Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

  “It was eerie, Ry,” Samantha explained. “My father isn’t an excitable man. He can’t be, to run the most important restaurant in New Orleans, all the other family investments he’s made over the years. But the next day, I had lunch with him at the restaurant. David came in. I saw him, coming through the doors of the restaurant with all these Kiwanis men. They followed him. They followed him like he was the Pied Piper, and his tongue was his flute. He was talking, talking, and you could see it. They felt caressed by his voice. Father was right. David was … frightening.”

  Samantha stared at Slaight, waiting for his reaction.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean,” he said.

  “No, you don’t, Ry. You don’t know what it was like, because you weren’t his sister. You’ll never know.”

  “No, I guess I won’t,” he agreed. They were silent, each of them staring at a plate or spoon on the table before them. The maid began clearing the table, asked if anyone wanted anything else. Slaight asked for a gin and orange juice. The maid glanced at Samantha, and she nodded her assent.

  “You still drink too much, don’t you, Ry?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he said.

  “You seem different, though. Quieter. Less the wild man you were when I knew you.”

  “Yeah.” Irit gripped his hand under the table.

  “Is it over now, Ry? What you’ve come for? Have you told me everything you’ve come to tell me? Is there anything left I can tell you?” Samantha seemed drained, empty of feeling. Slaight hated to press her for more. But he had to.

  “I know this has been hellish for you, Sam,” he began, calling her by her nickname accidentally. She blushed. “But I need one last thing. I want the name of your brother’s best friend in high school. I want to talk to him.”

  25

  Billy Patou agreed to meet Slaight the following night in a little bar on St. Charles Street in the Quarter. It was a typical French Quarter spot—wide doors folded back, the dimly lit interior of the bar open to the snarling bumper-to-bumper tourist traffic of the street. He said he’d be dressed in blue, and he was. From head to toe, baby blue. Sneakers. Socks. Jeans. T-shirt. He was about Hand’s age, nineteen, and skinny. It was hard to figure how somebody could weigh so little and still live. Even his face was skinny, about as wide as his neck. He had hair the color of the wicker bar stool he was sitting on, sipping some white frothy concoction that looked like a gin fizz. When Slaight sat down next to him, he turned his head slowly to face Slaight. Bill Patou’s face was deeply pock-marked by acne scars. Slaight took one look and thought: Billy Patou had been David Hand’s horse-holder, an old army term describing somebody who just followed another person around, catering to his every whim. Without saying anything, Billy Patou stood up—he was about 5'9”, Slaight’s height—and led the way back to a courtyard behind the bar. He sat down at an old round oak table and signaled a waiter. Billy Patou knew his way around. But he was nervous. Slaight saw it. His eyes flicked from side to side, and his long slender fingers drummed the table in a quick tattoo. The waiter came.

  “I’ll have another one of these,” said Billy Patou, holding his glass. He looked over at Slaight.

  “I want a Dixie,” said Slaight, referring to the local beer, at twenty-five cents a bottle, the kind of bargain that could turn you into an alcoholic.

  “You didn’t bring anyone with you?” asked Billy, glancing back toward the bar.

  “No,” said Slaight. “You asked me to come alone. I did.”

  “You said you wanted to talk about David,” said Billy, draining the last of his gin fizz, with a slurp. “I don’t want to talk about David. He’s dead. He’s gone now. He was my friend.”

  “I know he was your friend. Listen, man, let me introduce myself. I’m …”

  “I don’t want to know who you are!”

  “Okay. If that’s the way you want it. But Hand’s sister told you who I am, didn’t she?”

  “All she told me was, you were David’s friend. That’s all I want to know. You were his friend, weren’t you?”

  “Let’s put it this way. I knew him. He was in my squad at West Point. Upperclassmen and plebes aren’t friends. But I knew him. Pretty well.”

  “Okay. So what do you want to talk about? Samantha said you have some questions to ask me. I don’t want to answer questions about David. He’s gone now … a tragic accident. I never thought he would drown! He was a good swimmer. The best.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Billy.”

