No Good Deed

by Michael Rupured

  No Good Deed

  By Michael Rupured

  A Philip Potter Story

  On Christmas Eve in 1966, Philip Potter, a kind-hearted Smithsonian curator, wraps up his last-minute shopping. Meanwhile, James, his lover of several years, takes his own life back in their home. Unaware of what awaits him, Philip drops off gifts at a homeless shelter, an act of generosity that will later make him a suspect in the murder of a male prostitute.

  Following James’s shocking death, two men enter Philip’s life—and both drive yellow Continentals. One of them, though, is a killer, with the blood of at least six hustlers on his hands. And both are hiding something.

  As Philip is about to discover, no good deed goes unpunished.

  Dedicated to Judy Rupert and English teachers everywhere.

  Acknowledgments

  The idea for No Good Deed came from a scene in Until Thanksgiving, my first novel. Philip mentions a lover from long ago who’d killed himself. The story grew from that little seed. The rest, as they say, is history.

  History, I must admit, has never been my best subject. The thought of writing a story that takes place when I was eight years old in a city where I lived for a few months thirty-five years later frankly terrified me. What was gay life like in 1966? Where did gay men hang out in the DC area? How on earth would I ever find out?

  Maurice Dorsey, a treasured friend who I worked with during my brief time in DC, grew up gay in the area and was out and about in the 60s. The recollections he shared with me got the ball rolling. I’m forever in his debt.

  As I researched 1960s gay life in the United States and Washington, DC, I was stunned by how bad things were and how very far we’ve come. Numerous transcripts I found online of interviews with Frank Kameny—a pioneer in the gay rights movement in the United States and a character in this novel—were also helpful. Any inaccuracies are my own invention.

  Thanks to everyone at Dreamspinner Press Publications for helping me improve an already good story. And, of course, I have to thank the usual suspects. The Robot Unicorn Cult provided invaluable feedback to my early drafts, as did my regular beta readers—Terri Clarke, Susan Comisky, Pam Blevins, Marilyn Owens—and newcomer Jennifer Rupured.

  Chapter One

  PHILIP POTTER trudged through falling snow on Christmas Eve with the last-minute shoppers on Connecticut Avenue. A few more stops and he’d be done. He nodded, tipping his hat and smiling, at the people he passed, now and then adding “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays.”

  Not since childhood had he been so excited about the season’s festivities. The snow helped. Without at least a dusting, it hardly seemed like Christmas. But what made this year so special was the little boy his sister had delivered nearly four years earlier. Since January 13, 1963, Thaddeus Mathew Parker had become the reason for every season.

  Philip looked forward to spending Christmas in Maryland with Thad, his sister, Mary—who still insisted on calling Thad Mathew—her husband, Alex, and James Walker, Philip’s boyfriend.

  Philip had spent weeks every November since his nephew’s birth researching toys before buying his presents. Thad being too young to know what was going on his first Christmas had in no way detracted from the pleasure of buying for him. But Philip had been a little let down by his nephew’s cool response to the bathtub play set he’d bought, and last year he’d been disappointed when Thad enjoyed playing with the ribbon and wrapping paper more than the LEGOs the experts had recommended.

  This year would be different. His darling nephew had babbled about Santa for weeks, and, upon request, reeled off an ever-changing list of toys he hoped to see under the tree. The one constant was a Ride ’em Fire Engine that Philip had bought and stashed in his sister’s garage. Thinking about how his nephew’s face would light up made Philip smile.

  Blowing snow whirled around him. He tugged the black beret down onto his head and tightened the scarf around his neck, pulling it up over his goateed chin and freezing ears. The weatherman had predicted the Christmas of 1966 would be the whitest since 1962. Maybe he and James could take Thad sledding on the hill by the Washington Monument.

