Bad timing.
The fifties were not good years for gay pride. Their parents disowned them, their few heterosexual associations became strained, and they became outcasts in the straight world. They moved to Greenwich Village where their lifestyle was accepted within the borders of Broadway, the Hudson River, Houston Street, and Fourteenth Street.
John became an interior decorator and did well enough to support the two of them. Elliot could afford to dabble in unmarketable poetry and unpopular politics. He frequented the same smoky coffeehouses on McDougal Street that acclaimed poet Allen Ginsberg had. Unfortunately, none of Ginsberg’s talent rubbed off on Elliot but some of his politics did. Ginsberg talked openly about communism and the establishment of a counterculture in America and Elliot listened. In 1951, when Julius and Ethel Rosenberg went on trial for spying on behalf of the Russians, Elliot joined the legions of protestors who insisted the husband and wife were innocent. When the United States was at war in Korea, the early fifties Elliot was among the first war protestors in the east. He protested the cause, the war, and the unfair selective service draft. Elliot protested everything that he believed needed protesting until J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI agents came knocking on his door and threatened him.
“J. Edgar Hoover is concerned about you,” a very serious agent told Elliot.
“I’m concerned about him, too,” Elliot said. “I hear he’s a homosexual.”
“Then maybe you’ve also heard he has the power to harass political dissenters and amass secret files using illegal methods,” the agent said with a mean smile.
“Which would explain why you’re here.” Elliot pointed at the agent.
“Correct. Do you realize you never registered for the draft?” the agent droned.
“I do. Uncle Sam doesn’t want me,” Elliot said.
“Maybe he does now,” the agent said, and never stopped smiling.
“Isn’t the army concerned about gay people being susceptible to blackmail from foreign powers?”
“We are concerned about the Lavender Scare but that doesn’t mean we don’t want you.”
“I feel better already,” Elliot said.
“Did you know that you’re on a list of twelve thousand names of disloyal Americans?” the agent told him.
“Who else is on the list?” Elliot asked.
“I ask the questions,” the agent said. “Did you know I can arrest you right now?”
“On what charge?”
“The draft for starters,” he said. “Then we can move up to sedition . . . like the Rosenbergs. My guess is that those two will get the electric chair.”
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” Elliot put his hands on his hips, defiantly.
“Absolutely.”
“It’s working.”
In 1953, the Rosenbergs were found guilty and were executed in the electric chair.
That same year Johnny bought Elliot a small coffee shop in the village named What Now where Elliot could make a few bucks, smoke marijuana, and dispense political advice without getting directly involved. From 1964 to 1969, several rising stars and thousands of fallen angels passed through the doors of What Now. They filled Elliot’s register with cash and each other’s heads with ideas. Elliot wasn’t a guru but he was considered a knowledgeable guy who could be trusted. He was one of them . . . just an older version. Antiwar activists talked openly in his presence and listened to his advice. By 1969, Johnny had become the “go-to” decorator in the Village and Elliot was the “go to hell” dissenter.
Stop the war. Start gay rights.
The Stonewall Inn’s three-day gay liberation protests were partially planned in Elliot’s place with his input. Peace signs and gay rights signs appeared in his windows and on the walls of What Now. Elliot didn’t attend the Stonewall event, preferring to keep a low profile, but federal agents took notice of his involvement anyway and made his old records new again. The FBI started taking pictures and filming the comings and goings at What Now and on March 6, 1969 they got a lensful.
Two young women were photographed rushing into the What Now coffee shop. Moments later the camera caught them running out the door with Elliot. The agents followed the trio several blocks to an apartment house in the Village. Elliot and the two women went into the building. The FBI was now taking movies and photographs of the building. Within an hour, Elliot and the two young women came out of the building looking upset and arguing with one another. One of the girls waved her arms wildly in the air, shouting in anger, then she started to cry and slumped against Elliot. He put his arm around her shoulder. The three of them walked directly toward the camera and were perfectly framed in the scene of the third-floor apartment exploding. The blast blew out the windows, showering the street with glass. Flames shot from the empty panes like a dragon’s breath. The cameras kept rolling and captured the clear image of Elliot and the two girls running away. There were no pictures of the three young bomb-makers killed by the explosion inside the building. An innocent bystander also died when a piece of flying glass cut her throat.