  “Wasn’t an accident! What do you mean? That’s what they said. That’s what the priest said at the funeral. It was an accident!”

  “Look, Billy …”

  “Don’t call me Billy! Call me … Ray. Call me Ray. That’s my name down here.”

  “You’re not from here? From the Quarter?”

  “No. I live in the Garden District. If my parents knew I was down here … I’m not supposed to come down here, is all. So call me Ray.”

  “Okay. Ray. Look, your friend David didn’t die accidentally. He drowned. That much was true. But not accidentally. He was murdered.”

  “Murdered! You’ve got to be kidding! This must be some kind of sick … joke. I’m leaving.” He stood up.

  “Look, Ray or Billy or whateverthefuck you name is. Sit down. Samantha told you to talk to me, didn’t she? She’s David’s sister, right? You can trust her, right? Come on, goddammit, answer me.”

  “Yeah. Samantha. She said you were … all right.”

  “So sit down and listen to what I have to say.” He sat down, drumming his fingers. Slaight could feel his knees bouncing under the table.

  “Settle down, kid. I don’t bite, you hear? I came here to meet you tonight to tell you one thing, and that’s already done. David Hand was murdered. Now, I want to ask you something. And I want you to think hard. I’m trying to find who murdered David Hand. I’m gonna find the guy who killed him, and I’m gonna bring him up on charges in the army and see him hang for it. You understand me, now? You see what I’m driving at?”

  “I guess so,” said Billy/Ray. “But why you? Why hasn’t there been some kind of official army investigation, if what you say is true?”

  The waiter brought the drink and the beer. The courtyard was ten degrees cooler than the street outside, and potted palms hung over sparsely scattered tables. Nobody else was in the courtyard. The kid might be scared, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “I can’t answer that,” said Slaight, sipping his Dixie from the frosted bottle. “I can’t answer you, because I just don’t know the answer. I don’t know what the army is doing, or if they’re doing anything, or why. All I know is this. I want to find the guy who killed Hand. And I need your help.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “I thought you might remember something—something from when you two were in high school. Hand was killed at West Point. The best guess is, he was killed by another cadet. Now, think. Did David Hand ever talk to you about any cadets he might have been, you know, friends with? Any cadets he was especially tight with?”

  “When he came home from West Point for Christmas, he talked a lot about one guy. I think his name was … Slaight somebody … I can’t remember exactly.”

  “That’s me. My name is Slaight. Ry Slaight.”

  “Well! He certainly admired you! He went on and on about what a … neat guy you were. He thought you were quite the ideal cadet. His ideal, in any case.”

  “Yeah. So? Anybody else?”

  “I never heard him talk much about anybody else at Christmastime. There was one cadet, though. Before David went to West Point. He came down here and visited our high school … let me see … in the fall of 1966. He was on a recruiting trip or something. He gave an address to the entire senior class, in his uniform and everything. He was quite something to see. David was really taken by this cadet. I think he was the reason David decided to go to West Point. Before that cadet visited our high school, I don’t think David had given it much thought. He had ap
plied to several colleges, some of the Ivy League schools, Tulane, Duke, a few others. But that cadet … I think he made up David’s mind for him. He never stopped talking about West Point after that. Never.”

  Hand had been recruited! Jesus! Slaight’s mind raced.

  “Look, ah, Ray, I want you to think about this cadet. Can you remember his name?”

  The kid’s face twitched wildly, his fingers drumming. He was giving himself away. The cadet recruiter was a sensitive memory.

  “I … don’t … remember. How am I supposed to remember? That was almost two years ago! Goodness! Do you think I have total recall or something!” Nervously, the kid fumbled for a cigarette and lit it with one of those expensive thin gold lighters you saw advertised in The New Yorker.

  “Listen to me, Ray. I want to tell you something. I know David Hand was a homosexual. He had sex with a man immediately before he was murdered. Let me put it bluntly. Whoever fucked him killed him. Understand?”

  “Well!” The kid blew a long breath of smoke across the table. He crossed his legs. His fingers stopped drumming.