  Philip pushed up the sleeve of his coat to check the time. James would soon be finishing up the meeting he’d arranged with his father. Philip doubted the conversation had gone well. He’d wanted to go along, but James wouldn’t let him—he’d said something about needing to fight his own battles and not rubbing the old man’s nose in anything. Philip snorted in disgust. James might have forgiven his father for kicking him out at fifteen, but Philip hadn’t.

  He brushed the snow from his eyebrows with a gloved hand as he walked and tried imagining the conversation between James and Roland Walker. James’s part was easy. Having shared a bed with him for several years, Philip knew James better than anyone else did—especially his sorry excuse for a father.

  Sweet, sensitive James would explain his fascination with ballet, share his excitement upon first seeing The Nutcracker, and reveal his dream of performing the role of the Snow King. He’d tell his father how much he’d learned from the classes he and Philip had saved up for him to attend, and explain why he needed to quit his job to train full-time under the tutelage of Mary Day at the Washington School of Ballet.

  Philip had finally met the doyenne of dance at a fundraising gala for the arts. She’d insisted James drop whatever he was doing to study with her full time and had raved about his natural grace and beautiful lines. The cost of lessons had given Philip pause, but only because he thought she should back up her words with a scholarship or find a patron to pick up the tab. Still, considering the sacrifices James had made while Philip was in graduate school, he’d do whatever he could to help James’s dreams come true too—including swallowing his pride and accepting a handout from the father who’d had nothing to do with his son for the last six years.

  Philip hoped Roland would see how James’s eyes blazed when he talked about loving to dance and sense his passion for ballet. Roland would have to be blind to miss it. Wouldn’t a father do anything he could to help a child’s dreams come true? Whatever differences they might have, James was Roland’s son. Wouldn’t any man want his son to be happy?

  As they’d never met, imagining Roland’s part of the conversation was more difficult. Given the man’s reaction to finding out his son preferred men to women, Philip suspected not one thin dime of the fortune he’d made in plastics would go toward ballet lessons for his son. Still, James wanted to try.

  Unlike Philip, who’d always known he wanted to work at the Smithsonian, James had struggled to find his passion. In the time they’d been together, James had jumped headfirst into a host of careers ranging from welder and sculptor to gardener, house painter, and then on to singing and playing several musical instruments. A half-hearted stab at acting had landed him in a local production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Philip remembered how horrified James had been about dancing in front of an audience when he got the part, how transformed he’d been by rehearsals, and his elation after his first live performance.

  Like an indulgent father, Philip had gone along with James’s desire to dance, believing in the back of his mind that, like the rest of his short-lived occupations, dance too would soon fall by the wayside. But it hadn’t. James loved to dance as much as Philip enjoyed historical artifacts. Recognition from Mary Day had upped the ante. Her interest in James proved he was meant to dance. Finding his calling had changed him. If a lack of money prevented James from pursuing his dream, Philip didn’t know what would happen.

  They’d gone over the numbers a hundred times. James could quit waiting tables to concentrate on his dance career. Philip’s job at the Smithsonian paid enough to support the two of them. But the tuition for the Washington School of B
allet was out of reach.

  Way out of reach.

  The very idea of asking anyone for money rubbed Philip the wrong way. He prided himself on his self-sufficiency. Asking Roland Walker was the last resort. All other options had failed. James meeting with the father he hadn’t seen or spoken to in more than five years was a testament to his desperation.

  Philip stopped in front of Walgreen’s, admiring the attractive display of powder blue, sea-foam-green, canary-yellow, and fire engine–red transistor radios in the window. He bought two of each color and an extra red one—James’s favorite color. While he waited to have Santa’s Helpers wrap the radios, he enjoyed a piece of cherry pie and a cup of hot coffee at the fountain. His impulse purchases when money was such an issue were blameworthy, but he knew James wouldn’t mind. A few more dollars wouldn’t make much difference anyway.

  On the way home, he detoured by the Relief Society Shelter for Wayward Boys, where James had often stayed before Philip had rescued him from the streets. Perhaps a cheery new radio would lift the spirits of the boys who’d spend Christmas there. Philip knew James would appreciate the gesture even more than the watch awaiting him under the tinsel-laden tree in the G Street apartment they shared.