In the few hours it took federal agents to get a legal search warrant for What Now and the apartment the decorator and the dissident shared . . . they had vanished. When FBI agents knocked on the door to the apartment no one answered, but Fiona Brown, a thirty-five-year-old, angry black lesbian opened her door at the other end of the hall.
At this point in the story Howard did a great job of recreating the exchange between an FBI agent and the black lesbian . . . as told to him by Elliot and John.
“Whatchu want?” Fiona said she said.
“We’re with the FBI.”
“Whatchu want, G-man?” Fiona said.
“We’re looking for Elliot Davidson. We have a search warrant.”
“Shove them warrants up J. Edgar’s ass. I hear he likes that.”
“I’m prepared to use force,” the agent said.
“I hear he likes that too,” Fiona swears she said to the G-Man.
“Who are you?” the agent asked.
“I’m da queen of denial,” Fiona solemnly swore she said.
“What’s your name?”
“Fiona,” Fiona said.
“Do you know where these guys went?” the agent asked.
“Elliot could be anywhere,” Fiona said she said. “Johnny said he was movin’ to Iowa to get married.”
“We heard they were a gay couple.” The agent smiled as if he had caught her.
“Elliot is gay as a clown,” Fiona said. “But Johnny goes either way.”
“Are you sure?”
“I fucked him myself.”
“Was Dietrich an agitator?” the agent asked.
“No, he was a decorator,” Fiona said.
“Are you sure he went to Iowa?”
“I’m sure it begins with an I.”
Fiona told Elliot that one of the agents lost his patience and broke down the door to their apartment. They proceeded to search it thoroughly. Fiona said she watched from the broken doorway.
“Your friends left all their stuff,” one agent remarked.
“They tole me they didn’t want nothin’ no more. Said I could have everything. Furniture, too,” Fiona said she said.
“You’ll let us know if your friends contact you,” the agent said before he departed, handing her his card.
“Just ‘cause I fucked one of them don’t make them my friends,” Fiona said she said.
“The truth was, Elliot and John had been Fiona’s friends for years,” Howard told me.
He said that Elliot and Johnny had phoned Fiona a few hours after the explosion. They told her about Elliot’s involvement and prior record with the FBI. Fiona told them that news of the explosion was already on television and that three bombmakers and an innocent bystander had been killed. Pictures of Elliot and his two female friends were being shown regularly on the air. They made a decision during that phone call that Elliot Davidson had to vanish.
It was Fiona’s idea to disguise
Elliot as a woman and to get him as far away from the Village as possible.
“It ain’t enough for you to just put on a dress and stuff a bra,” Fiona insisted. “You gotta establish a new identity with papers and shit.”
“How do we get forged papers?” John asked.
“I ain’t talking about forged nothin’,” Fiona announced. “I’m talking the real thing. A real name. A real Social Security number. The works.”
“How do we do that?”
Fiona was a cleaning woman at the New York City Women’s House of Detention in the Village.
“They’re planning on tearing down the jail in a couple of years,” Fiona told them. “They’re already moving a lot of old records into a warehouse in the Village. I’m cleaning the warehouse, too. I can get any file I want. No one knows who the fuck is in those old convict files anymore, released or deceased.”
Fiona stole the identity of Eileen Haley, a dead hooker buried in a numbered grave on Harts Island in Long Island Sound.