  “I’m not as fuckin’ straight as I look, kid,” said Slaight, bluffing, acting like he knew more than he actually did.

  “Who said you were? You don’t have to get testy …”

  “I’m not getting testy Ray, or Billy or whateverthe-fuck your name is. I just want answers. What about this cadet recruiter. You remember his name or not?”

  “I told you. I can’t remember everything!”

  Slaight sipped his beer. Kid’s definitely a screamer. Definite.

  “Okay then. Let me put it to you this way. Did Hand have a thing with the cadet? Back in 1966, I mean.”

  “My. You are putting it to me, aren’t you?” The kid blew smoke across the table again, straight in the face of Slaight.

  “Don’t get cute with me, Patou. I didn’t come down here to play fuckin’ games. I came down here for information. Facts. Now, give.”

  “And if I don’t? What are you going to do? Take me in the alley and fuck me in the ass? Huh? Is that what you really want? Is that why you’re so eager to find David’s killer? You make it with David, too?”

  Slaight reached across the table and grabbed the kid by the T-shirt. He yanked him down, slamming his face on the table. The kid didn’t make a squeak. Didn’t even drop his cigarette. Slaight held him there and whispered:

  “I didn’t make it with David Hand, kid, but I want to know who did. And you’re the man who can tell me. Now, when I let you go, you sit up like nothing happened, and you start talking, and no more faggot wisecracks. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes.” Slaight released his grip on the kid’s T-shirt. He sat up and took a drag on his cigarette, calm as you please.

  “Talk.”

  “You are serious, aren’t you?”

  “You bet.”

  “I should have known. Samantha said … well. That doesn’t matter.”

  “What exactly did Samantha say?”

  “She said not to play games with you. She said you meant business. But I didn’t know that you … knew.”

  “So now you know that I know. What about Hand?”

  “What’s going to happen to me? If what you say is true, this guy has already killed once. And if anything gets out …”

  “If anything gets out, what?”

  “My parents …”

  “You’re in the closet. I shoulda known.”

  “I’m not in the closet. I’m in the fucking attic!”

  “Okay. Nothing will get out. This will be Top Secret. Between you and me. You’ve got my word.”

  “Isn’t that quaint! With your word and a quarter, Mr. Slaight, I can buy myself a Dixie beer.”

  “Look, Patou, if I tell you what goes down at this table will remain a confidence, that’s what I mean, you hear me? You think I’m down here in this goddamn hellhole on leave time for my health? Huh? You think this is just one big lark for me? A goddamn game? Well, you got another think coming, Patou. It’s not. The shit’s getting so deep around the death of David Hand, it’s going to take a rowboat and oars to get out pretty soon. And I’m caught in it, dead in the middle of the shit, through no goddamn fault of my own, for reasons that need not be explained to you. I want to know what you know. You talk, and everything is cool. You just sit there and play dumb, which you are not, and everything may not be so cool. Got it?”

  “Okay. Okay. Just don’t raise your voice like that again, please. Please. I want another drink.”

  “So order yourself one.” The kid signaled the waiter with his glass. Slaight raised his beer bottle. The waiter acknowledged the gestures with a nod.

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “With the cadet who came to your high school in ‘66. That’s as good a place as any.”

  “Okay. You probably already suspect it. David had an affair with the cadet while he was here.”

  “What do you mean, an affair?”

  “I mean David Hand fucked him in the ass, that’s what I mean.” The kid lit another cigarette.

  “So.”

  “They got drunk. The cadet was here for three days. He came to our high school the second day. David hung around after the lecture, asking questions. I guess they went out to dinner together. David could be quite persuasive. He was a real charmer. Anyway, he told me about it later. They went drinking around the Quarter. The cadet wanted to see one of the TV shows on Bourbon Street. David took him.”

  “TV shows?”