  Philip opened the shelter’s door, stomped his feet a few times, and whisked his coat free of snow. He’d expected the cash-strapped, eight-bed facility to be deserted, but, of course, it wasn’t. The snow and cold had chased all but the hardiest souls from the streets. He hoped he’d bought enough radios.

  The squeak of the color wheel changing the white artificial tree from amber to green, then red, blue, and back to amber competed with the tinny music coming from a beat-up radio on the front desk. Philip recognized Joan Baez singing “Ave Maria” from her newly released Christmas album. He’d dropped hints to James and his sister, and hoped to find a copy among his holiday gifts.

  Boys playing Chinese checkers on a card table near the white-flocked tree erupted into laughter. A shortage of volunteers meant they lacked much in the way of parental influence, supervision, or positive role models. Philip wished he had time to join them as he walked toward the young man at the reception desk. The boy’s head was down, the fingers of his left hand tangled in his bangs as he concentrated on the fountain pen that danced across the page. Philip watched him fill line after line with the most beautiful penmanship he’d ever seen. He cleared his throat to get the boy’s attention. No luck. The pen flew across the page of the spiral notebook so fast, Philip expected to see smoke. He cleared his throat again, adding a little cough for good measure.

  The boy looked up, startled. His ash-blond hair might have been parted on the side earlier in the day, but now it fell over his forehead. Violet eyes anchored his symmetrical face. “Gosh! I’m sorry. I didn’t even see you there.”

  “I admire your focus. What are you writing?”

  The boy blushed. “It’s my journal. One day I’m going to cash in on all this pain and suffering with a runaway bestseller about my life on the street.”

  “Oh?” Anger at the boy’s ignorant parents rippled through him. What were the parents who produced and abandoned the boys who ended up on the street or at places like this thinking? Here was a young man who any parent should be proud to stand beside. How could one small thing provoke such a callous response? “I bet your story will be a fascinating read.”

  “Yes, sir. One day you’ll see Daniel Bradbury on the library shelf between Isaac Asimov and Truman Capote. That’s me, Daniel Bradbury.”

  Philip extended his hand. “I’m delighted to meet you, Daniel Bradbury. Philip Potter.”

  Daniel grasped his hand in a strong grip and pumped it twice. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter. Can I help you with something?”

  Mr. Potter? He winced. The title was appropriate, he supposed, even if he still felt more eighteen than thirty. He placed the shopping bag of transistor radios hidden beneath cheerful wrapping paper and color-coordinated bows on the desk. “For you, and anyone else here tonight. Merry Christmas.”

  “Gee thanks, Mr. Potter.” Daniel reached into the bag and pulled out a package. Then he called to the boys playing Chinese checkers. “Hey guys, presents!”

  The game broke up in a clamor of falling chairs and bouncing marbles as the young men rushed to grab a gift from the bag. Philip stood back, enjoying the excited “oohs” and “aahs” the radios elicited from them. Yes, Philip thought. This is shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.

  Chapter Two

  THE WALK from James Walker’s childhood home to the G Street apartment he shared with Philip Potter passed in a blur. He didn’t notice the snow, the package-laden pedestrians, the blaring horns from the traffic, or the Christmas music that escaped through the doors of the shops he passed. Tears stung his eyes as his father’s words echoed through his head.

  “Like living with that man hasn’t shamed our family enough, now you want to prance across the stage in front of God and everyone in a friggin’ tutu? We have friends here, you know. When are you going to grow out of this faggot phase and start acting like a man?”

  Telling his father his attraction to men wasn’t just a phase made things worse, pushing him beyond irritated and annoyed to enraged.