Eileen Haley, born in 1929 and died in 1968, was reborn in 1969 in the body of Elliot Davidson. The newly resurrected Eileen married John Dietrich in a private civil ceremony in Ames, Iowa, and the FBI agents, following up on Fiona’s lead, verified the paperwork. All the necessary legal documents were in order and Eileen and John were pronounced man and wife in accordance with the laws of the state of Iowa.
They lived peacefully in the Hawkeye state for five years until J. Edgar Hoover died in 1972, Nixon resigned in 1974, and the Vietnam war ended in 1975. America became a kinder, gentler place, emboldening the Dietrichs to move away from the country’s heartland.
They moved to San Francisco’s Castro District and lived there in peace for a few years. Elliot was Eileen most of the time, but on a whim he would be Elliot, John’s old buddy. No one knew their secret and they had fun with it.
In 1978, however, gay political activist Harvey Milk and San Francisco mayor George Moscone were shot to death by a homophobic political loser named Dan White. Claiming temporary insanity caused by consuming too much junk food (the Twinkie Defense), White was sentenced to only five years. The decision ignited the Castro District and the neighborhood was engulfed in the emotional flames of gay riots. Federal and local policemen rushed to the scene to put out the blaze and the area became too hot for John and Elliot. They ran again, first to the gay community in Fort Lauderdale, and then, to Wilton Manors where they were welcomed as part of the heterosexual sixty percent in the gayborhood.
I noticed the Palmetto Road exit and thought of Betsy Blackstone’s case. Impulsively I turned off I-95 North and drove the few minutes to Mizner Park.
I took a seat at the bar in Mendy’s Grill and asked the boyish bartender, whose name tag read gianni, if the manager was in. He pointed to a tall, handsome young man who appeared to be in his early thirties.
“That’s one of them,” Gianni said. “His name’s Bradley. You want to talk to him?”
“No. I was just curious,” I told him.
I spent the next hour sipping an old favorite from the North End called a Godfather - Amaretto and Scotch - and watching Bradley Blackstone in action. He was all business, smiling, shaking hands, and patting backs.
“Hey, Bradley,” the bartender said - I was afraid he was going blow my cover - “didn’t your shift end already?”
“I decided to stay late,” Bradley answered and moved on without pausing.
“He’s gotta be crazy to stay late,” Gianni winked at me like we were old buddies. “His wife is a knockout. I’d be home on time for her.”
“Maybe he has someone on the side,” I poked around.
“Bradley? Never,” the bartender scoffed. “He’s as straight as they come. And he has plenty of chances. Women love him. Half the waitresses have tried to hook up with him but he could care less.”
I left the bar about a half hour later and sat in my MINI, waiting for Bradley to come out. Eventually he exited the front door, got into a silver Lexus SC430 parked at the valet stand, and put down the hard-top convertible. He eased away from the curb and I chugged after him at a safe distance.
He exited Mizner Park and turned south. He lived north. When we reached A1A he turned right into a parking lot in front of a small business mall named One Ocean Boulevard. The lot was empty at this early morning hour. I continued south and turned onto a side street. I saw Bradley in my rearview mirror walking across A1A toward the ocean
He’s meeting someone, Mr. Johnson said.
You’re a cynic, I disagreed.
I’m a penis.
I trotted quietly across A1A. I saw Bradley’s silhouette against the dim light of the moon. He was standing under a gazebo near a sign that read SOUTH BEACH PAVILION.
I hid in the bushes by the side of the road. I could hear the waves but couldn’t see the ocean. I watched as Bradley paced and looked repeatedly at his watch.
She’s late, Mr. Johnson said.
Give him a chance, you little prick.
I had to admit that it did look like Bradley was waiting for someone.
I hate this job, I said to Mr. Johnson.
I think it’s kinda kinky, he replied.
Bradley Blackstone removed a cell phone from his pocket, poked it with one finger then held it to his ear. Whoever he called was on speed dial. I moved closer.
“Did I wake you, Kitten?” I heard him ask.
Kitten! I told you we’re talking pussy here, Mr. Johnson crowed.