  “Transvestites. Female impersonators. Strictly tourist shit. Bourbon Street isn’t part of our gay scene. But David said the cadet was really getting off on the TVs. They went to his hotel room afterward. They were pretty drunk. The cadet was still in his uniform, so the first thing he did was strip to his shorts. David told me later that’s what cadets do all the time. Get out of their uniforms. But then, David didn’t know. He took it as a signal. He started coming on to the cadet. The cadet got really mad, hit him, split David’s lip. He was bleeding. It scared the cadet. He was all over David, with cold washcloths. You know. Then David noticed. The cadet had a bone. He was turned on. So David starts cooing. Let me tell you something. David could coo. Meanwhile, they’re still drinking. The cadet is staggering drunk. David is high, but not drunk. So he does his number.”

  “His number?”

  “He goes down on the cadet. Suddenly, the cadet is all turned on. David thought the guy was straight at first, then he wasn’t sure. Anyway, David goes to the bathroom to check his lip, and he sees a tube of K-Y in the cadet’s bag, his little toilet kit, along with some rubbers. He thinks, at least he goes both ways. So David walks out of the bathroom with the K-Y, and the cadet is passed out on the bed. He just climbed on, and before the cadet knew what was happening, David was doing it. That was his thing. He really dug getting off on straight guys. I bet he fucked half the Kiwanis leaders in town by the time he graduated.”

  “Yeah?” The kid sipped his drink, as the waiter served Slaight another Dixie.

  “Straights were his thing. It was all ego with David. He wasn’t satisfied making it with gays. He wanted the feeling … I don’t know how to explain it to you, because I never really understood it myself. I guess David wanted the feeling of changing someone. Did he ever come on to you?”

  “No.”

  “There. That explains why he never stopped talking about you this past Christmas. He obviously wanted you. Badly. But he was afraid of you.”

  “He told you that?”

  “No. But I could tell.”

  “How?”

  “I was his friend. Don’t you understand that, yet? He was the only real friend I ever had.” The kid puffed on his cigarette, looking away. It was the first emotion he’d shown, other than nervousness. Slaight sipped his beer, giving the kid time to recover.

  “So what about the cadet? You remember his name?”

  “I told you already! That was two years ago! I’m supposed to remembe
r every one of David Hand’s goddamn fucks! Give me a break!”

  “Okay. Okay. You remember what class he was in? Did David tell you?”

  “He was an upperclassman.”

  “I know that much. They don’t send plebes on recruiting trips.”

  “All I remember was, he was an upperclassman.”

  “Well, let me ask you this. Did David see the cadet when he got to West Point? Was he still a cadet when David was a plebe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Hand still have a thing going with him at West Point? Did he mention anything in letters, or when he was home on leave?”

  “He saw the cadet at West Point. Yes. But he never said much about it. I had the impression he didn’t see him very regularly. But I couldn’t be sure. David just didn’t talk about him much. That was his way. Once he’d made it with someone, the thrill was gone. It was like it was over. He would brag and brag when he’d fuck some guy for the first time, especially if he was straight. Or he’d talk endlessly about somebody he wanted to fuck. But once the … ah … deed was done, as they say, you didn’t hear much about the person again. That was David. When he came home for Christmas, he was always humming this little tune. Once I asked him what it was, and he sang the words. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “What were the words?”

  “I’ll never forget them. He sang: ‘I’m gonna be an Airborne-Ranger. I’m gonna live a life of danger.’ I think that’s the way he really saw himself. He got off on the danger. I guess he was really very masochistic.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because what he really wanted, I think, was to be making some guy, some straight dude, and have the guy get ripping mad and beat the shit out of him. He loved that edge. He used to say fucking wasn’t fun unless you didn’t know if you were going to make it. He used to say that, then … then he’d laugh.”

  “He’d laugh?”

  “Yes. He’d laugh. He was laughing at me.”

  Slaight sipped his beer. The kid stared across the courtyard. This trip to New Orleans was turning out to be more than he’d bargained for. He had the feeling he was taking the kid’s confession or something. Funny thing was, the feeling was familiar. He remembered. It was like Beast, when a plebe would come to you with problems, and you’d sit there and listen to him, and the kid would be pouring it all out and you’d be listening and wondering what in hell to do with it all, all of the gush, all the emotion, that big space inside the kid between today—right now—and back when….