  “So I’m stuck with a faggot for a son? This is not the life I wanted for you. After everything I’ve done…. And what about your mother? Seeing how hard life is when you swim against the current was supposed to teach you a lesson, but you whored around with a bunch of perverts and didn’t learn a damn thing.”

  The arguments James offered fell on deaf ears. The man who’d given him life had no interest in meeting Philip or hearing how wonderful he was. His father’s only concern was a desire for James to follow in his footsteps. Bitter tears of frustration and grief had streamed down James’s cheeks, fueling his father’s ire like gasoline on a fire.

  “If you can’t change, then stop embarrassing me and leave Washington. Move to California with the rest of the pinko commie fags. Hell, I don’t care where you go, just go. You’re dead to me. As far as I’m concerned, you never even existed.”

  James recalled the hatred in his father’s eyes, recalled every reason he gave for hating his sissified son. With each new revelation of loathing and contempt, a little more of James had died inside. Philip was right. He shouldn’t have come.

  By the time his father ran out of steam, James struggled to breathe. He should have known nothing had changed. His father hated him, more now than ever.

  Awareness had cut him like a knife. He’d sat for a moment, his father glaring at him across the wide desk between them, hating himself for being dumb enough to think his father would help the son he’d always despised. Then James had walked out, deaf to the final barbs his father hurled at his back.

  As he tried to focus on keeping his footing on the icy sidewalk, James sorted through the shattered fragments of his dreams for a shard to hold on to. In one afternoon, his father had decimated his hopes and aspirations, leaving nothing but despair and regret.

  Did his mother know about the meeting? On the awful day when his father had kicked him out, she’d turned her back and left the room when he pleaded with her to intervene. His father treated her no better than he had James, but it didn’t excuse her absence or her failure to protect him from the man she’d married in haste.

  No, although she wasn’t in the room when his father told him to leave, she was every bit as much to blame. Leaving him to fend for himself had been a joint decision. They had abandoned him like an infant in a basket. Only instead of a hospital or church, they’d dropped him off at the bus station with ten dollars in his pocket.

  That had been the worst day of his life—until today. Six years ago there had been a silver lining. Getting away from his father spared him the constant criticism and incessant disapproval. The odds were against him, but asking his father for help was a gamble he had to take—an all-or-nothing bet he’d lost.

  And now he had nothing.

  James should
have known better than to give his father yet another chance to hurt him. What had possessed James to think he might have changed? When it came to hurting his wife and son, Roland Walker hadn’t missed an opportunity in his life. Today had been no different. He’d taken the opportunity to spoil James’s dreams and run with it.

  Meeting Philip had restored James’s faith in mankind and given him reason to believe in himself. Philip offered a chance to leave behind the dangerous, high-risk lifestyle he’d lived on the streets for the previous six months. But thirty minutes with his father left James with nothing to believe in but lies and shattered truths.

  Yes, he did have Philip. In some ways, that was the problem. Five years with Philip hadn’t erased fifteen years of damage, but his love and support had helped James to grow a thick, protective scar over his broken psyche. Without the unconditional love Philip showered upon him, though, his father’s words might not have hurt quite so much.

  His father had called Philip a perverted child molester. He couldn’t have been more wrong. At first his relationship with Philip was more like he imagined a loving father would have with his son. Ever the gentleman, Philip hadn’t so much as kissed James’s cheek until his eighteenth birthday—almost two years after they met—no matter how much James had pleaded or thrown himself at him. Philip had wanted them to get to know each other first, insisting a good friend was harder to find than a lover.

  Philip was the closest friend James ever had and the best thing to ever have happened to him. The years they’d been together were the finest of his life. James couldn’t imagine where he’d be without Philip. And Uncle George. Guilt washed over him. So many lies.

  “If you can’t change, then stop embarrassing me and leave Washington.”

  Where would he go? He could never ask Philip to leave DC. Working at the Smithsonian was his dream, and his future there looked bright. Leaving Philip would be easier than asking him to give up his dreams. Living without the one man who’d ever really loved him would be worse than death.