reprimanded Howard while he rubbed his shoulder.
“Don’t tell anyone who I am,” I said. “Our business is confidential.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” he scolded himself, still rubbing his shoulder. “That hurt.”
“Good.”
We walked the streets of Wilton Manors.
“The New Moon is for lesbians,” Howard said, pointing at a sign over a door.
We didn’t go inside.
We stopped in front of a real-estate office and I read some ads.
“What does LGBT mean?” I asked Howard, pointing at a sign in the window.
“Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender,” he explained. “That’s an ad for affordable housing for seniors of one of those persuasions.”
“I never thought about those kinds of seniors.” I shrugged.
“Everyone gets old,” Howard said. “And you don’t outgrow the condition.”
We walked on.
“Hi, Sanford. Hi, Dirk,” Howard waved to a couple passing us, going in the opposite direction. They waved back and looked me up and down.
“Are you cheating on Derek, Howard?” Sanford asked.
“Moi?” Howard pointed to himself. “Never!”
They shared a laugh. I walked ahead of Howard.
“Are you embarrassed?” Howard asked, jogging to catch me.
“They probably think I’m gay now,” I said.
“You wanted to be anonymous.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to be gay,” I grumbled.
“Neither did I,” Howard said. “I wasn’t like I was asked to fill out a multiple-choice form.”
“Enough,” I said, holding up a hand.
He held up both hands. “Okay, okay.”
We continued walking. We visited a gay strip club called The Boardwalk and a sports bar named Sidelines.
“What’s the hottest pickup place in town?”
“The Publix Supermarket at Five Corners,” he said. “Don’t ask me why.”
I didn’t.
We finished our tour at Tropics, a mellow place. The crowd was older and the music slower. People were either having dinner in a quiet restaurant atmosphere on one side of the place or milling around the bar area across the room. Howard and I took a quiet table near the bar.
“Eileen and John came here a lot,” Howard told me. “Everyone knew them.”
“Not everyone knew about Eileen’s scrotum, I assume,” I said.
“Correct. I think Derek and I were the only ones they trusted with their secret.”
“So, for appearance’s sake, they were a nice, elderly, heterosexual married couple, retired in Wilton Manors,” I said.
Howard nodded.
“What about their backgrounds?”
“John was a Baptist, oddly enough,” Howard said, “and Eileen was a wandering Jew. They lived together in New York City first; Ames, Iowa, second; San Francisco next; and now, here.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about your missing-person theory?”
“Sure. I brought it up one night here at the bar,” Howard said. “One of the bartenders said he overheard the Dietrichs talking about taking a trip to Europe. That made me less worried. Then, few days later, postcards started arriving at the bar from all over Europe. I’d know John and Eileen’s handwriting anywhere and the cards were definitely written by them.”
“Is that the bartender who overheard them?” I pointed to a medium-sized blond man behind the bar.
Howard nodded.
“He looks familiar,” I said.
“I doubt it. He’s only been in Wilton Manors a few months. His name is Edik Davidavitch, Russian.”
“Is he gay?”
“No,” Howard said. “And he lives with the most dreadful woman. A Miss U Da Worst contestant if there ever was one. Her name is Irene Kostanski and she’s a waitress here. I’ll point her out to you before we leave. Both of them said they heard the Dietrichs discussing a European trip.”
“Would the Dietrichs confide in them?”
“People tend to talk to their bartenders,” Howard pointed out. “They could have said something in passing, I guess.”
“Did anyone else hear Eileen and John talk about a trip besides those two?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Why would two people who happen to live together be the only two people in this place to hear about the Dietrichs’ trip?”
“Coincidence?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Do you know Edik and Irene well?”
“Not really,” Howard said, stroking his chin. “Let’s see . . . They said they met in New York City right after Edik came over from Russia. She said something about coming from a town in western Massachusetts.” He scratched his head. “Chica-something.”
“Chicopee?” I guessed. “There’s a large Polish population there.”
“Could be.” Howard shrugged. “They said they met at a restaurant where Edik was working as a bartender. She came looking for a job. They’ve been together ever since.”
“Did you check out their story?”
“Why would I?” Howard asked.
I watched Edik for a while. He was a little slow preparing drinks, and referred to the order slips repeatedly, indicating to me that he had a limited memory.
Not too smart, I put in his file.
He strutted behind the bar and seemed to be trying too hard to be macho.
Hiding some
thing?
After a half hour of observing him I got up and headed for the door. Howard followed me. When we passed the dining area, Howard pointed out Irene Kostanski. She had short brown hair streaked with purple. She had square shoulders and big hands. I guessed she was in her late thirties.
“She’s doesn’t look like much,” I observed.
“She looks like a dyke to me,” Howard commented bluntly.
“That would be an insult to all dykes,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Howard drove me back to his house and parked in the driveway.
“Okay,” I said, as he shut off the engine. “It’s time to tell me more about Eileen Dietrich’s testicles. How long has he been in panties?”
“Over thirty years.”
“How did you find out the missus was a mister?” I asked.
“They confided in us,” he said. “They said they needed a support system.”
I remembered Lou Dewey talking about a support system.
“Tell me the whole story,” I said, slouching down in my seat.
“You’re going to find this hard to believe,” he said, shaking his head.
“Try me.”
Howard told me the whole story and he was right. It was hard to believe.
It was a little after 11:00 p.m. when I got onto I-95 North. I drove slowly but my mind was racing to process the bizarre story of Eileen and Johnny Dietrich . . . as told to me by Howard Larkey.
Eileen Dietrich was actually born Elliot Davidson in 1930. He was a cute kid with such delicate facial features that some people said he was too pretty to be a boy. By the time Elliot was nine years old, he knew he was different. He liked to dress in his mother’s clothes and wear makeup. He liked to play with dolls. He was sexually aroused by the sight of naked boys in the shower after gym class at school. When he was a teenager, Elliot dated girls and enjoyed kissing them but he knew he would prefer kissing boys. Elliot realized he was gay but never acted on his tendencies and graduated high school still a virgin . . . and still in the closet.
When Elliot Davidson met Johnny Dietrich of Flushing, New York, during their freshman year at City College they immediately became lovers. They kept their relationship secret at school but when they graduated in June of 1951, Elliot and Johnny barged out of the closet
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