Shut up, you idiot.
“It’s nice to hear your voice, too,” Bradley said, responding to words I couldn’t hear.
Pause.
“I worked late again tonight so I wouldn’t have to face Betsy,” he responded. “She doesn’t wait up for me anymore.”
Pause.
“It is a mess,” he agreed. “But I’m not ready to confront her. She’s very vulnerable right now.”
Pause.
“I know it has to be done,” he said. “I’ll talk to her.”
Pause.
“You’re yawning,” he noted. “Go to sleep.”
Pause.
“No, it’s alright. I haven’t got anything more to say. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Pause.
“I love you, too, Kitten” he said. “Good night.”
He snapped the phone shut and stared out at the ocean.
Told you! Mr. Johnson rubbed it in.
I had heard enough. I moved silently from my hiding place and made my way back to the MINI.
As I drove away I hit the steering wheel with my open palm. “Damn it,” I said. “I hate when this happens.”
The phone rang and startled me from a sound sleep. I looked at my watch. It was nine thirty in the morning.
“Are you still in bed?” Lou Dewey asked.
“I had a late night.”
“Doing what?
“Cruising gay bars.”
He’s gonna think you’re serious, Mr. Johnson warned me.
“Whatever turns you on,” Lou said. “I just wanted to let you know I returned all the money and nearly died of an anxiety attack. I have about a hundred and fifty grand to my name now and no visible means of support. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll call you right back,” I said.
I called Frank Burke at Boca Police Headquarters and I asked for Joy Feely’s number.
“Why?” he asked. “You interested in her?”
“No,” I told him. “I know someone who needs a job and might be perfect for her.”
“She definitely could use some help,” Frank assured me, and gave me her number.
Joy answered her office phone herself when I called. She seemed delighted to hear from me. I made an appointment with her for noon at her office without telling her the reason. I called Dewey, gave him Joy’s office address, and told him to meet me there at ten after twelve. I refused to explain why.
I went to my office, dreading the call I had to make to Betsy Blackstone. F
inally, I dialed her number.
“Hi, Eddie,” she said, sniffling. “Have you found anything yet?”
“Maybe,” I hedged.
“Tell me, tell me,” she said nervously. “He’s seeing someone else, isn’t he?”
“Calm down,” I said. “I didn’t actually see him with another woman.”
“It’s not a man, is it?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, not so sure of myself after spending a night in Wilton Manors. “Does the name Kitten mean anything to you?”
“Sure, that’s what he calls his kid sister, Katherine,” she said.
I dropped the phone on my desk.
His kid sister, for chrissakes. HIS KID SISTER! He was talking to his kid sister on the phone last night.
Frankly I’m disappointed, Mr. Johnson said.
Jerk!
I picked up the phone.
“Sorry, I lost my grip,” I said.
“What about his sister?” she asked.
“I heard him talking to her on the phone last night.”
“He talks to her all the time,” she told me. “They’re very close.”
“Betsy, I’m convinced your husband is not cheating on you,” I decided.
“He didn’t come home until after two in the morning last night,” she said sadly.
“I know,” I said. “I followed him. He wasn’t with another woman.”
“Where was he?”
“He drove to the beach and called his sister,”
I told her. “We had a favorite place at the beach at night.”
“Near Palmetto?”
“Yes, under a gazebo.”
“That’s where he was,” I said.
“Why would he go there without me?”
“Maybe he goes there to think about you,” I tried.
“Maybe he goes there to avoid me,” she sniffled.
“That, too,” I agreed.
“What should I do?”
“I think you should see a doctor,” I told her.
“What kind of doctor? A psychiatrist?”
“An obstetrician,” I specified. “I pulled some strings and got you an appointment with a specialist in problem pregnancies.”
“I told you I had an obstetrician,”
“You also told me you had two miscarriages,” I said. “You need a second opinion.”
Boca Mournings Page 10